There will be variations of light, from full sun to patches of dappled or deep shade. If I can manage it, somehow I’d like to have variations in temperature in the different parts of my dream greenhouse. Some plants like the vigor of a cool corner; others revel in tropical warmth. Then there is the matter of moisture. For dry-growing plants there would be rock gardens and raised beds; for moisture-lovers there would be sunken, humus-rich bogs.
But you can’t have a greenhouse, dream or otherwise, without having utilities, heating plant, water pipes, and potting places. Those I would conceal under the shade of flowering vines. I think I should allow myself the luxury of a stool—perhaps even a rocking chair—where I can sit down to pot or propagate my plants.
Of course, there would be a pool in my greenhouse garden, with a water lily to flower in it. Around the edge would be arranged rocks to make a home for friendly frogs, salamanders, and turtles. I would teach them to be so friendly I could take them to safe quarters when I had to spray or fumigate. Restful ferns would frame that pool. A fountain would make the musical sound of splashing water. Perhaps the overflow would run into a tiny, winding stream. I’ll have to ask Fred, our plumber, about that.
I don’t know much about birds, but I’d like to have a canary housed in a cage. He’d be there only when the vents were open. Otherwise he’d be free to fly. I might even have a parakeet for his company. I’d have a radio to play softly—only classical, gentle music. Nothing with brass—mostly violins and soft ones at that. No telephone—never. I’d have a bench for my guests—wrought iron very likely, since I think it would fit the décor, but the sort that is comfortable. Somehow, I’m going to have to figure out a way of labeling my plants so the labels will not show. Perhaps, we can do it electronically. As I have said, I would have a rocking chair, an old and battered one. And the grandchildren—this being a dream I can have grandchildren (our own youngsters are still young). There would be a curiosity corner for them where they could touch the mimosa and see it fold, watch a pitcher plant catch a fly, pick fluffy bolls of cotton, or dig a small peanut crop.
My garden will be full of surprises. Any day of the year a visitor will find something new—a miniature orchid flowering on the branch of the bromeliad tree; iridescent Selaginella uncinata stalking on stilt-roots under a dwarf banana; carved columns, old urns, pieces of ceramic art I expect to pick up in my travels. Here, perhaps an old tree trunk sunk naturally in the soil; there, a log half buried as it would be in the woods; and then some stepping stones, two or three at the most to entice guests to look down on a mound of oxalis in full flower; overhead, a moss-lined basket of flamboyant epiphyllum in spring.
My planting, of course, will be carefully planned, but the plan will not be obvious. The shaggy fishtail palm, Caryota urens, would be placed in the perfect spot. The Mexican tree fern would look as if it had lived there always. The bromeliad tree would seem to have lived and died in my indoor jungle, and the plants rooted in its branches would look as if they had planted themselves, as they do in the tropics. Luscious-leaved philodendrons would climb and cover any obvious walls. Vines would be trained to soften sharp corners and provide some shade. In irregular beds I’d plant a natural arrangement of upright flowering and foliage plants—begonias, fuchsias, oleander, all kinds of aroids, a dwarf citrus or two. A walk might be edged with the tiny, delicious Corsican mint, Mantha requieni.
In a warm, partly shaded area I’d go crazy with gesneriads—flaming episcias covering the ground, tube-flowered aeschynanthus spilling down from above, fiery-flowered columneas in all their glory. And yes, I’d have African violets—not in pots, but in baskets, in strawberry jars, or sunk in the soil.
If (when?) I have my greenhouse, there are some plants I wouldn’t be without. Among vines—silver-leaved Cissus striata with its swinging curtain of stringy aerial roots; Clerodendrum thomosoniae, its blue-green leaves smothered in red-hearted white flowers in spring; Passiflora coccinea, the red passion flower, for glamour. I’d hang baskets of the new soft-hued fuchsia hybrids, and my favorite floriferous begonia, ‘Shippy’s Garland.’
For fragrance, I’d plant a jasmine, Stephanotis floribunda, and Osmanthus fragrans, the precious olive. For early spring refreshment, I’d force miniature and dwarf daffodils, bringing in pots of them from the cold frame and sinking them in the soil. I’d want the silky-soft foliage and royal-purple flowers of Tibouchina semidecandra, the glory bush; but I’d pinch and prune it, to keep it fairly low. I’d want a large basket floating airy fronds, one of the davallias, or rabbit’s-foot ferns, and a smaller basket for the variegated Abutilon megapotamicum, because I love its gold-splashed leaves strung neatly along wiry stems, and its dangling red-and-yellow lantern flowers.
Just one more thing to complete my dream. Near the door of my dream-greenhouse garden, I’d have a special box for my guests, a box filled with small plants from which they could choose a parting gift. (I know if this greenhouse works out as I picture it, I shall have guests. I shall be happy to see them come, and a bit wistful when they leave. I will feel better if they take a small token of my gardening with them as they go.)