Winter Transitions

If you were born in California, you may appreciate my fondness for winter--just about the only thing we don’t get enough of in our golden state. For me, our endless summer becomes more like a siege by this time of year. When the weatherman says that it’s going to be another great weekend, I groan, wishing for the contrast of rain or cold before spring and sunshine are upon us.

But the weather does its best not to cooperate with my wishes. You would think that three wintry months out of 12 would not be too much to ask. Some years--this one included--we get off to a hopeful start, but then along comes that first week of warm Santa Ana winds, off come the mittens, and it’s summer again.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Though I wouldn’t mind awakening to find a dusting of snow, I am quite happy with California’s version of winter. I just wish that there was more of it, with fewer rude interruptions.

In my garden, I’ve tried to make the most of whatever winter we do get. I take my clues from wild places: Beneath the bare branches of native sycamores, following the first rain, new grass pushes up through the fallen leaves--bright green against brown. Nearby, flowers may be growing next to the soft orange hips that adorn the bare branches of wild roses.

A California winter is full of contrasts and complexities, and so is my garden. Under the bare branches of peaches, apricots and plums, I let the grassy weeds grow, benignly turning my back on their activity; after all, growth is as much a part of the California winter as rest. While some plants are going dormant, others are springing to life. There is nothing final or absolute about winter in California. It is simply a time of transition.

I’ve even gone so far as to seek out plants that die down for winter--perennials mostly--and prefer those that leave some dramatic remnant behind.

I do not cut away the seed heads and flower stalks that look so dead at the end of summer, because they have an afterlife in winter. The bleached stems turn a rich, reddish brown under the warm, orange winter light, and their shadows become an important part of the winter picture. The seeds that fall from the dried stalks and pods attract migrating birds--flitting life amid the bare branches.

Neither do I cut the fading flowers from my roses. By not pruning and tidying up in the fall, I sacrifice one last bloom that would occur about Christmastime, but I get rose hips instead, and few other things make it so much appear as though winter has arrived. The hips turn orange or red along with the leaves on liquidambars, and by this time of year they are wrinkled and an exquisite dusky maroon, decorating the ends of wintry, bare branches.

As the leaves continue to fall, the garden opens up, letting light into the dark corners. You can see the little places that have been hidden all year, and you can see the ground. The importance of bare ground in a winter garden should not be overlooked. Baked and cracked in summer, dirt can be downright attractive in winter--dark, wet and rich.

There are also spots of bright color in my winter scheme--not many, but just enough to make those sunny days even brighter. Leptospermums, with flowers like apple blossoms, are a favorite, blooming from Christmas into spring. Yellow flax, botanically Reinwardtia indica --though it’s not easy to find--covers itself with brilliant yellow flowers all winter long.

But most plants are dormant, so there is less for me to do. I wait until late in February to do my winter pruning--even later to rake up the leaves of autumn. I might plant a rose or two, and I do pull some of the winter weeds, but I spend most of this precious season simply looking at the garden in that wonderful low light, resting along with my plants.