A Reminder of Spring
I felt springtime on my face as I walked uphill from the sea. The breeze was softer than it had been in months, the fragrance more sweet than tangy. The sun had tilted and risen above the rains of winter; the air was streaked with gold.
Seasons are subtle on the Southern California coast. An evergreen shrub has popped into pale pink bloom. When a visitor from Georgia asked what it was, I was glad to be able to guess, with some confidence, India hawthorn. It was the only plant in sight I could identify.
This year I put out bulbs. I learned that they have tops and bottoms and, naturally, the tops should face up. My reward is a crocus, here and there, and a fistful of daffodils. I am holding my breath for the iris, and hedging all bets on the rest.
Clay Pot Miracles
These small miracles are sprouting in clay pots and wooden boxes on a patio. Each fragile unfolding reminds me of the springtime magnificence of Keukenhof Park, near Lisse in Holland, where bold beds of bulbs spread over 62 acres. I have made that pilgrimage three times from Amsterdam and have never failed to come away with renewed faith in the wonders of good soil, good climate, immaculate care and the prayerful whir of a windmill.
At Keukenhof even the lollipops at snack stands are shaped like tulips. Greenhouses shelter master specimens of flowers; I watched a toddler bury his face in the wide, deep bell of a purple tulip. He came up giggling like a clown, his nose bright yellow with pollen.
From the Bronx to Bermuda, from Hong Kong to Vancouver, botanical gardens are bursting with blossoms.
A Southern winner is Biltmore House, an opulent chateau at the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Asheville, N.C. You turn at a McDonald’s golden arch and drive through a lodge gate of old brick and tile to begin the long ramble back in time. Originally a Vanderbilt family estate, the 250-room mansion and grounds were opened to the public in the 1930s.
Secret Garden Havens
Forests and gardens are lavishly terraced; wisteria hangs by formal pools. Crimson and gold tulips form stripes amid white sleeves of dogwood in a four-acre walled garden that has been called the finest English garden in America. Not far away are 3,000 rose bushes, long hothouses of orchids, banana trees and cactuses.
Yet it is the secret gardens of a pounding city that hold my heart.
A favorite haven in Manhattan is Greenacres Park on 51st Street between 2nd Avenue and 3rd. A gift from Abby Rockefeller, this vest-pocket park has a waterfall 25 feet high and shade trees that rise higher. It crackles with brown-bag lunchers at noon; it sighs with serenity at other hours.
In the Old Town of Stockholm, not far from the Royal Palace, is a hidden park that translates from the Swedish as Wild Strawberry Patch. It is beyond a gate at No. 11 of a cobbled lane off Vasterlanggaten. The park has sculptures and songbirds and wooden benches where you can read a book or meet a friend.
There are white rose bushes and flaming pink peonies . . . or were they rhododendron?
Whichever, they were enchanting. And larger than India hawthorn.
