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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Freeze Warning

I woke up, walked to the kitchen, and my heart sank. The thermometer showed 26°F.  Kudos to Time and Date for calling it 24 hours earlier at 27°F.  The National Weather Service had forecast a low of 31°F, and now they were reporting 25°F.

I knew it was coming. About three weeks prior, I saw a tweet from the NWS Climate Prediction Center warning that we were going to have a particularly bad cold snap around the 20th of March. I just didn’t think it would get this cold. With it being the last day of winter, I suppose it was the season’s last hurrah.

My heart sank even further when I walked outside and saw many plants limp with frost, their foliage water-soaked in appearance. We’ve had light freezes in years before on the spring garden with little impact, but 26°F is the lowest I’ve seen.

The garden before the freeze

The garden had looked glorious this spring, the best it’s ever looked really.  Growth was burgeoning, and many plants were two-to-three weeks ahead of schedule due to the warm weather we had up to that point. The same day that we had the freeze my Day One app popped a photo up of March 19 last year, and the persimmons were not even leafed out. And, now, their already emerged leaves were limp and had turned a putrid green.

I had kidded with Karen that with the plantings looking so good it was time for something to go wrong. History has taught me that any time I’m proud of the garden there’s a flood, a boar, an armadillo, a drought, or some other disaster on the way. Pride goeth before the fall—and now the freeze.

I rallied once the sun came up, and I watched in bewilderment as most plants shrugged it off. Trillium ludovicianum (Louisiana trillium), Lupinus subcarnosus (sandyland bluebonnet), Penstemon digitalis (foxglove beardtongue), Phlox pilosa (downy phlox), Sporobolus heterolepis (prairie dropseed), Halesia diptera (two-wing silverbell), Spigelia marilandica (Indian pink), and more seemed unphased. It amazes me how we can drop below freezing and fully leafed out plants can survive.

But, I wasn’t taking any chances for the second night. I had gone into this cold snap thinking it would be a good learning experience. But, after seeing Baptisia alba (white wild indigo) that is such an anchor in my garden wilted and burned, I realized what a gut punch it would be to loose all of them. I’d have to wait an entire year to see flowers again.

So, right before sunset we set about covering up what we could. With 27°F predicted again that night, Karen and I scavenged anything that could potentially trap heat. Recycling boxes were brought from the garage, trash cans were flipped over, floating row cover was erected, pots and tubs were brought out, and sheets were placed over plants.  I kidded with her before we headed inside that I liked my new garden art installation.

The next morning, a similar scene of water-soaked foliage and limp plants greeted me. I waited until the thermometer hit 32°F to begin uncovering plants, but a few hours later, most things defrosted from the cold yet again with little to no freezer burn.

Now, a week has passed, and I can safely say that most plants made it through the freeze well. The persimmons and peaches are gone, our Chionanthus virginicus (fringe tree) white flower show is now black, and my Baptisia sphaerocarpa (yellow wild indigo) lost some blooms. What possibly helped save us on most other plants was that were were cold approximately 36 hours before the freeze hit. Had we gone from 76°F to 26°F things might have been more dire. But, cold acclimation increases the sugars in plant tissues to make them more resilient to freezing.

I’m left wondering what can we gardeners do to prepare for events like this? My biggest concern is that data shows a warming trend with plant growth occurring earlier in the spring. I remember how terrible the April 2007 freeze was. Here’s a few thoughts.

CHECK AT LEAST THREE WEATHER FORECASTS. I like the National Weather Service, Time and Date 14 day forecast, and Carrot weather. I compare the three forecasts to get an idea of what to expect for the coming week. And, be prepared that it might dip lower than what is predicted. I recall reading where Johnny’s Selected Seeds said anytime the forecast showed a temperature below 42°F, they covered plants.

LEARN THE LAY OF YOUR LAND. Get an accurate hobby weather station and start learning how temperatures change across the lay of your land. Know where the frost pockets are, and where things tend to stay warmer. Also, compare your temperature with the local weather station to have an idea of what is predicted versus the actual temperature you experience on a regular basis.

PLANT DIFFERENT CULTIVARS. Various cultivars of the same species begin growth at different times. For example, many fruit trees have different chilling hours requirements that influence when they flower. My ‘Tropical Beauty’ peach is toast for the year because it had already formed fruit, but my ‘Sunraycer’ nectarine 20 feet away was just starting to bloom when the cold hit. So, it is best to plant a diversity of varieties to lessen the impact. Mark Diacono in A Year at Otter Farm warned that when gardening for food, anticipate 3 out of 10 crops each year will fail due to weather woes.

PLANT LATE EMERGERS. My Baptisia purpurea var. minor (dwarf wild indigo), Eutrochium fistulosum (hollow Joe Pye weed), and Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) haven’t even emerged from the soil good yet. So, learn what plants are later to emerge if frost is a concern.

TRAP HEAT. I learned from my teenage days of extending the season that soil radiates heat that it absorbed during the day at night, and by covering it, I could trap some of that heat to keep plants above freezing. That’s why freezes are rare on cloudy nights, but occur frequently on clear nights below or near 32°F. If you cover plants, the cover has to be all the way to the ground. Otherwise, heat can escape. Eliot Coleman also noted in The Four Season Harvest that there is evidence that covering plants also helps to protect them from desiccating winds.

WATER BEFORE A FREEZE. If a plant is experiencing drier growing conditions, it can be more susceptible to freeze damage. Watering before a freeze can help to lessen the effect, and the water can help to absorb more heat during the day if done early enough. Also, water releases heat as it freezes from a liquid to a solid. My great-grandfather used to run sprinklers on his strawberry patch all night when a hard freeze was expected, and the energy released during phase change would keep the flowers and fruit just above freezing.

Whether you still have some frosts to go or you won’t see another freeze for eight months, I hope the tips and advice I shared above help you protect your plants from cold damage. And, your heart from sinking.

The Colorful Twigs of Winter

In the winter I feel my perception of the garden is elevated.  Like when I can’t see because it is dark and all my other senses are heightened.  I notice things that I might otherwise overlook. The catkin swelling on an Alnus. The first sliver of color showing in a Magnolia bud. The swirl of foliage appearing from Pedicularis. These little things are celebrated in the dearth.

The garden is a bit more barren this year after the cold snap we had a few weeks ago. Gone are many of the flowering annuals that overwinter—snaps, pot marigolds, stock, and honeywort. Even pansies and violas took a hit. It’s a bit depressing in thinking about that time wasted planting them. Even some of my shrubs suffered. We are without flowers this year on Edgeworthia chrysantha (paperbush).

I learned long ago that color on growth organs like leaves can be more reliable than flowers. The same applies to the woody tissue, too. Colorful plant stems have long been an aesthetic I’ve gravitated toward in the winter time.  As a kid I marveled at the red maple regrowth along fencerows where they were cut every year to prevent them from reaching the power lines above. Their fresh shoots were rich with hue in winter and looked like they could be coloring pencils if cut and sharpened. And, I long wondered why they were so vivid until I discovered the color is solar protection and helps the plant deal with excess light when the sun is low in the sky.   

Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’

Vaccinium ashei ‘Powder Blue’

Salix ‘Flame’

I do have a few favorites. I love the red-twig dogwoods. Oh, how I have longed to be able to grow Cornus sanguinea that I see en masse in plantings in England where one has to do a double take to make sure the planting isn’t on fire.  But, I have so far killed at least two of them here in Texas.  Mom and Dad still have a ‘Winter Beauty’ (aka ‘Winter Flame’) outside my window back home in Tennessee that grows quite well (header image). 

I have made do with Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’.  My friend Jason Reeves of UT Gardens in Jackson, TN recommended this silky dogwood to me. He shared how this selection was found by Dr. Michael Dirr in a swamp in Virginia. In its first year here, this eastern US native is thriving.  The winter color is a little lacking compared to Cornus sanguinea, but beggars can’t be choosers. From where I sit writing, the red pops against the dark mass of what’s left of Helianthus angustifolius. Both like the wet spot.

I also discovered that the new stem growth on Vaccinium in winter can be very attractive.  After plants drop their crimson foliage, we are left with stems that turn a muted red. ‘Powder Blue’ is one of my favorites that has winter color in the stems and glaucous leaves that turn a brilliant red in autumn. 

And, of course, I have loved Salix ‘Flame’ since I set eyes on it many winters ago at the JC Raulston Arboretum in Raleigh, NC. It hasn’t quite decided if it likes it here yet, but I think I can coax the few I have into establishing well so their stems become a source of warmth in the landscape. 

Most of these plants benefit with a yearly or every other year cut back as the color is most intense on new growth (except the blueberry since cutting that back would remove the flower buds for spring and the delicious blue orbs that follow).  I use what stems I can in holiday and winter arrangements, and then cut the rest of the plant down right before buds start to break. 

And, it won’t be long now. Red maple tips are already swelling. Soon the landscape will wake, and I’ll have plenty of sights to see. But, for now the bright twigs of winter will help me see through the dark.

A Hard Stop

We had a hard stop for our growing season this year.  The bitter cold that rushed down dropped us to 9ºF with a few more nights in the teens. 

The day before the front arrived I ran around covering tender plants with tarps, blankets, leaves, and leaf cages. A week later they seem to have made it through just fine, but plants I didn’t cover were not so fortunate. The landscape looks bleached. The vegetable patch is done, save for the carrots, but they now need to be dug before the delicious sugars start being redirected into regenerating top growth.  I picked what I could of the cabbage, broccoli, and kale before the cold arrived.  They are all now turning to mush. 

I suppose that the story the landscape is telling this year decided it was time for a chapter break instead of a comma. I do love to extend the season and keep it going, but it does feel refreshing to have a bare slate garden for the new year.  

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I’m reflecting back on 2022, a year that has been good to us.  We have lived here in our log cabin for five years now, and I now know this place better than I ever have. I can predict how the light will move and irradiate a certain group of plants through a gap in the trees. I see how the water runs and where currents can be an issue.  I remember where the first frost will settle and the first spring beauty will bloom. And, I have built a hefty list of plants that do well in our little valley. There is a peace that comes from knowing a spot of earth and guiding it towards a better future.

And, now looking forward to 2023, I’m planning what comes next.  I see many peers in the creative community going through their end of the year reviews.  What went well? What didn’t go well and can be made better? We in the green industry can do the same. But, where to start? There have been several moons and many more sleeps since the clock struck midnight 364 days ago.

I have tried to get better at capturing ideas this year to remember and reflect. I used to walk around with a Field Notes in my back pocket, jotting down ideas and sketches, but now I find my phone more convenient.  I can take photographs of beds, circle and scribble notes on them using the edit function, and save them in an album for later. 

I use the iPhone’s Reminders to track what needs to be done in the garden.  I will either walk around with it open and type as needed or tell Siri to create a reminder for my garden list, and then dictate whatever needs to be done.  Once inside I can filter through them and move those with more importance to the top.  And, I can set deadlines or due dates so that when I need to pull those seeds out of the fridge from stratifying in 1 month and 11 days it pops up on my phone when needed. 

For capturing ideas that I see online I have a few options.  Day One journal app is great for not only documenting what happened in the garden that day but also screenshotting ideas that I find like a surprising plant combination or adding plants to a wish list. I think it is now a monthly subscription as I subscribed early on and got grandfathered in. Other options include the free apps Evernote, Trello, Google Docs, and Notion for capture. Each can be used in endless ways from tracking seeds and cultivars to storing notes and research about plants.  Notion is my current favorite for its quick sync across multiple devices and its customizability.

Of course, it can be overwhelming to see so many items on a to do list but remember, small steps. One or two things done a day or a week can move you forward faster than you think on a gardening project or goal. There’s also the grace of the short days of winter.  We are inside more starting the new year and planning what needs to come next.

Sometimes I feel like E.B. White who listed a plethora of tasks in his 1941 essay “Memorandum” with most sentences starting with “Today I should…” or “I ought to finish.…”

I suppose he was employing the Getting Things Done methodology before it was vogue, this idea of emptying your mind of all that has to be done because how can you have ideas when your brain is too busy trying to hold them?  He jumps from task to task to task, each one leading him to another thing he has remembered needs to be completed. Just one example, he must rake the brush that was left in the field, and today would be good to burn it since it rained recently, but before he burns it he needs to research is it better or burn or let rot into compost. I chuckle and think how often my mind goes in these items in a series loops, too.

Of course, it is a bit tongue in cheek because there’s no way he can get all the things done that he needs to today.  But, listing them is a good first step. 

He closes with “I’ve been spending a lot of time here typing, and I see it is four o’clock already and almost dark, so I had better get going.” 

I should, too.

The Blessing of Seedheads

Today looks cold enough to snow with the low gray sky. I’m more used to this weather in February than I am November. The forecast said the high won’t break 50ºF today. Alas, the only thing falling from the sky will be rain.

I do a final walk around before the clouds burst. We’ve now had a few frosts, one hard one this past weekend. Looking out over the garden, most of the flowering plants are now done. I’m afraid even my late flowering ‘Halloweenie’ glads (Gladiolus dalenii) that haven’t bloomed yet (and with their tardiness in past years I’ve joked should be named ‘Thanksgivingie’) are going to get hit with more freezing temperatures we have coming this week.

So on this walk I’m thinking of frost-proof winter interest I have for the next few months in the garden. I’m counting my garden blessings if you will to see what at the end of the season I can appreciate.

Seed heads are at the top of the list as they have such a prominent presence in the winter landscape. They are skeletons of the past that, a glimpse of what the garden once was in the height of its empire.

Near the house Helianthus radula (rayless sunflower) still looks spectacular as the black stems pop against the froth of Eragrostis spectablis (purple lovegrass, header image). On the other side of the lovegrass rise the black buttons of Pycnanthemum tenuifolium (narrow-leaf mountain mint). It is one of my favorite perennials for its multi-season interest in the landscape. I make a note to pair more blacks with the winter foliage of the love grass for next year.

There are also some Lilium formosanum (Formosan lily) in the bed that rise up and have started to release seeds from their brown chalices. I just transplanted them to that spot this spring, so their height is much shorter. I quite like their more diminutive nature.

Pycnanthemum tenuifolium

Lilium formosanum

As I walk further along the bed, I see the spherical seedheads of Hyptis alata (clustered bushmint). They will last the rest of winter, though I have to be careful whenever I remove them come spring because they are loaded with seed that I’ll be weeding for months afterwards if they spill.

Hyptis alata

Nearing the orchard, I startle some Dark-eyed Juncos. They are the first I’ve seen this year, and I’m delighted the cold fronts have brought them back to the garden. They dart under the glimmering split-beard bluestem (Andropogon ternarius). Even on a sunless day, the plant still shines. The clumps are now in their second year, and I realize the site I put it on is too fertile as some have lodged and thus made an even better hiding place for the juncos and other little brown birds mixed in the flock. Next year, I’ll have to cut them back in mid-summer much like they do when mowing the roadside to help keep it shorter for lasting winter interest.

Andropogon ternarius

There are still a few Baptisia alba (white wild indigo) in the orchard beds. For us they start going dormant in late August or early September. It’s always a hard call for me to ask do these dead twigs stay or do they go. But, I seem to always err on letting them stay. Some have already blown away with their tumbleweed action, and I have found them next to a fence or in the ditch by the road. It’s a creative approach to seed dispersal.

Another Baptisia, yellow wild indigo, is nearby in the front of the patch and has more spherical fruit, hence the epithet sphaerocarpa for the round (sphaero-) fruit (-carpa) it forms.

Baptisia alba

Baptisia sphaerocarpa

Vernonia baldwinii (western ironweed) also looks good in its last moments. I have found they have staying power into the winter with their feather-duster seed heads. The pappus is such a nice light tan and pops against the dark stems.

Vernonia baldwinii

A flock of winter birds is once again startled as I make my way back toward the house. I think how seedheads are not just a blessing for me. I know that the winter birds enjoy them, too. That’s why I admire them while I can before they and the wind spread the seeds. Such thoughts warm my soul, perhaps as much as the corn chowder I’ll have tonight after a cold autumn day.

An Autumn Entrance

The past several weeks have been brutal with the lack of rain. I feel all I’ve been doing with my gardening time is hauling hoses. Every day I find something else wilting from the lack of any water.

And, then I found where an armadillo dug up some plants, and a buck decided to obliterate the bark on my prized Prunus mume ‘Dawn’ (flowering apricot).

These valleys in the gardening experience are so frustrating.

However, one thing I have taken delight in is Karen’s growing interest in gardening. From cut flowers to growing milkweed for Monarchs, she has really blossomed as a gardener. She has been so proud of her design of the side entrance to the house, and it has looked great under her stewardship this fall.

We made a stop at Blue Moon Gardens a month ago and loaded up on some autumn color after picking up pumpkins at Trader Joe’s. The pumpkins and two mums provide seasonal color, but there are other plant gems tucked in here.

Most plants offer colorful foliage. We have a few houseplants in the mix like the variegated Dracaena trifasciata ‘Laurentii’ (snake plant) and a gold splashed Codiaeum variegatum var. pictum ‘Petra’ (croton). Even I integrated my three year old silvery Cissus discolor (rex begonia vine) into the display by allowing it to clamber over the railing. And, then of course we have her mixed batches of succulents, many propagated from our wedding favors from 2016.

The black pearl peppers pop against the foliage of Capsicum annuum ‘Onyx Red’ (ornamental pepper). A few volunteer seedlings of Celosia argentea var. plumosa ‘Dragon’s Breath’ (celosia) returned from last year. It colors up a brilliant red in full sun, but with some shade it has more green in the foliage.

A few planters that offer fall color by our side door entrance featuring Capsicum annuum ‘Onyx Red’, Celosia argentea var. plumosa ‘Dragon’s Breath’, and Euphorbia × martinii ‘Ascot Rainbow’

We moved a few celosia into a larger pot, and in the back we stuck a plant of Euphorbia × martinii ‘Ascot Rainbow’ (Martin’s spurge). ‘Ascot Rainbow’ was discovered as a branch sport by David Glenn of Ascot, Victoria in 2005 and has since spread around the world as a variegated Euphorbia with incredible color that intensifies as winter progresses and then blooms.

A closeup of the variegation on Euphorbia × martinii ‘Ascot Rainbow’

I grew ‘Ascot Rainbow’ in my 100+ container collection back in grad school for reliable winter color. It really does go through a myriad of hues, intensifying as the weather gets cooler and what little winter sun we have shines bright.

A photo from a January day 10 years ago shows the rich color that Euphorbia × martinii ‘Ascot Rainbow’ can turn in winter.

It’s amazing how a cultivar returning under my care brings back so many memories. The smell of winter in Raleigh. The constant noises of apartment living. Piling snow around the pots during a freak snow event to protect them from freezing temperatures that night. Somehow I lost it in the move, but now the memories come flooding back.

Karen asked why I don’t do more pots. She thought that maybe they were a bad practice or out of vogue. I was just burned out on container gardening. Having lived in an apartment for six years in grad school and a rental house three years here in Nacogdoches, I was mostly done with containers and ready for some in the ground growing. And, really, I was mostly done with watering (though I chuckle writing that with all the hose dragging I’ve had to do lately).

In grad school I didn’t have a hose, so I had to craft some tubing with fittings that would hook up to my shower head to fill two trash cans outside. And, then I would dunk watering cans to water pots every other day during the growing season unless it rained. Every pot had a saucer to help hold the precious water. And, for many years that was my life.

Once we bought our house, almost everything went into the ground as I and my plants said goodbye to nomad living. My houseplant collection dwindled as I only kept the plants that were precious and would need to be moved back and forth inside or that wouldn’t do well in the ground here in Texas. And, honestly, I haven’t thought much about containers since.

But, I have forgotten how good these pop up gardens are for the creativity they can cultivate. The thing I loved about containers were they were a miniature lab, an experimental place to see how things do. They had a modularity about them where if something looked bad, it could be swapped out or moved around.

And now that I have someone to help water and care for them, there are even more opportunities to create magic.

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The rains have returned, the mums are petering out, and we are about to move the houseplants inside. We got our first frost of 28°F this week, four weeks early. Karen has already started talking about what we should do for the coming holidays in this space.

I can’t wait to see what she creates next.

Bringing Daffodils In

Last Saturday was one of the rare days I actually donned more layers as morning progressed into afternoon.  Shorts were replaced by pants, then long sleeves went on over the t-shirt, and then I put on a rain jack to shield against the blustery wind, which would soon be accompanied by a cold drizzle.  I was hoping for warmer weather over spring break, but alas, it turned off chilly.

Before heading in, I decided to pick a bucket of daffodils. I never know how they’ll take the freezing temperatures, so I wanted to bring in what I could just in case the next morning they were all frozen and laying on the ground. The forecast for the night showed a low of 28°F, but I knew that we would register even colder. (In hindsight, I was right. I woke the next morning to 23°F.)

Daffodils are some of the first flowers to grace the house in bulk in the new year, and we now have several posies sitting in bottles on a rustic metal tray. Over the past few years, I’ve been accumulating types that grow well here.  Some have come from back roads and old homesteads, others from friends and companies who have promised their success in Zone 8B.  

First is the short, soft yellow Narcissus pseudonarcissus I wrote about recently. More have been opening as the month has progressed.   Also present is Narcissus jonquilla, or jonquil named for the thin, rush-like (Juncus) foliage.  The tiny flowers are incredibly fragrant for their size.  Their offspring Narcissus × odorus sits between the two. It is a vigorous hybrid that wouldn’t win any awards for the frequent misformed corona and odd number of petals, but its heterosis is welcome in my garden. My patch of over 1000 bulbs will bloom for weeks, and the thin foliage isn’t too overbearing in the landscape after flowering.

Narcissus pseudonarcissus

Narcissus × odorus

Narcissus jonquilla

I also have a few selections that do well here in east Texas. One is a lovely Narcissus tazetta, likely ‘Grand Primo’, that sports white petals and golden-colored cups that fade to an off-white (banner photo, second from left).  Like the jonquil, the fragrance is intense. As I sit here writing, I keep catching a whiff of Narcissus, and it’s probably a blend of the jonquils and ‘Grand Primo’. Another selection is the double Narcissus incomparabilis var. plenus, which is also known as “Butter and Eggs” for the scrambled white-and-yellow petals. Their scapes are usually not strong enough for the hefty flowers to be held upright, so it’s worth picking them and putting them in a bottle.

I have two cultivars that are fairly easy to find on the market. ‘Carlton’ features large, bright yellow petals and a similar colored corona, and ‘Ceylon’ has an orange cup perched against warm yellow petals.  ‘Carlton’ has a tendency to flop in rain, so I prefer the more stolid ‘Ceylon’.  The orange is a bit of a challenge to pair with companions in late winter, but I’ve realized they will go well under the ‘Flame’ willows I’m propagating.

Narcissus incomparabilis var. plenus

Narcissus ‘Carlton’

Narcissus ‘Ceylon’

I’m glad the cold forced me to bring them inside. I’m always hesitant to pick some because I know the minute the flower leaves the plant, its demise is only a matter of time. But, I forget how much fun it is to bring the outside in and to have little bottles of sunshine on a gray, dreary day.

Solstice Trees

“Augh, I cannot believe I did that,” I said as my hand rubbed my furrowed brow.  I thought I had done everything perfect. 

I took the two different Magnolia cultivars out of their pots and bashed their rootballs to knock off the excess substrate.  I inspected their roots and untwisted any that were crooked or circling, even in one case teasing the whole root system out from a cylinder shape into a broom-like spray.  I planted their root flares level with the soil, in a circle mind you!  I backfilled the holes with the original soil and double checked their bases were level with the ground.  And, I turned the water on a slow trickle to settle them in. 

And, that night, looking at photos from the day and jotting notes in my gardening journal I realized I never double checked the labels. The Magnolia trees were in the wrong holes.  

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I love celebrating the winter solstice by planting trees; for those of us in the northern hemisphere, it is the best time to get them in the ground. The cooler temperatures are less stressful, and the soil is more saturated with moisture. My goal is to get the majority of the woodies I’ve hoarded from the past year installed before Christmas, and this month, I’ve already made strides toward achieving it. 

I’ve planted Hamamelis vernalis ‘Amethyst’ and Hamamelis × intermedia ‘Diane’ that I received as bare roots back in the spring. They were planted up upon arrival into pots, and this fall, I watched them swell with buds. The former is just beginning to bloom even though we’ve only had around 250 chilling hours. 

I’ve planted Magnolia virginiana var. australis ‘Mattie Mae Smith’ that I got in Tennessee back in May.  I sited it to be able to enjoy the variegated foliage against the darker background of the fence row.  

I’ve planted Osmanthus fragrans f. aurantiacus I bought this summer in North Carolina and hauled back with us 16 hours across the country.  I sited it near my garden patch where I spend much of my time in the fall.  I can’t wait to smell those sweet blossoms. 

And, Friday I planted Magnolia ‘Lois’ and Magnolia ‘Yellow Bird’, two lovely yellow-flowering Magnolia that will compliment the landscape close to our house.  I chose yellow cultivars since they are on the same side of the color wheel as our log cabin.  ‘Yellow Bird’ is the taller of the two, and I had meant to site it away from the house and ‘Lois’ closer.   However, somehow in setting them out, I got them mixed up. It’s a good life lesson—check the labels twice, plant once.

I can’t wait to see the golden glow of Magnolia ‘Lois’ on my tree.

Immediately I knew why. I was in a hurry ahead of the promised rain projected for the next day.  “Blast, I’ll have to do it tomorrow morning before the front hits,” I thought to myself. I checked the forecast, and it showed precipitation before sunrise.  

Then, it hit me.  We have twinkle lights around our house.  AND, there’s a full moon tonight amplified by the sparse cloud cover.  So, I threw on my gardening shoes and sure enough, both provided enough light to swap them with the darkness brightened. 

I headed out with my shovel to fix my mistake with the golden glow of the twinkle lights and a Cold Full Moon (only in name though, it was in the high sixties and quite comfortable in shorts).  I could see just fine, and within 10 minutes they were in their rightful spots.  I sighed relief, knowing that the promised rain coming tomorrow would help settle them in even further.

With planting and watering finished, I laid down on our drive to stare at the sky and watch the clouds race by.  I love nights like these, where there is a breeze and everything is imbued with a shade of silver.  Even without the twinkle lights on, the night was so bright one would never imagine that it was one of the darkest days of the year.  But, it was. 

The winter solstice is Tuesday.  Wednesday we will brighten the day by a mere second of more light, and by the end of the month, we’ll be getting half a minute back a day.  And, then it’s onward to June.  

These little things add up, whether they be seconds of light or trees we plant. I’m excited for the return of light.  And, to see the solstice trees I’m planting now grow in the new year.

Celebrating Emergence

The shift to spring is now palpable here at our east Texas homestead. I notice the sun's early morning rays shining more in our backyard, the temperature is hovering the in 60's or 70's most days, and spots of green are popping up in the landscape.

Emergence in the plant world is filled with such anticipation. Around us life is erupting, and it is so good to see fresh growth in a landscape scarred and burned from the extreme cold a fortnight ago.

The daffodils are up. Well, most of them are. I thought this would be a daffodil-less spring as many of the early tazetta types from the Mediterranean were bleached white. But, those that have more northern European blood seem to have made it through safely. The yellow-orange 'Ceylon' and large-cupped yellow 'Carlton' are now beginning to bloom. I noticed their buds above the snowline, but they still survived the cold. These are two Narcissus cultivars that actually do well for us here in east Texas and will increase in number with the years. Most modern hybrids just don't get adequate chilling to flower or grow well.

A bit of burn on the tips of the foliage of these ‘Ceylon’, but other than that, the cold didn’t phase them.

Narcissus pseudonarcissus are now flowering, too. They are much smaller than the varieties above, but I love their diminutive size. I recall seeing their minute buds huddled among the blue-green foliage as I scurried about preparing for the coming cold and wondering if they would survive. Seeing their buttery yellow coronas reminds me of my youth and the abandoned yards full of them on the backroads in Tennessee marking where homes once stood. Even then I would pick handfuls of them to bring their sweet scent into our house, much like I did ahead of the two inches of rain we got this past weekend.

This line of Narcissus pseudonarcissus flowers faces south, soaking in the sun.

Ahead of the rain I divided some large clumps of Narcissus pseudonarcissus and planted them into the beds near our house that I have been developing into naturalistic plantings since our arrival here a little over three years ago. These plantings needed more early spring color, and I plugged in the bulbs before the rain started amongst the emerging foliage of Pycnanthemum and a nice purple foliage form of Tradescantia gigantea I found.

I randomly scattered Narcissus pseudonarcissus into this bed over the weekend. Though I’m not done yet, my goal is to have small groupings, denser in the middle and then less bulbs on the outside.

Ahead of the rain was also a good time to move 20+ Penstemon tenuis and 30+ Penstemon digitalis plants I grew in propagation beds from last year. Both were derived from seed that I collected from plants growing here, and they were just barely beginning to produce shoots out of their basal rosettes. Now I feel like I have enough plants to make an impact come April for the purple-flowering Penstemon tenuis and May for the white-flowering Penstemon digitalis. I was surprised at how shallow their root systems were. I was able to scoop them up with a shovel almost like one would scoop lasagna out of a dish and place into a similar shaped hole.

A wheelbarrow of Penstemon digitalis ready for planting. You can see the fresh foliage beginning to pop.

Nearby other natives are emerging, and it is a real cast of characters—Arnoglossum plantagineum, Trillium ludovicianum, Antennaria parlinii, Sanguinaria canadensis, Stenanthium gramineum, and even my Sarracenia in the bog. All of them know it’s time to grow.

I delight in seeing the hosta-like foliage of Arnoglossum plantagineum. Plants have finally gotten to a decent size at our place, and soon their shoots will rise for form a white corymb of rice-shaped flowers.

I was also happy to see my Trillium ludovicianum emerging amongst the groundcover of Antennaria parlinii I planted to mark the ephemeral. You can barely see the chicken wire cage that I planted it in to protect it from the gophers that plague our property, and if you look closely, you’ll see some one-leaved baby Trillium in the center!

The fists of Sanguinaria canadensis are shoving their way out of the soil and begun to unfurl as leaves.

The slivers of foliage on Stenanthium gramineum emerge from the ground. I’ve always found their maroon sheaths near the ground to be attractive but quickly hidden by the foliage.

I squealed this weekend when I discovered the antennae-like flower buds emerging on this Sarracenia flava ‘Black Ascot’ when cutting back the pitchers.

Yes, all this fresh growth of spring is truly wonderful . Sure, we may have another frost or two along the way, but for now I will celebrate emergence and the return of my many photosynthetic friends to the garden after their long slumber. It is so good to see them again.