DIRT

THERE ARE MORE COLORS THAN THE EXPECTED SHADE OF RED

It is becoming more apparent in the creation of my second garden that I revere the Japanese maple above every other plant or tree. That is a very big statement because I am passionate about very specific things botanical. Space is at a premium along the first two perimeters of my garden, but I always manage to make room for another Japanese maple, without which my collection would suddenly seem lackluster. This year's great score: a deeply incised dissectum, Red Select with a more upright character and fantastic mottled leaf paired with a perfect example (adored birthday present) of the small cascading Crimson Queen that echoes the leaf and seems a continuation of the shape while picking up the burnished mood of the color.

Not every maple that has originated in the horticultural wonderland of Japan is a Japanese maple—or at least what we think of as the ornamental Acer palmatum. We need to only consider these because within this genus there are subspecies and cultivars whose numbers run into the hundreds. Several societies, plus countless aficionados, do nothing but catalogue and track down each and every one.

Some of you skeptics might say, "Oh, but they never even flower!" Well—they don't need to. Of the three leaf-losing tree goddesses (it is of dogwoods and magnolias also that I speak), it is the slower, steadier idiom of the Japanese maple I covet. Delicacy and minute variation renders for me something more elegant than ever a stupefying floral display could impart, even if followed by seductive seed pods.

The challenge is recognizing a Japanese maple when you see one because their range is huge, their diversity astounding. There is a certain nobility that comes with being able to tell a dissectum from a heptalobum (both being palmatum). Most of the cultivar names are in Japanese, but you would be surprised how quickly you get used to Inaba shidare and Asashi zuru when it's a certain ombre of burgundy that you're after. Some are easier: A. palmatum Atrolineare, for example, has string-like dark leaves and is called Ribbon Maple.

When it comes to color, shape or size—there is simply no common denominator. Fully cut and filigreed, dissected and multi-lobed in a range of red colors seems to be the most beloved, but there are zillions more equally as desirable. Some are more loosely splayed—others so finely cut and feathery that it is nigh impossible to count the leaf sections. Some have fat, layered, typically-maple-shaped leaves that lie on top of the other like a mille feuille pastry (Mikano Yatsubusa from Lynch's), while others lie heavily one on top of the other like thundering herds (the Lion's Heads from Buckley's). Refined marijuana is another apt description for some (see Kihachijo at Marder's). The variegated varieties are a world and an obsession unto themselves. Start with the graceful green and white Matsugae.

Shapes galore and colors impossible to describe. The fresh greens of new spring growth run the gamut of all that is alive and beautiful. Most heart-stopping of all may be the Full Moon maples (Acer shirasawanum) with orbicular leaves that clothe the branches densely and in a color palette that uniquely includes chartreuse. The spring vibrancy settles into summer permanency, and then the riotous onslaught of autumn is totally mind-blowing. There are no "peak" autumn reds, golds or bronzes more dazzling than these.

What can be done with pruning is just amazing: the tiered effect is one of my favorites, especially when it exposes the bark of the red-twigged kind (Sango kaku, a year-round wonder). The round ball effect is especially easy to achieve on the fast-growing ones (they usually have seedlings for sale at LongHouse of this type). I haven't figured out why they are not more predominate in English gardens; Japanese maples were the only thing I found strikingly missing in the Cotswolds. And why do we not see them more often planted in pots? Bonsai or otherwise, they are very compliant and to those who say, "But what about the bare branches in winter? Won't it look dead?" Well, Japanese maples have the shapeliest bare branches ever.

Timeless in several ways: Some of the best are very slow-growing, they have been documented for centuries (a Japanese poetry book about these trees can be traced back to 614 A.D.), and they are beautiful year round--in every part of the season they offer something unlike any other genus or species.

Sure, some are quite rare and many are hard to propagate, so naturally, they're expensive, but scan our great local nurseries and you will come upon many beauties that will only set you back a few hundred dollars or so. Shopping the sales might yield some good ones; but it is even more fun at the beginning of the season—there is nothing quite like their new growth.

On the simplest of side streets, and it need not necessarily be in a village as beautiful as our Hamptons, one will occasionally come upon a yard where there is one beautiful specimen Japanese maple. Usually red-leafed and weeping—you can tell that they were deliberately planted-carefully chosen and probably way out of the budget as they have been given such pride of place. They deserve it.