GARDEN GATE: Look at this post on lavender--nature's way of keeping holiday stress at bay

Photo by Quincy Benton

Lavender, the lovely herb, will help you handle holidaze.

Here come the holidays. If just the thought of all the stress sends a shiver up your spine, remember that a little vial of lavender essential oil goes along ways toward peace of mind at a time of year that for many of us seems to stimulate anything but. Find out about how lavender can make your days more merry and bright--or at least a bit more calm.

Just click here.

THE ARTS: Terrarium as art form

If you saw the terrarium I designed by request as part of "Cabinet of Curiousity" at Museum of Outdoor Arts, you might have logged on looking for instructions about how to create a terrarium.
Please click on this link to go to my Examiner.com page. Scroll down or search "terrarium" to find an entry titled "Terrarium as art form." You'll see a photo similar to this one. That post includes more details and links.

Photo by James Baca

If you're in the Denver area, don't miss the whimsical wonders at Cabinet of Curiousities" now showing at Museum of Outdoor Arts. This is art for everybody. Make a point to stop by the museum's indoor galleries housed in Englewood Civic Center. Your inner child will thank you, and so will the part of you that secrets away little items of nostalgic, nature or sentiment. MOA opens its doors free of charge.

"Support the arts,
and the arts will support you."

I'll conduct some more research on terrariums and will try to find more links.
Once I get the photos of the little terrarium from the exhibition's fun opening last night, I'll post them here, too. Meanwhile, for the exhibit, here's the label copy I wrote:

The roots of the terrarium

As early as 500 B.C., ancient Greeks grew and displayed plants in closed, transparent containers; but terrariums have their true roots in London. In 1827, London physician Dr. Nathaniel Ward discovered the scientific principle of terrariums.

Studying a moth emerging from a cocoon in moist soil, Dr. Ward noticed tiny ferns and grass growing in the earth contained in the jar. These plants, to the good doctor’s surprise, grew for years inside the jar without watering because the mini-greenhouse formed a miniature, self-sustained ecosystem complete with a water cycle.

Also known as Wardian Cases, terrariums allowed botanists to transport tropical plants safely from one continent to another, aiding the development of botany.

Ornately decorated terrariums grew in popularity as household decorations in Victorian times in the United States.

Today, all you need is a clear glass or plastic container to build your own terrarium, creating your own miniature ecosystem.

GARDEN GATE: Gardens Grow Communities--Three Anecdotes of Strangers in my Gardens

Many people as they walk or run or push a stroller past, praise my gardens. (Thanks, in large part, to Mike Eagleton who designed much of my landscape, and to my crew that helps keeps it well tended.) But from time to time I have extended exchanges with strangers in my gardens.

Photo by Quincy Benton

Strangers In My Gardens

The other day, for the third time this growing season, I had a satisfying exchange with a stranger in my garden.
I had walked home slowly from yoga class, appreciative of the precious slant of warm midmorning autumn sunlight. When I had walked to class earlier that day at 7:45 a.m., I’d worn a ski cap and gloves, but when I made my way home at about 10 a.m., the day had grown warm and summery. I had plenty of work to do, but these balmy days of autumn seem almost as intoxicating as the first warm days of spring. Call it Autumn Fever.
It takes an optimist to plant this late in the season. I suppose I am mostly optimistic, but I know from experience that pansies are tough. Flowering kale, too, looks lacy and delicate, but in fact likes a bit of ice in its veins. So I’d made a sortie mission to Home Depot for a pair of pumpkins and a flat of pansies and five one-gallon pots of flowering kale.
When I should have been working at my laptop, I decided—given the beauty of the day—to work in the garden instead. I needed a gardening fix. I’d been on assignment and then had contracted a cold or flu or some such virus that had sapped me, yet I marshalled on and on, under the weather in Southern California. I had not been in my garden in nearly two weeks for any time to speak of--and both of us had suffered the separation, my garden and I.
My garden heals me. Grounds me. When I spend time in my garden, I cultivate something of my soul. Problems and concerns and other creative endeavors—words and images and ideas—simmer on the back burner. Gardening affords an incubation period. Drawn into the senses—the spicy smell of the roses, the paint box colors of the pansies, the prickle of the cosmos seeds as I collect some to share with a friend.

Pilfering memorial hollyhock seeds

So having contracted Autumn Fever, I hung out the "Gone Gardening" shingle and played hooky out of doors. I hustled from my secret garden to my front garden, schlepping my flat of pansies and replacing burgundy mums with ‘Frost Prince’ flowering kale in the ornamental concrete urns at the top of the first set of stairs in front. These urns were a gift to me many years ago. They have weathered well, and the urns stand as hybrid architectural and horticultural sentinels of my front stoop. I change out the plants in these urns several times over the season. In spring, pansies. In summer, succulents. In autumn, flowering kale, which I'd just planted and needed to water. As I walked down the stairs and headed to my spigot and garden hose on the side of my house, I spotted a scooter. The sporty thing parked just outside my porch, down the bank, in the middle of the sidewalk, looked like a joke of some kind. The scooter was definitely a girl scooter, painted the color of grape sherbet, but metallic, the color of chic lipstick or nail enamel.
I live along a busy one-way thoroughfare in a historic district of central Denver. Twice over 20 years, cars have veered off the avenue and careened through the gardens I've grown on the right-of-way alongside my house. But I’d never seen a scooter parked in the middle of my sidewalk. Curious, I looked around to see if somebody was having trouble.
Then, like a ghost appearing from a mist, a woman walked out from behind the tall pink hollyhocks of a plot I call Avenue Garden West for sake of naming a territory so as to somehow understand it and map it.
The first thing I noticed about this woman is that she held in one hand a Ziploc baggie and in the other hand a pair of scissors. Initially, I felt territorial. How dare she happen along and help herself to seeds from my garden without bothering to ask permission? I huffed a smidge, my feathers puffing, hackles up. Then, I chilled, remembering that gardeners are peaceable people, and realizing that I was flattered she was ransacking my garden for seeds. I felt profoundly appreciative, really, that somebody would want seeds from my garden enough to actually come collect them. She looked friendly enough. About my age, perhaps a bit older, she was attractive and funkily dressed with an aging-hippie-meets-urban-cool vibe.
“I’m collecting seeds to plant in a park,” she said, no apology.
I just said, “Oh.” I thought about asking whether she’d considered asking permission.
But before I could, she asked me about my hollyhocks.
I asked her about her park. She mentioned the name, a park I’d not heard of, which is not unusual since Denver has so many parks. I think the park had the name "Baca" in it. I asked her where it was. Somewhere in LoDo, she explained.
"A friend of mine committed suicide in that park a year ago in August," she said.
I cluck my tongue. “Awww,” I said, shocked, compassion rising in my throat. I was so glad I had not run her off my property earlier when I first discovered her snipping seeds sans permission. “I’m so sorry," I said. And I was.
“He was a flower guy,” the woman said matter-of-factly. “So I spent all this money putting in all these things. Tulips. All kinds of things. And nothing grew.”
“What a beautiful gesture for a memorial,” I said to her.

“Nobody has a black thumb”

She said, “I have a black thumb.”
“Nobody has a black thumb,” I said. “These hollyhocks? They're tough. They'll make it. You watch and see. And take some cosmos seeds, too.”
“Which ones are cosmos?”
“The purple ones,” I pointed to the bank behind her.
And she walked over to a sizable lavender shrub and touched a late bloom. “That’s lavender,” I said and touched one of the thistle-colored cosmos blooms. “The lavender won’t seed, but cosmos will. The seeds are prickly, so be careful when you gather them. These are prolific. They might take over the place. Just sprinkle them. They’ll self-seed. The hollyhocks, too. And maybe take some of the gallardia. Blanket flower,” I said, pointing to the corner crowded with flowers that exactly resemble the inside of a nectarine cut in half.
“I’m funny,” the lady said. “I don’t like yellow.”
“Well, some people don’t,” I said. Again, I might have copped a "beggars can't be choosers" attitude, but I didn't. I noticed again the metallic mauve of her scooter. I did not try to talk her into any yellow. Who am I to cajole? I’ve been obsessing over an all-white garden, for goodness sake. I can relate to color quirks.
Suddenly, I grew self-conscious, aware of all the weeds poking up in the flower bed where she went after the little dried wheels of hollyhock seeds. “I need to get out here and weed,” I said.
“I don’t see weeds," the woman said, "I see flowers. These hollyhocks look ancient. How long have you lived here?”
“About 20 years,” I said. “The cosmos came from my mother’s garden. Help yourself. And good luck.”
“Thank you so much,” she said with sincerity; and I left her to collect her mourning seeds.


Inspiring beauty along the parkway

The second episode with strangers in my gardens happened a few weeks ago. I was working in my garden when a man and a boy stopped by on their bikes. The man introduced himself and his son. They lived a few blocks away, he said.
“I’ve been admiring your garden.”
I beamed. “I like it, too,” I said, proud as any parent.
He explained that he wanted to plant the right of way at the end of his block along our busy central Denver, one-way avenue. He asked about which plants would do well. I showed him some low water, low maintenance plants. I warned about planting things that would grow too high, interfering with sight lines along the trafficked avenue. (The way my hollyhocks unfortunately do.) I applauded his idea, encouraged him to pursue his beautification plan, even offered to help if he needed more assistance.
I showed his young son the seeds of several plants, explaining that they’d all started from tiny seeds. When I showed him one hollyhock seed and then showed him the towering, thick-stemmed hollyhocks with all the colorful little hoop skirt blossoms, the boy's eyes went round. He said, “Wwwwwwow!"
My sentiments exactly.

Begging a flower for a lover

And the first heart-warming incident in this string of encounters with strangers in my gardens happened last spring. While working in my garden, a young man stopped by. He, too, had been admiring my garden. He was formal, polite, enthusiastic. “I drive by here every day on my way to my girlfriend's,” said the young Romeo, probably in his 20s. (Difficult for me to judge age anymore, since I just turned 49, a blinding turnstile age.) At any rate, the Don Juan plead his case, “I was thinking how happy my girlfriend would be if I could bring her just one of those beautiful flowers.”
“The tulips?” I asked, a bit incredulous that he had stopped to beg a flower for his lover.
“Just one?” he pleaded.
How could I refuse so romantic a gesture?
“You pick it,” I said. And he did.
I wish I could have seen the look on his lover's face when he showed up with that flower. I wish I could have seen what she'd done with it. Was it in a pretty vase on the bureau in her bedroom? Atop her bathroom sink? The centerpiece of her dining room table? I could only hope she would cherish the tulip as much as her sweetheart had. I pray the tulips return next spring. I will gladly share another and another and another.

If you grow a garden, know that your garden is not for you alone, but for all who would look upon it. All who would steal its seeds. All who would imitate your edge of Eden. All who would beg a flower for a lover.

For more greenthumb matters, please visit my Examiner.com page, where I serve as Denver Flower and Gardening Examiner. Just click here to link.

Happy October: 37 Days Til Ski Season Opens!

Frost in the forecast means fare thee well
to much of my garden;
but in my in box an email reminding me
of the one consolation:
37 days until ski season opens in Colorado!

Photo depicts my college housemate
Betsy "Logan" Edwards, at left,
and moi atop Vail.
Betsy brokers real estate in the Vail Valley
in case you're looking for
a get-away in the high country.

Meanwhile, bring in any plants
you intend to over-winter in the hospitable indoors.
Toss a blanket over your tender plants outside--
especially those tomato vines!
Indian Summer extends our growing season,
but not if Jack Frost nips too hard.

Happy Labor Day!

“One must not always

think so much

about what one should do,

but rather what one should be.

Our works do not ennoble us;

but we must ennoble our works.”

--Meister Eckhart

Got a little extra time to read today? Check out these noble entries:

• Remember the importance of working--and playing--in your garden on Labor Day. Just click here now.

• Educate yourself about the plight of Florida farmworkers enslaved in tomato-picking--you'll likely look twice next time you're picking up tomatoes in your produce section. Just click here now.

3 Thoughts on and a quote for Labor Day Weekend

My overalls: well worn and well loved. Photo by Quincy Benton

Happy Labor Day weekend!

You work that you may keep pace with the earth
and the soul of the earth.
For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons,
and to step out of life’s procession that marches in majesty
and proud submission towards the infinite.”

Kahlil Gibran

Everybody I know bemoans how fast the summer went. Perhaps because the weather seemed something other than summery. Here in Denver, I won't complain because we had plenty of rain: a benediction in these dry days that seem part of climate change.

Labor Day Weekend Thought #1: Just jumped into my well worn and well loved overalls and heading out to work in my garden--one of my favorite forms of labor. Writing seems in many ways the opposite of gardening in that my day job requires stretches of sitting still. Writing is mostly intellectual labor as opposed to physical--other than the fingers typing on the keyboard, it's a mental implosion. That doesn't make writing any less tiring, really, just a different sort of fatigue in the head more than in the body; tho' sitting too long hunched over a laptop can make my shoulders as sore as digging dirt does. Gardening, on the other hand, requires physical work, actions of the body to chop plants, carry water. And pull weeds and turn compost and on and on--activities suited for bib overalls. Of course, the intellect must come into play in the garden, too.


Labor Day Weekend Thought #2: Walked into Cherry Creek North last night for a bite of bbq at Q, where there's an open-air bar with a view to a stage offering live music--blues and jazz--seven nights a week. Under the full moon last night, the scene was particularly romantic. Since I was in grade school and infatuated with boys in bands--the Beatles, especially--it occurred to me that when musicians labor, we term it "playing." When musicians go to work, it's play. A guitarist's job is to "play" the guitar; we don't typically say a guitarist "works" the guitar. A pianist plays the piano. A drummer plays the drums. Interesting distinction! What do you play--if not an instrument?


Labor Day Weekend Thought #3: I don't normally read Gourmet magazine, but while staying at the Ritz-Carleton in Washington, D.C. last spring, I picked up a copy on my nightstand. Inside, in a department titled "Politics of the Plate," I read an appalling account of what amounts to slave labor right here in this country, in Florida. The situation involves farmer workers picking tomatoes. I finally figured out a way to help process this information that has stuck in my craw since reading the article. I posted entries on my Denver Flower and Garden Examiner page yesterday and today to help raise awareness about the plight of these people and why we should beware of tomatoes from Florida.

You think your job sucks?

Please click here to educate yourself about this woeful situation these farm workers face and what you can do to help. You'll find two posts--one introducing the issue and the second including an excerpt from the Gourmet story and more information. In short, vote with your pocketbook and make efforts to eat seasonally and locally.

Work hard. Play hard.
Enjoy the long weekend!

WANDERLUST: New Orleans

Last year, I had the opportunity to volunteer in New Orleans, hanging sheet rock at a little house in St. Bernard Parish, pictured here, near the Lower Ninth Ward.
I also carried out my idea to plant a little garden there and had a lot of help with that--sort of a "stone soup" story. You can see the border in front of the house, below the large window.
Here's a link to an essay I wrote afterwards: "Gardeners Without Borders."

I plan to visit NOLA again in November, but I don't know if I'll get to the parish to check in on the border we planted.

Don't miss divine lotus now in bloom at Hudson Gardens

"However fickle I seem, my heart is never unfaithful; Out of the slime itself, spotless the lotus grow."
-- Japanese Folk Song


Photos by Colleen Smith and her amazing iPhone imagemaker

What these photos do not show is scale. The lotus leaves are bigger than large pizzas. The pod at the center of the fully opened flower is about the diameter of a cake donut. And that bud is the size of a small melon.

Hungry for more info on lotus?

Click here for my entry on Examiner.com, which includes more lotus photos and some background on lotus in sacred traditions.

If you want to see these divine blooms in person, you have to hurry: they're predicted to bloom through mid-August. I swear, these are E.T. flowers or something out of Dr. Seuss. The lotus are well worth the drive, plus Hudson Gardens has lots of other attractions, as well.

Flower photography and garden guru guidelines

In this photo, humble rose moss rivals blue ribbon heirloom roses. What a difference perspective makes!
To ogle more stunning flower shots from my gardens, photographed this summer by Quincy Benton, click on this link which will take you to my Examiner.com page. If you're a gardener, you'll enjoy the entries.
And even if you're not a gardener, you'll find lots of beautiful images from the natural world. I hope you'll click on by for a visit.

Meanwhile, tend your garden. August is upon us.

MUST-SEE FILM: "Food, Inc."

Squash vines blossom and arugula thrives in containers on my shoebox-sized secret garden.

Photo by Quincy Benton

If you are "hungry for change,"
please click on this link
to go to my Denver Flower and Gardening page for more information on the film "Food, Inc."

I urge everybody to view this film, which closes with some good advice: Plant a garden. Even a small one.

For more entries related to gardens and gardening, scroll down on this page to find the "cloud" listing of topics and click on "GARDEN GATE."

Or, click on this link to go directly to Food, Inc. website with lots more information on fixing our rusty and weak food chain. You'll find 10 tips for getting started toward healthier eating and supporting healthier growing practices.

GARDENGATE: Losses and Gains

Whenever I purchase a plant or bulbs or rhizomes or seeds, I always imagine the most. I always assume my end results will look exactly like the photo on the label.

Needless to say, I wind up disappointed more than once in a while. Like when I bought a box of hostas a few seasons ago, beautiful variegated ones with creamy edges on their bright green leaves. I imagined my crab apple tree ringed in this handsome foliage. I read the boxes instructions and tried to follow them to the T.

Some of the hostas never came up. Others, the slugs ate. But one remains. I can see this hosta from my bedroom windows. This hosta is near the table where I often sit to eat or write or read. It's a special plant to me--the one that reminds me that even when my visions fall short, things turn out okay.

“If you wish to make anything grow you must understand it, and understand it in a very real sense. ‘Green fingers’ are a fact, and a mystery only to the unpractised. But green fingers are the extensions of a verdant heart. A good garden cannot be made by somebody who has not developed the capacity to know and to love growing things.”

--Russell Page

The Education of a Gardener, 1962

For more garden philosophy: Go to my Examiner.com home page--Denver Flower and Gardening Examiner--see the categories list at right, and click on "Garden Quotes" or "Garden Philosophy."

GARDENGATE: Please visit me at Examiner.com

Photo by James Baca

Have you missed me? I--believe it or not--have missed blogging, too! For me, the blog took the place of journaling, which I once did with daily devotion.

I'm elsewhere online: I recently was hired by Examiner.com and given this exciting title: Denver Flower and Garden Examiner. Given that gardening is now underway in the Mile High City, I'm focused on writing pieces for The Denver Post's Grow section, Colorado Expression, Architecture & Design of the West, and now building my Examiner.com page.

Please visit me at my Examiner.com flower and garden page. Even if you're not a gardener, if you enjoy this Bluestocking blog, you likely will enjoy my Examiner.com page, too. You'll find lovely photos and thoughtful essays, along with profiles of plants, gardeners, gardening tips and other treasures.
If you care to leave a comment or subscribe, that will thrill me, too.
I'll be back to Bluestocking blog as soon as I finish planting. I've got a few things that still need to go into the ground.
Please check in again soon.
Thanks for reading. Happy gardening.

GARDENGATE: Fruit of the Blog

A lot of people looked at me sideways when I mentioned I'd started blogging. I know; I know: I resisted it, too. For starters, "blog" and "blogging" are horrible words. Add to that the idea of all the unedited writing, and the fact that anybody can write anything. But I decided to hop on the bandwagon and see if I could manage without a train wreck, to mix my metaphors.

Happy news: The blog bore fruit! I just began as the Denver Flower and Garden Examiner at examiner.com. Lots to learn. This technology stupefies me. I'm thrilled to have another avenue for articulating the joys of the garden and sharing what I've learned--sometimes the hard way--in my own gardens.

Here's a link to my examiner.com page.
Or, if you are interested you can find it this way:
Google examiner.com
Click on"Denver"
Click on "Plant and Gardener Examiner"

I'm just getting started there, but have posted four pieces and have 4,000-some ideas.

GARDENGATE: Snow Crab Survivor Blossoms

Earlier this Spring, I posted about the four little snow crab trees planted the last two seasons in my little corner of the world. I bemoaned the early, unseasonably warm temperatures that enticed the buds, which--as I feared--got coldcocked by a late snow storm.
Blossoms are not guaranteed—especially here in Denver—which, I suppose, makes them all the more special when variables align so that blossoms do appear. Over the weekend, while working around the yard, I noticed that one valiant snow crab had produced one survivor blossom--well, okay, two blossoms, as you can see in this image at top. Precious! The image also shows what happened to most of the browned blooms and leaves. Roots are resilient, though. And there's always next Spring with it's eternal hope.

The other photo shows three of the four snow crabs in 2008, their first spring, their tree "training wheels" still in place.

The secret garden's venerable old crab apple in the back yard got zapped, too. No pink blossoms, which means no petals to sweep up later this spring, no little apples to rake up come autumn, but also means no food for the robins and squirrels. Gardening, like life, has its trade-offs.

GARDEN GATE: The Understated Elegance of White Flowers

The other night, walking home from yoga, the white flowers in front of my house held their own in the moonlight. Lovely and lacy, the white blossoms seemed to glow, while other colors tend to disappear in darkness.

At the nurseries and greenhouses, I'm tempted by all the juicy colors, yet I'm fairly obsessed right now with white flowers. Some years ago, I got the bug for an all-white garden. I didn't yet have the discipline to blanche the entire landscape, but in the secret garden I did experiment with a circle of creamy white roses and boxwood ringing the bird bath. I loved the rich simplicity of the palette, so I pursued the vision.

In the last couple growing seasons, I've gravitated more and more toward plants with white blossoms. Of course, due to all the foliage, it's not really an all-white garden, but more a green and white garden. Since the brick of my house is so dark, the white flowers really pop in contrast. The beds in the front include the following white-flowered plants: pansies, tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, coneflowers, shasta daisies, candytuft, Buck roses. At the moment, the cherry tree blooms, too. Today, standing beneath it, getting a love-apple-growing lesson from my neighbor Darrell the Tomato Master, the cherry tree showered us with white confetti petals.























White flowers go with everything. Like a crisp white shirt, they make everything seem fresher. The green and white soothe, and the discerning eye can examine the different colors of white. Rather than the big burst of color impact, I've come to appreciate the forms and textures of the white flowers.

And the fragrance. Though the hyacinths have come and gone for this season, fragrant white Buck roses and a white peony are on deck.

Yesterday, while working in my garden, a young man stopped. He was dressed in spattered painter's clothes. He introduced himself and said he'd noticed my garden, and drove around the block to see it again. Then he asked if he could pick one of the tall, showy, white tulips in front of my house "for a very special female" in his life. How could I resist such a romantic impulse?

A garden isn't only for the delight of the gardener, but for all who pass and appreciate its beauty.

GARDEN GATE: Spring’s Simple Pleasures

FROM MY GARDEN, WHITE TULIPS for the dining room table: one of Spring's simple pleasures.

SOME MORE SIMPLE PLEASURES OF SPRING

1) Napping in the secret garden’s hammock

2) Snipping fresh chives for a salad, fresh peppermint for tea

3) Watching the perennials stage their comebacks

4) Listening to the trickle of the fountain and the songs of robins and mourning doves, chickadees

5) Watching the nimble squirrel’s high wire act on the power lines

6) Sniffing lemon verbena leaves

7) Working in the al fresco studio

8) Eating lunch on the back patio

9) Cutting showy white tulips for the dining room table

10) Hanging my yoga togs out to dry in the sunshine

GARDEN GATE: Two Sure-Fire Shade Plants

BLEEDING HEART's whimsical pink flowers, also known as Dutchman's Breeches or, more formally, Dicentra
spectablis, and the forget-me-not- blue blossoms of Siberian Buggloss, Brunnera macryphylla, now star in the shade bed of my secret garden.

“Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything that is beautiful, for beauty is God's handwriting -- a wayside sacrament.
Welcome it in every fair face, in every fair sky, in every flower, and thank God for it as a cup of blessing.”
–- Ralph Waldo Emerson

GARGEN GATE: Happy May Day!

Happy May Day!

This is my story published in the GROW section of The Denver Post today.

FROM denverpost.com

Choose color palette wisely

Imaginative combinations add drama

By Colleen Smith
Special to The Denver Post

Posted: 05/01/2009 12:30:00 AM MDT

Against the subdued background of a blue spruce, pansies in blue and orange, vivid red tulips, hyacinths and white daffodils explode in a riot of abundant color. The key to that abundance? Buying enough plants to creating areas of common colors, says landscape designer Mike Eagleton. (Photos courtesy of Mike Eagleton )

The historic Seventh Avenue Parkway boasts 20 of Denver's loveliest flower beds: 19 annual gardens and one perennial garden.

Karen Zeldin, a city parks horticulture worker, is planning her fourth season of designing and tending the parkway's plantings.

"We have so many beds that I can't go too crazy with intricate designs," Zeldin said.

She germinates ideas for simple plantings that are anything but plain, thanks in large part to imaginative color combinations. Last season, for example, Zeldin filled five flower beds at Milwaukee Street with creamy white canna lilies, basil so dark it looked almost black, and miniature pepper plants with tiny, lemon-yellow fruits. The result was dramatic and wholly unexpected.

This year,

Be sure to look beyond blooms for color, like these dramatic leaves of impatiens, sweet potato vines and begonias.

one of Zeldin's brightest plans calls for planting a mix of "Braveheart" begonias — bi-colored light pink and rosy pink — a dark purple heliotrope with bright green foliage and celosia "Fresh Look Orange."

Color, of course, is only one consideration when purchasing plants, but it is a primary concern.

Zeldin emphasized remembering that plants' cultivar names aren't always true blue. "It might be called 'scarlet,' but it might end up being more pink," she said. "You can't go by the names."

Zeldin also notes that plant colors change.

"They're different at different times of the day," she said. "And the color depends on heat and light."

Mike Eagleton holds landscape-design and graphic-design degrees from Colorado State University. The owner of Mike Eagleton Landscape Architecture and Design, he produces head- turning gardens and splashy containers, including the huge pots along the 16th Street Mall. Also a botanic illustrator, Eagleton has an eye for color.

He's persnickety about plants, but when it comes to planning gardens, Eagleton encourages a relaxed spirit of horticultural adventure.

"You don't want to overthink it, or people get all bundled," Eagleton said. "There are 8 million different

Pink petunias, orange marigolds, purple globe amaranth and two types of rudbeckia show variety within a limited palette. (Mike Eagleton)

color schemes. It's all personal preference. Just pick colors you love."

But to create more cohesion, Eagleton advises limiting the color palette.

"People go to the nursery and get excited about individual flowers and colors. They say, 'I love that. I love this.' But if they're dabbling here and there with colors, it has zero impact in the yard," he said.

"The true test is when you put all your plants in the cart. If you're not seeing continuity or a theme, you've got trouble," Eagleton said. "If there's not enough commonality between colors in the cart, when you put the plants in your garden, it's just polka dots."

Landscape impact often requires quantity: "People never purchase enough," Eagleton said.

He also underscored

Different textures in the same hues of blues (hyacinth, grape hyacinth and pansies) create drama without busyness. (Mike Eagleton)

the value of accent colors.

"You want something to hold it all down, to mitigate bold colors or provide a segue," said Eagleton. "When you do pink and orange, you get great contrast and clash, but yellow mixed in softens everything."

Eagleton often works with yellow, white, silver, lime green, blue and pale peach as accents.

"If you're going to use an accent, use only a little bit of it," he said, "but it can't be all in one place because the eye will go instantly to it."

One of Eagleton's favorite color combinations mixes black, silver, salmon and lime green. He's also a fan of red, orange and lime green.

"I think people are ready to get into sophisticated color schemes and get some excitement in their life," he said.

Denver writer Colleen Smith blogs about gardening and other interests at colleenwordsmith.blogspot.com.

A bed near a home's wall gets a bright pop from petunias, orange zinnias and rudbeckia. (Mike Eagleton)

GARDEN GATE: Waiting for the Last Frost

The deciduous trees
have not yet concealed their nests.
The aspen tree next door shimmers in full leaf,
suddenly.
The Emerald Queen maples have unfurled their leaves,
almost.
And the oak trees,
finally,
let go of last season's brittle, brown leaves.
The oaks are the hangers-on,
refusing to relinquish their old leaves
until assured of buds.
The lilacs down the block
have just started to pop,
releasing their purple perfume.
In Denver, the last frost date is 5 May.
My mother swore by 15 May.
Gardening cultivates patience.

GARDEN GATE: Rilke Defines Spring

"It is Spring again
The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart."
-- Rilke