Writings about

the many life lessons

unearthed when we dig

in the dirt . . . and pursue

a range of other interests

in the constantly evolving

garden of life.

Monday, August 3, 2015

Lee May's Memorial Garden, close to "complete"

As you can see, the garden is nearing completion. However, if you’ve read Lee’s writings, you know that a garden is never 100% complete. There is always something else to add or change or replace because of damage. Harry is currently still collecting donations because even though the plants are almost all in the ground, there is still so much more to do. He will be purchasing beautiful signage to explain the educational aspects of both the Rain Garden and Pollinating Garden. Harry thinks Lee would want him to educate as many people as possible.

Lee May and Harry Link
in Lee's Atlanta garden
November 2014

Monday, July 13, 2015

The humble beginnings of the “Lee May Memorial Garden”

The Lee May Memorial Garden was designed and installed by Lee’s good friend Harry Link. It was built at the East Haddam Senior center. The ground breaking ceremony was on May 30th – we had a wonderful turn out. Harry has been working diligently on this project. From the design stages, to the website he built, then collecting donations to pay for the project. Here is a link to the garden's website: Lee May Memorial Garden

I couldn’t think of a better way to show everyone how much Lee May touched so many lives with his knowledge and wisdom about gardening and just being an all around great guy. Stay tuned for more photos of the progress. I hope everyone enjoys seeing new activity on Lee May’s Gardening Life.
– Harry Link

The Lee May Memorial Garden
is located at the
East Haddam Senior Center
15 Great Hillwood Road
Moodus, CT

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Lee May, the creator of Leemaysgardeninglife blog, died at home Wednesday morning, December 3, after a brief illness. Lee was diagnosed with cancer in mid-September and, after chemotherapy and a short hospitalization, he returned home to hospice care.

For three years, Lee wrote here about his gardening life in Connecticut and in Georgia. While his greatest pleasure was digging in the dirt, nurturing his plants, bushes and trees and creating artful gardens, he took constant delight in exchanges with his readers and fellow gardeners.

Eddie Lee May
April 15, 1941 – December 3, 2014

Lee May was a journalist for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and the Los Angeles Times for more than twenty-five years.  He was a news writer and editor before becoming a food and gardening columnist for the Journal Constitution, and was the newspaper’s first African American editorial writer. During his tenure with the Los Angeles Times he wrote on a variety of issues including immigration and economics, and he covered the White House during the Reagan Administration. He moved from Washington to become the Times’ Atlanta bureau chief in 1989.

May was a senior contributing editor for Southern Living and an essayist for US Airways’ in-flight magazine, Attaché, and for numerous home and garden publications. A graduate of the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, he won many awards, including the National Conference of Christians and Jews’ Gold Medal Award and the Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award Grand Prize. He is the author of In My Father’s Garden and Gardening Life.

He is survived by his wife Lyn May, three daughters, two stepdaughters, two sons-in-law and twelve grandchildren.

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Dancing on the Ceiling

One morning between my first and second chemo treatments, I noticed that my view of the world had shrunk mightily. My broad chunk of doings from out there had narrowed to a few spots; each morning was filled with a sameness as I scanned walls, amazed that my view had withered so profoundly.

Until I happened to look up and see shadows dancing on the ceiling, filled with light I had not expected. I could almost touch it.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Shadow, light, color; OK, so let's roll.

What a day this had been – a patio perfection of blue skies, cool temperatures, breezes to keep the biting bugs grounded. Now the light and the day waned, taking on that darkish, wettish look and feel as Lyn and I sat on the deck above the patio, looking at the clash of light and darkness on the fence between our house and the one next door.

That stark angle contradicted the tropical blooms of the begonia that had been outside all spring and summer, forever young, forever vibrant.

As Lyn and I had been so many years and places ago.

We sat there a little while longer. long enough to watch the shadows and light become one, absorbing the just-delivered news that had cut as sharply as that 45-degree line running from the top of the fence to the earth.


It was ravishing organs in my belly – and while hope is hard to kill, my cancer doctor didn't sugar coat her diagnosis, and we didn't want her to. After biopsies, she put me on a fast track to chemotherapy and urged us to get our legal matters in order.

We've begun. Too, we've begun to understand first-hand the extent to which cancer has affected the lives of so many, ruining some, strengthening others, teaching millions. I can't know what will happen to me, or how fast. But if I have something to share and the time and the strength to pass it on, I'll have my say. Lyn and I hope you will, too.

Friday, October 3, 2014

It's looking to be a blue, blue autumn

My first efforts at bird-housing has taught me that this pastime/passion is similar to gardening, which my father described as "for people who got patience."

When my first bluebird house was built and installed for me last spring, a gift from friend Schuyler Rector (click here) bluebirds came, looked but did not stay. Same-same for Carolina chickadees before them. Eventually, wrens did, getting a great home. They were OK, but I still wanted bluebirds.

So, after the wrens moved in for a season, had chicks, then moved on, I immediately cleaned out their nest and waited for bluebirds. Again.

The wait is over.

I've seen a bluebird depositing pine straw as the first layer of a nest. Unless thug birds run them away, I've got bluebirds at last.

As the TV breakfast show hosts chirp when showing cute pictures of various little creatures: "Caught on camera."

My bird catches:

Look both ways. Something may be coming up on us.

OK, keep watching. I'm going in.

And the bird work has begun.
After my months of mulching, an endless supply of nest material is on the ground, making it an easy trip taking it to the house. This time around, I'm feeling the birds I'll be watching will be blue. I got patience.

Feel free to comment, using the form below – or you can reach me here: eleemay@gmail.com

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Marking time to hurry garden's maturity

While it is true that time marches on, it's also true that much time is spent trying to slow it, or stop it or ignore it.

And mark it. The ways are endless:

Photographs, newspaper clippings, notes, letters. Clothing – no longer worn but not forgotten – because of cherished (or amusing) times the old styles evoke.

An old man with a young garden, I've become a big marker. I've always marked more in a young garden than in a mature one. Perhaps that's because I'm trying to hurry maturity, if not time. Trying to get the garden to a place that will give me the maximum time possible to enjoy it as the garden I need and want. Even as I know from decades of gardening experience that a garden's never done; when a garden is done, so is the gardener.

But there's no time to think about that now. Now, I have to build and mark progress and hurry maturity.

Every seedling is scanned periodically, as I search for signs that it's bigger than the last time I checked. Diameters of shrubs are measured visually by their proximity to stones or benches or lanterns next to them.

Ahhh, yes, nice to see that stone's getting hugs from both the wisteria and the dogwood. 

The little stone lantern and the false cypress get closer to each other every day, it seems.

And the purple loropetalum is just getting all over the volcanic stone lantern.

Proximity, distance, perception all help me mark time. I discovered I could measure the growth of the Southern magnolia I look at daily through my office window.

When I planted it around a year ago, it was about 5-feet tall and, because of visual perspective, appeared to be the height of the top of the windows on the bungalow across the cul. Now, a little more than 7 feet, the 'Little Gem' magnolia appears on this recent sunny morning to be brushing the peak of the roof with its glossy-top, cinnamon-underside leaves.

Time, distance, height, all can be measured scientifically. But when you're looking for signs that a garden's growth is faster, fuller than science would say, well, only the mind can create that vision. And tell you that maturity is in sight.

Feel free to comment, using the form below – or you can reach me here: eleemay@gmail.com

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Overnight, autumn explodes, spraying orange

I can control a lot in my garden, but I couldn't have made this happen:

When I did my walkabout on Monday, one of my must-have shrubs – sweet olive – had no blooms. Tuesday, the first day of autumn, I walked out and was stunned to see this favorite of many Southern gardens fully lit with its prominent orange blossoms. What a difference an overnight makes.

Let me back up. It wasn't that I saw the light from the olive as much as I heard it the moment I walked out the front door. That's because its fragrance was so loud. In a sweet way.

This sweet olive, aka tea olive, aka Osmanthus fragrans 'Aurantiacus', is as good a way as I know to welcome fall. Its sparkling orange flowers, though appearing on this coolish autumnal morning, recalled the happy noise of summer, blending the First of Fall with the Fourth of July.


Saturday, September 6, 2014

Back in Georgia, and fighting squirrels again

What goes around comes around.

I used to rail against squirrels when I wrote about them in my Atlanta newspaper gardening column, calling them names like buck-toothed bandits because they had a knack for swiping tomatoes juuust before I could pick them, unearthing new plants as soon as I turned my back.

The name I most often used to describe these destructive rodents was the one a sympathetic, empathetic reader used when he sent me this drawing: "Bushy Tailed Rat."

While I had no serious interest in shooting squirrels, I certainly got some vicarious pleasure from the deadly details in the drawing.

Since those days in the 1990s, I've moved to Connecticut – and now back to Georgia.

While in the Nutmeg State, aka Land of Steady Habits, I mellowed out, welcoming squirrels as part of the natural order of things. Easier to do, as there were plenty of woods – and a lot more plants to "share" than I grew in my small in-town Atlanta garden.

Well, now that I'm back in Georgia (Marietta this time), I'm trying to stay positive, trying to accept squirrels as – if not friends – at least un-enemies.

That was on my mind when my camera froze this moment: the glass door creating a rainbow on the squirrel's mouth.

What does it mean?

Could it symbolize a pot of peace at the end of my journey from Georgia to New England, and back again? Peace with the rats?

Well, you know it ain't easy; Georgia rodents have not changed during my 12-years away. As they did in the '90s at my home in Atlanta's West End neighborhood, here on my Marietta cul, squirrels enjoy a very long season of activity and still hang out in a huge oak next door, tossing down acorns that sprout little oaks, adding to my weeding chores. They still try mightily to upend new baby plants, scatter pine straw.

So, no question, I still have a mighty long row to hoe before I feel universal peace and love. Illustration: Recently, I was watering with the hosepipe and saw a young squirrel happily devouring the red fruit from a tall dogwood in my garden – then throwing down its seedy leftovers.

Instead of finding that a lovely, natural, harmless activity, I adjusted my hose nozzle to full and fire-hosed the rodent, which jumped around in the tree as if its pants were on fire, finally escaping and running away, soaked, chased by my laughter.

Such sweet satisfaction delivered a message more powerful than the rainbow: I'm home again, where a squirrel is still just a bushy-tailed rat.

Friday, August 29, 2014

Stumpery to rehabilitate my bad-acting loblolly

The loblolly pine has a split personality.

Tall, straight, scaly as an alligator, provider of lumber and turpentine, doubtless inspiration for Ray Charles' Georgia on My Mind, it is Southern to the bone, a popular subject for talented artists galore. On a far lower artistic scale, I went outside before sunrise last February just to try capturing an image of moonlight shining through loblollies behind my house.

Then, there's another side of loblolly, one that threw down a big limb, destroying an existing shed, (click here) soon after Lyn and I moved into our Marietta, Georgia, home last year.

Though I did not know it then, death was on this tree. Perhaps lightning had struck, severing the big limb, then traveling down to kill roots, as some knowledgeable loblolly watchers speculated.

For months, I saw it not produce needles, stood under it looking up, knowing it was a dead tree standing and could take years to fall or be a widow-maker in a heartbeat.

Recently, I did myself a favor, hiring a team of tree-cutters to come in and take down the tree. Seeing the final cut was watching a massive weight, physical and psychological, removed from the airspace over this land.

This was not only removal of a threat; this was an opportunity. That 5-foot piece of trunk left standing would be the first element of a stumpery. The crew boss used a small chainsaw to hollow out a foot-deep planting hole, which now is home to a spider azalea. The blocks of pine chips make a handy deterrent to the marauding squirrels that just love tearing out new plantings.

The tree cutting and stumpery signify the beginning of my reclamation of the back section of my acre of gardening space.

During the year since I ripped out all plants left by the previous owners, I have put my stamp on the front. But out back, I have planted less, annnd, the space is larger than the front, able to absorb endless numbers of plants; I've put in native shrubs, woodland plants, ferns, other perennials. Too, I have added ornaments, including found objects, metal sculptures and such, but there is much to be done, weeds to clear, space that wants gardening.

After taking a break from intense garden-building, I'm back to the back, hoping for an early autumn and laying in as many plants as I can stuff into the rocky, root-bound ground – plus a few more of course. Always more.

Churchill is what I named the heavyset leader (more than 100 inches around the middle) of the becoming-stumpery. And to symbolize support for that war-time British prime minister, I will gather the smaller stumps around, creating a kind of garden architecture, aka members of parliament. The first two already have taken their places, as seen from Churchill's point of view.

Stumps of various sizes will stand upright. Some will loll on their sides. All will become part of the environment.

And, good news: I won't have to pay to have them hauled off. Nor will I have to pay for the great exercise I'm getting from pushing around all this heavy wood.

The stumps, along with chunks of bark and wood and robust cones all will add texture and appeal to birds and other wildlife. To welcome them all, I'll hollow out other stumps and plant them with ferns and small natives, counting on nature to provide mosses, toadstools, lichen and other fungi I like.

Eventually, as all grows and decays into place, this collection of plants and pieces of wood that began with one giant loblolly will be a stumpery covering a significant portion of the back area.

As I turn attention to the back, I can never forget or ignore the other loblollies that dominate my property. Seven still loom, throwing down branches at will, like chunks of stone flaking off a threatening mountainslide.

Though I know the dangerous side of loblollies' split personality, I also know I must do everything I can to keep the remaining trees alive as long as possible. So, I periodically cut back the huge ivy stems – English and some I've never seen – that climb the pines and try to choke them to death. (No, I did not, and never would, plant ivy.)

Even in death the drying, rotting, stems cling, roadmaps showing where they've been.

Last year, a man stopped in front of our house on the cul, rolled down his SUV window and pointed toward the back, gesturing animatedly to his passenger. When I went to greet him, he explained that he had planted all the pines, collecting seedlings from the roadside during car trips when he was a boy in the 1950s.

He was so delighted to see his baby plantings now grown into giants that I didn't even consider whining about how much grief one of his darlings had caused me. After all, when he planted those trees, he was a child.

Now a man, I'm certain he knows that loblolly's split personality mirrors the personality of those of us who live with this tree.

Like many, I'd love to hate it, but I can't.

As some folks preemptively put the saw to healthy loblollies, many of us take our chances with these ticking time bombs, grateful for the trees' beautiful inspiration and marveling at their powerful presence.

Monday, May 12, 2014

A garden, through the camera lens

Photographing a garden in full is difficult; no, impossible. There's no way a camera can depict most, let alone all, of a garden's features – no matter how small the space.

When I made that observation to a magazine editor as he was scouting my former garden in Connecticut before a shoot (Here's my effort from 2010), he smiled and said: "No worries, we'll bring the magic camera."

I've never had a magic camera, but from time to time I try to shoot the whole, hoping to give a sense of change and progress during the 11 months since I cleared the canvas for my new space here in Marietta, Georgia. This is what it looked like during and after the tear-out:

Fast forwarding 11 months, I shot the whole on a recent morning:

While change is evident, I cannot convey what the eye sees during a walkabout and some looks at various "rooms" in this becoming front garden. In the following images I try to do that – starting with the view from the porch.

Gravel path in earlier photo, dumping into "pond"/scree.

Walking toward the porch, looking left . . .

And, looking right . . .
. . . where the bonsai rack stands.
Looking at the house from the street, the driveway divides my garden into two spaces: the left side, in the images above. And the right side, which I call the wildflower/native plant/prairie space. Or, simply, the wild side.

Some of this space belongs to the next-door neighbors, as is typical in the cul. Gardening in a cul de sac often means gardening without boundaries.

Like the rest of my front, this space was torn out as much as possible. On the wild side, however, I've been challenged by virtually indestructible turf grass. I have dug through it to plant, I have dug out chunks of the turf, and I have poured vinegar and placed cardboard on some parts. Anything to avoid growing grass and wasting water and fuel maintaining it. Not to mention the noise.

Grasses, however, I love. I've bought a few, and some wild ones have appeared on their own. Here, they all grow together, along with flowers, clover and "weeds," which are simply plants one doesn't want.

Purple coneflower working hard in broiling sun.

Evocative broom sedge came in from the roadside.

Weeds and wild grasses came in from wherever.

The sweet smell of this clover tells why bees love to use it for honey-making.

In time I'll surround the bench with wild things. As the space was just beginning last year, it was clear that it appealed to birds, butterflies and bees. After a long hard winter, the birds are back and singing. Butterflies and bees should start returning any day now, and I'll be waiting – and working – for them.

(While I've planted hard in spaces in front of the house, I've also steadily added to spaces out back, where I grow woodland and old-garden plants. Someday soon, I'll try to capture the progress in images.)

Saturday, May 10, 2014

A rose thrives, despite my efforts

Some plants just won't die. The Rose, which I wrote about here,
is one of those. It performed so elegantly last year, I wanted to put it in spot better than next to the mailbox.

It's back and bigger than ever.

So, late last winter I pruned its canes, then in early spring I set out to relocate it, going at with a shovel and a pick. But it held on, making it clear that the only way to move it was to cut away most of its roots. Not wanting to do that, I simply ignored the plant. As I had done last year.

As it did last year, the rose survived, and bloomed, as these images show. In fact, this year it produced more buds than last year, when it got whacked accidentally by my string cutter; it is like many of us, made stronger in the broken places – often with no help from anyone.

I plead guilty to doing nothing for this determined survivor (pest-ridden leaves verify that), and I admit to enjoying it. Call it the rose that thrives amid my ambivalence.

When I cut the last bud and gave it to Lyn, she said, "We love that rose, and I'm glad you didn't dig it up."

Not because I didn't try. If I had succeeded in digging it up, the stress might have killed it – along with our pleasure. Sometimes a failure beats a try.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Whole lotta building going on in birdland

After I was given the bluebird house in March (click here) it quickly became clear that Carolina chickadees would be the tenants. Not bluebirds. It also is clear that those chickadees are among the hardest-working creatures in birdland.

I went out to the front garden and opened both the plexiglass viewing window on the side and the front door, hoping the husband and wife were not home. They weren't.

Through the plexiglass:

I had seen the two birds carrying these twigs through their little oval entrance, but I never would have believed they had carried this many. And that they had placed them j-u-u-u-st so.

Opening the pull-down front door, I learned the birds and I have something in common: We both love mosses. They borrowed from my stash and neatly tucked it into their castle.

The moss clearly was in first, apparently making a cushion for the twigs. All manner of other materials are woven through the nest, including leaves, pine needles and fur. Don't ask.

Whether the birds have finished building, I don't know. When they'll have little chickadees, I don't know either. I look, I listen, and I hope they survive Cat Bette, who seems disinterested in the birds – and afraid of my threats.

Alas, she does have a history. Click here for her rap sheet from my Connecticut garden.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Tale of two plants, two states, two surprises

Once upon a time, a Christmas tree was just that, a tree that served through the winter holidays, then was tossed aside for the birds to nest, the machine to grind, the weather to rot.

Then, years ago, we began buying live trees, which I plant early in the new year. So it was in early January, when I hauled the 4-foot laurel out to the front garden, hacked out a hole in the frozen ground and shoved it in. Because it had been inside for a couple of weeks and was put out like a housebound cat on a sleeting day followed by brutally cold temperatures, I half-thought the shrub wouldn't survive. So did neighbors in the cul, judging from the skeptical looks as I planted.

But it did. Then, a few weeks ago it produced perfumed white blooms that lit up the garden and extended the season of sweet surprises.

The 'Otto Luyken' laurel, seemingly without effort, performed from bud to flower to fading blooms as if it had been planted in this earth for years. Of course, it is said to be hardy all the way to Zone 4, but I don't think it expects anyone to plant it in the frozen ground in the middle of a hard winter.

The final image in this sequence, taken today, shows that even to the end of its bloom cycle, the laurel was in a decorative frame of mind.

As the laurel fades to seed, another surprising survivor takes its place: a no-name lilac that moved from Connecticut, where it grew for a half dozen years in a hunk of volcano rock. I suspected it would survive the winter, but I had no idea whether it would bloom.

When I lived in Georgia before, I couldn't pay a lilac to bloom. Not enough cold for them, apparently. Well, this winter was plenty cold, so that may have been just what this rock-bound lilac needed.

It peaked today. I bowed and inhaled deeply, getting another surprise. It was the sweetest lilac I can ever remember. I swear it didn't smell as strong in Connecticut.

After all the years of lilac envy I suffered while living in Georgia back in the 1990s, this surprising success was as tasty as a big bowl of homemade ice cream on a hot day in July.