Litttle blue things

The first wave of color to wash over the garden each year - the wave of snowdrops, little bulb irises, crocuses and a few precocious shrubs and trees - is now receding: in its place comes the wave of the little blue things. You see a selection of these above. Included are some run-down garden hyacinths (what they lose in girth they gain in charm), two glories-of-the-snow (the larger one is 'Blue Giant' and the smaller one is Chionodoxa sardensis), the Siberian squill (Scilla sibirica), the Greek anemone (Anemone blanda) and two lawn weeds, Glecoma hederacea and the lawn veronica, Veronica persica.  Seeing these flowers together reminds us that not all of them are as blue as we think they are.

With the exception of the Greek anemone, all of these are good stayers. Get a start going, and you are likely to see their sweet faces yearly. The Greek anemone is not difficult and will sometimes self-sow around the garden; but each wet hot summer seems to take a few, so the time will come when you will have to buy in a few more. On the other hand, if you can arrange to keep it dry during the summer it should last and reappear yearly.  If your Siberian squills disappear over time, try giving them the dry summer treatment, too.

Glecoma hederacea, gill-over-the-ground, is a serious weed here. But one look at a plant in full bloom gives a hint of why it has been brought into so many gardens.

During the next week or two the little lawn veronica will make some of the loveliest pictures in local lawns. If while walking around you see a shimmering flat haze of blue about a yard or two in diameter in sunny lawns, it's probably this veronica. Few deliberately cultivated plants create such a charming effect. Its success in lawns is largely attributable to its growth cycle: it's a winter annual, most active when the lawn grasses themselves are largely dormant. Mowing keeps the otherwise easily overwhelmed plants out in the sun.

Claytonia virginica

Claytonia virginica, familiarly called spring beauty, is such a common plant here that whole hillsides where it grows are covered with its flowers during its brief blooming period. A few weeks later the shiny black seeds ripen and then the plants are gone above ground for the rest of the year. Below ground a miniature potato-like structure keeps things going until next year.

Claytonia belongs to the same botanical family as Portulaca, Montia, Lewisia, Talinum and Phemeranthus and with all of these it shares a sort of waxy, turgid succulence. The leaves have the same curiously  rubbery, floppy quality felt in the native "aloe", Agave virginica (Manfreda virginica), although they are much smaller.

Sarcococca humilis, sweet box

I had something to do at the back of the garden yesterday, and as I rushed from the house I was stopped in my tracks by an intense fragrance which I did not expect. It turned out to be the fragrance of the sweet box, Sarcococca humilis. It's blooming better this year than ever before. That's it in the upper image above.

Since Sarcocca (sweet box)  and Buxus (boxwood) are closely related, seeing the sweet box in bloom reminded me to check the boxwood plants also. Sure enough, Buxus sempervirens 'Vardar Valley' is in full, sweetly fragrant bloom. When the topic of scent comes up in a discussion of boxwood, most people seem to know only about the cat scent of the foliage of Buxus sempervirens. Because the dwarf box 'Suffruticosa' is the most frequently encountered box in this area, and that form evidently never blooms, many people do not realize that not only can boxwood bloom but also that the flowers can be sweetly and agreeably scented.  But maybe not all forms of common box are agreeably scented. Buxus sempervirens 'Graham Blandy' is also in bloom, and the scent to me is more peculiar than pleasant.

Note: after writing the above about two weeks ago, I noticed something odd looking on one of the 'Suffruticosa' boxwood here: it was in bloom! So dwarf box does bloom after all.

Welwitschia death watch

The week before last I took a look at the Welwitschia and got a nasty shock: it seemed to be dead. I've had this plant for fifteen years, but even so it occasionally surprises me. The leaves looked dry as cardboard and had lost most of their color. At the base of each leaf there was a hairline of seemingly sickly, pea soup green. That was the only green evident on the plant.

What in the world happened? In retrospect, I think I simply forgot to water it. I gave it a good soaking and changed the arrangement of the lights. I made sure it stayed moist and under intense light. After about a week of this therapy, I started to put it outside in the sunlight any time the air temperature was over 40 degrees F.

Now, between frequent knocks on wood, I'm pretty sure it is on its way back. The line of green seems to have widened just a bit. Let's hope the mirabilis part of the name proves true.

In the image above you'll have to look hard to see any sign of life.

Tulipa praecox : legacy slide

The topic of Tulipa praecox came up today on the PBS forum. Here's a scanned slide from May of 1974. It's not the best image, but it does show one of the salient features of this plant: the difference in size and shape of the inner and outer tepals.

Iris susiana: legacy slide

I bought a slide scanner yesterday, and above you can see the first slide I scanned. As I go through my slide collection and scan them, I’ll be adding some images to this blog – in particular plants no longer in commerce. They will be identified as "legacy slides".

Here’s the first one: that’s Iris susiana in the image above. It was photographed in May of 1971, and it was about then that it disappeared from the lists of my source. It has always been a mysterious plant to me; evidently it’s not known in the wild, and the plants in cultivation which went around under this name varied a bit. It was grown in European gardens four hundred years ago, and over the centuries its intricate color pattern of fine, very dark blue veining on an oyster shell white background has challenged many famous artists.

I still remember the first time it bloomed here: as I came around the corner of the house and saw it, it immediately brought to mind  this  description of the flower:  like a ball of crumpled newsprint. Was it E.A.Bowles who said that?   I also thought I was among the elect: I’ll bet not many of you have seen this plant, much less grown and flowered it.

It’s hard to believe that this plant does not survive somewhere in a garden somewhere around the Mediterranean. I’m hoping hard that it does.  

A lamb in the countryside

As  expected, March came in as a lamb: daytime temperatures today were well over seventy degrees F.  I went down to the ponds early this morning, but in spite of the gentle rain we had last night things were quiet then; but when I went back later in the day the peepers were in full chorus.

More rain is predicted for the next few days, and we need it. Seed of larkspurs and corn poppies sown back in December are now germinating freely, especially the poppies. Seed of corn cockle sown last fall germinated almost immediately, and the resulting plants now have several true leaves. Those are corn cockle, Agrostemma githago, seedlings in the upper image. The lower image shows corn poppies, Papaver rhoeas: did every seed germinate? I'll have plenty of thinning to do later.

Peepers at KenGar: take a listen!

It's about 7 P.M. February 29, 2012. I've just come back from the local wetland site of the peeper ponds. It's raining and the temperature is about50 ⁰ F (about 10⁰ C): good conditions for the annual emergence of the peepers. I listened carefully and I think I heard two widely separated peeps. That's justification enough for me to make this posting. Tomorrow the temperature is predicted to be about ten degrees F higher, and sometime during the day the big choruses should start.

What are peepers? They're small (almond-sized) frogs.  For well over a century peepers were known as Hyla crucifer; in fact, the vernacular name hylas is still used. But in modern arrangements they are called Pseudacris crucifer. I attended an Episcopalian funeral recently and was intrigued to see that there is a participant in the ceremony called the crucifer. The word literally means cross bearer. The frog merits the name because of the big X on its back.

Here's a link to a recording I made last April at the same ponds. The sound of the peepers is accompanied by images of tommies, Crocus tommasinianus.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aH5pT3If_nA

Some familiar crocuses

Here is a selection of some of the readily available crocuses sold as "snow crocuses", "chrysanthus hybrid crocuses" or "species crocuses".

In the top row, left to right, Crocus ancyrensis 'Golden Bunch',  'Goldilocks', maybe 'Fuscotinctus', 'Gipsy Girl', and Crocus olivieri balansae 'Zwanenburg'

In the lower level, left to right, 'Snowbunting', 'Romance', 'Art Schenk', 'Blue Pearl', 'Lady Killer' and 'Spring Beauty'

The name Zwanenburg which appears in some of these names was the name of the homestead where the van Tubergen family started their famous bulb company in the second half of the nineteenth century.  

The plant in the middle of the top row was received as 'Zwanenburg Bronze', but that's not what it is. Any ideas? I've called it 'Fuscotinctus' but that's a guess.  

'Spring Beauty' is sold as Crocus biflorus isauricus 'Spring Beauty' but it appears to be Crocus minimus. 

Note: some of the blossoms shown above are much bigger than others. This is largely but not entirely due to the age of the flower. Some were picked as soon as they emerged above ground, some had been above ground for days and were fully developed. However, the one shown as Crocus olivieri balansae 'Zwanenburg' remains relatively small.

Geese

I don't have an image or a sound recording for this, but one of the big excitements of the season is taking place daily now: when I walk Biscuit in the morning we see and hear formations of geese heading north. This is a moving, even thrilling, thing to experience.  I used the pronoun "we" deliberately in that first sentence: Biscuit will look up into the sky and watch as the geese pass. The group we saw this morning easily numbered over one hundred geese.

I've always assumed that these birds respond to the changing day length rather than to temperature: is that true?

Some familiar netted iris

Above you see a series of netted (reticulate) irises which gives an idea of what is readily available among these plants. Throughout my life I watched some of these go from expensive rarities to improbably inexpensive staples of the bulb trade. In common with so many other bulbs raised in their millions by the highly skilled commercial growers,  these irises do not get the respect they deserve from most gardeners. They are so dependably available year after year and so inexpensive that few gardeners evidently think them worth the bother to take seriously. And as the indifferent gardener soon discovers, simply planting the bulbs in the garden and then walking away is the short cut to eventual disappointment. Most do not persist without some help.

Yet there is one which does persist: the old form of Iris reticulata which was the only readily available form when I was a boy. And how long does it persist? There are plants here which were planted in, I think, 1963. But that one is the exception.

They thrive in an easily penetrated, high mineral soil of high pH; summer drought is essential. Pot culture with annual re-potting and summer storage of the pots under cover of some sort of rain cover sometimes works well. One summer I dug some after the foliage had ripened and stored them (with their numerous offset bulbs clustered around the big ones) for the summer in improvised paper envelops made of newspaper; these were stored in the basement. When I examined them in the autumn, I was amazed that even the smallest bulbs were still plump and ready to go.

In the early twentieth century all the variants which appeared were generally regarded as forms of Iris reticulata. Several of these very old cultivars are still in commerce (or the names are!): 'Krelagei', 'J.S. Dijt' and E.A. Bowles’ ‘Cantab’. Later introductions show the plain influence of Iris histrioides and we can safely call these hybrids. These include such handsome forms as  ‘Joyce’ and ‘Harmony’. With others such as ‘Spring Time’ and ‘Pixie’ it’s hard to say. In any case they are all well worth having.

In the photo above you see left to right, in the top row, Iris danfordiae, Iris winogradowii, 'Katharine Hodgkin', 'Cantab' and 'Harmony'.  In the bottom row are 'J.S. Dijt', 'Joyce', 'Pauline', 'Spring Time', 'Pixie' and 'Lady Beatrix Stanley'. I hope I've got the names right!

Lady Beatrix Stanley and Edward Augustus Bowles stop by for a visit.

Lady Beatrix Stanley and Mr. Edward Augustus Bowles visited today. They left their floral calling cards: an iris and a snowdrop from each. The irises are 'Lady Beatrix Stanley' (the larger, darker  blue on the right  in the image) and ‘Cantab’, raised by Mr. Bowles in the early twentieth century. Bowles called this iris his "turquoise treasure" in My Garden in Spring, where it is obvious that he is proud of his accomplishment.  He fills a page and then some with asseverations and supplications to the deities governing pride before daring to even give the name, 'Cantab', of this beauty. The snowdrops are ‘Lady Beatrix Stanley’ (the one with the thick rosette of multiplied inners) and ‘Augustus’, named for Edward Augustus.

In the other image you see them in 1935, in the throes of judging a daffodil show. This image comes from The Daffodil and Tulip Year Book 1955 published by the Royal Horticultural Society. If you are the copyright owner of this image and you object to its usage here, notify me and I will remove it.

To fill out the arrangement, there are a pansy, a Cyclamen persicum leaf and blooms of Helleborus foetidus and garden hellebores.

Winter blues got you down? This might help.

This one is for those of you who are experiencing a really bad winter. Click on the link below to see a brief YouTube video I put together last April. It's a little slide show of spring flowers accompanied by a sound track of our local birds singing in the rain. The image above is one of the images from the slide show - that's the ancient daffodil cultivar 'Maximus'. It's been known for over four hundred years.For me, it's the sound track of the birds which does it.

Here's the link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-UJLOAaxZ8

Netted irises

The irises shown here, blooming today in the open, are typical examples of the netted irises or, as they are more commonly called, reticulate irises.The name comes from the appearance of the fibers which cover the bulb: the fibers form a net-like pattern: the word reticulata in Latin means (among other things) netted.The name reticulate irises has successfully spawned confusion with the name of the species Iris reticulata, once the best known member of the group. But most of the garden irises called reticulate irises are in fact hybrids, not simply forms of Iris reticulata itself. To counteract that confusion, I'm using the older term netted iris.

The irises of this group are sometimes placed in a genus of their own, Iridodictyum, from the classical Greek word τó δίκτυον for fishing net. This word Iridodictyum probably looks rather forbidding to those of you without a backgrouind in the ways of botanical nomenclature; but it's simply a restatement in romanized Greek of what the combination Iris reticulata says in Latin. Note that while Iris is feminine, Iridodictyum is neuter, so if you use Iridodictyum, you'll have to change some of the species names to agree with a neuter genus. Thus, Iris reticulata would become Iridodictyum reticulatum. In German they are called (among other names) die Netziris, from the German word das Netz for net.

They are easily grown with one caveat which one ignores at great risk: in our climate most of them require a very dry summer to persist from year to year. I'm experiencing an illustration of this now in my own garden: for years I covered the iris beds with a glass door during the dormant period of the irises. During those years the plants increased in numbers and size. Last summer I did not cover the beds. This year there are many disappointing gaps in the plantings. Mice, rabbits and deer do not seem to bother these plants, but hot, moist soil can be deadly when they are dormant.

Shown above is the hybrid 'Pixie'.

Tommy time

Tommies are in full bloom this week. These are Crocus tommasinianus, in many respects the best crocus for our gardens.

Buying tommies can be tricky because the widely marketed forms such as 'Ruby Giant' are not really true tommies. They are probably hybrids with Crocus vernus. But even if that is not the case, the forms such as 'Ruby Giant' do not behave in the garden the way true tommies do. True tommies seed around and form thick clumps of bloom; if you have the time to spend with them when they are in bloom, you'll notice that every plant is just a bit different from its neighbors.

When they are naturalized in lawns in their hundreds they produce a charming (but fleeting) effect on warm winter days. Look for the ripening seed capsules in late April; collect and then scatter the seeds to get colonies going in other parts of the garden.

If a gardening friend offers you some crocus corms with the comment "I don't know the name of this one - it's the little purple one that you see in old lawns in February", accept them with thanks! That was the source of one clump here in the garden.

Iris lazica

This is Iris lazica, a winter blooming species very close to Iris unguicularis (which  also blooms at this time of year).  Winter bloom is more likely if the plants have the protection of a cold frame (which this one does), although Iris lazica is evidently hardy enough to thrive in the open garden. But don't expect mid-winter flowers from plants in the open during a typically cold winter.

Magnolia stellata joins the fray

As if not to be left behind, Magnolia stellata has started to bloom. Or at least one blossom has opened.

An Internet friend reported hearing frogs in Indiana today; I stopped by the local peeper ponds but did not hear anything except red-winged  blackbirds.

The thermometer on the shady side of the house showed a bit over 70 degrees F this afternoon.

January's parting gifts

Has January 2012 been the mildest January on record? It certainly has seemed so. Those who have planted gardens for winter interest are really getting their money's worth this year. If you planted seeds of poppies, larkspurs, corn flowers and other hardy annuals you are probably seeing a lot of green by now - and, barring a severe shift in the weather, the promise of lots of huge plants in a few months.

Here are some photos taken today which give an idea of what is happening in the garden. From top to bottom: Galanthus 'S.Arnott', Hamamelis 'Jelena', Crocus tommasinianus, Jasminum nudiflorum, Cyclamen persicum and Taraxacum officinale (dandelion).

The cyclamen are florists' cyclamen and were purchased about a month ago; they have been outside since except for one or two extremely cold nights. If you have failed with these plants in the past, try again but this time keep them as cool as possible (but above freezing). Plants purchased during the Christmas holidays can still be blooming in April if they have been kept cool and moist. That is moist, not wet: the roots rot quickly if the drainage is poor. The big, large flowered forms have a disagreeable odor, but the smaller pink and white  ones seen above  are very sweet (the red one has the stink of the big ones). As you can see, they are worth growing for their foliage, too.

Enjoying it while it lasts...

Weather-wise it's hard to believe that it's January 27th. At 6:00 A.M. this morning the  temperature was 58 degrees F. We then had some rain, and at 8:30 A.M. there was a thunderclap to raise the dead., soon followed by another one. It's turning out to be one of those days when we're at the edge of a cloud mass so that when the clouds obscure the sun it cools off, and when the clouds move and the sun comes through the temperature jumps. When the wind stops and the sun is shining, the sun is warm on the skin.

The first winter aconite is up: that's a record here in this garden. The winter aconites here typically begin to bloom about two weeks after reports come of blooming aconites in other local gardens. Tommies have started to bloom, too. Many hellebores are in full bloom - I picked the small bouquet shown above this afternoon.

The unnerving thing is that winter can hardly be said to have started here; so far there has been only one day when the temperature did not get above the freezing point. Occasional drops into the single digit range are not unknown for February, so there might be trouble ahead.

The Giant Snowdrop

Here's a size comparison of several snowdrops blooming now.

The common snowdrop, Galanthus nivalis, is not in bloom yet, so a direct, side-by-side  comparison in size between it and these very robust sorts cannot be shown. So I've done the best I can with what's available: I've included a budded scape of Galanthus nivalis and have used a stem of Galanthus 'S. Arnott' for comparison. 'S. Arnott' itself is a significant jump in size over the common snowdrop, and I hope this helps to give an idea of the size of these big ones.

The remaining ones are all forms of Galanthus elwesii in the broad sense, and it's not hard to see why a half-century ago Galanthus elwesii was marketed as The Giant Snowdrop. There was in fact a company which called itself The Giant Snowdrop Company back then. The Giant Snowdrop Company is long gone, but its spirit (and possibly some of its plants) has been revived here:

http://www.snowdrop.org.uk/

Now back to the plants shown above. From left to right they are 'S. Arnott', then four progressively larger forms of Galanthus elwesii and finally on the right the budded scape of the common snowdrop, Galanthus nivalis.

The image which follows was added on February 7, 2012, and shows the contrast in size between the small common snowdrop, Galanthus nivalis, and one of my big ones.

Herons

Late last year, while walking Biscuit, I noticed some unfamiliar young men who had stopped on the path and were intently watching something across the street. As I approached them they assumed an attitude and gave me a look which suggested that they might be up to no good, so I greeted them and asked them what they were watching so intently. Their answer surprised me: they were watching what they thought was a big bird in a neighbor’s yard. They pointed, and I looked: indeed, there seemed to be a Great Blue Heron off in the distance. At this point, I started to laugh: the “great blue heron” was in fact a statue of a heron placed by a pond to frighten off the real thing – heron predation in local fish ponds is becoming an issue for some of us. When I told them we all had a good laugh about it. But I’m still amazed at the acuity of their eye sight: I had walked by that spot hundreds of times and looked over in the direction of the fake heron and never noticed it. Since I had been in that garden and seen the fake heron close up, I knew it was there. But how in the world did those young men notice it from such a distance?

Last week Biscuit and I were returning from our walk and as we approached a house near the site of the fake heron I thought I heard a rustling sound. Thinking it might be a deer emerging from the woods, I looked over in the direction where I’ve seen deer leave the woods. There were no deer in sight. Was the sound from a neighbor moving around the side of the nearby house? No, there were no people in sight either. Then I looked down at Biscuit to see what she thought. She was not looking at the house or the woods, she was looking up. So I looked up. There, sitting on the chimney of the house, was a Great Blue Heron. It was probably warming itself in the heat coming from the chimney. To see it sitting on a chimney reminded me of storks in Europe. The bird remained calm while we were there, and after we resumed our walk, the bird remained as long as I could still see it.

As I was leaving the house yesterday, a neighbor called over to me “Jim, a crane just flew into your back yard”. Right away I knew what kind of “crane” it was; I went back to take a look and got there just in time to see a Great Blue Heron  flapping off to a new roost.  

There is no sign of gold fish in my pond: presumably the herons have had many a good meal. It’s time to restock!

Kingfisher

While walking Biscuit this morning I had a nice surprise as we were crossing the bridge over the creek: a long, chattering bird call caught my attention. I looked over in time to see a flash of white as the bird dropped from its perch and skimmed the water, then the bird landed on another snag projecting from the water. Now I got a good look, and as expected it was a kingfisher.
Years ago I found a place where the creek banks were high and there were holes dug in the banks: these were the nest tunnels of the kingfishers.

Kingfishers are the sort of bird of which it can be said "you see them when you see them". What I mean is that although they are probably always back there patrolling  along the creek, I don't expect to see them every time I'm down there.

The technical name of this bird, Ceryle alcyon, is a bit of a redundancy: both words mean kingfisher in classical Greek, although both words were also used to name a mythological bird. The English expression  "halcyon days", in the sense  "the good old days when things were better, less hectic", is derived from the name of the mythological bird, which was thought to have the ability to calm the seas during its winter solstice nesting period at sea.

Looking ahead to where I want to be

I'm in the throes of re-doing a part of the garden. Several aspects of the original design, while they looked good on paper, did not work out on the ground.  The space available in the CGP has emboldened me to move plants and get them out of the way. The original design had its strengths, and luckily I was there to photograph some of them.

Here are two photos from several years ago. The upper one shows many aspects of the outline of the original design; here it is captured after a light snowfall which has the effect of highlighting the structure of the garden.

If this garden were in the southern hemisphere, the scene shown in the second image might have been captured today. Somewhere in the southern hemisphere the roses are in full bloom today. I need some encouragement to keep me focused on where I want the garden to be, and the scene here is one I want to repeat.

The aroma level

When I walked Biscuit this evening at about 7 P.M. I had the chance to experience again one of the interesting atmospheric effects associated with living on a hill. We live at the top of a hill, and a turn to the right or the left on the sidewalk takes me downhill in either direction.  The temperature at 7 P.M. was an improbable 61 degrees F – especially improbably when I consider that only a few days ago we were experiencing the coldest day since last winter, a day during which the temperature did not rise above the freezing point all day.

So it was a pleasure to leave the house and step out into a relatively balmy temperature.  It was at a point about half way down the hill that the atmospheric effect alluded to above became apparent.  We passed through the place where the warm air mass was layered over a colder air mass. That in itself is interesting to me, but there is another aspect of this which is notable: at the point where my face passes the level where the two air masses meet, there are always distinctive and pronounced odors apparent. Often this is the fragrance of soil itself, or more frequently (as it was tonight) the odor of the creek water.   On a couple of late summer evenings it’s been the fragrance of the kudzu blooms – those are evenings to remember!

The same effect takes place in the house. When I go up or down the basement stairs, there is a point where I pass the “aroma level” – in this case typically an enhanced version of whatever I have been cooking.

As winter is coming to an end, the most poignant of these odors is the fragrance of defrosting  soil after the frozen months of denial.

Winter jasmine

Here’s a good example of why this plant has been cherished by generations of gardeners: it’s January 5^th and as we approach the front door we’re greeted by a scattering of cheery blooms. No, it’s not May in January, but they are flowers and they are bright enough to attract attention. It’s not fragrant, and that’s doubly curious: first of all because it is a true jasmine, a group noted for intense fragrance; and secondly because plants which bloom in winter often have intense scents, presumably to advertise their presence to the few pollinators likely to be active at that season. Sorry, the second clause in that last sentence was wildly metaphoric (plants don’t advertise, for example), but these days more and more that’s the way we talk about these things.

Time of bloom with this plant is erratic, and that only adds to its charm. In the same garden plants on a sunny bank will bloom before plants on the north side of the house.  It’s usually seen as an untrained mound of arching, sprawling stems about two or three feet high and of ever expanding width. It’s easily trained against a wall or even on an isolated stake six or eight feet high, and plants trained upright can be really spectacular in bloom.

This is one plant on my list of plants I would not want to be without.

Baby, it's cold outside!

This is Rhododendron 'PJM Elite'. When I saw it early this morning it was in full curled-leaf mode: it looked as if the leaves had all been transformed into little brown cigarettes. By the time I got around to taking these photos at about noon, the leaves had already uncurled a lot. It's thought that this leaf curling is an adaptation to prevent desiccation during below freezing conditions.
I've never seen this plant used as a hedge (I've been thinking about it here) but it would be easy to see through a hedge in full leaf curl mode. Most of us wouldn't want the neighbors to catch us sun bathing nude in 20 degree F weather, would we?

Or would we? It's all relative: years ago Wayne and I used to bird regularly during the winter. Several ocean-side sites were often our goal, and  on more than one occasion, as we stood on the windy beaches shivering under multiple layers of coats, scarves, hats and gloves, we spotted some rare birds indeed. They're a shy, quiet species which typically lands on some far, remote end of the beach. Their  bright pink color makes them very conspicuous from a distance.  "No", I thought to myself the first time I saw them, "it couldn't be, could it?..." But our eyes were not deceiving us: there they were,  Canadians from the frozen prairies far to the north,  all but naked in the frigid air, sunning themselves under conditions which perhaps suggested spring back home to them.  Brave souls indeed: all I could think of was getting to someplace out of the wind and settling down to hot lunch.

Is this the Red Line fern?

The local branch of the Washington, D.C. subway system is the Red Line. Who would have thought that attentive riders of this line can do some botanizing deep below the streets of the city above? Yet there they are:  as the trains approach certain underground stops such as Woodley the lights beside and underneath the tracks illuminate a fringe of green in the glow of the lights. That fringe of green is a fern,  a fern of the genus Adiantum. I don't know which species it is, but if it's a native fern,  the one shown above, Adiantum capillus-veneris, is a likely candidate. This species grows in many countries around the Mediterranean and from northern South America well up into North America. On the Atlantic coast it gets at least as far north as Virginia.

On the other hand, there are several tropical species of this genus which are commonly sold as house plants, and over the years many of these have probably been brought into the subway system by shoppers. Perhaps spores from one of these got things going.

Whatever they are, it's a surprise to see them deep in the subway system. They are abundant and easily spotted at several stops. Are they confined to the Red Line? I don't know; perhaps someone reading this will comment.

Billbergia nutans

Here's an old friend helping us to celebrate the end of the year: this is Billbergia nutans, a long cultivated bromeliad often called queen's tears. It has been grown as a house plant since at least  before the Second World War. It thrives under typical house plant conditions and treatment and can be potted in soil. Our plant spends the frost-free season outside in full sun. It is brought inside when night frosts are likely. This year it waited until the end of December to produce any sign of bloom. About two weeks ago I left it outside overnight during a period of rain, and within a week the inflorescences began to appear.

The plant in the image above is not yet actually in bloom: none of the flowers is actually open yet. I'll add an image of the blooms later.  

Christmas Day in the garden

It's been a full month since the last post: what have I been up to? I've been up to planting; the community garden plots are now stuffed with roses, tree peonies, lilies, other bulbs both ornamental (tulips, bulbous irises, alliums, musk hyacinths et al.) and comestible (garlic, shallots, multiplier onions and others). Thirty-nine roses (wichurana hybrids, large-flowered climbers, polyanthas, some early hybrid teas and old shrub types among othres)  were planted last week (or was it the week before?). Most of the planting is now done, and I'm beginning to relax a bit and look forward to next year's garden. We've had two months of perfect planting weather, and the opportunities presented by the weather have kept me energized and sometimes even exhilarated: I can hardly believe what I've accomplished in the last two months.

Week after week of relatively mild weather has had an effect on the home garden and other local gardens, too. This year may well have been the best year ever for fall blooming camellias, and some precocious Camellia japonica sorts are also reported as blooming now. Those who keep lists of plants blooming on Christmas Day or New Year's Day will probably have long and varied lists this year.

My Christmas Day list from the home garden is short but sweet this year: snowdrops (Galanthus elwesii sorts), winter sweet, winter jasmine, winter honeysuckle, Camellia sasanqua and Elaeagnus pungens. Iris unguicularis was in bloom late last week, but the one flower had started to shrivel by today. Dandelions are blooming here and there. Helleborus foetidus (here) and H. niger (elsewhere) are blooming. Some garden hellebores are in advanced bud. I could not find any witch hazel flowers. In one of the cold frames Narcissus tazetta is blooming. Knock Out roses are still to be seen blooming here and there.

This morning I saw (and heard - what a pleasure to hear bird song on this date!)   a flock of birds (goldfinches?) working over the buds of the red maples.

In terms of what I've accomplished in the garden, I'm better prepared for the arrival of real winter this year than in any recent previous year; but emotionally I'm not prepared at all, and it's going to sting when it happens.

That's winter sweet, Chimonanthus praecox 'Luteus' in the image above.

How little some things have changed...

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The top image above is the cover page of the magazine Home & Garden from April of 1914. That's two years and several months short of a century ago. Was the original for that photograph an autochrome? And look at the width and thickness of the lumber used for the framing of the cold frame:  I've never seen anything that big for sale. The hat and the pipe are very much of the time, and at first glance I thought "What is Sherlock looking for  down there in the dirt?" I took an immediate liking to this cover, and over the decades I've owned it have taken it out now and them to keep up my hopes that one day I might have something like it.

Now fast forward nearly a century. The lower image shows one of my cold frames at my community garden plots. It's planted with lettuces, sage cuttings, rosemary cuttings, lamb's lettuce, flat leaf parsley, chervil and some odds and ends. No Sherlock because he was the one taking the picture.  I expect the plants in the cold frame to be fine until about the turn of the year; after that, we'll see.  

Carrot 'Parisian'



No, those are not orange radishes. The little orange globes you see above are the old carrot variety 'Parisian', sometimes called 'Parisian Market'. In addition to offering an unusual shape for carrots, they have the advantage, because of their round shape, of growing well in rough, stony soil (e.g. the soil in my new community garden plots). To attain their sleek, long form, typical carrots require deeply prepared soil free of obstructions such as stones. To harvest 'Parisian' no digging is necessary: the carrots form at the surface or just under it and pull easily from the ground.

Above you see them as freshly dug and then after a stop with the fluffers for their blog debut.

Remembering Frank Kameny

I first became aware of Frank Kameny in the late 1950s when his arrest on sodomy charges made the news. I was about 14 at that time, and although I was mortified by the sodomy charges aspect of the events, I nevertheless knew very well who I was and that it was my team which was taking a very public bashing.  It was not long before I heard about the  Mattachine Society, although I had no idea how to become a member. 

Now fast forward about twenty years. In the mid 1970s I joined the DC Gay Activists Alliance and finally met this man who had been on the margins of my consciousness for so long. That first meeting was not entirely propitious: had I been looking for a hero, I probably would have kept looking. Frank was hardly the prepossessing sort; in fact, my initial cursory impression was that he was a Marabou stork of a man. I wasn’t the only one who felt that way: there were actually serious discussions at the GAA meetings to arrange some sort of funding to pay for Frank to have dental work. ”The movement” back then was preoccupied with public images, and while no one seriously doubted his ability to speak eloquently and effectively on behalf of our cause, there were frequent backstage murmurs about the appearance of the messenger.

It didn’t take me long to realize that my ornithology was all wrong: the man was not a stork, he was an eagle. Those monthly GAA meetings could be tedious and boring, yet on nights when Frank was in good form, they provided some lively theatrics. No sooner had some injudicious newbie had the temerity to voice some poorly thought-out or logically flawed proposal than Frank would launch a keenly articulated rebuttal.   If the idea being offered was one he found to be repugnant, then the rhetorical fireworks really went off in an almost ferocious explosion. But the wonder of these exchanges was that as I knew him, he never lowered himself to ad hominem attacks: he stayed focused on the issues, not the person. And when it became apparent to him that his adversary was acting out of truculence, he would abruptly end the discussion and announce – and I can still hear him saying this - “In that case, then we agree to disagree.” It wasn’t unusual to hear him later chatting convivially with the erstwhile target of his lashings. 

One of the things I sometimes wondered about when I first began to attend GAA meetings was how this man, who alone for about two decades had been the most conspicuous face in the gay rights movement, would work with the younger upstarts who now surrounded him. There was a pervasive respect for Frank back then, an always present awareness of his unique status in our community, yet those attitudes did not necessarily translate into tranquil exchanges in a changing world where the young Turks were sometimes pulling for new ideas and different directions. Yet it quickly became apparent to me that he had another good quality: for all of his seeming apartness, he was a skillful team player.

Many times during a lively debate one could look over and see Frank sitting there, taking it all in. There were times when the look on his face suggested bemusement; I like to think that that look was at least partly motivated by a sort of avuncular pride: after all, he more than anyone had made it happen.

Years after I left GAA I read the diaries of Virginia Woolf; there is a passage there in which Woolf describes the fascination she experienced as she watched Jewesses (her word) listening to Classical music.  No sooner had I read those words than I remembered the fascination I felt in watching Frank as he, with almost palpable intensity of concentration, followed the development of a proposal being broached by another GAA member.

The leadership of GAA in those days kept to a surprisingly high-minded standard of deportment during meetings. Those attempting a sally into the trivial or frivolous risked a public rebuke. Smarts and accomplishment won you respect. It took me a while to win Frank’s respect, but when the time came I relished it. As the one man communications committee person I had written a letter on behalf of GAA to the Washington Post in which I pointed out some shortcomings in an article which the Post had published. We desperately wanted recognition back in those days, and no one expected the Post to deign to reply. But reply they did, and surprising as that was, there was something else  which pushed it over the top: the Post’s response was signed by none other than Ben Bradlee himself. Frank gave me a look that day I’ll never forget.

Years after I left GAA I ran into him around town a few times. I remember one meeting where, after a bit of prompting, he seemed to remember me. I vaguely remember another meeting much later when even generous prompting didn’t seem to elicit a response. But both times he was delighted to be recognized and responded with a profuse display of the old fashioned, almost courtly politesse with which he always addressed me (and I suppose everyone else he did not know well).

I’ve never met anyone else with such an utterly imperturbable sense of integrity; he could be persuaded by a well-articulated argument, but his core beliefs seemed to be adamantine and immutable. Once fixed on a goal, he was relentless. These qualities sometimes impelled him on to conclusions which baffled or even offended his supporters, conclusions which were definitely not ready for prime time. Yet this candor rarely left any doubt about his position on the issues.

Frank may have forgotten me, but I doubt that I will ever forget Frank. And I am glad to have this opportunity to publicly express my gratitude for all he has done for us.

A view of the back garden

Here’s a view of what’s happening in the back garden right now. The image is out of focus ( I tried several times but could not get the Hamamelis flowers in sharp focus), but in a sense that improves the overall effect. The red foliage on the left is that of Hamamelis ‘Feuerzauber’, the yellow flowers in the center those of the plant onto which ‘Feuerzauber’ is grafted, the red foliage on the right is that of Franklinia alatamaha.

Rosa 'The Fairy'

This little charmer is a 1930s anticipation of the modern ‘Knock Out’ roses. And like that more modern group it has almost all of the qualities of the best roses. It shares the same failing: lack of fragrance. But  it finally dawned on me that it was time to get off my high horse when it comes to fragrance in roses. Yes, I definitely prefer my roses to be fragrant. But does it make sense to ignore a rose which scores in the highest ways in other qualities simply because it lacks fragrance? It does not to me, and so I’ve made my peace with the Knock Outs and am ready to really appreciate Bentall’s little 1932 beauty.

Do you have doubts? If so, I suggest you seek out established plantings of these roses in November. I wish I had the room for an allée of autumn camellias and Knock Out roses in harmonious colors; maybe some of the Encore azaleas would work in this grouping, too. The whole planting would be fronted by ‘The Fairy’. These are plants which have the ability to bring a spring-like freshness to the garden at a time when it is otherwise winding down for the year.

‘The Fairy’ is conventionally placed among the so-called Polyantha roses; but unlike most Polyantha roses ‘The Fairy’ has Rosa wichurana (formerly R. wichuraiana) in its background. It makes just as much sense to think of it as a dwarf shrub rose.

I have not grown this rose yet myself, so the image you see above is an exception to my usual rule to include only plants grown in my own garden. Wayne and I visited our Northern Neck friends Charles and Hilda last weekend, and as we were about to leave Hilda took me over to “The Fairy’ and cut a nice bouquet. The cool weather was especially kind to the color of the flowers, and the foliage of the plant was immaculate. It was hard to believe that this rose had gone through the summer: everything about it was so fresh, clean and brimming with vigor. And the color warmed up beautifully under incandescent light.

Tilling season

Yikes! I have not made a blog posting in almost a month.What's going on?

The answer is that my other garden, my community garden plot, is absorbing every bit of time I give it.- and then begging for more.

I binged on bulbs recently, and as soon as I finish the tilling at the plot, I'll be planting bulbs - probably right up to the time the ground freezes.

I also built and installed two simple cold frames at the plot. New wood chip mulch was recently delivered to the plot site, and I've been busy moving it to my plot where I till it into the ground. 

Newly purchased nursery stock has been lined out at the plot where it will remain until I'm ready for it back here at the home garden. There are some new hedges in the home garden's future (at least if my back holds out).

There are days when I come home from the garden plot on the verge of exhaustion; but it makes for wonderful dreams!