Scarlet Penstemon

Red is one of my favorite colors. I’ve joked since a kid that I love it so much that it is part of my name, Jared. I even love variations of the hue—scarlet, coral, vermillion, crimson, cherry, garnet, and the list goes on.

Red is a bit of an unusual color to have on native flowers. Think about it. You can probably count on your fingers and maybe toes native southeastern wildflowers that feature this intense warm color. Most flowers that are not wind pollinated seem to have purple, yellow, pink, or white adorning their petals. But, red flowers are a bit rarer and likely evolved for the hummingbird pollination syndrome since birds can perceive this hue better.

I was delighted after I moved to Texas to add another red flower to my plant palette, scarlet penstemon. I first saw Penstemon murrayanus in a garden bed in Nacogdoches. I was so intrigued with its perfoliate leaves on the inflorescence that wrap all the way around the stem. The flowers looked like they were rising out of little teal green platters.

Perfoliate leaves on Penstemon murrayanus are an intriguing morphological feature. It is so neat how they wrap around the stem.

After buying our house, I wanted to add scarlet penstemon to my plantings. On the road to town one day I discovered some plants growing right under a power line back off the road. I was surprised to see this species thriving in sandy grit amongst Yucca. But, this site helped me understand the conditions where it grows.

A small population of Penstemon murrayanus growing along the roadside in Nacogdoches county.

These plants I found provided a source of genetics for me to get my plants started. I collected seed after the seed capsules dried, but I learned that getting the seed to germinate is a challenge. The first year, I sowed seed at the start of winter to allow them to naturally stratify, but I only had two seedlings emerge out of the batch. Fortunately, they flower the second year after their attractive glaucous green foliage bulks up for the first growing season. While I love the height the plants get, they are also see through, so they can be planted at the front or the back of the bed and not impede the view. Their opacity allows me to sit on my porch and easily watch Ruby-throated Hummingbirds dot from plant to plant.

I like how I can see through the inflorescences of Penstemon murrayanus.

The purple in the stem here created a great color echo with the Prunella vulgaris behind.

I should add that I have had my challenges growing it. The foliage and even sometimes an inflorescence will die back to the ground due to a fungal disease. My guess is that my soil is more dense than the sandy soil where I found this species and holds more water. This issue seems to be a common one with Penstemon in the wetter parts of the country.

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Going back to the challenge of getting new plants started, I was able to collect enough seed off my plants this year that my graduate student Zy Tippins was able to see if germination could be enhanced on Penstemon murrayanus. Her master’s thesis has been focusing on the use of gibberellic acid and liquid smoke to improve seed germination of native perennial seed. Gibberellic acid is a plant hormone that promotes germination. Liquid smoke can contain karrakins, another germination promoting hormone. There’s research that demonstrates after a fire passes through an ecosystem that karrakins are produced and help increase germination of some plant species. While gibberellic acid can be a bit of a challenge for home owners to acquire, smoke water is readily available from grocery stores. Zy was seeing if smoke water could be used with or without gibberellic acid to increase germination.

As you can see from her research below, seed that only received water and no stratification had 9% germination; stratifying seed for three months increased germination to 20%. But, seeds that had smoke water and three months of stratification had 46% germination! That means with using smoke water and then moist chilling the seeds in the fridge you can almost quadruple seed germination over the control. This data was some of the most exciting from her work. She’s finishing up her thesis this summer, so I’ll definitely post the link later if you want to learn more about her research.

Penstemon murrayanus seeds that were treated with a dilute smoke water solution and then stratified for three months had better germination (46%) compared to the non-stratified (9%) and stratified (20%) control. Thanks to my graduate student Zy Tippins for sharing this slide with me.

My hope is that with her research Penstemon murrayanus will become more available in the trade now that we better understand its germination requirements. Yes, it is an obscure perennial, but it certainly deserves wider use in our gardens.

Rayless Sunflower

It has been a glorious weekend here in east Texas. For the first time in months our temperature dipped below 70F yesterday, and then Sunday morning, the thermometer registered 59F. I adore days like these where a chill hangs in the air.

The return of fall and the arrival of cooler temperatures and rain revitalizes the garden. After months of watching plants struggle, it is so nice to see them perking up and many fall performers beginning their show. One species that is becoming a favorite of mine for autumn is rayless sunflower.

I first saw it on Instagram a few years ago when Andrea England posted a picture of it in a shortgrass prairie in her suburban meadow. At first, I thought I was seeing just spent flowers and seedheads. However, after some sleuthing I realized that this photo was the rayless sunflower in bloom with its black licorice colored disks held on acid green stems. With a brief review of flower morphology, you can see where rayless sunflower gets its name. Many Asteraceae family members have a head inflorescence with two types of flowers, rays that comprised the outer row of colorful “petals” and the inner disks that form the bulk of the flower. The reason the flowers have their orb-like appearance is because they are largely absent of any rays.

The flowers of Helianthus radula emerge in autumn and are a wonderful companion to the ghostly colored Liatris elegans.

What a novelty in the plant world! I was intrigued. I contacted her offering to trade some seed, and soon I had an envelope ready to sow. Seeds germinated quickly, and I transplanted them into a sandy spot since they are native to the gulf coast. They have the most interesting foliage. For much of the growing season their orbicular leaves hugged the ground until the crowns began to elongate later in the summer. And, then out of nowhere these antennae-looking flowers pierced through the fray of grasses and forbs in my garden and attracted pollinators. I was delighted. And, the seedheads stood through wind and rain with very few bending over. Even into the winter, the seedheads were persistent until the spring mowing, although I will add a few were decimated by the birds as these frugivores foraged.

This year is the second that it has been growing in my garden, and there are even more flowers. I haven’t discerned yet if this plant is a reseeding annual or perennial, but either way it is delightful. I should know in the next few years. They are planted in a bed near our driveway, and I’ve noticed the shadows the circular flowers cast on the blacktop when the sun is at an angle in the sky. I really like to pair it with white flowers or those that have hints of white, and the strong texture pops with the more fine textured grasses.

One last note. Jenks Farmer argued that this plant needs a better name. I agree since rayless seems to hint that there is something lacking to this plant. Perhaps button sunflower or lollypop sunflower, something, really anything to better convey how wonderful this plant is.

A closeup of Helianthus radula flowers

In Praise of Ipomopsis

Ipomopsis rubra has started flowering in my garden for the first time this year. My genetics came from a single roadside plant near town that I saw blooming last year. I lucked out getting the seed just before the mowers came along for their annual July cut.

I sowed the seed last November into a cold frame and was surprised when they germinated within a week, an observation that suggested there was either no dormancy mechanism or that dry storage had allowed time for after-ripening. Three months later in early February, I transplanted the dew-collecting basal rosettes to a bed once they had had a chance to bulk up some foliage. And, now I’m able to enjoy the results of my labor.  

Ipomopsis blooming along the fence that surrounds our patch

I like watching Ruby-throated Hummingbirds flit through my plants.  The red, tubular-to-salverform flowers and the high nectar content are tell-tale characters that these avian foragers visit the plants.  Researchers have even noted that the “trilevel orientation of the stamens” provide a close fit for the base of the bird’s beak, making pollen shed onto the pollinator even more efficient.

But, I should note that even before they flower, the plants have an interesting texture due to their heavily dissected foliage. Some say the leaf’s resemblance to Taxodium foliage is where this species gets the common name standing cypress. To me, they appear like giant green pipe cleaners thrust into the ground, and when the unfortunate wind storm occurs, they can bend just as easy. 

Ipomopsis rubra foliage resembles Taxodium leaves. Perhaps that’s the origin of the common name standing cypress?

Next year, I’m going to sow seeds into some gravel beds to stress these biennials a bit more and keep them shorter to prevent the lodging issue.  Some of mine are up to at least my shoulders.  This species occurs primarily in xeric habitats across the southeast, and I wonder if our rich soil may have given them an extra boost.

Ipomopsis rubra thrives in a gravel garden in Denver.

Ipomopsis rubra growing amongst cacti, palms, and yuccas at The John Fairey Garden (formerly Peckerwood).

I’ll also take some seed back to where I collected that first handful.  Just because I thieved some to get it started at my house doesn’t mean that others shouldn’t be able to enjoy roadside Ipomopsis during the summer.

Here’s to enjoying Ipomopsis for many years to come!

#rhodiesandwildponies at Grayson Highlands State Park

Before I moved to Texas from grad school in 2014, some NC State friends and I decided to have one last hiking fling at Grayson Highlands State Park. We had heard about the wild miniature ponies in the park, and it being June, I knew that it would be a good time to venture to Virginia to see Rhododendron in bloom.  So, we gave the trip a name—#rhodiesandwildponies.

We arrived Friday evening, driving under trees that pulsed with light from the firefly raves. We made camp and were eager to see what awaited us for the weekend.

Rhododendron Trail

We did two main hikes while at Grayson Highlands.  The morning after we arrived, we hiked Rhododendron Trail, which promised incredible vistas, sights of wild ponies (giddy giddy!), and of course, those flowering members of the Ericaceous family that gave the trail its namesake.  

The view north from an elevated spot on Wilburn Ridge in Grayson Highlands State Park.

We hadn’t made it very far on the trail when we encountered our first string of ponies. Let’s be honest. THEY WERE SO CUTE!!! And, there were even babies! These animals were introduced into the park to graze and help maintain the grassland habitats.

Isn’t this the life? Laying about on a mountain top, nibbling some leaves, and galloping through a field. Content sigh.

While visitors are encouraged to not touch or interact with the ponies (SO HARD!), we could see from a distance they came up to about waist-height on us.

Further along the trail, we enjoyed the pink blooms of Rhododendron catawbiense, the Catawba rhododendron. This native shrub/small tree is a quintessential plant of the southern Appalachians, and it grows from Alabama up through the Virginias. In some places they grew so thick they created close quarters for passersby on the trail. The plant has a fascinating survival technique to survive winter cold in these high, exposed elevations—the leaves curl and droop. Both changes help mitigate excess sunlight in cold temperatures and freeze/thaw cycles.

The lavender-pink flowers of Rhododendron catawbiense

Here you see Rhododendron catawbiense growing amongst other shrubs on this crag.

Rhododendron catawbiense can form thickets that are hard to traverse unless there is a path.

For something a bit more herbaceous, we found a few natural gravel gardens growing Micranthes petiolaris, cliff saxifrage. Saxifrage comes from the Latin saxum (meaning rock) and frangere, which means to break. It has this “rock breaker” name because many species are found growing in rock cracks. This particular species has an interesting history because it is more closely allied with more northern species than others that occur in the Appalachians. Thus, it is likely a relic from our continent’s glacial past.

Micranthes petiolaris grows in a shallow depression on a rock.

Such lovely flowers on Micranthes petiolaris. Note the three yellow dots on the petals.

We also saw several Kalmia latifolia, a plant with a way cool pollination mechanism.  It has spring-loaded stamens that recoil and hit a pollinator when it lands on the flower and triggers a stamen’s filament.

Kalmia latifolia in full bloom

Note the stamens lodged in the corolla. A pollinator will free them and result in pollen being deposited on the insect.

We were a bit early to enjoy the Rhododendron calendulaceum up in the balds; however, in the camping area, they were lit with blooms.

A bit of floral diversity in Rhododendron calendulaceum seen near our campsite.

A close up of the sunny yellow form of Rhododendron calendulaceum

I loved this complementary color scheme. The yellow/orange of the Rhododendron calendulaceum contrasts brilliantly with the periwinkle-colored wood shed. It is almost like they chose that paint just for that effect!

A close up of the ruffles and fiber optic floral parts of Rhododendron calendulaceum

Cabin Creek Trail

The next morning, we hiked Cabin Creek trail, which was a very different experience from the more montane and vista-filled hike from the day before.  This trail was much more wooded, and we would traverse streams with waterfalls, bogs, and ferneries.  Here, again, Appalachian flora reigned in their respectable habitats. 

Before we even started our hike, two clumps of ferns caught my eye. The first was the common cinnamon fern (Osmundastrum cinnamomeum), but it exhibited an unusual growth habit. The plants were arranged in a circle! Cinnamon fern spreads via rhizomes. As the plant grew, it consumed the resources in the center, and much like how suburbs spread outside cities, the rhizomes grew outward in pursuit of new land. Eventually, these travelled far enough to create the appearance of circle.

Osmundastrum cinnamomeum marking where a UFO landed or where fairies dance in the moonlight? Nah, it is just a matter of resource depletion.

The other fern I saw was one I had never encountered before, but I had heard about it—the interrupted fern (Osmunda claytoniana). I always wondered why it was called interrupted fern, and once I saw the fertile fronds with their fertile leaflets on the middle of the rachis, it made so much sense. These spore-bearing leaflets will eventually fade away and create the appearance of leaves interrupted.

Interrupted fern interrupting our hike!

A close up of the spent fertile leaf on Osmunda claytoniana

Enough ferns! Let’s get on with hiking Cabin Creek Trail!

Oh wait… a fernery!?!

On the way out, I found a beautiful orchid. Platanthera grandiflora or large purple fringed orchid likes wet spots in mountainous habitats, and we just happened upon some in bloom at the perfect time.

Is it just me or do you see hat-wearing dancers with way too much flare on their sleeves and their bell-bottoms?

My friends Deanna, Stacy, and Sarah and I stand for a pic in front of a waterfall on Cabin Creek Trail.

We wrapped up our hike, packed up, and headed back home. To this day, I still find myself thinking back to Grayson Highlands, our treks looking for rhodies and wild ponies, and the incredible balds and vistas that carpeted those Virginia mountains. I can’t wait to go back one day, and when you get a chance, I hope you’ll go, too. Again, how can you turn down seeing plants and ponies!?!

One final look southward in Grayson Highlands State Park

Detour to Echinacea pallida

I hate interstate traffic jams, especially the ones that threaten to add an hour and eighteen minutes to a nine hour trip.  But, I love the technology like Google maps that predicts such interruptions and reroutes for treks down rural roads in an attempt to save time.  Such was the case last June when we were traveling back to Texas from Tennessee.

We ventured off the highway just before the logjam near Arkadelphia, Arkansas when a couple of Echinacea caught my eye.  As I’ve written before, the habitat and management of roadside edges help preserve wildflowers and relic plant communities.  I saw another large group in front of someone’s house and thought that if I could find a large patch and a wide shoulder, it might make for some good photographs. But, then we rounded the corner, and I gasp.  For the next quarter mile, the whole left side of the road was covered with Echinacea pallida, the pale coneflower.  

Wowzers. Have you ever seen so many Echinacea pallida?

I’ve become a huge fan of species Echinacea in recent years due to their durability and reliability over the hybrids, and seeing this mass of pale coneflower was further testament for me to how well they grow. Echinacea pallida does well in a range of conditions, which is not surprising considering it is native to a swath that extends from the Gulf of Mexico all the way up to Lake Michigan.

I pulled off onto a logging road just where the patch of Echinacea stopped.  I walked up the hillside in shorts braving ticks and chiggers, but it was worth it to see thousands of Echinacea pallida in flower.  Growing amongst the coneflowers were other wildflowers like Liatris aspera, Mimosa nuttallii, and Asclepias tuberosa.  

I started snapping away with my camera. The densest of the plants was about two telephone poles down, and I felt pulled toward this floral center of gravity.  There was little if any diversity in color that I could see, but I did notice differences in the length of the rays.  Echinacea pallida can be identified by its dropping ray florets, and it has white pollen instead of the typical yellow color of many other species in the genus.  

A close up of a solitary flower on pale coneflower. Note the absence of yellow-colored pollen.

I began to wonder what would cause this Echinacea population to be so large.  My guess is a post-seed-set mowing.  I noticed in the ground layer there were several juvenile plants sans flowers.

A shot of Echinacea pallida backlit gives a different perspective of the flower with the blackening of the cones.

As I walked back to the car, I mused on how this traffic jam and resulting detour was one of the best ever for botanizing.   However, with all the photos I took, I’m not sure if we saved any time taking the backroad or not!  

Grace is one word that comes to mind when I see Echinacea pallida. So lovely and elegant.

Carex cherokeensis, Cherokee sedge

Ever since I learned of the concept of matrix species from Noel Kingsbury and Piet Oudolf’s book Planting: A New Perspective I have searched for and evaluated good ground covering plants for the southeast.  One that I have enjoyed getting to know better is Carex cherokeensis or Cherokee sedge.  

A snapshot of Carex cherokeensis in our modest grass and Carex trial at the Plantery at Stephen F. Austin State University.

I first learned about this species when the Plantery conducted an informal trial of grasses and sedges at SFASU thanks to the help from the fine folks at Hoffman Nursery in Rougemont, NC.  Carex cherokeensis showed us it was a stalwart for east Texas.  In my naiveté, I didn’t realize it was native to our area until I found it growing along a roadside west of town.  And, then imagine my delight when I found three plants in a wet spot of my yard this past winter.  I chuckle when I think that we ordered plants from halfway across the country, and they were growing in my own backyard (literally!)

While the inflorescences are not very showy, closer inspection reveals there is a beauty to the dainty seedheads of Carex cherokeensis.

So, why do I like this living mulch?  For a variety of reasons.  The verdant foliage livens a dappled understory, and it tolerates full sun conditions like a champ with little burning.  It was also tolerate most soils save for those with heavy sand. From my encounters with Cherokee sedge in the wild, I noticed that it tends to occur as small, almost solo crowns. However, plant it in a bed, and it will form a nice cespitose clump.  It may sit there for a year, but be patient, and let it get established.  The inflorescences are not too conspicuous. They resemble inverted wheat ears and hang like thin beaded earrings above the foliage.  We do remove the whole peduncle after the seed have dropped. 

A mass of Carex cherokeensis

The students used this Carex in our food prairies in the Sprout garden, and we have slowly watched over the past three years as it has colonized open spaces with rhizome and seed.  We mow it once a year in early January when we cut back our plantings to prepare for spring bulbs to emerge. It divides well, too.  I regularly have students divide a few plants early in the semester for a primer on division and then use it in later exercises on grading propagule sizes.   

This past year, I tried propagating it from seed at home.  I collected seed from my Texas germplasm last spring and stratified it for a couple months.  I sowed it in a flat outdoors last fall and waited.  After a few weeks, I noticed a couple of green slivers popping up out of the soil but only a few.  At first I wondered what I did wrong and why more weren’t germinating.  Later, I saw that the tray had more, and eventually I came to realize that it seemed as if a few new ones were germinating each month.  

Grading Carex cherokeensis seedlings at my house. These were large enough to pot on.

The rest were allowed to remain in the tray to bulk up. Again, notice how some are barely up while others have some size to them.

I’m not sure if it’s an effect of my sowing efforts or the plant’s staggered germination biology.  Either way, I’m happy to have about 50 more plants to add to my landscape of this great Carex species.  

I spy with my little eye, Spigelia

I shrieked as my truck came to a sudden stop.  

“What is it?!” Karen said after jumping out of her skin.    

“Spigelia marilandica!!!” I exclaimed.  

“I thought you had hit something in the road,” she said with a bit of consternation in her voice.  

I apologized.  It was just that I had never seen this incredible native in the wild!  

I spy with my little eye something red. Note the abnormal flower on the right with six yellow lobes. Most have five.

I pulled my truck off to the side of the broken back road and hopped out to walk over to the forest edge.  Camera trained on the flower, I snapped away in delight.  How lucky was I finding this ruby in the rough four miles from our house.  And, since it was early May 2018, a few weeks earlier or later and I might have missed this spectacle.  

Eventually, I got back up to walk to the truck.  I gazed down the road with the dark forest on the left and bright pasture on the right.  In the glare from the sun, I noticed a few more red flowers just down the lane and smiled in delight.  There were more than just this one! And, as my eye traced the road edge further, I began to make out hundreds of the little slivers of crimson that graced the north-facing forested slope.  My jaw dropped.  I had hit the Indian pink jackpot.  

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I got to know this wonderful wildflower better through my friend Jimmy Williams.  In a similar discovery as mine, he drove around all day in Henry County, Tennessee until he found a solitary flower growing in a roadside ditch.  He saved that plant from the mower blades and cultivated it into several clumps in his red border.  He has so many he was even able to share a plant with me that’s still back at my parent’s home in Tennessee.  

Spigelia marilandica in the foreground here provides color in Jimmy William’s red border in Paris, TN between the spring and summer flowering gap.

But, I was quite surprised to find it here in the wild in Texas.  I guess having never even seen it in situ I really didn’t know what its range or its habitat was.   

However, one thing I did know is that the plant wasn’t pink.  No, it seems to have been adorned with the same name as pinks or members of the Caryophyllaceae family that appear to have their petals clipped by pinking shears.  But, Spigelia isn’t even in the same family (it’s in Loganiaceae) or even order, and yet it has the same froufrou name.  Go figure. 

I liberated a few clumps from the roadside that day to take back to my house.  They were growing in gravel tailings, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before a grader would come along and do them in.   I planted them near our house because I was afraid that deer would come along and nibble them down.  I’ve since learned that’s probably not too big a concern due to the presence of toxic alkaloids in the leaves.  

Spigelia marilandica flowering just behind our house.

The next spring, I was delighted as my plants came back and bloomed heavier than any of the clumps I saw the previous year on that shaded hillside.  I chuckle now reading accounts about how this plant needs TLC, woodland edge, and moisture.   Mine are planted on a north facing slope in sandy fill soil and receive over half a day of full sun that burns other shade lovers I’ve tried in the same spot.  And, y’all, this is in Texas.  

One plant is lovely in bloom, but en masse the floral effect is spectacular.  I’ve notice over the years in large plantings at botanic gardens that there can be quite the range of colors in flowers from seed-derived plants, everything from a dark crimson to a light salmon. Even bloom time varies within a population.  My small grouping of six plants seemed to exhibit a range of genetics, too.  

How spectacular is this mass of Indian pink in Bell’s Woodland at Chanticleer in Wayne, Pennsylvania?

The variation in color in Spigelia marilandica is apparent in this seedling-derived population in a dry creek bed.

While most Spigelia marilandica vary in their color of red, this pink Indian pink in my garden is a testament to their color variation. Note this individual’s lack of red in the developing flowers on this cyme. I’m monitoring it because along with the lack of color there seems to be something off about the way the flowers open.

And, being planted near where I sit, I’ve enjoyed watching Ruby-throated Hummingbirds dart through the Indian pinks.  They and the flower have enjoyed a long dance of coevolution, the flower preferring the lead of the bird over the bee, evidenced by evolving the long, tubular red flowers.  Yes, I was quite happy with myself to see my transplants doing so well.  

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I gasp as I sped up a bit on the same broken back road.

“This is not good,” I said to Karen who was joining me on yet another backroads excursion.

On either side of the pavement there wasn’t a leaf to be found.  It was August 2019, and while the month can certainly be a scorcher, this blight was from herbicide.  

I pulled along side where my precious Spigelia had been blooming only months earlier.  The curtain of foliage that was there had been removed and I could see deeper into the woods than I ever had.  And, there wasn’t a single Spigelia plant on the roadside edge to be found.  I was crushed.  

It kills me when road crews blanket herbicide.  I understand keeping the right-of-ways in check, but what was so bad about this hillside that needed to be controlled?  Did I need to put a sign up that said, “Only known county record of Spigelia marilandica”?  I found myself thinking about how glad I was that I did move those six plants to my house, and I drove off anxious to see this population next spring.

This month, I revisited the site, and I’m happy to report that there are still Indian pink on the hillside.  In fact, after some snooping I’ve come to realize that the population is quite safe as there are hundreds on the slope further up from the road.  I guess with such a thick edge I wasn’t able to see the Spigelia for the forest.  And, somehow even a few plants remained on the road edge.  A few show a bit of herbicide residue from their curling leaves and stunted growth.  

I’m happy that this population of Spigelia marilandica is safe from roadside spraying. This snapshot is only a few of the hundreds of plants growing on the hillside.

But, this time I didn’t take any chances.  I rescued several clumps from the ditch that I had passed over previously, and they have since joined their brothers and sisters at my house.  Plants as good as this deserve to live and flourish without want or worry from county road maintenance.

Clearcut Meadow Garlic

I spied a white haze of flowers out in the clearcut, and I pulled off the side of the road to investigate.  

My heart breaks a bit when I see land striped of trees.  Even if it is planted timber, I find myself thinking of what is lost.  

However, I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t also leap a bit with curiosity.  Such areas are good places to find the toughest of the tough wildflowers that can withstand disturbance and stress in the form of traffic, machinery, and overall being driven over multiple times.  

I exited the truck as thunder rolled low in the distance and made my way through the rain-soaked grass into what used to be forest.  And, I realized the patches of color was coming from Allium canadense.  

Alliums are a group of plants I adore.  There’s the motley crew of edibles that grace our gardens and our eventual plates and the spherical lollypop trophies that we long to see in plantings.  

The problem is outside the vegetables we grow, most don’t do well in the deep south.  Enter Allium canadense.

Allium canadense has a bad reputation for the weedy bulbils that it produces.  But, it is a shame that one bad apple (or should I say onion!) has spoiled this species’s reputation.  There are actually five different varieties of this plant.  The noxious Allium canadense var. canadense (wild garlic) produces the weedy bulbils that arise from vegetative apomixis, a fascinating process in itself (but, that’s for another blog post...).  

Such darling flowers on Allium canadense var. mobilense

I had found Allium canadense var. mobilense, meadow garlic or Mobile garlic.  One of the identifying traits of this variety is that the bulbils are replaced by seed capsules.  Some have speculated that this plant is actually the sexually reproductive version of var. canadense.

I had noticed it near my house in the ditches, but it was always a pipsqueak of a plant.  The rosy white flowers have teased me more than once as I drove along in thinking I had found something else.   

But, here where little but a weedy mess grew, the blossoms were a welcome site.  The plants were more robust that I was used to seeing.  I wondered why the bulk.  Perhaps being out in a full sun environment with no competition allowed these underdogs to finally hit their prime?    

The flowers were so robust and large on some specimens of meadow garlic.

And, they were plentiful in number, too!  Probably a few thousand.  As I walked through the post-rain muck, the diversity I saw was incredible —pink forms, forms that looked like chives, and one form that was quite larger!  

Another thing that impressed me was how they seemed to grow in wet areas, a site that Allium species normally frown upon.  Alliums in the south struggle with our heat and wetness, and here these were growing almost in a creek.  

Allium canadense var. mobilense was tolerant of wet conditions. Most Alliums in the trade would struggle with so much moisture.

I collected a few that I felt had merit.  I doubt they will ever be missed from this ghost of a forest, but I will cherish them as yet another rugged plant for the south that deserves wider use.  

A sampling of the plants I wild collected. Notice the diversity in colors and forms. The one on the far right excites me the most. The plants were larger and flower heads more robust.

Another perspective so you can see the corolla color better.

Celebrating Earth Day with Stewartia malacodendron

Stewartia malacodendron (silky camellia) is a member of the tea family (Theaceae) that graces the stream-side understory of our southern forests.  Populations are scattered, and we are fortunate enough to have a disjunct population in east Texas.  

Higher up the slopes on this petrified-wood bearing creek one finds Stewartia malacodendron.

Karen and I spent a cloudy Earth Day looking for these small trees in Newton County, Texas.  We were joined by Dawn Stover and our guide Peter Loos who has been investigating these populations since the early 1990’s. 

The white flowers, a little larger than a golf ball, pop in the dark understory or against the forest edge.

A close up of the flowers and stamens of silky camellia. Just beautiful.

I saw them in flower last spring with students.  The white blooms are hard to miss against the dark forest.  On closer inspection one sees the eggshell petals surrounding a sparkler of purple-red stamens.  But, I have only seen them in an edge habitat.  

Peter took us to a new site that had even more specimens.  We walked through a wooded gully seeing jewels like Asclepias variegata and even the rare-to-Texas Amelanchier arborea.  We climbed the other side and soon found ourselves flanked by Stewartia.  

Seeing the trees in their natural environment under a canopy I noticed for the first time their strongly horizontal growth.  I suspect that these plagiotropic branches are arranged to maximize sunlight collection.  It even seemed like the foliage had this pattern where leaves didn’t overlap each other.  We saw one specimen that Peter deemed “The Champion” as it had a canopy spread of 25 feet. 

Here Stewartia malacodendron spreads itself out in the understory. If you look in the background, you can see even more silky camellia.

I noticed that many plants seemed to have this horizontal growth habit. This architecture is likely for maximizing light capture in the understory.

Quickening claps of thunder cut our visit short.  But, we’ll return again.  Evidently, cuttings are best taken in early-to-mid May.  We will see in a few weeks as we work to learn more about how to propagate this incredible native tree. It is safe from extinction due to its wide distribution in the southeast, but it is critically imperiled in Texas.  Working to save diversity was a great way to celebrate Earth Day.

A Clematis from Texas

Growing up, I knew Clematis as mailbox plants.  The gaudy, colorful saucers adorn the post at the end of many driveways.  

But, once I did my internship at The Scott Arboretum in 2008, my world of Clematis was blown wide open.  I had no idea that there were so many forms and that there were so many great native species as well.  Here, they lost their mailbox supports; I found many species and cultivars rambling into shrubs and tree boughs.  

My favorite from that summer was Clematis texensis, the scarlet or Texas clematis.   I remember the first time I ever saw this central Texas native.  It had threaded itself through the glaucous blue foliage of a low hanging Cedrus branch right by the arboretum’s main office.  This pastel dyad of blue and red made the Clematis flowers pop.  When I see the flowers, I think of pink hot-air-balloons, even if they are turned or upside down. They aren’t the size of the mailbox blooms. No, the urn-shaped blossoms are smaller and more delicate, but I can still see them from 100 feet away. So can Ruby-throated Hummingbirds.

Who needs a mailbox? The boughs of a Cedrus are the perfect trellis for Clematis texensis!

I loved it so that I got a plant from Dan Long at Brushwood Nursery in 2014. For a few years, this member of the buttercup family grew in a container on my patio and did quite well pot-bound in a large terra-cotta planter.  My only recommendation if you go this route is to make sure it has a stable trellis.  

Can you see the hot air balloon?

Once we moved to our house, I relocated it from pot into firmament on the southside of my vegetable patch. The fleshy roots survived the transplanting just fine.  Along the fence I’m building a collection of native and interesting clematis species, and Clematis texensis has started the show by coming into bloom this last part of April. 

Clematis texensis climbs up the fence surrounding our vegetable patch.

If you don’t have a fence, consider having it grow at the base of an open shrub or tree.  You’ll find that it will clamber up through it with the help of leafy tendrils that will curl around anything these appendages can find. 

Nice crosses have been made with Clematis texensis to produce ‘Duchess of Albany’ and ‘Gravetye Beauty’. I still prefer the pure species, but all three deserve wider use in gardens. That means on your mailbox or anywhere else you see fit.