I was born and raised on the east side of Detroit-within shouting distance of the Chrysler assembly plant; this would be in the mid-fifties. I will state up front I am a product of a local culture that designed, manufactured, and revolved and prospered some 90 years since Henry Ford rolled out his Model A. The Woodward Dream Cruise which attracts car afficianados from all over the country is a festival, a celebration, and a homecoming all rolled into one. I have friends and family focused on horsepower; my love of cars is rooted in the evolution of their sculpture. I love the shapes of the old Porches, and their leather trunk details. I love the new Porsche Boxter whose roof folds neatly into the trunk at the push of a button. The seat of my Suburban is adjustable in every dimension, making a long drive comfortable-and of course I haul the Corgis in it every day. The glass is incredibly clear; the paint is tough. It looks like a work truck-inside and out. The big muscle cars-the Chevrolet Camaro, the Pontiac GTO, the Dodge Charger and the Oldsmobile 442 rocketed plenty of Americans around the block and then some. The new Zr-1 Corvette, on a par with the best that Farrari or Lamborghini has to offer, delivers 650 horsepower at the rear wheels-and rolls that power out with the dignity of a Rolls Royce. So ok, I keep up a little about cars; I am a Detroiter.
When I was 17, my Father begrudingly gave me a car-a red 1966 Dodge Dart with a push button transmission. How I loved that car! That car survived my teenhood, and went on to serve my Uncle Don until it stopped dead in its tracks after running amiably for 350,000 miles. Eventually my idea of a car came to be that reliable means by which I get from one place to another, over a long period of time.
I do not own a car now; I own a fleet of trucks that enables me to do the work that needs getting done. They haul materials. They transport crews. My Ford 450 dump truck has transported tons of brick, decomposed granite, and bark. We fill it with the remains of the year’s container plantings, and drive that debris to the compost pile, and dump. Loaded to the top with mulch and tools, it has enough power left over to pull my trailer, loaded with my 2000 Bobcat skid steer. That rig weighs in at just under 22,000 pounds. Another day it may be transporting trees or evergreens. The pickup trucks haul shrubs, perennials, and more tools-maybe my 15 year old Honda rototiller, or a compactor for compressing granite. The Chevy Suburban may drop off the two hydrangeas or the 10 bags of soil we are short on a job. It has room for pots too fragile to transport in a truck; my two Corgis go to work every day and come home every night in what I affectionately call “the bus”. Marv Wiegand has one at his growing farm in Richmond with 350,000 miles on it; I have the same plan for mine. When it won’t run any more, I might just find a good spot for it, roll the windows down, torch off the roof, and plant it.
I own two box trucks compete with hydraulic lift gates. Those lift gates make it possible to get garden ornaments much too heavy for a man to handle onto a truck for delivery. I sometimes load one with racks that hold flats and four inch annuals. Some rocking GMC designer put a translucent plastic roof in it; you can see everything you have aboard. I bought the first one in 2002, the second in 2005. The engine is made by Isuzu; I have made two minor repairs to them in the eleven years between them. My newest truck-a Dodge Sprinter. This extra long van is tall enough to accomodate someone over six feet tall-standing up. If you have ever owned a van in which you have to bend over to get from one end to the other, you understand what a blessing this is. The diesel engine is the only Mercedes Benz I am ever likely to own; I drove to Texas once on 2.5 tanks of gas. It efficiently hauls big and tall things; I can fold the shelves up parallel to the walls and deliver all the flower arrangements for all but the largest events. As it turns out, I have a Sprinter load of flowers going to the Detroit Opera Theatre for an event today. Neither my crew nor my Sprinter minds an occasional Sunday gig.
These vehicles deliver what I need day after day-no complaints. Once in a blue moon a vehicle will have a problem. The people who service trucks understand that you cannot operate without them; their service is excellent. Though the Sprinter will lock up if you let the fuel get too low, they are not as a group, temperamental. The three trucks I have replaced since 1990 I gave away; they still ran. My trucks work how I work-every day, day after day. Over the winter, we service them so they are ready to go in the spring. Sure they need oil changes and new tires, but by and large they work, and go on working. My biggest expense-the commercial licenses. The plates for the box trucks alone are 1000.00 a year. I like knowing these trucks provide revenue to the State that enables them to maintain the roads. How they deliver is not a hit or miss; my trucks I can rely on. What I can rely on is an important topic when you are running a business.
There has been plenty of hoopla and a lot of talk about the automobile companies since last September. My two cents on the topic is that these companies produce very fine vehicles that have make it possible for me to earn a living. I think people who dismiss GM or Ford or Chrysler with the wave of a hand have never needed a truck to make a living. I also doubt they would be interested in doing without those things that trucks make possible-like the vegetables that get to the farmer’s market. The truck owned by the refrigerator repair man means you don’t have to take your refrigerator in for service. There are a lot of American trucks out there reliably performing all kinds of work-for farmers, gardeners, contractors, firemen-the list of people who need good trucks is long. The American auto companies have delivered plenty; they understand what American working people need in a truck. My Ford 450 is nine years old now; every year my salesperson calls to ask if I am ready to replace it. I tell him thank you, but I have no need for a new one.
I am writing about this today, as yesterday I paid off my last vehicle. I own all my vehicles now, free and clear. Best of all, I know they have a long life ahead of them. I call that efficient-when what you get keeps on going long after you’ve finished paying for it.
They say delayed gratification is the most adult of all pleasures, so maybe I was being childish about the long hiatus between the planting and the blooming. But when spring finally comes, tulips deliver. It is no small miracle that those small white bulbs with their papery brown covers become a plant that can reach thirty inches tall or better, with strikingly large flowers. Even people whose vocabulary does not include the word “garden”, know the word tulip. 
As is my habit, I welcome the one odd plant out in any mass planting. This ocean of Mrs. John Sheepers is all the better looking for it. The blooming of the tulips is one of those garden moments to be treasured. I certainly was not thinking about how cold it was the day I planted , on this spring day. My tulips shake off any late frost; most of any damage is to the leaves that appear early. They are remarkably resilient to rain and wind.
Despite some literature to the contrary, I would not describe a tulip as a perennial. Once they flower, the top size bulb breaks down into smaller bulbs and bulbils. As flower size is directly related to the size of the bulb, a smaller bulb, or collection of will produce smaller flowers, or possibly, no flowers at all. In Holland, once the tulips have bloomed, the bulbs are dug up, sorted as to size and replanted for growing them back to top size. I do not want to dig tulips, separate the bulbs and replant; the Dutch do a much better job of this than I could. This is a long way of saying that I treat my tulips as annuals. When they are done flowering, I dig them and give them away, or compost them.
Daffodils are a much better choice of a spring flowering bulb, should you have a requirement that your bulbs rebloom reliably. But they are not tulips. Treating the tulips as annuals permits me to plant them in places where I will later plant summer annuals. As I do not discriminate against summer flowering plants that are only able to grace my garden for one year, so why not have tulips?
Given that I took this picture September 24, why wouldn’t I be unprepared for the weather here this past week? Just three weeks ago, I still had my summer. Though describing any Michigan weather as “ordinary” is glossing over the truth, our weather ordinarily cools off at a slow enough pace to make keeping up with the job of putting the garden to sleep relatively easy. My fall cleanup and shovelling out is based on the distinction I draw between gardening, and housekeeping.
I have seen those properties that look as though every shred of organic debris has been blown, vacuumed up and disposed of weekly; anyone who has inadvertently turned a blower on themselves realize what an invasion they are. Every green leaf looks dusted; every surface has been swept, every shred or organic debris is bagged and removed. The stone is scrubbed clean, and the cushions are only on the furniture when company is in attendance. I like the look of cultivated soil as well as the next person, but all of the above is housekeeping, not gardening. Years ago a gardener whom I greatly respect, Marge Alpern, told me she disturbed her plants as little as possible. She maintained that plants can be worried such that they refuse to prosper. I think this is a point well taken. I will not take on the perennial gardens until much later in the fall.
A series of nights with temperatures hovering in the mid thirties left my pots looking like this-devastated. It does not matter one bit that I know this day is coming, I am never ready for it, nor do I like it. I do not like to let go. On a much more dramatic scale than the time changing to daylight savings, I adjust slowly, and poorly.
Coleus are astonishingly intolerant of cold weather. Anyone who does poorly with them is probably planting them out too early; every plant thrives in some conditions, and sulks in all else. This five foot diameter fiery orange ball was glorious all season; in late August the corgis were breaking off the branches encroaching on the doorway. They keep the extreme understory clear of any obstructions.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye my fireball shed almost every leaf. Unlike the gingko tree which sheds every leaf on that certain perfect fall day, leaving a beautiful pool of yellow on the ground, the coleus leaves dessicate, drop, and disappear before you can even mourn properly. 
My English-made Italian style pots were home to the biggest bouquet I have ever grown. The nicotiana mutabilis got busy throwing spikes in September, and the dahlias were blooming profusely. I like that extravagant and exuberant look. No matter how the day had gone, I could go home and congratulate myself on having grown one of the annual wonders of the western world. You may be laughing, but how the look of it pleased and cheered me. 
Though the nicotiana mutabilis is yet bravely defending its home, the cold pierced the heart of the whole. Buck is always amazed and amused and the depth and breadth of the despair which attends the beginning of the end of my gardening year. I alternately rage and whine-he murmurs, and pours the wine. 
This sister to my pots, adapted for use as a fountain, bears all the signs of a season’s worth of mineral laden water, weather,heat and growth. Does that gorgeous Italianate face not seem completely grief stricken? 