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.

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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Granddad's Cowpeas

I’m always delighted at the people who say they’ve read my story on my website and how they learned that my great-grandfather got me into horticulture.  His name was Eron Edward “Crip” Conley.  Crip was a heartless nickname that came early in life when someone accidentally chopped off two of his toes with an axe.  But, I knew him as Granddad because that’s what mom called him, and even though he was my great-grandfather, the name stuck for me.  

He was the man that taught me to garden.  We used to work his plot together, he pushing his Troy Bilt and I following behind raking our footsteps left in the tiller’s wake.  We buried tomato stems to help them form new roots. We used string to mark straight rows.

Once he realized my interest, he started a small plot for me to grow some of my favorite vegetables like corn, beans, and tomatoes a few feet away from his garden.  Any question I had he could answer.  I loved every minute of gardening with him.  

He passed away when I was 12 going on 13.  The year after he died, my Granny, his daughter that lived with him in his house, allowed me to take over his garden since we didn’t have a good spot at our house due to the shade.  And, his absence and the desire to learn more about growing would take me on a path that would eventually lead to a Ph.D. in plants.  

But, that’s a different story. Today’s tale goes back to that first year I inherited his garden spot.  It was a piece of land about 30 feet wide and 50 feet long.  That year I grew what I normally would grow—tomatoes, corn, and beans.  But, off to the side of the garden I noticed what looked like a bean plant but wasn’t.  Once it got some heft to it, I realized it was a cowpea, and it was a seedling from Grandad’s crops the past year. Though he had left me, one single seedling from his plants from last year had germinated. I was delighted and ecstatic. I let it grow in the less than optimal spot, and at the end of the growing season, it produced a single pod with nine seed in it.  I planted those seed the next year and the next and the next until I had saved up a nice bag of seed. They were much more vigorous growing in better soil.  I’ll be honest. I really didn’t like to eat them back then, but I did like to use them as a cover crop, their nodules fixing nitrogen in my garden’s soil.

2007 was the last year I had a garden up at Granddad’s house because I moved away to graduate school in 2008.  The peas went into the fridge in my parent’s basement and were forgotten.  

I was home this past March, and I saw the bag in the fridge.  It hadn’t been touched in 16 years. And, now that I was a connoisseur of cowpeas, I was curious if they would still grow.  I had yet to find a good variety that I liked to cultivate here in Texas.  I had thought at times of Granddad’s peas, but I was worried they might fail here like many of my other plants I used to grow in Tennessee. I did a test sowing of the seed to make sure they were still viable after sitting in a fridge for 16 years, and sure enough a few days after putting them in a bagged moist paper towel, out they popped.

After prepping the beds, I sowed them using the trick of holding a waist-high piece of PVC pipe to plop the seed in the tube to limit bending over as I walked down the row. A few days later up they came.  I cared for those plants like it was the first plant I ever grew so many years ago.  I fertilized them, I thinned them, and I even used our mini-Dyson to vacuum leaffooted bugs off them (don’t tell Karen!).

The lovely purple flowers of ‘Conley’ cowpea

They grew and flourished, the first purple flowers appeared, and then came the blushed pods and green peas.  I ate the first couple of handfuls of seed in the garden raw.  It’s an acquired taste I suppose you could say—earthy and fresh, but sans bacon grease that we normally use to flavor them.  And, with the first mess, that’s exactly what we did.   

But, what were they?  Sure, they were my Granddad’s peas and a family heirloom, but I loathe not having a cultivar name. Greg Grant and I bounced possible cultivars of black-eyeds, Crowders, and purple hulls off each other but none stuck based on flower color, seed pod, and seed color.  The closest we got was ‘Whippoorwill.’  So, for now I will call them ‘Conley’.  

What amazed me as much as 16-year-old seed germinating and successfully growing was the number of insects the plants attracted.  From cultivating them years ago in Tennessee, I don’t recall the plethora that I now see flitting and stirring in front of me as I make my way down the row. Gulf Fritillaries, Gray Hairstreaks, American Bumble Bees, Winged Red Velvet Wasps, Eastern Tawny-horned Spider Wasps, Swarthy Skippers, Northern Cloudywings, and Clouded Skippers were a few of those I could identify.  Even in the leaf litter below I found assassin bugs waiting for prey. They were coming because cowpeas have extrafloral nectaries on the leaves and the inflorescences. Most species that have these nectaries outside of the flowers attract beneficial insects that then reduce pests on the plant. And, in such a rough summer where much of the garden was a desert, I was happy these insects found sweet nectar in my the oasis of my pea patch.

Gulf Fritillary

Northern Cloudywing

Clouded Skipper

Common Thread-waisted Wasp feeding from extrafloral nectaries

Gold-marked Thread-waisted Wasp

But, the plants are now tired, and the pea harvest is coming to an end. I have enough dried seed for next year and perhaps a batch or two for New Year’s. I’ve started clearing the vines to make way for collards and other greens that will no doubt accompany the first meal of 2024 with them. As I was clearing the vines dotted with pods I overlooked picking, I noticed a single cowpea had broken ground and germinated from the recent rains we’ve had. And, I thought back to many years ago when I found that first pea seedling that gave rise to the 60 foot of row I’ve enjoyed this summer.

I doubt anyone has ever rejoiced over cowpeas this much, and I doubt Granddad thought anything special of them. They were probably just what the farm store had in stock that day.

But, to me, these seeds are priceless. That’s the power of saving seed. The act transcends generations. Saving seed reminds us of who we are, who we were, and who we are going to be. One day when Magnolia is old enough to help me sow seeds, I’ll share this story with her. And, I hope that after I’m gone, she’ll keep growing these cowpeas, too.

Phlox drummondii and a Texas (Mini) Superbloom

I love ruderals for their flashy essence. They are the YOLO of the plant world. Live it up because life is short.

And, in the youth of a planting, ruderals are wonderful for quickly filling the gaps, providing color, and helping support ecology. Often, perennials need a few years to get established before they can have a presence, but ruderals hit the ground running, often blooming within months of their seeding while covering the ground to reduce weed growth.

I have been noting good choices for east Texas and the deep south. A new one I can add to my growing list is Phlox drummondii (annual phlox). I’ve seen it scattered pretty sparsely on roadsides, but thanks to a planting project just north of Nacogdoches, TX where it is intensely planted, I have a new appreciation for this native (header image). Over the past month I’ve watched this roadside planting explode with a multitude of tints and shades of red as I drive into town.

What a wonderful explosion of color! I don’t know if I’ve ever seen so much color diversity in species mix as I did with these Phlox drummondii.

If you’re unfamiliar with Phlox drummondii, annual phlox is a short lived native wildflower with sticky leaves. It is native to Texas and Oklahoma, though in some states it is introduced. It was so beloved by Europeans that after Thomas Drummond—this phlox’s namesake—sent seeds back in 1835, they were able to select up to 200 different color strains. And, now Rudbeckia hirta (black-eyed Susan) is starting to pop in this planting.

It’s amazing to see all this incredible color right next to the road.

One of my favorite color morphs of Phlox drummondii was this pink with watermelon-colored eye.

My friend Dawn Stover helped create this beautiful tapestry, and besides the usual Texas bluebonnets, it is one of the best wildflower plantings I’ve seen in east Texas. The first time I passed by I was stunned by how good the flowering was on these median patches.

Dawn works at the USDA–NRCS East Texas Plant Materials Center (ETPMC). She shared that the City of Nacogdoches approached the ETPMC in 2021 about doing a wildflower planting in median areas that were difficult to mow along the four lane leading north out of the city. She worked with the Texas Natives Seeds Project to create a blend of species that would work well in this area. Here’s a full list of the species included in the mix.

ANNUALS AND COVER CROPS

• Gaillardia pulchella (Indian blanket)

• Rudbeckia hirta (black-eyed Susan)

• Monarda punctata (spotted beebalm)

• Phlox drummondii (annual phlox)

• Hordeum pusillum (little barley)

PERENNIALS

• Asclepias tuberosa (butterfly milkweed)

• Coreopsis lanceolata (lance-leaved coreopsis)

• Penstemon digitalis (smooth beardtongue)

• Pycnanthemum tenuifolium (narrow-leaf mountain mint)

• Rhexia mariana (Maryland meadow beauty)

• Eryngium yuccifolium (rattlesnake master)

• Solidago rugosa (rough goldenrod)

• Symphyotrichum laeve (smooth aster)

• Mimosa strigillosa (herbaceous mimosa)

NATIVE GRASSES

• Schizachyrium scoparium (little bluestem)

• Andropogon gerardii (splitbeard bluestem)

• Bothriochloa laguroides (silver bluestem)

• Bouteloua hirsuta (hairy grama)

• Eragrostis secundiflora 'El Reno' (red lovegrass)

• Bouteloua curtipendula (sideoats grama)

• Eragrostis trichodes (sand lovegrass)

• Sporobolus cryptandrus (sand dropseed)

• Elymus virginicus (Virginia wildrye)

They prepped the site in the summer of 2022, and seed were sown this previous February. In naturalistic design, we call this approach a randomized mix where seed are broadcasted over an area, and plants establish where conditions are favorable. Changes across a site like a slight wet spot here or a subtle change in pH there can cause a shift in what species thrive. And, a plant’s presence or absence can be further shifted by varying the seed mix concentration across the site.

Of course, the ruderals are quite happy, and under their cover are the other species bulking up. Dawn shared that the biggest challenge has been people trying to pick the flowers, which is not good as the plants need to be able to go to seed for next year. The area will be mowed after the spring flush has been allowed to go to seed. And, eventually as the other perennials and grasses begin to dominate and leave less room for the ruderals, this wildflower planting will be more subtle.

As conditions change across the site, species shift. Notice how there’s less Phlox drummondii running through the middle of the planting.

This planting reminds me of the Tower of London Superbloom that we saw last year while in England that was designed by Nigel Dunnett. While that planting was ephemeral as part of a celebration of the queen’s platinum jubilee, this installation is more permanent.

England Superbloom

Texas (mini) Superbloom

And, I think that seeing this mini-superbloom in east Texas is a reminder that ruderal mixes are possible in a variety of different habitats. I have the hope that one day our roadsides will be viewed as not a place that needs to be constantly mowed but a space where we can have ecology and beauty for creatures big and small. And, I believe that plantings like these are just the start of better things to come.

The (Impulsive) Gift of Bulbs

If last week’s post on my forethought of sowing seed made you think that I always have everything planned out, this week’s writing will change your mind. I like to think that I’m not too much of an impulsive gardener, but perhaps I just live in denial.

When Brent and Becky’s Bulbs announced a 50% off sale on bulk orders last week, I jumped at the chance to view their offerings online. At first, it was casual scrolling, but the adrenaline started pumping as I watched inventory of some bulbs vanish before my eyes. Maybe next time, ‘Gravetye Giant’ Leucojum.

There was no time to let family or Santa Claus know what I wanted. I would splurge on bulbs that I’ve been wanting to get and call it an early Christmas present to myself.

I love seeing the underground structures that produce the flowers we so enjoy above ground. Bulbs clockwise from top, the chunky Ipheion uniflorum ‘Wisley Blue’, the tufted Tulipa clusiana ‘Cynthia’, and the rupturing tunics of Narcissus papyraceus ‘Galilee’.

I was delighted to see Ipheion uniflorum ‘Wisley Blue’. I think some consider these geophytes second rate, but beggars can’t be choosers. In Zone 8b, this bulb is a reliable grower for us. I found some years ago in an abandoned lot here in town, added them to my garden beds where I have a cool-colored planting, and they thrived. In the time since, they have multiplied, their glaucous blades having already emerged this fall. I’ve also noticed how they can be good groundcovers to prevent too much weed growth in the spring.

A close up of Ipheion uniflorum ‘Wisley Blue’

I zipped down the page to see the status of the tulip selection, and sure enough Tulipa clusiana ‘Cynthia’ and ‘Lady Jane’ were available. Lady tulips are known for growing well in the south. You can identify those of this lineage with their candy-like bicolored petals and the little tuft of hairy trichomes at the top that resembles a mouse’s ear. I have been looking for warmer colors to play off the browns in our log cabin, so I only ordered ‘Cynthia’. I already had a handful of them growing well from the Smith County Master Gardeners bulb sale and ‘Lady Jane’ is a bit too pink for where I want it. Even in impulse there is some restraint!

‘Cynthia’ Tulipa clusiana in my home garden

And, then I backtracked to Narcissus where I knew I would spend some time. I’ve been wanting to add some more Narcissus papyraceus to my garden, which are just starting to bloom well here. I settled on ‘Galilee’, a cultivar that was bred for indoor forcing in Israel in the 1970’s but is still a handsome performer for outdoor plantings in the deep south.  Even though paperwhites are already coming into bloom, these will have a late start this year and catch up later.

By chance the other three Narcissus I ordered all have Narcissus cyclamineus in their pedigree.  They typically need growing conditions to be colder and wetter than what we have in the south, but hybrids like the three I purchased—‘Jetfire’, ‘Tête-à-tête’, and ‘February Gold’—should perform well.

I have fond memories of visiting the JC Raulston Arboretum around Valentine’s Day and seeing a large number of ‘February Gold’ in flower. We need more winter interest in front of our house, and I think that these will go well in that spot.

‘February Gold’ at the JC Raulston Arboretum in Raleigh, NC

‘Jetfire’ was one of the first daffodil varieties I ever grew.  My friend Jimmy Williams of Paris, Tennessee introduced me to it.  He had it planted throughout his back woods where the reflexed yellow perianth and orange cups would catch the warming March light and glow.  They should go well with ‘Ceylon’, another orange-cupped selection that does well for me.

‘Jetfire’ Narcissus at Duke Gardens in Durham, North Carolina

I also got ‘Tête-à-tête’, a popular diminutive cultivar that I grew back in Tennessee. ‘Tête-à-tête’, which is French for face-to-face, is a dainty little Narcissus that can sport 2 (or 3) flowers per scape. I knew Michael McDowell of the Instagram account @planoprairiegarden had success with this selection, and I thought I would give it a whirl. Its short stature makes it good for planting in the shade of others.

I’ll be honest. I have faith in the starflower, lady tulip, and paperwhites. But, I realize the Narcissus hybrids are on more of a trial basis. The challenge with some of these bulbs is knowing if they will get enough winter chilling to bloom reliably. I like to reference Daffodils in Florida by Linda M. Van Beck and Sara L. Van Beck and Scott Ogden’s Garden Bulbs for the South to know which types will likely grow well here and the conditions they need to be successful.

So, I’m going to not put all of my bulbs in one basket. I’m going to scatter them around in a few small groups to see where they are happiest here. I’m also making sure that I lime a bit where they go into the ground as our soil pH tends to be 4.5 or lower.

I suppose if you think about it bulbs are like little Christmas presents, hidden in their wrappers until the joy inside is revealed. My goal for these geophytes to thrive is for them to be the gift that keeps on giving for many years to come, even if it they were just an impulse gift to myself.

Thankful for the Return of Snowdrops

“YES!” I exclaimed! “They came back!”  Before me was the cupped blade of a single snowdrop piercing up from the soil.  I scraped some leaves back and found more shoots.  “And, another!  And, another!” I added. 

It was early November, and I was so ecstatic. I have been searching for bulbs to grow in east Texas outside of those that have a reputation for thriving here. Autumn-flowering geophytes that don’t need significant winter chilling to flower I felt held promise as our lack of vernalization is the limiting factor for many species. Galanthus elwesii var. monostictus (one-spotted greater snowdrop) was high on my list to try. 

Galanthus elwesii var. monostictus has a single upside down heart-shaped spot on the inner tepal tip, while Galanthus elwesii has a second green blotch above the spot at the base.

My introduction to this late autumn flower was from visiting Nancy Godwin at Montrose Gardens in Hillsborough, NC. She turned a handful of bulbs years ago into thousands of plants that now carpet the understory behind her home.  I have multiple memories of visiting Montrose around Thanksgiving for one of her snowdrop walks with friends. And, now mine were blooming right on cue.

I had bought some bulbs from Nancy before and tried them in a container thinking that the soil here might be too dry, but I lost them twice.  I figured third time was the charm, and I acquired more bulbs in the green from Nancy last winter.  I decided to be brave and try them in two in-the-ground locations; both spots I amended with grit and lime to improve the soil conditions.

I planted a few in my fenced in patch where they would be protected from uprooting armadillos and able to get more water during the summer when I irrigated summer cut flowers and veggies.  Years ago, I read in Scott Ogden’s Garden Bulbs for the South that most Galanthus should not dry out during the summer and often like wetter spots. 

However, Nancy told me that where she has these autumn-flowering snowdrops in her woods turns bone dry in the summer. Therefore, site two was higher and drier underneath trees in a new bed that magically appeared after we lost some azaleas in the freeze of February 2021. I didn’t water this site all summer.

This shaded spot is where I have found snowdrops emerging first, and they are further along than those in the patch where a scraping of soil showed the bulbs are still intact but haven’t produced foliage yet. I’m sure autumn rains are a trigger for emergence, but I ponder if they also need to have cooler temperatures to appear, which they are able to get sooner from the waning shade of sweetgum and oak? 

There’s no way that I can grow the multitude of selections my colleagues do further north—well, in absence of a walk-in cooler that is—nor do I wish to become such a collector. But, I’m happy to potentially add yet another geophyte to my garden cast of characters. I may be counting my snowdrops before they have hatched—er, make that returned again next year—but I do believe that seeing them this year in flower is a good sign. I’ll give them my choicest compost with some bone meal, and I’ll hope that next year I can once again be thankful for their return.

The Peculiar Pedicularis

It is April, and a myriad of greens have replaced the drab browns outside our kitchen window. It’s a color I haven’t seen in abundance in some time, and my mind’s eye begins to sort them. It’s not just plants, either. Even our driveway sports a verdant color this time of the year with the coating of pine pollen.

In the orchard glaucous-green Baptisia alba shoots pierce from the ground. The ancient water oak on the west corner of our property is clothed in a muddy-green from all the catkins hanging from the branches. There’s the fading red-green of the spring beauties as they wrap up their almost four-month floral display to go dormant again until next year. I also spy the moss-green blades of Leucojum aestivum ‘Gravetye Giant’, dotted with with flowers above the tips.

And, there’s the chartreuse Pedicularis canadensis growing under our large white fringetree. Or, at least it appears chartreuse from this distance. Upon closer inspection, the colors separate out. The bloom is a soft yellow that fades white on the lower lip, and the developing buds are light green. But, from here, the colors in wood betony’s blooms blend together to a hue between yellow and green and together brighten the shade underneath the Chionanthus virginicus. The tree’s swelling buds nearly match the color of the flowers beneath.

In growing it I’ve learned just how interesting this little native is. Last year, the clump only had a few blooms. But, this spring it has started to show off. At first there was one, and then two more, and now I count at least 40 inflorescences on this 2 × 2 foot clump that’s taking hold in the shade. I suppose it is following the perennial rule of leaping in the third year. And, other clumps are beginning to appear nearby. It seems happy, as am I.

The first Pedicularis canadensis I ever saw had more red coloring in the flowers. I’ve since learned their colors can be variable in the wild.

It’s as if the flower is caught in mid twirl and making Pedicularis pinwheels.

For me it brings back memories of visiting Greenbriar campground in the Smoky Mountains. Over the roar of the Little Pigeon River, I had my first encounter with Pedicularis. I crouched to look at these curious red-and-yellow flowers growing on a grassy knoll under the shade of the emerging foliage in the forest above. Looking at it from the top, I noticed how all the flowers have a slight bend to the right and appear as mini pinwheel galaxies held above feathery foliage.

My first encounter with Pedicularis here in east Texas was also in a forest. Or, what used to be a forest. I found a large mass of yellow wood betony alongside a clear cut and decided to save some from their recent introduction to full sun exposure. I’ve learned in transplanting these that they don’t move well as single pieces much like a yarrow or mountain mint would.

No, Pedicularis is best moved in sheets of shoots and roots, perhaps because of its leaching tendencies. A peculiar aspect of this plant is that it is a hemiparasite, as are many other members of the Orobanchaceae family. It not only can photosynthesize but also is able to rob surrounding plant roots of water, nutrients, and possibly even sugars.

In an interesting flip of expectations, research has shown that Pedicularis canadensis actually increases the number of species in prairies. One might think a parasite would cause them to dwindle. However, the theory is that because wood betony is a hemiparasite, it checks the growth of more vigorous competitors like Solidago or grasses on a site and thus allows other species to naturally develop.

One last note on its peculiarity. While I much prefer the common name wood betony for the inflorescence’s similarity to Stachys, it also goes by the name Canadian lousewort. Farmers in Europe thought that Pedicularis in meadows would give sheep lice. The Latin pediculus even means louse.

Well, I can attest that I don’t have lice from growing this wonderful native. No, it’s just a great plant to provide another shade of green in the garden.

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.

Returning to Wild Daffodils

The weather has been volatile this week. It’s the start of the battle between the lions and lambs as spring arrives and the sun warms the northern hemisphere.  I enjoyed sitting on the porch Monday evening in shorts until almost 10 pm, and now we are inside feeding the fireplace on this cold, rain-soaked day.

I feel for the plants that emerge early this time of the year. I seem to forget every spring just how tough they are as they thwart the frosts scattered amongst the warm spells. I suppose these early adopters have lived this life for thousands of years, and I underestimate their perseverance each year.

Take Narcissus pseudonarcissus, for example. On frigid mornings the flowers of wild daffodil kiss the ground, but as the day warms they return more upright to greet the sun.  I’m always tempted to pick the solitary blooms for fear of loosing them to the freeze, but they always surprise me with their toughness.

It was one of the first flowers I learned as a child. I would find them massed in pastures where they served as the only remaining evidence of an old homeplace. Near our house they survived in a fence row alongside a creek, planted long ago when bulldozers had cleared the land. They grew through barbed wire, and it amazed me they had survived all that disturbance. I would pick fistfuls and bring them inside to enjoy.

I don’t think I appreciated them in my youth enough.  When planting garden beds, I overlooked their use and moved on to the more flashy hybrids. But, after a few years, the cultivars petered out, and the wild daffodils continued to shine.

A naturalized colony of Narcissus pseudonarcissus grows near an abandoned house in east Texas. How long ago were the first bulbs planted?

In Texas the heat limits our options for spring bulbs much more than my previous haunts north, and I find myself returning to these species types that will grow and bloom here.

Growing them in my garden I’ve been able to get to know them even better than in my youth. I’ll say for years pseudonarcissus always threw me for a loop.  How could it be a false Narcissus?  But, I learned that the epithet refers to it being a false poet’s Narcissus, the smaller cupped form that blooms later.  

I do hate it when the epithet is so bland. Why not name it after the flowers? They are so charming and smell sweet. I love when they emerge and brighten the dingy detritus of the garden beds. The six light yellow petals has a slight twist, and they serve as a nice back drop to the darker yellow corona. And, I find myself admiring the skirt of blue-gray green foliage below the blooms.  I’ve been tucking some in around Eryngium yuccifolium and Rudbeckia maxima to echo their glaucous color.  The later emerging foliage of wild daffodil isn’t seared like many of the flagrant blades of the paperwhite types whose foliage appears in late fall, and the leaves are less conspicuous than many of the modern varieties after flowering. 

For me in Tennessee they lived up to their other common name Lent lily by blooming during that season, but often in Texas they start before Ash Wednesday. There have been years I’ve noted them flowering in the last days of January. However, this winter, they’ve been much later due to our La Niña induced dry spell.  The ones close to the house with no tree root competition have just started flowering good while the plants further back near trees are barely poking through the soil.  

I took advantage of the latter’s delayed emergence this week by digging a few clumps of wild daffodils to divide and replant in the front of my garden patch. I set them a bit higher than they were, and firmed the soil in around them. And, now the rain pitter-patter I hear above the crackling of one of the last fires of winter is settling them in so they can produce flowers for many years to come.

Magnolia 'Susan', Just One of the Girls

Midwinter has arrived, and from the emerging Narcissus to the early slivers of buds swelling on trees, it is good to see more color manifesting in the landscape.  

Over the past month I’ve also spied Magnolia popping out of buds around town, especially the starry blooms of Magnolia stellata.  However, most show some burn as they’ve had a roller coaster ride through temperatures this winter.  They’ve gotten mixed signals from an extremely warm fall followed by a sudden drop to 22°F on January 2. But, my ‘Susan’ has had a decent show of late. The warmth the past few days has coaxed the flowers further into bloom.

As the flowers of ‘Susan’ open, they have a bit of a twist to the petals.

When we bought our house, I counted myself fortunate to have three Magnolia on the property.  There were two large 30-to-40 foot tall Magnolia grandiflora out front, and off in the side yard was a shrubby deciduous Magnolia I couldn’t immediately identify in mid-summer.  

The following late winter when it bloomed, I was rewarded with rich deep pink flowers.  I posted photos online, and Greg Paige and Barry Yinger helped me identify it as ‘Susan’, one of the Little Girl hybrids that came from breeding work at the US National Arboretum (USNA).  Key features that helped them key out this cultivar were the presence of 6 (rarely 7) tepals per bloom, each having a slight twist.

The “girls” were bred to develop selections that would bloom a little later than Magnolia stellata and miss the early frosts that plague many of these early magnolias.  According to Dorothy Callaway in The World of Magnolias, four of the Little Girl hybrids come from the breeding work of USNA horticulturist William Kosar.  In 1956 he fertilized Magnolia lilliflora ‘Nigra’ with pollen from Magnolia stellata ‘Rosea’.  This cross resulted in not only my ‘Susan’, which was named after the director of the arboretum’s daughter, but also ‘Betty’, ‘Jane’, and ‘Pinky’.  The other four girls (‘Ann’, ‘Judy’, ‘Randy’, and ‘Ricki’) were from breeding work done earlier by Dr. Francis deVos.

‘Susan’ is an award-winning plant; Andrew Bunting wrote in The Plant Lover’s Guide to Magnolias that she won the RHS Award of Garden Merit in 1993. This cultivar has a shrubby habit similar to Magnolia stellata. Ours is not much over 10 feet tall and approximately as wide; however, one that I saw at the Scott Arboretum in 2014 was at least 15—20 feet tall and had a much wider spread. I see the benefit of using ‘Susan’ in smaller landscapes.  The plant grows lush in the spring and is enjoyed by not only me, but the blasted white-tailed buck that decided to use a side stem as an antler rub.  It is healing well from that injury.  And, I never irrigate ‘Susan’, and yet she keeps blooming and thriving year after year.

A mature ‘Susan’ Magnolia at The Scott Arboretum in full bloom in mid-April.

Buds emerge fairly dark, almost a black-purple but lighten to a vivid pink when coming into bloom, and there is a gradient of lightening color as one follows a tepal toward the outside of the flower. Acclimated buds survived two nights of 19°F and 20°F last week and have begun to bloom in earnest the past few days celebrating the arrival of midwinter.  Of course the running joke is that it coming into full bloom is a sign that another freeze is upon us.  I’m sure it’s about as accurate as the groundhog seeing its shadow, but coincidentally, we will be in the low 20’s the next few nights with the cold front that moved through yesterday.  

Nevertheless, I still love having magnolias like ‘Susan’ in the landscape for the good years when they liven the bleak midwinter with their brilliant color. For now, I have just one of the girls, but seeing how well ‘Susan’ has done, I can’t wait to add more of them to our garden. 

Our ‘Susan’ has a ways to grow before it reaches the size of the one at The Scott Arboretum, but I enjoy its show each spring.