Round Robin: Waiting for Spring
Hard work and joy define an herb garden.
February/March 1994
By Andy Van Hevelingen
NEWBERG, Oregon—I think I’m suffering from short-term memory loss. That’s the only plausible explanation I have for being so eager to start all over again on the herb garden. It seems like only yesterday that I was utterly exhausted from making repeated trips to the compost pile with the wheelbarrow. Work did not end when daylight failed but only shifted indoors, where I would sit at the kitchen table for hours stripping cuttings for propagation. I remember, in particular, the many rosemary cuttings that not only permeated the air with a lasting, delightful piny odor but also nearly permanently blackened my index finger and thumb with their resin. (It is regarded as a symbol of remembrance in the language of flowers: I had only to look at my hands to remember it.) But time passes, my hands are clean now—or at least the cleanest they get—and I’m already impatient for spring.
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Before the first hint of a warm spring day, I’ll be awaiting the delivery of the herbs I have ordered. And I am especially excited to try the seed of Lady lavender, which I expect to find in this issue of The Herb Companion. Imagine a lavender blooming the first year from seed! I had the opportunity to see the plant last year at Nichols Garden Nursery, and I can envision ramifications in the landscape industry: a new herbal alternative to the usual bold color spots of marigolds and bright red salvias.
Speaking of the latter, Dennis Breedlove from Strybing Arboretum in San Francisco informed me that all sages (Salvia sp.) native to Mexico and South America have only two stamens per flower; species having more than two stamens originated in Europe and Asia. Because information on the cultural requirements of the many sages appearing in the marketplace is so sparse, knowing the origin of a plant at least gives me a clue to its winterhardiness here.