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.

Dipping into Baptisia

If I were forced to choose a favorite herbaceous perennial genus of all time, it would be Baptisia. I'm a fan of all the species, and I do hope one day to have them all growing here at my house. I even love the hybrids, some of which occur naturally where ranges overlap.

But, why Baptisia? I think of the many perennials we have in our gardens, it is one of the few that truly offers four season interest. They erupt out of the ground in early spring with their asparagus-like shoots that soon fill with trifoliate, clean foliage. Then, like a colorful, slow moving comet with long tails the inflorescences rise with dozens or even hundreds of flowers present on them. And, I do adore the classic papilionaceous flowers of Baptisia, their banner, wings, and keel that greet pollinators. Bees push against the keel to help get access to the nectar, and that force lowers this fused petal to expose the stamens and pistils. (You can mimic this act by pulling down on the keel to see the stamens.) In a beautiful example of co-evolution, lower flowers that are mostly female are preferred because they have higher nectar rewards. Bees will then move towards the higher flowers on the same inflorescence, which tend to be more male and have copious pollen. When they move to the next flower, they then carry fresh pollen to increase the chances of crossing with the nectar-rich, female flowers of another plant. Once flowers are pollinated they swell into bloated green pods that contain seed. These eventually turn black, and the seeds dehisce, which creates a rattle that even Native American children used for entertainment. These pods will often remain through the winter, held high on the inflorescences that were full of blooms over half a year ago.

But, there's more to this wonderful native. One of the things I love most about the taller Baptisia australis and Baptisia alba is their height early in the season that allows me to create layers in plantings. Tall herbaceous plants are rare in early spring, but their quick emergence puts them in a unique category. Deer tend to avoid them (note the word *tend to* there). Baptisia overall are very drought tolerant, partly because their tap roots grow deep. Wild indigos are also all nitrogen fixers and thus help to enrich the soil in which they grow. I’ve already discussed the interplay between Baptisia and bees, but I can’t forget that some butterflies even host on them. And, for cut flower enthusiasts, they perform well in a vase. I regularly have cuttings last a week for me.

There's also much story and history with this plant. They are called wild indigos because members of this genus was used as a dye by Native Americans and then colonists. In fact, Baptisia comes from the Greek bapto meaning “to dip” or “to dye.” Allan Armitage in Herbaceous Perennial Plants stated that back in the 1700's, indigo was derived from Indigofera, but diminished supply caused the English government to ask farmers in the southeast US to grow wild indigo. Thus, Baptisia became one of the first crops to be subsidized by a government. Evidently the process was challenging, and that's why this species is grown more for its ornamental and ecological purposes rather than coloring textiles.

Look closely at the flowers and you can see the upper banner, the wings, and the mostly hidden keel on the flowers of Baptisia alba.

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Growing up, I didn't have Baptisia around me in Tennessee. I would see it in nurseries, and really Baptisia australis was all I knew. But, several years ago right after moving to Texas, I was delighted to discover Baptisia do grow wild here. While the less showy stem mound Baptisia nuttalliana is the most prevalent, I have been able to find Baptisia alba, Baptisia bracteata, and Baptisia sphaerocarpa in the wild. And, I hope to soon see Baptisia australis in north Texas.

Of the three I’ve encountered, I have most welcomed Baptisia alba into my garden (Don't worry, I'm bulking up the other two!). Years ago, I discovered a massive population of this species about fifteen minutes from our house. Of course, I say massive because I had never seen it in its native habitat. I've seen one or two plants in a garden over the years, but at this site there were at least a several hundred individuals growing from the top of a hillside all the way down toward the floodplain edge. I remember thinking, "What wonderful place is this that Baptisia grows wild and free?" Seeing this stand occurring naturally made me realize that Baptisia could be used en masse for spectacular effect. I will add a nomenclature note. Some authorities call this form Baptisia alba var. macrophylla, but I have yet to read anything about Baptisia alba var. alba. It is possible this name is just a synonym of Baptisia alba.

Here’s one of the first photos that I took of this incredible population of Baptisia alba.

This photo was taken a week earlier when Thomas Rainer visited our students and shows how much these plants can rise and elongate within a week.

In some spots Baptisia alba was highly sociable with some plants so thick they touched each other and formed a hedge.

Here you can see just how close some Baptisia alba stems grew together.

The neutral white flowers of Baptisia alba allow it to combine well with other colors like the light blue Salvia lyrata and coral Castilleja indivisia.

Karen provides scale for some of these large forms of Baptisia alba. It was even over my head!

Like comets with long tails, the racemes rise into the sky and glow a beautiful white.

The swelling seedpods of Baptisia alba. Eventually, these will harden and turn into rattles.

At this site there were a few individuals that exhibited more yellow flowers, shorter habit, and more compact inflorescences. These were likely hybrids with Baptisia nuttalliana.

A close up of the likely Baptisia alba × nuttalliana hybrid.

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From this population, I took cuttings and also collected seed later in the fall, scarified it, and sowed it. And, now I have plants galore at my house. They are come into full bloom in April. I love watching their evolution as the shoots rise with a tinge of smoky purple, likely due to some anthocyanin sunscreen to contend with the early spring sunshine. I use them as plant anchors in my beds, their height providing focal points above the other flowers. And, while I've heard it recommended to plant one here and there to mimic "how they occur in nature", from this population I’ve learned not to be afraid to put then closer together.

Either by itself or in a group, Baptisia alba is most welcomed in a garden.

A few weeks ago, we had this enchanting fog rise over the garden after an afternoon rain that created some opportunities for photographing Baptisia alba against a glorious sunset.

The fog thickened, and created this wonderful atmosphere to enjoy the silhouettes of Baptisia alba.

I’ll be honest. I feel like I’ve just dipped into this incredible genus, and I still haven’t learned all its secrets. One day I hope to have a backyard full of Baptisia, not just Baptisia alba, but many species of many colors. In growing them, I can’t wait to learn more about this wonderful group of plants.

Prairie Celestial

Prairie celestial. What a name. It sounds like the title of some futuristic pioneer-space saga.

I never even knew this plant existed until I caught a glimpse of blue in a ditch riding around looking for wildflowers several years ago. After a turn around and a pull off, I found myself staring at a large, faded-cobalt flower that was a little bigger than a half-dollar coin. The center was adorned with a spot of white and a small crown of yellow stamens. It seemed quite happy it this wet spot and I quite happy I had discovered a new-to-me species.

I had found Nemastylis geminiflora. I consider myself lucky to have caught it in bloom because this plant carries late store hours. It opens mid-morning around 10 or 11 am, and closes in the mid-to-late afternoon. A bit earlier in the day or even later, and I might have have missed it since its petals unfurl with the sun passing through its zenith in the sky.

An overview of Nemastylis geminiflora growing. You can barely make out the wrinkled in the Gladiolus-like spears of foliage.

In another year, I found a larger population of hundreds of individuals a few miles from my original location. These plants tend to prefer more calcareous soils and are plentiful further west. In fact BONAP shows that their range extends over into Alabama and up into Missouri and Nebraska, but I only know of these two populations nearby that are likely remnants of prairies lost long ago.

Hundreds of Nemastylis bloom on a roadside in east Texas with their petals oriented almost parallel to the earth.

I acquired some seed, which emerge from the top of the splitting capsule. Once the inflorescence stem collapses and falls, the seed pour out on the ground out of this elongated green bowl a little distance from the plant. I sowed them and nothing. I put the pot back in my propagation corner and considered them a lost cause. Then, next spring here arose 20 monocot leaves.

Growing this plant in the garden and seeing it flower has taught me more about this species. I delight in seeing the strap-like leaves emerge in spring with the ripples in the leaf, which has earned them another common name, prairie pleatleaf. They resemble a short Gladiolus, but touching them reminds me of how wrinkled fabric gives when you rub it. I now also know that the flowers will open for more than one day; usually a bloom will flower twice. Most stems have two blooms on them, hence the epithet geminiflora since gemini- means twins. I was also curious about the origin of Nemastylis. It translates as thin (Nema-) styles (-stylis) referring to the hairline part of the six pistils on the flower. I also learned that it tolerates drier conditions than I first observed the plants. Mine are growing on a hill that dries in the summer, and yet the couple of clumps seem to get larger each passing year.

The thin pistil styles, which you can make out two each in the image above between the golden stamens, earned this species the name Nemastylis.

Soon, my plants will be going dormant, and I will yet again be collecting seed to make more of this species in my garden. It is certainly a welcome addition of yet another native wildflower in my garden.

Swelling capsules indicate seed! Those that fade yellow failed to be pollinated.

Cajun Prairie

“I think there’s a prairie in Eunice,” Dawn Stover said as we drove past a sign indicating the Louisiana town a few miles ahead.

I replied, “Oh, really,” as I pulled out my phone to access Google maps to investigate.  Sure enough, just north of town I found a large swath of green with the label Cajun Prairie.

It was last fall, October 2019. We were on our way back to Nacogdoches from the International Plant Propagators’ Society-Southern Region meeting in Louisiana, Dawn and I upfront and Dawn’s greenhouse technician Jordan Cunningham was in the back.  “I’m fine to stop if y’all are,” I said.  Both agreed, and I plotted a course.  

At first, we unknowingly drove past the main ten-acre prairie.  GPS took us to a random spot in the road, and we kept driving to scope out the site.  North of the prairie, we found a gravel parking lot at a granary that we parked in off to the side.  We hopped out and immediately started fending off giant mosquitoes.  Well, I worse than Dawn and Jordan because I was sporting shorts.  So, I shimmied some jeans on over the shorts and the bloodsucking ceased.  But, such a trivial annoyance was worth it to see the field of yellow Helianthus and Solidago swaying in the breeze.  

An 18-wheeler that needed to pull in where we were forced us back in the car, and we drove back to the south side of the prairie and found the parking lot for the main entrance.  Here, we could see a narrow concrete path led off in both directions to allow visitors solid ground to enjoy the ecology.  It ended up being a rectangle walk around the whole area so that visitors could fully appreciate the site.

Saccharum flower heads bend in the breeze

A spot to sit and enjoy the cajun prairie.

The prairie was magical and wild on that cool, autumn day.  The colors were spectacular for fall with flowers and foliage across the field glowing under the drab sky. 

An incredible mix of forbs in the cajun prairie

What a view those houses have in the distance.

Kneeling down, you immerse yourself in the prairie and see a different perspective.

I saw many flora friends like Pycnanthemum tenufolium, Helianthus angustifolius, Arnoglossum ovatum, and Liatris pycnostachya.  I delighted in the color echos between the plant life and the urban sprawl.  There was the russet Schizachryium and the rusted granary roof, the white outbuildings and the ivory petals on Hibiscus moscheutos.  

What a color echo between the grass and the roof.

The petals on Hibiscus moscheutos shines bright white against the prairie.

A late Arnoglossum ovatum stands above the prairie

I always love getting in close and seeing the intricate detail of Arnoglossum flowers.

One species that composed the prairie tapestry that deserves wider use was Hyptis alata (clustered bushmint).  The plant reminds me of Eryngium yuccifolium with the orb inflorescences, but unlike rattlesnake master that clusters the flowers at the top, here the spheres are scattered up and down the stem and look like lollypops with their peduncles.  While I have a few plants at home, seeing them in habitat gave me ideas about how to intermingle them with wispy grasses.  

Hyptis alata tended to be grouped together in the prairie, likely because it sows itself nearby.

Another photograph of Hyptis paired with Schizachyrium, Helianthus, Solidago, and more.

I was also delighted to see the glaucous blades of Carex flaccosperma (or glaucodea, I can’t tell them apart this time of year) growing in the understory of this prairie jungle.  I have long suspected that these twelve-inch tall Carex species that thrive in varying light levels in my yard could grow underneath forbs as a matrix layer, and here it was doing just that in a cajun prairie in central Louisiana.  

Carex flaccosperma (or glaucodea) hiding on the ground plain under the taller perennials.

One new plant that I learned and suspect could be very useful in southern naturalistic plantings was Chromolaena ivifolia, ivyleaf thoroughwort.  Resembling a Conoclinium coelestinum (blue mistflower) on steroids, it tops out around 3–4 ft tall. We had seen it just days earlier near a bridge on our way to Baton Rouge, and here it was again.  The flowers were a rich sky blue, and in their fade they turn dark brown and appear as floating freckles on the golden face of the prairie.  

Such a beautiful blue flower on Chromolaena ivifolia that also contrasted well with the yellows from Helianthus and Solidago.

Even the spent flowers of Chromolaena ivifolia were ornamental when they turned dark brown.

It was interesting to note that no growth was over our heads.  Near the base of some plants I noticed what appeared regrowth from a cut as well as tractor treads that should have been long gone.  I wondered if this prairie had been mowed sometime earlier in summer, and I’d love to talk with those who maintain it to learn if that’s correct. Another observation supporting my hypothesis was how late the Hyptis and Liatris were blooming.  Both were already setting seed at my house back in Texas, yet here they were in full bloom.    

Having soaked in as much of the cajun prairie as we could, we headed back to the car to return home.  I thought cajun prairie was just a label, but after reading more about these ecosystems I’ve learned they are unique and different.  

What we saw today was a recreated remnant, planted back in 1988 by volunteers and those that wanted to share what much of the southeast used to resemble before we humans came along.   I admire the efforts of all those who helped to create this prairie as a lasting vision. Visiting it was great mental fodder as I continue my search for flora to use in naturalistic plantings in the southeast US.  

One last look at the cajun prairie in Eunice, Louisiana.

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.

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!

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.

The Pastoral Spirit of Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center

In early March, Karen and I visited Austin, TX, which meant I could finally got to Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.  Even though I’ve lived in Texas for almost six years now, I haven’t been to this incredible garden; however, I have longed to see it.  The Wildflower Center has a rich history since being founded by Lady Bird Johnson and Helen Hayes in 1982 with the central mission for “inspiring the conservation of native plants.”

Aquilegia canadensis greets visitors in a courtyard at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.

We certainly experienced that guiding philosophy walking through the garden.  I was so impressed with the garden’s genuis loci, its spirit of place.  It wasn’t just a hodge-podge of native plants through around.  No, walking through the garden I sensed this agrarian theme with threads of Spanish influence woven throughout.  There were no mass beds of annuals, except the site-appropriate Lupinus texensis.  It was wild, and it was real.  And, I saw flora friends I’ve known for years, and I even made some new ones.

In the silo garden, Lupinus texensis and Ranunculus macranthus provide early spring color. Grasses and Rudbeckia maxima provide good texture early in the year.

Right as we entered the garden, we passed by stone work that resembled old Spanish missions of the area.  There was a large stone facade that supported an aqueduct for water that extended out toward the parking lot. This structure is used in their rainwater harvesting.  There was even a water garden to illustrate how in this xeric environment there were still some wet springs that supplied water.

Visitors walk past a stone aqueduct as they enter the garden.

From this main entrance, we entered a large courtyard that was dotted with wildflowers.  In cracks of stone grew Aquilegia chrysantha var. hinckleyana,  a rare yet reliable columbine for growing in Texas.  Scattered about in others beds were varied cool color forms of Tradescantia gigantea.

Aquilegia chrysantha var. hinckleyana flowers in a courtyard at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.

Tradescantia gigantea blooms in a range of cool colors seen here.

From here we approached the silo courtyard that featured a small metal grain bin that was planted with Texas wildflowers like Lupinus texensis, Ranunculus macranthus, and Rudbeckia maxima.  For kicks they also espaliered a Texas redbud.  This garden only made me want a silo for my home garden even more!  

The silo courtyard looks like it belongs on a farm. I love the galvanized effect.

Who has ever seen a Cercis canadensis var. texensis espaliered? Such a funky way to treat a native!

I began to notice that wood was a unifying design element used throughout the garden.  Logs were used to line the pathways in the woodland garden to delineate the path from the Chasmanthium latifolium and Phacelia congesta.  I, too, have grown fond of using logs in my own garden for edging.  However, they used what appeared to be rot-resistant eastern red cedar instead of the fallen snags I employ.  

Logs edge the beds in the woodland garden.

Many species within the borage family feature scorpioid flowers where the blooms on the cymes zigzag. You can see this incredible arrangement on this Phacelia congesta.

In the theme gardens, raw cedar was also used for fencing and to build an arbor that ran the length of the garden.  The agrarian gestalt was continued with galvanized troughs used as planters for more Lupinus, Ipomopsis rubra, and other natives.  In other beds the gardeners were planting a diversity of new plants.  One told me that they were evaluating some native species for use in cultivation.  Twinkle lights were draped back and forth over the garden.  I would love to see this section at night.  

This arbor features native vines like Gelsemium and Lonicera sempervirens.

What an incredible flora display from this Lonicera sempervirens.

Seeing these stock tanks gave me inspiration about using them at my own house.

From the theme gardens, we ventured back to the family garden that featured many areas for parents and children to find delight.  There were sinuous and spiraling short walls in the garden.  Also, we saw a dinosaur creek and a stumpery with nests made from grape vines.  Here, native plants reigned in the landscape, too.  Prunus mexicana provided early spring color in tree form while Packera obovata covered the ground.  In the family garden was also a mass of Lupinus texensis.  I noticed they suffered from the sitting disorder that plagues bluebonnets.

A bit of whimsy with curvilinear mosaic walls and tree crowns turned upside down in the family garden.

Nemophila phacelioides dots itself in beds in the family garden.

I enjoyed seeing this blue Lupinus texensis and yellow Packera obovata dyad color pair in the family garden.

Here you see a problem that plagues Lupinus texnesis, the butt hole disease.

Packera obovata electrifies the ground layer under Prunus mexicana with its yellow flowers.

We headed back toward the entrance, past bluebonnets a plenty and a thick patch of Salvia lyrata that hadn’t come into bloom yet. I thought it would make an excellent groundcover if used with that density.  Before we left, we made a quick run up the observation tower to glance out over the garden.  

Salvia lyrata that occurs sporadically along roadsides and in lawns can be massed as a groudcover.

The observation tower at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center.

One final look at Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center from the observation tower.

I left with the impression that this garden was a prime example of south meets west. Karen and I both commented about what a great visit we had. I can’t wait to see it again in other seasons to learn about more great natives to incorporate into my garden.

Texas toadflax

Texas toadflax is charming plant that is blooming now in several parts of our yard. I hate to call Nuttallanthus texanus a weed, but it sure does like disturbed areas. I also hate to call it toadflax or Nuttalanthus (no offense, Thomas Nuttall), but I suppose a name is a name.

As a ruderal this annual has carpeted a bare patch in our orchard, and I’m finding it in overgrown beds in the vegetable patch. Anytime I find it in my garden beds I leave it as it adds a cheerful and wild essence to the planting.

I also leave it for insects. The North American Butterfly Association states that it is a great early-season resource for pollinators, and the foliage serves as food for Common Buckeye larvae.

If you get close, you can appreciate the flower’s interesting morphology—a pair of lips for petals, and a spur on the back of the flower. The sea of baby blue blooms—each flower no bigger than your pinky fingernail—seem to appear over night. And, as quick bloomers, they are gone before you know it, too.

Rooting Out Bloodroot

This was the year I would finally have time to ask the homeowners if I could wander the wooded hills near their house.  I had passed the lush forest the past two springs driving into town.  I watched Erythronium albidium bloom in large colonies (yes, the flowers were visible from the road), Podophyllum peltatum unfurl in an area the size of our house, and Phlox pilosa carpet the edge with purple.  If these plants were here, what else would be?

The mayapple colony was the first thing that caught my eye on this hillside. What other plants does this woods hold?

I got a hint the week before I visited with them when I got stuck going 20 mph behind a tractor in a no passing zone.  I glanced over at the woods and a glimmer of white caught my eye.  My mind riffled through early spring flowering white plants. Could it be...  bloodroot?  

Monday afternoon during spring break, I stopped by their house, asked permission, and got it!  I offered some chocolate as a gesture to visit the woods, but I guess they didn’t want any.  

I parked near the edge of their drive and struck out through the forest.  At times it looked and even smelled like Appalachia and the east coast woods I used to wander.   I said hello to the plants I had watched for two years, the Erythronium, the Phlox, and the Podophyllum.   And, I made fresh discoveries like Viola palmata and Polygonatum biflorum.

A close up of a Sanguinaria flower. Out of focus are seed pods on this member of the poppy family

And, soon my inkling that the forest held Sanguinaria canadensis (aka bloodroot) was confirmed as I found a solitary patch.  Giddy with joy, I started looking around until I found another.  And, then another.  And, then another!!!  

They were scattered all throughout the forest, no doubt thanks to help from ants who collect the seeds and take them to their nests for their lipid-rich elaiosome on the outside of the seed coat.  This type of seed dispersal even has a name—myrmecochory. 

Up a ridge, I found the motherload.  Hundreds of plants occurred in an area about half the size of a tennis court.  Perhaps this was the progenitor colony that had spawned the many scattered populations around?  Who knows.

Wow, what a colony! The road is barely visible in the upper right corner. Here it was hiding from me all this time.

Karen went back with me the next day for better lighting for pictures, and she provides a nice scale for the size of this colony. Again, the road is in the background.

And, here is the view of the colony behind me. Almost all those green leaves are bloodroot. I wondered what made them so successful here as other spots only had a few or even none.

I looked for diversity in the population, and the best I found was this larger leaf form. I suspect that the size is due to early emergence.

I was delighted to find this ephemeral only a few miles from my house as it is rare in Texas.  Nacogdoches county is one of the southwestern most populations in the US, and seeing it brought back memories of finding the harbinger of spring when wandering forests back further east.  The name bloodroot comes from the red coloration found when breaking the rhizome, a modified stem and not a root! Funny how common names can confuse those two sometimes. That coloration is also the origin of the genera Sanguinaria; sanguis is Latin for blood.   While native Americans used the plant for dyes and a variety of ailments, the sap from the rhizome can actually kill animal cells and cause a scar. 

A solitary leaf surrounds a bloodroot flower. Most individuals have eight petals, but some selections have been made in the trade that have more.

Bloodroot is such a fascinating native that deserves more use in our gardens.  I’m happy to know that it will grow well here in dappled shade in east Texas, and I’m happy that I finally stopped to investigate that woods further.  I never know what I will find!