Marshallia caespitosa | clumping Barbara's buttons

I’ve admired the charm of Marshallia since I first saw them in the Green Swamp in North Carolina many years ago.  In fact, they are a big part of the reason I went to the swamp in the first place.  I had read about Marshallia graminifolia (grass-leaf Barbara’s buttons) in The Plantsman as a species not seen much in the trade but that offered promise in landscapes.  And like an astronomer with a telescope, I searched the longleaf pine savanna on a sweltering August day until I found their spiraled galaxy-like flowers in the grass.   

Marshallia graminifolia in the Green Swamp of North Carolina

A close up of Marshallia graminifolia open flowers on the outside and swirling buds still tight in the center.

After moving to Texas, I was delighted to learn about Marshallia caespitosa (clumping Barbara’s buttons), another species that inhabited Texas, Louisiana, and a few states to the north.  However, this native was a spring-flowering perennial. While the genus is named after botanists Humphry Marshall and Moses Marshall, I’ve never been able to figure out who Barbara is. Wikipedia of all places is the only theory I’ve seen. Saint Barbara is invoked during lightning and thunderstorms, and perhaps the flowers as they open appear a bit like forked lightning? If you squint.

To me, Marshallia flowers resemble pinwheel galaxies as they open.

A few days later after all flowers have emerged on Marshallia caespitosa

My first few plants came from a friend, which allowed me to learn about their growth habit.  Plants emerge in the depths of winter as thin leaves and grow and enlarge until buds emerge. As flowers open they appear as small pinwheel galaxies, but within a few days as more flowers open, they turn into puff balls.  They appear a bit like a short Allium the way the heads are held above the foliage. 

A large clump of Marshallia caespitosa still in bud

Some clumps of Marshallia caespitosa have had fasciated flowers. This year is the first time I’ve seen it.

Marshallia caespitosa bloom on a roadside in east Texas

I like to use them as a lower layer in the garden scattered amongst the green groundcover species.  One plant is not enough. It benefits from having several. I plant them similar to how I see them in nature, scattered in a matrix of green.  However, clumps in the garden are much larger than what I see in the wild up and down the roadsides here in east Texas. And, larger clumps are more prone to flower flopping after heavy rains.

Marshallia caespitosa at the front of the bed in the orchard.

Marshallia caespitosa dots the spring display here at Ephemera Farm.

In about a month, my plants will set seed and shortly go dormant.  They are one of those plants that has lived in Texas long enough to know they don’t want to hang around during the summers.  

Two years ago, I collected seed to increase my number of plants.  I immediately sowed them into a gallon pot and set it on my small nursery pad in late spring.  The pot sat barren much of the summer getting watered and didn’t germinate until cooler autumn weather arrived.  

The following spring, I pricked the plants out into larger cells and grew them on.  They didn’t flower at all last year, but I noticed their clumps never went fully dormant like plants typically do.  Now, they are blooming their heads off.

This year, I’ll repeat the process so that in two years I’ll have even more blooms to enjoy from clumping Barbara’s buttons.

Marshallia caespitosa seedlings emerge in early December

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If you want to learn more about sowing seeds to grow your own natural garden, then check out my Botanic Bootcamp Success with Seed Sowing. I discuss germinating Marshallia and other spring wildflowers.

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Eclipse Perfection

Karen, Magnolia, and I made the trek last Monday to Arkansas to see the total eclipse.  Having seen it in 2017 in Tennessee, I knew how amazing the experience was and that it was well worth repeating.  

I had been watching the weather forecast two weeks out, and Arkansas offered the only totality path nearby that had consistent mostly clear skies predicted.  The six hour drive paid off.  We had a clear glimpse of totality, all 4 minutes and 13 seconds of it.  And, while I was ready to pull off the side of the back roads anywhere we could find a clear spot, we lucked out finding a regional airport with no obstructions and a small crowd.  There were maybe 40 people there.  

And, yes, it was just as amazing and awe inspiring as it was 7 years ago.  As an educator, wonder and awe are the tradecraft of my life. I have seen many wonderful sights in my life, and yet for the eclipse words really can’t describe it.  We were ecstatic and buzzing with energy afterwards.

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So, what does this have to do with gardening?  

In early 2023, I announced that we named our smallholding Ephemera Farm to celebrate the little things in life.  And, as we drove back home, I began to think about how a total solar eclipse is possibly the ultimate in natural ephemera.  It lasts mere minutes, and it is estimated only 1 in 10000 people see one in their lifetimes. 

But, I started to kick myself as I started to think of everything I had done wrong.  How could something so important have such little planning on my part for the duration of the event?  Sure, cloud forecast watching for days in advance allowed me to find the perfect clear sky spot while other areas of Texas had cloud cover, and I had hauled us 6 hours from home to see something we may only see a couple times in our lives.  

But, I had regrets.

• Not leaving early enough the morning of

• Not buying snacks the night before (although we did get gas)

• Not scouting places in advance 

• Not buying another pair of binoculars for Karen

• Not looking through the binoculars for longer

• Not having the camera settings perfectly figured out

• Not doing a video recording on my iPad.  

Then, I realized that all of the regrets were because I missed the feeling of witnessing the eclipse, and I wanted to recapture every millisecond that I could.  And, because it wasn’t perfect, it was taking away from the experience.   

It’s often the same with the garden.  Too often when I see something not perfect, I think next year I’ll do this differently.  There’s penstemon that are too thick in one spot and blend too much with the gaura.  Next year.  I missed sowing a spring crop of peas.  Next year.  The entrance to the patch looks bare and weedy after moving the 1000 lycoris bulbs last month.  Next year.  I want to overhaul the kitchen garden design, and it’s not planted yet. Next year.

But, the eclipse doesn’t offer much in the chance of a redo. The next one coming through this area is in 21 years.

The one thing I did right during the eclipse was to be present, to really look at it.  I had read online that some people spend the whole time looking at the eclipse through a camera lens.  I didn’t want to make that same mistake.  I remember much from that 4 minutes and 13 seconds—the darkness, the coolness, the appearance of twilight all along the horizon, and right before it ended holding the binoculars as long as I safely could, noting the prominences that were erupting off the sides.  Sure, I may not have the perfect photo or video, but I was there.  

In the garden many areas aren’t so perfect. There’s weeds and even some perennials I haven’t cut back their winter skeletons yet. I will say that raising a daughter means that there’s a few LOT more weeds this year than there have been in previous years.  But, to have a bundle of joy and happiness is a worthwhile trade.  

However, the garden beds near the house look the best they’ve looked in the 7 years we’ve lived here at Ephemera Farm.  I’m so proud of them. I think too often I see one small thing that’s wrong and focus on that instead of appreciating the here and now.  And, I have a feeling I’m not alone with those of you reading this perspective.  I have to accept that things don’t have to be perfect in the garden.  They never will be in a planting. That’s part of the beauty of it.

And, just like the eclipse, I just need to be present and appreciate what I have in the moment.

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Magnolia and I sat outside the other evening enjoying the garden.  The last butterflies of the night came flitting by as phlox perfumed the air.  And, then we heard a Great-horned Owl hoot.  Both of our heads turned toward the sound.

I looked up and saw the thin sliver of the crescent moon that had just days before blocked the sun during totality.  

And, I thought about how in 21 years it’ll be the same moon that will once again cast totality on a path that will come through the southeast.  It would be great if we could catch another total eclipse at some point, but realistically that’s the next one I’ll see.  

But, for now, I’ll enjoy the garden.

Trillium gracile | graceful trillium

Is there a gardener out there not enchanted by Trillium? I think not. When their little umbrellas rise from the ground and soon are topped with their tiny flame flowers that flicker in the understories of forests across North America, we know spring is on the way.  

I grew up collecting Trillium recurvatum (prairie trillium) from local creeks near our house in Tennessee.  And, in the Smokies I relished seeing whole understory hillsides thick with them—Trillium grandiflorum (great white trillium), Trillium luteum (yellow trillium), Trillium catesbaei (bashful wakerobin), and more.  In the ignorance of my youth, I would even buy some of these Appalachian species to grow only to see them not thrive in our warmer, drier west Tennessee conditions. Right plant, wrong place.  Those early experiences framed their range for me in my mind.   

When I moved to Texas, I never dreamed Trillium would be part of the flora, but joining native plant enthusiasts on expeditions quickly opened my eyes to see certain species would grow in warmer climes.  

To my delight there are five species that grow here–Trillium recurvatum, Trillium viridescens (green trillium), Trillium texanum (Texas trillium), Trillium ludovicianum (Louisiana trillium), and Trillium gracile (graceful trillium).  And, as of this spring I can attest that I have seen them all in their native habitats.

Trillium gracile on a forest floor in east Texas

The most common one I have encountered in east Texas is Trillium gracile.  John Freeman named it in his paper in 1969.  He stated that it had been confused in the past with Trillium ludovicianum, but “the smaller usually dark purple flowers, introrse [inward facing] anthers with creamy yellow pollen, three-angled ovaries [versus six-angled on T. ludovicianum], and relatively short stigmas” help to distinguish it.  He noted that the epithet gracile is an homage to the plant’s graceful appearance when compared to other larger forms of Trillium that occur nearby like Trillium ludovicianum and Trillium viridescens. 

It has thrived for me in my home garden since I got my first plant 5 years ago.  I have it on a north facing slope on sandy soil amongst other eastern forest denizens like Heuchera americana (American coral bell), Sanguinaria canadensis (bloodroot), and Polygonatum biflorum (smooth Solomon’s seal).  And, on a cool morning when the light shines through the garden and the little maroon petals glow amongst the other leaves, my soul warms a bit.

Trillium gracile backlit by the rising sun

I want more, but Trillium are a lesson in patience for plants to increase in number.  They are stress-tolerators and may take anywhere from 4 to 7 years to flower from seed.  I delight in finding single and three-leaved seedlings in the garden a bit away from the main plants. Their emergence is evidence of ants assisting in dispersing this ephemeral. They love their elaiosomes, fleshy tissue attached to the seed that encourages insects to move them and leave that worthless seed (at least to them) somewhere it can germinate.

A few patches of Trillium gracile flower in the garden. Look closely and you’ll see one- and three-leaved juvenile forms.

Division is another option.  My original clump has bulked up quite well, and last year, I was able to divide them as dormant rhizomes in early January with the bleached new shoots just elongating. Then, I transplanted them around the garden into new spots to see where else graceful trillium will grow in our garden.  I have learned to be very careful with them as damaging a shoot means that part of the rhizome won’t flower this year. Don’t ask me how I know…

The original clump of Trillium gracile before dividing

I made about 12 divisions of Trillium gracile off the main clump. I did leave part of the clump with more rhizomes for a fuller effect after replanting.

My long term goal is to have one of every species that grows in the southeast, south of say zone 7.  It may take a while, but I’m quite patient for the thrill of a trill.

Last Frost

I woke up around 3 am to Magnolia crying for her nightly bottle.  It was March 19 and the last few hours of winter.  I walked into the kitchen, and looked at the thermometer.  

35°F.  Close.  Too close.  

Would it stay above freezing for the next couple of hours?  I had been tossing and turning already, dreaming about below freezing temperatures.  Most plants had already emerged in the garden yet again this year, and I was worried about a repeat of last spring where we had two nights of 26°F that blackened or nipped so many species—persimmons and peaches in the orchard, and in the rest of the garden we lost blooms on Chionanthus virginicus (white fringetree), Nemastylis geminiflora (prairie celestial), Baptisia alba (white wild indigo) and Baptisia sphaerocarpa (yellow wild indigo), Rhododendron austrinum (flame azalea), and more.  Gut wrenching.  

Loosing the bloom period of a single species is painful because once the buds are nipped, that’s it, and one has to wait another whole year to enjoy the spectacle. But, it hurts even more to see multiple plants lost. I began to wonder with climate change are these our springs to come where a whole wave of bloom may be periodically removed from the garden? And if so, how do we deal with that?

My hope for this year was that this front seemed to lack the punch last year’s did.  Instead of two days below freezing, only one was forecasted.  So, maybe it wouldn’t be as bad?  But, checking multiple websites showed the forecast anything between 29°F–36°F, and living in a little valley makes our garden prone to cold air settling.  I can usually count on the temperature being a few degrees colder than the forecast. 

The bottle warmed, I gave it to Magnolia, said a little prayer, and laid back down.  

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A couple hours later I awoke to find it was 33°F, and once it was light out, I went to inspect the damage.  Frost was on the top of the house, a few low plants to the ground, and the lowest patch of north facing turf where it always appears first in the fall.  But, most things looked ok.  I didn’t see that watersoaked appearance that greeted me last year. A sigh of relief swept over me. I felt giddy. The first day of spring was off to a good start.

It’s been almost two weeks since that scare, and I can happily report the garden is flourishing.  Spires of Baptisia are coming into color, the peach tree is loaded with so many fruit I need to thin them, and the fringetree appears as a misty haze. The garden looks the best it has ever looked in spring.  Having lost several key players last year I don’t think I got to fully see it for what it had become.

There are some gaps in the main beds that I am working to fill.  The matrix layer has really begun to knit together with Carex species like Carex texensis (Texas sedge) and Carex flaccosperma (blue wood sedge) I collected on site and have been propagating.  I’m making notes about where there’s holes.  For example, Vernonia lettermannii ‘Iron Butterfly’ (narrowleaf ironweed) still hasn’t risen yet, and it looks a bit barren in those areas.  I’ll underplant the ironweed with something this coming winter.

Carex texensis glows in the morning light.

Or, maybe I’ll just give the task of covering the ground to some self sowers like my bluebonnets? Lupinus subcarnosus (sandyland bluebonnets) are really shining right now.  My population has continued to grow from the four flowering plants that I initially started with.  They are now quite plentiful along our driveway.

Lupinus subcarnosus thrive along the barren strip of soil next to the driveway.

Lupinus subcarnosus shimmers with dew in the morning light.

I can see the efforts of where I threw seed around into other parts of the garden like the front of the patch and inside it as well. Little slivers of blue are peaking out amongst other plants. I feel like those that self sowed had a better start than those that I broadcast and are now more vigorous, perhaps because the former had more time to get established in the fall.  

Lupinus subcarnosus has begun to weave itself between other plants in the garden beds.

But, my goal was to help this plant spread around the garden.  So, even if they are a little smaller my core focus was still accomplished.

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One day I hope to have a patch of Lupinus subcarnosus this thick at home.

Karen, Magnolia, and I were recently riding the backroads and saw this incredible patch of sandyland bluebonnets just west of town. My hope is to one day have this sight here in our glade where we recently relocated I’d estimate about a thousand Lycoris radiata (spider lily) bulbs. The ground here dries out in the summer, and grass struggles to grow. I thought the Lycoris to be a nice addition for when rains return in the fall, and bluebonnets would be great in the spring. They seem to love filling the barren spots.

The question of how to deal with last frosts after a long warming period jolts most plants into growth is still on my mind. It’s difficult for a gardener to content with 26°F even with frost cloths.

Diversity is one answer. The more rich a planting is with hardy native and adapted species, the more chances yet another species will make it through the cold. It is trial and error, and seeing what works and then replicating that. Sandyland bluebonnets made it through unscathed last year during the cold snap, and that’s just one reason to want more.

2024 Philadelphia Flower Show

The first weekend of March I headed to the city of brotherly love to speak at the Philadelphia Flower Show. This visit was my first time ever seeing the flower show inside. Karen and I went a few years ago when it was held outside in June, but to have the show inside much like it has been for much of its 195 year history is an incredible feat to witness.

The theme this year was United by Flowers, a focus on community and overcoming the loneliness pandemic that has only increased since the COVID. Most designs featured the ways that we connect with each other with plants or celebrating gardens as a way to come together. And, I wanted to share what I saw with you readers to give you a glimpse into this incredible spectacle. Enjoy the pictures and inspiration below.

The PHS Entrance Garden right at the entrance was a sight to behold. Water was the unifying element here, and this exhibit was the largest water feature in show history. A line of flowering cherries framed the view, flowers hanging above resembled clouds, the bouquets reflected beautifully on the water, and a rainbow of tulips and other bulbs up front provided a pop of color in the foreground.

There were also these pillars of flowers in the entrance garden as well.

Just a few of the many entries at the PHS Hamilton Horticourt, the nation’s largest judged horticulture competition. There are so many entries that they had three change outs of the items on display during the course of the entire flower show.

I helped judge the succulent teacups along with two other people. It was a fun exercise in evaluating plants for display, appearance, health, and rarity.

After judging I went exploring the flower show. My first target was Apiary Studio’s Right of Way that won the PHS Philadelphia Flower Show Cup for Best in Show – Landscape (also see header image).

Apiary Studio’s approach was to play off how America’s road system unites us and the plants that then grow on the shoulders of our nation’s arteries. But, I also felt it was also a play on words, that this approach to embrace these ecosystems as habitat and places where refugia exist for unique species is a right way of thinking. Instead of mowing them and spraying them we should relish them for what they are.

I loved their creativity in using the reflectors as plant markers, their plant-themed highway signs, and even having a guard rail to frame the exhibit. It left me asking what little things can we do in the garden to make our spaces more unified to theme or purpose?

And, unfortunately litter sometimes ends up on the right of ways. Another clever touch was using these paper mache trash bags to play off the ruinous landscape.

The Rhus (sumac) and dried forbs were a nice touch. There were comments made about how different this winning wildscape design was from winners in previous years. Most winners had more traditional landscapes, so I was excited to see this style of design celebrated.

Kelly Norris also played off the naturalistic design style with A Beautiful Disturbance. The design featured nature reclaiming an abandoned lot and celebrated how nature finds ways to heal that which we have disturbed.

Another shot of A Beautiful Disturbance showing the textures and colors. The plant material grown by Peace Tree Farm looked stellar, too.

I loved Kelly’s use of dried material like these Asclepias (milkweed) seed capsules.

I absolutely loved this America in Bloom exhibit by Jennifer Designs. It’s a floral USDA hardiness zone map! The theme here played off a floral roadtrip.

And from a distance Schaffer Designs installation Connected A Floral Legacy appeared as exploding floral clouds above the USA map.

Mark Cook Landscape and Contracting won second place for Two Worlds, where a modified shipping container featured a place to connect with people and beyond a green oasis was a delight for the senses. The Corylopsis (wintersweet) was a nice touch on plant material choice.

Generations by Susan Cohan Gardens was a more ecological take on the outdoor dining area. There was a place for generations to eat (even a high chair!) and there was space in the garden for insects and (not pictured but on the other side) bird houses to rear their young.

And, then some displays like Jacques Amand Circle Of Color were just a riot of blooms. Think of the timing it takes to make sure that all tulips bloom together at once.

Laurel-Brook Gardens installation Celebrate was a colorful exhibit that featured seating area and (not pictured) a backyard projector showing family photos.

I just loved these spray painted branches. So simple and yet so effective.

And for some gardeners connection to other people occurs in the kitchen garden and allotments. Students at Delaware Valley University did this garden called Lettuce Turnip the Beet. The different beds focused on the uses of plants beyond just their edible uses. A green roof and rain barrel also illustrated sustainability.

Another garden that featured how food connects us was Mercer County Community College’s Two Cities One Garden. It was an educational exhibit to show the process of urban farming. Inside the shipping container were posters about food handling.

Temple University’s Piers, Progress, and Processes focused on the waterfront and wet habitats. They brought attention to rising sea levels and the impact that might have. If you look closely at the center of the image you’ll see where they cleverly used Symplocarpus foetidus (eastern skunk cabbage) in their garden.

And, then Waldor Orchids had a flair for the tropical with Vanilla, an exhibit about one of the world’s spices that connects us.

Students at Rowan University had a cool exhibit about a smell wheel fan. They are taking a class on smells in the garden and visitors could spin the wheel fanl to smell something. I got spicebush (and was one tick away from getting skunk cabbage!). You can read more about this project here.

I delight every time that I see Hudson Valley Seed Company’s packets. They are such a good example of how we can graft a concept like art into horticulture and do it in a creative way.

Before leaving the flower show I was stunned at the number of people that flooded in. The entry garden that had hardly anyone earlier in the day was full of shoulder-to-shoulder traffic.

Erythronium albidum | white trout lily

When I lived in Tennessee, as a teenager I would go to the woods in early spring to see if I could find any wildflowers starting to emerge or in bloom. I was a bit perplexed why my little spot in the northwest part of the state was so devoid of flora. Later, I would learn it was because high soil fertility reduced diversity in the Mississippi Delta region. But, that’s another blog post.

The dearth of wildflowers made me look even more for relics that might be along fencerows or river bottoms that the plow missed. And, in my searching I discovered plants that were brand new to me.

I remember the first time that I stumbled upon Erythronium albidum (white trout lily). In 2005, my journal noted that the sighting of some Phlox divaricata (woodland phlox) near a creek beckoned me to see what else could be found in the area. After walking through the crunchy brown duff that had fallen the previous autumn, a clearing appeared with a massive patch of ghostly green mottled leaves. These leaves were alive unlike the foliar skeletons that carpeted the ground beneath their short stature. There were many single leaves rising from the forest floor while pairs of blades held little white flowers that nodded in the cool breeze and looked like octopi with their arms outstretched. Since it was mid-afternoon, the flowers were open. Had I been earlier or later, they might have been closed.

Back home, I would identify these plants as Erythronium albidum, the white trout lily. I would read how they were ephemerals, plants that grow for only a slice of the season, in this case perhaps two months, while they captured what light they could before the canopy closed. I also learned white trout lilies had storage organs but were also rhizomatous or had droppers, which explained them occurring in such a large swath yet having an abrupt edge of the colony.

The next year I returned to the same patch with my first digital camera in hand to take some photos. They had returned once again in their diminutive yet wide splendor, and I writhed my body as low to the ground as I could to snap some photos. The blooms mere inches above the soil were hard to see inside. I wanted to lay down, but the barren sprigs of poison ivy that rose throughout the clump suggested that wouldn’t be a good idea. Plus, I might have crushed some of the trout lilies. I angled the camera the best I could and snapped away. From that day came some of the first photos I ever took of a wildflower, which helped further cement the memory

The reflexed tepals of Erythronium albidum, taken in 2006

Erythronium albidum bloom in a Tennessee bottomland forest. I count somewhere around sixty flowers in this shot alone.

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It’s been almost 20 years since I first discovered Erythronium albidum. I’ve learned many more wildflowers since those days, even a few new Erythronium, but this one still holds a special place as one of the first wildflowers I ever found. I’ve also learned more about this native in that time, how it is visited by the specialist bee Andrena erythronii and how seed have elaiosomes and are spread by ants. It has been observed ants seem to have this interesting dispersal where seeds are moved a short distance but then dropped, perhaps due to the volatiles dissipating once removed from the plant.

I stumbled upon them here in east Texas unexpectedly, much like my first encounter in Tennessee. I was driving to town one day when a patch of the characteristic ghostly colored leaves caught my eye on a woodland edge. After my discovery I got permission from the landowner to investigate and collect some plants.

Once I walked in the woods I was surprised to see there were several different patches. Each colony was uniform in color, but each patch had a slightly different leaf color, some a little whiter, some a little darker, and some more speckled. And, to my delight there was one clump that also was loaded with flowers, many more so than the ones around it. From that colony I collected a few plants. My guess was the ants had done their work years ago starting a single plant that had now become these diverse patches.

Another patch deeper in the woods was much larger and reminded me of my initial find in Tennessee those many years ago. I noted that the colony seemed to stop at a creek’s edge and how fallen logs had separated plants temporarily from each other.

Note in this photo how the colony of Erythronium albidum appears to stop at the creek.

Erythronium albidum are isolated for now on either side of this log. It won’t last long in the heat and wetness of east Texas though.

Erythronium albidum rises alongside a fallen tree.

I like to think that digging them is fishing for trout lily bulbs. The shovel has to be deep enough as their storage organs are about 6 inches down. My King of Spades blade was long enough to access their deep geophytes. I just made sure to not disturb the block of soil that contained them.

There seems to be some debate on whether they sprout from bulbs or corms. I have always felt they were bulbs, though I have not brought myself to cut the storage organ of a white trout lily open yet. However, Ian Young of Scottish Rock Garden Club Bulb Log was curious enough to slice a different Erythronium species open in 2005, to which we own him thanks for his sacrifice. (Seems that was a banner year for learning about trout lilies!) And, in the second set of images from the link one can see the buds emerging from what appears to be a basal plate and surrounded partially by scales, two tale-tell signs of a bulb. And, I think it’s not too much conjecture to say the same is true for Erythronium albidum. So, after I wrote this post, I decided to go out and investigate when I was dividing my trout lilies. I cut open the geophyte, got out my hand lens, and sure enough, there’s no scales inside. It’s a corm!

The absence of scales indicates that Erythronium albidum is a corm (modified stem tissue) and not a bulb (modified leaf tissue).

Back home, I located my trout lilies underneath a sweet gum in the front yard, provided them with ample organic matter, and watered them in well. And, then I waited.

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A bud appears on a plant in my garden from a floriferous clump of Erythronium albidum

My plants from that colony have been in the ground for three years, and I was delighted this week to see their maculate blades rising through the leaf litter. And, by the time you read this, the buds are likely opening. They only bloom for a few days, but in their short time they bring me great joy.

Trout lilies demand humility. One must come down to their level and lay prostrate on the ground to fully enjoy the intricacies of the leaves and flowers. Picking one and raising it up high just isn’t the same.

And, one must be patient. A clump can take years to size up to something breathtaking. But, I’ve waited around 20 years to welcome this fun native into my garden. What’s 20 more?

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UNC Charlotte Botanical Gardens

A few months ago when I was giving a presentation at Longwood Gardens I crossed paths with Claudio Vazquez and Amanda McClean of Izel Plants. In our discussions, they mentioned that co-worker Shannon Currey had heard something about a more heat tolerant Pachysandra procumbens (Allegheny spurge) from Louisiana named ‘Angola’. My ears perked up. I knew this native groundcover from the mountains of Tennessee, but a selection from Louisiana would make it from one of the southwest most populations I knew. Sure enough, BONAP listed a single county in Louisiana.

Finding selections of plants that grow on the margins of their range provide new opportunities to expand their use in gardens. They often have traits that make them more adapted to those extremes, whether the conditions be hotter, colder, drier, wetter, or more. And, a selection of Pachysandra procumbens from Louisiana would likely do better in east Texas than one from Kentucky or Tennessee.

So, I emailed Shannon, who said that it was collected by the late Dr. Larry Mellichamp and Tony Avent on one of their trips through the southeast. She had learned about it from Ed Davis, Assistant Director of the UNC Charlotte Botanical Gardens. She connected us, and Ed offered to share some. He didn’t quite know the entire story but knew it was a great plant. We then put two and two together and realized I would be coming to speak in Charlotte in February. So, we coordinated my visit to the UNC Botanical Gardens.

I had visited in 2011 as part of a conference in Charlotte, but my time was rushed and I only remembered the moon gate. So much had been developed and planted in that time like a brand new natives terrace. Ed was a gracious host, and he made sure to show me a few spots in the garden where ‘Angola’ had spread well.

Pachysandra procumbens ‘Angola’ is a vigorous, more heat tolerant selection of Allegheny spurge from Louisiana.

The emerging flowers of Pachysandra procumbens ‘Angola’

Ed also welcomed me to walk through the rest of the garden. I remembered the moon gate from my previous short visit many years ago, but the place had developed so much. The photos below show how much care the gardens have received since my first visit.

The moon gate frames the entrance to the Asian garden.

I probably saw over ten Edgeworthia chrysantha (paperbush) during my time in Charlotte, and it has been exciting to see the interest in this shrub surge over the past 15 years or so. One of the nicer forms was ‘Gold Rush’ at the gardens.

I love the intricacies of the Edgeworthia chrysantha flower and how they catch drops of rain and fallen petals.

The garden had a massive Hamamelis vernalis ‘Amethyst’ (vernal witchhazel), and with a dark green background the flowers were easily visible.

Hamamelis vernalis ‘Amethyst’ was selected by plantsman Tim Brotzman for the plum-colored petals that appear in February.

The natives terrace featured a variety of textures that were even more apparent in winter.

On the natives terrace Ed said that they grew Eryngium yuccifolium (rattlesnake master) in containers for a novel effect (and to avoid the rabbits!). He commented that they did well as structural elements.

In the Asian garden, I noticed this espaliered Acer palmatum ‘Sango-kaku’ (coral bark Japanese maple) and thought that training it along one plane was a neat effect.

It’s been years since I have seen or even thought about Corylus avelllana 'Contorta' (contorted filbert). It has such good winter interest with the twisted branches and catkins emerging.

Cascading down this rock wall was a gorgeous prostrate Gardenia jasminoides ‘Radicans Variegata’. Even if it didn’t bloom (which it does!), this plant would be a worthwhile addition to brighten a dark spot in the garden.

Acer palmatum ‘Murasaki Kiyohime’ was an interesting study in plant shape and texture. Ed said that they had pruned it back from the path a few times.

A close up of the colorful twigs of Acer palmatum ‘Murasaki Kiyohime’

The Van Landingham Glen featured a mesic hardwood forest that would become carpeted with wildflowers when warmer temperatures arrived. Ed told me that they had encouraged moss to grow by blowing the leaves away from the pathways.

I also spent some time in their greenhouses and headhouse area. These facilities are essential for teaching classes on campus.

On of the neatest pieces of garden art I’ve seen was this metal Dionaea muscipula (Venus flytrap).

Even though it was cool and dreary outside, inside the greenhouses was lush and verdant.

Orchids of all kinds were in bloom inside the greenhouses.

I also loved their bog garden that featured a number of Sarracenia (pitcher plant) species from the southeastern US. The curved structure allowed them to create a gradient in height for water applied by hand to move through the bog.

Here’s another photo of the bog garden showing the curvature and the slope.

And, thanks to Dr. Mellichamp the UNC Botanical Gardens are a wonderful place to learn about the unique flora of the southeast US, as shown on this mural. I can’t wait to visit again!

Winter Preparations

The other day I wrote January 17, and I paused. “Is the first month of the new year already half over,” I thought. It was. My how time flies. I had hoped to accomplish so much thus far. But, having a head cold the first half of the month has slowed me down. And, then there’s the outside cold of the past week. We ended up being 8°F here with the slightest dusting of snow, our 8b temporarily becoming 7b for a few hours.

We prepped and covered what we could, and things seem to have made it through fine here. Cold nights before the extreme freeze helped plants acclimate. But, now I turn my gaze to winter preparations for the coming growing season. Author of Good to Great Jim Collins talks about productive paranoia, the approach of doing what one can in the time allotted because uncertainty lies ahead.

How to know where to start? Some tasks I know to do from experience. I know to prep the potato bed for planting soon because I’ve done it so many years in early February. I know to start cutting back the vegetation to make room for the rising blades of bulbs like Leucojum and Narcissus that I noticed breaking ground the other day.

I also use this down side of the calendar to move and divide perennials since we get hot and dry here quick. But, it can be hard to remember what I said needed to be relocated in May or where I said we need more of a plant in July, especially now that plants are dormant. On some their top growth has already collapsed or rolled away like tumbleweed in a stiff wind.

I find it helpful to keep a running list of tasks to remember on my iPhone notes app. Notion and Google Docs are also useful tools. I label the note “Winter 2024”, and I jot down all the ideas I see in the garden that need to wait until winter. Move this here. Thin that there. I be sure to include the date so that I know when I had the thought. Occasionally, past me even included a photo to help future me understand what to do.

Just a snippet of my winter to do list that I accumulate throughout the year in the iPhone notes app.

But, not everything makes it on the list. I find winter a good time to note tasks that have gone unnoticed during the growing season in the haze of hauling hoses and sweeping the soil of weeds. Sections of the fencerow need to be cleared of privet to make room for better natives. And, now that the turf has bleached beige in the yard from frost, I notice all the green tufts of Carex albicans (white-tinged sedge) that I want to move into the beds for a groundcover.

I’ll admit I still have some tasks that are stragglers on the to do list from 2023. And, 2022, and probably earlier than that if I’m being honest. I still have some daffodil bulbs to get in the ground that I got last fall. I’ve been waiting for top growth to perish in a spot where I want them to go, and now that the ground has been laid bare, they shall find their home. They should still bloom, albeit a bit later, but their cycle should be more normal next year.

I’m also firming up my final seed orders, too. Just this week someone in town told me how wonderful ‘North Georgia Candy Roaster’ winter squash had done for him. It had evaded squash vine borers and thrived in our Texas heat. And, then I get sucked into looking at seeds and remembering that I need to check my “Plant Wish List“ note and order Lablab purpurascens (purple hyacinth bean) and ‘Seminole’ pumpkin.

And, in that time, the sun has sunk lower, and the to do list hasn’t shrunk. Oh well. Trying that winter squash is now one less item I have to put on my 2025 list.

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Native Wildflower Seedlings of January

It’s a new year, and even though we are mere weeks into winter, I can already see new life has begun to stir in the garden amidst the detritus of the previous season. And, even though much of the garden has gone brownscale, there are sparks of green appearing at the ground level. The verdant threads of Muscari and Ipheion foliage are weaving themselves through the grays, browns, and tans of last year. And, Achillea millefolium (yarrow) clumps are so robust they are throwing up flowers.

I haven’t quite figured out how to reconcile the green with the brown. In some areas, they seem a bit at odds as if the seasons are competing against each other. It is as if spring has sprung, and I haven’t cut things back yet. I debate should I remove or reduce the green in certain areas.

But, greenery I will never remove are my native wildflower seedlings. They tend to be less conspicuous, and I love seeing these little seedlings tucked under, around, and even in other plants. Their time to shine will come later when I need ruderal color for creating layers in the garden while other plants are just getting going.

And, more so this year than any previously I am ecstatic to see the number of seedlings of native annuals that have established themselves in my beds. It seems that encouraging them has payed off.

Lupinus subcarnosus seedlings

Lupinus subcarnosus in bloom

Last year was the first year I had a decent stand of our more wet tolerant Lupinus subcarnosus (sandy-land bluebonnet). I collected what pods I could from the plants in my garden and stored them in a galvanized bucket in the garage. I was surprised one sweltering afternoon months later when the sunlight hit the bucket just right, and I heard a pop, much like a kernel of popcorn popping on the stove. I figured that drying would have already released all the seed by now, but could heat be an additional requirement? I sat the bucket on the pavement and moments later I heard pop, pop, pop! Seemed so.

Later in autumn a few hours before a good rainstorm, I separated the chaff and scattered it around wilder parts of the patch I don’t get to weed much in case there were some seed I missed. The seed left in the bucket I scarified by pouring boiling water over them. Once the water cooled, I scattered the the swollen brown specks around the garden right before the rain began to fall. I saw nothing at first, but as autumn deepened I started noticing their characteristic cotyledons appearing in the open spots.

I wasn’t able to get my hands on all the pods. A number of them went rogue and sowed themselves into driveway cracks and mulched pathways near the garden. I can’t do much with those in the drive, but those in the path I have been slowly relocating with a sharp garden knife so I don’t disturb the taproot too much.

Steptanthus maculatus seedling

Steptanthus maculatus in flower

I did something similar with Steptanthus maculatus (clasping jewelweed). I collected what seed I could in a box, and then I went around beating the leftover stalks around the blackberries trellises to release what seed I missed. I probably looked like I was doing some ancient seance to any passers by, but nope, I was just sowing seed. And, now their jagged plum rosettes have germinated and gotten quite large this winter. They seem to like germinating in organic matter since they abhor our acidic soils.

Nemophila phacelioides seedlings

Nemophila phacelioides in flower

But, then there were other wildflowers I didn’t even know were increasing in number. I was stunned to pull back a curtain of Muhlenbergia capillaris (pink muhly grass) foliage to find a clump of around 40 seedlings in a bed clustered together that I didn’t quite recognize at first. Then, when I looked at the lobed foliage I knew they were Nemophila phacelioides, and their proximity to the original clump helped me id them. I now had many to transplant around the garden to encourage their spread. I moved a good number of them in December during a good warm wet stretch, and they have settled in well, their tentacle-like leaves stretching out to capture the warming sun.

But, I shall wait to move any more seedlings until after next week’s cold snap. I like to see at least two weeks of not too harsh weather when moving little seedlings in the winter time. That way I give them the best chance at success so that in Januarys to come I’ll continue to see the beds littered with seedlings once more.

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Longwood and Stoneleigh in November

I’m still processing through photos from my recent trip to Philly to keynote the Ecological Landscape Alliance’s conference Regenerative Solutions for Resilient Landscapes. I’ve already written about my visit to Chanticleer and the things that I learned there. Today, I wanted to share my visit to Longwood Gardens and Stoneleigh with you. I love these two gardens for all that they have to offer horticulturally. My only regret was that I didn’t have more time!

LONGWOOD Gardens

Since the conference was held at Longwood Gardens, I found a few gaps during the day where I could explore. Longwood’s Chrysanthemum Festival was wrapping up, but there was still plenty of beauty to see in the conservatory. This combination of the purple Salvia leucantha (Mexican bush sage) was striking with the white mums.

I finally got to experience the giant Thousand Bloom mum! I’ve had this horticultural marvel on my bucket list for a while, and I was fortunate as this year is the first year it’s back after a two year break. This specimen of ‘Susono-no-Hikari’ has a total of 1,366 blooms, stretches 12 feet, and it took 18 months to grow it from a single cutting!

We have Senna bicapsularis (winter cassia) growing on campus, but this lighter flowered form named ‘Butter Crème’ turned into a standard was striking.

The contrast between the carpet of Chrysanthemum × morifolium ‘Himegokoromo’ (mum) and Sansevieria (mother-in-law’s tongue) was so striking. I thought this could also be easily done with summer annuals like vinca or Profusion zinnia.

Chrysanthemum balls hang above this reflecting pool in the conservatory. Don’t you just love the wall of plant tapestry beyond?

I made my way down to Peirce’s Woods to enjoy some of the fall color of Longwood. This mass of Deschampsia cespitosa (tufted hairgrass) was a nice foil for the colors of Cornus florida (flowering dogwood) and Hydrangea quercifolia (oakleaf hydrangea) to pop against.

The seeds of Halesia diptera (two-winged silverbell) glow like ornaments against a hazy sun.

I always chuckle seeing Eupatorium capillifolium in gardens because it is a weed around my house. But, what a spectacular weed it is! This selection is appropriately named ‘Elegant Feather’.

I swooned over these Sarracenia (pitcher plant) bowls near Pierce’s Woods. They had such a wild yet formal look to them.

STONELEIGH

The next day I made my way to Stoneleigh with Steve Foltz after we visited Chanticleer. Stoneleigh is a young garden that is building quite the reputation for its focus on natives. I’ve covered it in previous posts during visits in June and August, and I interviewed director Ethan Kaufmann on The Plantastic Podcast. But, having never visited it in the fall, I was excited to see what treasures the garden held at the end of the growing season. We were fortunate that Lead Horticulturist Eloise Gayer gave us an engaging tour of the grounds.

Looking up towards the house at Stoneleigh we enjoyed the fall color of Rhus scattered about.

When I visit gardens, I keep my eyes peeled for good color combinations, even if the plants are not close. For example, these fuschia-colored fruit on Symphoricarpos orbiculatus (coralberry) were a glorious color. Then…

…when I got near the house, I noticed these Opuntia humifusa fruit glistening with rain. I didn’t recognize the color echo between the two until I got home and started going through photos. That’s the benefit of taking many and processing them after a trip!

‘Tis the season of the witchhazels, and Hamamelis virginiana ‘Green Thumb’ was in full bloom. I always admire these plants that hug the end of the gardening year. Is it the end of one growing season or the beginning of another?

I have longed to be able to grow some of the heat-sensitive Acer pensylvanicum (striped maple) in the deep south, but I’ll have to settle for seeing them when I travel north. The orange-red stem color of ‘Erythrocladum’ with these bleaching yellow leaves were a nice analogous pairing.

While they can look a little ratty due to the faded pitchers of the growing season, my favorite time to see Sarracenia is in autumn when many species produce fresh fall pitchers. The colors on them seem even more vibrant than when they first emerge in the spring.

Near the bogs, these Aronia arbutifolia (red chokeberry) were loaded with fruit. Ethan shared with me that this selection seems to be heavier fruited than others in the trade.

I can now say that I have seen a Baccharis halimifolia (sea myrtle) hedge! The white pappus added a nice effect to the tapered plant. On the right was another native that generated some discussion while I was visiting Philly gardens—Helianthus argophyllus or silver-leaf sunflower. The leaves feature a gorgeous silver pubescence, and then in autumn the plant is loaded with flowers.

We just had to stop and admire the twisting, sinuous bark of this Thuja occidentalis (eastern arborvitae). Eloise told us this specimen was one of her favorite plants at Stoneleigh.

When I visit Stoneleigh I’ve delighted to see cultivars of native plants I never knew existed. This garden was the first place I ever saw the weeping Cladrastis kentukea ‘White Rain’ (yellowwood). The fall color was just starting to show.

My first time experiencing fall color on Franklinia alatamaha (franklinia) was this trip to Philly. I had heard it turned a brilliant red, but I had never experienced it for myself.

And, even after the leaves fall, Franklinia leaves are blood red. The rain helped saturate the color.

At first, I thought this groundcover was native Pachysandra (pachysandra), but upon closer inspection I was delighted to see a thick carpet of Phacelia bipinnatifida (fern-leaf phacelia). In another correspondence, Ethan shared with me that this ruderal makes a great groundcover before flowering in the spring and going to seed.

And one last photo showing the new lovely water feature in Catalpa Court.