The Transitional Gardener

Confessions of a Gesneri-nerd

2009-08-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

Above is Hemiboea subcapitata, among the hardiest of gesneriads for me so far, having overwintered successfully even in large containers. Its one aesthetic drawback is that the bracts which subtend the tubular blooms invariably turn brown just as the flowers begin to open. Below, Kohleria 'Longwood', tender, but happily bedded out for the summer.A person whom I used to consider one of my best friends has been riding me unmercifully about having attended the annual convention of the National Gesneriad Association in Silver Spring, Maryland last month. Try as I might, I’ve been unable to disabuse him of the notion that this constituted either (a) a coven of old ladies sporting red hats and purple dresses swooning over African Violets (not that there's anything wrong with that) or (b) a gathering of nerds in skin-tight spandex huddled in groups discussing favorite episodes in which various Gesneriads attacked the Starship Enterprise (that either...I guess). In truth, it was sort of both, featuring a spectacular array of plants for sale and on display, lots of nice, knowledgeable people, and what I’m sure were very informative lectures which I would love to have heard, had time and circumstances permitted.

So when our friend arrived the other night, I was prepared: I had many new plants to show him that I considered indicative of what was available at the sale, but nowhere else; several examples of blooming gesneriads in the landscape which are totally hardy here; and, best of all, a brand new, very flamboyant (they had a more tasteful version, but I figured I’d let my gesneriad freak flag fly all the way) new t-shirt. It’s emblazoned with a colorful botanical illustration of Episcia reptans, about a thousand times normal size, and a banner headline that reads “The Gesneriad Society.” Sadly, my friend (as well as my long-suffering partner) remained unimpressed. Pressing on, I regaled them with the virtues of gesneriads as hardy landscape plants here, mentioning that I've been trialing some plants for hardiness which had heretofore been considered only suitable for greenhouse cultivation. I showed him one of my tiniest Sinningias (‘Rio das Pedras’), full grown and comfortable in a pot the size of a thimble; his comment was “I bet people walk all over those in South America all the time and never notice.” Finally, just to humor me (he does this, which is one reason I like him so much), he did ask an extremely intelligent question: “So just what makes a plant a Gesneriad?”.

If he had asked the same question about a Begonia, I’d have been ready. Ditto for lots of other botanical families. However, the only response I could make to this question was to stammer and stare; I was totally stumped. It’s just an incredibly diverse tribe, and there are genera (Rehmannia, for example) about which even botanists can’t seem to agree in terms of whether they’re Gesneriads or members of the Scrophulariaceae. On top of this, the scientific names change back and forth on what seems like a weekly basis. Since I was finally speechless on the subject, I poured him another vodka-watermelon smoothie and let my friend take over the conversation, which is usually the best plan when he’s around, anyway. He’s darned entertaining, even if he does do a pretty good impression of a botanical cretin.

After researching his question, I feel somewhat vindicated. Every definition of the family Gesneriaceae that I can find is riddled with inconsistencies – the words “most” and “many” are commonly used. There seem to be very few uniquely defining factors, as in this Wikipedia article:

"Most species are perennial herbs or subshrubs but a few are woody shrubs or small trees. The phyllotaxy is usually opposite and decussate, but leaves have a spiral or alternate arrangement in some groups. As with other members of the Lamiales the flowers have a (usually) zygomorphic corolla whose petals are fused into a tube and there is no one character that separates a gesneriad from any other member of Lamiales. Gesneriads differ from related families of the Lamiales in having an unusual inflorescence structure, the "pair-flowered cyme", but some gesneriads lack this characteristic, and some other Lamiales (Calceolariaceae and some Scrophulariaceae) share it. The ovary can be superior, half-inferior or fully inferior, and the fruit a dry or fleshy capsule or a berry. The seeds are always small and numerous. Gesneriaceae have traditionally been separated from Scrophulariaceae by having a unilocular rather than bilocular ovary, with parietal rather than axile placentation."

While this question may continue to be perplexing, at this time of year I’m very appreciative of the contribution that the members of this very diverse family make to the garden. Many species and hybrids are proving to overwinter as perennials here in Southeastern VA, zone 7b, and numerous others are perfectly adapted to dry storage as rhizomes and tubers, making them perfect for summer container culture.

Below are the windowboxes from my last post, shown again here to illustrate some of the ways gerneriads can contribute to the summer garden. The scandent Begonia is B. boliviensis, but the darker, more upright foliage belongs to Kohleria 'Dark Velvet'. Kohlerias are rhizomatus gesneriads, but their dormancy is unpredictable, so they don't lend themselves to prolonged winter storage as do Achimenes, Sinningias, and Eucodonias, for instance. They're also extremely tender, browning off at temps in the 40's. Luckily this variety is easy to root from cuttings and grows like a weed all summer, adding its tall, felted, chocolatey foliage to containers in shade to part sun.

Here's a detail of the tubular, speckled blooms of K. 'Dark Velvet'.
Another view of the windowboxes and surrounding bed, showing more gesneriads on the lower level - Achimenes 'Purple King' and Gloxinia nematanthodes 'Evita'. These two are now ubiquitous in the garden, apparently hardy even in pots and containers left outside over the winter. Can't help but notice the "color echo" among the Begonias, the Gloxinia, and and the Arisaema seedpod in the forground.

Titanotrichum oldhamii was the first of the hardy gesneriads I planted outside, and it's been fairly dependable, especially given some supplemental summer irrigation. It's like a tall, shade loving foxglove that puts up spikes of yellow bells every fall - it's a good illustration of the close connection between the gesneriads and the scrophulacea. Interestingly, instead of flowers, less mature plants produce terminal wands of beady propagules, which can be "sown" just like seeds to produce hundreds of new plants.

Tremacron aurantiacum, another Chinese gesneriad, and the only rosette-forming representative of the family with which I've had much success in the outdoor garden. Ramondas have been a dismal failure, melting away during the hottest part of the summer; I do have two Haberleas growing fairly well in raised beds, but they haven't bloomed so far. Tremacron is an extremely obscure genus, and there's almost no literature available on it; the closest affiliated genus I've been able to discover is Briggsia, and barely more has been written about it. Trial and error is the only way to go in a case like this. For this week, at least, the two plants below are included in the genus Seemannia; they were Gloxinias before, which is not the same as the genus including the familiar florist's Gloxinias, which are actually Sinningias. Clear as mud? The first illustration in Seemannia sylvatica, which produces lush growth all summer long, but waits until November to bloom, being sensitive to day length. It does behave as a herbaceous perennial here, but there's not much point in growing it outside, since our first frosts prevent its flowering. I do think it would have great potential as a holiday house plant; it's certainly much easier to rebloom than a poinsettia or a Thanksgiving/Christmas cactus.

Seemannia nematanthodes 'Evita' is perfectly hardy here, where it, along with Achimenes 'Purple King', has insinuated itself into beds and containers all over the yard, mostly due to my recycling potting soil in which are hidden the chubby white rhizomes which serve to carry the plant through the cold months if kept barely moist. It has even wintered over successfully in pots and containers left standing outside without protection.

As mentioned before, the florist Gloxinias are simply a group of Sinningias hybridized from a peloric (which means that the individual blooms exhibit a radial symmetry atypical to those of the normal species- I think) form of S. speciosa, pictured below. Grown from seeds several years ago, these seem to manage fine planted all year in the dry shade beneath an overgrown Magnolia grandiflora (everybody has at least one of those in these parts.) Sinningia guttata, also hardy in a raised bed, and another parent of the florist's Gloxinia. I should mention that I have wintered over tubers of those hybrids outdoors as well. If anyone knows of a reputable source for "Emperor Frederick", a once-common old cultivar that's a sentimental favorite (my grandmother gave me one for my birthday once), I'd love to grow that again.

Sinningia tubiflora is bone hardy all over the garden and in containers, and is a dead ringer for Nicotiana alata when it blooms in June in the dry partial shade under the skirts of a Magnolia grandiflora which needs to be removed on day. It's as easy to grow as potatoes, and can be stored in a similar manner through the winter if hardiness is an issue. Here's another visit with the companion planting of Eucomis 'Sparkling Burgundy' with Sinningia selloviae, another dependably hardy gesneriad that's a real workhorse in my summer garden. I've tried unsuccessfully to grow Phygelius for years, but I've found that this plant and its hybrids give a similar effect (vertical spires of tubular flowers in reds, oranges, and creamy yellows) but are much easier to grow here. Some of the tubers (grown from seed) are the size of baseballs now. I have a couple of plants of S. selloviae 'Purple Rain', but that selection seems to be a much weaker grower for me thus far.

The white form of Sinningia cardinalis ('Innocence'), leaning out from under a containerized Hellebore. It would probably like more sun, as most of the Sinningias seem happiest in strong light. Haven't tried this yet for hardiness, but I have enough to do so this year, and have high hopes.

I think this is Sinningia lineata; it's pretty tough, and quite possibly hardy here, as well. It's one of the determinate growers, unlike selloviae, tubiflora, and their hybrids (Sinningias can be determinate or indeterminate bloomers and growers, just like tomatoes). This, in my opinion, limits its potential as a garden plant - it doesn't mean I won't grow and enjoy it, but the finite bloom period makes its impact more fleeting in the landscape. The miniatures and semi-miniatures fall into this category as well, and have demonstrated pretty good winter hardiness, provided the tubers are kept dry. Their main drawback is their size - one fallen leaf can obscure an entire plant for long enough that I completely forget it's there until it's too late. For now, they live in the garage under banks of fluorescent lights (which thankfully are back in operation after having had to be dismantled for a construction project.)

Sinningia conspicua is hardy here, and enjoys as much sun as possible. I first saw this species growing in the high desert garden at the NC State Arboretum, which was an "aha" moment for me regarding the cultivation of this genus in general.

Sinningia 'Butter and Cream', another of the selloviae-tubiflora complex of hybrids which propagates easily by tip cuttings and returns annually. This one is a nice substitute for Phygelius 'Moonraker', with which I've struggled ever since seeing great swaths of it in St. James Park in 1996. This ain't London... in lots of ways!

A newer acquisition, Primulina tabacum, a rosette-forming gesneriad which seems to do well in the shady plunge bed. It hasn't spent a winter outside yet, so the jury's still out. It may be more interesting than beautiful, but so are a lot of the things I grow (and many are only interesting to me...I live in fear of the crew from "Curb Appeal" on HGTV showing up at our house!)

Below are several more pics of Seemannia nematanthodes 'Evita', which is just coming into full bloom right now all over the garden. It's great for filling in late summer gaps everywhere, and blends well with many other things, including tomatoes!

This clump should look great when it blooms in a week or two, especially if the Rudbeckias hold out long enough to offer some contrast in shape and color.

Not hardy (as far as I know - trying it this year), but cool, is what used to be called Koellikeria erinoides; I think it's actually a Gloxinia these days. I have lots of them, due to its propensity for reseeding itself and ability to be propagated by dividing the long, scaly rhizomes, which are easy to store dry in pots over the winter. Here it's a great foil to the dwarf Eucomis vandermerwei; the whole pot goes into my parents' shed in October, and I don't see it again until April, when I bring it out, water it, and begin the cycle again. I may have mentioned this before, but the rhizomatous gesneriads and South African bulbs seem to have very similar cultural needs, and make great companion plants, also being complimentary in foliage and bloom. It's a hard plant to photograph well outside, and there are much better pics of it on the Gesneriad society site. One of my secret (not anymore...), guilty, Martha Stewart-esque "good things" is to use Ron's collection of McCoy Rustic pottery as caches for pots of these when they come into bloom - the creams, greens, and browns of the pottery and the plant are perfectly in sync.

This container is treated in the same way as the previous one. It combines Kaempferia roscoeana, one of the monsoonal, shade-loving gingers, with Eucodonia andrewsii, another of the smaller rhizomatous gesneriads which has spread itself throughout our planting beds. The flowers, when they begin, are small, slipper-shaped, and an exact color match with the flowers of the Kaempferia.

Another E. andrewsii produced from the same pinch of seed -

the foliage of this species seems to come in two color phases. It tends to begin blooming in late August- early September, along with its relatives, the Achimenes. A Chirita ('Chastity'?) which was a gift from some great gardening friends, tucked in among the roots of the Magnolia. It wintered over last year, but I keep another in the greenhouse for insurance. I have a couple of other hybrids that I plan to try outside eventually as well. These don't really have well-developed underground storage structures or rhizomes, so I suspect their hardiness may be less dependable by far than those gesneriads that do.

The Achimenes are just beginning to bloom now, and they're becoming some of my favorite plants. The small, purplish rhizomes are ridiculously easy to store over the winter in small bags of vermiculite, and some, which are inevitably left behind in the ground or in containers over the winter, return every summer throughout the garden. About the only drawback to growing them is the fact that they respond to drought by going dormant, so consistent moisture (without overwatering, the eternal paradox of gardening) is necessary. Below is 'Harry Williams'.

This is A. 'Yellow Queen'.

And A. 'Purple King', which is becoming a great "passalong plant" throughout the south, and with good reason - I grow it everywhere. It's the earliest blooming variety, produces a myriad of rhizomes which can be stored or left in the ground over winter (and even in pots, apparently.) Here it's spilling over the top of one of our rain barrels, weaving in among the Trachelospermum which constantly threatens to engulf the house.

There are so many other gesneriads waiting in the wings (and the greenhouse...and the light garden in the garage...) for garden space, that I suppose I do have good reason to be embarrassed about it. We all have our little (?) manifestations of sublimation and denial in life, and the insatiable acquisition and propagation of plants appears to be one of mine. At the aforementioned convention, I found lots of new plants to try in the garden, and a few that will never go outside - why I need to grow Episicias or Gesneria cuneifolia, which basically require life-support, is another question, but they are here, too, along with Niphaeas, Diastemas, Lysionotus, Vanhoutteas, and many others too numerous to mention. One day, when they're finally rid of me and all of my craziness, I hope my partner and friends will invite some real plant nuts over to clean the place out!

One more Chirita for the road...

Name that Orchid!

2009-07-26T01:19:00.001-07:00

Any ideas regarding the identity of this hardy orchid which I found blooming in a great swath at the base of a driveway in the Blackridge subdivision in Pittsburgh last week? I've noticed the plants in this yard every summer while visiting our family, but prior visits have never coincided with the bloom period. I even went so far as to ring the doorbell (a great step for a shy person), since the garden in general was really interesting and well-kept, but there was no answer.

My best guess, based on research, is Epipactis palustris, a European species. I've grown E. gigantea, but it has fewer, larger flowers spaced farther apart on the stem, and is also more of a reddish-brown tone. I'm assuming it isn't a species native to the area, since I didn't see it growing anywhere else except in this yard.

Anyone want to weigh in with an identification?

"High Summer Holds the Earth"

2009-07-16T01:40:00.000-07:00

Above, the hardy little Begonia sinensis (considered a subspecies of B. grandis, but differing greatly in stature and bloom season), flowering against the foliage of B. masonorum, potted and sunk into the bed under a giant Magnolia grandiflora for the summer. A similar circumstance produced a hybrid grex (B. masonorum x grandis) a few years back, of which I still have two plants in the greenhouse. It's totally worthless - not as attractive as the tropical parent, nor as hardy as the temperate one. Still, I can't seem to purge it from the collection. Below is Hymenocallis 'Tropical Giant' - gotta have it in the summer garden.

The last of the azaleas to bloom, prunifolium waits until mid-July to put in an appearance. Next year I want to save some pollen from R. austrinum and canescens in order to do some hybridizing for later blooming deciduous plants - this whole side of the family is beautiful and underused in modern landscaping.

Above- Begonia sutherlandii, a beautiful little species from South Africa (lots of great orange flowers from that part of the world - wonder what S.A. pollinators are attracted specifically to that color?) which is hardy and spreads via bulbils that form in the leaf axils, just as do B. grandis and sinensis in all of their color forms. As this overexposed, unfocused photo illustrates, July is a time of complete and utter excess in our garden, and, for the most part, I really enjoy it. It's also the time of year when I'm able to spend the most time outside, so I suppose there's been a bit of unconscious planning over the years so the garden peaks in summer. Because I'm out of town, visiting family, and thus not plagued by guilt for not actually being out IN my garden (it's raining here, or most likely I'd be out in theirs right now...), I thought I'd throw together this scattered post to show a smattering of views around the landscape - and that term applies about as much to my garden as does the label "opera" to the performance we're going to see tonight at the Pittsburgh Civic Light (as air, apparently) Opera, Barry Manilow's seminal work "Copacabana." However, as my pastor and friend is wont to say, "Walk that bad sermon proudly, just as you would an ugly dog!" Above is Galtonia candicans, one of many South African bulbs blooming around the place. Many of these, this one included, are growing in black nursery pots which are submerged in a bed of rampant groundcovers during their summer growth period, then stored dry in my parents' storage shed for the winter, enabling me to move containerized hellebores into those positions for the winter.

Foliage is even more prominent in summer than flowers, and certainly less fleeting. This is a fortuitous combination of Tetrapanax, Miscanthus, and the ruby foliage of Canna "Australia"; better contrast in texture and color would be hard to plan purposely.

Below is another South African bulb, Eucomis Pole-Evansiae, its bloom scapes not having opened or achieved their ultimate height.

More interplay of color, light, and texture, with the sculptural leaves of Tetrapanax (admittedly a thug, but spectacular) along with rugosa foliage, among other things.

This is a common aroid -either Dracunculus vulgaris or Sauromatum venustum; either way, the leaves are cool.

One of the many Hostas in bloom and leaf - "Lewis and Clark." I'm moving all of my hostas into very large containers; those in the ground seem to decline steadily over the years as root competition and shade increases. Potting them allows them to follow the light as necessary (with a little help, as long as my back holds out), as well as to have access to a steadier supply of moisture.

More concealed containers in the modular bog garden; these are just a couple of the several dozen Sarracenia species and hybrids that provide interest over at least three seasons of the year.

Another view of the front bed, dominated by the first Trachycarpus I ever planted (T. fortuneii). I have about a dozen species in various locations around the tiny property, and so far there's been no winter damage at all. This one is blooming for the first time this year, a mere 15 years after being planted. Cyclamen purpurascens seedlings are blooming for the second year, having been sown four years back. You have to hunt for the blooms at this time of year, but it's always a neat surprise.

Below, more foliar combinations - Coleus "Inky Fingers", Amorphophallus konjac, and one of several pots of Caladiums I've stored dry in the attic for at least ten years. Can't imagine buying new ones every year.

If I had to choose a favorite among the Hydrangeas, it would probably be the above, H. mariesii 'variegata'. I finally gave it a decent prune last year (having been shamed into it by a visiting friend,) and it's looking much better this year.

Below is a windowbox combo that I love - Begonia boliviensis, Kohleria 'Dark Velvet', and Achimenes 'Purple King'. Beneath the windowbox I placed some used dresser drawers, rescued from the curb one day ahead of the trash truck; I have no pride. I've found that these make great little raised bed planters, and in this one I've got some bamboo ferns that I raised from spores, more achimenes, Gloxinia nematanthodes, and Lysionotus sangzhiensis. More and more gesneriads are finding their way into the summer landscape here; I hope to expound on that at a later date; maybe during my next vacation...

My grandmother's "Touch-Me-Nots", Impatiens balsamina, seed themselves through the back island bed with abandon. They make a great "good weed", filling up blank spaces, allowing for easy removal where they're not wanted, and bringing back happy childhood memories by providing fat, expoding pods to pick as I pass by with the pruners or watering can. Eupatorium coelestinum is another "escapee" which I edit out of the beds as need be.

I feel obligated to grow a few pots of this old variety of Caladium, "Postman Joyner", although, to my knowledge, no family member has ever worked as a mail carrier. I did have a great aunt who served as postmistress in her small Virginia town, but she was on my mother's side. A new Eucomis I picked up at a Whole Foods in North Carolina, of all places - it's a hybrid called "Twinkle Stars", and it looks great with a new Sinningia hybrid called "Bananas Foster". They're potted together, and should store through the winter in a cool, dry state just fine. Okay, it's not technically "growing" in the landscape, but then, a lot of my plants aren't; this is Phragmipedium "Sargeant Eric", cohabiting with Hedychium coronarium foliage for the summer. As much as I love the "hardy" Cypripediums, I have to admit that they really do require more "life support" in our temperate climate than do their subtropical cousins.

More eucomis, in this case a couple of dozen "Sparkling Burgundy" plants interplanted with Sinningia selloviae; if the gesneriad bloomed a couple of weeks later, the display would be spectacular. It's one of the indeterminate species, so if I can remember to cut back the bloom stems, maybe we'll get another flush of blooms before the Eucomis inflorescenses fade completely. The Eucomis were all grown from leaf cuttings, and the Sinningias sprang from one pinch of dust-like seed received from a society seed exchange.

Back to the front bed for a closer look at Agapanthus "Ellamae", supposedly one of the best varieties for our area, and bearing that out after three years in this location. It descends from the species A. inapertus, which means that something about it doesn't open completely. I assume that refers to the individual blooms, which hang like blue bells from the head, but it could also refer to the rubbery, green bract that subtends the buds - I finally had to assist the buds of every umbel in escaping from its grasp.

My neighbor is building this arbor beyond the fence that separates our properties, and it really improves our yard, too. Borrowed views are great, when they happen like that. These are but a few of the beautiful clumps whose names are lost in the recesses of my memory, but which we enjoy anyway. Wish there was room for many more; some are still in pots, which is not something they enjoy for extended periods of time.

Keringeshoma coreana, a very cool perennial related to the Hydrangeas which I'm growing for the first time this year. K. palmata is similar, but the blooms don't open as widely (inapertus?) Another view of the variegated lacecap Hydrangea that I love... And a dark blue lacecap, originally a gift florist plant. It seems too dark to be "Blue Wave" - any ideas?

It's just a Monarda (probably 'Adam'), but it looks like fireworks during July, and I like it.

These cobalt berries form on the bloom scape of Dianella tasmanica, an Australian native that spends the winter in the unheated greenhouse. I may divide it next year and try part of it in the ground, if I can find a sunny, well-drained spot (always at a premium).

The tropical Nymphaea "Panama Pacific" - it winters in the garage in an old aquarium and produces new plants in the leaf axils late in the season. These go in the inside aquaria, but not in the one housing the Herichthys severum, which find them delectable morsels for snacking.

Another Hemerocallis (possibly "Femme de Joi"- every time Ron picks one out, it looks like this, so we have lots of short, apricot tetraploids) blooming with Salvia guaranitica 'Black and Blue', another gorgeous plant which is incredibly invasive if left to its own devices.

Another great foliage combo - Arundo donax, the varigated form of the giant reed; Colocasia antiquorum 'illustris', with its toes in a temporary pond; and Arisaema consanguineum, my favorite species in terms of foliar impact.

More Sarracenias, this time S. leucantha, filtering the sunlight through the white fenestrations that decorate each tube and exist to confuse insects which are unliucky enough to find themselves marooned on the inside.

Back to the rear island bed, with foliage colors and textures repeating and contrasing in beautiful patterns. Wish I could say that I planned all of this.

Finally, a little (very little) garden "art" - a fake boat headed into one of the ponds with a cargo of Lysimachia, surrounded by more Tetrapanax, Cannas, Hydrangea "Endless Summer", and Colocasias. In the foreground is Crinum eboracea, a hybrid of C. bulbispermum and C. asiaticum. I know this "tropicalismo" style of garden is a big, fat, fake, but I have to admit that I really enjoy the look of the garden at this time of year. It would probably be more politically correct to have given over all of this space to vegetables this year, and we do have our big pots of grape tomatoes, basil, etc., just as always. I have to admit to being somewhat amused by all of the professional garden writers who are just now learning to grow food, since I grew up in the vegetable garden with my parents and grandparents, and have always just assumed that everyone genetically knew how. However, until I'm unable to afford my visits to the local farmers' market, our quarter acre of land in its midsummer glory is too precious to be turned into a truck farm.

One question unrelated to gardening: can anyone offer advice concerning placing and moving pictures within these posts? One reason I don't post more often is that this is such an unwieldy process. For instance, the first two pictures in this post were afterthoughts, but are stuck on at the beginning because I was unable to move them to other locations. Also, every time I add a picture, spaces appear throughout the post, each of which has to be manually eliminated before the post can be published. There must be a trick here that I don't know about, and I'd be grateful for any assistance! Happy summer, everyone!

2009-04-18T03:59:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note to let anyone who might be interested know that I've decided to take a break from blogging for a while. It's come down to making a simple choice between having time to write about gardening or to actually work in the garden; for me, that's a no brainer!

"What (We Do) For Love"

2009-03-01T00:58:00.000-08:00

This is a flawed reference, since "A Chorus Line" is not among my favorite musicals; this could stem from my having spent several months chained to a piano beneath a stage on which a dozen or so dancers whose singing was marginal, at best, (it was a local dinner theater production) whined about not being able to find work...as dancers on Broadway. Never mind that most of us work in more mundane jobs all the time to support our families, our homes, and, yes, our hobbies. All the same, I've been thinking a lot lately about how to arrive at a balance between making a living and "following my bliss". This is further complicated by the fact that some of us have too damned many "blisses", and only 24 hours in a day; still, in my life (another musical theater reference - wait for it...) I've recently been impressed by some excellent role models who manage to find just that balance.

My friend Rob., for instance, has always wanted to be a writer, and has always been one - he's made lots of sacrifices along the way in order to do so, but, all in all, I think he's happy with the choices he's made, and he produces some amazing work. Rob. was in that same, fateful production of "ACL" over 20 years ago; ironically, he was the best singer in the cast, but played "Zack", and therefore never got to sing a single note. I think he'd call that an example of something he did in order to finance the things he did for love, rather than something he loved doing.

I cogitated on this difficult dichotomy yesterday as I took a day for myself (Ron was occupied, much to his relief, with judging a high school forensics meet) and made a 3.5 hour road trip to what is Mecca for all mid-Atlantic winter gardening enthusiasts - Pine Knot Farms in Clarksville, VA. It was just as well that Ron couldn't go, because I used the drive time to work on getting the score to "Les Mis" embedded in my ear; as I mentioned to Cosmo, I've recently been cast as Jean Valjean in a local, semi-staged concert version, and wanted to start learning the 80% of the show that I've never sung or taught (I've done "Bring Him Home" for years as an audition song and party request). I'm trying not to get too excited, because this particular production involves not one, but many barricades, more figurative than literal, and may never actually happen. However, I do seriously love the show and its message (probably its having been based on great source material is mostly responsible), and I have to admit to tearing up a couple of times as I listened to three different recordings over the course of my journey. Because of the choices I've made, including things like enjoying eating regularly (not to mention allowing said eating to take control of my life and physique for many years), wanting to live in one location with one person, needing to be near my parents to assist with their care, and concentrating on education as a vocation rather than developing my performance skills, I'll never have the opportunity to sing roles like this in a professional venue. Community productions offer the rare chance for people like myself to do so, and I'll be very excited if the whole thing works out. At any rate, I derived great pleasure from barreling down I-85 and bellowing "2-4-6-0-1" to my heart's content with no one to reach over and smack me.

Beyond the plants I bought at Pine Knot, all of which are beautiful and totally homeless at this point (hence the garage location for these photos - I didn't take the camera with me yesterday, since I knew I couldn't juggle that along with flats of heavy pots), I had a chance to spend some time with some shining examples of folks who are doing what they're doing "for love", and making a living to boot. Dick and Judith Tyler have spent years building their business and developing a massive following throughout the world as experts on the genus Helleborus (Judith is the co-author, along with C. Colston Burrell, of what has become the "bible" for hellebore growers and breeders), and I hope they're able to continue doing so for many years to come. What's impressive is that they steadfastly concentrate on breeding and producing gorgeous, exceptional plants in a day and age where most garden retailers (bless you, Les!) have to be all things to all people in order to stay in business. Not that the Tylers haven't made trade-offs to achieve this; their home and garden, though beautiful, are in an extremely remote location; they do most of their business via mail order; and I'm sure they've made many other sacrifices over the years in order to pursue doing what they love.

The highlight of my day was the fact that Judith, while swamped with visitors, spent a long time with me, showing me plants I've never seen "in person" before. H. vesicarius, which virtually defies cultivation, was in full bloom, as was the extremely rare hybrid between H. niger and H. thibetanus, "Pink Ice". Judith is as delightful, kind and open in person as she is in print and email, and I thoroughly enjoyed being with her and her family.

Jamie, Dick and Judith's son-in-law, is another example of someone whose career and life choices I admire greatly; we talked about his decision to switch from a public school teaching job (similar to the one I've had for 21 years) to teaching cello privately and performing in North Carolina. He mentioned that when he stopped enjoying music, he knew it was time to get out of the classroom and return to the reason for his initially having become a musician - I can't agree more, and although I sometimes wish I'd done something similar, had I done so I would miss many of the things and people in my life now. It's all about finding a balance.

Another friend who has "followed her bliss" for many years and become a brilliant gardener, writer, and speaker in the process is Pamela Harper. I was telling Pam about a discussion my mom and I have every winter about her hydrangeas - she wants "those ugly sticks" cut down , and I have to explain that doing so will keep them from blooming. Pam says, and I agree, that this sort of thing is the reason she never wanted to be a garden designer, although she probably could have made a lot more money had she done so. Interestingly, I heard Penelope Hobhouse say almost the same thing in a recent lecture that was podcast by BBC Gardens Illustrated.

So I'm still working on finding the right proportion of work, time with family and friends, singing, gardening, writing, arranging music, and, oh yeah...sleep. It's a never ending process for all of us, and that's as it should be. For now, I've decided to let Victor Hugo guide me in establishing priorities, because when it's all said and done, I truly believe that "To love another person is [about as close as one will ever get] to see[ing] the face of God."

Bloom Day, February 2009

2009-02-15T01:47:00.000-08:00

I've been doing this for over a year now, and since gardening is cyclical, is stands to reason that there would be numerous repeat appearances in a blog post such as this. I'll try to avoid some of the more obvious suspects that are blooming right now, although they are incredibly welcome. Narcissus 'Peeping Tom' (a cyclamineus hybrid) and 'Rijnveld's Early Sensation' are fully open in clumps all over the yard, and I'll try to restrain myself from posting too many Helleborus x hybridus, although I counted nearly 100 plants in full bloom yesterday with lots more in bud. Above is Camellia 'Debutante', which, along with Magnolia soulangeana, stands as one of the very finest of the brown-flowering woody plants in our area! We had bathroom wallpaper festooned with very similar flowers in the early 70's, so there's something oddly attractive to me about these blooms, even after they've been trashed by a freeze.
Chaenomeles japonica, another remnant of my grandparents' garden, and badly in need of thinning and pruning.

Aucuba 'Gold Dust' has produced its first berries ever, which surprised me, since it's a female clone and there are no males that I know of in the neighborhood. Les has promised to hook my single girls up with "stud service" via a male known as 'Mr. Goldstrike' later on this spring.

Arisaema urashima started breaking dormancy in the garage, so had to be brought inside to flower way ahead of schedule. I hate taking pictures (and growing plants, too, for that matter) inside!

I think this is Crocus tomasianus, which is ubiquitous, but with good reason. I like the way it pushes up through this clump of Christmas fern every February.
After years of trying, I'm finally having some success with Cyclamen coum, but only in very large, well-drained containers. I've partnered them with tree peonies, to which excessive summer watering is also anathema. While hederifolium does fine in the ground, this one, with its very desireable flowering season, rots away with the least bit too much moisture here. It's encouraging that these tubers have begun to reseed themselves. This one is almost unphotographable, but it's the more common crimson color variant of C. coum.

Daphne odora is another great plant which makes one wish for a "scratch and sniff" computer screen, but responds to poor drainage by kicking the bucket (watering can?) immediately.

Speaking of scents, that of Euphorbia characias 'wulfenii' is an acquired taste - pretty similar to skunk in an enclosed area. It's another plant that requires better drainage than I can provide in the ground, so its huge clay pot gets hauled into the garage on nights when the temps go into the teens. I have to admit to sort of enjoying the smell, but then, according to scientific studies, there are those who become stimulated by the aroma of sweaty male baseball players, so who knows which olfactory receptors this Euphorbia is causing to fire off in my increasingly befuddled brain? Probably best not to go there.

If I could bring myself to shell out $145 for Snowdrops: a Monograph (not that I haven't seriously considered it...), I might be able to do a better job of sorting out my Galanthus species and varieties. This one came to me as elwesii, so I guess that'll have to do for now.

The snowdrops below are distinct from the others I grow in having shiny, green leaves. I've had them forever, and don't remember the source. Perhaps ikarae or plicata? Any ideas appreciated!

Just a couple of Hellebore pictures - these really are my favorite plants, hands down, and I did an extensive post on them last year about this time or a little later. This one is close to something I've been working on - a chartreuse base color with picotee edging. If it were a Cattleya hybrid, it would be classified as an "art shade."

I'm not as crazy about the doubles as some are, but this is a nice, pure pink, probably from Pine Knot stock originally.In recent years I've gotten more and more excited about H. niger and its hybrids. Container or raised bed culture seems to eliminate problems with drainage and humidity tolerance. The first below is "Winter Moonlight", a tissue culture of a form developed by the Tylers at Pine Knot Farms (which is where I'm hoping to be for a while in about two weeks.) Judith says it originated from a failed hybrid between H. niger and argutifolius, which normally produces H. x. nigercors, another very garden-worthy grex for this area - those are spent blooms from a clone of it in the background of this photo, as a matter of fact.

This is a plant I've had for about ten years, supposedly descending from the famous

'Potter's Wheel'. The size of the blossoms supports this connection, and the best thing is that it tends to rebloom in May, when the flowers are less likely to become spotted due to the interaction of cold temperatures and moisture.
The first bloom of a plant originating in New Zealand, I think, called 'Winter Magic'.

Here's a "color echo" for you - Paphiopedilum 'Mem. Larry Heuer' blooming in front of a Mahonia in full bloom. Okay - it's a cheat - I just couldn't get a decent photo of it in the kitchen window. It's a primary parvisepalum hybrid, combining emersonii and malipoense.

Not yet in bloom, but grown mainly for foliar effect anyway, is Trillium underwoodii. It amazes me how early these break dormancy every year, yet seem to revive completely after every hard freeze they endure. In the greenhouse are lots of begonias, orchids, and gesneriads in bloom right now, but that's probably not the point of this exercise. Not much to report right now, so I'm headed out to tackle some serious pruning chores; I've done one rose ("Graham Thomas"), one Hydrangea, and one Arbutus so far - only a few dozen more to go. It beats working on taxes, which is really what I should be doing right now. All I can say is that I sure am glad it's February; it's amazing how much a couple of hours of sunlight (even if it's chilly out yet) can do to ameliorate the symptoms of my seasonal affective disorder, aka "cabin fever"!

"Only for Now"

2009-02-01T01:52:00.000-08:00

Ok, so obviously you've got to break a few eggs to make an omelette. But, just for Phillip, here are before and after pics of the great terrarium adventure which I undertook yesterday. It had to happen, and it was a Saturday which was too cold for outside work and during which no housecleaning, shopping, or cooking (for ourselves or anyone else!) was necessary, so I took the plunge. I should have taken pictures of the entire process, but my hands were too dirty, and I was trying (unsuccessfully) to keep the kitchen somewhat clean, so I didn't add photography to the mix. Why the kitchen, you may ask (as did my partner)? It was too cold and dark in the garage, and our obnoxious kitchen lighting is so glaring that one could perform a tonsillectomy on the kitchen table, if necessary. I posted a pic of the seriously overgrown bottle garden before, but here it is again:

I used a tool called a wire puller, a flexible wire coil which opens its "arms" when pressure is applied on the handle, and a tool I made from a teaspoon, some electrical tape, and a bamboo stake (which had to be reinforced along its length by three heavy-guage wire insulation holders after breaking in the middle of the procedure). I started out very carefully, trying hard to lock the pincers of the wire puller around the crowns of each plant, reverse its polarity, shake off the soil, and pull it gently through the neck of the Florence flask. After about 10 minutes of cursing which would have made Tony Soprano blush, I gave up and started getting Medieval on the mass of vegetation. When everything was extracted, I ended up with the following:
9 pots of Begonia 'Buttercup' rhizomes in various stages of growth, but which I feel will produce beautiful plants in a few months. This is a hybrid involving B. prismatocarpa, an African species which requires lots of warmth and humidity to do well, but produces occasional bright yellow blooms. From the enormous pile of severed leaves I prepared about a dozen leaf cuttings as well (why? - there's no place to grow them here at all, and they're not hardy, which is the kiss of death at a plant sale around here...). These are under a humidity dome on a heat mat below a bank of fluorescent lights in the garage right now (how many prepositions can you use in a sentence?)

Along with the wreckage of the begonia, I extracted a jewel orchid (Ludisia or Haemaria, depending on the source of info, discolor) which broke into several viable pieces; several tubers of mini Sinningias; three nice Autumn ferns; and a very healthy Holly fern. Interestingly, I never planted the Sinningias or ferns in the terrarium - they were volunteers. Anyway, they'll all recover, I think, and the only damage was to the kitchen (cleaning that is next on my list of projects.) I took advantage of the mess to bring in and separate about 50 Bletilla seedlings (a cross I made of two B. striata varieties - the pure white one and the more uncommon blue cultivar, 'Murasaki Shikibu'), so that's another tedious indoor task to take off the list.

What to plant in the terrarium next? It's a tough call - whatever I use has to enjoy constant humidity, thrive in low light (the terrarium would overheat and cook the plants in a sunny spot), and maintain less than a 12" diameter and 8" height. I have some seedlings of Gesneria cuneifolia which might fill the bill, but they're miniscule, and it'll be some time before they put on much of a show. There's also the actual species form of Begonia prismatocarpa, which seems to remain smaller than its hybrid; who knows what it might do, though, given unlimited warmth and humidity? Pearcea hypocyrtiflora is another candidate, but it's a touchy critter and I'm still learning to grow it. For now, the bottle is in the garage drying out - I won't be able to get the old potting medium out until that happens.

Remember the dirt in the kitchen? I might have landed in hot water over that, except for a couple of very fortuitous accidents. Last week I finally managed to break my trusty elliptical trainer - 75-90 minutes of hard labor daily over a period of four years would cause any of us to crash, and it did so spectacularly at 4 AM last Monday morning, sending me tumbling sideways into the thirty gallon aquarium next to it. Somehow the tank survived to break my fall, although the angel fish, who've known me for years, still seem to view me with trepidation. Anyway, while the part for the elliptical is on order, I've been forced to rig up the contraption below in order to ride my ancient 10-speed in the living room for 2.5 hours every morning (it takes a lot longer to get the same cardio effect on the bike as one does on an elliptical, and skipping the workout is NOT an option) while working on the computer (I'm pedaling my butt off, literally, right now). I've discovered that I love rigging things up in order to make them work - now if I only looked like MacGyver!

As I was dismantling my terrarium, Ron decided to try out the bike, and did fine until he tried to dismount, at which point he managed to knock over the banana plant I had just potted up and moved in from the garage (you can see it directly behind the bike.) He felt so bad, and was so busy cleaning up his own mess, that nothing was ever said about the perlite and vermiculite on the kitchen table. We went with friends to see "Avenue Q" in Norfolk and had dinner out, so the kitchen was never a prioity.

Sometimes things just work out, and even though the show seemed superficial and silly at first, it did emphasize some deeper themes, with applications even in the gardening world. Like the period of time during which any planting, including a terrarium, looks really good, everything that happens is "only for now." Gardening, like life, is performance art. And that can be a good, or a bad, thing...

PS - this is Sinningia 'Orange Zinger', which looks good, but "only for now". It'll collapse into a well-deserved rest period after another few weeks.

"Don't Look, Ethel!"

2009-01-17T01:42:00.000-08:00

As I write this, the thermometer outside the kitchen door (which usually registers a few degrees warmer than the one at "the bottom of the garden") is reading 15 degrees F; we usually have one or two nights like this every winter, and a couple of days like yesterday, when the temps never made it out of the 20's. My policy at times like this is to try not to look at things and trust that I've done my best to prepare the garden for these inevitable cold spells. Actually I feel better about this one than many in past years, since it's not following several weeks of warm weather during which plants are fooled into breaking dormancy, thus rendering themselves more vulnerable to freezes than in a progressively colder winter such as this. These pics were all taken before we entered the deep freeze, but I'm fairly confident that most things will survive, no worse for the wear, in the long run.

My grandmother's camellia, most likely 'Debutante', will sport brown flowers rather than pink once things thaw out; it's not the best choice for this area, since it blooms at this most hazardous time of year, but it's a sentimental favorite and one I would not be without. The huge mother plant (since removed by the new owners of the property) froze to the ground at least 3 times over the first 40 years of my life, always rebounding over time to at least 15 feet high, and looking better for the rejuvenation. I would never wish that for my camellia collection, but I have been reading lately in the journal of the Southeastern Camellia Society that the only sure way to eliminate tea scale, with which many of my shrubs are naggingly infested, is to cut the plants to the ground and allow them to regrow. I don't have the nerve to do this on my own, but a night or two in the low single digits might make that decision for me.

This primula, one of three I purchased last spring which were bred for heat tolerance by Dr. Clifford Parks of Camellia Forest Nursery in NC, managed one bloom before the cold snap hit. More importantly, all three plants look great, even after a long, hot, coastal VA summer.

These pansies were an impulse buy last fall, but they do make this planter look useful in the winter. I hate spending money on annual plants, but summers here are just too hot to germinate viola seeds in a timely manner.

A nice little bonus- these leftover paperwhite bulbs were in the compost that I dumped on this bed in August, and produced a few spikes of bloom before the freeze occurred. I would never pay money for these to plant outside (and Ron won't let me grow them in the house because of the smell), but these bulbs came out of some big nursery pots full of perfectly good potting soil left on the curb by someone in the neighborhood last summer. I never let useful organic matter go to the landfill!

Everybody's posting Mahonia blooms this week, and for good reason. The best thing about these shrubs, aside from these blooms in January, is the flock of cedar waxwings that pass through every summer and strips them of their grape-ish berries. I've been lucky enough to be looking out the kitchen window once or twice over the past few years when that's happened.

There are hundreds of Hellebore buds in the garden right now, but not many in full bloom, which is probably a good thing given the weather. This is H. x ericsmithii 'Pink Beauty'.

H. niger 'Nell Lewis' strain is just coming into bloom now.

A chance seedling of H. foetidus with a few buds already open. This species never lasts long here in any given position, but usually seeds itself around so that at least one is in bloom every winter. I believe it's a drainage issue, into which category most of my gardening problems fall.

A new (to me) Galanthus cultivar, one of three single bulbs which constituted my only non-clearance sale bulb purchases this fall. This is 'Lady Beatrix Stanley' and it's double, although one has to wonder why that matters in a flower that's so close to the ground.

A Cyclamen coum plant raised from a batch of seeds purchased from Seneca Hill a few years back. I'm glad I got them then, since Ellen has since stopped selling cyclamen seed as part of her retail operation. Although C. hederifolium does pretty well in the open garden here, my only success with coum has been in raised beds or large outdoor planters, where this one resides. I covered it with a sheet of spun-bonded row cover last weekend, although that probably isn't necessary, even with these temperatures.

I'm just turning a blind eye to things right now, being thankful (?) for the forced inside time. I'm actually reading a few great books, something I've done less and less as the computer has taken over my indoor time. Garden Open Today and Garden Open Tomorrow by Beverley Nichols are as entertaining as they've always been reputed to be, and Planthropology, by Ken Druse, is spectacular eye candy, even for the non-gardener. By far my favorite, which was purchased as a consolation prize when Snowdrops: a Monograph became too rich for my blood (I just couldn't justify paying over $100 for it), is Buried Treasures: Finding and Growing the World's Choicest Bulbs by Janis Ruksans. It's not a picture book; rather, it contains tons of first-hand growing information gleaned from years of raising bulbs under nursery conditions in Latvia, of all places. Strangely, Ruksans's climate and growing conditions correspond to mine in many ways, so I'm finding it extremely informative and enjoyable.

So who knows? Maybe the Christmas tree will come down today, that back bedroom will be cleaned out, or the freezer will get defrosted. Those are noble aspirations, but I wouldn't bank on any of them actually happening - there are still flats containing hundreds of Bletilla and Sinningia seedlings under lights in the garage needing attention, not to mention a cramped Begonia prismatocarpa hybrid ('Buttercup') screaming to be liberated from the gigantic boiling flask terrarium in which it's been imprisoned for two years now...

A Long Winter's...Rest?

2008-12-14T01:22:00.000-08:00

Just a short post to wish those few friendly souls that occasionally check in here a very happy holiday. My December consists mainly of being chained to the keyboard at church, supervising hundreds of singing (?) children at school, preparing for the obligatory holiday observations among family and friends, and getting ready to visit Ron's family in Pittsburgh; as a result, very little gardening, other than necessary life support and maintenance, takes place here. In an hour yesterday, for instance, I watered the epiphytes in the greenhouse (potted things take much less water at this time of year), drained the hoses, unloaded several bags of pinestraw which I "liberated" from a neighbor's curb on the way home the other night, spread some of this over the remains of the crinum and hedychium foliage, gathered rhizomes from achimenes and gloxinias to store and give as Christmas presents to friends who probably will be appalled to receive them, and began the icky process of processing the berries of Arbutus unedo and Hamelia patens. This last involves crushing the berries into a container of water which will now be allowed to ferment over the next several days, being rinsed repeatedly during this time to separate the pulp from the seeds. Ron particularly appreciates waking up to find these containers of "gunk" lined up along the kitchen countertop. There's a special place in heaven for anyone who lives with a gardener (at least one like me) for almost twenty years!

Still, there's lots of life in the garden at this point, and during the hour or two I have to observe it, I really enjoy it. The Sasanqua camellias are still going strong, the hellebores are showing buds (and in the case of one H. x nigercors, an incredible display of early blooms), and arums are coming into their own as the summer perennials gradually clear the airspace above them. Lycoris, Cyclamen, and Ranunculus are all in great foliage, adding life, if not a riot of color, to the scene.

The palms are especially striking this year, having put on enough growth to begin making a real statement in the front garden. The five species of Trachycarpus look great, and I'm especially enjoying the impact that T. nana is beginning to make in the front bed. (This photo is a couple of months old.) Despite its name, it appears to grow much faster than some, such as T. wagnerianus. Using these temperate palms in beds is an interesting project, since they tend to shade out their neighbors in their "teen" years. Once the crown of the palm is above 10 feet or so, however, the shadows they cast are negligible. I'm not providing any winter protection to the established Trachys, Sabals, or Rhapidophyllums this year, other than a thick collar of pinestraw around the base of each. Chaemerops humilis tend to defoliate if the temps drop into the low teens, but it seems to return from the crown in any event. I did plant a small C. humilis var. cerifera this year, so I covered it with a "wall-o-water" yesterday, enduring great physical discomfort, as more water always gets on my clothes than goes into the narrow plastic channels of those things. It doesn't help that I invariably put off filling them until the temperature is in the 30's. This flat of Sabal minor has done extremely well (the seeds "fell" into my pocket last year from a planting in the parking lot at the Virginia Zoo in Norfolk), but I may not live to see them attain any size to speak of, considering the growth rate of that species in general.

I have high hopes for two new members of the aralia tribe, a variegated Fatsia japonica and its hybrid, Fatshedera 'Annemieke', a cultivar with beautiful golden variegation which was a gift last spring from Pam Harper. Both are looking great among the wreckage of the frost-bitten garden. I can't decide whether to spray the Fatsia with Wilt-pruf to offer it a little protection. I don't think it will die outright, but the wide bands of white variegation could be damaged by a hard freeze, ruining the appearance for months to come.

Inside I'm dealing, as always, with severe space issues. I have literally hundred of seedlings and cuttings which need to be pricked out or potted on, but no place to put them once these tasks are accomplished. I'm not sure what the answer is, since there is absolutely no more space in the garage light garden (or "pot garden", as my sister-in-law dubbed it), the greenhouse, or any of the cold frames. I guess it's just as well that I don't have time to do any of these things. I read that Mike Kartuz, a California nurseryman and expert in gesneriads in particular, often holds hundreds of seedlings in small pots for months on end without feeding them, potting them on at his convenience and beginning fertilization to induce growth. It doesn't sound like the best horticultural practice, but I can certainly see the necessity for it, and that's exactly how I'm handling several containers of Bletillas, Sinningias, Begonias, and other things which produce hundreds of progeny from a dusting of seeds (these are Bletilla seedlings from a cross I made in April of 2007.)Interesting to note - the picture below revealed, upon being enlarged, something that I hadn't noticed with my less-than-xray vision - a couple of these crowded miniature Sinningias are actually blooming under these conditions!

I should be doing a lot more outside right now, but short of my giving up the five hours of sleep I allow myself now, that's not in the cards. Acceptance of a messy, but interesting garden seems to be the best alternative at this stage of my life. There'll be time for weeding, raking, and pruning later (I hope.)

Happy Holidays!

November Snapshots

2008-11-22T00:47:00.000-08:00

Not much time for prose right now, but a few pics of what was in bloom before the first real freeze, which occurred on November 19 this year. Anemone 'Honorine Jobert'

Arbutus unedo 'compacta' in berry and bloom at the same time, and worth every bit of extra care it requires re. winter protection and careful siting.

A big clump of Arum italicum, like a winter caladium in the landscape.

An unlabeled Camellia sasanqua, probably pretty close to the original type.

Camellia sasanqua 'Jean May'

Camellia sasanqua 'Yuletide'. Everyone posts this, and with good reason. I "accidentally" planted one in the front and another in the back, and can't bring myself to remove either, despite a desperate need for space.

A beautiful bug (as yet unidentified - any thoughts?) on my only Chrysanthemum, which I think is just called "Single Korean Apricot", also pictured below.

The last coleus standing - interesting that the different cultivars seem to have varying degrees of cold tolerance. I think this one is called 'Alabama Sunset'.

Probably the most photographed and posted plant in the garden this year, Crinum 'Emma Jones', still putting up scapes in mid-November. The one below, and another like it, have no hope of opening outside, so have been cut and brought into the house to see what happens.

Below, another Crinum, 'Walter Flory', also still in flower.

Crocus ochroleucus, grown in a pot for drainage reasons and so that it doesn't get lost.

Galanthus reginae-olgae, one of the fall blooming snowdrops. I just got one bulb of the other, G. peshmenii, which was my one bulb purchase of the year (this may change as Brent and Becky's Bulbs in Gloucester begins marking down their inventory this weekend.)

The first Hellebore of the season, a great plant of H. x nigercors. This hybrid between the Christmas Rose and the Corsican Hellebore has been a great producer of pale green blooms over the years, but this is the earliest it's ever been in flower.

Musa velutina, carrying fruit that's ornamental, but seedy. I was hoping the seed would have time to ripen, but that's not going to happen, at least not outside. I've cut the stems and put them in water - at least they'll be interesting to look at.

Nandina domestica, the yellow berried form. It's not as vigorous as the red variety, and the berries become discolored after hard freezes, but it's attractive for a while, at least.Another group of plants I've shown too much, but they really do provide three seasons of interest. Sarracenia leucantha comes into its own in fall, producing its best pitchers before our temperatures plunge.

Sarracenia minor 'Okeefenokee Giant' among the doomed salvias and cannas in mid-November.

Schizostylis coccinea blooming amid the wreckage; I cheat with this one, bringing it into the coldframe during the coldest part of the winter. It's not extremely productive here, but it blooms at an unusual time.

In winter, gardening has to move indoors. This terrarium started life as the jar out of which my great grandparents sold ginger snaps (they recommending topping them with a slice of sharp cheddar cheese) in their little store in Southampton County. Now it houses a rotating display of miniature and dwarf Sinningias; the ones that aren't currently blooming live under banks of fluorescent tubes on shelves in the garage.

Building the Ark

2008-10-19T01:22:00.000-07:00

Symbolic of the current state of our busy lives is this moonflower, which has taken up residence on the unused hammock out back!

This is the busiest time of the year for me, both professionally and out in the garden, mainly because winter is at the doorstep and I've only just begun taking cuttings, rescuing tender plants that I want to carry over, and rebuilding the ramshackle structure that I loosely call a greenhouse. Covering it with a double layer of polyethylene every October is a drag, but until I can afford a commercially fabricated model (which will be never...), it's the best I can do. It's only 8' x 16', so deciding what to keep and what to let go (sometimes those things surprise me and winter over, even in pots) provides me with my personal version of "Sophie's Choice", appropriate in the city which bore William Styron (although he didn't remember it so fondly in his writing!)

We did have a nice bit of rain over the last two days, which saves me some time I would have spent watering today and has filled the rain barrels for now. The only drawback to these has been the time it takes to actually use the water they hold - not a problem during the summer, but moreso now that time and daylight are at a premium.

I like the look of these rain barrels a lot, but the non-draining wells on top are a subject of consternation. While they've provided nice places to grow this water hyacinth (Eichornia) and Sarracenia (a hybrid called 'Cobra's Nest' - sorry Mom!) during the summer, they also require constant vigilance and applications of BT to prevent their becoming mosquito nurseries. I may take them off entirely for the winter; I'm afraid the standing water will crack the plastic as it freezes and thaws. We've lost lots of concrete birdbaths that way in the past.

Things are still beautiful, in spots, right now; while hardy perennials and shrubs hunker down as cold weather approaches, the tropicals have no clue, so they blithely continue on.

This is one of my favorite fall combinations; the texture's a little fine, so it doesn't translate into a great picture, but I really like the "color echo" between the Sarracenia x wriggleyana 'Scarlet Belle' and the Salvia splendens 'Van Houteii' against the "ears" of the chartreuse Xanthosoma 'Lime Ginger'. The Salvia and elephant ear are both tender, so need to be propagated via cuttings and stolons, respectively. As stated before, so much of the color in my late season garden is derived from foliage, rather than flowers, that it doesn't seem to qualify for a "bloom day" posting. The Sarracenias are a case in point; some, such as leucantha and its hybrids, including 'Daina's Delight', wait until fall to produce their largest, most colorful pitchers.

Bloom Day II

2008-10-16T02:00:00.001-07:00

Spiranthes cernua 'Chadd's Ford', probably the easiest, along with Bletilla striata, of all the hardy orchids. It's in danger of being shaded out by Nippon or Montauk Daisy (which was once Chrysanthemum nipponicum, but is now Nipponanthemum something-or-other, I think) and the ubiquitous Begonia grandis.

Below is Colocasia 'Black Magic' in combo with more favorite coleus. One project for this weekend is to start rooting cuttings of these.This is another fall favorite, Pineapple Sage (Salvia elegans or rutilans...too lazy to check.) P.S. - Phillip calls it 'elegans', so that's good enough for me.

An aster purchased many years ago from Montrose, called "Our Latest One".

The latest of the Hedychiums to join the party, H. coronarium growing in too much sun for its own good, but doing okay. Still waiting for bloom on thyrsiforme and gardnerianum...

Installment Plan

2008-10-15T00:58:00.000-07:00

I give up. There's just not enough time to do this right now, so I'm going to have to build my October "Bloom Day" post in installments. Between two jobs, family stuff, social obligations, exercise (a priority for people who like to eat as much as I do) and actual gardening (tasks such as rebuilding the greenhouse in prep for winter have to take precedence right now), it ain't gonna happen. So check back occasionally, and I'll add a picture or two when I get around to it. It's a shame, too, because October might be the time of the year when our garden looks the best. This is a combo of two old favorites that usually hides behind parked cars at the curb - Canna "Pretoria" (aka "Bengal Tiger") and Salvia leucantha, which is hardy here most years.

The camellia season starts now, and this white sasanqua ('Setsugekka'?) is beautiful. I've rooted cuttings of the double white 'Mini no yuki', which always blooms around Thanksgiving at my parents' house, but they're painfully slow in putting on any growth. 'Winter's Star' is one of the cold hardy hybrids developed by Dr. William Ackerman, and it does really well in a tough position here.

'Shishi Gashira' will be covered in bloom from now through New Year's, making it one of the longest blooming of all Camellias here.
Lots of perennials and 'temperennials' are at their peaks right now; below is a white form of Ruellia which is probably a different species from the taller, purple one.
To the left is a close up view of Lobelia 'Candy Corn', which waited until almost Halloween to produce these blooms. Also in the 'candy corn' spectrum is this seedling of Sinningia sellovii which produces blooms tipped in yellow. This is one of the longest blooming perennials in my garden now, and the tubers are easy to dig and store for 'insurance' purposes.
That's it for now - lots more to post, but time to get on the "hamster wheel"...

To Each His Own... My Own Personal "Garden Rant"

2008-09-19T17:30:00.000-07:00

I'm entering a liberating stage as a gardener, thanks to the examples set by friends. There is a time when one feels the need to grow every plant, and to believe every claim made by the gardening industry about the latest developments in horticulture. The last couple of years, Echinaceas and Heucheras have been the darlings of the nursery business, and I'm sure the hype is deserved, at least in some areas of the country. The fact that my garden is full (to say the least) makes it easier to keep from rushing out and purchasing the latest plant superstars (the prospect of some expensive dental work looming this summer is a pretty good deterrent, as well), but the best reason not to buy EVERY plant is that there are some things I just don't like. I guess this means that I'm that much closer to having the summer night smile on me for the third time (yeah, it's an obscure reference to "A Little Night Music" - if I'm coming out as an opinionated gardener, I may as well also admit to being a musical theater afficianado), but if that's the case, so be it.

At one time I wouldn't have been comfortable saying that, but at my age, I realize that one only has so much time, energy, and real estate, so he might as well concentrate on growing things he enjoys and appreciates. One friend, on visiting my garden for the first time, was asked by another visitor if she had ever tried growing any of the hardy palms in her garden. Much of the structure in my front garden is provided by a collection of Trachycarpus species, which I happen to really love. Her response was that she hadn't, mainly because she didn't really like them. I was not offended at all, partly because of the kindness in her tone, but mainly because her comment seemed so supportive of my contention that our gardens belong to us, not to the horticultural industry, the gardening cognoscenti, or (worst of all) the neighborhood associations. When I offer plants to people (sometimes it's either give them away or compost 'em), I get lots of different responses, but only once has anyone ever said, "No thanks - I really don't care for those." Interestingly, in the intervening years I've decided I don't care for them, either (Althea "Bluebird") - they're weedy shrubs which reseed everywhere - which is why I was trying to give them away!

The recent glut of Echinacea varieties is a case in point - it's just not my favorite plant, and I don't use up a lot of garden space on it. I felt bad about this for years, until I read an interview with Dan Hinkley in which he was asked if there were any plants he disliked - bingo! (Now if someone could just make me feel okay about being a Democrat in public... )I keep one, seed grown plant of E. purpurea (if you look very closely at the photo below, you might just spot it), and that's mainly to appease Ron - he's still hoping the plant really has the curative properties for which it became famous in past decades, despite mounting evidence to the contrary. We've never once ingested any part of the Echinaceas we've grown, so it's mostly a mental thing. I think looking at it counteracts all of his misgivings about venturing outside during allergy season (or, for that matter, during ANY season). Anyway, they just don't grow very well for me (mostly a consequence of poor drainage), so I can't justify the expense of building and maintaining a collection of all of the latest cultivars.

As I mentioned in another recent post, I have an aversion to Hemerocallis 'Stella d'Oro'; I got one many years ago when it was the only rebloomer available. Since it multiplied so rapidly, I used lots of it to cover ground and edge beds when we first moved here. It had gotten so much media hype that I figured I had to like its chunky, mustardy blooms, no matter what. Part of the problem may be visual; I've decided that this particular hue is not pleasing to my eyes, since I feel pretty much the same way about Kerria, Coreopsis 'Zagreb' (don't tell Ron this cultivar exists - his Croatian heritage would demand that we install one immediately!) and Forsythia (I don't grow this, but I don't mind seeing it, either, since it functions as a powerful harbinger of spring.) My feelings may also stem from growing up with grandparents who survived the depression- if a plant is going to produce blooms that mimic those of summer squash, it might as well earn its keep and actually produce something I can stuff, slice, or grill!

I know my next revelation runs counter to a mantra intoned by everyone I know who wears the mantle of "Master Gardener" (another subject with which I have a few issues; let's not go there right now...), but here it is anyway. I'm pretty much over the ornamental grass thing. I do enjoy the way some of them look for part of the year, but they take up way too much room as they mature, work me to death (I'll spend most of my time tomorrow chopping them back for the third time this year to regain the ability to walk even one abreast on the path between the island bed and the back fence), and reseed with abandon, despite what most references will tell you. Maybe those folks who live in climates which are colder and less amenable to Miscanthus species don't have to work so hard, but I spend loads of time and tear my fingers to shreds pulling out volunteers all over the garden. Worst still are the seedlings that I don't catch in time - they form massive clumps (a couple are just plain green, without the attractive variegation of their progenitors) for which the only removal technique may well be the ignition of dynamite at their crowns; even that might not work. I would love to eliminate several clumps which have engulfed entire rosebushes, shaded out perennials, and provided years of symbiotic safe haven to the dreaded Japanese honeysuckle, rendering both the vine and the host impenetrable to spades, shovels, axes, post-hole diggers, and even my grandfather's infamous "grubbing hoe" (his name for it - I've seen them listed by the much more genteel name "grape hoe.") Yes, they're graceful, they provide winter interest (especially to people with way too much time and spray paint on their hands), and they contrast beautifully in form to plants with leaves of different design; I can't look at my ten or so clumps any more without feeling totally defeated as a gardener.

Here's some more blashphemy: I don't really cotton (pun intended) to things with airy, delicate, wispy little flowers in big, puffy clouds. So Deutzias, Abelias, Exochordas, and a lot of the Spiraeas are not high on my list of favorites. One of the recent media darlings that I really don't get is Euphorbia 'Diamond Frost' - why not just plant ragweed, or the wild Artemesia which, no matter how much I pull out all summer, still manages a panicle or two of blooms to produce the next generation of weeds? I love some Salvias as much as the next guy, but all species seem to be sacred to the garden writers of America. That's fine, but a lot of them look like weeds to me, at least as they interact here. I tossed out S. uliginosa (someone with mild dyslexia could probably transform that species name into an appropriate adjective to describe my impression of this wispy, wimpy weed) a couple of years ago, along with several clones of S. microphylla. "Microphylla" pretty much describes my problem with that one - as Miss Hannigan sings about "little girls", "Everything about them is...LLLLLLLLittle!".

One issue here may be that familiarity breeds contempt. Hellebores have long been among my favorites, and I've been growing, breeding, and collecting them for nearly 20 years. When I started, they were nearly impossible to obtain, and nobody else had them. Now they're at Lowe's every spring for $5.99, and I find my interest beginning to wane, especially as tissue culture makes the really spectacular clones available to just anybody. Another phenomenon, to continue with the obnoxious musical theater references, is what I like to call (with a nod to Stephen Sondheim, one of the true geniuses of our time), the "God, why don't you love me? Oh, you do? I'll see ya later!" blues... I'm fascinated by plants which defy my cultivation and will squander any amount of money on them, knowing full well that they are destined to become very expensive compost. Once I "crack the code", my level of enthusiasm is greatly reduced. We were just lousy with Cattleya hybrids once upon a time, but growing them got tedious once I figured out how to water them. Maybe, on the other hand, I tell myself this to lessen the tragedy of losing them all to scale infestations, which continue to this day. The truth often hurts as I analyze the psychology that motivates me to garden (or to do just about anything, for that matter!).

I guess it all boils down to this: I have less than 1/4 acre, and, if I'm lucky, another 30 odd years in which to cultivate it actively, and I don't want to waste a square inch or a single minute of either. Life's just too short. It's similar to a stance (somewhat unpopular among many of my friends) that I've adopted regarding community theater. No matter how much I love someone, I adamantly refuse to endure another amateur production of Mame, Hello Dolly! or Nunsense (in any of its incarnations). I admit to being motivated on some level by bitterness - how many similar showcase roles are there for tenors who have reached "a certain age" (at least for those of us who are disinclined to appear in drag)? So go ahead; knock yourself out. Plant that Boltonia, Aruncus, or Clematis tangutica and belt out your unique rendition of "Rose's Turn". Just don't be angry with me when I'm not enthused about adopting your rooted cuttings or staying awake for your inevitable standing ovation (everybody always gets one now, no matter what, courtesy of Oprah) at the Podunk Little Theatre.

Bloom Day September 2008

2008-09-15T05:20:00.000-07:00

I have to apologize for this disjointed post - I'm short on time, having some tech difficulties, yada, yada, yada. Anyway, here's what I've thrown together for now:

Although many Salvias, including S. darcyi (left) have been blooming all summer (this one's been engaged in a territorial dispute with one of the perennial Lathyrus for several years now), they're really beginning to come into their own now. Lots of them are definitely hardy here, especially if they're not cut down after frost, which can be a test of restraint for those who like tidy beds - the dead stems aren't very attractive. However, for lazy people like myself, it's a great excuse to do something else.

This Salvia, S. involucrata 'Bethelii', returns here pretty dependably, but I like to keep a couple in the greenhouse for insurance. It's called "rosebud" sage because of the ball of overlapping bracts that forms at the end of each stem and will subsequently unfurl into fuzzy magenta blooms for weeks to come.

Salvia "Purple Majesty" has not been hardy here, probably owing to the S. gesneriflora in its background. This is planted next to the pool containing a tropical Nymphaea, "Panama Pacific", which is the exact same color as the salvia; unfortunately, they never seem to be in bloom at the exact same moment in time. It's kind of like a "color echo", but with a 2 second delay.Above is a volunteer Tricyrtis seedling (I'm guessing it's a white form of hirta, but they're fairly promiscuous, showing up all over the garden) which landed in a bit more sun than it probably would prefer. It's covered with blooms, but the foliage has a lot of burned spots. Too bad gardeners can't live in houses which face east on all sides to accomodate all of the plants which prefer that exposure.

This is Achimenes 'Harry Williams', reputed to be hardy (as is 'Purple King', for sure), and getting ready for its first winter here in Tidewater Virginia.

To the right is Musa velutina in bud - I'm sure the bloom will make it until we have a frost, but there won't be time for the small bananas, which are colorful but inedible, to develop. I didn't notice this until tropical storm Hannah broke off a couple of the leaves near the stem (which was about the only impact I noticed, even though the storm passed directly over us.)

I'm willing to go on record as saying that I intensely dislike Hemerocallis 'Stella d'Oro' (I don't much care for this harsh shade of yellow in other plants, either), and have pretty much booted it off my property, but this is at least a little interesting - a bloom with some extra petals. The slight doubling makes it look a little less like a zucchini blossom. Time will tell whether this is a fluke or a stable mutation; if it's the latter, it'll be a lot harder to pitch it in the compost. I can't even give 'em away, since people only want containerized plants, and I'm not willing to give up my soil, or, for that matter, a decent pot, in the name of spreading this overplanted little pest!

Dendrobium canaliculatum is a tiny epiphytic orchid from Australia which spends the summer hanging out in whatever large shrub has a bare branch or two. This plant has been in my collection for at least 12 years, and it's no bigger than 4" in total height.

Cymbidium Golden Elf 'Sundust' spends the summer integrated into the flower beds and usually produces its blooms well before being returned to the greenhouse for the winter.

Above is one of the Chirita hybrids, a Chinese gesneriad which blooms very happily when bedded out for the summer. This family provides lots of color when used in this manner, and several members are proving hardy as well (haven't tried this one yet).

Lycoris are mainstays of the September garden, especially L. radiata, which is scattered all over my garden (shown here popping up amid Lantana 'Miss Huff' and Setcreasia pallida). Above is the pale species (maybe a natural hybrid?), L. albiflora.

I’m not sure “Bloom Day” is the most appropriate showcase for my garden in September; although there are tons of flowers in evidence, much of the visual interest here in late summer/early autumn is in lush, colorful foliage in a variety of contrasting shapes. Colocasias, Cannas, Bananas, Coleus (okay, “Solenostenum”), Sarracenias, Begonias, Tetrapanax, Arisaemas, Caladiums, and numerous species of hardy palms, ferns, and grasses add to the overall effect. These faux (and some real) tropicals carry my garden far into fall, which, if we get enough rain, can be long, warm, and spectacular. Much of the actual bloom in the garden is thanks to plants which started several months ago, but there are still many new plants putting out flowers at this time of year.

This is Hedychium 'Pink V', blooming in front of Trachycarpus takil, with Crape Myrtle 'Yuma', still blooming three months later, in the background.

I know I posted it last month as well, but Begonia grandis, in both its white and pink color forms, definitely bears repeating. It's almost weedy, but a major workhorse in the late summer garden. Its form changes as the blooms mature, and the pendulous fruiting bodies provide a lot of color and interest well into November.

No flowers on these red okra right now, although the pale yellow hibiscus blooms which precede the red pods are attractive. These are growing in pots in front of the garage, and have been attractive (not to mention tasty in jambalaya) all summer, despite having been backed over by the pickup a couple of times and battered by wind. The pods turn green when cooked. As the lower leaves have dropped off, I'm underplanting them with rainbow chard seeds, which will provide color and salad pickings all winter.

Above is BC Binosa 'Wabash Valley', one of the toughest of my remaining epiphytic orchids. It seems resistant to the scale which decimated the rest of my collection years ago, and blooms happily when hanging outside on the fence in late summer.

Anthericum saundersii is a useful little tender perennial (it survived last winter, but that isn't saying much) in the Chlorophytum (spider plant) tribe which looks like a grass or sedge, but produces these wands of flowers that look good arching over the edges of ponds.

My biggest dilemma in siting the more diminuitive fall bloomers is that many remain hidden among the burgeoning vegetation; there must be at least 50 Cyclamen hederifolium, cilicium, graecum, and purpurascens in bloom around the yard, but unless you know where to look, you miss them entirely. I’d love to grow more fall Crocus, Sternbergia, and to try some Colchicums (I never have), but there aren’t many places where the blooms wouldn’t be swamped at this time of year. Raised beds and pots are about the best solutions I’ve found to this problem, and it’s here that I grow things like Acis autumnale, some of the rarer Rhodophialas, and Galanthus reginae olgae. I’m doing my best to limit pics this month to things which are in bloom now but have not been in past months, so this is just a small cross section of what you might see as you fought your way through the “jungle” right now. Rhodophiala bifida, the most commonly grown species. R. spathacea is pink, but hasn't begun to bloom yet.

Not a bloom, but I love this coleus, which is planted in the middle of an old clump of amsonia (I excised the dead center this spring, but decided to leave the rest of the clump where it is, plopping this plant down in the center as a place holder.) Anybody know the name of this cultivar? I've long since forgotten it - I winter over cuttings of about a dozen varieties every year.

Zephyranthes candida, self-sown among the trumpets of Sarracenia rubra.

Vernonia, a very attractive, at least in bloom, native plant which refuses to be eliminated from the front border (it's pretty ugly for nine months of the year).

Tulbaghia violacea ("Society Garlic"), a South African plant that is dependably perennial here and loves lots of water when it's hot. It's here in the green and variegated forms.

The pink form of Ruellia brittoniana, I think. These have naturalized in pink, white, and the ubiquitous blue, and they love the heat.

Senecio confusus, Mexican flame vine. I save cuttings of this over the winter, but my plants from last summer returned as well after our warm winter.

Rudbeckia laciniata, growing in shade beneath a red cedar - totally the wrong place for it, but that's where it planted itself. I pulled out the original plants years ago, but seedlings persist in odd places around the yard.

Another extremely tardy bloom on Sarracenia flava - I've never seen pitcher plants blooming as late as a couple of mine have this summer. This one, a "copper top" selection of the species, also bloomed in April; its somewhat outward facing flowers, very unlike those of the other clones that I grow, seem to be consistently produced.

Okay, once again, not a bloom, but pretty cool - Sarracenia alabamensis (which produces its best pitchers toward fall) simultaneously playing host to a milkweed bug and a wasp.

I thought I had eradicated all of the Passiflora coerulea from the garden after it became a pernicious weed a few years back, but this one survives, and I didn't have the heart to yank it out.

Again, not a bloom, but the aftermath thereof - berries on Arisaema trifolium, against a frond of evergreen Korean fern (Polystichum polyblepharum?).

Blue African basil, a sterile hybrid with a pretty strong flavor - a little goes a long way in food, but the blooms are attractive, and they keep coming, since they don't set seed. This one's totally tender, but cuttings are simple to root in fall.

Justicia (aka Jacobinia) carnea, which is tropical, but has wintered over for me both here and at my parents' house since we brought it back from a childhood vacation in the '70's. I can't remember the exact year, but I remember going, during that same trip, to the visitor's center in Orlando that housed the model of what Disney World would look like when it was built. The original plant came from a flea market (the seller called it a "Pinecone Geranium") somewhere in Florida, and has part of the family ever since.

Hemerocallis 'Barbara', the latest flowering cultivar I've found. It started blooming three weeks ago and is still at it. I like that it's tall enough to be seen above the rank growth of Salvia, etc. in the late summer beds. I know - it's almost the same color as the dreaded 'Stella d'Oro', but it makes up for that by being taller and more graceful in shape. I wouldn't grow it if it bloomed in July, but I'm happy to see it in September (as much as I'm happy about anything in September - it's a "teacher thing"...)
Nicotiana langsdorffii, which reseeds randomly and also returns for two or three years in a favorable location. I tried to photograph its navy blue anthers, but they're not evident here. The only other true navy blue that occurs in my garden shows up in the seeds of a white-spotted strain of Helleborus - talk about a really distant color echo!
One of the varieties of Hedychium coccineum, probably 'Tara'. I've had it forever, so the nomenclature is questionable. Still waiting in the wings, but beginning to show buds, are H. coronarium, thyrsifolium, 'Elizabeth', and my favorite, gardnerianum.
Again, not a bloom, but pretty cool nonetheless. Before I took a closer look at this fungus, I was complaining about our neighbors' having tossed their old orange peels over the fence. Of course, I throw them in the flowerbeds all the time (they're supposed to deter cats), but those are MY orange peels, and therefore somehow inoffensive...
Clematis paniculata (it has another name that starts with "max-", but I'm too lazy to look it up), another thing I didn't plant, and threaten to rip out (as if that were possible) every year until it blooms. I like it with the grasses and Colocasia antiquorum 'Illustris' in the foreground.

Berries on the native Callicarpa just beginning to turn purple. It's an ugly shrub for most of the year, another holdover from my native plant craze (I got over that), but I do like the berries.

Bulbine frutescens, a tender little South African succulent, kind of like a miniature kniphofia, but everblooming once it gets going. It's easy to propagate and carry over from cuttings of side shoots.

Anemone vitifolium. Lots of sources list this as a rampant grower which takes over planting beds; I wish it were moreso here, along with 'Honorine Jobert', a white cultivar. They're both beautiful, but not happy enough in my garden to become problematic, apparently.Clerodendron speciosissimum - I'm tentatively calling this a dieback shrub here, since it has returned for two years now. It seems to take forever to bloom, and never achieves the size it does as an overwintered plant, but the color makes a big impact.

This is by no means a complete representation of what's blooming here; many things of which I've posted pictures in previous months are still in bloom, including roses, Begonias, gesneriads, Cyclamen, rain lilies, Cannas, Crinums, Amarcrinum, and others many too numerous to mention. I wish I had more time to work in the garden right now, much less photograph and write about it, but those pursuits are taking a distant back seat to work and family demands right now. The garden, at any rate, is one thing that gets me through this time of year, providing much to look forward to even as the new school year, winter weather, and the hectic holiday season prepare to exact their annual toll on my aging psyche.

Bloom Day, August 2008

2008-08-15T01:34:00.000-07:00

I know a lot of people complain about August, and it's true that sometimes it can be pretty bleak, depending on rainfall. This year it's kind of an embarrassment of riches around here, and I'm enjoying it immensely. A lot of September bloomers are checking in early this year, probably due to a warm-ish winter, including Cyclamen hederifolium in pink and white, scattered as seed by ants all over the dry, shady parts of the garden. C. purpurascens has been blooming all summer and continues to do so. Also flowering somewhat precociously are natives Eupatorium coelestinum, Rudbeckia laciniata, and Lobelia cardinalis, which has already been in bloom for at least a month.

Abutilon megapotamicum (that name is just fun to pronouce) dies to the ground but returns reliably here, growing into a nice sub-shrub and blooming through late summer and autumn.

Yeah, everybody grows it, but the perennial Lantana 'Miss Huff'' can't be beat for shear flower production. It's appropriately located next to the "Wildlife Habitat" sign (a great way to justify a "messy" yard to an unimpressed community association!), since the lantana IS a wildlife habitat in and of itself. It's the first plant we see when we arrive home, and it's always buzzing, humming, and fluttering with life.

Here's an interesting anomaly: Sarracenia x 'Love Bug' blooming months after all of the other species and hybrids. It's not just one bloom, either - on closer inspection I found 3 other buds emerging from the crown.

The big bifoliate Cattleya 'Mrs. Mahler' is, of course, not hardy here, but my two huge plants always light up the fence where they hang out for the summer.

So many roses are in bloom now (and finally unmolested by the Japanese beetles that always ruin their second bloom cycle) that I'm choosing one representative - 'Excellenz von Schubert', which is classed, I think, as a polyantha, but it's a rangy one which never shows a hint of disease. BTW, fellow blogger Phillip has an article on roses for partial shade which is posted on his "A Southern Garden" website. As well as being interesting and informative, it corroborates a lot of my reasons for favoring the hybrid musks, teas, and other shrub roses.
Gesneriads are emerging as major players in my August-October garden, and this is one of the hardiest and best - Gloxinia nematanthodes 'Evita'. It spreads among other plants via scaly rhizomes, and has even overwintered outside in large pots here.

Below, another hardy gesneriad, Sinningia conspicua. Its nodding flowers are more yellow than they appear in the photo, but they tend to wash out in the sunny locations the plants in this genus seem to enjoy. Another tuberous gesneriad, not hardy here, but blooming well having been bedded out for the summer, Chrysothemis pulchella 'Black Flamingo'.

I haven't tested Chirita 'Chastity' (a gift from some great gardening friends) for winter hardiness, but I've propagated enough that I may try it this year. I've been reading reports that this Chinese gesneriad is showing great cold tolerance for some growers. At any rate, it looks great bedded out for the summer under the Magnolia.Tremacron aurantiaca, a Chinese (I think) gesneriad which has been hardy (and evergreen) here, at least through a mild winter. It'll bloom through September, and I've raised a few seedlings for further experimentation.Our Franklinia (Gordonia alatamaha) produced many fewer blooms this year than usual, perhaps due to the prolonged drought that began late last summer. It's one of those plants that wants the paradoxical "moist, well-drained" soil, so I always tend to err on the side of underwatering. The plant seems healthy (although, at 15 years old it's only 6' high - not sure what's up with that!), so hopefully this is just an "off" year.
Acis (aka Leucojum) autumnalis, which grows well in dry soil. It's hardy, but because of its size I grow it in a large clay pot; it would be totally engulfed by thugs if I planted it out. This is one of many treasures I've gotten from Ellen Hornig at Seneca Hills perennials, a great source for unusual plants, beautifully grown, along with friendly, helpful information.
Yet another amaryllid, Lycoris longituba. This is one of the Lycoris which puts out leaves in spring, goes dormant in summer, and blooms on a "naked" stem in August. It's usually described as being white, but this is either a pale yellow variant, or mislabled. Either way, it's beautiful.I was disappointed when the bloom spikes of Eucomis pole-evansii got all twisted around (my fault, since I had to relocate it temporarily while the chimney was relined last month), but I think the complementary S-curve that resulted makes a pretty cool photograph.
Hymenocallis 'Sulfur Queen', the most dependable of the naturally deciduous members of that genus (they used to be in the genus 'Ismene') in my garden. To me, the blooms look like those of an Epiphyllum cactus when viewed from this angle.
Habranthus tubispathus var. texensis never stays where you plant it, popping up from seed all over the garden where it's least expected. A naturally occurring (but fertile) rain lily hybrid, Zephyranthes 'Labuffarosea' (with a self-sown Impatiens balsamina, which I love). It's very prolific and ranges from pink to white, fading through a range of colors as the flowers age. Z. lindleyanam, another beautiful species of rain lily (from Mexico, I think - I'm too lazy to get up and check the book.)
Z. 'Sunset', a very vigorous and prolific seed strain.
If I were to choose a favorite among the Zephyranthes, it would be 'Ajax', a primary hybrid involving z. candida (also blooming now) and Z. citrina. It's just about the latest bloomer of all, along with its hybrid (with Z. grandiflora), which is called 'Grandjax'.
I only grow a couple of true lilies, mainly because of predation by voles, but L. formosanum grows rapidly from seed, so there are usually enough to feed the rodents and produce some fragrant, shoulder-high trumpets in August.
Another shot of Proiphys amboinensis, now that the flowers are open. It's a little overexposed, but I think it shows the fused central "cup", which is indicative of its relationship to Hymenocallis and Narcissus. I'm hoping to get it to set seed so I can grow enough plants to try in a variety of locations.
The last few flowers on a stem of Galtonia princeps, another of Ellen Hornig's babies, which I almost missed. It had been engulfed by a giant miscanthus which flopped over in the rain. I like this greenish species, and it seems as hardy as G. candicans and viridiflora, which, despite the nomenclature, isn't quite as green.

Hemiboea subcapitata, yet another of the gesneriads which is, apparently, completely hardy here. It's wintered over for three years and multiplied into a nice clump, but it annoys me that the calyxes (calyces?) turn an unsightly brown as the flowers open, especially after rain.

Canna 'Australia' - incredible foliage, and wild-type blooms which attract hummingbirds.

Clerodendron trichotomum, a great suckering shrub or small tree which blooms in August, smells incredible, attracts scads of butterflies, and produces teal blue berries against maroon calyxes (there's that word again...) that last through October. It's mainly visible from the bedroom window, along with our only lilac and Lagerstroemia 'Cedar Red', since they've all been limbed up to be walked under. Usually you smell this one before you realize that it's in bloom.

More hardy begonias - I've probably shown these before, but they're still going strong, and they look great spilling over into the shady pathways. The orange one is B. sutherlandii, a South African species, and the other is B. sinensis 'Shaanxi White', a smaller, more precocious relative of B. grandis. Both winter over as tubers and reproduce by producing tons of bulbils at the leaf axils in fall.

And here's the larger, more ubiquitous version, B. grandis 'alba', just now coming into bloom... along with the pink variety. These I pull as weeds all summer from all over the garden, but I would hate to ever be without them - it's a great, great plant. Years ago, on a whim, I hybridized this plant with B. masoniana, the Iron Cross begonia (the least hardy begonia that I grow, other than the African miniature prismatocarpa and its offspring, 'Buttercup', which spend their lives indoors in glass terraria.) I still have a couple of these seedlings, which turned out to be not one bit hardier than masoniana, stingy with their blooms, and not as attractive in foliage as either parent. And yet, I can't bring myself to compost them...go have children!

I've shown Salvia guaranitica before, but this is the pale blue variety, 'Argentina Skies', backed up by Canna 'Constitution'.

And the first bloom of Nymphaea 'Panama Pacific', one of the tropical water lilies which has to be wintered over in the garage, but is well worth the trouble.

And finally, not exactly "blooms", but every bit as ornamental, are our new pets - a trio of Chinese Golden Pheasants (just in time for the Beijing Olympics). They're still a bit nervous in their new home, but seem to be settling in well. The male is the most colorful, as with many avian species.

I could go on and on - the Hosta plantaginea hybrids like "Royal Standard" and "Honeybells" look and smell beautiful, sky-blue Thunbergias and scarlet Senecio confusus are beginning to provide cover and bloom, and self-sown annuals like Nicotiana langsdorfii and Impatiens balsamina (descendents of my grandmother's "touch-me-nots") are also coming into their own. It's been a blast playing in the garden this summer, but it's all about to come to a screeching halt as I return to work next week. Not much sleep for me (not that there ever is...) over the next few days!

PS- here's Hosta 'Royal Standard' - compare it to the above pic of Proiphys amboinensis, and then tell me there's no such thing as convergent evolution :o).

It's All Over But the Crinums...

2008-08-10T01:17:00.000-07:00

Not really - theoretically we still have lots of garden time left here, but there are now less than two weeks before it's time to go back and "reinvent the wheel" as a new school year begins. Certain plants always help to lighten the gathering doom and gloom that I feel as my schedule begin to fill up again after a pretty good month of unstructured time (and unlimited access to a bathroom!) Crinums, along with their diminuitive cousins, the Zephyranthes and Habranthus (collectively known as "rain lilies") are chief among these. Above is C. bulbispermum, the hardiest of species and most prolific in terms of seed production. I've probably shown it before, but it produces blooms all spring and summer, so more than bears repeating. It's in the background of many of the hardier hybrids, but none of them, in my experience, has inherited its beautiful, glaucous foliage. To the left are the buds of C. 'Bradley' - more on this hybrid later.

As time goes on I find myself filling more and more garden space with members of the Amaryllis tribe - beginning in early spring (actually late fall, but that's another article) with the Galanthus, Leucojum, and Narcissus, and continuing long into fall as the Sternbergias, Lycoris, and Amarcrinums bloom, they are among the most dependable bulbs for our climate. One reason for this is the fact that they are distasteful (poisonous, according to many sources) to rodents, and voles are a huge problem here. Another is that, in most cases, they tolerate the periodic summer inundation and drying out that our soils experience. Whereas tulips are basically annuals here, Crinums are a lifetime investment.

I won't go into all of the info on this family, since everything I know has been collected from books, nursery catalogs and websites. One of the best books on the subject (and one of my top five favorite gardening books, period) is "Garden Bulbs for the South" by Scott Ogden. I owned the first edition, and liked it so much that I replaced when the second edition was published a couple of years ago. "Bulbs for Warm Climates" by Thad M. Howard, is another great source of information on the subject, as are numerous websites, notably one hosted by Jenks Farmer, who once served as director of the Riverbanks Botanical Garden in Columbia, SC, and another detailing the work of Marcel Sheppard, a noted crinum breeder. It's amazing how much information is available now on what was a relatively unknown genus when I started collecting the various species and hybrids several years ago. Here are a few examples of Crinums which have done well in our garden over the years.

Don't panic - this is not a picture from the website of the dreaded TyTy Nursery in Georgia; just reading the scathing reviews of this establishment on the many newsgroups is enough to send one screaming into the night. I have to say that my one experience in ordering from them resulted in what has become a huge clump of C. scabrum - luckily I only ordered the one bulb, because it arrived unlabled and rolling around in a box. Actually, this is my favorite roommate, Ron, posing (under duress) with my favorite Crinum (and not just because Scott Ogden says that it should be), a hybrid called 'Emma Jones'. Ron's 5'11" when he stands up straight, so it's obvious that this plant is a whopper. About 10 years old, it has over a dozen scapes in evidence now, and will continue to produce them sporadically until frost knocks it down. They smell amazing, and if you take a few minutes to stake them, they open right at nose level. Here's a better view of the open flowers: When I started collecting Crinums, they were all but unavailable, and the best way to get them was by knocking on doors in the country (generally homes which harbor old clumps of Crinum don't have doorbells) and begging. Since this is unpalatable to intrinsically shy people (and mortifying to their traveling companions), the internet has been a great boon as the popularity of the genus has grown. Ebay, in particular, can be a good source of material, but only for those armed with some knowledge ahead of time. There are some sellers who've really done their homework and take pains to make sure that their plants are accurately labeled, and then there are those who dig up bulbs out of their yards, arbitrarily name them after their grandchildren or their chihuahas, and list them for sale. Some mainstream nurseries are carrying crinums as well, and their catalogs can be good sources of information and illustrations, even if the bulbs are actually purchased from a less expensive source (don't tell Tony Avent I wrote that...)
The above plant is one that I literally inherited from my Grandmother Joyner - it grew in a solid mass along the foundation of her house, and had done so for at least 30 years when I got it in 1993. To the best of my knowledge, it's one of the bulbispermum x americanum hybrids, either "Carolina Beauty" or "Miss Elsie". Anyway, it's completely hardy, blooms early and repeats sporadically, and multiplies in wet or dryish soil. I also grow a related hybrid, 'Ollene', which performs similarly. Below is a representative of the xherbertii grex, very commonly seen as huge, isolated clumps growing in trailer parks and in front of run-down country shacks; all the members of this group share C. bulbispermum x scabrum parentage.
Speaking of clumps in front of shacks, that's where the healthiest, most productive clumps of crinum seems to grow. Many of mine are too hemmed in by other plants, so they don't have the elbow room they need to grow into specimens such as my neighbor Jane's spectacular C. powellii album - it's taller, and much broader than she is by far, and had several dozen scapes open last month, when I should have taken their picture together. If she ever moves, or gets tired of it, I may plant that variety, but as it is, I don't have to!
Above is 'Ellen Bosanquet', the most common of the "reds", and below is one of its taller, slightly darker (although that's not apparent in this photo, due to exposure), progeny, "Elizabeth Traub",blooming in front of Canna 'Australia'. I recently splurged on a bulb of 'Lorraine Clark', reportedly the deepest red hybrid available - nothing to report yet regarding its performance here.

Speaking of Australia, here's one that was hybridized there - 'Bradley'. It's nearly as dark as 'Ellen' and 'Elizabeth', but smaller in texture throughout. It's also pictured (in bud) at the very beginning of this post.

I featured C. 'Carnival' in a post from earlier this summer, but the current blooms are showing a lot more of this hybrid's characteristic striping, perhaps due to the warmer nights we've been having lately.
C. 'White Prince', a hybrid of C. album (aka yemense) x moorei. And C. moorei itself, showing the interesting, balloon-shaped bud form. In general this whole branch of the family - mostly late-blooming white hybrids, such as 'St. Christopher', has been less successful for me. They return well, but tend to multiply vegetatively at the expense of bloom. When they do bloom, they are attractive, but need protection from direct sun (hence the browning of the bud tips apparent in the photo).A big clump of 'Walter Flory', growing happily next to our dilapidated back fence - I told you they prefer trashy locations! C. americanum, which prefers boggy conditions and is nearly indistinguishable from C. erubescens, which does well in a drier location. Here's C. erubescens:

Below is an unusually diminuitive (only 8" high at most, but spreading to 2' in diameter so far) member of this group, C. oliganthemum from the West Indies. It needs lots of heat and water to produce its blooms, but makes an attractive ground cover even without them. I've toyed with hybridizing this one, crossing it successfully (I think) with both Emma Jones and C. procerum 'Splendens'; no blooms yet from either, and neither has been risked outside in winter yet. I've since seen the latter cross available commercially as C. 'Menehune', so it will be interesting to see how mine turn out. While the cross with 'Emma' should increase the chances of hardiness, procerum is as iffy here as oliganthemum, so I'll be cautious in testing that one. Here's C. procerum 'Splendens', I think. The nomenclature and parentage of this bunch of probable hybrids (C. asiaticum figures somewhere in the mix) is so confused that writers far more savvy than I seem to be unable to unravel the mess. At any rate, this is an older picture - this particular plant now towers over me, especially when it sends up its huge, purple spikes of bloom. It now lives permanently in the greenhouse, since it's way too heavy for me to haul it in and out anymore, especially at my advanced age! It's the plant that lends the deep red coloration to the foliage of C. 'Sangria' (whose other parent, bulbispermum, contributes cold hardiness and reduces its size considerably), which I've shown in previous entries. I have another plant, almost as large, which is similar, but doesn't exhibit the same amount of anthocyanin as this. The progeny of both of these "tree crinums", so called because they really do develop a trunk-like structure (really the neck of the bulb) over time, are planted out in the garden, and so far have returned in spring, but haven't bloomed.

A peachy, very fragrant, hybrid, 'Mrs. James Hendry'. Below is 'Hannibal's Dwarf'', unfortunately a shy bloomer for me; it may need a location with more moisture and less competition from Vinca major. Digging the clump and resetting it deeper might also increase its bloom. Lots of amaryllids tend to reproduce vegetatively rather than sexually if there's not enough pressure from the weight of the surrounding soil (or the walls of a rigid pot) to prevent it.
Amarcrinum, an intergeneric hybrid between C. xpowellii and Amaryllis belladonna, tends to finish the season here. It produces multiple scapes of clear pink trumpets with an incredible scent, which is amazing in the October garden. The ones I cut and took to the visitation when my grandmother died could be "enjoyed" (not everybody was appreciative...) from all over the church sanctuary.I could go on and on writing about the virtues of the diverse group of gardenworthy, dependable, vole-proof plants in the Amaryllis family, but "Black Tuesday" (the day after Labor Day, in "teacherspeak") approaches, and others have done so much more capably than I ever could. I'm sure that I have more than 100 different such species and hybrids in even my small garden, and that's not counting the narcissus, which are legion. I'd love to keep posting pictures and extolling the virtues of the Hippaestrums, Leucojum, Lycoris, Sternbegia, Hymenocallis, Cyrtanthus, Rhodophialas, Habranthus, Zephyranthes (I must have more than 30 different "rain lilies" at this point), and other genera, but I have to attempt to shift back into "music teacher mode" over the next couple of weeks, so this'll have to do. My goal is to try to create entries on or near "bloom days", at least, but I think the time for extensive writing may be at an end, for now (much to the relief of friends and family, I'm sure!)

Here's a "parting shot" - Proiphys (I've also seen it called "Eurycles") amboinensis - an amaryllid (according to what information I've been able to find) from Australia, beginning to bloom for the first time here. I don't dare risk wintering it outside yet, but dry storage seems to suit it, so I'm hoping to propagate it for future experimentation. It's worth growing for the foliage alone; a dead ringer for Hosta "Sum and Substance", but much more attractive right now than that poor, tattered plant.

My "Fifteen Minutes"

2008-07-27T01:48:00.000-07:00

I think I've recently come as close to a brush with greatness as I ever will, which, admittedly, is pretty sad; however, when one's personal aspirations aren't very high, little achievements mean a lot. I've mentioned before that I really enjoy listening to, watching, and teaching with many of the podcasts available these days on my trusty ipod, especially while gardening and working around the house; through this medium Ken Druse and Vicki Johnson have become two of my favorite "gardening buddies". Through their podcast (which is actually broadcast on one or two radio stations in their region), "Real Dirt with Ken Druse", they entertain and inform me every week as I water, pull weeds, and hack back the trumpet and cross vines which would eat our entire landscape if we allowed it. Ken has long been one of my favorite garden writers and photographers, and Vicki is a great gardener, environmentalist, writer, and photographer in her own right, so I was honored when they asked me to help them test out their new setup for integrating remote interviews into the weekly broadcast. Vicki was delightful, kind, and easy to talk to, which made the process at least enjoyable. The technical aspects must have worked reasonably well, since they used my stammering, rambling thoughts on yesterday's podcast; I hope I don't come across as too big an idiot.
Vicki and I talked about lots of things, including family connections to gardening, my haphazard approach to garden design (due mostly to space, time, and laziness), and the challenges of integrating botany (among many other subjects) into elementary music instruction. We also discussed my main reason for starting this blog, which was initially for weight maintenance - I can't type and eat at the same time! It was really a fun conversation, but knowing that it was being recorded somehow increased my tendency to hem, haw, and stammer; I guess that's true for most people in similar situations. There's no "backspace" or "delete" button when you're talking, and pausing to think translates into dead air, which is every bit as bad as it sounds.

I highly recommend giving Ken and Vicki a listen; you can do this at the computer without even going through the process of downloading itunes (though how life is possible without it is beyond me) - just visit this link

http://www.kendruse.typepad.com/

and follow the instructions available there. My somewhat flaky, but well-intentioned conversation with Vicki is included in the broadcast titled "Good Gardening and Blogging".

With Apologies to Garrison Keillor, David Sedaris, and Jean Shepherd...

2008-07-22T12:31:00.000-07:00

CBS Evening News for Friday, May 19, 1972

Headline: Roadside Garden
Abstract:
(Studio) Surrey County, Virginia, has unusual traveler's rest point. REPORTER: Walter Cronkite
(Surrey County, Virginia) Picnic tables laden with flowers, fresh tomatoes, with 13-acre garden nearby. Walter Mizenheimer, former nurseryman, creates wayside stop in woods next to his house. [MIZENHEIMER - does this to make world a better place. Offers to give site to state, but is refused.] REPORTER: Charles Kuralt

The above abstract, gleaned from a website run by Vanderbilt University which apparently hosts a repository for ancient news videos, is the only reference I can find to an event which surfaces annually in my personal memory. If I wanted to pay $37, I could own a copy of the original story, but since that seems exhorbitant for 4 minutes of footage, I'll fill in the blanks myself.

Scents can most definitely trigger memory, and so, I find, can flowers. This week the first of the Lycoris species, a probable sterile hybrid currently called L. squamigera, began blooming, and it brought back to mind an episode of family history which must have occurred almost exactly 36 years ago. One common name for Lycoris squamigera (shared with Amaryllis belladonna, which doesn't grow well here, although its hybrid, Amarcrinum, does) is "Naked Ladies", but neither these trustworthy bulbs nor any of their names was familiar to my grandmother Birdie, aka "MaMa", who ran a very exclusive camp for several weeks each summer (only her grandchildren were invited).

Most days the entertainment options included working in the garden, shelling butterbeans and peas, helping to pluck chickens for dinner, dropping ripe watermelons to break them open and eating them where they fell, and making fanciful creatures (MaMa called them "cukie dolls") from the oversized cucumbers and squash that we'd missed picking when they were edible. Other activities included emptying the five gallon bucket that served as our toilet on the nights when we slept out back in the old country store (it was operated by my great-grandfather before any of us existed) which had been converted into a "clubhouse" for our use; and the traditional Sunday morning wallow in the mud puddles created by tractor tires in the fields. This usually occurred about 10 minutes before we needed to be dressed and ready for church, having been carefully scrubbed and groomed the night before. About once each week, however, we took a field trip, usually ending up someplace "educational".

This particular July day found us crammed into the Delta 88 with my Grandmother at the wheel and her sidekick, cleaning lady, and assistant kid-wrangler Mary Daniels riding shotgun. We were fixing to go to the newly opened Yorktown Victory Center (my grandfather was a concrete construction foreman and had supervised the building of all the curbs in the complex), by way of the Peninsula Nature and Science Center, which is now the Virginia Living Museum. I don't remember much about this trip, other than eventually posing for pictures next to the curbs which Grandaddy "built", but I do remember what happened when we stopped for lunch.

Somehow (it now seems obvious that she had seen the news story referenced above), MaMa had heard about an amazing picnic spot in Surrey which was owned and cared for by a Mr. Mizenheimer. Sure enough, when we pulled off what I now realize must have been route 10, which hugs the southern bank of the James River all the way to Richmond, we spotted a neatly planted garden full of azaleas (I could identify them even out of bloom, despite my being only ten - that should have been a warning to somebody...) which were punctuated by spectacular clumps of the pink lilies which I many years later discovered to be Lycoris squamigera. My grandmother hopped out of the car, opened the "boot", and displayed remarkable willpower as her eyes fell first on the gorgeous blooms, then on the shovel that lived in the trunk of her car and served to dig up anything and everything she found desirable growing along the roadside. She was tempted, I could tell, but must have thought better of committing larceny in front of her grandchildren, since she reached instead for the first of several big cooking pots which had been stowed in the trunk.

My grandmother was never one to travel with sandwiches, chips, etc. - her picnics were pretty much the same as the meals she served at home, only outdoors. Consequently we never left on a trip of any duration without an entire country ham or a "passel" of fried chicken, along with a big pot of butterbeans, in the car. It was a production, but somehow she and Mary Daniels wrestled everything out of the car and over to a clean, shady table, on which had been left about a dozen homegrown tomatoes and a bucket of fresh flowers. Granted, we were probably the first visitors ever to leave more tomatoes than we found (we had brought our own from my granddad's endless supply), but we appreciated the thought, nonetheless. We finished lunch, and as MaMa and Mary Daniels (she was like "Cher" or "Beyonce", only the opposite - we never said one name without saying the other), were gathering things up, out of the "jungle" ambled Mr. Mizenheimer himself.

The affable old gentleman - he walked with a cane, which to us signified that he was really old - and my grandmother immediately struck up a conversation, and after some not-so-surreptitious prodding by Mary Daniels, we thanked him profusely for providing us with such a lovely place to eat lunch and play for a while. Things didn't begin to go south until the conversation turned to gardening, as was inevitable, given the casting. MaMa had complimented all of the plants she recognized, though, its being July, there wasn't much in bloom; Mr. Mizenheimer then, quite innocently, as it turns out, asked, "And what did you think of all my naked ladies?"

My grandmother stiffened and instinctively grabbed as many grubby little hands and elbows as she could gather up. "Well, we have a long trip ahead of us...got to get going. Thank you so much." She had gotten all cold and formal, and I'd never seen her walk backwards with such purpose.

Mary Daniels began grumbling under her breath, "Old goat...done taken a shine to Ms. Birdie...old goat..." and herded us into the car. This may be only the imagination of memory, but I think the tires screeched as my grandmother floored the Oldsmobile. She was obviously flustered, and Mary Daniels continued to carry on about that "old goat" trying to "move in on" my grandmother. We didn't talk much about it again, since we were all embarrassed on so many different levels.

Many years later, I was given what would become one of my favorite books, "Passalong Plants" by Felder Rushing and Steve Bender. I learned an incredible amount from this fun, informative guide to southern flora and folk art, but it also served to vindicate Mr. Mizenheimer long (I'm sure) after his passing. I tried to explain the situation to MaMa, and even gave her a copy of the book, but due to a combination of factors - her greatly impaired hearing, for which she steadfastly refused any treatment, her foggy memory, and, most of all, her need to be right, she never, to my knowledge, took the poor, would-be philanthropist off of her own personal sexual predator registry. I think of him every year when my own "naked ladies" start to bloom.

Bloom Day, July 15, 2008

2008-07-15T01:52:00.001-07:00

It's not even midsummer, but due to our very early spring this year many plants are blooming well ahead of schedule. Many of the daylilies have already closed up shop, and Sedum "Autumn Joy" hasn't gotten the memo about its name here - it's in full bloom. Gardens around here would be pretty dull in the summer and fall without semitropicals which tend to behave as herbaceous perennials, as well as several members of the Amaryllis tribe, including the clumps of Zephyranthes grandiflora in the pots above. These are hardy in the ground here, but I've had these potted for at least ten years now. They're stored bone dry in the attic all winter, then rehydrated in spring to start again. Below is Vitex rotundifolia, a sub-shrubby species which is reputed to be invasive - I'm watching it carefully, but I like the silvery foliage and muted color.

Achimenes 'Purple King' - a gesneriad which has been totally hardy here for three years and is becoming a happy weed throughout the garden. I save a few rhizomes in dry vermiculite every winter, just in case.

One of the rear window boxes, replanted for summer with orange nonstop tuberous begonias (this is the only place I can manage to grow these, probably because the roof overhang protects them from overwatering and there's very little direct sun in this spot); Kohleria "Red Velvet" (not hardy, but dead easy to overwinter via cuttings); and Coniogramme japonica (somewhat hardy evergreen ferns which I grew from spores). The Achimenes kind of planted themselves, but the purple will complement the orange when they bloom.

Another hardy gesneriad (these have become a special interest of mine lately), Sinningia x"Butter and Cream" (S. tubiflora x aggregata).

A Phygelius new to me this year, "Sunshine". Its distinguishing feature is its bright chartreuse foliage, ironically not too apparent in this picture because of the...er...sunshine...

A very early Lobelia cardinalis, backed up by the first Hedychium blooms of the season (I think this is H. greenii; I got a great new book on the ginger family for Christmas, and one day I plan to key out all of the species and hybrids I've collected...one day) and Arundo donax, a giant, variegated grass which is reasonably well behaved.

Another Lobelia (although this classification is in dispute) called "Candy Corn", for obvious reasons. It also survives the winter here, and one even did so in a large pot.

We have tiger lilies in both the single and double forms, and I can't bring myself to eradicate them, despite their reputation as vectors for viruses. The singles are from my paternal Grandmother's garden, and the doubles have spread from bulbils throughout the garden. The orange and purple theme seems to predominate in the summer here - it wasn't planned that way, but I really like it.

Kaempferia pulchra, another member of the zingiberaceae which performs as a perennial in dry shade. It's slow to get started in summer, but it beats most Hostas by a mile once things heat up around here. This clump is about three feet across now. The flowers are fleeting, but add great color contrast.

Hamelia patens is a subtropical shrub which has survived four winters here as a dieback perennial. I grew my first one from a cutting which "fell" from a planting in the garden of our hotel in Disney World several years ago and was subsequently smuggled home in my suitcase. As you might surmise, the blooms are really attractive to hummingbirds.

Haemanthus (aka Scadoxus) discolor, one of the many South African amaryllids which have been hardy here and bloom in the summer. This one usually puts out these floral fireworks in time for July 4.

I like this combination of Habranthus robustus with the purple Tradescantia, the blooms of which (if you can catch them) perfectly match those of the rain lily. Habranthus blooms attach to their stems at an angle, while those of Zephyranthes are vertical; otherwise, they're pretty much the same.

Gloriosa rothschildiana, another South African, this time in the lily family.

Another South African bulb, Galtonia candicans. The miscanthus has to be watched to keep it from overtaking the galtonias, but I find the grasses help support the bloom stems naturally; I suspect this happens in nature, as well.

Eucomis pole-evansia, not yet in full bloom or full height (it'll top 6'), but I wanted to photograph it before the roof workers arrive this morning, since it may not survive the day.

Cyclamen purpurascens in my "plunge" bed, one of about a dozen I grew from seed supplied by Seneca Hills Perennials a couple of years ago. They're hardy, but I have them in pots for protection right now, and they've been in bloom for nearly a month.

More unexpected are these blooms from a pale form of C. hederifolium - they're not supposed to come until September, and this is not the only such plant in my garden with buds or blooms right now.

Summer wouldn't be summer without crape myrtles. I love them, but I only grow two (this one is "Yuma", and in the back I have "Cedar Red".) Luckily, almost every other available cultivar is growing somewhere in the neighborhood less than a bike ride away. This is Canna 'Panache' duking it out with Tetrapanax papyrifera (no, I never did move it...) I got them both at the great plant shop at Green Spring Gardens in Alexandria a few years ago.

The latest of all the Arisaemas, A. consanguineum, also purchased from Ellen Hornig at Seneca Hill many years ago. She specializes in this species, and I can understand why.

Clerodendron bungei- a suckering shrub, considered smelly by some. I got it from a neighbor of my parents years ago, and have always liked the smell (like peanut butter, in my opinion.)

An enormous white wax begonia (probably a form of B. cucullata) which is being marketed in the trade as "Barbara Rogers". I got it from my grandmother over 25 years ago, and it has come back every year to form bushel-basket sized clumps in locations it likes.

Hymenocallis "Tropical Giant" - I know, it pales in comparison to the one in front of Tony Avents's house.

One of the many crinums which do so well here and bloom through the heat. This one's an heirloom often called "Twelve Apostles". Scott Ogden writes that it's probably a cross between C. asiaticum and C. bulbispermum.

A parting shot of the driveway garden, which is a sea of lantana, salvia, coleus, and various and sundry other heat lovers. Summers like this are great, but they make me so spoiled that going back to work at the end of August gets more difficult every year. But then, somebody's gotta pay for all the compost (not to mention what it's going to cost to heat my tiny greenhouse this winter!)

Garden of Plant-ly Delights

2008-07-14T01:57:00.000-07:00

I love visiting Plant Delights Nursery, just south of Raleigh, NC, even though my Visa account doesn't care for it at all. Based on Tony Avent's catalog rants about planting "drifts of one" and lack of planning "on paper", you'd expect to find a sort of "plant zoo", and you wouldn't be disappointed. However, as the garden has grown (I've been attending the infrequent open days off and on for the last ten years or so), it's clear that there IS a method to his madness. I usually take tons of close up pictures, mostly to aid in plant identification and to formulate future wish lists, but this time I decided to photograph broad vistas. This can be a little depressing upon returning home to our quarter acre (PDN now encompasses more than 20), and it's a test of my photography skills (or maybe my camera), but it's good for me to remember that even a consummate plant collector does think about design occasionally. Because it was a hot day, I deposited three friends at a movie theater in Raleigh; sadly, summer movies don't tend to be as long as the January Oscar contenders, so my time at Juniper Level Botanic Garden was limited.

I have to apologize that I'm not displaying much creativity in my blog posts lately, but this is taking up prime gardening time, and the summer is beginning to dwindle already!

Above is a spectacular allee of Golden Dawn Redwoods (cv."Ogon", I think?) which flanks a walk just above the relatively new sunken garden (below), built for utilitarian purposes, but functioning artistically as well.

Another planting designed for waste water management is the original bog, which demonstrates sarracenias in their natural habitat, supported, but not overrun, by sedges and other plants. I spend a lot of time weeding among the pitchers of mine, but the symbiotic benefits of leaving a few companions is very much apparent here.

Along the walkway in front of the Avent's house is this mix of tropical and temperate perennials; love the purple phlox growing with the Hymenocallis and Colocasias.

A canna which has been on my "wish list" - a selection of C. iridflora called "Ehemanni". PDN doesn't list it, but I have recently found a couple of sources, so I may have to break down and get one (where is it going?)

I didn't do a great job of showing scale in this picture, but the Agave in the center is easily as large as a Volkswagon Bug.

Sabals and Hedychium in the tropical garden...

I'm not particularly a "maple person" - I like them, but haven't really gotten into growing more than the one I have. This one, however, is incredible.

Lots of humor in this garden, as one would expect from reading the PDN catalog.

This is an enormous clump of Hemiboea subcapitata, a hardy gesneriad which I grow as well, though my clump is nowhere near the size of this.

Crinum test beds and some of the production hoop houses at the rear of the retail area.

Name this plant! Every summer I enjoy seeing it, am confounded by trying to identify it (not everything here is labeled), and forget to ask anybody what it is. My best guess so far is that it's a Schima (wallachii perhaps?), a member of the camellia (tea) family allied to the Gordonias, Franklinias, and Stewartias. Anybody know if that's correct, or of a possible source? PDN has never listed it for sale, and neither does anybody else, from what I can tell (which makes me want one even more...go figure). [Note added 7/17 - According to the folks at PDN, it's Schima argentea.]

This picture speaks to me on so many levels - it might ultimately be the best use for a computer keyboard (inorganic mulch?) The internet has brought me so much information; opened doors to communicating with other gardners, writers, and experts; made available plants I never could have purchased before; and enabled me to chronicle my hobby in ways I never imagined. It has also eaten up hours and hours which I could have spent weeding, pruning, and improving the health and lives of the "inmates" in my own garden. I suspect I'm not alone in feeling this way!

Bloom Where You're Planted

2008-07-08T00:29:00.000-07:00

We’ve been visiting this week with Ron’s mother and sister, who live in the Churchill area of western Pennsylvania, located between Monroeville and Pittsburgh. They have a beautiful home (which happens to be on the market – Lorraine changed teaching jobs a couple of years ago and is now commuting back and forth across the city every day) in a subdivision which prides itself on its landscaping. Much more tasteful than my garden, these yards are, for the most part, beautifully manicured, with perfectly trimmed shrubs and grass which would make any golf course superintendent proud. My only problem in staying here is that I have a hard time getting in my daily workout, since my elliptical trainer is too big to haul up here; we brought our bikes, but I haven’t mastered the hilly terrain. I find myself either walking my ancient ten-speed up a hill or careening down the other side without pedaling, neither of which provides much aerobic benefit. (Note - I did learn before leaving, thanks to some research, how to shift gears enough to ride on the nearest thing to a level course I could find. This was about a half-mile stretch that went partially around the same block repeatedly - I know those homeowners got sick of seing me as I did my 12 miles daily in front of their homes!) The only real alternative has been walking, which takes more time than I’d like to spend on exercise, but also affords me the best view of a variety of beautiful and interesting gardens very different from ours. Missing are the temperate camellias, crape myrtles, crinums and gardenias, none of which I would ever, under any circumstances, want to do without, but there are other plants which grow to perfection here while they struggle along in the flat, sweltering plots of Tidewater Virginia. Hostas are gorgeous here; at the base of the hill approaching Lorraine and Mitzi’s street is planted a huge specimen of “Sum and Substance”. In my yard, for whatever reason (bad gardening being the most likely culprit), this plant throws out one rosette of average leaves and sits there for the summer, but here it looks as if its purpose in the landscape is to stop runaway vehicles from plowing through the owner’s home. Fully five feet in diameter, with each leaf spanning a foot and a half, it’s like a piece of sculpture. Other cultivars grow in profusion, with none of the burned edges or stunted growth I expect at this time of year from my own plants. “Great Expectations” even does well here, living up (for once) to its name and reputation. I go home every year determined to plant more and more Hostas (where - on the roof?), despite my very mixed experience with the two dozen or so I already grow. I’m finding that most of mine do best in pots where I can provide them with more water (except, of course, while I’m away visiting their healthier cousins); the challenge is to find frost-proof containers (at least, for this genus, “breatheability” of the container isn’t a big issue) which are proportioned correctly to complement such a low, spreading growth pattern.

The very hills which hamper my cycling provide excellent drainage and necessitate the building of handsome retaining walls, most of which are decked out with an array of sedums, ferns, mosses, phloxes, and other crevice plants. Many yards are terraced to provide space for gardening; poppies, delphiniums, monarda, and a host of other classic “summer” perennials spill over ledges and face down masonry staircases around every corner. The hybrid clematis are in full glory right now – every yard seems to have at least one scaling a light pole or mailbox. Long borders of peonies are past their bloom now, but still provide hedge-like anchors along paths and driveways, showing none of the burned foliage that ours develop by this time of year.

On the other hand, tropicals and “temperennials” are not much in evidence. There is one garden (the owner of which, I suspect, is a bit of a social pariah because of his unorthodox choice of plant material and liberal use of nursery pots around the entryway) which sports a small clump of Musa basjoo , several Oriental persimmon trees, and other assorted “exotics”, but most here stick to dependably hardy shrubs, trees, and perennials, with annuals such as begonias and impatiens for summer color. A curbside container planting of Streptocarpella saxorum dwarfs mine, partially due to the fact that I haven't repotted it in years and almost never feed it, but I'm sure the cool nights and lower humidity help a lot, too. Southern gardens, I realize, have come to depend on tropical and marginally hardy plants to provide bloom and foliage after the more conventional perennials do, since by now our peonies, shasta daisies, and iris are a distant memory. Here the gardening calendar is truncated, bounded on either end by the possibility of frost almost eight months of the year, but the actual growing season boasts slightly more daylight, less heat and humidity (cooler nights are particularly beneficial ), and more consistent rainfall, which percolates happily through the rocky soil.

Some plants are much more in use in PA than at home, probably due to the simple fact that they are hardy and do well here. Spireas are everywhere; these grow just fine in Newport News, but they (along with numerous other spring-blooming deciduous shrubs) are supplanted by the ubiquitous evergreen azaleas (and who can blame us for that?) Ostrich ferns and Lysimachia clethroides are grown here in profusion (I think that's the only way the gooseneck loosestrife ever grows) and look stunning.We're home now, having returned in the midst of a blessedly torrential rainstorm. I still feel guilty about the weediness and rank overgrowth of my garden, but passing the exuberance of the cannas, lantanas, crinums, and oleander on the way into the garage, I realized that I definitely wouldn't trade gardening here for anything other than a temporary home in a cooler zone. Crape myrtles, gardenias, and camellias are pretty much deal breakers for me in terms of where I want to live, period. This is Crinum "Carnival", blooming now at about its northern limit of hardiness.There was one crop which grew much more abundantly in western PA than I expect it ever will here; more's the pity.

"Staycation" 2008

2008-06-23T01:38:00.000-07:00

Due to economic reasons, family concerns, and a lack of prior planning, we're having a "staycation" this summer, and I have to say I'm loving it so far. Except for a couple of short trips, one to Pittsburgh to visit family, and another to North Carolina to see a play, we will be staying in town this summer. One benefit of this has been rediscovering some of the pleasures available in Tidewater to those with time to invest, especially during the spring, summer, and fall. Informal dinners with friends, walks around Busch Gardens (which takes the "gardens" part of its name very seriously - nothing exotic, but tons of spectacular foliage and floral display executed flawlessly), going to local theater productions and ballgames; all of these are great, inexpensive fun. Just having the time to choose riding bikes for a couple of hours over using the more efficient elliptical trainer, or to chop real onions rather than cheating with frozen ones when cooking, is a treat.
Not free, but certainly worthwhile, and the high point of my summer so far, was a sunset kayak tour around and through the Norfolk Botanical Gardens the other night with our adventurous friends Bonnie and Dave. It didn't hurt that the weather happened to be perfect (for once), but it also opened my eyes to the fact that our local garden has come a long way in the last few years. No longer simply a display of azaleas and camellias, this is now a spectacular series of gardens which is designed for four seasons of interest. My favorite part of the trip was paddling through the main canal of the garden, which is now planted with hardy(ish) "tropicals" including oleander, musa basjoo, crinums, colocasias, and other unusual plants suited to the microclimate afforded by this protected site. Being in a kayak allows one to see these plantings from a perspective unavailable during a regular garden visit, especially now that the garden's fleet of tour boats has been grounded for the season due to structural issues (the vessels do strongly resemble the "African Queen", and I think they're of approximately the same vintage.) The kayak tours are only available one Thursday evening per month, from May through September, and I highly recommend this enjoyable experience.

Although the garden and greenhouse will be fending for themselves for six days next week, I've learned that preparation for an absence of this length is much easier than doing so for a long stretch. I don't worry about finding somebody to water (which hasn't worked very well in the past, anyway - it's just impossible to teach people to do that properly unless they themselves are seasoned gardeners), and I just keep my fingers crossed that there'll be a nice, solid rain somewhere during that time frame. I do plan to spend a large amount of time this week pulling everything out of the greenhouse which might suffer from a week without water and getting the last of the 4" pots either potted (I've resorted to grouping things together haphazardly in big plastic pots, at least temporarily; some of these end up looking better by the end of the season than anything I consciously plan), planted out, or given away. I also need to do some cutting back and outright removal of Salvia guaranitica "Black and Blue"; it is a great perennial here, attracting hummingbirds far better than feeders or trumpet vine (which I do allow to grow on the back fence - at this point it's providing some structural support as well), but it's already 4 feet high. It usually gets whacked back by half several times each summer. I also grow the standard species, which has green calyxes rather than "black" (it's pictured here with one of the perennial Lathyrus species), and the very attractive pale blue "Argentina Skies", which does very well despite being driven over (it's next to the driveway) a few times each year.

Staying home is also giving me a chance to enjoy a lot of the flowers I miss when we go away for extended periods. It also helps that things are ahead of schedule this year; lilies and daylilies are just about at their peak now. Above is the first bloom of a seedling Regal lily in accidental combination with the gigantic Arundo donax - a great, if precarious, combination. Below is the only decent Hemerocallis hybrid I've produced from a batch of seed sown in 2006; I crossed lots of different varieties, mostly spiders, with "Milk Chocolate". I do kind of like this one, and there are plenty of places to use the "rejects". As Frederick says in "Pirates of Penzance", "How exceedingly lovely is even the plainest of them!"

Other stars of the summer garden this year are such uncommon plants as Phygelius, which should be grown more for their foliage and spikes of bloom. New colors are becoming more available, and in a warm winter, such as this last, P. capensis remains evergreen. Interestingly, P. aequalis 'Moonraker' (below), with pale yellow blooms, always dies to the ground in winter but rebounds in spring. 'Trewidden Pink' is actually a dark salmon at best, and a bit more trailing than the others. I'm trying a couple of new varieties this year, one of which has a white bloom, and 'Sunshine', with leaves which are a bright chartreuse and should provide a contrast with the tubular scarlet blooms when they appear. These relatives of Penstemons and Antirrhinums seem to handle heat and humidity better than most other scrophs, as long as moisture is available. They also provide a nice counterpoint in bloom shape and structure to the daylilies with which they bloom concurrently.

The area beneath the Magnolia grandiflora in the front yard, long a wasteland carpeted by huge, indestructable leaves and deep, dark shade, is working out well as a location for my plunge bed - kind of a "jewel box" garden for delicate things that might otherwise be lost. Rather than trust things like seed-grown hardy Cyclamen in the open garden for the first few years, I put them in 4-6" clay pots and surrounded these with compost in order to keep soil moisture more constant. The ones that go dormant in summer are traded out for gesneriads which are grown in similar pots but stored indoors for the winter. C. purpurascens, however, stays pretty much evergreen and is in bloom right now, which is kind of a cool thing. This is the first bloom for most of these seedlings, and I'm really enjoying them, especially in combination with two hardy begonia varieties which have become naturalized (they spread via bulbils formed in the leaf axils) among the small pots. The orange one is B. sutherlandii, a South African species, and the white is a variety of B. sinensis (which may itself be a smaller, early blooming subspecies of B. grandis) called "Shanxii White". The fencing in the photo is there as a deterrent to ducks and boys chasing model airplanes, frisbees, etc. I spend lots of time fishing their toys out of trees, shrubs, and garden beds, but they're nice kids, very respectful, and always interested in what I'm up to.

Fuschias are not usually recommended for our area, since they tend to crash in our heat and humidity, but two varieties have done fairly well here for several years. F. magellanica 'Riccartonii' behaves as a hardy perennial, but I always keep a few cuttings in reserve, since it sometimes succumbs to either drought or overwatering. I suspect more varieties could be grown here with perfect drainage and a practiced hand at watering, but I don't have the attention span for that. The problem is that they, like impatiens, hydrangeas, and many other plants, will wilt during the heat of the day without necessarily being in need of water; when one DOES water in response to this behavior, fuschias rot, whereas other plants are more forgiving. The scarlet "Gartenmeister Bonstedt" is not winter hardy here, but, being derived from the heat tolerant F. triphylla, it blooms through all but the steamiest part of the summer, and I keep several large pots of it in the greenhouse to bed out every year.

At the "bottom of the garden" are bog plants and grasses, rather than fairies, and they're really coming into their own right now. Crinums will flower off and on throughout the season - C. bulbispermum has been going strong for over a month now, along with "Carolina Beauty", and below is C. "Walter Flory", in full bloom after a couple of good rains.Finally, one of my Venus Fly Traps (Dionaea muscipula) produced three heads (racemes? cymes? umbels? - I can never sort those out) of buds, and I couldn't bring myself to remove them, as all the carnivorous plant afficionados suggest. I won't let them set seed, but if a plant goes to all that trouble, we should at least let it bloom. If it turns out to be monocarpic, our local big box stores are full of others waiting for good homes.

All in all, I'm really enjoying our "staycation" - the only advantage to going away might be the ability to sit and read for a while without the constant whining of plants needing to be fed, watered, sprayed, pruned, and repotted. As hectic as our lives are for 10 months of each year, staying at home for a few days is tantamount to renting a villa in Tuscany, and a darned sight less expensive. We have tomatoes, basil, and oleander, Italian cypress, and even a potted olive tree (grown from a seed I got in a salad in Provence in 1991) - all that's missing is the tile roof .

Bloom Day, June 15, 2008

2008-06-15T02:02:00.000-07:00

It would be easier right now to document what isn't blooming - things are completely out of hand, out of control, and screaming to be pruned, so it's hard to even have time to notice what's out there. Hundreds of daylilies, early this year (even the late varieties are putting up scapes already) are out there every day, and the hydrangeas have never looked better, although they're sagging in the heat by afternoon. This is Asclepias curassavica, the tropical version of butterfly weed. I like it better than the perennial, since it blooms continually and gets taller. It does require replanting every year, but usually seeds itself around. The only drawback is that it will be stripped bare by monarch caterpillars when they show up in August, so I start a few plants early to ensure a good show (and enough food for them) before they get here.
I don't keep track of Hemerocallis names very well for some reason - I'm meticulous about this with other plants, but I've kind of given up on these. I'm just swamped with garden work by the time they start blooming, and labeling is something that goes by the wayside. Anyway, here are a few examples. One of my goals for this summer is to discard clumps of varieties I don't particularly like, chief among them 'Stella d'Oro' - I think it looks like squash blossoms - but finding homes for them without 1)expending a lot of time and effort and 2)losing valuable garden soil and pots, since no one I know wants to deal with bare root plants, is a pain. I would just toss them on the compost, but I know they'd start growing there, too. Above, I think, is "Heart's Afire"; below (again, the id. is iffy), "Medea". Below is "Milk Chocolate". I love this one, and have a couple of dozen seedlings beginning to bloom now from crosses I made with it and various spiders (another favorite type). "Red Ribbons" "Mynelle's Starfish" "Red Twister" "Green Dragon" - love this one, too. Another spider variant with a lost label - great pink, though.Okay - enough with the daylilies. There are plenty of specialist growers out there with photos and info far superior to anything my mixed bag could provide, but I do really enjoy them.

This is an interesting combo - Alstroemeria psittacina pushing up through Gardenia "August Beauty", blooming in June. These are in deep, dark shade, having been completely overtaken by Nandinas, Photinia, and a massive climbing rose, "Buff Beauty". The gardenia, especially, amazes me with the sheer number of flowers it produces under these conditions - it's literally covered, with the tall (it's pruned to be vertical, and is 6 feet high now) branches sagging across the narrow pathway under the weight of the flowers.

Arisaema candidissimum always waits until very late to show itself, but I'm still waiting on A. consanguineum and A. fargesii (which is at least beginning to emerge)- I always give those up for dead before they surprise me and start to grow.
All of my clivias waited until late spring to bloom this year, including this yellow one I started from seed about 10 years ago. Not sure why the delay, but it's nice to enjoy the flowers out in the garden, rather than in the house. I move these into the unheated garage window for the winter.
One last iris, an ensata that I inherited from my aunt many years ago. It's growing in a boggy place next to the pitcher plants. Opuntia ellisiana, the "thornless" prickly pear, growing in the dry front bed along with pink evening primrose, a nice filler that's really a weed, and Sinningia tubiflora, pictured below. The cactus fights it out with an enormous Lantana "Miss Huff" every summer, and I usually defer to the lantana because of its blooms and the insect life it attracts. The cactus really would like more sun, so its bloom is limited, but still attractive. A couple more sinningias; I've been collecting and testing these for hardiness. S. sellovii, below, has been reliable for several years, and a seed-grown group shows a lot of variation in coloration; some of them have yellow tips on the tubular flowers and look like candy corn.These Sinningia speciosa are seedlings I grew from a wild collection of the original species which was bred to produce the florist gloxinias. I stored these bulbs dry in the garage last winter, but probably will leave them out this year to see what happens.
Last, but not least, pink Nerium oleander blooming in front of (actually blocking) the front entrance to the house. This will probably be removed after it blooms - it never dies to the ground anymore, and even the regrowth in one summer becomes too big for its location against the hot bricks in front of the house. It's a tough call, but the mail carrier will thank us for taking it out.

The Orchid Bug

2008-06-06T07:03:00.001-07:00

(My favorite tropical orchid, if I had to choose just one - Laelia purpurata 'Werkhauserii')

I have to smile when I walk into Trader Joe’s and see a huge display of orchids for sale, because there was once a time when one really had to work to find them for sale around here at any price. I remember begging my dad to take me to the Norfolk Botanical Gardens when I was a kid, not to explore the azalea collection, but because they carried Cattleya seedlings in their gift shop for the (then) princely sum of $5. Occasionally Smithfield Gardens, a few miles from my childhood home, would receive shipments of orchid plants, and we would take a trip out there just to see them. In my teens I discovered Berryman’s Orchids, a small, private greenhouse located on route 17 in York County, and would lobby hard to be driven there on special occasions. Ironically, I now live less than 5 miles from this location, but it’s now covered by a Walmart parking lot. It goes without saying that I was a strange kid, in more ways than one; I wish I could say that I outgrew those quirks, but that would be disingenuous to say the least.

Over the intervening years I amassed an orchid collection which numbered into the hundreds, mostly Cattleya alliance meristems and seedlings, interspersed with a few species and oddities, all tropical. In 1994, when we moved to our present house, the first order of business was the construction of a “greenhouse” (really a ramshackle fiberglass structure) to house the plants. All was well for several years, until an insidious infestation of scale began to claim my treasures, one by one. At present I have about 5 of these originals left, and even these are harboring insect populations. No amount of spraying, scrubbing, dipping, or brushing has eliminated the problem, and it’s probably just as well. Most tropical orchids have lost their appeal to me since they are now so readily available. It’s kind of sad to see these plants reduced to florist gift status, to be tossed aside after blooming or left to languish in saucers of water on countless kitchen windowsills. All that having been said, I’m still intrigued by orchids, and growing them has served me well as an introduction to perennial gardening, since the growth habits of sympodial species so clearly illustrates classic rhizomatous growth and its implications in terms of propagation and growth cycles. Growing up as an aspiring grower of epiphytic orchids taught me well about the need all plants have, to varying degrees, for proper drainage. I still grow lots of orchids, but my attention has now turned mostly to the terrestrial species, and particularly to those which are considered to be hardy in our climate.

As mentioned in a previous post, my attraction to growing the “hardy” orchids can be traced back to childhood adventures in the woods with my grandmother. The flame of the obsession was fanned, however, with the acquisition of some books which, I now realize, are completely evil. “Hardy Orchids”, along with two of the Kew monographs, one on Pleiones and another on Cypripediums, have tortured me from the minute they hit the shelves of my considerable collection of gardening books with pictures and descriptions of the varieties of orchids which are considered hardy, at least in the more temperate areas of England. Never mind that our climate does not remotely resemble that of England; every year these books find their way to the “front burner” of my primary reading stack (located, of course, in the bathroom), and every year I find myself fabricating some new scheme to attempt growing the ungrowable. This sickness was relatively harmless, if frustrating, in pre-internet days, but now almost all of these orchids can be had (for a price) by anyone with a modest ability to use a search engine. They can all be killed, too, and much more quickly than the “plastic” Catts and Phals available on every corner.

As also detailed in an earlier article, Bletillas are one of my favorite genera, and can (in most cases) be grown outside here in Tidewater. I am still learning how to grow the evergreen Calanthes; these are Asian woodland orchids which want that classic oxymoron – moist, well drained soil – and to be kept cool in summer. Maintaining these conditions here in July and August can be a tall order, as is keeping the dormant (but still green) plants between 28 and 50 degrees or so in the winter in order to maintain dormancy. At present I’m growing them in deep, gravelly raised beds which are covered throughout the winter with cold frames. This is more life support than I’d like to provide for a “hardy” plant, but I try not to apply logic to my gardening projects too often – it just makes my head hurt. The plants are growing well, but bloom this year is sparse, perhaps an effect of last fall’s nasty drought and my fear of applying too much supplemental water to this fungus-prone genus. Among my failures are many of the Pleiones – beautiful bulbs shipped from the Pacific Northwest decline over one or two years until they’re tiny, non-flowering nubs which are incapable of producing blooms. I have a few bulbs of P. bulbocodioides and limprichtii left, and I’m trying them in a “plunge” bed this summer – I’m hoping the osmotic effect of this setup will result in evaporative cooling of the planting medium without creating the temptation to overwater.
The Cypripediums are another story, and success varies widely for me within this genus. This probably has to do with provenance, since species range from C. kentuckiense, which is reported to grow as far south as Louisiana, and wild populations of which have been reported growing on Virginia’s Northern Neck, only a bit colder than Newport News in general. Not surprisingly, kentuckiense and its hybrids have been most successful for me as garden subjects. I grow all of my cyps in large (half barrel-sized) containers, in a mix of perlite, fine fir bark, and crushed granite; feeding is accomplished with applications of osmocote a couple of times each year. Too much organic matter is a sure invitation to fungal infections, apparently, as is anything less than perfect drainage. The closely related C. pubescens is much less dependable for me, frequently succumbing to a stem rot which is indicated by the sickening leaning of the plant against the interior of its wire growing enclosure; I can spot this situation from a distance by now. C. reginae grows well enough, provided it does not burn in the summer sun; unfortunately, the amount of light necessary for bloom production is also likely to burn the foliage here in summer. C. japonica and formosana seem to do fairly well, but their early emergence from dormancy (often during one of our “false” springs that occur in February) makes their hardiness questionable here; they usually end up as cool greenhouse subjects by spring. C. acaule, the pink lady slipper of my childhood, is a perpetual failure for me, even growing in media “imported” from the sandy, acidic Southampton County soils which it colonizes naturally.

I also grow several Paphiopedilums mostly species and hybrids of the parvisepalum group; kept in a cool greenhouse over the winter, on the dry side, these are much easier to manage than the Cyps., which is kind of ironic. Phragmipediums have not been as successful, but I have a couple which bloom only occasionally.

Other completely hardy orchids I grow with varying degrees of success are Spiranthes cernua (widely available, easy to grow in moist soils, but not very spectacular);
Calopogon tuberosus (good as companion plants for Sarracenias); Habenaria (Platanthera) ciliaris (this invariably blooms while I’m on vacation, so I usually only get to see the buds and spent bloom spikes - last summer I happened to be at home); Aplectrum hyemale; Epipactis thunbergii, and Habenaria (Pectelis) radiata. I would classify all of these as interesting, but not particularly showy (with the possible exception of the Calopogons) in a landscape situation. Below is Dactylorhiza fuschii; I'm still learning to grow this one, and it's beginning to flag during our current heat wave. I may have to resign myself to the fact that this is one orchid which needs to live in a cooler climate.
Recently I’ve begun collecting orchid species which, though tropical in origin and requiring winter protection, produce the bulk of their blooms when placed outside for the summer. Given some winter warmth, Spathoglottis species and hybrids are among the longest blooming and easiest orchids I’ve ever grown, requiring only heat, light, and moisture to put on a spectacular show for over a month each summer. I know this goes against my “if they sell it at the big box stores, I don’t want it” philosophy, but I purchased my first plant of S. plicata for $3 on a clearance table at Walmart – it had no blooms and no label. Bletias (tropical American counterparts of Bletillas) are likewise semi-terrestrial, producing pleated foliage in the greenhouse all winter which drops as the bloom spikes begin to form in late spring. These can placed around the garden as the weather warms to bloom for an extended period, and summer drought hardly affects them at all, since their dormancy naturally occurs then. Beautiful but fleeting are the Sobralias, whose blooms resemble those of Cattleyas but last only a day each (below is S. xantholeuca, or leucoxantha, depending on your source of information). Thunia alba bears graceful blooms which last for a few days, produced in clusters at the ends of the pendulous, biennial pseudobulbs. These drop their leaves in fall and can be stored in a cool (but not freezing), dry place until spring, when they’re hung outside and triggered into growth by warmth and moisture. After blooming, the pseudobulbs can be laid sideways on moist sphagnum, where they will produce sturdy plantlets at the nodes along each stem.
Some of the “miniature” cymbidiums have been successful as “drop in” plants, blooming outdoors during our long, warm autumns, although the plants have now gotten so large that moving them in and out can be a hardship. C. goeringii is hardy in this zone, but I haven’t found a location that provides enough light and drainage to coax it into bloom as a garden plant.

There are even a few epiphytes which I’ve come to think of as garden plants. The reed-stemmed Epidendrums have become almost weedy; last fall, having run out of time but not wanting to leave them to the frost, I gathered a dozen or more keikis (small plants produced along the stems), tossed them into a plastic basket with no medium, and hung it in a corner of the greenhouse. One small plant of Broughtonia sanguinea alba (really a pale yellow) has grown for years on no medium – it’s tied to a wire hanger with its roots completely exposed – and faithfully produces a bloom spike that blooms throughout July. Numerous other twig epiphytes use almost no space, parked among the branches of shrubs during the warm months. The only cultural difficulty they present is remembering to bring them in before the temperatures plummet in November.

I know it’s cheating to consider most orchids viable candidates for inclusion in the mixed border, but I have enjoyed figuring out ways to integrate them into my “jungle”. For a few months each year, at any rate, they, along with various palms, aroids, and “temperennials”, give us a cut-rate approximation of a trip to the tropics. Now if only we had room for a pool…

(This is C. Valentine 'Coerulea' parked in a tree for the summer.)

Bloom Day (a dollar short) May 16

2008-05-16T01:01:00.000-07:00

No time for a dissertation today - just a few pics of what's happening in the garden right now. This is the first plant I'd rescue in the event of a catastrophe - Cypripedium kentuckiense, grown from a seedling I deflasked myself over 10 years ago. It's by far the most successful of the Cyps in this climate.

Clematis 'Ramona' (I think), climbing on Camellia japonica 'Jordan's Pride'.

Sarracenia x"Fledgeling", about to be engulfed by a stand of Saururus cernuus, Iris pseudacorus, and Lilium lancifolium.

This is the view across one of several small ponds (actually more like mudholes), with Sabal palmettos, various Miscanthus, Peonies, Roses, and not a few weeds adding to the mix. One serious mistake that needs to be rectified was the planting of Tetrapanax papyrifera at the edge of this pond. Barely visible in this picture from last week, its umbrella-like leaves are twice this size now, and threaten to entirely shade out the water lilies which already struggle to bloom in the shade of the grasses and Michelia branches. I can't grow Gunnera here, and this seems a likely substitute, but this is not the place...
An experiment I'm trying this year - combining grape tomatoes and some of the smaller Clematis in very large pots. This is C. 'Roguchi' blooming in tandem with "Sungold". My theory is that since this Clematis is completely herbaceous, it can be cut down when the tomato is pulled out in the fall. We'll see how it works out...

This is another of the lady's slippers, a hybrid called 'Gisela'; it's tiny in comparison to kentuckiense and reginae, but when one of your parents is named "parviflora" (the other is macranthos), you can't expect to compete with the big boys.

Calopogon tuberosus grows alongside the pitcher plants, enjoying the same wet soil conditions.

Lots of friends have been asking for more wide-angle shots of the garden, so here are a couple. The main reason I don't include more is that, while I have a pretty interesting plant collection, my garden, for the most part, is an overgrown, weedy, disorganized mess. I have to "choose my battles", since I work two fairly demanding jobs. Some scenes manage to be attractive for a week or two, anyway, like this arch covered with Rosa "Buff Beauty" and Trachelospermum jasminoides, faced down with a Weigela and balanced by palms (several species of Trachycarpus and Chaemerops, in this instance). Italian cypress trees form a wall along the left boundary of the garden, and are themselves becoming infested with Asian jasmine.

This is Trillium grandiflorum 'Plenum', blooming for the first time this year. This has been a relatively cool May, and that, coupled with the sterility of the double flowers, has made these flowers last a very long time. Well worth the wait - I bought a cheaper, smaller plant several years ago, since they're expensive to buy at this size.

Below is a Louisiana iris which I grew from seed a few years ago. The parent plant (one of them, anyway) is a deep salmon; this one's much paler (but more pink than the photo indicates). It's fun to see what happens when you plant a few seeds.

These roses, all hybrid musks, look great when they bloom together at this time of year. In the foreground is "Sally Holmes", backed up by a climbing hybrid (it's actually in my neighbor's yard, and was bred by a friend of hers) called "Mountain Mist". To the left is "Ballerina", which is a parent of each of the others.

Hippaestrum xJohnsonii, the "hardy" amaryllis (all of the common hybrids are pretty much hardy here anyway). These need to be divided, and they'd like more sun during the growing season than I can give them.

Bletia floridanum is not hardy, but it waits until May to begin blooming, so I consider it, along with B. purpurea and B. patula, a garden orchid. These are totally deciduous in the summer, so require almost no watering when the weather gets hot and dry. They make their foliar growth in the greenhouse during the fall and winter.

Lady Slippers and Turkey Toes

2008-05-10T01:13:00.000-07:00

I am blessed to have grown up in a loving, supportive, and somewhat eccentric (mostly in lovable ways) family, and my two grandmothers were among the greatest influences on my life. Though very different, each loved gardening, and they, along with my father and grandfather, passed this hobby (mania?) on to me. It's interesting to walk around our garden today and see the botanical inheritance they passed down to me over the years.

My paternal grandmother was quiet, hard-working, and loving; as children, we were not aware of just how difficult her life must have been. She had raised three sons as a single parent, all of whom achieved high levels of education and professional success, but she existed just above the poverty level for most of her life, laboring in a peanut packing plant until retirement. One of the things I remember the most about her extensive garden is the deep mulch of peanut shells in the flower beds. She loved being outdoors, raising most of her own food and actually plowing her garden with a mule which she housed in the woods out back, along with chickens and the occasional hog. Something was always blooming in her yard, which was packed with wisteria, crape myrtles, azaleas, plums, and a gigantic scuppernong arbor, under which we would stand in September, picking the big brown grapes, spitting out the seeds and skins, and avoiding the yellow jackets that frequented the area.

Mama Joyner, as we called her, loved flowers, too, and she had a big side garden devoted to annuals such as big, pink poppies, iris, and this beautiful single hollyhock, Althea zebrina, which seeds itself around my garden even now.

Among my prize possessions are several clumps of Crinum which we salvaged from the side foundation planting of Mama Joyner's home before it was sold after her death in 1993. I think they're what's now being sold as "Carolina Beauty", an old hybrid of C. americanum and C. bulbispermum; at any rate, they're rock hardy, multiplying into enormous clumps and producing spikes of anise-scented blooms whenever the weather is sufficiently warm and wet.

I wish I'd spent more time with all of my grandparents, but especially with Mama Joyner. Quiet people aren't always appreciated in the moment, and as I've grown older I've come to realize just how much she must have known about gardening, survival, and life.

My grandmother Birdie, whom we called "Ma-Ma", is shown here with my Grandfather on one of their famous road trips. These always commenced with a big country ham, a pot of butterbeans, and a shovel in the "boot" of the car. The ham and butterbeans were for sustenance - heaven forbid we should be forced to eat in a restaurant, or pay restaurant prices! The shovel was for impromptu "botanizing" along the roadside. Much of her landscaping had come from highway medians, the edges of woods, and even, on occasion, the outskirts of an acquaintance's property. My grandfather, a great vegetable gardener in his own right, was used to being asked to pull over at the drop of a hat to investigate and dig up "souvenirs" along the way. Ma-Ma was great fun on these trips, and it's because of these experiences that I'm now able to identify most native flora and fauna while barreling down the highway at incredible rates of speed. On Sunday afternoons in the fall, winter, and early spring (never summer, for there were snakes abroad when the weather was warm!), she would lead us on long walks through the neighboring woods, cow pastures, and "hog wallers" to explore for "treasures" growing, crawling, and flying throughout the area. I never knew until years later how much my brother and cousins hated this - I was in heaven the whole time! At least they enjoyed it when, more than once, our fearless leader landed squarely in a cow pattie after scaling the neighbors' fence.

My favorite story about Ma-Ma is one that still irks my Aunt, after nearly fifty years. She awakened my grandparents late one night to announce her engagement and display her new ring, but her mother was less than enthusiastic (about the ring, not my uncle - she adored him, at least by the time I knew anything about it). Without a word, she hauled herself out of bed and trundled out to the back porch, coming back carrying a white kitten, part of a recently born litter. Her only comment was that the kitten in her hand was much prettier than the ring on my aunt's, and was a lot less expensive. I have to agree with her, there - I'll take watching more than a dozen cedar waxwings devouring ripe mahonia berries (last week as we were fixing dinner - spectacular!) over a new piece of jewelry anytime, which offers a possible explanation as to why loved ones find buying gifts for me so exasperating.

On the weekend of my birthday every year we would drive a couple of miles to the banks of the Blackwater River where it's crossed by Joyner's Bridge (all of the land in the vicinity was once owned by my family, having been sold off piecemeal over the intervening century and a half) where we would look for patches of "Turkey Toes", the native perennial lupine. Every year we tried to dig one up for transplanting, and every year it perished within a week, no doubt due to the loss of its tap root. The sandy, acid riparian soil perfectly supports their growth, even now, but this plant remains a failure for me whether grown from seed or plants purchased at our local native plant sale. Instead I grow Baptisia australis in my garden, and occasionally make a pilgrimage to Southampton County in late April to see the lupines.

On Mother's Day, we would drive a mile or two in another direction to see great swaths of pink Lady's Slipper orchids, Cypripedium acaule, blooming at the edge of the woods. I still feel pangs of guilt when I remember digging one and using it in a native plant terrarium which I had been assigned to create for a seventh grade science project, but it's some consolation that I got an "A" on the project and was later named outstanding science student of the year (it didn't take much in those days - I sealed the award by announcing one day that "Pelargonium" was the scientific name for the geranium in the classroom window.) What I now realize is that C. acaule requires very specific soil conditions in which to thrive - again with that sandy, acid soil. I do keep one (nursery propagated) plant now for sentimental reasons - it's shown here growing in a container of acidified, sandy soil, along with last year's ill fated Lupine perennis - but other species are much more successful, and this plant is not blooming now, so its decline is probably imminent.

When Ma-Ma and Grandaddy came to our house for my birthday in 1996, they arrived with a big galvanized bucket full of "Turkey Toes" and yellow Lady Banks' roses, perfectly complementary in color and more precious than anything else they could have brought. Ma-ma passed away that fall, but she's with me every time I walk out into the garden. In the winter as her favorite Camellia, (probably "Debutante"), blooms on the side of the house, I can hear her telling anyone who would listen that her gigantic shrub had frozen "to the ground" three times in the last 50 years, then snapping off branches to root in her rusty sand bucket out back. Her big, double white Peonies (probably Festiva Maxima) are blooming out back right now, as are the antique bourbon roses we rooted from the plant in the ancient family cemetary (pictured above). A descendant of her favorite coleus plant goes to school with me every fall, where its progeny line the windows of numerous classrooms as children watch roots form inside clear plastic soda bottles.

We carry those we love with us in our hearts, but it's also nice to keep them with us in the garden. It's one of the things that keeps me grounded as I deal with the day-to-day difficulties of life, and much cheaper than therapy - or a diamond ring.

Not Just a Curiosity

2008-05-01T01:23:00.001-07:00

I grow lots of Sarracenias, also known as American Pitcher Plants. I know this raises my "garden geek" factor even higher through the roof than before - carnivorous plant afficionados seem to be the horticultural equivalent of "Trekkies" - but I firmly believe that there are other reasons for collecting and cultivating the plants of this genus besides the "ick" factor. That having been said, I do ferry plants back and forth to school a lot at this time of year for use as a "hook" to lure fourth and fifth grade boys into participation in my music/horticulture integration lesson; nothing beats dissecting a pitcher from the last growing season in order to let kids get up close and personal with the remains of a pile of insects as an incentive to sing and play selections from "Little Shop of Horrors"! To the left is the bouquet I took to Thanksgiving dinner last fall - Sarracenia pitchers, especially those of S. leucophylla, are used extensively in the cut flower trade, often to the detriment of wild populations. I don't cut many, but that late in the season, when they were about to be burned back by frost, I figured their work was done for the year.

In order to keep the plants portable, I grow most of mine in plastic, saucer-shaped containers with holes drilled about 2/3 up the sides in order to drain some, but not all of the water, away from their crowns. These are nestled together in a fake bog, and I fill in among them with a mixture of grit and compost, into which is planted sedums and other creeping plants to help camouflage the exposed pot rims. At this time of year, having been exposed to several weeks of sub-freezing temperatures, the pitchers themselves are not much to look at, and I trim off as much of the dead material as possible to allow room for the new growth to fill in. The big show right now is the floral display.
You never read about the growing of Sarracenias for flower production, and while they don't have much potential as cutting material, a mature plant with a dozen or more flowers can be stunning. These are blooming concurrently with Zephyranthes atamasco, a great native companion plant for artificial bogs. The scent of the Sarracenia blooms is not much to write home about, since they're fishing for flies as pollinators, not bees or lepidopterans, but I'd put their nodding grace and form up against Cypripediums or Hellebores (two of my other favorites) any day of the week. Intricate in design, the flowers don't trap insects, per se, but they do require that the pollinator actually crawl under the broad "umbrella" (I suppose it's actually a modified pistil) covering the stamens in order to obtain whatever nectar is available, thus ensuring that a good amount of pollen will be transported to subsequent blooms. The pendant petals are temporary, hanging downward from the calyx for about a week; after these fall away, the sepals and central disk remain on the plant for the rest of the summer, adding to the visual interest and producing copious seeds.

Above is the blossom of S. oreophila, the endangered mountain pitcher plant. Illegal to purchase for shipment across state lines, I received it as a bonus from a grower in Oregon. Its only peculiarity is its tendency to go dormant in midsummer; its pitchers brown off as it produces phyllodia (flat, photosynthetic leaves which persist all winter); no amount of water seems to prevent this, but the plant always returns in force for the next growing season.

Even the buds are interesting; these belong to S. catesbaei, a naturally occuring hybrid between S. flava and S. purpurea.
Sarracenia rubra, below, exists in numerous forms, varieties, and subspecies, but all share these spectacular red flowers, hence the specific name. Sarracenia flava, named for its yellow (really chartreuse) blooms, is the earliest to flower and produce pitchers, and shows considerable variation as well. Interestingly, the typical variety (below, left, with either Zephyranthes or Cooperia drummondii, depending on what you read and when, blooming in the background) has downward facing blooms like most of the genus, but my plant of the "Copper Top" variety has blooms that face outward (below, right). This brings to mind the trend in Hellebore breeding to produce upright, rather than nodding, flowers. I'd love to experiment with this; however, the seedling growth of Sarracenias has proven too slow even for me. Plants I started growing from seed seven years ago are about the diameter of a quarter now - maybe there's some secret method for accelerating their growth which I haven't yet discovered. These are S. rubra var. Jonesii seedlings, so small that moss often threatens to crowd them out and has to be extracted strand by strand. As the weather warms, most of the plants (those with S. leucophylla in their parentage will tend to produce more pitchers in the fall than in spring) are beginning to produce pitchers, which is the usual reason for growing them. I would argue that the floral show alone makes Sarracenias worth growing, especially given their ease of culture (with the possible exception of S. purpurea - maybe it's not cold enough here?) in zone 7.

A Thousand Words

2008-04-18T16:58:00.000-07:00

Since my time for actual gardening is itself at a premium right now, I'm having a hard time justifying extensive blog writing. So I thought I'd just post some pics of what's happening in the garden this week, without a lot of explanation. This is a Paeonia suffruticosa hybrid, "Shima nishiki". Viburnum opulus 'sterile', the ubiquitous hand-me-down "Snowball" bush. It's beautiful even before the flowers turn white.

Amsonia tabernaemontana - one of my favorite plants. These are clumps I grew from seed several years ago. Some have been taken over by violets and need rescuing, but they're a little touchy re. root disturbance, so I'm not sure how to proceed with that (which makes a good excuse for ignoring this particular chore - just call me "Hamlet")Iris japonica, a great little evergreen groundcover growing in deep, dark shade, yet producing lots of blooms this year. I need to pull out lots of it, since it's taking over the path, but I can't bring myself to do so, at least until it stops blooming.Arisaema serratum var. Mayebarae Paeonia cambessedesii - a fifth-year seedling which has yet to bloom, but has great foliage with purple on the reverse.Trillium grandiflorum, Trillium flexipes, and Trillium cuneatum with Tiarella wherryi. Though not often grown in our area, trilliums have been very successful for me, and I have dozens coming along from seed. These are very slow - from seed to bloom can take from five to seven years, but it's fun to watch their development from year to year, and they don't take up much space. Most of them are planted around the tree peonies, since both prefer to be kept on the dry side during the summer.Rosa laevigata ("Cherokee Rose")- this will probably be removed after this spring. I love the blooms and the winter foliage (glossy with bright red thorns), but it's a rampant grower (about 30' across at this point) which is infested with Japanese honeysuckle; pruning it requires full body armor! Purple tree peonies, Azaleas canescens and austrinum Narcissus "Katie Heath" Winter window boxes which need to be changed out soon, but have been very attractive all season: Autumn fern (Dryopteris erythrosora) and Euphorbia amygdaloides var. robbiae. I stuck in some red Nandina berries for the holidays and let them spill over the sides. Neither of these plants wants to be kept in such tight quarters for long, but they're both easy to propagate, so I'll probably plant these out and repeat this combo next year. The Euphorbia has essentially the same colors as Helleborus foetidus "Wester Flisk", but transplants much more easily for this application.A couple of thugs, Rosa banksiae lutea and a double Wisteria blooming in combination. I threaten to remove both of these (they're all but destroying what's left of the back fence, and the Wisteria is strangling a sweetgum) for most of the year, but always relent when they bloom. Arisaema trifoliata, the native Jack-in-the-Pulpit. I've grown dozens of these from seed, and they're all over the place now. Can't beat 'em. I haven't devoted a lot of space to doing the "dogwood/azalea" thing in this garden, since so many others take care of that and I can drive around and see as many as I want, but these gigantic indicas ("George Lindley Tabor", in this case) are worth the space. Okay - that's it. Gotta go pull weeds, repot plants, cut grass, mend fences, and - oh, yeah...work.

Playing "Chicken" with Bletillas

2008-04-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again when I spend lots of time that I don't have covering and uncovering plants to protect them due to our unpredictable weather. Ironically, the most demanding in this regard are usually the Bletillas, a genus of hardy orchids from Asia which survive bone-chilling cold all winter, but whose foliage and flowers can be irreparably damaged by freezes in April. Last spring was a disaster in that regard, given our infamous Easter snowstorm.

Still, these are among my most treasured plants, especially some of the hybrids I was lucky enough to collect a few years ago, when ordering plants from the UK was less problematic. Some are more successful than others, and I always keep a plant or two of the rarer varieties in the cool greenhouse over the winter for insurance purposes. I have been growing Bletillas from seed over the past couple of years (see pics in the previous post on raising plants from seed), having discovered that the dust-like seed will germinate if mixed with fine sand and sprinkled over the surface of milled sphagnum in a clear plastic container; most other orchids require flasking under sterile conditions for seed propagation. I'm excited about the possibilities this opens up for hybridizing. Now all I need is more room in which to grow the young plants to maturity...

Other than a few articles online (notably one written several years ago by Clark T. Riley on orchidmall.com), and a chapter in the excellent book, Growing Hardy Perennial Orchids by William Mathis, there isn't much information available on growing this genus, so I've learned a lot by trial and error. One revelation came two years ago when I visited a nursery in Richmond and saw B. striata being sold as a marginal aquatic plant, seeming perfectly happy to sit with roots immersed in a deep pan of water; it appears that while they're in full growth during warm weather, overwatering isn't really an issue. Conversely, although the rhizomes can't take too much moisture when dormant, I did discover that storing the bulbs totally dry, as per pleiones, some zephyranthes, etc., is definitely not successful, either. At least partial sun (in combination with adequate moisture) seems to produce better growth and flowering than the usually recommended shade.

There are numerous varieties of B. striata, apparently the sturdiest of the tribe: this image shows both the straight species and the variant with a white stripe along the leaf edge.
To the right is the pure white cultivar (not a particularly good image); some forms have a bit of a purple flush on the tip of the column. There's also a pure white clone with variegated leaves, but the stripes are not very visible in this photograph:To the left is a variety called "Kuchibeni", also marketed as "First Kiss". It's as close as Bletilla striata comes to what is known in Cattleya breeding as a "semi-alba", white with a colored lip.

"Lips", the variety of B. striata pictured below, is unique in that its flowers are peloric, a word which describes their tendency to approach radial, as opposed to the usual bilateral, symmetry. It's this mutation which gave rise to "splash petal" cattleya breeding, and which brought about the varieties of Sinningia speciosa which are now known as florist's gloxinias. It's a strong grower, but has been shy about blooming. Most disappointing, however, is that the column is consistently malformed, producing neither viable pollen nor a functioning pistil, so the hybridization I envisioned appears unlikely.
I also grow a newer variety of striata called 'Murasaki Shikibu', the flowers of which are lavender with a much bluer cast than the other varieties. I made several crosses last summer using this cultivar, and the seeds have germinated, so I hope to eventually expand the color range. (Note: the image below is not my own, but I can't locate the original source.) It pains me to post the next two pictures, since the subjects have gone to "plant heaven", but B. formosana is an important species in terms of hybridizing, so shown here for visual comparison are both its alba and lavender forms:

Although B. formosana has not prospered under my care, its hybrid with striata, 'Yokohama', does very well. It shows sturdy, prolific growth which is intermediate between

its parent species and produces abundant pale purple blooms. I have numerous two year old F2 seedlings from this cross, originally obtained from Dr. Don Jacobs of Eco Gardens in Georgia; my hope is that some of them will exhibit the formosana phenotype while inheriting the hybrid vigor of 'Yokohama'.

The third species which is generally available is Bletilla ochracea (left), which is available in various shades of yellow and cream. It's not as strong a grower as striata, but holds its own, coming into growth and blooming later.
B. ochracea, in my view, is more important for its potential as a parent; 'Coritani' (left, B. ochracea x formosana) is a stronger grower than either parent, and often produces a second crop of flowers later in the season. 'Penway Sunset' (right, B. ochracea x szetchuanica - a species I've never even managed to flower), is a sturdy hybrid which produces more blooms per stem than any other in my collection.

'Penway Rainbow' (left), a complex hybrid (B. 'Yokohama', which is striata x formosana, crossed with B. ochracea), is, in my opinion, the best of the yellows so far, with strong coloring and a hardy, vigorous constitution. It should be noted that many of the grex names include the word "Penway" and were registered by the holder of the British National Collection, R. Evenden (This is as much of the name as I've located in my research so far).

Another very successful hybrid with ochracea is "Brigantes", the cross made using striata. I have three clones; one is nearly indistinguishable from striata, and another is a beautiful lavender with very rich lip coloration. The third called 'Moonlight', has striata 'alba' as a parent, and has been a much weaker grower than the others. I'm hoping to remake it (or something similar) this year using some of the stronger yellow hybrids listed above.

Two other species have been involved in hybridization, one of which, szetchuanica, I have attempted to grow. It apparently experiences a long period of dormancy, which shows up in its hybrids as a useful trait. This tendency also seems to make the species difficult to carry over the winter, due to its need for some moisture, but not too much. My experiences with B. szetchuanica have been similar to those I've had with Pleiones, in that there is grave danger of rot due to imperfect watering at the inception of growth in spring, and second chances are not given. It has produced some gardenworthy hybrids however, all of which show greater than average bud count per stem, with the flowers arrayed alternately, each facing more or less away from its predecessor.
Bletilla 'Penway Paris' (left) is striata x szetchuanica; 'Penway Dragon' (below) is formosana x szetchuanica; and 'Penway Starshine' (below, right), is 'Yokohama' x szetchuanica.

Rounding out the list of registered primary hybrids are those created using the elusive B. yunnanensis, which I've never seen offered for sale. I do have a plant purchased several years ago from a source in California which lists it as an unnamed species, "perhaps yunnanensis", but it's such a weak grower that it has yet to produce an inflorescence. Three of its hybrids, however, are growable, hardy plants, and one of these, 'Penway Rose' (left), is very distinctive in form and color, being a hybrid of B. ochracea with this species. 'Penway Princess' is yunnanensis by formosana, and 'Penway Imperial', a particularly strong grower which I have somehow neglected to photograph, is yunnanensis by striata.

Given all of their attributes as garden plants, it surprises me that Bletillas have not gained more popularity with gardeners in the temperate zone. Perhaps it has to do with the size of their blooms, or their limited blooming period, but their contribution to the garden continues through the fall with their pleated, arching sheaves of foliage, which is variegated in several varieties. My goal in seed propagation is not only to broaden the color spectrum of the available hybrids, but to produce F2 generations from the primary hybrids which combine the appearance of the more difficult and/or unavailable species with the sturdier constitution of Bletilla striata. I'm also attempting hybridization with Calopogon species, if for no other reason than the fact that I like the name given to this type of cross by the AOS - "Calopotilla".

In the time it's taken me to assemble this post, our usual frost-free date has passed (but only just), and I've uncovered the Bletillas, which are a little etiolated (they look like expensive white asparagus this morning), but appear none the worse for wear. I'm keeping my fingers crossed; in my book, emerging Bletilla pseudobulbs are right up there with Magnolia x soulangeana blooms as sure-fire harbingers of an April freeze!

A Pocket of Joy

2008-04-03T13:35:00.000-07:00

Life is a series of challenges interspersed with pockets of joy, one of which I was blessed to experience on a recent March weekend. Thanks to the intervention of our mutual friends Barbara and Les Seigman, very accomplished gardeners in their own right, Ron and I, along with our neighbor and friend, Jane, found ourselves invited to spend the day with them and Pamela Harper. Mrs. Harper has been a major force in garden writing for many years, and is the designer, creator, and curator of one of the finest gardens it’s ever been my pleasure to visit. I have always loved Mrs. Harper’s writing, and our time together in her garden (and mine) that day convinced me more than ever that great garden writing requires a rare combination of intelligence, good humor, and, most of all, the knowledge and skill acquired only through many years of hands-on, trial-and-error, take-no-prisoners gardening. This is a woman who writes about gardening from first hand experience rather than relying solely on research (although I’m sure she’s done a prodigious amount of that as well); this is nowhere more evident than in the impeccably maintained and organized garden which has shaped her life and work for nearly 40 years. Mrs. Harper’s most recent book, Time Tested Plants: Thirty Years in a Four Season Garden, verbally and visually (she’s also an accomplished photographer) chronicles her efforts to transform two sandy acres in Seaford into what is surely one of the finest gardens in southeastern Virginia.

Thankfully, this progressive garden tour began in our own crowded, overgrown mess of a garden, woefully neglected for several years now due to the demands of work and family obligations. Our guests, being kind, polite people, struggled valiantly to find nice things to say, and no injuries were sustained as we picked our way cautiously along the uneven pathways which snake among the jumble of pots, hoses, and makeshift structures which litter our property. I should not have invited them to the house at all, except that I felt it was the polite thing to do; if I were not interested in having these people as friends deserving of full disclosure, we’d have met at a restaurant for lunch and had done with it. At any rate, they’ve seen “the jungle”, warts and all. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I do know all the rules of garden design, grooming, and maintenance, but knowing and doing are two different things. Good design, timely pruning, and weed-free borders will just have to wait until family situations change, or until I can retire.

After lunch (which I, since I like these folks, did not prepare), we drove to Seaford and began touring the amazing Harper garden. Seeing the garden itself would have been magical enough, but having a personal tour, complete with anecdotes and observations gleaned over years of loving labor, made this easily my favorite two hours of the year so far. I took my camera, but gave up trying to capture the effect of this paradise photographically. The sight of an ocean of Ipheon spreading under Magnolia stellata (which is pictured in Harper's book much better than I could ever photograph it), of Cyclamen hederifolium better than a foot in diameter each (issuing from corms which must easily be the size of dinner plates), and of the spectacular yellow Magnolia ‘Butterflies’, backlit and glowing in the diffuse light of a drizzly afternoon, are memories to carry somewhere other than on a computer hard drive. As we explored each of dozens of intricately designed and maintained island beds, Pam (as she’s known to her friends) kept up a running commentary and helped us to envision how the plantings would develop over the coming months.

It’s rare to meet someone so gifted in the use of plants and words; I realized later, on re-reading her last book, that many of the opinions and observations I’ve been making to anyone who’ll listen were Pam’s rather than mine. When I admitted this, by way of a clumsy compliment, her gracious response was that even Helen Keller had been accused of plagiarism for restating ideas internalized from the writings of others; I can’t, however, claim Miss Keller’s excuse for this behavior – only forgetfulness and a measure of attention deficit deficiency.
My reactions to the great gift of this tour have been mixed. Some hopelessness, I have to admit, that I will ever manage to get my garden under control enough to even deserve the name after seeing Pam’s; encouragement that I was able to keep up to some degree with her vast knowledge of horticulture and to identify a large percentage of the botanical treasures on display; the delight of receiving some choice plants I’ll treasure for many years to come; and, mostly, gratitude to these wonderful people for taking the time to spend the day with us and share the joy of their experiences as friends and gardeners. I was reminded of one of the great joys of my childhood and adolescence – long Sunday afternoons spent rambling through the woods of Southampton County with my grandmother as she identified and taught me to appreciate the indigenous flora and fauna. I can’t imagine a better way to spend one’s time.

They're Not Ephemeral - They Just Walk Funny

2008-03-15T02:18:00.000-07:00

Things seem to move very rapidly these days, both in life and in the garden. I think that’s a function of getting older. My favorite music professor used to say that getting older was like heading for a stop sign without slowing down; the sensation is one of moving faster and faster as the sign approaches. Some plants are designed to function this way, as well. They pack all of their growth, flowering, and seed production into the short season between the time of year when the days begin to warm and lengthen and the days in which available light and water begin to be absorbed by the demands of deciduous trees returning to active growth. These are collectively known as spring ephemerals, and they include some of my favorite plants.

Bulbs, of course, are the best examples of plants exhibiting this kind of growth cycle. Known more properly as geophytes, each of these plants has developed some technique for storing moisture and energy underground against the time when these commodities will be scarce. Great examples are Galanthus, the snowdrops, which are just finishing their bloom period here, and the spring flowering crocus, always a nice surprise when they show up around the yard. During the last very busy week I’ve run past hundreds of stunning daffodils as I’ve left for work and arrived home; they are some of the most amazing plants to grow, and the variety is staggering. I plant another couple of dozen every fall, even though it doesn’t seem that there’s one more inch of ground to be colonized. They interplant beautifully with later perennials (daylilies being their classic accomplice), which help to hide the foliage which many seem to find so objectionable (I’ve never understood this – why can’t we learn to enjoy and appreciate all stages of plant growth, including senescence? People need to realize that the "unsightly" foliage is the very source of next year's bloom, but they just don't seem to get it.) We have Narcissus in bloom for at least two months due to overlapping bloom periods. More notorious spring foliage is produced by Lycoris, daffodil (and, therefore, amaryllis) relatives which die down in the heat of summer, then produce their blooms between August and October, hence the nickname “Surprise Lilies” (aka “Naked Ladies” – more sensational, to be sure). I could go on and on about this family alone, and maybe sometime I will. There’s hardly a day during any season when one of the Amaryllids is not in bloom in this garden, and they are completely resistant to damage by rodents (and, I understand, deer).

Other ephemerals include Hepaticas, tiny, jewel-like ranunculids which poke their noses out and bloom off and on beginning in January, Sanguinaria, known as bloodroot, and another favorite genus, Trillium. These are really more appropriately grown in colder regions, but I’ve had good success with several species, especially when growing them in large containers along with other plants which don’t want any additional watering during the summer months. Trilliums make great companion plants for tree peonies, sharing the same basic growth period and enjoying a summer rest when the peonies are moved outside the range of the sprinkler to protect them from overwatering. Some of my favorites are T. underwoodii, in bud right now, its beautifully mottled leaves having been in evidence for more than a month, T. erectum album, producing gorgeous creamy flowers on sturdy stems, and happy enough to have produced a swarm of seedlings around its base, and a particularly good form of T. cuneatum (I think – this complex is so confusing that it’s hard to know exactly what species it might be). T. simile, T. grandiflora, and several others provide nice little surprises when they make their annual spring appearance. I love the book by Fred and Roberta Case, a labor of love by folks who live in a place where Trilliums are actually intended to grow. It’s an amazing work, and an endless source of information.

There are a couple of things I’ve learned about growing anything that experiences a dormant period, whatever the time of year. Labels are important. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve planted something right on top of a dormant bulb or rhizome; there’s nothing more sickening than the sound of a shovel slicing through a daffodil, especially if it’s one for which I paid more than $5 each (there are a few of these, I admit). Poking around in the soil with fingers before plants break ground in spring can also lead to big trouble (and lots of expletives). I have to tell myself that if a plant is dead, it’s already dead, and no amount of tactile reassurance will change this; if it’s going to grow, it’ll do so when it’s ready, and not before. Sometimes this works, sometimes not – I managed to pull one growth completely off of a dormant lady slipper last spring as I “investigated”. If it wasn’t deceased when I started prying, it was by the time I finished. Most importantly, when geophytes are dormant, they want to stay dormant – too much water during this time can be fatal, although some types (many daffodils and leucojum, for instance) can handle being interplanted with things that do receive summer watering.

In very broad terms, lots of things are ephemeral, and that’s one of the things I enjoy most about gardening. This quality is what provides seasonality and rhythm in the year for me. Hydrangeas and Gardenias always lift my spirits because they start to bloom as the school year begins to wind down. Conversely, from a veteran teacher’s perspective, at least, Sedum "Autumn Joy" has got to be saddled with the most oxymoronic cultivar name of all time. The spring ephemerals, though, are the most welcome, because they’re all about rebirth, anticipation, and hope. This is the point of any religious activity, which, in my book, definitely includes gardening.

Bathing with Orchids

2008-03-10T01:17:00.000-07:00

I’ve been gardening for at least 35 years now in some fashion, and I’m still learning as I go. If asked to name the most difficult aspect of the pursuit, I would put watering at the top of the list. It sounds like such a simple thing, but there are so many variables involved that one nearly has to develop a “sixth sense” over time in order to avoid what I believe is the number one recipe for gardening disaster, especially when growing in containers – overwatering.

I think I was lucky to begin growing epiphytic orchids at an early age, since there’s no better illustration of the way that plant roots function in (or even out of) a pot. Epiphytes in nature grow perched on tree branches, rocks, and even fences; included are plants from many families, notably orchids and bromeliads. Most of them are tropical in origin, although some (Spanish moss, for instance) do range into zone 7 on occasion. Their roots are designed to absorb water as it rushes across them, so they tend (and even this varies according to variety) to resent any potting medium which holds moisture against the root system for any length of time. These plants respond best to very high levels of ambient humidity, and would prefer to be inundated daily, as long as the roots can shed the water within a couple of hours at most. Some of mine are mounted on cork slabs or sticks of wood, with the roots totally exposed, and some are merely attached to wire hangers, with their roots dangling freely into the air.

The most extreme example in my collection is Angraecum sesquipedale, a monopodial (meaning it grows somewhat vertically from a single main stem) orchid from Madagascar which, many years ago, burst out of the clay pot in which it was growing. The pencil-thick roots now extend a good 3 feet below the ruins of the pot, and it produces 5 or six enormous, fragrant flowers at this time every year. It’s famous because Charles Darwin, on seeing the 18” (hence the Latin specific name), nectar bearing extension on the rear of each bloom, hypothesized that there must exist a nocturnal (this because the flowers are fragrant only at night) insect (it turned out to be a moth) which possessed a proboscis long enough for the orchid to have evolved in partnership with it as a potential pollinator. Mine is famous, in my house, at least, for being the only one of several hundreds of plants with which I shower on a daily basis while it’s in bloom. This is necessary for two reasons: my housemate loathes the sweet, but overpowering fragrance emanating from the blooms after sundown, so that it’s moved into the shower stall of my bathroom every evening before dinner; and dousing them is the best way to saturate those rope-like roots inside the house. Seeing me naked does not seem to have traumatized the plant yet, but I’m really glad it can’t talk, just the same.

At any rate, it has occurred to me in the last few years that almost all plants are epiphytic to some degree, in that the roots have a need for oxygen. Translation: it’s all about drainage. Realizing this has helped me to improve the growing conditions in our heavy clay soil as well as in the numerous containers I tend. I hoard perlite, oyster shells, and granite chicken grit for ramping up the drainage in potting mixes. The chicken grit I sometimes haul all the way home from our visits to western Pennsylvania, since it’s hard to locate here; ironically, it’s shipped there from North Carolina. I’ve also learned to add lots of extra drainage holes to pots, and not just on the bottom. Holes in the bottoms of pots are great, as long as the soil under them allows the water exiting said holes to run out, but if they’re sitting on clay, as many of mine are, holes drilled on the sides of the pots, near the bottom, are much more valuable. I tried covering these holes with landscape cloth, in order to save potting soil (a large percentage of the household budget goes in that direction), but even this caused pots to retain too much water for many plants. I’ve decided that even though some potting mix may eventually be lost to erosion, most of it will still end up on our property in some form.

I tried putting some scraps of plastic lattice under my stock hellebores, which are grown in four gallon plastic nursery pots, last summer, and found that this greatly improved drainage and aeration, thus resulting in many fewer plants being lost to “summer blight”.
As mentioned in a previous post, I’m experimenting this year with permeable fabric planting bags for hellebores and peonies, plants which require outstanding drainage to survive the summers here. I’m also installing water barrels to allow for the additional water I expect these containers will require, since moisture will hopefully evaporate from the entire outer surface of the container.

I was excited for a while about the availability of (very convincing, visually) fiberglass and foam half-barrel planters, and I now own dozens of them in various sizes. Unfortunately, they haven’t proven to be the perfect vessel in which to create mobile gardens. Although fiberglass will not break apart when it freezes, as does terra cotta, or rot away over time, as do half barrels, it just doesn’t “breathe” the way that clay or wood do. Some things do fine in these containers, especially after a major attack with the power drill on the sides last spring to create extra drain holes, but others are not faring as well. I’m in the process of hunting down real half barrels again, and pretty unsuccessfully, too, I have to admit. I’ve even discovered that their eventual deterioration may prove to be an asset over time. Deciduous azaleas are not at all fond of the clay in our yard, but they’ve done well for several years in half barrels. By the time the container rots away, the azalea has formed its own root ball which sits high and dry above the surrounding ground level (rampant Vinca major basically hides and shades the root ball). These plants appear perfectly happy to be growing in their own little “hummocks”, with only the base in contact with the actual native soil. This is high planting in the extreme, but it seems to work pretty well for anything susceptible to Phytophthera and other diseases, including Daphne, Gordonia, and Camellia.

A large percentage of my garden is growing now in identical 4 gallon black plastic nursery pots, which allows me to make the most of my small garden in that these can be rotated in and out of view as they come into bloom or growth. They're either nested in larger clay, fiberglass, or plastic planters (since all of the nursery pots match, they can be lifted in and out without disturbing the other plants in the larger containers), or concealed by the surrounding vegetation (out-of-control vinca, euphorbia cyparissias, and, yes, honeysuckle) or mulch. I'm still working out exactly what can be partnered in these containers - last year's major discovery was that South African bulbs (such as Eucomis and Galtonia) coexist well with tuberous gesneriads (Achimenes, Eucodonia, and Seemannia, for example), in that they both want moisture and light in the summer, but dry, cool winter storage. By grouping plants with similar cultural needs together, I don't spend hours every spring repotting each container. Seed grown Formosa lilies will share pot space this summer with red okra, which will cover the "bare knees" of the lilies and provide color and foliar contrast (not to mention ingredients for jambalaya). Dozens of pots containing daylilies and narcissus are coming into bloom in every odd corner of the yard right now; this is an idea I borrowed from the New York Botanical Garden, which has an enormous walk bordered by a combined planting of these two genera. Camellias can spend several years in these nursery pots, and it's a good thing, since I love to grow them from seeds and cuttings, and have amassed a huge collection over the years. One day, when I inherit a plantation, I can plant a camellia maze like the one at Magnolia Gardens outside Charleston. I wish I could say that I have (or take) the time to change out these pots as often as I'd like, but it's still easier than repotting gigantic containers three times a year.

So why do I grow all of these plants in containers anyway? Other than the aforementioned soil and drainage issues, there’s a nagging little voice in the back of my head that still wants to live on a much larger piece of land. I doubt it’ll ever happen, but if it ever does, I want to be able to take as much of my garden along with me as possible. After all, how could I even think of parting with a bathing partner of 15 years?

The Circle of Life

2008-03-02T01:52:00.001-08:00

Early March seems the appropriate time to discuss the growing of plants from seed, but it’s an activity that I enjoy (too much for my own good) all through the year. Watching plants germinate, especially after having sown their seeds many months before, is one of the most amazing events I can imagine, and it’s a relatively cheap thrill. In my garage right now are about a dozen fluorescent shop lights mounted on shelves left behind by our home’s previous owners, and they afford me the space and opportunity to garden throughout the darkest part of the year.

This facet of my gardening obsession began when I was a child. Every winter I would lie on the floor in my grandparent’s den and pore over the seed catalogs Granddad would get in the mail. One of my earliest memories of using math was in filling out his annual order to Burpee for tomato seeds – always Better Boy, and in later years, Celebrity. About a month later (the mail moved more slowly in those days), we’d repair to his furnace room out back and start the precious seeds in peat pots next to the small windows. About every other weekend we’d visit, and I was always amazed by the progress the little plants would make. In those days, I wouldn’t even consider eating a raw tomato (that attitude has changed dramatically, but, sadly, too late for Granddaddy to know about it); it was all about growing the plants for me. I still grow a few tomatoes from seed these days, but just a few grape varieties which are draped over the outside of the greenhouse during the summer to provide shade and drip clusters of fruit (most of which never make it into the kitchen) through the open vents. There are, however, thousands of other seedlings which pop up throughout the year in the garage garden, in my coldframes, and in various and sundry “recycled” containers tucked in corners throughout the property. I never know exactly where they’ll end up, since there’s no possible way to grow all of them to maturity on our tiny lot, but that doesn’t seem to deter me at all. In February and March I’m inundated by Hellebores; the only secret to germinating these is that the seed needs to be fresh when planted (usually May or June in these parts) and kept evenly moist for the next several months. They are a true “set it and forget it” project that never fails to produce amazing results. From seed to bloom may take 3 or 4 years, and often the results are disappointing (I’m not as careful as I should be in my hybridization, since they bloom at one of the busiest times in my work schedule), but a few from each batch are always worth keeping, and none is completely unattractive. Cyclamen, likewise, are a long-term project, since the seed ripens in June and waits until late fall to germinate, but they are totally rewarding to grow from seed, if one has the patience and can provide perfect drainage for the young plants as they grow.

Even more amazing are the genera which produce seed no bigger than dust – a tiny pinch of seeds or spores is more than enough to produce all the gesneriads and ferns that anyone could ever need, and then some. The seedlings are nearly invisible on germination (some, such as Ramonda myconi, are still nearly invisible 3 years later!), but soon form a film of green “moss” across the surface of the pot. Eventually leaves begin to differentiate, and the painstaking process of pricking them out and thinning must be undertaken to allow room for growth. This is tedious, and usually takes place on a dark winter night on the kitchen table, sometimes with the use of a magnifier. Bifocals are not a big help in this process, either. One must also be blessed with a patient partner to pull this off (plastic drop cloths can also go a long way toward preventing family strife.) Still, persistence yields results – all of these Coniogramme japonica (an evergreen fern I’m trialing for hardiness here) resulted from a tiny pinch of spores produced two summers ago. In the last year I’ve begun growing Bletilla orchids from the seeds which are produced by the many species and hybrids I've collected. I’d grown terrestrial and epiphytic orchids for over 30 years, but had never attempted seed culture, since most orchids have to be sown under sterile lab conditions on an agar-based medium, then grown on in flasks until they’re big enough to face the world. Having nothing to lose is a great motivator, though, and I tried sowing the seed from these beautiful, hardy-ish terrestrials just as I do gesneriads – the minute particles are tossed with very fine sand to aid in their distribution on the soil surface in a plastic container filled halfway with a combo of milled sphagnum moss and vermiculite, then spritzed with a mild fungicide solution and covered with a clear lid. Incredibly, hundreds have now germinated, and the first batch began blooming recently in the cool greenhouse. It’s been fun to create my own complex hybrids from these garden-worthy orchids, and I’m greedily hunting for space in the garden to allow some of these the room to grow and bloom.

Members of the Amaryllis tribe are another of my pet projects, and they are so ridiculously easy from seed (as long as they’re planted immediately upon ripening) that this year I’m considering planting out hundreds of assorted habranthus, cooperanthes, and zephyranthes (collectively known as rain lilies) in what we loosely call the lawn. I just can’t bring myself to discard the glossy black seeds that develop about 2 weeks after each bloom in the summer and fall, and as a result I have hundreds of pots bursting at the seams with tiny, crowded bulbs of every species (not to mention the hybrids produced by the bees). Crinums form enormous, rubbery seeds, some of which are the size of ping pong balls. They often begin to germinate before being detached from the scapes, and are great fun to grow with children, although it could be years before blooms are produced. Rhodophiala and Cyrtanthus are prolific (and fun to hybridize) as well, and I plan to test lots of these for hardiness this year as well. That’s one definite perk related to growing from seed – with lots of spare plants, I can afford to experiment. Another thing I love about growing from seed is the interaction with other gardeners on a global basis. I have Arisaema flavum and sikokianum just popping up from seed which arrived from Italy last month, and Heironymiella (an obscure Amaryllid for which I can find almost no cultural information) which traveled from Argentina in an envelope. The aforementioned Ramonda seed came from Wales, where they probably would rather have spent their lives, out of our sweltering summer heat. In an age where international shipping of live plant material has become increasingly difficult due to CITES and import regulations, seeds are still pretty easy to exchange. For someone whose travel opportunities are limited, this aspect of the gardening hobby helps to partially satisfy feelings of horticultural wanderlust.

Some seeds may never germinate. I’m still waiting on pots of Franklinia which have spent over a year tucked away in a shady corner, maintained in fairly consistent humidity within their zip-lock bag “ark”; I will admit that my hope for these is waning, since I recently read that isolated specimens (which mine is, for now) may fail to produce fertile seeds. I’ve learned, though, not to discard pots of seeds too quickly; tree peonies take two years to show themselves above ground, but they do eventually appear. So far I’m still waiting for blooms from blossoms pollinated nearly 9 years ago, but I consider this therapeutic; patience is not one of my virtues, and for this type of gardening, developing it is a necessity.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve decided that true wisdom may be based on the ability to see the cycles of nature, life, and human behavior with the perspective which can only be gained by living for a while. Growing plants from seed (especially those which are the product of one’s own garden) offers a window on this process, and a template for discerning the larger, more esoteric sequences of events which shape our lives, our nations, and even our planet. Pretty lofty stuff, and all from a handful of “dust”.

Gardening Podcasts

2008-02-24T02:56:00.000-08:00

One of the greatest inventions of the last 10 years must be the portable mp3 player. I spend most of my waking hours at home and at school with an ipod strapped to my waist (more than once, I’ve had colleagues and parents come up and ask, “How’s that insulin pump working for you?”). As I music teacher I have found it an invaluable classroom resource for playing audio and video files, and at home I entertain myself with it while driving, exercising, cleaning, and gardening. Its major appeal for me is the ready availability of audio and video podcasts from all over the world on any subject one might possibly imagine, and a number of these apply to the art and science of gardening.

As might be imagined, these podcasts vary widely in the quality of information being distributed, not to mention the level of production value and professionalism. Some are basically audio/video blogs posted by people like myself. These are usually pretty enjoyable, even if the information isn’t particularly scholarly; it’s like having a neighbor (albeit one who lives in a totally different climate zone) discuss his garden with you as you work on your own. These tend to come and go as the podcasters’ interests wax and wane, and, like blogs, the frequency with which they appear in my itunes playlist is sporadic, due to the vagaries of individual life schedules.

Another category of gardening podcast is the radio call in show, usually carried by a local PBS radio station and manned by a resident extension educator or horticulture professor. I find many of these enjoyable, but some are much more listenable than others for a number of reasons. First of all, though it’s obvious that most of the presenters of these programs are extremely knowledgeable, some are much more talented as broadcasters than others. Felder Rushing’s “Gestalt Gardener”, out of Mississippi Public Broadcasting, is one of the most entertaining listens available, whether or not one is interested in gardening (my roommate will listen to this gardening podcast, but not others.) A retired professor of horticulture and author of several solid (as well as slightly irreverent) gardening books, he aims to entertain, debunk myths, and encourage outright rebellion as he encourages gardening for the pure fun of it. Granted, the show’s sometimes light on hard information, and callers tend to get short shrift when it comes to getting a definite answer (which underscores the fact that there really ARE very few absolutes involved in gardening), but it’s always darned entertaining, and Rushing’s folksy delivery makes anything he says seem completely credible. He’s the Garrison Keillor of southern gardening.

Another favorite of mine originates in a tiny, low-power radio station at UC Davis; the signal is sometimes pitifully weak, and I have to turn my car radio volume all the way up to hear it, but I never miss an episode. Hosted by Don Shor and Lois Richter, the Davis Garden Show is packed with great information, some of which is applicable 3000 miles away, some not. Don’s wealth of knowledge is staggering, and he has an easy wit and delivery style which makes him very listenable. Lois is no gardening slouch, herself; though perhaps without as much formal gardening education or professional experience as her partner, she holds her own in discussions on most topics. She also has one of the most pleasant speaking voices on the radio anywhere. I haven’t seen a picture of her, but she sounds amazingly like Jamie Lee Curtis. I would credit this to the existence of a California accent, except that Lois hails originally from Michigan. There are very few callers, and this affords more time for Don and Lois to discuss timely topics in depth; the one regular caller, an obviously erudite, educated, and obsessive gardener (it takes one to know one), brings frequently arcane subjects into the mix and offers (sometimes unintentional) comic relief.

Speaking of voices, another podcast I enjoy is “Wiggly Wigglers”, produced by the eponymous British company which promotes and provides materials for worm composting (hence the name) and organic gardening. While most of the info applies mainly to farmers in the UK, I would listen to Heather Goering read the phonebook. She also has the best laugh since the woman who sang the role of Madame Thenardier on the cast album of Les Mis. Ditto for “Talkback Gardening” and “Highlights from the Garden Weekend”, a pair of Australian broadcasts. The accents and syntax alone are worth a weekly listen, although Australians in general do seem to punctuate every sentence uttered by another speaker with “yes...yes...yes...”

I’m a huge fan of Ken Druse’s writing and photography, and for over a year now I’ve really enjoyed the garden podcast which he hosts with Vicki Johnson from his home in New Jersey. I’m hoping that their recent preoccupation with politics and environmental concerns is just a way to tread water until the gardening season begins again in earnest. While I’m totally in favor of “green living”, to use the PC term, I’d rather hear gardeners of this magnitude talk about gardening. (Note - it's April now, and they're gardening again!)

There are some podcasts, which, sad to say, just don’t appeal to me. Jane Nugent’s garden show from Pittsburgh dispenses solid information, and the host is obviously knowledgeable, but is also obviously reading most of her copy, throwing in “my goodness” at least once in each paragraph in an effort to make her delivery sound extemporaneous. Jane seems like a very nice lady, but one who could benefit from the calming effect of a good, stiff drink. This, coupled with the generally poor audio quality of the podcast, makes it a tough listen for me. Ditto for Ralph Snodsmith’s “Garden Hotline” out of NYC; Mr. Snodsmith’s got voluminous background knowledge and experience, but his delivery is a bit too pat for me, he gets hung up on his own pet issues (I think a great drinking game could be formulated by requiring each player to take a swig every time Ralph says “emerald ash borer” on the air), and his treatment of callers is sometimes a bit brusque and dismissive. Not that I blame him on this last point – they’re generally asking pretty trivial questions. It must get tedious to explain how to rebloom an Amaryllis or Poinsettia for the hundredth time in a year. Not surprisingly, both of these big-city based podcasts tend to host a preponderance of urban callers whose gardening opportunities are limited to one sunny window.

An interesting paradox I’ve discovered from listening to garden podcasts of the call-in ilk is that many of the callers are not computer literate; when you think about it, if they were, they could find the answers to their questions in great detail and with copious illustrations on the internet. Anyone tech-savvy enough to be listening to a podcast on an ipod is probably familiar with using a search engine, and therefore not likely to benefit much from the questions of those whose information gathering skills are limited to dialing an 800 number, so the quality of the podcast has to depend more on the host’s background and delivery style than on their responses to frequently inane questions. Felder Rushing, for instance, almost never gives callers useful answers to their questions over the air (although he does answer emails in depth, from what I understand), but I tune in week after week for the entertainment value.

Speaking of pure entertainment value, you can’t beat the “Gardening Australia” video podcast. Gorgeous gardens full of plants I’ve barely (or never) heard of are beautifully photographed at the height of the season, which happens to occur when our gardening year hits rock bottom, and it’s all presented with humor and a plethora of solid information (and again with those Aussie accents!) I let out an audible squeal of glee last week when the first episode began to download, after several weeks of hiatus.

It’s obvious that the information age has changed all aspects of life in amazing ways, and the gardening hobby is no different. I’m glad to have so many entertainment options which make some pretty onerous tasks more bearable, and I’d secretly love to produce my own podcast one day. For now, however, I’m enjoying listening; it’s like gardening with friends who don’t expect thoughtful responses, borrow your tools, or want refreshments when they visit.

Hellebore Heaven

2008-02-17T02:18:00.000-08:00

Hellebore Heaven

The best thing about February, other than my father’s having been born on Valentine’s Day, is that the hundreds of Helleborus species and hybrids in my collection come into bloom. If I had to name a favorite plant and flower, it would be one of these. I started growing and hybridizing them about 15 years ago, before many of the spectacular new varieties were available in the United States, scrounging plants and exchanging seeds from all over the world. I still have some of my original plants, and I probably should get rid of them, because they pale in comparison to some of my more recent acquisitions and many of my newer seedlings, and are probably hampering my efforts to improve certain strains by crossbreeding with them. Culling is the toughest part of plant breeding – I have an incredibly difficult time with consigning any healthy plant to the compost – but it’s also necessary when interbreeding can occur as readily as it does among the Hellebores. I promise myself that I’ll label some of the “dogs” (which are still beautiful, each in its own way) and donate them to plant sales this spring. Because it takes about 3 years to grow the plants from seed to bloom, I have tons of seedlings in cold frames this winter, in pots from 3 inches to 4 gallons, all waiting to be evaluated. Every year I tell myself not to save and plant seeds – there isn’t room – but every year I grow another couple of hundred. The new ones (planted last June) are just now breaking ground as the weather begins to open up. There’s so much information on varieties and growing techniques available online (and in the great recent book on the subject by Judith Knott Tyler and C. Colston Burrell) that I won’t try to reproduce any of that here. I have, however, learned a couple of interesting facts about growing hellebores in southeastern Virginia.

Hellebores will flower in the shade, but I find they grow and bloom much better with at least half a day of sun (preferably in the morning). The caulescent Hellebores (argutifolius, foetidus, lividus, and their hybrids) prefer as much sun as they can get. The healthiest of my H. x hybridus (descended from the clump-forming species) grow at the feet of rose bushes where they are exposed to full sun for about 9 months of the year, but shaded during the hottest part of the summer by the roses themselves and the Salvia guaranitica which runs rampant throughout the bed as well. H. niger, the “Christmas Rose”, usually doesn’t bloom here for Christmas, but for the last two years it’s arrived around New Year’s Day. These seem to do better here in large containers than in the ground (I heavily amend the soil to counteract the natural acidity of our heavy clay), and my favorite plant (supposedly) descends from a famous strain called “Potter’s Wheel”. Its blooms can reach five inches in diameter, and very often a second crop is produced in May or June. The only disappointment for me regarding this species is the difficulty I have in germinating and growing on the seed; my few plants produce large amounts, but it germinates poorly, and the resulting seedlings are usually so weak that they don’t survive our hot, humid summers. (Note added April 20, 2008: This year, for the first time, I have hundreds of healthy H. niger seedlings ready to transplant - a good lesson in persistence!)

Because of serious drainage issues (there isn’t much here), I’m growing many of my best plants in pots. Hellebores have done well for me in half barrels and large clay pots; I have been using fiberglass planters for larger plants as well, but I’ve found that these require lots of perforation to allow for enough drainage, and that the soil used in them needs to be highly amended. This year I’m experimenting with planting in “grow bags”, flexible containers sewn from heavy duty landscape fabric which hold anywhere from five to ten gallons of soil. They aren’t all that attractive, but my plan is to group them together and disguise the fabric with pine straw; their flexibility should allow them to be butted up together to simulate a raised bed. I discovered these when visiting a nursery in DC which was using them to hold containerized tree peonies (another member, along with Helleborus and Clematis, of the Ranunculus tribe.) The bags drain really well, even when filled with pure potting soil, but so far I’ve found only one source which will sell to retail customers, and their service hasn’t been great. I’m growing about 50 plants in bags this year, and I’m hoping this simplifies the container growing process. Even with thoughtful placement, careful watering, and the liberal use of perlite and granite grit as soil additives, two or three plants will develop crown rot every August when the air gets hot, humid, and still. It’s easy to spot, even from a distance – the usually glossy leaves take on a decidedly matte finish as the roots and stems decay, becoming unable to send any water or nourishment to the plant’s extremities. Usually death occurs within a matter of days, but sometimes I manage to salvage part of a plant by employing triage methods – washing all the soil from the roots, cutting away all of the rotten roots and rhizome, soaking the remainder in a fungicide, and repotting in fresh potting mix. I got lucky in this way with one of my few double varieties (these are much rarer and hard to get than the singles) last summer, and it has a few blooms now.

The success of tissue culture is a recent development in the world of hellebore breeding, and has already resulted in thousands of identical plants flooding the market through mass retail outlets. Part of the appeal of Hellebores for me has always been their elusiveness; you had to buy them in bloom to know exactly what you were getting, and still we have to travel great distances to visit growers of quality plants. Next Saturday I’m hoping to visit what I think of as “Hellebore Heaven” – Pine Knot Farms (run by Judith Knott Tyler, who co-wrote the aforementioned “bible” of Hellebores) in Clarksville, VA. They hold their “Hellebore Festival” for only two weekends late each winter, and it is a spectacular place to visit; acres and acres of woodlands filled with blooming plants in the dead of winter, not to mention hundreds of their hybrids for sale in full bloom in the nursery area.
Even Pine Knot has begun offering plants produced by tissue culture, including this gorgeous semi-double H. niger variety called “Double Fantasy”. I’m glad such rare plants are becoming widely available, and this may, in the end, help to cure my obsession with this genus. Once plants identical to those in my garden begin showing up at Walmart and Trader Joe’s, I suspect they’ll cease to hold the same cachet for me as in the past. I got over growing Phalaenopsis and Cattleya orchids for that reason (aided and abetted by a nasty scale infestation which claimed most of my collection). For now, however, I’m glad I have these spectacular plants to lure me into the garden on the very rare occasion when I’m home in February during daylight hours.

Winter Protection and Pyrrhic Victories

2008-02-09T01:50:00.000-08:00

I'm all about experimentation in the garden, which, I suppose, is why mine looks so much like a mad scientist's laboratory most of the time. I go to crazy lengths to provide winter protection for marginally hardy plants at both ends of the hardiness continuum for zone 7b, and sometimes it crosses my mind to do a cost/benefit analysis of all of the effort, silliness, and downright ugliness these projects produce. One such example is Arbutus unedo 'Compacta', the vegetative portions of which are apparently quite hardy and happy to grow in our front yard, directly across from the entrance to the house. Its main attraction is the fact that it produces trusses of fragrant, urn-shaped blossoms simultaneously with ripening fruits which resemble nothing so much as bright red Crunch Berries, and it does all of this during the holiday season. That is, unless the ripening fruit is knocked off by a hard December freeze, the opening blooms (on which the following year's fruits depend) are k-o'd by same, or it's too blasted cold for any potential pollinator to venture out as the flowers are being produced. That's why mine is festooned with Christmas lights through mid-April and covered in a shroud of spun-bonded row cover throughout the worst of the winter weather. I have to admit that it presents a strange view, both to visitors and to us as we gaze out the front door. Is it worth it? Absolutely, considering it's the only one I've ever seen growing in the area, and the fact that Crunch Berries are among my favorite fruits (if only these tasted like the real thing!) I even dutifully untie the fabric cover on warm mornings, just in case a bee or two might venture out into the sunshine in search of a meal.

There are numerous other plants requiring winter life support of one sort or another, for insurance, if nothing else. Of the dozen or so “hardy” palms in the garden, I mulch the bases of a few, such as Chamaerops humilis; in past years this one has lost its outer leaves during cold snaps, only to replace them during the warm season. Most of the Sabal and Trachycarpus species fall into this category as well (except T. fortunei – I figure it’s widely available in case of disaster, and I draw the line at protecting something that grows with no care at every Mexican eatery in town!), but I do afford T. latisectus and T. nanus the extra protection of surrounding them with “Walls-o-Water” (sold mainly for the purpose of getting a jump on the tomato season), mainly because I have no replacements for them coming along in the greenhouse. These stand out in the winter landscape like sore thumbs, but my collecting mania allows me to reframe the offensive little teepees as garden art, to a degree. I can’t say the same for the neighbors, the letter carrier, or even my mother, but that’s another story.

All of the Cannas, Hedychiums, and Musella lasiocarpa get as many leaves piled over their crowns as I can rescue from the neighbors’ curbs on the night before garbage day, as does Musa basjoo. Musa velutina is protected by a bottomless barrel (also “liberated” on a Sunday evening collecting trip) turned upside down over an inverted tomato cage which is filled with leaves. This assembly looked a little strange, so I topped it off with a gazing ball ($1.37 at Walmart during an after-holiday sale – it’s really a ginormous, tacky plastic Christmas ball); the resulting product looks even stranger, but I have hopes that the ornamental pink bananas produced next fall will make the whole exercise worthwhile.

All of this is a lot of trouble, not to mention hideous, in its own way, but at least there’s a payoff during the warm season. The things I consider failures fall into two categories – things that die anyway (too numerous to mention), and things that survive, but aren’t worth the effort due to ill-timed bloom, etc. These are, of course, among the most disappointing. Lots of tuberous gesneriads are proving fairly hardy here in Tidewater; many of the Sinningias have been resoundingly successful, as have some Achimenes, and Eucodonias, along with such oddballs as Tremacron aurantiaca and Titanotrichum oldhammii. I had high hopes for Seemannia sylvatica (this one's blooming in the greenhouse); it wintered over (albeit during a mild winter, and under mulch), and developed a gorgeous clump of foot-high foliage with red stems. On about December 15 I noticed that it was loaded with flower buds; these promptly froze to death about a week later. My theory is that some plants from near the equator are programmed to bloom during shorter days than we have in the summer, so they make vegetative growth during our growing season, but wait until it’s too late to bloom. Sometimes, even in the garden, one wins the battle, but loses the war. Luckily, Gloxinia nematanthodes, more prostrate than the Seemannia, but otherwise pretty similar in bloom, seems perfectly hardy, producing dozens of small tubers and blooming in the ground and in containers from midsummer to frost.

Then there are the things which would be perfectly hardy through the winter, if only they could survive the warmth and humidity of July and August in coastal Virginia. I love tree peonies, but I struggle all summer to keep them free of mildew and fungus. Despite my best efforts, lots of branches are lost to dieback every year. Some hardy orchids are heartbreaking in this climate as well; Cypripediums try to break dormancy during our first week of warm weather, only to be threatened by frost the next day. They sleep under a deep mulch of pine needles all winter; sometimes we mulch to keep things from freezing, sometimes in order to keep things frozen. This is true even for Bletillas, the most nearly foolproof of the temperate orchids; dozens of bloom stems were frozen solid during a mid-April snowstorm (which was, ironically, our ONLY snowfall in 2007). One of my resolutions for this spring is to resist pulling back the mulch too soon this year, but this week we had two days with highs in the upper 70's; with weather as mercurial (pun intended) as that, judgement calls become difficult indeed.

I know there are gardeners much more accomplished than I who would tell me to give up on things that require coddling to survive in any given climate. This is one of the recurring themes espoused by garden guru and iconoclast Felder Rushing on his eminently entertaining podcast, “The Gestalt Gardener”, and if I were giving advice to most gardeners, I’d say the same. For me, however, the joy of gardening has been in experimenting and pushing the envelope. If it’s growing all over town, I don’t want it (okay, that’s what I say now, but wait until July when I’m looking for space to shoehorn in just one more daylily...) What can I say? Giving in to an obsession can be a lot cheaper than psychotherapy (until you factor in the cost of Cypripediums and tree peonies...)