Good thing blossoms look good in the rain

Well Garden Blogger’s Bloom Day was easy for me this month because my Royal Burgundy Cherry tree is the only thing blooming, except tulips, late daffodils, and some ajuga. It seems like it took the cherry forever to bloom this year—a month later than usual.

I’m a sucker for dark foliage anyway, but with so much green in the Pacific Northwest, it also helps set off the “garden” part of the yard from the “woods” part of the yard.

Sure, those frilly pink blossoms are a stretch in the middle of the woods, but you can’t beat how they glow in the gloom. Gee, didn’t I just gush about my Pink Impression tulips glowing a couple of posts ago? For someone who doesn’t like pink flowers much, maybe I like pink flowers … at least in the gloom.

Love that dark foliage

After all of the positive comments about the wide shot of my tulip barrels—thank you so much—I am screwing up my courage and showing an actual photo of the tree. It’s funny that Mr. Sorry decides to hang the hummingbird feeders about the same time this tree blooms. Maybe that’s why I usually shoot macros of it.

Royal Burgundy Cherry lords over the raised beds

I haven’t noticed Royal Burgundy Cherries planted in many gardens here. In fact, the only other place I’ve seen one is the rental house we lived in several years ago when we remodeled. Mine was just a twiggling then. It’s getting pretty tall now, considering that’s a 6-foot pea trellis.

It’s usually more upright and fountain shaped, but it’s droopy in this photo since it’s been raining cats. In the Sorry Garden, it doesn’t rain cats and dogs because, with three dogs, raining dogs would be a good thing. But raining cats, not so much. Sorry Leo … and Sweetness … and Bootsy … and all of the other bloggy cats I know.

Also, you might notice that I’m building a fourth new bed in that spot that was just too difficult to mow anyway. Uh huh. Sure. The tree overhang isn’t as dire as it looks in the photo, but I hope it doesn’t someday shade out my veggie beds because choosing between them will be a tough choice.

I’ve always dreamed of having a driveway lined with blooming trees—and I still do, even though I have the trees.

A couple of years ago, I bought five—yes, five—bareroot prairie fire crabapple trees. I’m a sucker for dark foliage, and I loved the intense magenta blooms. And, as a bonus, the cultivar was developed at the University of Illinois—Mr. Sorry’s alma mater. He didn’t find that nearly as endearing as I did, however. He was more concerned with where the hell I was going to plant five trees and when because they were wilting.

But for once in my gardening life, I had a plan. So I was quite pleased with myself to tell him that I was going to plant them along the sunny side of the driveway. He looked at me. “You mean where the utilities are buried?”

Since I rarely have Plan A, I certainly didn’t have Plan B. The other side of the driveway was too shady—frankly, the “sunny” side of the driveway was probably too shady, too. But it was my dream, damn it. So I heeled the trees into the compost pile to think about it for a while. After several practice plantings, here’s where they ended up.

One of the trees died somewhere along the way. I forget why. Plant mortality is pretty high here, and I tend not to shed tears anymore.

One of the trees is planted in the secret garden, which sounds so much more romantic than “over by the compost pile.” Well, I think I actually planted it. Maybe it’s still just heeled in.

One of the trees is planted on the rocky hill so we can enjoy it from the kitchen window. It’s a very bendy tree that leans forward with the slope of the hill, even though Mr. Sorry gently trussed it up with some old garden hose and rope. The soil is so rocky on the hill that planting that one tree required the exertion of planting two, so I’m never moving it. Ever. And I’m pretty sure I busted the septic pipe that runs down to the drainfield, because that tree has grown like a weed and mysteriously never needs water in the summer.

Another of the trees is planted at the corner of the house, so we can enjoy its lovely blooms when we walk into the master bedroom … when we’re going to bed … at night … when it’s dark. Mr. Sorry worries that it’s too close to the house. I tell him it’s not. But it probably is. I was thinking about moving it anyway, because a ninebark would look better there.

And the last of the trees is planted in the flowerbed along the front walk. It’s one of my few beds with full sun and one of my few beds without rocks—where the digging is easy when you’re tired from planting five trees. It’s also the first tree you see when you pull into the drive, and its top is bent over at a 90-degree angle. I don’t think it’s seeking the sun, either. I think it’s just defective. The one in the compost pile has a lovely shape, though.

One of the few things I let the landscaper do after the remodel was transplant the royal burgundy cherry tree. Transplanting trees is a b*tch, and I was more than happy to stand back and watch.

The landscaper, however, was reluctant—probably because he knew that transplanting trees is a b*tch. It was also late June, and he squinted at his watch, trying to decide whether to tell me that it was too late (or too early) in the year to transplant trees. Now, being a sorry gardener—with pretty much total disregard for the calendar—I looked at him as if I were unaware of those rules, or thought they were just guidelines. Maybe even unsolicited advice.

So at 7AM, to avoid the midday heat, a crew of three guys and a supervisor began transplanting my burgundy cherry tree. It was such a pleasure to watch them do it correctly—like my own episode of a gardening show. And, oh, it would’ve been much different if I’d transplanted it myself.

The first thing the landscape guys did was dig the new hole in the new location. Me, I would’ve dug the new hole last, after I was too exhausted to lift a shovel and with the tree gasping beside me in the hot sun.

The next thing the guys did was dig a shallow trench waaaaay out beyond the leaf canopy to find the roots. Me, I would’ve just eyeballed it and stuck in the shovel where I remembered the rootball last being when I’d planted the tree three years prior.

When the guys started digging, they worked in rhythm, smooth as a chain gang. They made a deep trench around the tree and worked their shovels further and further under to unearth it. Then they gingerly lifted the tree onto a tarp—while protecting the exposed roots with another tarp—and then each of them grabbed a corner and they carried the tree to its brand new hole. One of them may have groaned, but only one of them.

Now that’s how to transplant a tree.

Here’s how it would’ve gone down if I’d done it. I would’ve skipped the trench and pried out the roots with three shovels, the garden fork, and the hoe. Then I would’ve repeatedly shoved my full weight against the tree until it was leaning akimbo and I could stab at the roots until it finally broke free, like a baby tooth hanging by a strand. Then I would’ve wrestled the tree to the ground all sweaty and groaning and then dragged its limp carcass over to the spot where I hadn’t dug the new hole yet so it could sit in the hot sun with its roots drying up while I had a cold beer and swore under my breath that I’d never transplant a tree again.