A Legacy of Lilacs
One whiff of these living antiques is all it takes to recapture the past.
When Irv and Cynthia Paradis purchased their 1828 house in Hallowell five years ago, they knew the lilacs that define the historic property on Winthrop Street came with a story. Soon enough they learned the details: all forty-eight lilacs date to 1865 and were planted by Dr. John Hubbard, noted Hallowell physician and former governor of Maine. Dr. Hubbard had more in mind than sprucing up the family homestead. The trees commemorate Abraham Lincoln as well as the doctor's own son, a Union soldier killed in Louisiana at the siege of Port Hudson.Lilacs had long been associated with loss, and chances are good that Dr. Hubbard had read "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd," Walt Whitman's 1865 elegy for President Lincoln.
Today, Dr. Hubbard's lilacs still bloom in the dooryard (and beyond), but visitors who drive by the jaw-dropping display each May are more likely to express wonder than sorrow. Now twenty feet tall, the trees form a verdant curtain weighted with intensely fragrant, deep-purple panicles. By the second week in June, when the flowers have faded and their intoxicating scent is just a memory, the lilacs still command attention with richly textured, gnarled trunks nearly a foot in diameter.
Hallowell isn't the only Maine city where lilacs offer a direct link to historic events and famous citizens. On Congress Street in Portland, lilacs at Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's childhood home date back to the nineteenth century. About forty miles down the road, in South Berwick, a thick stand of century-old specimens graces the family plot where Sarah Orne Jewett was put to rest in Portland Street Cemetery back in 1909. "Jewett enjoyed driving her buggy down deserted roads and admiring the lilacs that still bloomed around abandoned farmhouses," notes professional gardener and plant historian Nancy Wetzel, who cares for the gardens at the South Berwick house (now a museum) where Jewett lived. "She witnessed a time of transition, when families were giving up farming and looking for work in manufacturing. Often, these signature plants were all that was left behind."
Nancy's husband, Gary Wetzel, landscape manager for the preservation organization Historic New England, concurs. "It's hard to think of an old house that doesn't have lilacs," he says. "These are tough plants. The settlers wanted something pretty, but they didn't have time to fuss." Wetzel notes that lilacs were easy to transport. Colonists en route to America bundled the bare-rooted plants in damp burlap, then packed the bundles in crates filled with insulating sawdust.
Of course, lilacs owed their popularity to more than an easy-going disposition. No other readily available plant smelled as sweet. Sited near doors and beneath windows, lilacs directed their incomparable perfume to every room in the house. In the language of flowers (dubbed "florigraphy" by its Victorian practitioners), the plant's panicles and heart-shaped leaves signified first love, as well as the bittersweet memories that so often came with it. The ache was perhaps best expressed in 1922 by T.S. Eliot: "April is the cruelest month, breeding/ Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/ Memory and desire, stirring/ Dull roots with spring rain."
The ache persists, just like the plants themselves. "Lilacs can handle a lot of stress," notes Eric Welzel, who, with his wife, Jennifer, owns and operates Fox Hill Lilac Nursery [Down East, May 1995], just north of Freeport. "Even the '98 ice storm didn't knock them out. About a year after the storm, most recovered nicely."
New lilacs purchased in containers can be planted any time the ground isn't frozen, Welzel says, but transplanting is best done in early spring, before leaves appear. Transplanting is also safe in autumn after the first killing frost. "Dig a hole no deeper than the length of the roots," Welzel cautions. "When the plant settles and the rains come, you don't want the crown [the trunk base] submerged."
Lilacs are hardy, but they do have requirements. Winter's freezing temperatures are key to dormancy, without which the plants can't set buds. Full sun — at least six hours a day — is essential, too. Soil should be well drained, just as it is in the Balkans, near Sarajevo, where the ancestors of Maine's denizens originated. "Heavy, wet clay soil is the kiss of death," Welzel warns. Too much moisture, abetted by poor air circulation and high humidity, is also the cause of powdery mildew, the scourge of lilac leaves in late season. While unsightly, the condition isn't fatal, and Welzel advises against panic: "It's a good idea to gather up and burn infected leaves to prevent the disease from overwintering, but spraying isn't worth it. The trees will bounce back on their own."
While almost all of Maine's historic lilacs are so-called common lilacs (Syringa vulgaris), countless hybrids (crosses of two or more species or cultivars) have now entered the marketplace. Today's gardeners enjoy a mind-numbing assortment of colors, from shell pink and deep garnet to sky blue and creamy white. Blossoms may be single or double, with plants ranging in height from five to twelve or more feet. When asked to single out the most fragrant lilac, Welzel demurs. "Scent is really a matter of personal taste," the nurseryman says. "But I can tell you this: it's a myth that French lilacs smell sweetest—-they're nice, but so are the ones bred in Russia and so are those developed right here in America." At Fox Hill, Welzel offers one hundred varieties, including best-sellers "Wedgwood Blue," pink "Annabelle," and double white "Beauty of Moscow." Among his personal favorites are lavender "Mechta," notable for the size of its blossoms as well as its heady scent, and early blooming "Blanche Sweet," remarkable for its complex coloration of white, blue, and pink.
Fancy hybrids aside, Irv and Cynthia Paradis have no doubt that their own old-fashioned common lilacs excel at the sniff test and boast the best back story, too. With their wonderful curb appeal, they add to the value of the Paradis' property, and not merely monetarily. This spring, Irv plans to restore the white picket fence that for years has given the lilacs a shoulder to lean on. "I know I'm just the lilacs' guardian," he says. "Some day the trees will be passed on, and a new generation will get to enjoy them."
Today, Dr. Hubbard's lilacs still bloom in the dooryard (and beyond), but visitors who drive by the jaw-dropping display each May are more likely to express wonder than sorrow. Now twenty feet tall, the trees form a verdant curtain weighted with intensely fragrant, deep-purple panicles. By the second week in June, when the flowers have faded and their intoxicating scent is just a memory, the lilacs still command attention with richly textured, gnarled trunks nearly a foot in diameter.
Hallowell isn't the only Maine city where lilacs offer a direct link to historic events and famous citizens. On Congress Street in Portland, lilacs at Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's childhood home date back to the nineteenth century. About forty miles down the road, in South Berwick, a thick stand of century-old specimens graces the family plot where Sarah Orne Jewett was put to rest in Portland Street Cemetery back in 1909. "Jewett enjoyed driving her buggy down deserted roads and admiring the lilacs that still bloomed around abandoned farmhouses," notes professional gardener and plant historian Nancy Wetzel, who cares for the gardens at the South Berwick house (now a museum) where Jewett lived. "She witnessed a time of transition, when families were giving up farming and looking for work in manufacturing. Often, these signature plants were all that was left behind."
Nancy's husband, Gary Wetzel, landscape manager for the preservation organization Historic New England, concurs. "It's hard to think of an old house that doesn't have lilacs," he says. "These are tough plants. The settlers wanted something pretty, but they didn't have time to fuss." Wetzel notes that lilacs were easy to transport. Colonists en route to America bundled the bare-rooted plants in damp burlap, then packed the bundles in crates filled with insulating sawdust.
Of course, lilacs owed their popularity to more than an easy-going disposition. No other readily available plant smelled as sweet. Sited near doors and beneath windows, lilacs directed their incomparable perfume to every room in the house. In the language of flowers (dubbed "florigraphy" by its Victorian practitioners), the plant's panicles and heart-shaped leaves signified first love, as well as the bittersweet memories that so often came with it. The ache was perhaps best expressed in 1922 by T.S. Eliot: "April is the cruelest month, breeding/ Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/ Memory and desire, stirring/ Dull roots with spring rain."
The ache persists, just like the plants themselves. "Lilacs can handle a lot of stress," notes Eric Welzel, who, with his wife, Jennifer, owns and operates Fox Hill Lilac Nursery [Down East, May 1995], just north of Freeport. "Even the '98 ice storm didn't knock them out. About a year after the storm, most recovered nicely."
New lilacs purchased in containers can be planted any time the ground isn't frozen, Welzel says, but transplanting is best done in early spring, before leaves appear. Transplanting is also safe in autumn after the first killing frost. "Dig a hole no deeper than the length of the roots," Welzel cautions. "When the plant settles and the rains come, you don't want the crown [the trunk base] submerged."
Lilacs are hardy, but they do have requirements. Winter's freezing temperatures are key to dormancy, without which the plants can't set buds. Full sun — at least six hours a day — is essential, too. Soil should be well drained, just as it is in the Balkans, near Sarajevo, where the ancestors of Maine's denizens originated. "Heavy, wet clay soil is the kiss of death," Welzel warns. Too much moisture, abetted by poor air circulation and high humidity, is also the cause of powdery mildew, the scourge of lilac leaves in late season. While unsightly, the condition isn't fatal, and Welzel advises against panic: "It's a good idea to gather up and burn infected leaves to prevent the disease from overwintering, but spraying isn't worth it. The trees will bounce back on their own."
While almost all of Maine's historic lilacs are so-called common lilacs (Syringa vulgaris), countless hybrids (crosses of two or more species or cultivars) have now entered the marketplace. Today's gardeners enjoy a mind-numbing assortment of colors, from shell pink and deep garnet to sky blue and creamy white. Blossoms may be single or double, with plants ranging in height from five to twelve or more feet. When asked to single out the most fragrant lilac, Welzel demurs. "Scent is really a matter of personal taste," the nurseryman says. "But I can tell you this: it's a myth that French lilacs smell sweetest—-they're nice, but so are the ones bred in Russia and so are those developed right here in America." At Fox Hill, Welzel offers one hundred varieties, including best-sellers "Wedgwood Blue," pink "Annabelle," and double white "Beauty of Moscow." Among his personal favorites are lavender "Mechta," notable for the size of its blossoms as well as its heady scent, and early blooming "Blanche Sweet," remarkable for its complex coloration of white, blue, and pink.
Fancy hybrids aside, Irv and Cynthia Paradis have no doubt that their own old-fashioned common lilacs excel at the sniff test and boast the best back story, too. With their wonderful curb appeal, they add to the value of the Paradis' property, and not merely monetarily. This spring, Irv plans to restore the white picket fence that for years has given the lilacs a shoulder to lean on. "I know I'm just the lilacs' guardian," he says. "Some day the trees will be passed on, and a new generation will get to enjoy them."
- By: Rebecca Sawyer-Fay
- Photography by: Lynn Karlin
