Carex texensis | Texas sedge

One of my biggest challenges for naturalistic planting in the southeast has been finding a consistent grassy groundcover species to serve as a low matrix.  Sure, some forbs can cover the ground, but they often will rise later in the season, causing me to lose my green foil.  

I have tried a number of grassy species. I love the options below and have a number of them in my garden, but they haven’t quite risen to the standard for me to universally use them across the property. 

• Eragrostis spectabilis (purple lovegrass) tends to be short-lived. 

• Muhlenbergia reverchonii (rose muhly) doesn’t take our wetness well (or our cold either it seems from this year). 

• Sporobolus heterolepis (prairie dropseed) does well, but one must have patience in it getting established. 

• Carex cherokeensis (Cherokee sedge) is great especially for wet areas and growing with competitors, but it can choke smaller plants out. 

• Schizachyrium scoparium (little bluestem) can be hit or miss based on the provenance and growing conditions. 

• Andropogon virginicus (broomsedge) and Andropogon ternarius (split-beard bluestem) are seedy and tend to have short lifespans. 

• Carex albicans (white-tinged sedge), Carex leavenworthii (Leavenworth’s sedge) and Carex flaccosperma (blue wood sedge) grow well but can burn in full sun.  

My best option so far has been Carex texensis (Texas sedge), a native that we’ve found on the property here at Ephemera Farm.  I love the thread-like foliage, and I can count on it being green year round.  It can grow in sun or shade and tolerates wet, mesic, and dry conditions well.

When we first moved in, I relaxed mowing a bit to see what was native on the property, and Texas sedge was just one species that I found.  Some of my first clumps I tried in beds were rescues I found on our fence row where hogs had uprooted them.  I was very impressed with how quickly they adjusted to growing in my plantings and how graceful they appeared.  So, I started bringing more clumps into the garden.  

Carex texensis (Texas sedge) grows well in our yard.

Back then I didn’t know what species this great sedge was.  I had bought some Carex texensis from Hoffman Nursery and noted how similar the seed heads were with my wild type.  Charles Bryson helped me sort the identity out.  I saw him helping someone online with keying out a carex, and I shared a few photos with him.  After a few back-and-forths, he showed me how to key out Carex texensis. The only difference between my plants and the ones from the nursery was the culm length.  Mine were much longer.

For plants already in my beds, I prefer to divide them in winter so that they have a chance to establish in the wetter months. The plant slowly propagates itself by expanding the clump so that it can approximately double in size each year.  I then can use a soil knife or sharp shovel blade to slice the clump in half.  One half stays and the other finds a new spot in the garden.  If I’m patient and need to cover more ground, I can even divide the separated clump into smaller pieces.  

A wheelbarrow full of Carex texensis from our yard.

As I’ve worked to fill gaps in new plantings this year, I’ve returned to our yard from whence they came. I prefer to dig these wild clumps while they are in flower so that they are easier to see.  I lift the clump, prick out any weedy stragglers, and then divide it in half if it is large enough.  I water the clumps lightly so that while I’m moving around the garden planting them they are not sitting there drying out.  I cut the seedheads off to let the plant redirect energy and to keep them from looking like a ratty mess of hair.  The seedheads have a way of interlocking together during the transplanting process. 

Clumps of Texas sedge that are large enough can be divided with a soil knife.

Carex texensis clumps ready to go in the ground.

My only complaint is that it can look a wee bit ratty at certain times of the year—fall as the season is winding down (but, let’s be honest, in Texas what’s not looking ratty then?), as we come out of winter, and after they finish flowering with their spindly seed scapes.  For fall, I just accept their senescence, but for late winter and after flowering I give them a good haircut with a pair of shears.  I can tell the plants that haven’t been cut back.  They tend to have more dead foliage in them.  

But, that simple amount of maintenance is worth it to have a reliable, adaptable matrix species for plantings that can provide a green ground cover year round.

A mature Carex texensis with a few Carex leavenworthii in front of it flowers in our garden bed this spring.

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KEEP GROWING

Cornus amomum 'Cayenne' | silky dogwood

Our first good cold snap comes this week. I was worried yet again that it was going to be a warm winter, but I forgot January has a way of quashing my fears over a lack of chilling hours for spring bloom.

A few green leaves hang on here and there with the light freezes we’ve had. But, after multiple nights in the 20’s, brown, beige, and black will be the dominant colors visible at eye level. In this drab landscape, I have planned for spots of color that that winter freezes reveal on the stems of deciduous woodies. Like elongated coloring pencils, they are so vibrant and rich.

Growing up I learned that under utility lines the cut red maples sprout crimson stems, and the fresh growth of hacked-back sassafras is a rich green. I wondered if I could do something similar in the garden and emulated what I saw in nature by planting a Cornus sanguinea ‘Midwinter Fire’ (blood-twig dogwood) outside my childhood bedroom window. I knew that most colorful-stemmed dogwoods had a short life span in the south due to canker. After leaving for grad school, I gave my parents instructions to cut it back late in winter even though I didn’t expect it to live long. But, it still lives to this day some 15 years later and every holiday season when we travel home to visit I’m greeted by the bonfire-colored stems outside my window.

Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’

East Texas hasn’t been as friendly to the two ‘Midwinter Fire’ I’ve killed, and I have searched for another form that would work well. I figured that most red-twigged dogwoods wouldn’t do well with their more northern provenance.

A few years ago, Jason Reeves of UT Gardens Jackson told me about Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’, a selection of our native silky dogwood that ranges from Maine to Florida. Jason shared that Michael Dirr noticed the incredible red stems on this plant in a swamp outside Charlottesville, Virginia. I had low hopes for it, but perhaps it would surprise me like ‘Midwinter Fire’ did in Tennessee. I gave it a try, and I was delighted when it filled out the first year well.

Now, after having it in the ground for three years I can say it is a keeper for my garden. I have it in a winter wet but dry summer spot in the garden. My fear was the heat would do it in, but it made it through 36 days of +100°F in 2023, perhaps aided by the slow trickling hose I occasionally threw down at the base.

I wasn’t quite happy where I originally sited it, and this past spring I cut it back hard and moved it to where the lower winter sun would better shine on the rich red. It didn’t bat an eye and was over five feet tall once again by the end of summer.

While I can’t promise that ‘Cayenne’ is the strongest colored red I’ve ever seen, beggars can’t be choosers, and the crimson is good enough for me in my southern garden. The hue really becomes noticeable after the first frost with the sun lowering in the sky and first of the leaves start to fall. The side facing the sun is always the richest color. Some deciduous woodies produce excess anthocyanins to act as a natural sunscreen on the sunny side of the stem. I notice that some years I have to go through after a light frost and remove the remaining leaves off the plant. But, a strong freeze will fully undress the foliage.

Like most other colorful stemmed woodies, if not cut back the stem color will mellow to a gray-brown. I coppice it to the ground every year or two to keep the ember-colored stems burning bright. While I harvest a few sprigs for holiday decor, the final cut comes in late winter before the plant begins leafing out (header image). The small stems I collect and bring inside. The larger pieces I stick as hardwood cuttings to make more silky dogwoods.

Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’ cut into sections for propagation and indoor decor

Hardwood cuttings of Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’

I jam 12 inch lengths of stem into substrate-filled gallon pots. I don’t cover them or treat with hormone, and I can get around 40–50% to root well. I just keep the substrate moist. Patience is required for roots to form. The twigs will usually leaf out before they put down good roots, and the new leaves no doubt help synthesize more auxin for root formation. Later in early summer, I can usually tell which ones have rooted in well, and I separate the cuttings into new pots. I prefer one cutting per pot, though some who like fuller plants may wish for more.

With this approach I can have plants that are about a foot high and ready to go in the ground the following winter. For on the coldest days when I walk outside and see even more of those glowing stems catching the low sun, I’m reminded that there’s beauty to be found even in the stark quiet of winter. These stems like living embers keep a fire burning in the heart of the garden, warming not just the landscape but the soul as well.

CULTIVATE YOUR PLANT PROPAGATION SKILLS

If you enjoyed learning about hardwood cuttings and want to improve your plant propagation skills, check out my class Success with Seed Sowing. We go in depth on the science and practice of seed propagation.

KEEP GROWING

Salvia azurea | prairie sage

There’s no better light than October in the garden. The sun has moved south on the horizon and now filters through the thin thicket of trees to the east of the property filling the backyard with a warm glow. The shafts of light come through and illuminate slivers of the garden just long enough that scurrying into the house to grab the camera to capture the perfect scene is a waste. By the time I return, the light has shifted, and I am better to pause and just enjoy the moment. These fleeting moments are what we celebrate at Ephemera Farm.

The clear days that we had all month have brought with them no rain. We are becoming more parched by the day. Our last rain was a third of an inch in late September, and there’s a mere chance in next fortnight.

But, these cloudless days are a blessing for enjoying the bluebird sky that the recent cold fronts have brought. They clear the dust and humidity out of the air revealing the rich blue above.

We are hitting peak autumn bloom here at Ephemera Farm. Many of the plants are riding the wave from all the rain we had in the spring and summer, and so far they seem unfazed by the dry conditions.

Salvia azurea is a drought tolerant native for naturalistic plantings.

Take Salvia azurea (prairie sage), for example. It has been blooming since late September and shows no sign of slowing down. The blue flowers provide a different color against the tawny colors of autumn and match our cobalt blue sky so well.

Plants are tough and persistent. Research conducted after planting a mini-prairies in Nebraska showed that this perennial had one of the highest survival rates (80%) after 10 years. The authors also noted that the plant’s vigor began to choke out some of the Buchloe dactyloides (buffalo grass) and Bouteloua gracilis (blue grama). Its performance makes it worthwhile adding to the southern plantings.

I love looking at Salvia azurea against the bluebird sky where one almost can’t tell where the flower starts and the sky begins.

A Clouded Skipper visits Salvia azurea in the warm light of October.

I also enjoy seeing the pollinators visit this native. It is fun watching the inflorescences bob in the mornings as bees work the flowers. Even butterflies like Gulf Fritillaries and Clouded Skippers find it worthwhile to work the flowers.

If the bigger bees struggle to access the flower from the front, they may bypass pollination in an act called nectar thievery. They cut a hole through the top and access the nectar while never transferring pollen, thus potentially affecting seed set.

But, I’m not worried about the bee’s parasitic behavior as new seedlings readily appear. I even find them coming up in the cracks at the edge of the pavement. My plants came from wild collections in Louisiana and Oklahoma, and while there’s a difference in color from both locations, them mixing adds variety to the bloom display.

Oklahoma collected form of Salvia azurea was a lighter blue…

… but those prairie sage from Louisiana were a darker blue. Even the calyces and stems showed hints of dark blue.

I was greatly rewarded the other morning as I walked past a prairie sage that had dropped its flowers. The corollas from the late evening had fallen on the matrix of Eragrostis spectabilis (purple love grass) below, and the spent petals lay there suspended in time and place.

The heat of the sun would surely bake them later in the day, but for now they could be enjoyed. And, at least this time I had a camera.

Fallen art, the bilabiate flowers of Salvia azurea

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KEEP GROWING

Helianthus argophyllus | Silver-leaf Sunflower

Fall arrived this week, officially on the calendar but also with the weather.  This weekend, we are enjoying glorious days, with lows in the 50’s and highs in the 80’s.  

Overall, it has been a good summer.  It hit me the other day that I haven’t had to water my perennial plantings once this season.  The rains have hit just right with well established beds.

Most years, the leaf necrosis I deal with has been has been due to drought stress, but this year I have more brown from the excess moisture and fungal diseases.  Perhaps the drier summer does have a benefit? 

Either way, my eye is keen for plants that look clean and fresh as we head into fall.  

Helianthus argophyllus

One of the best in my garden right now is silver-leaf sunflower, a ruderal that flowers through much of autumn and is graced by an atmosphere of pewter foliage.  The leaves have fine hairs, technically trichomes, that are soft to the touch.  

The silver color holds well through the season.  In the morning, the dew-covered leaves have more of a blue color as they reflect the sky above.   Rain will green the color a bit, but the leaves dry out the next day and return to shimmer.  While silver is a neutral color, the buttery yellow rays add a warmth to the plant.  

Like all plants that have made a good first impression with me, I remember exactly where I was when we first met.  I was standing in Central Park Conservatory Garden admiring this sunflower with argent leaves.  I eagerly asked the gardeners about the source for seed, but alas, they didn’t know.

It wasn’t until a few years later that I discovered it looking through the catalog from Southern Exposure Seed Exchange. I sowed the seeds of other cut flower Helianthus annuus and the silver Helianthus argophyllus.  They bloomed, but it didn’t.

At least not until days started to shorten in August.  One year I even had a self-sown seedling grow well over 7 feet tall before it ever produced a flower. This season, I noted the first flower on August 5.   

I’ve learned that plants either have a tendency to shoot up or to stay short and shrubby.  I’m going to save seed off the smaller ones.  The tall ones become an issue with our fall storms where they may fall over.  

One of the shorter forms where the flowers are more condensed together.

I’m working on redesigning the front of the patch to feel more integrated with the rest of the garden.  So, I went a bit thicker this year with the silver-leaf sunflowers there as a stopgap (header image).  While I’ve still had some self sowers from that first batch, I made an effort to start more of them from fresh seed from the beautiful seed packets of Hudson Valley Seed Company.  

While I never want to see a blasted armadillo under my plants, I love watching other creatures interact with this native annual.   

Male bumble bees still resting on Helianthus argophyllus after a cool night.

A single Helianthus argophyllus at the front of the patch.

This sunflower is a favorite of American bumble bees.  On cool mornings I have found the males sleeping outside on the flowers.  Later in the day, I’ve watched larger workers collect pollen.

And, before first light, the plants are already bobbing from the foraging of Carolina Chickadees.  The seedheads are unobtrusive, and I have no problem leaving them on the plant.  The spry birds will hang on the unassuming ripe seedheads, pick a seed out, and then fly up to a favorite perch to enjoy their snack.  

Find the Carolina Chickadee. If you look close, there’s a seed in it’s mouth.

I’m not worried about them stealing seed that I have to save for next year.  There’s plenty to go around.  

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KEEP GROWING

Hibiscus 'Lufkin Red'

These long summer days are precious. Here in East Texas the light becomes perceptible right around 5:30 am outside, and it doesn’t take me long to be outside afterwards. The family is still asleep, and traffic on the road is light.

Each morning, I scan the garden to see if there’s anything I need to consider for the day’s tasks. And, in these high days of summer, I’m greeted by the blooms of Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’. It’s baseball-sized flowers are visible from 100 feet away.

I first learned of this plant from visiting Stoneleigh years ago. During a tour, Ethan Kauffman made an off comment about how this selection was named after a town near me, and once he said ‘Lufkin Red’, I immediately recognized the name for the town 30 minutes south of Nacogdoches.

From further investigation, I learned this cultivar was developed with leaf spot resistance in mind. In the deep south where heat and humidity reign, fungal diseases abound. So, Cecil Pounders made selections of native hibisicus species that exhibited leaf-spot resistance and allowed them to naturally cross. ‘Lufkin Red’ (and another selection named ‘Lufkin White’) originated from a blemish free plant collected from East Texas. It is a winter hardy Hibiscus laevis type, but due to being open pollinated, the complete parentage is unknown.

Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’ provides a pop of color along the pergola at Stoneleigh in Philadelphia.

Ethan was kind enough to do a plant swap with me. I sent him some east Texas treasures, and ‘Lufkin Red’ was one of the plants I received in his shipment. Last year was the first full year of it being in the ground, and now the second year is even better.

While the flowers only last one day, the plant is loaded and blooms continuously until we hit the hottest and driest part of the summer. It then resumes flowering later in the fall. I counted almost 20 open flowers one day, and with the indeterminate inflorescences it shows no sign of slowing down.

To me the color is more hot electric pink than red, a color that won’t get washed out baking in the sun. It’s a wonderful hue to welcome the day as the flowers glow in the rising sun. When I walk past the plant again at dusk, I can tell that pollinators have visited as the pollen has shed and collected in the corolla.

In the morning, Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’ flowers are pristine, and after a rainy night they catch rain drops on their petals.

A ‘Lufkin Red’ Hibiscus flower showing the wear and tear of a long day.

Because I was short on room, I planted the hibiscus behind our patch fence where I had other perennials I was trialing. Its performance has me rethinking its placement as it’s a focal point and not something to be tucked away behind a fence. Next year, I plan to move it more to the forefront so that blooms can be enjoyed better.

I’m also practicing good companions for it. Nearby, I planted Canna × ehemanii (Ehemann's canna), a wonderful selection not often seen in the trade from my friend Greg Grant. The color of the flowers is the perfect echo, and the foliage contrasts well. The canna is much less hardy than the hibiscus, and I have to bring the rhizomes in during the winter. But, it is worth the extra effort to perpetuate it.

An abundance of flowers on Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’ is a welcome sight each morning.

Canna × ehemanii and Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’ make good bedfellows with their pink flower color echo.

In my Deep South naturalistic plantings, I’m always looking for some bold elements for a different texture that can tolerate our summer heat. Both of these plants will be good options for future plantings.

Symphyotrichum drummondii | Drummond's aster

We’ve had our first light frost a few weeks early.  It was 29°F the morning of our Fall Plant Fair.  Figures. As if I didn’t have enough going on that day.  

At home I brought in what I could and covered a few things that I hadn’t finished enjoying for the season like my Passiflora coccinea (red passion flower) that just started flowering.  Further in the garden the cold was enough to wither the tender Ipomoea alba (moonflower), blacken the Senna alata (popcorn plant), and collapse my various Celosia cultivars.   

However, the late season perennials march on, slightly burned from the chilly air.  Helianthus angustifolius (swamp sunflower) now has white halos on the rays, and Symphyotrichum georgianum (Georgia aster) is still standing tall, its purple frills a bit sagging.

One plant that made it through unscathed is Symphyotrichum drummondii, or Drummond’s aster.  Its persistence is wonderful for all the insects that swarm this native.  Fiery skippers, hornworm tachinid flies, bees, wasps, and various others dart from bloom to bloom underneath the waning sun in a vanilla sky.  The dainty flowers—white rays with yellow disks that fade to a light pink and eventually brown—bob on their arching stems with all the activity.

Sprays of Symphyotrichum drummondii spill through Eragrostis spectabilis.

Here the disk color shift on Symphyotrichum drummondii from yellow to pink to brown is apparent.

Having these late season flowers are not only good for garden ecology but also for having late season color since it flowers for four-to-six weeks in October and November. And, in a world of confusing asters, I was happy to see the heart-shaped leaves at the base with long petioles that helped narrow it down to Drummond’s aster. As the foliage rises early in the spring, their shape offers a different texture amongst the finer grasses in the garden.

I give the plant a good cut back in early-to-mid spring when it still has its basal leaves.  So many of our asters bulk up enough foliage in late winter that they are triggered into flowering by the short days.  The reduction in foliage resets them for fall flowering and prevents ganglyness.  In summer, the basal foliage disappears as the wiry stems elongate and produce sprays of side shoots that will eventually be covered with flowers.

Symphyotrichum drummondii finds its way amongst other Asteraceae members.

I’m not 100% sure where my plant originated as it just appeared in my garden.  I noticed an odd basal rosette of leaves that whispered aster. I was patient to see what it would become, and I was greatly rewarded.  That’s not always the case with stowaways that find their way into the garden.  My guess is it was a seed stowed away on a clump that I wild collected, or perhaps it sprung up from bird droppings.  But, no matter how it found its way here, I’m happy it did.  

Drummond’s aster spills over the patch fence amongst Celosia and Gomphrena.

My single clump has enlarged enough that I made four divisions off it this past spring. And, next spring I plan to repeat that task so that I and the creatures that share my garden have even more frothy flowers to enjoy.  

Lycoris radiata | red spiderlily

It’s finally autumn, and I certainly am celebrating this year after our torrid summer.  It’s amazing how different the garden looks.  A few rains, cooler night temperatures, and shorter days make a world of difference on plant growth and my sanity.  

After such a harsh summer, it’s a miracle that plants survived.  Geophytes are fortunate, having waited out the worst of it dormant in the ground.  And, for me there is no better harbinger of autumn than red spiderlilies.  

I grew up with Lycoris radiata back in Tennessee where I heard them called naked ladies since they bloomed sans foliage.  We had several massive clumps on the south side of our house that were so old they didn’t flower well.   I never really appreciated them for what they were, a plant that could take the worst of summer and pop up days after a rain.  To me they were old fashioned and not new and cutting edge.

My tastes have changed in the fifteen years since I left home.  I’ve learned that not everything new is good and to see a plant for what it’s truly worth.  I now have a hefty collection of Lycoris bulbs.  They have come from three locations near our home.  

A few originated here at Ephemera Farm.  One of the joys of buying a new property is discovering plants that aren’t visible when the closing paperwork is signed.  The fall after we moved into our log cabin, a single inflorescence emerged along the east fencerow between barbed wire and a lone water oak.  Even from almost 300 feet away I could make out the coral red amongst the shadows.  Shaded out for years the bulbs had sat there quietly, barely photosynthesizing enough to sport a flower let alone stay alive.  Once more rains came, the foliage appeared in a neat row following the fence line.  I dug them and moved them to a spot closer to the house.  I counted 60 bulbs.  

Another 200 bulbs came from near an old oak on a backroad that likely was some old home place.  I’m glad I got them when I did.  The oak and the surrounding forest are now gone as they clearcut the woods this past spring.  

And, I noticed some growing along the fencerow of one of our neighbor’s property four years ago.  I asked him if I could dig the clump, and he obliged.  I counted 258 bulbs from what I dug, save for the handful I gave him as a thank you.  

So, by my count I’ve planted at least 500 Lycoris radiata in my time here, and this time of the year I love to see the flowers of my labor.  Where I found them is a testament to just how tough these bulbs are.  Most of the Lycoris radiata in the southeast are triploid and thus labelled the variety Lycoris radiata var. radiata.  A tripled chromosome count means that they don’t produce seed, but that saved energy is diverted back into the plant for vigor.  

For now I’ve had them lined out on either side of the front pathway between the double fence surrounding the patch. They don’t all flower at once, which is both a blessing and a curse.  The good is that I get to enjoy them for over a month’s time as the bulbs hydrate and spring forth, their scapes rising in bud like a candle with a waxing flame.  But, the bad is there inevitably are gaps.  I wanted more of a shock and awe effect with their bloom.  I mean can you imagine over 500 Lycoris radiata in flower at once?  I have seen pictures of understories that look like a crimson tide.  And, as I have begun planting the front of the patch with more perennials, I find the Lycoris more difficult to see.  Also, it’s a pain to dig into dormant bulbs all the time.  

I’m leaning toward moving them into the grassy areas in the orchard, a space where I dominantly have reds, pinks, and yellows.  And, to help me decide, this evening I picked a handful of Lycoris blooms, pried the turf’s soil open with my soil knife, and stuck the stems in to get a sense of what they would look like in this space.   I stood back and was happy with the result.  

And, come a cold winter day when I’ve forgotten just how hot summer is, I’ll move the bulbs with their green and gray foliage to this space to enjoy the flowers for many autumns to come.  

Passiflora 'Incense'

The weather lately has been brutal.  Since June 24, we’ve gotten a mere 0.4 inches of rain at Ephemera Farm.  The heat dome has made the usual summer dryness worse.  I’ve lost count of the days that have been above 100°F; the worst we’ve had at the house is 114°F.  It is discouraging watching plants wither away, whether it be transplants I just plugged this spring or the ancient post oak that’s turned brown up the road. I can only drag so many hoses and sprinklers. But, these extremes inform the mean and help me better understand what plants will survive for the future, whether the weather is extreme or not.  

Take my two year old Passiflora ‘Incense’ that has still been blooming and growing through it all. I was afraid that I lost it this past winter; however, once the days warmed, ‘Incense’ was lit, and it exploded into growth from the roots that overwintered.

Passionflowers are quite vigorous, but ‘Incense’ is a hybrid, developed in the 1970’s by crossing our native Passiflora incarnata with the tropical Passiflora cincinnata. Being a hybrid, it is pollen sterile, which means that it doesn’t produce fruit and is able to redirect that energy back into growth. I planted it in a back spot along our blackberry fence where every summer the soil dries out. There it could grow wild, and it has been fairing well with little irrigation.  I did finally break down the other day and throw a hose at the base.  

First instar Gulf Fritillary nibbles on an ‘Incense’ bud

Hanging by a thread… make that tendril

It looked good and lush up until recently. But, the heat and drought wasn’t the issue; the caterpillars were. The Gulf Fritillaries we’ve enjoyed darting around the garden had found the plant and laid their eggs. The spiny orange larvae look fearsome, but as long as you don’t eat them, they are harmless.  

The butterflies reach their peak in the fall when we have a few dozen that enjoy our autumn flowers. Now, we’ll have even more as soon they will crawl away, make their chrysalides, and enjoy the flowers that will come with autumn. There’s a “cold” front forecast this week that will drop temperatures below a hundred, and we got 0.25 of rain Friday evening. Better weather is on the way.

An adult Gulf Fritillary clings to Schizachyrium on a cool autumn morning

Plectocephalus americanus | American basketflower

The summer solstice has arrived, which means it’s time for American basketflower (Plectocephalus americanus, or previously Centaurea americana) to bloom. Every year, it starts flowering just as the days reach their longest.

There’s a large patch near our house where the blooms count in the thousands. On first glance years ago, I shrugged them off driving into town thinking they were one of the non-native thistles taking over the roadsides. But, finally their beauty won me over to investigate. What I found was one of our most showy native annuals, and now each year, I make a stop when they are in full bloom.

Sometimes I look at a basketflower, and it feels like I’m looking at a dahlia or chrysanthemum.

I haven’t been the only one confused by these aster family relatives. Linnaeus once put many Centaurea together into one genus. Sunflower expert Henri Cassini recognized this issue, writing in 1817, “Linnaeus has united, under this name, in a single genus, a multitude of species that indeed have many characters in common, but which should of necessity be distributed amongst several genera, if only to make it easier and more convenient to study. […] Linnaeus certainly assigned his centaureas to many sections, but this was not sufficient to prevent the confusion that resulted, especially as he used the same generic name for too many species.” And, when a single Centaurea genus was found to have eight different pollen morphologies in the 1950’s, the genera split began.

It’s quite amazing to stand amongst so many American basketflowers in bloom and in bud.

Now, we know Centaurea americana as Plectocephalus americanus, plecto- meaning to twist and -cephalus referring to head. My assumption is that this wordsmithing is a reference to the head inflorescence’s phyllaries, the prickly-looking bracts that give the plant its common name basketflower since the involucre appears to have a woven appearance.

Ray florets emerge from the involucre “basket.”

Even in their fade, American basketflowers are lovely to behold.

The lavender flowers are dazzling and pompous in appearance, like having an exploded firework frozen in time. Like most head inflorescences, the outer ray florets are quite showy helping to attract pollinators toward the fertile disks in the center. And, on breezy days the heads bob in the breeze carrying the sweet, honey-like scent; though, the fragrance is more intense when I stick my nose in the center and get dusted with the off-white pollen.

A carpenter bee dances around the disk of American basketflower. You may notice a bit of off-white pollen on its legs.

The flowers are open in the morning, but most will close by the afternoon. However, blooms make decent cuts lasting almost a week, and when removed from the plant, the flower remains open for longer.

I have the goal of welcoming this plant into my garden using local germplasm. And, each year, I keep meaning to stop and collect some seed, but often the road maintenance mower blades get them before they have a chance to finish producing their sunflower-shaped fruits called cypselae (or singular cypsela). Its a shame they are cut too soon, even beyond my own selfish desires. Bobwhite Quail and other songbirds love the seeds.

Somehow there are enough to return year after year in these roadside patches so that even if I didn’t look at the calendar I would know when the sun was about to start its trek back south.

Hundreds of basketflowers were in bloom with thousands more to come.

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After taking photos for this post and returning home, I hadn’t started sweating through my shirt good when I heard the roar of the mower blades. I knew where they were headed, right to the patch of American basketflowers I had just left hours ago. And, what are the odds that the day I go enjoy their flowers is their death knell.

I didn’t spot any open blooms remaining the next morning amongst the thrashed debris, but later that afternoon I spotted one solitary basketflower by the fence. A survivor. When I pulled off I found two more that had escaped the mower’s blade. I noted their spots for seed collection in about a month.

From years past when the mowers have come early, I have learned they will return from the seed bank in the soil. But, it’s so sad to see something I love and hold dear mowed down to fulfill a contract. But, that’s the power of bringing these plants into our gardens. So that when the sun is high in the sky and the mowers come, I’ll still have a patch to enjoy as we welcome the arrival of summer.

A lone basketflower survives against the fencerow where the mower blades couldn’t get to close.

Streptanthus maculatus | clasping jewelflower

Clasping jewelflower has sent me on a treasure hunt trying to figure out how to grow this beautiful native. After two failed attempts, I’m happy to report that I’ve had success this year with Streptanthus maculatus!

I first learned about this spectacular plant from naturalist Matt Buckingham. He posted on his website about it in 2019. That fall, by coincidence a friend of mine shared some seed with me they had collected further north in Texas.

I sowed them into trays that winter, planted the seedlings out that following spring, and was sorely disappointed to find them get barely above 6 inches tall. They were puny and sad looking. I was intrigued because the scale of the plants in the images that I saw from Matt’s blog looked bigger; however, maybe this height was as big as the plant grew, and he was just using a macro lens?

Last year, I decided to let mother nature take care of things, and I sowed the remaining seed on my front bank under dappled shade, thinking perhaps they weren’t too happy growing in peat or being transplanted. I was delighted when my plants grew and rose to a height of around 18 inches. But, they still looked spindly. My concerns that there was still something wrong were confirmed when my friend Mark Tietz posted some images of three-foot tall plants on Facebook and made me realize that this plant had the potential to get much taller and fuller. In his comments he shared that the plant grew on alkaline soils from ancient seabed sediment.

I had realized in my time at Ephemera Farm that I had better luck with plants if I sweetened the soil with lime prior to planting. Our pH of 4.2 has been rough on many native perennials, some even from just down the road that originally grew in less acidic soil.

Armed with this information, I collected what seed my plants produced on the front bank, and then set about sowing them this past winter. This time, I made sure to start them in slightly larger cells (32’s instead of 72’s). I planted 25 transplants. For most of them, I limed each hole prior to planting as if I was lightly dusting a beignet. The scientist in me made sure to not lime three holes to act as a control. The growth differences, as you can see below, were visible soon after planting.

March 25 2023: The control Streptanthus maculatus without lime added to the planting hole. Plants in the three plugs were stunted in growth.

March 25, 2023: A Streptanthus maculatus with a dusting of limestone added to the planting hole. Notice how much larger the leaves are compared to the control.

And, let me tell you, I am ecstatic to see how well the limed plants are doing this year. Most plants top out at two-to-three-feet tall, and they are loaded with flowers.

I cannot tell you how much joy I got from seeing these Streptanthus maculatus thrive after failed attempts.

And, if you’re wondering how the plants I didn’t lime fared, check out the images below.

A close up of one of the three Streptanthus maculatus plugs that didn’t receive lime. This plant is approximately 15 inches tall, and the other two look similarly bad.

And, a close up of one of a Streptanthus maculatus that did receive lime. This plant is three feet tall, and loaded with 50+ flowers in just one inflorescence!

To me, clasping jewelflower is a native Lunaria without the large translucent seedpods. The clasping name comes from the perfoliate leaves that wrap around the stem. I should note that the plants I have are Streptanthus maculatus var. maculatus with their more lance-shaped leaves. The other variety Streptanthus maculatus var. obtusifolius has more obtuse foliage.

My first Streptanthus maculatus coming into bloom earlier this spring. Don’t you know I was giddy! You can see in this image the opening flowers twist a bit, hence the other common name twistflower.

The two-tone flowers play so well off my already cool color scheme of pink and purple. Note the clasping or perfoliate leaves of clasping jewelflower.

Being in the Brassicaceae family, it has that classic four-petal cruciform flower shape. Another common name is clasping twistflower, which is a nod to the petals that twist a bit as they open. I’ve also had slight issues with cabbage looper worms trying to eat the leaves. A dusting of Bacillus thuringiensis brings them quickly under control. I was concerned about spring storms toppling them. They have bent a bit due to some storms (header image), but overall they are still mostly upright and standing. And, the honeybees LOVE them. Every afternoon they swarm the plants.

I was just fascinated to see how a little bit of lime transformed the growth of this native annual. I dug deeper into this plant’s propensity for alkalinity, and I found an interesting note about the closely related Streptanthus squamiformis (pineoak jewelflower), an Ouachita Mountain endemic. Virginia McDaniel reported in a 2014 edition of Claytonia, the newsletter of the Arkansas Native Plant Society, that they had seen similar scrawny plants in bloom when doing Streptanthus surveys. Then, her friend visited a site that same day that was burned earlier that year and discovered a purple haze of flowers. She stated, “As he climbed higher, the numbers increased and the plants got bigger. Hundreds of individuals were scattered across the mountain side!”

She hypothesized that the fire had created excellent conditions for germination. But, I’m wondering if there’s another effect from the fire. Ashes left from fires are known to raise soil pH and be a source of calcium (references from Michigan State and University of Wisconsin-Madison). I’m not sure if fire enhances germination for this species as it does others, but I’m left wondering could it be that the ash generated after a fire burns through helps create conditions ripe for these plants to have a sudden growth explosion if they are not already growing in a calcareous soil? I’m already mentally thinking of the next experiment to set up!

But, for now, I’m delighted to have found an obscure native with such horticulture potential. Clasping jewelflower has become a gem in the crown of my spring garden, and now that I know how to successfully grow it, I look forward to being bedazzled by its reappearance every spring.