Vacation with sand and seaside roses.

The sweet scent of honeysuckle wafting across the lawn at dusk.

A spur-of-the-moment lunch with friends from Spain.

The fruity aroma of lemon verbena in the midday sun.

An afternoon reunion with classmates from 20 years ago.

The pungent blast from tomato plants just tied to stakes.

Smoke sizzling from the grill in the late-day heat.

The sprouting of a baby banana pseudostem next to the parent banana pseudostem.

The first crunchy cucumbers.

Biting mosquitoes.

The zing of radishes.

Stinging black flies.

Crisp, cool lettuce.

Whirring Japanese beetles.

“Yes, July is a marvelous month,” I thought the other evening as I sat down next to the tomatoes, my fingertips stained green from tying up 44 of them.

I admired the beans climbing my rows of elaborately constructed bamboo trellis, a story for another day if it actually works. I snacked on lettuce and purslane as I listened to the birds and marveled at how the garden had grown since mid-June, when I finished planting.

Things looked to be in better shape than if I had planted during my usual time, Memorial Day week. The peppers were developing nicely, and I had just discovered a baseball-sized cantaloupe peeking out from under the foliage. The tomato plants were sporting little tomatoes and the summer squash looked to be sprouting blossoms. The cukes were loaded with flowers and baby fruit, while the potatoes were starting to bloom.

And inwardly I beamed over the selection of perennials I’d just found at a local greenhouse: the new cluster of day lilies now planted beside the chive-filled whiskey barrel, the delicate clematis, the golden creeper, the rare wildflower.

July is a great time to add perennials because you can see what you have and how much space it is taking. You just have to remember to keep things well watered, if the weather doesn’t do it for you.

I had visited Everlasting Farm in Bangor just days before, looking for plants I might have missed in the spring rush. Plus, I had my accumulated discount to look forward to. (Other greenhouses have similar plans, if not outright sales, this time of year.)

Admit it: You’d go far for “free” plants. I would. And do.

Anyway, I headed straight for the shade plants, where I discovered myself standing atop a planting of Lysimachia nummularia. If you have trouble with that, try creeping jenny.

It’s a member of the primrose family in the genus of yellow loosestrife. Creeping jenny also is called moneywort, and in some areas of the country, it is considered invasive.

I only slightly panicked after I read that a couple of days later, because I realized I hadn’t planted it near a stream or wetlands. It thrives in damp spots but is tamer in drier areas.

According to Botanical.com, moneywort has a slew of names, including herb twopence, twopenny grass and string of sovereigns, to name but a few. The twopence and twopenny names refer to the leaves, which look like rows of pence, while the moneywort and the string of sovereigns monikers are for the flowers, which are a golden yellow. Even the Latin name is based on currency: Nummularia is from nummulus, the Latin word for money.

The end result is that even in the shade, the plant looks like rays of sunshine are striking the petals and leaves. I ended up mimicking the greenhouse planting, which was under a canopy of evergreens in dappled shade. I knew I had a perfect spot under a pair of evergreens where little grows that could use a burst of sunshine from the ground up.

In a bit more sunlight at the greenhouse, I discovered Amsonia tabernaemontana, a native wildflower with clusters of light blue, star-shaped flowers. It came as no surprise to find its common name is eastern bluestar.

It doesn’t like it too dry, can grow to 36 inches in height, and is tolerant of partial shade. This member of the dogbane family tends to look a bit weedy, with narrow leaves that reminded me of some goldenrods, but with those beautiful clusters of star-shaped flowers, I’d forgive it about anything.

On my way to the checkout, after I’d raided the rainbow selection of day lilies, I happened upon Clematis recta, glowing with a handful of 1-inch blooms of milky white. C. recta will make more of a mound and be less of a climber, I was told. And it will be positively covered with those little flowers, which are lightly scented.

Clematis, part of the buttercup family, got its common name, virgin’s bower, from a fellow by the name of John Gerard. According to the book “Forget-Me-Not: A Floral Treasury,” Gerard wrote about clematis in 1597. He called the climbing varieties traveler’s joy because it covered the ways and hedges where people travel – at least that’s what I think he said in Old English. He also named it virgin’s bower because it could form an arbor where young girls could sit protected from sunshine and passers-by.

C. recta, commonly known as ground virgin’s bower, tops out at about 3 feet tall.

It would be a more elegant alternative to where my grandfather said I was found when I was a baby.

Which reminds me: the cabbages are doing just fine.

Janine Pineo’s e-mail address is jpineo@bangordailynews.net.