I woke up this morning and it was September. The floors in the house were cold; it is 49 degrees. Naturally, I think I smell the beginning of an end.  I see a blustery wind broke a giant branch off one of my daturas.  7 flowers and 3 times that many buds went down with it, for pete’s sake.  I notice for the first time that my garden looks like it is slowing down. My giant coleus ball by the kitchen door has that deflated look about it. Would I put off September for another 30 days if I could?  Though summer’s end is not my idea of a cause for great celebration, it is probably time-so no; I am ready for September. Time to stop looking at that garden- its time to do something about those things that need to be divided, moved, pitched, or added to.  September is a great month to work in a garden.  Cooler temperatures and more regular rain is a friendly environment in which to plant.  Though the air temperatures are cooling, the soil is still warm, and cools off slowly.  The roots of plants continue to grow until the ground freezes.  In my zone, that date is 4 months away. 

I do not really garden in the summer.  I maintain what’s there.  I pollarded the lilacs, dead headed the roses, and wired up the panic grass after a big wind.  I water, and as I am watering, I look at it, and enjoy it.  I also sit in it, entertain, contemplate, and live in my garden.  The season is changing.  September is break out the fork and spade month. I think fall is the best time to plant.  Spring in Michigan is  unpredictable, inconsistent, and can be amazingly inhospitable.  My local nurseries seem to have a good supply of great looking plants in the fall-I think I might do some planting.

 I have several perennial gardens that need renovation. I planted them for clients 10 years ago or better.  Trees nearby have grown and are casting shade; the too crowded daylilies are not blooming as profusely as they should.  Civilized patches of black eyed susans have distressingly burgeoned into oceans of black eyed susans.  Some things they really like are not all that long lived, and need to be replanted.  Is there a spot for more peonies? The kousa dogwood that has never looked good-September is a good time to make changes.

Should you plant new perennials in the fall, they most likely will look like two year olds next spring.  They will look identical to perennials you planted last spring. If you are late to the party, redemption can yet be yours. I like to have new perennials in the ground by the end of September, so there is time for some rooting to take place.  Nothing is so discouraging as seeing your perennials with their crowns heaved up out of the ground in the spring.It is a lot of work to buy a plant, bring it home, dig a hole, and plant.  It only makes sense to optimize your chances of success.  If you are like me, dead plants make you very crabby.    

I went out to Wiegand’s Nursery this afternoon.  The parking lot was full of people loading all manner of plants into their vehicles.  I saw perennials, evergreens, houseplants and shrubs being jammed into trunks and back seats.  I saw two kids in the back seat of a car-they both had flats on pansies on their lap.  Never mind that look of distaste I could see from 10 feet away-they might decide to garden once they grow up.  Some young people were engaging in a heated discussion about something garden related-great.  All of these people had the right idea.  They know they have September to dig up, divide, rearrange, replace a dead tree, cut a new bed-act on their ideas. 

My Mom took me to the American Peony Society Convention at the Kingwood Center in Ohio  for my 30th birthday-that would have been 1980.  It was my idea of the best 30th birthday present I could imagine. She obliged, and we had the best time.  I have a scrapbook of photographs she took.  There are a few of me, and one of her-all the rest are of peonies.  Each photograph is labelled with the cultivar name, and class.  I still refer to it, many years later.  I have no memory of where we stayed, what we wore, or what we ate.  But I do remember that I was by at least 20 years the youngest attendee.  Many growers and exhibitors made a point of telling me they were so happy to see a young person intensely interested in peonies.  I so much better understand their concern today than I did 30 years ago.  Anyone who loves plants wants to see that they continue to be grown by the next generation.  I had that same feeling today- seeing so many people younger than I, buying plants in celebration of the September gardening season.

I met the late interior designer Brian Killian every bit of 30 years ago through a client of his-Priscilla whose last name I can no longer remember. I do graphically remember refinishing all of her hardwood floors in her house.  I went on to do more work for him-and not the kind of work you would think. I was not even dreaming of doing landscape design then.  I supported myself, via a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, I sold my art work here and there.  I painted little abstract watercolors, limed cabinets, did finishes-I did odd jobs for him.   I even persuaded my Mom to have him redo her living room for her.  He was opinionated, bossy, and delightful.  I knew the moment I met him he was a designer with an extraordinary, truly extraordinary gift.  Everyone who met him knew this-not just me.

There were a good many years when I lost track of him.  I was a local landscape designer-he was an interior designer who was well on his way to becoming nationally known.  He walked into Detroit Garden Works for the first time one day, not having any idea it belonged to me.  I came around the corner, we both held our breath.  He recovered immediately; “Did we not know each other when we were young?”.  I burst out laughing-of course we had.  We went on to do some business, and become friends. We were friends of a different sort.  I did not travel in his circle, nor did he in mine.  But we would meet not often, but regularly for dinner, and talk. Somehow we had common ground.   He was one of those people one meets only rarely-wicked talented.  His work, should you have ever seen it, was breathtakingly beautiful- truly original. 

We had a running conversation on the following topic.  He believed there would be one project that would come his way that would be the defining moment, the epitome of his career. Everything he had done would build to this defining project.  I understand this thinking.  The entire summer season long I photograph projects over and over again, in the hope I will record with my camera that one defining moment. Every year I finally realize that there is not the one defining moment as much as there is that one photograph that perfectly captures the process of that season.  In any event, I do not really subscribe to that notion that any one project defines a design life.  I so much more stand on the side of a body of work, a lifetime of work, a series of moments. 

We contested this topic vigorously-no kidding, for years.  One night at the shop, before we went to dinner, he had me so steamed about this, I accidentally backed my Suburban into the rear end of his Mercedes coupe. His manners were perfect.  He waved off all of my next day plans to get his car fixed-he would not think of, nor permit, burdening me with that. He was like that.   His staff and contractors both loved and endured him.  He had a vision-God help anyone who did not get in line behind that.  But I am here to say he was a perfect gentleman in the important sense of those words.  He practiced his faith.  He was full of praise for anything he felt deserved that.  But even gentlemen can be dead wrong;  I told him so frequently.  I had seen some projects of his in their entirety, and glimpses of others.  Walking into a room that he had designed and installed was an experience that is very hard to describe. It was as if that room was not a room, but an entire world with its own visual language and laws. Anything else that might have been on your mind either vanished, or was vanquished. His work made me gasp.  I scolded him for not seeing that- in what he had already created.      

Brian’s idea of that defining project had much to do with Bobby McAlpine.  Should you not know him, he is an architect who lives and practices in Alabama.  Brian was very clear that should he ever be drafted by Bobby McAlpine to do the interiors for a home Bobby designed and built, it could be a seminal and defining project.  I looked up his website.  What I could see there of his work, or in an occasional magazine article-astonishing.   

I had not thought so much about Brian or Bobby recently until a few weeks ago.  When I read that Rizzoli had recently published a monograph on the work of Bobby McAlpine, I ordered it. It is called “The Home Within Us”.   I have been reading and looking at the pictures on and off ever since.  The architecture and interiors are extraordinary. Should you have a compelling interest in design, I highly recommend this book.  What is written is every bit as interesting as what has been photographed.   One never knows how exposure to beautiful work might change the way you see things.  I know when I see work of this caliber, I am energized.  I have been thinking even more these last few days about Brian.  How he influenced me, and my work.  I am sure he is so busy redesigning the Pearly Gates that he scarcely has time to review what he accomplished while he was here, but I can attest- the beauty of his work was considerable.  I doubt it matters if you never had the chance to see his work. One can’t possibly see all the great work that is out there to be seen. There are brilliant designers all over this planet.   Maybe there is just such a moment just down the street, waiting for you.  For certain,  there is a very long list of those people whose beautiful work greatly enriches the lives of others.  Those truly extraordinary lives, their gorgeous work-they make my life better.

Brian Killian made my life better.

Though there were no computers then from which to print and pocket an outline of acceptable human behavior, I none the less grew up with a check list.  I am quite sure I had reluctantly memorized every page by the time I was five.  From God’s heart to my Mom’s lips; this vivid metaphor stopped me in my tracks from committing any number of rude, thoughtless, and unkind acts.  This is not to say I was not exactly like any other kid-that is to say, not very grown up.  That gawky 6th grade girl from St Clair Shores named Sharon Barber-who blew by me in the final round of the county spelling bee-she infuriated me.  I of course thought I should have had a generous handicap, given that I was a mere 4th grader. Lacking a leg up endorsed by the committee, I already had a baby faced chip on my shoulder that would make any adult laugh.  I think “so not fair” were the only three words I knew how to string together.    I distinctly remember her spelling her word incorrectly under her breath, before she blared forth with the correct spelling.  The second place awarded to me was the equivalent of utter failure.  I had no sooner thrown my trophy to the ground when my Mom scooped it up, and planted it firmly in my hands.  She stepped back, sure in her expectation that I would do the right thing.  In spite of my fury at such an injustice, I shook the girl’s hand, and congratulated her heartily on her win. This in spite of the fact that I really wanted to knock her to the ground, and pummel her.  My checklist went with me wherever I went.  Those occasions when I was so foolish not to consult and adhere to that list-there she would be.  She had the ability to materialize out of no where.  My Mom was beautiful.  She had thick wavy hair, gorgeous eyebrows, and wore red lipstick every day.  She was a scientist many respected.  I knew her in a way much different than this. She was the guardian of the gate. I knew she would never turn loose of me until I could be trusted to let good sportsmanship be my guide.

Good sportsmanship applies to much more than a pickup basketball game.  Games are games, but those principles by which people live a life are a serious business.  50 years later I am still pulling out that checklist.  The top ten, dating back to 1955:  Be a good sport (acknowledge those who do well).   Do no harm (be nice to your brother).  Tell the truth (even if the truth could get you in a lot of trouble).  Mind your manners (acknowledge the efforts of others-never forget to say thank you).  Respect others (every person comes entitled to respect, standard issue).   Reward excellence (even though it might not be your own); extend a hand to those in need (this includes that 6th grade girl who won the contest, but had not one friend in the world).  Don’t cheat, lie, hate, or steal (the annotated version of the ten commandments).  Be slow to blame, and quick to welcome. All of this in addition to brushing my teeth, doing my homework, and looking both ways before I crossed the street.  I was busy, but she was busier. 

My Mom’s list of do’s and don’t’s had 4 times the ones listed above, butI will spare you the rest.  She may not have been an award winning Mom,  but she was a Mom who took her job seriously.  She had a big list ready for me the second I attained consciousness. We would go over it as many times as it took until I got it.  As a consequence, I know how to win graciously, loose even more graciously.  Would I win any awards for consistently playing by her book-probably not.  But at least I give it serious thought before I stray.   

A serious point of view is not all bad.  I am not at all casual about a job that is not done right, or a wrong that needs redressing.  A job I did in 2002, which I recently visited, has problems; I feel compelled to try to sort out the trouble. Other things thrown my way really don’t belong to me-letting that go is good sportsmanship.  Few issues are solely about right and wrong, or good and bad.  Most everything depends on all the parties having similar lists from which they conduct themselves.    

This being said, I am anything but a good sport about the garden.  I have had many disappointments-just as every other gardener has.  Nature could not be further removed from any idea that I have about fair play.  Nature cooks my plants, blasts them with thunderstorms, coats them with ice, knocks them to the ground, chews them up and spits them out like so much compost.  The worst of it-it’s not even personal; you might as well compost your exasperation as well as your poorly performing or dead plants.  Growing a great garden requires the chess player’s ability to think ahead ten moves.  It requires the brute force of a tackle, the strong arms of a basketball player, the strategic skills of a golfer and the persistence of a long distance runner.  Should you possess all of the above, I still doubt there is any gold medal in your future.  Sooner or later nature will pitch the rule book out the window, and overrule all of your efforts.  The rows of white cosmos I have faithfully watered and deadheaded all summer have turned white overnight from mildew.  I am anything but a good sport about the fact that all of them are going down too early-in spite of my care.  I watered for four hours yesterday.  Just as I finished, the sky let loose of at least an inch of rain; how completely and utterly irritating. I eventually let go of all the unwarranted and unfair insults regularly sent my way via the garden, and keep gardening.  But I do reserve the right to be a not so good sport about it.