Widewater

Two weeks ago Wayne tried to get me to accompany him on a local hike; I only had two hours free, so I declined. Here's what I missed. He took these photos along the C&O Canal in the area locally called Widewater. Widewater is just upstream of Washington, D.C., along the Potomac River.  The scenery here is so unlike that of most of Montgomery County, and at this time of year it can be exhilarating. It makes me think alpine lake country.  Wayne caught it on a great day for leaf color, don't you think? And I like his sense of composition.

These images, and some to follow in another post, were done with a ten year old Kodak point and shoot digital camera. I really like the color quality of the images produced by this camera - they make the ones I get from my Digital Rebel seem dry and a bit faded. 

Galanthus 'Thanksgiving'

This is the snowdrop described in earlier posts as my Thanksgiving snowdrop. It's early this year, but no less welcome. Snowdrops in the autumn are not nearly as appealing to me as snowdrops in the late winter: once I got  over the surprise of seeing a snowdrop in the autumn, I realized that their chilly color was too soon a reminder of what was ahead weather-wise. In late winter, on the other hand, anything showing signs of growth and bloom has a lasting appeal for me.

'Thanksgiving' is slowly forming offsets, but it has a way to go to be considered a clump. It is probably a form of the one-spot populations of Galanthus elwesii called monostictus.

The other early winter blooming snowdrop here is the one I call 'Christmas'. This is a two-spot Galanthus elwesii.  I was looking at it today and it is already in full leaf and has formed a nice clump. But it shows no sign of bloom yet. 

Hamamelis virginiana

Because this plant has been in this garden for decades, one might think I knew to expect its flowering every year. But that's not the case. I was in the garden this afternoon checking out another plant when the slightly pungent scent of the witch hazel flowers caught my attention. Then I looked around and saw it - and noticed that it was blooming freely. This yellow-flowered witch hazel is the plant on which our plant of Hamamelis 'Feuerzauber' is grafted. How the sprouts escaped my attention long enough to form a substantial flowering mass is a mystery to me. But now they are so handsome and so profuse that cutting them out is out of the question.

We are entering the time of year when what flowers there are are apt to be right down at ground level. But we still have the Osmanthus, Elaeagnus, autumn camellias and witch hazel to keep us looking up.

When I wrote about this plant before, I expressed doubts about its identity. I feel more certain now. Take a look here: http://mcwort.blogspot.com/2007/12/witch-hazel-two-for.html 

× Mangave 'Macho Mocha'

From a distance this one looks like one of those prickly desert plants you don't want to bump into. It looks a lot like its relatives in the genus Agave. In fact, the entire plant is pliable and rather rubber-like: even the little points at the tips of the leaves are soft. I've had this plant for three years. It spent the first winter in a cold frame. It spent last winter up against the house wall with a tarp over it at night and on severely cold days. Last winter was hardly a winter at all: some dahlias and potatoes survived even in exposed places.

The plant has grown so much that it will not easily fit into the cold frames. I frankly doubt that it will survive the winter in a pot above ground no matter how well protected. So I'm not sure what to do with it.

I had hoped that it would bloom this year. The inflorescence of this plant is a real production: imagine a purple asparagus about the size of a broom stick. Maybe we'll get to see that next year.

About the name:  ×Mangave is a nothogenus set up to name hybrids between plants nominally assigned to the genera Manfreda and Agave. Manfreda, Agave and Polianthes are so closely related that some species form hybrids readily. I'm of the point of view that if plants are capable of crossing and forming viable progeny, then it makes no sense at all to place them in separate genera - in fact, if the progeny are not only viable but are capable of producing viable offspring themselves, then that suggests that appearances notwithstanding the plants in question are all of one species. To me it makes better sense to consider most so-called intergeneric hybrids not hybrids at all but simply evidence of one morphologically variable species.  So I'm using the name × Mangave only reluctantly.  

Thamnophis sirtalis : An unexpected visitor

A bit after 10 P.M. last night I took Biscuit out for some fresh air. On returning, as I was coming up the front steps, a familiar but unexpected color pattern caught my eye: there was a young garter snake resting in the topmost branches of the winter jasmine.  The only light came from the porch light, and in retrospect I wonder how in the world I even noticed this. The snake seemed unperturbed by my presence.

It was still there this morning when I checked at about 6:30 A.M. When I checked again at about 8:30 A.M. it was there, but it had changed position and was beginning to move. The temperature then was 55 degrees F., and it was beginning to rain. I watched it slowly slip down into the jasmine bush and disappear.

High temperatures today are expected to be near 80 degrees F., so it's still snake season.

The image above was taken last night with a flash.

Three easy autumn blooming crocuses

Here are three crocuses blooming here today; shown here are, top to bottom, Crocus kotschyanus "my acuminate form", Crocus longiflorus and Crocus goulimyi. Each of these is well adapted to local conditions. Crocus kotschyanus is perhaps the most widely sold autumn crocus - and almost always the least expensive. However, many of the forms in commerce are not worth having because they either do not bloom freely, or, if they do bloom, they produce malformed flowers.
The form of Crocus kotschyanus shown here I'm calling "my acuminate form" because the forms of Crocus kotschyanus usually grown do not have prominently acuminate tepals (acuminate here refers to the points at the tips of the tepals). The history of this plant is discussed briefly here:
http://mcwort.blogspot.com/2008/10/crocus-kotschyanus-with-acuminate.html

The second image shows Crocus longiflorus, a species worth growing for its fragrance.

The third image shows Crocus goulimyi. This species did not become widespread in cultivation until relatively recently, perhaps within the last thirty years, and when stocks began to be available there were complaints that it lacked cold hardiness. It's from southwestern Greece. As things turned out, at least in this garden it's probably the autumn -blooming crocus best adapted to our conditions.

These autumn blooming crocuses are a fleeting presence in the garden, and heavy rain can quickly destroy the flowers. But a patch of them blooming in a sunny spot in the late garden, especially the very fragrant ones, is an invitation to lie down, stretch out on the ground and enjoy the pleasure they have to offer.  

Rosa 'Variegata di Bologna'

I first saw this rose in the garden of Philadelphia rose enthusiast Richard Thomson in 1967, and it's been a favorite ever since. The plant forms a big, upright shrub from the branches of which the full, globular flowers  loll gracefully. Roses striped in this way are among the oldest garden roses, and of all the ones I have seen, 'Variegata di Bologna' seems to have the sharpest, clearest variegation. Yes, it's sweetly fragrant, too. Most of the flowers come early in the rose season, although a few appear later in the year.

Of the two photos here, the upper is a legacy image scanned from a Kodachrome slide taken during that 1967 visit. The other is from 2010, taken in the home garden.

Rosa 'Tuscany Superb'

This is Rosa 'Tuscany Superb' or as it is sometimes called 'Superb Tuscany'. 'Tuscany' itself is an even older rose, and to paraphrase the way one commentator put it, 'Tuscany Superb' is everything 'Tuscany' is but better. Graham Thomas does not give a date of introduction for 'Tuscany Superb', but it had been noticed by the middle of  nineteenth century. Rix and Phillips say "raised by Thomas Rivers in England shortly before 1837." Its fragrance is as deep and intense as its color. By the time this rose was recognized, the floral style which it represents was already falling out of style. But it is an amazing example of that style: in particular, notice how the individual petals are so distinct and seemingly so substantial:  it's easy to see why 'Tuscany' itself was called the velvet rose.

No, it's not blooming now. The photo was taken back in mid-May; it certainly deserves a post of its own - I'm not sure how I overlooked this one at the time. 

'Sheffield Yellow' chrysanthemum

This is a relatively new plant for me; it's now in its second year. The similar mum called 'Sheffield' has been in the garden for years, and it is one of my favorite plants for the late garden. Also on hand: 'Cambodian Queen', this one is pink, but a cold pink, not the warm, almost salmon color of 'Sheffield'. You can see a weather worn bloom of 'Cambodian Queen' in the upper right hand corner of this image.

These mums are so prolific and do so well as garden plants that they more than earn their keep. I wish the same could be said for the potted mums so widely sold at this time of year. Most of these do not survive the first winter in the garden; occasionally one will establish itself, and I'm trying to work up the nerve to beg one such from a neighbor. 

Scenes from my morning walk

Biscuit and I took the long walk this morning. We crossed the creek and walked over to the ball field. Here are some scenes from along the way. The timing was just right to catch the maples in full color in the morning sunlight - wonderful! The walk around the ball field can be surprisingly relaxing: big open spaces such as that help to decompress. The slight slope with the path looked especially picturesque in the low morning sun. The view of the creek was taken from the automobile bridge: it was the reflection of the blue sky which first caught my eye. All of this is just a two or three minute walk from our front door. 

Aster 'Ezo Murasaki' and Tinantia pringlei : a pretty combination

Here the garden is putting on another of those last minute flings which the gardener wishes were there much earlier. I didn't plan this combination, it just happened. The aster here is a late blooming one; the Tinantia has been blooming for weeks but gets better as frost approaches. Some Crocus speciosus or Crocus goulimyi would be nice additions, or even some saffron crocuses. Maybe next year...

Acer saccharum the sugar maple

How's that for getting the autumn leaf spectacle off to a good start?

This sugar maple grows in a nearby park. It's not one of the local, native sugar maples, but rather a planted cultivar selected for good leaf color.

Update, October 28, 2012: this tree has already dropped its leaves, and the leaves lie in a colorless mass on the ground. Sic transit...

Asclepias physocarpa

Garden visitors often pass by some of the most beautiful plants without so much as a little comment, but when they get to this one they almost always stop and ask at least "what is that?" What it is is a milkweed from southern Africa. But it's rarely the plant they are asking about: it's those swollen hairy pods which decorate the plant at this time of year which catch the eye.

Old names for the plant listed by Wikipedia are balloon plant, balloon cotton-bush and swan plant. I've never heard it called any of those names, but the name I know is the one Wikipedia, perhaps prudishly, omits: who was the wit who coined the hilariously appropriate name "family jewels plant" for this one?

Ok, quit staring and let's move on...

Three late blooming sages

A wide array of late blooming sub-tropical sages is now available by mail order or even at local garden centers. These bring gorgeous colors and striking form into the late garden, but like dahlias they are at their best just before the first killing freezes. The ones I've tried seem to be more frost tolerant than dahlias, and some of them will survive the winter outside if well protected. A cutting planted in May should form a three or four foot bush by October.

When they bloom seems to be influenced by the amount of sun they get. In full sun they seem to bloom a bit earlier. But the basic influence for bloom seems to be day length, and most of the cultivars I've tried are precariously late. A century ago the common cosmos of gardens, Cosmos bipinnatus, existed in gardens only as very late forms which bloomed just before the first good freezes finished them off. The cosmos forms grown now seem insensitive to day length and bloom all summer. Is some forward looking Salvia breeder working on day length neutral Salvia? Will we ever have Mexican sage blooming in the June garden?

The ones in the images here are (at the top)  the Mexican sage Salvia leucantha and two forms of the pineapple sage, Salvia elegans (long grown as Salvia rutilans). The one with yellowish foliage is 'Golden Delicious' and the other one is 'Tangerine'. All of these are widely available and  can be thought of as the "beginner" sages for those starting in on these very handsome plants. Because they are so readily available, it's tempting to let them freeze in the garden when the time comes, but they can be started from cuttings or the entire clump can be cut back, dug, and heeled in against the house wall or in some other protected place where there is a good chance it will survive. Or the plants can be potted up, cut back severely, and grown on in the house during the winter. Such overwintered plants produce much bigger garden plants the following year. 

Bessera elegans

Elegant indeed, this striking Mexican plant makes a nice addition to the summer garden. It's not cold hardy here and must be dug for the winter. It will be great when I have enough of these for cutting. Each flower is about the diameter of a quarter. Note the blue pollen. 

Rosa “St Leonard”

Another box of roses arrived yesterday. The one you see above came out of the box in bloom, and a fresh flower was open this morning. This is a rose which has almost certainly grown in Maryland for at least a century, and  might just date to pre-Civil War times.

Mrs. Keays' Old Roses, published in 1935, has been a frequent companion in recent years. For me, the most intriguing  aspect of her book is her frequent discussions of what we now call “found” roses: those nameless roses which survive in old cemeteries or on old home sites, or have been passed along from person to person for who knows how long.  Notice the double quotes around the name "St Leonard". Standard practice is to use single quotes for accepted cultivar names. But this name, “St Leonard”, is not the original name of this rose. The original name has been lost, thus the double quotes for “St Leonard”. Roses in commerce come and go, and these comings and goings have little to do with the quality of the rose. When a rose survives among gardeners for decades, even centuries, that’s almost certainly a clear indication that that rose has something special to offer. And that something special more often than not is fragrance.

The rose called “St Leonard” is a good example of this. It’s nothing like modern garden roses: the flowers are small, seemingly shapeless and white with a touch of pink. The plant itself is a gaunt bush with the potential to occupy more space than most small modern gardens have to offer. But it does re-bloom throughout the season, and it carries one of the great rose fragrances.  

It has so far successfully kept its identity a secret: this same rose has evidently been found here and there around the country, and that suggests that it is not a spontaneous seedling but rather a once recognized cultivar deliberately spread by gardeners. See the note by Fred Boutin at the bottom of the page here:

http://www.helpmefind.com/rose/l.php?l=2.24832

The name used above, “St Leonard”, refers to the community in Calvert County, Maryland where Mrs. Keays first saw it about eighty years ago.  Its name was already lost back then, and who knows how long this rose had grown in that community. Where does it fall in the big rose picture? It’s what we would expect an early nineteenth century noisette to look like, and the assumption is that it is a forgotten noisette. The noisettes are hard to define because no sooner did they arise than they were hybridized out of recognition. Imagine what you would get by crossing the musk rose (or, since few people have any idea of what the old musk rose was like, substitute multiflora rose, which is very similar)  with a china or tea rose, and you’ll have an idea of what the early noisettes were.  From the beginning they were a variable lot.

Mrs. Keays' notes are valuable for another reason: roses which have persisted in gardens for decades are obviously well adapted to the conditions in those gardens. With noisettes, there is always the question of winter hardiness. Because the rose “St Leonard” seems to have survived for a long time at St Leonard, that raises hope that it will be a good garden plant here. Lusby and St Leonard are about 75 miles southeast of here, and St Leonard is close to the water.  I note that the elevation at St Leonard and Lusby is given as 105’; the elevation here is 285’ (both from Wikipedia). That difference in elevation might make a significant difference in its performance here. We’ll see. 

Bulb season

The great cycle for summer dormant bulbs begins this time of year. Not only are there new catalogs to be studied and new purchases to be made, but it's also time to clean and replant those bulbs dug for summer storage. In the images above you see bulbs of Fritillaria uva-vulpis and Tulipa "Red Emperor". Notice the double quotes on the name of the latter: it's formal name is 'Mme. Lefeber', but it's been known as "Red Emperor" since its discovery.

Exciting as it is to receive new bulbs in the mail, the pleasure which comes from handling home grown bulbs is far deeper and more satisfying. 

Asarum canadense DuPage County, Illinois

Over the years my friend Bobbie L-D has generously distributed this form of the wild ginger at the plant exchanges of our local rock garden group. The most obvious difference between this plant and the local wild form is the size of the leaves. And as you can see in the image, it eventually forms a handsome clump.

Bobbie collected this plant in DuPage County, Illinois.

At the last meeting of our rock garden group Bobbie was awarded a much-deserved service award. The question was asked "how many of you have plants from Bobbie's garden in your own garden?" and plenty of hands went up - some of us held up both hands! It was that happy event which prompted me to make this blog entry on one of her plants.

×Amarcrinum 2012

The ×Amarcrinum is blooming now and really making a good impression. This is one stunning plant. Unlike Lycoris squamigera, whose garden effect is at best fleeting, the ×Amarcrinum goes on and on for weeks. This plant has what it takes to make the gardener happy! 

 

Cyclamen persicum seedlings

Late last year and early in this year I bought three flowering plants of Cyclamen persicum. These were small plants selected for their fragrance. The winter turned out to be so mild that I was able to leave these plants outside almost throughout the winter. And they just got better and better as time went on. They were still blooming in early summer, and by that time an abundance of swelling seed pods was evident. During the summer I ignored them and they died back. I was going to collect the seed and send it off to one of the exchanges, but life intervened and the plants ended up dropping most of their seed right around the pots.

Now the seed that the ants and other animals did not get is germinating around the pots - and some in the pots with the old plants. I might experiment with some of these seedlings to see if they do well in the cold frames.

If you like fragrant plants and only know the big versions of Cyclamen persicum (these big ones are malodorous to my senses), be sure to sniff around among these small ones when you see them in the shops. Some of them are potently and very agreeably fragrant. If you keep them cool, they have the potential to bloom heavily for four or five months. 

Aster tataricus

This is a favorite here, although sensible people probably wonder what such a tall plant is doing in such a small garden. I knew about this plant from books long before I saw a living example. It is often described as November blooming, and I'm not one to resist a tall, late-blooming, blue aster.

One of my neighborhood friends started to keep bees this year. Her hives are at most two long blocks away, yet I almost never see bees in my garden. Earlier this year when Passiflora incarnata was blooming freely, the flowers were visited by lots of bumble bees. But I never saw a honey bee. Today, hardy ageratum, Aster oblongifolius (aka Symphiotrichum oblongifolium)  and Aster tataricus are in bloom - and there is not a bee in sight. When the clover bloomed during the summer, there were no bees - but the rabbits sure noticed.

Years ago I saw a huge mass of Aster tataricus in a country garden. It was somewhere out in the Virginia countryside, far south of Washington. The plants filled an area maybe twenty feet or more in diameter, and they were in full bloom when I saw them. That's one reason I keep a plant or two in my garden now:  to remind me of that day and that stunning planting of asters. 

Epiphyllum oxypetalum Oops! I missed it...

For decades I've had one of the plants known as night blooming cereus. Long ago it was a sort of vegetable octopus, with stems leaning out in all directions to occupy about a cubic yard of space. Hauling that mass in and out as the seasons changed got to be too much. The day finally came when it was pruned back, a lot, and then the day came when a cutting was made and the rest of the giant was discarded. For years the plant grown from the cutting has survived rooted in about two cups of dirt. It's one tough plant!

This year I gave it a bit more attention and eventually it was moved into a comparatively big pot of good soil.  About a month ago I noticed something unexpected: a flower bud seemed to have appeared. The flower buds of this plant are a big deal. For a plant whose flowers are open only for one night, they seem such a waste of material - until you consider the size of the fruit which will result if the flower is successfully pollinated.

I've been watching the bud intently for the last week: it got bigger daily, and the big day was obviously near. Last night when I got home I forgot to check it out. When I got up this morning, I realized that I had missed the show: the huge flower was there but in a state of partial collapse.

Better luck next year...

Rosa ‘Jaune Desprez’

I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that American horticultural literature began in New England and then gradually radiated south and west. So it's no surprise that the older literature treats the teas and tea-noisettes as tender roses. By the time strong horticultural traditions had become established south of New England, the vogue for teas and tea-noisettes was passing, yet the notion that they were not hardy was still embedded in the old literature.

As a youngster I occasionally heard the term tea rose; but it was always used improperly to refer to hybrid tea roses. I doubt if any one in my gardening circles had any experience of true tea roses, and it's just as unlikely that any of them had even heard of tea-noisettes.

What are the tea-Noisette roses? The term Noisette rose refers to a fleeting moment in the history of rose hybridization: no sooner did they appear and their potential become recognized than they disappeared, their progeny hybridized beyond recognition. The original Noisettes were derived from a hybrid known as 'Champneys Pink Cluster' rose, itself not a Noisette unless you insist on the curious filius ante patrem mentality of some modern rose clasifications. Champneys is assumed to be a hybrid of the musk rose and something else. That sounds indefinite, but there is no certainty about either parent; and given the ambiguity about just what "musk rose" means, it's beyond indefinite. Whatever the parents were,  they imparted to the Noisettes the vigor of climbing roses and a sublime scent. The other parent might have been 'Old Blush'.

The Noisettes appeared on the scene during the most important phases in the development of modern roses: European rose growers were enthusiastically exploring the potential of the newly introduced china roses and tea roses. The Noisettes were quickly pressed into service in these hybridizing efforts, and the results of the tea-Noisette crosses are by some rosarians regarded as a peak never surpassed.

Among the highly regarded tea-Noisette roses is this one, Desprez’s Yellow or as the name is more usually given ‘Jaune Desprez’ or ‘Desprez à fleur Jaune’. In looking at the pictures, the first thought which is apt to arise is probably “But it isn’t yellow!” But in its day it was about as yellow as a hybrid garden rose got. Truly yellow hybrid garden roses were soon to follow,  but 'Jaune Desprez' has more than color going for it, and it's been a cherished rose since its introduction. 

It's also hardier than many of its tea-noisette relatives. There are old records of its successful cultivation at Philadelphia, and a half century ago Richard Thomson was still growing it successfully at Philadelphia. Mrs. Keays found it in a garden of her Lusby, Maryland neighborhood. More recently Henry Mitchell grew it in Washington, D.C. Careful siting helps, but it does not need coddling. 

Everyone who loves this rose seems to agree that its fragrance is one of the great rose fragrances. 

A eureka moment

I had an intriguing experience last week. I was on the telephone setting up a meeting for the following day. When I asked to whom I was speaking,  I thought I heard  "Eureka"; in fact, she did say "Eureka, like the place in California."

At the meeting the next day I noticed that this young woman had a name tag: it gave her name as Ulrica. When I asked about that, she told me "the l is silent".

After the meeting, I pulled her aside and asked her if she knew anything about how she got that name. She mentioned that it was her mother's middle name, but other than that she did not know anything about it. I asked her if she had an interst in black history. I meant the question rhetorically, and didn't really wait for an answer. I asked her if she knew about Marian Anderson and her historic performance at the Lincoln Memorial. And then I went on to tell about Anderson being the first black person to sing at the Metropolitan Opera - and that the name of the character she portrayed in that barrier-breaking performance was Ulrica.

My guess is that she had a grandparent who probably knew from first hand experience of Marian Anderson's career and commemorated that in a daughter's name. I hope that's the case, and that the granddaughter can now say she  knows a lot more of the story than she ever did.