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.

Don't Neglect This Muscari

Muscari neglectum is in full flower here at our homestead.  In my search for naturalizing early spring geophytes for east Texas, I heard this species would grow well for us.  I had seen yards full of it in the hill country further west in the state.  I’ve killed other grape hyacinths like Muscari armeniacum.  They’ll last for a season or two, but eventually fade.

However, this species, well, the epithet gives you an idea of the conditions this starch grape hyacinth tolerates. My plants came from an abandoned lot in town next to a makeshift parking lot. Nearby a discarded sofa and a chair sat, and being early spring, the grass and weeds hadn't grown up enough to hide the little purple bottles I spied passing by.

Late one afternoon, I decided to go dig some of the bulbs, and on a whim, I asked some students if they wanted to go help me rescue some of these geophytes.  I figured that with the numbers I saw we could even use some in our plantings on campus.

When we arrived, we discovered dense clumps of this heirloom flower. Some bulbs had found purchase under the turf but others were exposed and sitting on top of gravel and in full flower! They were surviving, dare I say even thriving in this ruderal soil. I assumed this location was where an old driveway of a house used to be. We dug a few clumps, and then made our way back to campus to parse out our new accessions.

A handful of an original clump from the abandoned lot. These Muscari are quite easy to divide; lift them and then rip apart into smaller groups.  It always amazes me how many bulbs are in one clump.

Once home, I planted them into a bed where I was already developing a cool-colored theme for spring. Planted nearby were the fuschia Glandularia canadensis and the soft blue Ipheion uniflorum. 

Muscari neglectum flowers against the backdrop of Glandularia canadensis. The burn you see on the Muscari and Gladiolus foliage is from the February freeze.

That was two years ago. Now, for much of March, these three play off each others colors and are some of the first plants to start flowering in my beds. I love watching bees of all kinds flit about the flowers.  One must get close to appreciate the finer details of the blooms, the little jugs with their white pencil-thin rims.  And, the color gradient of the raceme’s flowers is so rich as it changes from indigo below to a periwinkle top.  Once pollinated, the flowers become small tetrahedral seed capsules.

I have also planted them in our fledgling orchard on its shadier side where fewer Claytonia virginica grow.  They look like little purple rock candy suckers sticking out of the rough turf.  The darker slivers of the Muscari feel right in the dappled light, and unlike the fair-weather Claytonia virginica that only opens when the sun shines, these flowers are always on show. 

In the time since I planted my first bulbs I have watched each year as my plants multiply, both naturally and by division. I find myself pulling apart thick clumps anytime they aren’t in flower, which is easy since their bad-hair-day foliage has been up in the garden since early October. The wetter soils of winter welcome the splitting.

The leaves curl a bit, like a bad hair day

The little slivers of Muscari emerging in a bed amongst other perennials

But, I discovered something new about propagating this species last year.  Weeding one day I found a clump whose roots had been nibbled on by blasted gophers, and in pulling out what was left to reset in firm earth, I noticed that some of the bulbless leaves had roots on them!  I was amazed.  Eucomis is the only other geophyte that I know where more plants can be made via leaf cuttings, so this discovery was quite delightful.  They are both in the Asparagus family, so perhaps there is some family connection with this adaptation. I am happy to know yet another approach to making more of this great geophyte.

Adventitious roots on the bottom of Muscari leaves. Look closely and you’ll even see new bulbils.

A Grand Narcissus

I have always delighted in seeing the first Narcissus of the year emerging from the ground to herald that spring is near with their bright trumpets.  Of course, it's funny writing that now that I live in Texas because our in-the-ground paperwhites can start blooming at the end of November.  So, I've had to delay my expectations a bit.

One species that holds to flowering at the end of winter is Narcissus tazetta, the Chinese sacred lily. It has become one of my favorites since moving to Texas.  While the species is native to southern Europe, Asia, and northern Africa and has a fascinating history, this geophyte has naturalized in the south, even into parts of southern Arkansas. Scott Ogden notes in his Garden Bulbs for the South that this perennial is a stalwart and has survived many decades on abandoned homesteads, a living testament to someone who once lived there. They also don't need division to keep them floriferous like other daffodils do.

The planting of Narcissus tazetta ‘Grandiflora’ in the Plantery on campus

There is a thick line of them planted on the north end of our Plantery greenhouse at school where their flowers beam and greet students, faculty, and visitors passing by. Most tazetta types have a cluster of smaller flowers at the top instead of one large bloom with petals and corona, the circular projection on a Narcissus. Research a few years ago demonstrated that these trumpet-shaped growths, a unique feature on Narcissus, are not an extension of the petals or stamens but a fifth floral part that develops after the other floral whorls arise in a young buds. It is these cups—no matter how big—that we love to stick our noses in to sniff the sweet smell of spring. But, in this small space between the greenhouse and headhouse, the flowers perfume the whole area with their sweet scent.

In conversations with Greg Grant, I learned that he planted them here about 30 years ago, which illustrates its robustness. I love how they are sited underneath Panicum 'Northwind'.  The grass emerges to hide the thick Narcissus leaves as they fade, and once the brown Pancium is about ready to cut back after winter, the green straps are rising from the bulbs. 

This particular form of Narcissus tazetta is quite vigorous. While I thought it was 'Grand Primo', Greg said that this selection is an unknown cultivar. His stock came from Celia Jones who originally got these plants from her grandmother who ran Sister's Bulb Farm in Gibsland, LA. They were sold under the name “Paperwhite Grandiflora”, a likely hybrid between Narcissus tazetta var. orientalis and Narcissus papyraceus. It is known that many hybrids between these two genera occur. Pulling again from Garden Bulbs of the South, Scott Ogden stated that Narcissus papyraceus is a diploid (two copies of DNA), and Narcissus tazetta is a tetraploid (four copies of DNA). So, the resulting hybrids are often triploid, and having three sets of DNA usually makes a plant sterile. It is possible to have some hybrid vigor with these selections, possibly because of the lack of seed but also because of the perfect combination of genes.

I’ve been trying to sort out these tazetta types because I have two forms at my house I’ve rescued from abandoned sites. One is the shorter ‘Grand Primo’ with darker yellow cups, and the second is very much like this taller form. In fact, they may very well be the same selection.

‘Grand Primo’ at my house. Notice the darker yellow cup and shorter height compared to the ‘Grandiflora’ type above.

I do feel for them this year and all the other plants that tried to welcome spring early.  We have a record breaking cold front descending from high up in Alberta this weekend that could bring snow, ice, and the coldest temperatures this region has seen in decades. It will be interesting to see how they make it through it all. I’m not worried about them surviving, just sad to see potential flowers go. I picked some flowers to take to my office to enjoy out of the cold where the blooms will last for a good week in water. Even if spring is interrupted outside, I’ll try to keep it going indoors.

A frosted ‘Grandiflora’ type at my house.

Rain Lilies and Hawkmoths

I witnessed the most amazing spectacle in the garden one evening.  I had just finished transplanting a few perennials when I noticed some flying crepuscular creature darting around in my garden patch.  Against the waning twilight of late summer, I could see that it first appeared to be the size of a small bird, but it wasn’t flying smoothly like our avian friends typically do.  No, it had more jerky movements like a grasshopper. And, it was coming my way.

It flew to five feet behind me.  Whirling around, I saw it start to hover and steady itself above the rain lilies that had just opened from the soaking five days prior.  I stood and watched the beautiful dance between hawkmoth and salverform flower.  Flying about six inches above the plant, it prodded and probed to find the entrance, almost like when you try to plug an electrical outlet into the wall in the dark.   

And, then the second surprise of the evening came.  It descended towards the flower to barely an inch above the petals.  The nectary and ovaries were really that deep?!  Wow, I had never noticed that!  I didn’t grow up with Cooperia drummondii (aka Zephyranthes chlorosolen) in west Tennessee, and after transplanting a few last year into my garden, this time was the first I’ve watched them be pollinated.

Finally, it hit me to pull out my phone and record the spectacle.  I watched as it went from flower to flower to flower repeating the same pattern.  The search for the tube, the dive in, and the move on.   I noticed with this first round of feeding the hawkmoth took its time, perhaps spending 15 to 20 seconds or so per flower.  And, the wings and proboscis were so powerful they were moving the surrounding flowers. 

After the hawkmoth had perused the line of Cooperia, it flew off to another white flower in the garden that wasn’t a rain lily as it soon discovered.  As I gathered my tools, I noticed it then returned for a second round, but this time the visit at each flower was only a few seconds.  I suppose the first pass it had drunk the flowers dry.  It flew off into the night, and I headed inside to try to ascertain which hawkmoth friend I had just made.

To my surprise, I learned it was the adult form of the tomato hornworm, the five-spotted hawkmoth. Even though I detest their destructive habits on my tomatoes, I suppose I could start leaving one or two to enjoy the fall feeding frenzy on rain lilies.

Cooperia drummondii flowering approximately five days after a rain. If you look at the bottom of the photo and follow the scape up, you’ll see the ovary where the green fades to brown.

A few weeks later, the seed heads rupture. I collect seed and scatter it to make more plants. If you look closely at the immature ovaries, you can see the wilting tube attached at the top through which the hawkmoth’s proboscis would have descended.

Seems hawkmoths aren’t the only insect that likes to pause at rain lilies.

Primrose Peerless is Blooming

Our last Narcissus to bloom here in east Texas is Narcissus × medioluteus, aka primrose peerless.  Such a haughty name.  Others call it twin sisters or April beauty, but I quite like a name that has a bit of oomph.  

My two clumps came from a backroad near Tyler, TX in April 2018.  I remember being amazed that a Narcissus was blooming a full month after the rest of my daffodil crew had finished their performance.   I guess you can be the top of your class if you’re the only one around!  

Last year, the flowers aborted, but this year, they seem to be flowering much more prolifically.  We had a very wet spring last year.  Perhaps that’s what made it less peerless.

While some call it Narcissus biflorus due to the pair of flowers that occur on each scape (occasionally it may be plus or minus one), Narcissus × medioluteus is a more accurate name because it is a naturally occurring hybrid between Narcissus tazetta and Narcissus poeticus that’s been around since the 16th century.  I look forward to seeing how well the heirloom bulb will grow at my house for years to come.  

Dividing Leucojum before a Rain

I love dividing perennials before a good soaking spring rain.  I feel like I’m making a great investment.  Not only am I increasing the number of plants I have, but I’m also saving time by not having to immediately water them for the next few days.  

It has to be a sizable forecast, too.  A tenth of an inch won’t do.  When I saw an inch of rain was slated to come later in the evening, I knew that it would be a great day for transplanting.  

Leucojum aestivum ‘Gravetye Giant’ was on my list.  I planted a handful of bulbs two falls ago under a Taxodium at the edge of our small orchard, and I have enjoyed their perky white blooms from our kitchen window for the past few weeks.  I noticed them slowing down and thought now would be a good time to divide some.  

One plant…

…becomes two.

With shovel in hand, I loosened a clump from the soil and teased tunicate bulbs apart.  It’s easy to break these these geophytes apart at the basal plate. If they were still part of one bulb, I held off splitting. I plunged the shovel back into the soil, pried back and forth, and dropped the small bulbs in.  Larger bulbs take a few more stabs to open up a spot large enough.  

A Leucojum planted back into the soil after division.

Once they are in the ground, I provide purchase with a firm foot step and close the soil’s wound.   A tenant of my life is water plants after planting.  But, I’ll break it this once.  It is late enough in the day, and I’m betting on mother nature’s liquid help.  

A firm press on the soil closes the gap.

It’s like the Leucojum was always there. And, that’s not a weedy grass. That’s Carex glaucodea on it’s left. I’m bulking it up in this area as well.

In case you’re wondering, my investment paid off.  It started raining around sundown, and we got an inch and a half overnight.  Now I await more blooms next year.  

Reckoning with Foliage

In my studies of mixed plantings, I've noticed that bulbs are frequently prescribed to add flavor to the plant recipes.  And, why not?  You've gotta love the little, ephemeral jewels!  Just a few can add spice and zing to a garden, and no matter the season, it seems some are always popping out of the earth, blooming feverishly, or returning to the ground from whence they came.  

In horticulture design we often use geophytes—plants that return every year from underground storage organs—to fill a niche, whether it's a place or a time in the garden when little else is in flower.  Take spring, for example.  Bulb foliage and then bloom carpets the ground long before anything else has barely emerged from winter slumber. 

Tulipa ‘Orange Emperor’ (tulip) and Muscari armeniacum ‘Valerie Finnis’ (grape hyacinth) jump out of their beds in the gravel garden at Chanticleer in Wayne, PA while other perennials keep pushing snooze. This photo was taken in late April 2014.

Early Narcissus mix and mingle in one of Greg Grant's bulb prairies in Arcadia, TX. Note that this photo of bulbs blooming in the south was taken on 12 February 2017, a full two months earlier in the year than the photo above.

In thinking of how to integrate bulbs into matrix-style plantings here in the deep south, that's where I've hit a snag—the foliage.  For us, spring bulbs are winter bulbs, often having finished flowering long before the vernal equinox.   And, if they are flowering that early in the year, it means we need to back up even further for when the foliage actually emerges.  Many paperwhites (Narcissus papyraceus) are already in their full greensleeves before Christmas, if not in bloom.  In fact, I noted one paperwhite that had it's foliar costume on right before Halloween on 19 October 2016 and was in subsequent bloom on 11 November 2016.  This time of the year is usually when people are planting bulbs, not watching them flourish and bloom!!!

A bee rests on the parchment-like petals of Narcissus papyraceus.

The early bulb foliage presents a maintenance problem in a planting where a myriad of other grasses and forbs are. I'll quote Piet Oudolf and say that "brown is a color, too," and I don't think it is right to cut short our freeze-and-then-dried finale by removing winter interest very early to allow the bulb foliage to emerge.  I delight in seeing the ghosts of perennials past remain on into January.   But, if we wait to cut back, we risk damaging these recharging solar panels that keep the bulbs blooming, especially if a carte blanche cut is performed over an entire area. 

Those that use the designed plant community concept further north don't run into this problem.  For them, they get full die back in the fall and winter and then can have a massive clean up and/or mow down in the spring as Roy Diblik elegantly illustrates on his website.   (Thanks, Roy!)  The cold keeps the bulb foliage in check so that the two usually don't coincide.

So, how does one reckon with all this foliage?  More specifically, how shall we have our spring... or should I say winter display? 

Narcissus tazetta 'Grand Primo' (Chinese sacred lily) flowers and fades amongst blades of Panicum (switchgrass) foliage. It's brown vs green. How do we in the deep south enjoy the architectural show of our winter grasses while integrating bulbs into mixed plantings?

Here's some ideas that I've had as I've pondered that question.

1.  Don't plant bulbs.  Hahahaha!  An option, yes.  But, it's quite boring.  Next. 

2.  Planting a later flowering species. I really sank my teeth into searching for these bulbs.  I remember thinking, "Surely, there are later spring-flowering geophytes that will perform well here in Texas." 

Last winter (2016), I started noting every Narcissus that I could and the weeks I saw them in bloom.  Paperwhites started as early as December and continued into January.  Next, Narcissus italicus (minor monarque) began flowering in January along with Narcissus × odorus (campernelles), and finally, Narcissus tazetta 'Grand Primo', Narcissus tazetta 'Erlicheer', and Narcissus 'Ice Follies' (daffodil) were the last of the bunch, blooming throughout February.  This year, as of 10 February 2017, all of these were in flower.  Thanks to a visit this year to Greg Grant's gardens in Arcadia, TX, I can also add Narcissus jonquilla (jonquil), Narcissus pseudonarcissus (Lent lily), Narcissus × intermedius (Texas star), and Narcissus 'Carlton' (daffodil) to my list, which I've learned usually bloom in early-to-mid February here in east Texas.  From my local colleagues, I understand this parade of performances is typically what we experience here in east Texas.

A family photo of Narcissus that shows the wonderment of hybridization, all thanks to the handy work of Greg Grant. He arranged; I photographed. From left to right: Narcissus tazetta 'Grand Primo', Narcissus × intermedius, Narcissus jonquilla, Narcissus × odorus, and Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Those noted with a hybrid '×' in their name exhibit intermediate characteristics between the two species on either side. (Note: Straight tazetta is the supposed parent for Narcissus × intermedius.)

The buttery yellow coronas of Narcissus × italicus

Narcissus × odorus, a vigorous hybrid for the southeast originating from crosses of Narcissus pseudonarcissus and Narcissus jonquilla. Occasionally, these geophytes will throw up flowers that have less than six petals. Do you spy any in the photograph above?

'Erlicheer' is one of the last Narcissus to flower in the deep south. Overall, double forms of Narcissus are usually later than their single counterparts.

I also considered species other than Narcissus.  Leucojum aestivum (summer snowflake) is definitely a candidate.  As of 10 January 2017, it's foliage was a mere four-to-six inches out of the ground.  Last year when we had a mild winter, these beauties were in bloom on 29 January 2016 with their full accompaniment of foliage.  This year, I observed the first bloom on 2 February 2017.  

Summer snowflakes are winter snowflakes in zone 8.

Muscari neglectum (starch hyacinth) is on my list, too.  Right now, it's stringy foliage is starting to poke up, and last year, it was in bloom on 20 March 2016. 

I believe that Tulipa clusiana (lady tulip) and its cultivars would work as well.  While I haven't trialled them in the ground in Nacogdoches yet besides what I grow in containers, I have reports that they grow well in Houston, much further south than us. 

The blushed-red and buttery petals of Tulipa clusiana 'Cynthia' look almost candy-like.

For the majority of the other early spring species, it's either too hot or too wet for them.  However, thanks to Brent and Becky's Bulbs, we are trialling some additional types to see if there are others out there that will perform well for us. 

3.  Cutting Time.  If we can't change the plant palette, perhaps we can adapt the timing of our cut to fit the plant's growth to avoid damaging bulb foliage.  But, this practice is going to have limited application because weather varies so much during the cooler months of the year.  During the 2015–2016 winter, it was so mild I had to finally cut grasses back in January that were still showing some green from the previous fall.  However, this winter, a cold snap on 6 January 2017 dropped us from 75°F to 25°F in one day and was followed by two nights of 16°F and 18°F.  This arctic blast killed many of our perennials down to the ground.  Some years we'll have die back, and other years we might not.  Because of varying weather conditions each winter, I don't believe that in the south we have the opportunity to wait and then cut everything back in one fell swoop like our friends up north if we include early season geophytes in our plantings.  If we wait for everything to die back, the bulb foliage may likely already be fully emerged.   

4.  Strategic Intermingling.  Instead, I believe that one will have to go in and edit the mixed planting as he or she sees fit.  That may add more work for those who are wishing to do large scale bulb and perennial plantings.  

And, this practice ties in well with my observations of plant growth here in Texas.  One of the climatic characteristics that has amazed me about living in zone 8b is that our growing season never really stops.  Last winter, I also noted what other species still looked good during the winter.  All winter long, Carex cherokeensis (Cherokee sedge) that we trialled from Hoffman Nursery looked absolutely incredible.  Even with the arctic plunge we had in early January 2017, the plant is still holding it's green.  

In the middle of winter, Carex cherokeensis keeps it's green.

The foliage on our native Rudbeckia maxima (giant coneflower) is also surviving the winter like a champ.  The leaves barely show any sign of winter damage, and many plants are beginning to produce new foliage now for the spring.  

The foliage of these other perennials also presents a management challenge if included in matrix plantings.   Perhaps we could interplant bulbs whose leaves emerge early with some of these winter-foliage stalwarts?  Thus, we could combine plants that have similar cut back requirements.  

If it's green, do not clean.  If it's brown, cut it down.  

I believe that strategic intermingling is the best option to be able to maximize bulb foliage growth AND the winter interest display.  And, as we integrate this approach into our gardens, I'll report back to you. 

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With the presence of bulb foliage in the gardens of the deep south, we may never have a slate that we can just fully erase in February for the new year like our northern counterparts.  But, we may not be the only area of the world reckoning with bulb foliage in the near future.  I asked Cassian Schmidt about the above conundrum when we spoke together at the Perennial Plant Conference in Swarthmore, PA last fall, and he told me they are also having to cut back foliage for their bulb emergence earlier and earlier at Hermannshof in Germany.  Even last year in London, Narcissus were in full flower in December, a surprising and startling observation in a world where temperatures are on the rise.  As a result we may have to begin adapting our gardening practices to the change.