Magnolia stellata

Decades ago I planted three tiny Magnolia stellata between the sidewalk and the street. Now they form what one of the neighbors has called "the hedge" in front of our house.

The three are in full bloom now, freely scenting the air with their potent fragrance. On a warm, moist day the fragrance carries on the air freely. Passers-by frequently stop to enjoy the fragrance (and occasionally to snitch a bloom; that's fine with me).

When these were planted they were little better than eighteen-inch sticks. Two of the neighborhood boys took delight in riding their tricycles into them. A few years ago, I answered a knock on the door, and there was one of those boys - now a young man. He asked me if I remembered him: I sure did! I didn't tell him I remembered his tricycle, too.

The image I've used here is from 2007; it shows the trees with the masses of Helleborus foetidus which grow under them. This is a favorite combination.

Hacquetia epipactis 2009

I showed this to you last year; as you can see the plant is getting thicker and more floriferous.

This is a favorite. And no plant I have featured on my web site or blog has elicited as many requests for information about sources.

Some early fritillaries

The fritillary season is underway, and here are four early ones. From top to bottom they are Fritillaria montana and then the very similar F. nigra; then follow Fritillaria caucasica and F. pinardii.

F. montana and F. nigra are about eight to ten inches high at this time; F. caucasica and F. pinardii are tiny things only about three or four inches high. Fritillaria pinardii is very variable, and when this plant first bloomed I did not recognize it. I had grown this species about forty years ago, and the form I grew then was a dull mousy gray-brown with a thin yellow edge to each tepal.

Some early tulips

The first tulips to bloom this year bloomed in one of the unprotected cold frames. Their congeners in the open garden are only now coming into bloom.

First above is one of the many forms of Tulipa humilis. These do well here if given a dry summer. There are five or six readily available cultivars of this species, and even more are available if you search around a bit. There is a raised bed in the garden where a collection of these tulips grows: year after year they bloom freely and make a happy beginning to the tulip season.

Tulipa kaufmanniana is even earlier in the open garden. This year I'm trying a new cultivar named 'Ice Stick'. It's blooming today in the garden. If you know Tulipa kaufmanniana itself or the so-called kaufmanniana tulips (most of which garden cultivars are hybrids with Tulipa greigii), you know that they are characterized by very low growth: the blooms appear just above the foliage. But 'Ice Stick' has a typical kaufmanniana flower on a tall stem. I'm still getting used to it, and for now it's nickname is "the giraffe tulip"..

Gymnospermium altaicum

This odd looking little plant, Gymnospermium altaicum, is an interesting departure from the usual run of "bulbs". It's not closely related to any of the usual bulbs; it's not even a monocot. What it is is perhaps even more surprising: it's a member of the Berberidaceae. It grows from a round, corky corm and requires careful protection from summer moisture.

There are other species of Gymnospermium, and there are several related genera; and few will probably ever be grown outside the collections of confirmed collectors.

Yet more reticulate irises

Here are three more reticulate irises. Top to bottom: 'Cantab', 'Gordon' and 'Harmony'.

'Cantab' must be nearly a century old by now; 'Harmony' was in commerce about a half-century ago and 'Gordon' is a more recent cultivar.

I grow other reticulate irises, but the ones shown in these recent posts give a good idea of what is readily available. These little plants are worth a bit of extra fussing; once you have had them for several years, and have learned to look forward with confidence to their annual return, you will feel that that bit of extra trouble to keep them dry during the summer is worth it.

I hope I've got the names right on these reticulate irises: I keep hearing rumors that the commercial stocks are sometimes not true to name. The plants are no less beautiful with the wrong name.

More reticulate irises

The reticulate iris season is over by now, but this year a nice, representative selection bloomed in the cold frames. Three are shown above in images made the second week of March of this year. The top one is the cultivar 'Natascha', not quite white but rather a soft gray or skim-milk blue.

Next is one called 'Sheila Ann Germaney', and she is followed by 'Katharine Hodgkin'. Not shown is another one very similar to 'Katharine Hodgkin', this one known as 'Frank Elder'. I have plants under both names, but the flowers look alike to me.

Until recently, all of these were scarce and expensive. Now they can be purchased at the local garden center, and they are less dear than tulips or daffodils.

Reticulate irises in general seem to persist well in the garden, but they rarely bloom well after the first year or two. On the other hand, plants grown in pots or in the cold frames and kept dry during the summer do bloom well year after year.

Fritillaria raddeana

March 2009 was not all bad. The first of the Fritillaria showed easily counted buds by March 11. This was Fritillaria raddeana, and by March 18 it was in full bloom. This plant has bloomed for the last four years here. It's never been more than about a foot high, and it grows from a walnut sized bulb.

Last fall I received some comparatively huge bulbs of Fritillaria raddeana. These are emerging now, buds first, the same way the small form described above does. The sprouts from these new bulbs are big, like those of the crown imperial.

The two images above show the small form on March 11 and on March 18.

March 2009

March 2009 was a big disappointment to me. That brief mild spell we had at the very beginning of the year raised great expectations; March dampened most of them. Not only was the month cold, it was also dry and windy. There was a bit of rain towards the end of the month, and last week we had several days of slow, gentle rain which gave the garden a good soaking - and brought on a surge of growth.

Spring peepers have been in chorus now and then since March 8. Last weekend Wayne and I stopped by the local "peeper central" to check out the action. The peepers were singing in their hundreds, maybe thousands. Through the din of the peepers we could also make out chorus frogs and wood frogs. Today I heard toads calling, too.

It puzzled me that there have been no toads at the waterlily pool in the garden. Today I found out why: as I approached the pool today I heard a loud splash, the sort of noise turtles sometimes make. I didn't see anything - then. I decided to sit and watch. Several minutes passed and then suddenly, so suddenly it startled me, a muddy brown cylinder nearly as thick as my forearm shot up to the surface of the water, grabbed a quick breath, and just as suddenly disappeared. It was a snapping turtle, evidently not a small one. That no doubt explains the disappearance of most of the fifty gold fish I put into the pool last summer. Yesterday I noticed some small gray feathers floating on the pool surface.

So March this year came in like a polar bear and went out like a snapping turtle.

Reticulate irises

Forget the old line about March coming in as a lamb or a lion: this year it’s coming in as a polar bear. It’s mid-day now; we woke up to a light dusting of snow. This afternoon and evening we’re expected to get several inches. How many inches is that? To the east of us it might be as much as 10-12”; in the immediate area it will probably be about 4-5”.

Last week the first of the reticulate irises began to open, open slowly over a period of several days. Two are shown above: above is ‘Pauline’ and below one which came under a now obviously incorrect name. I don’t know what this one is - yet.

Hundreds of thousands of reticulate iris bulbs must be sold annually in this country, and I’ll bet most of them get planted out into the garden. There, they bloom well the first year, maybe even for a few years after that; but most gradually disappear or fail to bloom again even when they persist.

Certain cultivars persist indefinitely and bloom annually: the old original form of Iris reticulata has been blooming here for over forty years; ‘Pauline’ also seems to be very persistent. In general, if they don’t persist on their own and re-bloom annually, we assume they are not for us. In fact, with a bit of help a nice array of these can be enjoyed annually.

Part of the problem is that they are ridiculously inexpensive: that in itself removes much of the incentive to try and learn to grow them. The formula for these is the familiar one: a bit of lime and dry conditions after the foliage ripens.

Adonis vernalis

When the first flowers of this Eurasian wildflower, Adonis vernalis, open, it's as if the sun itself were rising from the soil of the garden. It has the same greenish-yellow color of the winter aconite, Eranthis hyemalis. The same color is seen in a very few daffodils, too. It's a yellow which has a glowing quality, soft and very appealing at this time of year, especially in dull weather. The blooms of this Adonis are not large, but it has no competition in the same color range at this time of year - although a particularly well-nourished dandelion, should it produce an early bloom, might be just as big, if not as subtle.

The Adonis is very tidy when it blooms, but it soon sprawls laterally: give it some room.

The propagation of this plant poses some challenges. Division works and is probably the easiest way. Seed is set freely, but there seems to be no agreement about how to get it to germinate. Evidently, even sowing freshly collected seed does not guarantee germination.

The plant shown in the image above is growing in one of the unprotected cold frames. These frames provide protection from browsing animals and bad weather, and on sunny days keep the temperature within the frame a bit above what prevails outside - but they do little if anything to moderate the temperature at night.

The dog days of winter

The walk with Biscuit this morning provided some unexpected entertainment. Biscuit has been very attentive to all other dog noises lately: if she hears another dog barking in the distance, she immediately stops and listens. If the sound is nearby, she intently searches for the source.
Well, this morning she heard some barking nearby, looked around and didn’t see a dog. I heard the barking and was similarly confused. We moved on a few paces, and the barking resumed. Clearly it was very close, but both Biscuit and I could not locate the source. I expected a door to open nearby any minute and see some little yapper come dashing out. But no dog appeared.
We moved on a few paces, and the barking resumed. This time, we both took the time to carefully figure out where the barking was coming from. Once we realized where the barking was coming from, it was apparent why neither of us had figured it out before, and it was also apparent why we had not seen a dog.
The barking was coming from a place about thirty feet away: from the branches of a tree. Biscuit and I both looked up: was she as surprised as I was? The barking was not coming from a dog. It was a crow, a crow doing a very convincing imitation of a yappy dog bark. It was not the only crow in that tree, but it seems that it was the only one which had mastered the dog bark.
During the summer we have plenty of cat birds; now we have a dog bird, too.

The Lenten Rose

The history of the garden hellebores is a bit of a Cinderella story. I wonder how many of the current enthusiasts for these plants realize that they are nothing new in our gardens. Mable Cabot Sedgwick’s The Garden Month by Month, compiled early in the first decade of the twentieth century, mentions several species of Helleborus and even a named garden cultivar, ‘Frau Irene Heinemann’ of H. orientalis (what we today call H. × hybridus). Sedgwick lived in Brookline, Massachusetts, so her month by month sequences are of course a bit out of line with what we experience here. But this is a wonderful book, evidently carefully researched and wondrously detailed. Boston area gardens of a century ago must have been very well stocked indeed!

And by “our gardens” I don’t simply mean our eastern North American gardens, I mean more specifically our greater Washington, D.C. gardens. Hellebores have been growing in local gardens since at least the time of the First World War. They were growing in the Washington, D.C. garden of David Griffiths back then.

You’ll have to search harder than I did to find much mention of them in eastern gardens during the next half century. Literate gardeners no doubt knew about them because these plants have long figured prominently in the British horticultural press. Mrs. Wilder celebrated them. But the gardening public seems to have been clueless.

How can that be? How can the plant which is now widely appreciated as the best late winter flowering perennial in our gardens have been all but totally overlooked? How can it be that we had this plant in our gardens a century ago and then, then what? Did we lose them? Did they not prove amenable to conditions a century ago? Was the prevailing taste in garden plants at such an appallingly low level to allow this plant to sink into obscurity?

Or was it simply a case of get-rich-quick America not being ready to embrace a plant which grows slowly, provides opportunity for only infrequent division, and takes as long to bloom from seed as a trillium or peony?

A generation ago, hardly anyone grew them. Today there is a dizzying array of garden forms available - readily available, if for a price.

The genus name is hel-LE-bo-rus. Those who pronounce the name Hell ‘il BORE us may know something I don’t – but I don’t want to visit that place to find out for myself.

And on this first day of Lent I have to ask: does anyone else still call them Lenten Roses?

The hellebore season is just getting started here: the one in the image above is one which always has bloomed well before the other garden hellebores growing here. Please don't leave a comment here on the order of "Jim, I sell hellebores I raise from seed, and I throw away the ones that look like that".

I'm happy to record that hellebores have been blooming in this garden for about forty years. For more views of hellebores here, see:

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

Shrove Tuesday

We had the traditional pancake dinner tonight. Whenever I make pancakes, the ones to be consumed immediately are made in the usual four to five inch diameter. When I've made enough for the meal at hand, there is usually batter left over. Because this batter does not store well (even in the refrigerator it quickly molds), I pour all of it into the pan and make one gigantic pancake to use up the batter. The bottom of the ladle is used to spread the batter as thinly as possible. The result is what you see in the image above. This big pancake then reappears at lunch the next day, typically as a wrap. The filling might range from savory to sweet, depending on what's at hand or left over from other meals. If there is some leftover chicken, I'll make a quick white sauce for a savory course. If there is fresh fruit, I'll whip up some cream for sweet filling.

Since tomorrow is the beginning of Lent, tradition will frown on the whipped cream.

Early crocuses

Several years ago I discovered what a pleasure even the commonest crocuses can be when grown in the protected cold frame. There isn’t room in the protected cold frame for all of the crocuses I grow, so this year I planted many of the crocuses in an unprotected cold frame. The main difference is that in the unprotected cold frame they do not bloom as early. But they do bloom ahead of crocuses planted in the open garden. And the protection provided by the frame makes all the difference in the world. Now I can ignore the sparrows which in most years treat the flowering of the crocuses as the beginning of the salad season. And I can ignore the bunnies I saw hopping merrily around the other day – and I can ignore the deer, too. Hail, sleet, ice – forget them, the cold frame protects the crocuses from all bad weather.
Is it my imagination or do the flowers actually last longer in good condition in the cold frames? I think they do.
The crocuses with interesting markings on the outside of the outer tepals are more easily observed in the cold frame. In fact, when these plants are grown in the open garden they collapse into two main varieties on sunny days: the white ones and the yellow-orange ones. That’s because the beautiful markings are on the outside of the flowers; when the flowers open widely, they all look like white or orange-yellow crocuses.
Those with tender and exquisite colors such as ‘Weldenii Fairy’ and ‘Blue Pearl’ are more readily appreciated in the cold frames. Both of these are blooming today, and until today I never realized how beautiful they really are. They are simply too good for the open garden.
Here’s the list of familiar crocuses blooming in the cold frames today: ‘Gipsy Girl’, ‘Goldilocks’, ‘Advance’, ‘Snow Bunting’, ‘Lady Killer’, ‘Blue Pearl’, ‘Weldenii Fairy’ ‘Firefly’, ‘Uschak Orange’, ‘Blue Bird’ and ‘Whitewell Purple’. You can see some of them in the images above. From top to bottom:'Gipsy Girl', 'Weldenii Fairy', 'Lady Killer', 'Herald', 'Goldilocks', 'Blue Pearl', 'Blue Bird' and 'Advance'.

The days before spring

The first big burst of bloom has yet to occur in the garden this year: I’m still waiting. There have been many plants in bloom since the turn of the year, but they have occurred only sporadically. January and February have both been cold, windy months. My eyes are aching for a big burst of floral color.

The early snowdrops are at their peak now and have been for about a week. But try enjoying snowdrops in thirty-mile-per-hour wind gusts and a temperature in the low 40s F. When things moderate a bit I’ll put together a little bouquet of snowdrops and other early bloomers.

Crocuses are blooming in the frames - but do they count?

Last Friday Wayne and I drove down to visit his mom in western Virginia. Along the way we passed brilliant, green fields of what I assume is winter rye. It’s a real treat to see such an intense green spread out over acre after acre. The greens of summer never seem so bright, so intense and so pure.

Back in the home garden the prevailing colors are dingy browns and grays. But little Ranunculus ficaria is rapidly leafing out, and soon there will be plenty of green in the garden. And at that point I’ll be trying to figure out how to get rid of it.

Scallions, green onions, spring onions, Welsh onions, shallots

I’ve noticed that the grocery stores where I shop no longer sell something called scallions. What they sell now are called green onions. If you know your onions, you know that green onions and scallions are not necessarily the same thing.

Green onions and spring onions should be immature Allium cepa (this is the botanical name for culinary onions).

Scallions, on the other hand, are either those certain forms of Allium cepa which do not bulb or (and this is where it gets confusing) forms of a related species Allium fistulosum, the so-called (i.e. misnamed) Welsh onion. This “Welsh onion” is actually native to Siberia.

Where do shallots fit into this picture? Many texts currently attribute shallots to Allium cepa as a “Group” called Aggregatum. A Group in this sense - notice the capital G - is an assemblage of forms which might or might not share the same origin but which share so many similarities that for practical purposes they are treated as essentially the same thing until someone parses their ancestry and interrelationships. This usage of Group is not taxonomic: these Groups do not fall into the traditional taxonomic hierarchy.

The old name for shallots was Allium ascalonicum. Ascalon was an ancient Mediterranean port city in what is now modern Israel. Notice the similarity between the words scallion and ascalonicum: it’s no accident. Scallion is ultimately derived from the old name ascalonicum. In English, it’s not a direct borrowing: the word had to travel through several languages before it made its way into English. You would therefore think that shallots are the rightful claimants to the name scallion, but I can’t recall any recent American text which calls shallots scallions.

After writing the above, I Googled shallot and read the wikipedia account. The writer of that account assigns the French gray shallot to Allium oschaninii and the other shallots to Allium cepa.

The plot thickens…

Takoma Park Garden Club Daffodil Show

“…the Garden Club of Takoma Park, outside of Washington, which has for nine years past had its annual Daffodil Show…”

Those were the words which quickly brought me out of my bedtime reverie last night, as I lay in bed reading Mrs. Francis King’s 1925 Chronicles of the Garden. I grew up a stone’s throw from Takoma Park; some of my grammar schoolmates probably lived there. Even now, over eighty years after Chronicles was written, Takoma Park has retained both a very distinct identity and a vigorous enthusiasm for gardening.

It was Mr. Benjamin Y. Morrison, again quoting from Mrs. King “one of our finest amateurs and an authority in horticulture”, who wrote those words. There was something comical about her description of Morrison as an amateur: he went on to become one of the leading lights in twentieth century horticulture during a career which culminated in his becoming the first director of the U.S. National Arboretum - not bad for an amateur.

Does Takoma Park still have daffodil shows? If they do, I don’t know about it. The greater Washington, D.C. area does have a big, active daffodil society, The Washington Daffodil Society. The WDS was organized in 1950 – “ it grew out of the first daffodil show in the Washington area, sponsored by three local garden clubs” reads the account on the WDS website. This was twenty-five years after the events described by Morrison, and it thus seems unlikely that the show sponsored by three local garden clubs could have been the ones in which Morrison participated. Here’s a link to a page giving the early history of the WDS:

http://washingtondaffodilsociety.org/

and then click on About Us.

Don’t miss the photo of the founders: the clothing reminds me so much of family photos we have from those days.

It’s hard to believe that the Takoma show would have been anything like the shows of the WDS: for decades these shows have exhibited hundreds of cultivars yearly. This should surprise no one: not only is the daffodil charming, it generally makes itself very much at home in local gardens.

All of this talk about daffodils: there are no daffodils blooming in the garden right now, but two forms of Narcissus cantabricus are blooming today in the protected cold frame.

Am I cheating if I announce the beginning of daffodil season 2009 in my garden based on these somewhat coddled darlings?

3° F

We’ve just come through a cold spell which the local weather people are claiming was the coldest in many years. Luckily it was brief and was not accompanied by destructive wind. The low temperature in the immediate area was said to have been 3° F Saturday morning. The temperature remained below freezing for a three day period. On one day the daytime high was in the low twenties F.

Before the arrival of the coldest weather I closed the protected cold frame and covered it with a double ply tarp. It remained closed and covered until this afternoon. There was definitely a sense of trepidation when I opened it today. This is only the third winter for the protected cold frame, and those first two winters were not much of a test. This cold spell provided a good test.

And what did I find when I opened the cold frame? Other than some minor foliage damage to some leaves touching the glass, there is no bad news. I’m a happy gardener today.

While walking Biscuit in the extreme cold of Saturday morning I heard a chickadee calling: the first bird call of the year for me. There was a nuthatch about, too, giving its nasal buzz sound.

While typing this entry I heard another bird calling. I didn't recognize it, but there is a resident mockingbird. I jumped up, got my coat, and was about to head out to see what it could be. As I passed through the living room on my way to the door, I asked mom if she had heard the bird. She grinned and said "You mean this one?" and at that she squeezed the stuffed toy cardinal she was holding. The living room filled with the song of this other "bird" as we both had a good laugh.

January optimism

Although we humans have invented plenty of diversions to get us through that most depressing month of the year December, mother nature provides the only one I need during January: already I sense that the days are getting longer. It's early winter, bitter cold is predicted, the garden is frozen, and yet this for me is probably the most creative time of the year. I revel in the buoyant sense of optimism the gradually lengthening days bring: I'm looking forward now, looking forward with enthusiasm.

It's also the time of year when I pull out all the old catalogs and books to read about annuals. And not just any annuals. I can't explain why, but every year at this time I experience a surge in interest in poppies, morning glories and nasturtiums. Night after night I fall asleep thinking about ways to use them in the garden, in particular in the garden of my dreams where space is unlimited and frost is unknown. All of this is just a memory, if that, when the actual time for planting these in the garden comes. And there is no real loss in that because there is hardly a place for even a few annuals in the garden now - it's that packed.

And how is the creativity expressing itself? This is the time of year when plans for major garden changes hatch and are brooded into feasibility. This time I think I've finally hit on a plan which will turn the site of the never-fully realized sunk garden into something a lot more satisfying. The site poses a major challenge: the main axis of the garden points right at a gap between two trees - good so far - and the gap allows a nice view out into the surrounding woodland. That sounds nice at first, but that open view has prevented any sense of enclosure in that space. In fact, it makes the space feel like a passageway.

And what's the solution? Right now in my mind's eye I see a curved path extending from the area of the border on the north side of the garden and extending to the back part of the south side of the garden. This border will delineate a border facing south - and facing the main sitting area planned for this site. This curved border will not only provide the much needed sense of enclosure but will also allow the plants to be staged more effectively (since most plants face the south).

This is a major change for the garden. It will take at least two years to accomplish this change because it will involve moving tree peonies, and they cannot be moved until fall 2009. To be effective, it will also involve some grading: back, do you hear that? I was out in the garden with the tape measure yesterday - things are off to a good start.