In last Thursday's New York Times was an interview with Woody Allen (above, a statue shown in his Wikipedia entry -- let's not think about this as a garden ornament).
Much of what he said I've already forgotten; though it was interesting at the time. The following statement struck a cord, though:
Q.
How do you feel about the aging process?
A.
Well, I’m against it. [laughs] I think it has nothing to recommend it. You don’t gain any wisdom as the years go by. You fall apart, is what happens. People try and put a nice varnish on it, and say, well, you mellow. You come to understand life and accept things. But you’d trade all of that for being 35 again.
How do you feel about the aging process?
A.
Well, I’m against it. [laughs] I think it has nothing to recommend it. You don’t gain any wisdom as the years go by. You fall apart, is what happens. People try and put a nice varnish on it, and say, well, you mellow. You come to understand life and accept things. But you’d trade all of that for being 35 again.
Now, I'm not sure whether I agree, and really, I'm much younger than he is, so I can't really comment without comparing apples and oranges (or Eschholzia Californica with Papaver orientale). But when it comes to plants, aging really is bad new in many cases. Take this Salvia Clevlandii (Cleveland sage).
Yes, just this spring, she was beautiful, green, enticing with her blue blossoms and heady fragrance (on the left in the photo below).
But she was hiding an ugly secret: under the attractive top layer of blooms and leaves was a tangle of branches that were either dead or had seen better days.
Not much better -- and having been planted at the same time -- was the Eriogonum fasciculatum (narrow-leaf buckwheat) right next to the salvia. It looked great behind the wine barrel water feature, but it was starting to invade the paths, the barrel, and the salvia.
So this weekend, I finally gathered my courage, my pruners, and my loppers and set to work. The first cuts were hard, but then I started pulling and cutting like a woman obsessed. The rule for salvias is usually to leave 1/3 of the plant, and I actually left even more in height. But I radically cut back in width. I did make sure some green remained, and gave the poor thing a thorough soaking with the hose afterwards. There, that's better. Now please, please don't die on me!
(As for the Eriogonum, I decided to wait until it's done blooming. A wise decision, and all the lizards that lived under the salvia appreciate shelter there for a little while longer.)
Comments
Frances
Of course, I was kind of a dork at 35...
I can't help but fall into a satisfying meditation while pruning. I guess it helps me not feel bad for the plants!