The spirit of William Morris

It was cold last night; the temperature at 7:30 this morning was about 25 º F.

These cold nights bring with them a new responsibility for me: I have to remember to close the cold frames each afternoon. I do this when the sun begins to go down, ideally as soon as the sun no longer directly strikes the cold frames. Cold frames are like a dog: they don’t require much attention, but they do require your attention at least twice a day. And like dogs they are well worth it.

No, the cold frames are not bursting with bloom right now, but they are full of interest. It’s a real pleasure to go out on a cold morning and peer through the glass light and see signs of life. The cold frames here have a primary purpose of housing a wide collection of marginally hardy bulby odds and ends. But each year I slip in various things which provide a nice contrast to the largely grassy foliage of the bulbs. Certain woody plants for instance provide a good change of pace. This year the rooted cutting of Daphne odora already shows flower color. A hardy gardenia, a new Ruscus, several asarums, some Selaginella, rosemary and Cistus psilosepalus all provide foliage interest and, in the case of the flowering plants, the promise of flowers and fragrance eventually.

The cold frame also provides an answer to the question of what to do with the florist’s cyclamen. The house is too warm and the garden is too cold. It turns out that the cold frame is just right: the glass light of the cold frame bears a flourish of frost flowers on cold mornings, but under the glass the bright red flowers of the florist’s cyclamen presents a burst of intense color.

A clump of snowdrops dug from the garden this week now blooms serenely under the glass. Another sort of snow drop is all over the news now: beginning tomorrow night, we are expected to have a 5-12” snow fall.

I opened this piece by writing that there was not much in bloom in the cold frames now. But one of the less protected cold frames offered an unexpected seasonal bouquet yesterday morning. I don't know what I did to deserve such a decorative acanthus-leaf pattern of frost flowers: it's as if the spirit of William Morris himself had worked over the under surface of the light. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Begonia masoniana

Begonia masoniana caught my eye today: it’s blooming again. It’s been decades since it last bloomed, yet as I recall it was at about this time of year that time, too. The flowers briefly produce a sweet scent late in the day but at other times seem scentless.

Houseplants here generally have one thing in common: they quickly die. Perhaps that should read “they are quickly put to death”. There have been a few exceptions, most of them being desert plants which survive dry atmospheres and dry soil. There are some Stapelia, Huernia and Gymnocalycium which have been here so long I’ve forgotten their sources.

But as a rule, “soft” houseplants don’t have a chance here. In this case, the exceptions to the rule are improbable: some Selaginella and the Begonia masoniana. These, too, have been here so long I forget their sources. They are neglected as shamelessly as the succulents, yet for decades they have thriven. They get watered perhaps three times a year. How can that be?

They are still here because they grow in big ornamental glass jars. Both jars are about sixteen inches in diameter, one with the begonia is pear-shaped, about twenty-two inches high, the one with the Selaginella is about sixteen inches high and squat. These jars have openings five inches in diameter which make it easy to get a plant in but not so easy to get a freely-growing one out. But talk about care-free: other than pouring in about a cup of water two or three times a year, that’s it! And this has been going on for decades.