Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Rosa hemisphaerica The Sulfur Rose

It's been a good year for the sulfur rose, Rosa hemisphaerica: My small plant produced twenty-four flower buds, and almost to the last one they opened well. I had to give one or two buds a nudge in the way of a light pinch, but even those opened properly. What a treat to see this ancient plant flowering freely!

The unusual weather had something to do with it.There has been plenty of rain, yet the days have mostly been sunny, dry and breezy. When the weather does not cooperate, the buds ball badly.

Monday, May 26, 2014

Rosa 'White Bath': Sergeant Cuff's rose

Sergeant Cuff is a character from The Moonstone of Wilkie Collins. And just as The Moonstone is the prototype of a whole class of mystery stories, Cuff is the prototype of Sherlock Holmes,  Hercule Poirot and all the others between and since: the sort who come with the recommendation that “when it comes to unravelling a mystery, there isn't the equal in England” as Collins put it. After Cuff is introduced in the story and we are given several dozen pages to see what he is like, a totally unexpected side of his until then seemingly strict and all-business character is revealed: Cuff is in the garden having a talk with Mr. Begbie, the gardener of Julia, Lady Verinder; as Cuff and Begbie share a bottle of Scotch whisky they argue over this:  “whether the white moss rose did, or did not, require to be budded on the dog rose to make it grow well.” 

The gardener said yes, Cuff said no.

The rose which was the topic of that discussion is shown above: this is the true white moss rose. And Cuff must have been right: my plant is not budded on dog rose but rather is on its own roots. The Moonstone was published in 1868, a time when moss roses were enjoying a huge vogue in Victorian England. By then hybridizers had started several different breeding lines of moss roses, and the true old white moss was not the only white moss making the rounds. But surely someone of Sergeant Cuff’s level of discernment would have held out for the original!

It’s difficult to write with certainty about the history of the white moss rose: it seems to have existed in the late eighteenth century; on the other hand, it may have occurred spontaneously several times back then. How can that be? It’s because the pink moss rose, of which the white (or the several whites as the case may be) is itself a sport of the pink rose known back then and to some even now as “Rosa centifolia” or "the cabbage rose". All of these presumably derive from a single seed which germinated hundreds of years ago. The plant from that seed spontaneously mutated many times over the years to produce forms with pink and/or white un-mossed flowers and ultimately pink and/or white mossed flowers.  

 At the beginning of the nineteenth century, three white mosses were making the rounds: 'Shailer’s White', 'White Bath' and 'Clifton Moss'. One point of view is that these were all the same plant. Another point of view is that at least two of them, 'Shailer’s White' and 'White Bath', are distinct. To this day, it happens that white-flowered moss roses revert to pink occasionally.

Uncertainty about its history is only part of the story; in addition to ‘White Bath’ there are other white-flowered moss roses, and more than one author in the past has tripped up on the identity of the plant they were growing. And the plants in commerce have been confused for decades.

Perhaps I should add that I think my plant is the real thing, but who knows what the rosarians of the future will think.

Whatever it is, it has the qualities for which rose lovers have praised the white moss for centuries: the intense and characteristic fragrance of the flowers and the extensive growth of the sepals with their soft, resinous moss with its own distinctive fragrance.  

When the season for once-blooming roses arrives, it’s time to disconnect the phone and the television and turn off the computer and radio. People in today’s thoroughly wired world find it hard to understand why someone would willingly withdraw from social contact during the blooming season of certain plants: but gather your rose buds while ye may, indeed: this treasure among the roses is with us for a week or two only each year, and even a stay in the refrigerator can prolong that just  so much. 

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Tree peony time

It's tree peony time again, and this year it comes with weather which is not too friendly to this favorite flower. On several of the days when the flowers were opening the temperature came close to 90 degrees F. Under those conditions, the flowers can be literally ephemeral. This quick passing of the blooms has caused more than one commentator to question the role of tree peonies in our gardens. I'll bet there are a lot of gardens where one grows tucked away in some corner to be appreciated in its hours of glory and then forgotten for another year.

There is a way to enjoy them for a week or two: I now cut the blooms as soon as they are fully developed and then store them in the refrigerator. The earliest of the Japanese tree peonies open about a week or even more before the yellow-flowered sorts do; it's rare to see them in bloom together in the garden. But stored blooms last well, and while they last they can be removed for an hour or two now and then for table decoration - and then returned to the refrigerator.

Several years ago I staged a big group of my refrigerated tree peony flowers: the effect was really sumptuous.  The plants did so well this year that it seemed an opportunity not to be missed to stage them again. That's what you see in the image above. You should have seen the refrigerator - it was stuffed.

The grouping seen above was put together hastily (lest the blooms fall apart) about an hour ago. I won't be surprised if those flowers are on the floor tomorrow morning. 

Monday, February 24, 2014

Snowdrops jostling in the breeze

Finally,  things are starting to happen in the garden! Today we had winter aconites, tommies and several sorts of snowdrops. The snowdrops were so pretty as they moved in response to light breezes. If you look carefully, you will briefly see a fly visiting the blooms.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Spit on your smallage

One more yard

The Pacific Bulb Society had a discussion this week about the meaning of the word "yard". Because that list serve draws its contributors from all over the world, and because the meaning of English words sometimes varies from country to country, we frequently find ourselves reliving the old quip about the United States and other English-speaking countries being countries separated by the same language. 
That on-line discussion covered several usages of the word "yard". But until I brought it up today, the discussion had  omitted one yard which intrigues me, one which has long filled me with a sense of queasiness or downright revulsion. John Parkinson, in his account of celery (which he knew as sweet parsley or sweet smallage) in his  Paradisus of 1629, mentions that the first place he saw it was in a Venetian ambassador’s garden near Bishop’s Gate Street in London. So far, so good – but Parkinson also states that the celery grew in the spittle yard of that establishment. If you’ve ever grown celery, you know that it needs lots of water; was the celery planted in the spittle yard to take advantage of the abundant, moist sputum expectorated by loitering Jacobean dandies?

I first read that passage decades ago, and to this day I can’t look at celery without remembering it – and then washing my celery very carefully.   

Public expectoration – spitting –   is not nearly as common now as it once was.  Those who spit in public now are apt to get the “keep your dirty germs to yourself” look.

And it isn’t just spitting which is now generally eschewed. A few summers ago I was walking Biscuit down near the local park. We were heading home, and as we approached the traffic intersection there, I noticed a group of four young men approaching. Something about them gave me the impression that they did not belong, that they were somehow out of place. It may have been their clothing. As I got closer, I could hear them and realized that they were speaking French. As I passed them, one of the group broke away, walked over to a nearby bush and began to relieve himself. How very French.  Had my French been better, I would have told him that the park down the street had a Porta Potty. I don’t even know the French word for Porta Potty. The bush was a big viburnum, and since then I’ve thought of it as the pissoir bush. Up until then I had been ambivalent about the odor of the flowers of that plant; now it resides firmly in the “smelly” category.

What’s the sociological significance of this: as public urination has now become relatively infrequent among  American men, breast feeding in public has become more frequent among some American women?       

The discussion of yards on the PBS list serve hardly exhausted the possibilities. This sort of preoccupation with classifying things always reminds me of early nineteenth century taxonomist Constantine Samuel Rafinesque-Schmaltz. Here are some highlights of his life, drawn mostly from the Wikipedia account. He was born in a suburb of Constantinople to a French father and German mother.  He died in, of all places,  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA!  He never attended a university and was largely self-taught, yet at one point he was on the faculty of Transylvania University in Kentucky. The Wikipedia account claims that he taught himself “perfect Greek and Latin”, yet the etymology of some of the names of genera he established defy  explanation. Unlike modern taxonomists who generally have a well-defined and narrow field of study, Rafinesque classified everything in sight: plants, animals, fungi, minerals and so on. The author of an article in American Heritage magazine years ago  gave his classification for the various grades of thunder.

Where is he now that we need him: did he have a classification of yards? If he did, it’s now sadly lost.

In addition to the Wikipedia entry, here is a link with more information about him:

Some of the pronunciations given in the footnotes to this article are in the best
Rrafinesquian tradition and  strike me as bizarre.

Update: after posting a small part of this to the Pacific Bulb Society list serve, I got a quick response from Paige Woodward of Pacific Rim Nurseries. She pointed out that the word spittle yard is probably an alternate spelling for spital yard, as in hospital yard. And she provided this link:

Now to chill a bit and listen to some music composed by Vivaldi for the occupants of the Ospedale della Pietà.


Sunday, January 5, 2014

The crocophile and the cook's fork

 At about this time last year I was still enjoying the surprisingly wide array of blooms which could be gathered in the garden. In retrospect, the image I posted of blooms gathered on Christmas 2012 seems almost like a boast now. And the New Year’s Day lists were long and interesting that season. What a contrast the last few months have been. Abnormally low temperatures and seemingly relentless wind made late autumn and early winter downright unpleasant for the gardener. The weather people are predicting low temperatures on Tuesday which, if they happen,  will be the lowest we have experienced in twenty years.
Now on to another topic. One hundred years ago this year E. A. Bowles published his My Garden in Spring. I dug out my copy tonight to check on something about which I had a vague memory. I remember Bowles mentioning his favorite implement for a certain sort of weeding: a cook’s fork. I found the passage in the crocus chapter, and there Bowles confesses to raiding the household cutlery drawers for various ad hoc substitutes for the trowel or whatever he could not find.  No doubt Bowles and I are not the only gardeners who have discovered that the kitchen supplies implements with a totally unexpected and facile utility in the garden.
I probably read the cook’s fork passage for the first time thirty or so years ago. In that passage Bowles recommends the local Army Navy store as a likely source for the forks. Long ago I worked in such a store, but I don’t recall seeing anything which answered to a cook’s fork. On the other hand, two examples of this class of fork have been in our kitchen cutlery drawers for over a half century. That’s what you see in the image above. In the 1950s one of my father’s younger brothers was an Army cook stationed in what was then West Germany. Before leaving Germany, he either sent back or brought with him sets of Rosenthal china for his sisters and sisters-in-law. The Rosenthal china is still in the family, and I’m pretty sure it has been used only once in its over-half century residence here. The arrival of the china was greeted with some excitement and celebration by mom; the arrival of the cook’s forks, presumably at about the same time, was probably ignored.
Until the Internet and Google came along, tracing the identity and background of something so mundane as a fork would have involved tracking down a collector or similar expert. I would not have known where to begin back then. But yesterday, while absentmindedly examining one of the two forks, I noticed this on the back of the handle: there was a rectangular box with the letters OXYDEX, then a square box with a four-leaf clover design, then another rectangular box with the letters ROSTFREI (this is the German word for stainless). You can see this in the lower of the images above. I Googled OXYDEX ROSTFREI and effortlessly entered a very busy world of information about German stainless cutlery. There was more there than I had the patience to deal with then, so I’ll be back again later to see what I can dig up.

I was perhaps not yet in my teens when we acquired these two forks. Dare I expect them to adapt to a new life in the garden? 

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Iris unguicularis the winter iris (and a late June look-alike)

I'll bet that most gardeners, if they have any concept of winter-blooming garden irises at all, would think of the late winter blooming reticulate irises. Those who have checked out the genus iris a bit more thoroughly might be aware of some of the winter blooming scorpiris (Juno) species such as Iris rosenbachiana. But by and large these are specialists' plants which require careful management if they are to persist from year to year.

But as more and more of us in the greater Washington, D.C. area are discovering, there is another winter-blooming iris which, if carefully sited, deserves consideration as a reliable garden plant. That iris is Iris unguicularis in its several forms.

Looking back over the last ten or twenty years in this garden, I think one of the greatest sources of pleasure has been the discovery that yes, we can grow and flower Iris unguicularis in our climate. Forty or so years ago when I first attempted this plant the results were not good: although the plant itself survived from year to year, it never produced flowers. It did produce buds, but they always froze before opening.

I don't think there is another species of iris which has a longer period of bloom: the plants here bloom from early November into early April. The flowers generally come one or two at a time, although when conditions are just right the clumps might be ringed with bloom. And the individual blooms are substantial: they remind me a lot of the blooms of the late June blooming Iris brevicaulis (foliosa). I've included an image of Iris brevicaulis for comparison.

Three forms of this winter iris are grown here. Two are typical large forms, one is the small form often listed as Iris cretensis. The two large ones came without labels  from the local gardens of friends. In a sense, there is also a fourth form here, the plant known as Iris lazica. This one typically begins to bloom later than the others.

In the images above, you see first the two large forms, then the small, narrow leaved Iris cretensis, and then for comparison Iris lazica and Iris brevicaulis. Iris unguicularis, I. cretica and I. lazica are native to various sites in the Mediterranean region from northwestern Africa to the Black Sea. Some of the Greek forms show intense color combined with vivid patterning.  Iris brevicaulis is presumably not at all closely related to these as irises go: it's native to the south central United States.

The images of Iris unguicularis and I. cretica were taken today; the images of I. lazica and I. brevicaulis are from previous years.

I've seen these winter-blooming irises growing well and blooming freely in several local, northern Virginia gardens. Here in my garden the Iris cretensis and one of the Iris unguicularis are in cold frames; one of the Iris unguicularis grows in the open right against a sunny wall. And they all get covered in bitter weather. That's a small price to pay to have such big, colorful flowers in the garden during the winter.  

Monday, December 2, 2013

Crocus biflorus melantherus

Forms of Crocus biflorus have been in cultivation for over four hundred years, although I don't think it has ever become a common crocus in American gardens.  Almost all of these bloom in late winter with the other "spring" crocuses. The one shown above is an exception: it blooms in November. The black anthers and the season of bloom make it hard to confuse with any other crocus likely to be seen in local gardens.
I acquired this in 2005, and for several years it bloomed faithfully on schedule. Then it disappeared. A season or two later, it reappeared about a yard from the place where it was planted. Then a year passed with no bloom, and I thought it was gone for good. But this year one flower appeared mixed with some other crocuses which once grew near the original site for Crocus biflorus melantherus. I photographed that flower yesterday, but when I examined the image, I realized that one of the tepals was torn. So I've substituted an image from 2006. 

Friday, September 27, 2013

Tidewater delivers happy endings!

Back in February I got an irresistible offer from Tidewater Workshop, the manufacturer of Atlantic white cedar garden furniture: their basic four foot bench was being offered for a price that was hard to resist. The ad mentioned that there might be a delay in delivery. I placed an order for two benches, and a few days later the charge appeared on my credit card bill.

This has been such an eventful year in our household that I hardly noticed as the weeks passed. Soon, it had become a matter of months passing. Concerned, I tried to contact the company. Many repeated phone calls brought only a recorded message. Messages left went unanswered. An attempt at email resulted in a bounced message. At this point I began to be concerned, concerned not just for my money but also for the health of this company which produces a unique product. The economic downturn has hurt so many small companies which deal in horticultural and garden related products; many nurseries and mail order companies have either shut down for good or have reorganized, sometimes beyond recognition. Was Tidewater about to be swallowed up in the decline?

Yesterday my sister came over to give me some time to get out and get some fresh air. Before leaving the house, we sat around and talked for a while, mostly of the ebb and flow of family matters. At a lull in the conversation, I mentioned the bench saga; the most recent episode of that story being the results of a Google search on the company’s name.  It quickly became apparent that I was not the only one waiting for benches. It sure seemed that Tidewater had tanked, and that I would never see my benches or my money.

What happened next would have been considered an improbable deus ex machina maneuver in a play or novel, but this time it was real life. I got my things together to leave the house, got into the car, slowly began to back out, and noticed a small, nondescript pickup truck approaching. I pulled back into the driveway to allow it to pass; as it got closer, I got a look at what was in the bed of the truck.  It was the color of the wood which caught my eye first: the truck was hauling something made of recently  cut conifer wood. As the truck slowly pulled by me, I could see that the somethings were benches. I didn’t recognize the driver or the truck, but it sure looked as if one of the neighbors had been out shopping for garden benches. And then the truck slowed down, turned around and parked next door. By this time I had already started to pull out of the driveway, but my mind was racing and something deep in my consciousness kept saying, unlikely as it seemed,  “don’t go, don’t go, those might be your benches”.

I got out of the car and walked over to the truck. I didn’t see anything on the truck to suggest that it was from Tidewater, but as the driver got out I called out in a questioning tone “Tidewater?”  The driver, Peter, gave me a big smile and began unloading benches.  There was an older man with him: Peter introduced him as his dad. Why, I wanted to know, wasn’t dad at home sitting in the shade instead of unloading benches from a truck?

I couldn’t believe it: only twenty minutes before I had been telling my sister the sad tale of the benches. Now, totally unexpected, here they were. I was happy, I was a little confused: this sort of surprise was so much more exciting than the anonymous drop off from one of the major delivery companies.  And Peter turned out to be so affable and  upbeat. I told him about my problems contacting the company, about my concerns that it might not still be a going concern; he gave me a quick rundown of the reorganization efforts his company is making as they respond to new markets and new ways of doing business in the age of the internet. They are a thriving company and have plenty of orders to keep them busy. All the while we were moving the benches to our lawn, Peter was giving some bench care instructions: he cautioned me that my intended use, to use the benches indoors by the fireplace in the basement, might result in the wood drying too quickly and eventually developing small splits. He suggested taking some sandpaper to the rough edges, and painting or coating the benches. He kept referring to the wood as cypress, Maine cypress I thought I heard him say, and just as I began to wonder if he knew his woods, he mentioned “but it’s all Chamaecyparis thyoides”. Bull’s-eye: for those of you not into dendrology, that’s Atlantic white cedar.

By now my sister had joined us, and Peter gave us a good laugh when he said he didn’t have any trouble deciding  which house should get the delivery : it's always the one overflowing with plants, obviously.   

The change I like best is their delivery system: it was great to be able to meet Peter and share his enthusiasm for his company and what they are doing. 

Now I’m off to make some biscuits to put into the little tray provided, gratis, with the benches.   

I like happy endings!

You can see Tidewater’s current offerings here:

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Cobaea scandens

If you don't know what this is, and you see it in someone's garden, I'll bet you won't believe that it is an annual vine, an easily grown annual vine. It has the substantial look of a perennial, and that in fact is what it is in its native Mexico. But it's hard to believe that you will get so much effect from something you planted out  in May. It does well under local conditions and thrives in the heat and humidity of our summers. It has no special needs in the way of soil or fertilization. It gets off to a slow start, but once it is established it grows as freely as a morning glory. So far I have not noticed any pest problems.

And the flowers are magnificent. They are about the size of a hen's egg, a large one at that. Whenever I see the flowers the first thing which comes to mind is the florists' gloxinia: the shape and size are about the same. But the two plants are not related. What Cobaea is related to will come as a surprise to most people: it's a member of the phlox family, Polemoniaceae.

For earliest bloom, I start the seeds indoors in April. The large, brown, flat, papery seeds sprout slowly, and the resulting seedlings seem to sit for a while before taking off. 

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Colchicum 'Nancy Lindsay'

This has turned out to be a good doer here, and over the years it has increased slowly but steadily. Here you see it in the late afternoon sun, its color much enhanced by that circumstance. All of the pink flowered colchicums look best at this time of day. In the full sun of mid-day their colors can seem washy.

Have I got the name right? With colchicums that often seems a fair question. But this cultivar has a distinguishing mark: the flush of color on the “stem” of the flower. “Stem” is in quotes because this flower does not have a stem: everything above ground is part of the flower itself, not a stem.

This colchicum is one of two plants I grow with connections to Nancy Lindsay. The other is the found rose now called ‘Rose de Rescht’ which Lindsay is said to have found in the Iranian Caspian Sea coastal town of Rascht (the name has come into the Roman alphabet in several forms). See here for an interesting history of this rose:

And see here for a brief sketch of Nancy Lindsay’s life:

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Lycoris aurea mercatorum

This is the plant, or one of the plants, which is offered as Lycoris aurea in the mass distribution catalogs. It's one of the less cold hardy species of the genus Lycoris: the foliage will be destroyed or badly damaged in a bad winter. In those cases, the bulbs survive in a weakened condition, and after several iterations of  the winter killing of the foliage the plants disappear. At least that has been my experience with them. Those of you who know this plant only from the experience of recent years might be unpleasantly surprised to see what happens when we once again have a real winter.

It grows well in a cold frame, and now that I've seen it in bloom I'll be a little more accepting of the mound of leaves it produces. It's less than two feet high, so this is not one of the taller species. The foliage of this plant is wider than that of the other commonly grown lycorises.

The name I've used here for it, Lycoris aurea mercatorum, is not one you're likely to find in any reference book.  "Mercatorum" means "of the merchants", and is a designation which was used by authors in times past to indicate that the plant in question does not appear to be the rightful claimant to the name.

Is this Lycoris traubii? I don't know. I welcome suggestions. 

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Caladium 'Frieda Hempel'

Caladiums take very well to our summer weather, and if you decide to try them, don't be afraid to put them out in the full sun. I've found them tricky to winter successfully, perhaps because I expect them to go from full, lush growth to dry dormancy in a matter of a week or two.

The one shown above is named for the German soprano Frieda Hempel, one of the great singers from the early part of the twentieth century. Most of Hempel's recordings are acoustical recordings  made a century ago, and some of the reissues of them seem to have speed or pitch problems, so it's sometimes hard to form an accurate impression of her voice. She seems to have had an unusually beautiful timbre for a so-called coloratura soprano, and her range and flexibility seem to have been awesome. She was on the roster at the Metropolitan Opera  for a while, but as is so often the case with such prodigiously gifted singers, she found concertizing a better investment of her time.

Many of her recordings have been uploaded on YouTube, although my favorite was not there the last time I checked. That is the recording she made sometime between 1907 and 1910 with the Latvian tenor Hermann Jadlowker of the big duet from act two of Meyerbeer's Les Huguenots.  Here the beauty of her voice and its astonishing flexibility come through well, and the ending is thrilling. If you don't know Jadlowker's recordings, try to fine some. He had a voice which in recordings comes across as loud and a bit raucous, a sound which you might think would not work with a delicate voice such as Hempel's.  They make a great pair in the Meyerbeer duet. In his other recordings you can hear that great rarity, a tenor with a good trill.  

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

And even more shot from the Canon

Wayne made these comments: "The battery came with the camera, but the memory card was extra. I bought my camera on sale for less than $300, but the memory card, extra battery, and carrying bag brought it back above $300, but I don't remember how much above.

I think I used the flash on the bullfrog.

The moon photo was emailed on 6/20. I used a tripod for that one.

The damselfly was sent of 5/27, if you want that one."

More shot from the Canon

All of these were taken with the camera as it came from the box (after the battery was inserted): no special lenses, no tripod, no flash. From little bugs to the Statue of Freedom on top of the Capitol dome (and at night, too), just make a few adjustments and then point and shoot. The camera also records short videos with sound. I'd say that's $330 well spent.