A summer meal

Here's a simple meal full of the flavors of the season. The peppers are stuffed with jasmine rice, sautéed eggplant, roasted red pepper and cilantro. The chicken was slathered in mustard and then given a coating of home-made breadcrumbs (old chiabatta bread, garlic and a bit of thyme ground in the food processor). It was then baked in the gas grill at very high temperature (over 450º F) for about forty minutes, then for another thirty minutes at about 350º F.

The clafouti, shown here with a cigale, was a nod to the trip my niece and her hubby took to Provence last summer.

We ate out on the deck in the gathering dusk; there were few mosquitoes as we listened to the katydids take up where the cicadas left off. The day had been warm and humid, but once the sun went down it was pleasant. Some dark purple petunias nearby began to pour out their vanilla-clove scent as the dark closed in. Time flies very agreeably in our little green bower.

Summer

The lily shows are over, the crepe myrtle and the Franklin tree are blooming, we had blueberry pancakes for breakfast, the cicadas and katydids are calling, the wood thrushes are still tuning up their flutes, the first flushes of rain lilies are withering on their stems, the newly mowed grass has a beguiling sweetness, local tomatoes, corn, peaches and steamed crabs are in our immediate future: it's summer.

The mystery sound

The other day while sitting in the kitchen reading the paper and absentmindedly nibbling on something I heard a noise in the house. It's summer, and all the doors and windows were open to let in the cool morning air. At first it sounded as if a bird had come into the house; that happens occasionally, and the bird usually turns out to be either a wren, a starling or an appropriately-named house sparrow. The sound seemed to have both a fluttering quality and a ventriloqual quality - at least in the sense that I was having trouble deciding where it was coming from. When I got up to investigate, the sound would continue for a moment, then stop. At one point I went down to the basement to see if something was caught in the curtains over the door (which happen to be just under the spot where I had been sitting). Eventually, by triangulating the sound, I narrowed it down to a spot where there were a pile of papers and a bag of bird seed. The bird seed was the obvious candidate, so I boldly scooped through the seed to see if anything was in there. For a moment I thought I felt something lumpy pass through my fingers - but there was no subsequent movement. Then I investigated the pile of papers: nothing there either. Suddenly, the sound started again. And this time, there was no mistaking that it was coming from the bag of bird seed. I began to think insect: surely, no mammal or bird would be so oblivious to the nearby presence of the master predator.

Without touching the bird seed bag, I peeped into the bag: there it was, quivering at the edge of the bag. It was a young deer mouse, almost full grown but evidently not yet old enough to have learned how the world works. I got a glass jar and gently scooped it out. Camera in hand, I took it outside to get some photos. But while I was fooling with the camera, the little mouse got out of the jar. I was out on the deck, using the wire-mesh table there as a work surface. The mouse stopped as soon as it touched the table top: the table was wet from the last night's rain. Although I was standing only about a foot away, the mouse began to lick rain drops from the wire mesh. Then it made a sudden dash to the underside of the mesh grid and continued to drink.

I got a few pictures, but the mouse was hardly posed as I wanted. Then I watched it scamper off to the far side of the deck - whence it no doubt eventually made its way back into the house.

Zephyranthes atamasco

This is the native Zephyranthes atamasco. The upper image shows it blooming in the protected cold frame. The lower images show it blooming very beautifully along the road side in northern North Carolina. My friend Mary and her artist friend John and I were on our way to visit a famous garden in the area. Traveling with keen gardeners/botanists can be an occasionally harrowing experience, as when one quickly slows the car and veers off the road to park, all the while yelling the name of some plant. Only confirmed birders are worse. In our case, the plant was spotted on the trip down; we were sensible enough to postpone the pullover for the trip back.

Until a few years ago I did not realize that this was a native plant (in the sense "native to Maryland"). A seemingly wild population turned up about twenty years ago on the Eastern Shore.

The name of the plant has appeared in some publications recently as Zephyranthes atamasca (rather than atamasco). The explanation for this is long and convoluted, but the simple version is that Linnaeus published the name Amaryllis atamasca for this plant. That is almost certainly either a typo for Amaryllis atamasco or a failure on the part of Linnaeus to recognize that the word atamasco is a noun, not an adjective. The word atamasco, or variants of it, had been in use for a century and a half before Linnaeus. If authors other than Linnaeus have used atamasca, I'm not aware of it. Phillip Miller, the Linnaeus of gardening, spelled the word with a final o, although there are seeming typos in his account also.

Unlike most of the neotropical members of the genus, this species flowers in mid-winter through early spring, depending on location. I've seen it growing as a lawn weed in parched, hardscrabble, run down southern towns and also growing out the sphagnum moss of roadside bogs. If there is no rain, it simply remains dormant from year to year. The plants in my protected cold frame did this: they got little if any water during the summer, and the time came when they simply no longer appeared above ground at all. After an absence of nearly two seasons, I dug them out. The bulbs had shrunk down to the size of peas, but otherwise seemed sound. I planted them in a pot with some bog plants - and a week later the first foliage began to appear.

Rain lilies

Throughout those warmer parts of the New World which are characterized by periodic droughts, the native amaryllids have developed the ability to bloom opportunistically in response to rain. When I was in the Army forty years ago stationed in central Texas, I had the chance to witness the flowering of the rain lilies on many occasions. It's really charming: a day or two after a deluge the ground would be spangled with egg-sized flowers bobbing and swaying over the ground on foot-high stalks. Some of them were deliciously fragrant at night.

The name rain lily might be a misnomer: there is controversy about exactly what it is which triggers bloom in these plants. The plant shown above is Zephyranthes grandiflora, and it spent the winter in full leaf in the protected cold frame. That cold frame is covered during the summer to keep rain out: most of the plants in the frame are summer dormant plants which do not tolerate summer wet. Although the Zephyranthes was not moistened by the recent rains, it did bloom with the rains. It surprised me to see this plant blooming from a clod of hard, dry clay.

Zephyranthes grandiflora is one of the commonest and least expensive members of the genus in cultivation. It's one of those plants which has a cult-like following. Once you learn how to cultivate it, and you have built your stocks up to dozens or hundreds of bulbs, you can count on them to put on an impressive mass display yearly. It's not reliably hardy here, but it takes very well to container culture. When I first wrote that I wrote "pot culture". But as often as not, the prolific bulbs end up in some improvised, bigger container. During the cold part of the year simply store the entire container - bulbs, soil and all - dry in the basement.

There are other Zephyranthes in the collection here, including the Maryland native Z. atamasco. The flowers of all of these are of such fleeting duration that they always catch me by surprise. One day they are not there, the next day they are. Individual flowers last only for about two and a half days.

Hymenocallis liriosme

The plant shown above is Hymenocallis liriosme, a native of Texas. An email friend, Joe, sent this to me a few years ago. I first had this plant forty or so years ago from Thad Howard's Zephyr Gardens. I grow it as a pot plant, although it will survive the winter easily near the house foundation and maybe even out in the open if planted deeply. It probably benefits from a prolonged dry season. The sweetly scented flowers are very fragile: the staminal cup begins to show signs of wear shortly after the blooms open. It's about three feet high when in bloom, and the foliage suggests that of a garden amaryllis.

Kangaroo paws

While checking out a local nursery last week I spotted the plant shown above. This is one of the Australian kangaroo paws, members of the genus Anigozanthos of the family Haemodoraceae. The plant did not have a tag giving a name; by the looks if it it's a dwarf cultivar. That suits me just fine: I intend to winter it in the protected cold frame. The nursery in question is a sprawling, somewhat disorganized affair: I searched in vain for more plants in other colors, in particular for some red, green or black forms, but found only one more yellow. I've read that some Anigozanthos are somewhat freeze tolerant: they would make really impressive additions to our garden flora, but I don't expect to see that anytime soon.

Lilium regale

Lilies are a varied group, so varied that it does not make much sense to pick one favorite. But throughout my life as a gardener, Lilium regale has always been high in my esteem. It’s typically the first of the trumpet lilies to bloom, and that’s a good thing in itself: most of the other trumpet lilies are taller and more imposing. If Lilium regale bloomed later it might not make such a good impression.

It has an interesting history. At the beginning, it was not recognized as a distinct species, and the first plants in cultivation were grown under the name Lilium myriophyllum. E.H. Wilson’s famous account of bringing the first shipments to the West down out of the mountains of western China must be the most frequently quoted passage in all of his writing – and with good reason.

Given the wealth of lilies we now enjoy, it’s hard to conceptualize the state of lilies in gardens a century ago. One had basically two choices: lilies collected from the wild were the fashionable choice. Many of these quickly proved to be intractable. The other choice was made up from a collection of dismal virus-infected hybrids, most of which had flower colors fairly described as either harsh or muddled.

The gardening world lacked a good, easily grown, handsome, fragrant garden lily. Several early introductions such as L. speciosum, Lilium henryi, and the tiger lily proved to be easily grown. But the latter two are not noted for fragrance, and Lilium speciosum, while it’s one of the most fragrant of lilies, presents cultural problems which have kept it out of the truly easily-grown class. Another early introduction, the clonal Lilium brownii, was as elegant as any lily but also unpredictable as a garden plant. Lilium longiflorum was widely regarded as a greenhouse plant, not a garden plant. Lilium hansonii, introduced early in the second half of the nineteenth century, was as easily grown as any lily, but it’s not the sort of lily to fire the public imagination.

It quickly became apparent that Lilium regale had it all: ease of culture, fragrance and poise. Early in the twentieth century there was a keenly pursued effort to establish this plant as a viable floriculture crop here in the United States. It wasn’t until the early 1920s that affordable bulbs began to become reliably available. Soon it was in all the catalogs and books and in a lot of gardens, too. Unlike so many other lilies introduced at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, Lilium regale has been in continuous cultivation since its first introduction.

It was one of the first lilies I grew as a child. I still remember buying the bulbs at a local grocery store about fifty years ago. The bulbs came two or three in a box which had slits cut into the sides and no packing material. The bulbs were free to shift around inside the box. When I examined them, they were very dark purple-black and somewhat shriveled. Such roots as they had seemed to have been cut back. They were bought in the spring or early summer, and they made indifferent growth the first year. But they eventually bloomed and introduced me to one of life’s small but keenly appreciated pleasures. I can look back on a half-century of lily growing now and realize that a lot has changed. In so many ways things are much better than they ever were in the past. Yet I’m happy to say that the annual flowering of Lilium regale provides as much pleasure as it ever has, even if the plants blooming now are not those purchased so many years ago.

Cistus psilosepalus

It’s a rare gardener who doesn’t at least occasionally feel a bit of that “the grass is greener" curiosity about plants we can’t typically grow well. The so-called rock roses, members of the genus Cistus, have caught my wandering eye occasionally over the years. Several trials in the past came to grief – quickly. Even sorts said to be hardy in zone 7 or zone 6 didn’t amount to anything.

Last fall at the plant exchange of our local rock garden group I spotted a non-descript little plant which no one else had yet claimed. Curious, I checked the label: a Cistus! I had space in the protected cold frame, and the Cistus seemed to be an ideal candidate for that spot. It took well to cold frame life, and throughout the winter slowly expanded.

I was pretty sure that I would finally be seeing a home-grown Cistus blooming here, and last week the first flower opened. This plant was received under the name Cistus psilosepalus, but I know nothing about these plants and can not vouch for the name. This is nice, but already I’m dissatisfied: I want one of the species with gummy, fragrant foliage. In the middle of winter it’s a pleasure to open the protected cold frame and be greeted by both color and scent.

Allium schubertii

I first grew this plant decades ago but soon lost it. That acquisition produced flower umbels about a foot in diameter, bigger than those of Allium cristophii but not by much. Some books suggested that this species might not be hardy, and I attributed the eventual loss of the plant to lack of winter hardiness. More about that below.

Two years ago, while attending a meeting in the home of some well-practiced flower arrangers, I noticed several dried umbels of Allium schubertii. But these were Allium schubertii as I had never seen it: they were huge, easily eighteen inches in diameter.

That did it. It was time to try this species again. Last fall some new bulbs were acquired – nice big bulbs. The other day I went out and measured the umbel on one: it was twenty-three inches in diameter!

This species is low growing: those huge umbels are only just barely lifted above the ground. And the very muted colors combine with the diffuse structure to produce a nearly invisible inflorescence in the garden. The photo above, for better or worse, shows that well.

Is it hardy? In the past, questions arose about the identity of the material in cultivation: is it A. schubertii or A. protensum? The former was said to be tender, the latter hardy. I have a hunch winter hardiness isn’t the issue with this plant. I’ll bet it’s intolerant of summer wet. I’m not taking any chances: once the foliage on my new plants is ripe, the bulbs will be dug, wrapped in newspaper and stored for the summer in a hot but dry spot.

Later in the summer, after I’ve harvested the mature umbels, I’ll post a better image of those tumbleweeds against a suitable background. Hmmm….that means more dust collectors in my bedroom, doesn’t it?

Scadoxus multiflorus

The garden is full of ornamental onions now; these plants bloom in mostly quiet, unassertive colors and owe their attention getting status to their intriguing forms. Hybridists have done a lot to bring us bigger flower umbels in these ornamental onions, but so far the colors have remained on the quiet side.

The image above is of Scadoxus multiflorus, an onion look-alike from southern Africa which is blooming now. If the ornamental onion breeders could combine the ease of culture of the onions with a color such as the one above, then the ornamental onions would enter a new realm of garden worthiness.

Now back to reality: the Scadoxus is easily grown. It grows in a pot filled with the local clay. I keep it wet all summer as long as the foliage is green. Occasionally it will get some fertilizer in the water. Sometime in November the foliage ripens. At that point the plant is brought inside (unless an early freeze made that necessary earlier) and allowed to dry out. It spends the winter dry. The pot goes out onto the deck in April. A good soaking generally gets things going again. This is one of those plants with a very appealing work to reward ratio: you don’t have to do much to get good results. It’s been repeating this cycle here for years, blooming yearly and sometimes setting a few fruits.

Older works sometimes list this as Haemanthus multiflorus.

Iris 'Roy Davidson'

Many years ago I bought a variety of irises from one of the local iris groups. Most but not all of my purchases that day were Japanese irises. When I planted these new irises, the labels were buried under them. I’ve never been able to find the labels, and to this day I am not sure which Japanese iris is which.

Among the non-Japanese irises purchased that day was a beardless iris which I bought thinking it would be suitable for the bog trays. It’s been in the bog trays for a long time and has sulked since day one. There have been a very few blooms on this plant over the years. Last year it finally crept out of the bog tray and rooted into the local soil – and then it took off. This year it has produced more blooms than it has in all the years past. And finally I was able to get some good pictures of the flowers.

The next question is: what is it? The label is “down there” somewhere, but I’ll never find it. In going over my journals from those many years ago, I located a likely name: ‘Roy Davidson’. A quick Google Images search confirmed that.

Iris 'Roy Davidson' is a hybrid of Iris pseudacorus. Iris pseudacorus itself is now widely regarded as little better than a weed and a potentially serious threat to wetlands. The form of Iris pseudacorus I grow has very shapely flowers with broad falls: weed or no weed, I wouldn't want to be without it.

So there he is above, ‘Roy Davidson’: I can pick ‘em, can’t I?

Spuria irises

Although irises are among my favorite plants, they share a common fault which tempers my enthusiasm for them: the flowers don’t last more than a few days, if that. Over the years I’ve explored the horticultural nooks and crannies of the genus, and a nice variety of irises now grows in the garden.

For various reasons some irises are a lot more popular in gardens than others. Availability has a lot to do with it: bearded irises are more apt to be handed over the garden fence than oncoregelias. The many bulbous irises so readily available from even local bulb sellers in the autumn are a lot more common in gardens than their long range prospects in most gardens would warrant. Should they disappear from commerce, they will quickly disappear from our gardens. “Irises” to most people simply means tall bearded irises, and you could do a lot worse than filling your space with these.

But even among those of us who have explored the genus, there are some groups of cultivated irises which remain much less common than their beauty and ease of cultivation would cause you to expect. A good example of this is the group known as spuria hybrids. These are robust, stalwart plants which bloom in a color range which includes the expected yellows and blues but also verges into unusual shades such as brown. It is the brown colored forms which quickened my interest years ago, although it was a long time before one actually bloomed in this garden.

The blooms of the spuria hybrids are sometimes compared to the blooms of the Dutch xiphium hybrids: they do look alike. And both groups offer hybrids in the bronze-brown flowered range. The handsome xiphium hybrid ‘Bronze Beauty’ is a favorite here.

The spuria hybrid shown above came from an internet friend three years ago. It’s blooming in this garden for the first time right now. It took three years for this to settle down and bloom. Now I think I understand why these otherwise easily grown plants are not common in gardens. One can mail-order tall bearded irises in late summer, plant them and expect them all to bloom beautifully the next year. Who wants to wait three years for something to bloom?

But then, take another look at that flower: I think it was worth the three-year wait.

Lilium 'Preston Yellow'

Lily season 2008 began late last week with the flowering of Lilium ‘Preston Yellow’. The honor of opening the lily season typically goes to this lily or to Lilium hansonii, one of its parents. Sometimes Lilium candidum beats these into bloom, but not this year. And sometimes little Lilium pumilum pops into bloom very early – as early as early May once. But Lilium pumilum is a bird of passage in this garden: one never knows for sure if it will reappear year after year, and when it does its performance is erratic.

This name ‘Preston Yellow’ is of the nature of a working name: I don’t think the name has ever been registered. When I mentioned it to another lily enthusiast a few years ago, she responded “ Do you mean ‘Preston Dark Yellow’? “ It has been passed around among a small group of lily growers here in the Middle Atlantic States, and it’s cherished because it takes to our conditions well – something not to be taken for granted with martagon lilies in our area. It is a survivor of the earliest days of lily hybridizing in North America. It was raised by Isabella Preston, an Anglo-Canadian plant breeder active in Canada during the first half of the twentieth century. In lily circles, Preston is perhaps best remembered for some of her Asiatic hybrids, in particular the Stenographer Series which created a real stir in the lily world of a half century ago.

The connection with Preston herself is tenuous: George Slate, active in lily circles in the mid-twentieth century, mentioned what is probably this lily (it had not been formally named) in the Yearbook of the North American Lily Society. It’s possible that it was being grown commercially at one time because I’ve been told that appeared on the lists of lilies distributed by one of the lily societies long ago. It’s also possible that any bulbs distributed originated from the garden of an amateur enthusiast – demand would probably have been very light. The stock I grow came from a friend but originated from that distribution.

I’m the biggest stink!

While checking the now mostly dormant bulbs in the protected cold frame the other day, I caught a whiff of putrescence. The only aroid blooming in the frame at that time was Arum byzantinum, so that was ruled out as a source. A dead animal seemed likely, so I began to hunt around. Then I remembered that the Dracunculus on the side of the house was about to bloom. I checked the dragon arum, and sure enough it was in odoriferous, reeking bloom. But that was not what I was smelling.

There was at least one other likely possibility, the Voodoo lily Sauromatum ( or if you prefer Typhonium). These, too, are starting to bloom around the garden. Their scent varies – typically it reminds me more of rat feces than anything else. But that was not what I was smelling.

Then I remembered something else, something which has not bloomed in the garden for years. Around the corner from the protected cold frame, under the Rhapidophyllum, in the shade of the Noisette roses and Smilax smallii, for years a plant of Amorphophallus konjac has appeared yearly without blooming. I took a look and sure enough, there it was, a chalky, brownish maroon spadix projecting up from the liver and maroon frill of the spathe. There it was, pumping out its particular stench.

The Dracunculus and the Amorphophallus grow against the same wall of the house, separated by maybe twenty feet. It was as if these two were competing with one another to see which could be the smelliest. And that’s when I had this hilarious thought: they reminded me of the two prime donne in Mozart’s opera Der Schauspieldirektor: only this time the performers were singing “I’m the biggest stink” “No, I’m the biggest stink”, “No, surely I’m the biggest stink” and so on.

I’m letting the flies decide this one.

In the images above, the upper image is that of Dracunculus vulgaris and the lower image is that of Amorphophallus konjac.

Our rose covered cottage

For the next two weeks or so our house will be in rose-covered cottage mode. In the image above, the pale yellow roses spilling onto the roof are the Noisette roses 'Claire Jacquier' and

'Alister Stella Gray'. Nearby is a shrub of the fine old hybrid 'Scharlachglut', and around the corner, out of view in this picture, 'Madame Gregoire Staechelin' covers one side of the deck. All of these roses are richly fragrant, and they have the sort of fragrance which is free on the air.

The two Noisettes are yellow in cool, dull weather; in our typically sunny warm weather they are a very pale yellow or cream color. 'Madame Gregoire Staechelin' blooms in a range of cool pinks verging sometimes to very rich pink-red. 'Scharlachglut' is a wonderful color: it’s not simply red. When the blooms first open under cool conditions, they are an amazing, rich velvety red. What’s more, the red has a warmth of color which is very appealing. It’s well named: as the name suggests, it really does glow. Such is the fragrance of this rose that even if the blooms were tiny and white, I would still grow it.

Little Snappy

Several days of heavy rain earlier this week brought out the toads: these are now singing all day in the pond. It also brought out the little one shown above. I was looking out the front door and saw something odd on the sidewalk. At first I thought it might be a dead mouse washed in by the rain. But that didn't seem quite right. So I went out and took a close look and was surprised to find a baby snapping turtle. It seems to have a bit of egg tooth left, so perhaps it's a hatchling. I have a hunch that snapping turtles usually hatch out in the late summer or autumn, but I've heard that sometimes the hatchlings spend the first winter in the nest.

I kept Little Snappy in the house only long enough to get some pictures over a period of two days. Then it was released in the garden pool.

Like box turtles, snapping turtles are more likely to be seen dead on the road than alive in this area. But they are around and seemingly holding on well. Evidently they don't hesitate to travel overland.

For more pictures of Little Snappy, see:

http://www.jimmckenney.com/little_snappy_page.htm

Broken tulips

This post repeats one I made this morning on the Scottish Rock Garden Club Forum. The topic of the old virus infected tulips had come up, and one forum contributor expressed disbelief that anyone would pay, and pay well, for diseased tulip bulbs.

Let me try to explain.

The short answer is that there appears to be no substitute for the real thing. What are currently sold as “Rembrandt tulips” here in the US are at best crude imitations of the fine old broken tulips and do not remotely approach their rare, sophisticated beauty; particularly is this true of the best of the bizarre tulips which are my personal favorites. The modern Rembrandt tulips I have seen are as plastic child’s toys compared to the aged Morocco leather of the old bizarre tulips.

To be sure, the growing of virus infected tulips is a guilty pleasure: most of us who grow them know better and should probably not grow them. But they are like a drug: once you have succumbed to their peculiar charms, you are hooked for life. These are tulips to be admired individually in the hand, in the cozy, warm comfort of familiar domestic surroundings, as if one were living in a Vermeer painting. Perhaps the glass you hold in your other hand will contain a libation of similar muted, dark hues, layered character and ancient history. Savor each slowly, as their quality deserves. You will look at other tulips as the worldly man looks at the country bumpkin, and perhaps make comments about the rude good health of these everyday tulips. I’m not saying this is right or admirable, I’m just saying that this is what often happens.
I gladly gave my innocence to these tulips when I was a teenager, and I’ve never regretted it.
I’ve learned to live with the guilt.

That's 'Insulinde' (or 'Insulinda') in the image above.

Corona imperialis

This post is essentially a repeat of one made this morning on the PBS forum.
I’ve admitted to my failure with Fritillaria imperialis in the past, and it’s not simply Schadenfreude which now gives me pleasure when I consider that I am evidently in the distinguished company of some very accomplished growers.

How many of you know William Walsh's poem Rivals? It expresses well my feelings about my love affair with Fritillaria imperialis. Walsh died in 1708; here it is from the Oxford Book of English Verse, with the text slightly modified (and the meter massacred) to fit this topic:

Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners in each other kind
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.

Corona imperialis, for all the pangs you see

Are labouring in my breast,

I beg not you would favor me,

Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

My apologies to the memory of William Walsh, who probably would have known this plant as Corona imperialis.

Generally speaking, I think it’s a mistake to dwell too much on failures – I suspect that even the worst growers among us have enough imagination to fabricate explanations for the failures. Focus instead on successes – not that they are necessarily any easier to understand.
And I have a success to focus on. Sometime back in the early 70s I received a dozen bulbs of Fritillaria imperialis from a Dutch supplier; they were mailed directly to me from the Netherlands (not that that made a difference). I planted them here and there around the garden. As usual, all bloomed magnificently the first year. Several returned the second year without bloom. By the third year, only one remained. That plant was planted under a copper beech. Also, and don’t hold me to this, I vaguely remember dumping a full eighty pound bad of ground limestone or hydrated lime on that spot.
For the next ten or so years that one surviving plant reappeared but never bloomed. Then it began to bloom, and for about another ten years it bloomed yearly. It was eventually a huge plant, easily four feet high and with proportionately large flowers.
Then one summer I dumped a wheelbarrow load of something on the crown imperial site, and that was the end of it – it never reappeared, and when I dug down to look for the bulb there was nothing there. But it had survived for about twenty years, and that experience made me a believer.
I’ve noticed that when growing in the shade of deciduous trees, Fritillaria imperialis is one of those plants whose foliage expands noticeably as the trees leaf out. I take that as a hint that it is adapted to life in the shade of deciduous woody plants.
In a small little tended garden I know in the valley of Virginia (i.e.
between the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Shenandoah Mountains) a plant of Fritillaria imperialis grew for years. The climate there differs little from the climate here: winters are of comparable severity (perhaps a bit colder
there) and summers are comparably hot and humid and sporadically wet. But there is one significant difference, and it’s readily observable to the experienced gardener. The garden flora there is a bit different because the soil there is full of lime. The garden in question is on old farmland, and the autochthon is by nature full of limestone.
Might something as simple as pH or readily available calcium be the answer to the culture of this plant? I put that hypothesis to the test last fall with a few bulbs of both Fritillaria imperialis and F. persica (and also F.pallidiflora, another species whose stature gives it potential value as a garden plant). I loaded the planting site with ground limestone. It’s too soon to tell now because they’ve just finished blooming, but in a few weeks I’ll be getting hints on their prognosis. These bulbs are in a spot exposed to sun for several hours during the middle of the day.
If this iteration of the experiment does not work, I’m game to try again next year in a site under deciduous trees. Also on the roster: trials in gypsum and in a non-acid forming sulfur source.
Several dozen other species of Fritillaria have proven to be manageable
here: you would think I might grow the crown imperial, too. I’m not ready to give up yet.

In the image at the top you see on the left Fritillaria imperialis and on the right Fritillaria persica as they appear in Parkinson's PARADISI IN SOLE Paradisus Terrestris of 1629.

The wet dog bush

The wet dog bush is blooming now, just in time to join the wet dog trillium. The bush is Illicium floridanum and the trillium is Trillium erectum. They share not only the same disagreeable scent but also sufficient beauty to lure in unsuspecting flower sniffers. They are also approximately the same color, a red with a sort of garnet quality.

It comes as a surprise to most of us that the wet dog bush is hardy in local gardens. But it is, and has been for decades here. I also planted Illicium anisatum, thinking at the time that it was the source of the spice star anise. But the spice is derived from the related I. verum. It's a good thing I didn't try to home harvest seed from I. anisatum: it's toxic, as are the native I. floridanum and its cultivars.

The various Illicium make good evergreen understorey shrubs for the woodland garden. They have some of the same foliage qualities of Skimmia and the native Osmanthus americanus. Illicium bloom freely enough to attract the unwary: give them some room when they are in bloom.