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.

The lilies of spring

Fritillaria are the lilies of spring. The last of this season's plants are blooming now, and many of the early blooming sorts are already dormant for the summer. Fritillaria will probably never be common garden plants in our climate, but if you are willing to go to a bit of trouble many will respond well. In my experience the only species likely to persist as a garden plant is Fritillaria meleagris. Most of the Fritillaria here are grown in containers in cold frames. Most start into growth very early, and it's not unknown for unprotected plants in full bloom to be caught by overnight freezes. When this happens, the plants temporarily collapse and eventually rise up again. It's hard to believe that this is good for them, but they do seem to endure such conditions without obvious ill effect.
Check on the title line above ("The lilies of spring") to link to my Fritillaria gallery: the 2008 additions will be arriving soon.

Back from the brink

About thirty years ago I began to take an interest in the wild peonies. Very few were available in the trade, and those which were were relatively expensive. Two acquisitions from those days still thrive in the garden: Paeonia emodi and the peony which is the subject of this post.

What is it? It was obtained from the old Smirnow firm under the name Paeonia peregrina. When it first bloomed long ago, I was both enchanted and disappointed. I was expecting a bright red peony, and instead there was this "pink" one. Once I got over the initial disappointment, my affection for this plant grew. For years its handsome flowers were an annual feature of the garden. Gradually its site became overgrown and shaded, and with that came decline. At first I didn't notice, and then when I did it was almost too late. The plant had become so run down that only two frail sprouts survived. It had been years since it last bloomed.

Two years ago I rescued it and moved it to a sunny location. It has bounced back nicely, and this year it is blooming again for the first time in perhaps fifteen or twenty years. I've seen a lot more peonies in the years since this one first bloomed here, and while I'm glad to see it back, it no longer has the same fascination it once did. But as long as it survives, it will be an important part of the peony story in this garden.

But what is it? If it is indeed a wild peony, I'm betting on Paeonia arietina (or P. mascula arietina if you prefer).

Camellia 'Single Red'

Years ago I somewhere saw a glorious red Camellia japonica cultivar in full bloom. When I asked about the name, I thought I heard 'Korean Red'. That was enough to start the search. It took a while, but eventually I tracked down a plant labeled 'Korean Red' and brought it home and planted it in triumph. All winter I watched the buds with growing anticipation. The buds survived the winter and survived the deer - and opened as some pink, double-flowered camellia.

Early this year a budded plant arrived from Woodlanders under the name 'Single Red'; the catalog description mentions Korea, and the illustration said "that's the plant!". When the plant bloomed last week, I could not have been more pleased: it's just what I want.

While visiting a friend's garden last week I happened to mention this Camellia 'Single Red' and my story of 'Korean Red'. As things turned out, there is an established plant of 'Korean Red' in that garden. I could see that 'Korean Red' and 'Single Red' are not the same: the flower color of 'Single Red' is a darker, more saturated red and the anthers form a more prominent mass.

At this point, I'm glad that I did not successfully acquire a plant of 'Korean Red' years ago, otherwise I might never have discovered 'Single Red'.

Red camellias in the snow are one of the loveliest sights a garden can provide.

Tree peony 'Shima-Nishiki'

The amazing blossom shown above is the Japanese tree peony cultivar 'Shima-nishiki'. After several false starts in previous years, it's producing typical blooms this year for the first time. It was worth the wait. The flowers in previous years were small and either mostly white or mostly red. This year there are five flowers with a good admixture of red and white. What a sight these are!

Tulipa fosteriana 'Madame Lefeber', the Red Emperor

The tulip in the image above is the old favorite Red Emperor, or as it is officially named 'Madame Lefeber'. Although tulips have been cultivated in the Netherlands for centuries, the official naming of cultivars did not begin until as recently as the 1930s. The tulip shown here is a cultivar of the wild Tulipa fosteriana. The story behind the introduction of this cultivar is a bit sketchy, but the general outline is that what became known as Red Emperor appeared in one batch out of many of wild collected Tulipa fosteriana. Was the original Red Emperor a single plant which went on to be propagated as a clone? Or was the original Red Emperor made up of multiple plants from a distinct wild population? The early accounts I have seen do not seem to answer this question. Throughout most of my gardening life it has been better known as Red Emperor, but recently more catalogs are listing it as Madame Lefeber.

No other wild tulip which I know has larger flowers, and if there are hybrids with larger flowers I have not seen them. If I could have only one tulip, this might very well be the one.

Tulipa 'Casa Grande'

I really like big, red tulips; and there is a new one blooming in the garden this year which does red and big as well as any tulip I have ever grown. That’s it in the image above: Tulipa ‘Casa Grande’. Several of the best qualities of Tulipa greigii are shown in this cultivar: the streaked and spotted foliage, the intense red color and the distinct flower shape. Let’s hope I find big, sound bulbs when I dig them later next month.

Garden hyacinths

Garden hyacinths are blooming now, and each year my affection for these most domesticated of bulbs grows. Although there have been hyacinths in this garden since the beginning, I’ve never paid much attention to them. And until recently I’ve always taken them for granted. In our climate they generally take care of themselves: once planted, they are likely to return indefinitely.
Last year I made an effort to acquire as many different hyacinths locally as possible. Over two dozen different cultivars were on offer in local shops. The advantage of buying the bulbs locally is that you can buy one each of as many different cultivars as are on offer. In the mail order catalogs they are generally sold in units of ten or so. That’s great for those who use them for bedding plants, but it’s very inconvenient for those of us who simply want to sample the variety available in hyacinths.
Hyacinth colors range from soft and delicate to rich and saturated, and there is not a strident color among them. The oranges and reds, colors which can require careful handling in other plants, are gentle in hyacinths, partly because the reds are not really red and the oranges are so softened by a milky suffusion. The colors remind me of cake icing colors, and to my eyes they all harmonize.
I’ve found that learning to recognize hyacinth cultivars takes some practice. There are so many white, pink and blue cultivars which look alike at first glance. Come back a few days later and be prepared for them to look a bit different: hyacinth colors morph agreeably over the life of the bloom, often acquiring a silvery sheen or a white rim to the tepals. Heat and bright sun will accelerate this process. The yellow-flowered sorts in particular quickly fade to creamy white.
I was in the army in the mid-60s, stationed briefly at Ft. Bragg in North Carolina. It was February. The peepers were out, and here and there on the base I would see tazetta daffodils struggling to bloom. And hyacinths: they were short, seemingly stunted plants which pushed their cones of pastel colors up through the sandy soil along the foundations of some of the residential units. Who in the world had planted them, and how long had they been there? Seeing them made me achingly nostalgic for my home garden. And it just occurred to me that although I’ve seen thousands of hyacinths in my lifetime, those are the only ones I remember vividly. Perhaps because at the time I no doubt wondered if they might be the last I would ever see.
Nothing assures a plant of a place in this garden as much as fragrance does. The fragrance among the cultivars does vary a bit, but to my senses not by much, That in part is why I’ve never been focused on the various cultivars: in the past I never cared about the colors that much and the fragrance in most is similar. But is it? One of the major mail order bulb suppliers describes the fragrance of hyacinths as like that of peaches. Peaches? I’ve never noticed that. This year I’ll be sampling from among the more than two dozen cultivars blooming or about to bloom to see if any are peachy.