Feather Bluestem against a Golden Sunset

Driving to and from town I’ve admired a big patch of Andropogon ternarius in late season splendor right up the road.  It's pretty easy to spot once it comes into flower.  The inflorescences have this sheen to them, almost like long silver paintbrush bristles.  A month or so later, the bristles fray as the seed ripen, and the plant forms a pair of feather-like infructescences.  The seed heads glow a white blush no matter how the sun shines on them. Most people call this species split-beard bluestem, but I’m partial to the common name feather bluestem for its twin inflorescences that resemble bird plumage.

Before metamorphosing into the feathery seed heads, the flowers of Andropogon ternarius look like silvery paintbrush bristles.

Before metamorphosing into the feathery seed heads, the flowers of Andropogon ternarius look like silvery paintbrush bristles.

I stopped the other evening as the sun approached the horizon to take some photographs of this colony of feather bluestem.  Just like the rest of the landscape, the grasses glowed warm in the waning light of a cool evening. 

Andropogon ternarius en masse. I wonder if the purpletop grass behind it to the right is a bit jealous just how good the feather bluestem looks?

Andropogon ternarius en masse. I wonder if the purpletop grass behind it to the right is a bit jealous just how good the feather bluestem looks?

The culm colors were variable, but some were a vibrant cinnabar.  I pondered if the coloration I saw was more an effect of genetics or the stresses of the site.  I could see drought or low phosphorus bringing out these red colors more. 

 
The cinnabar-colored culms warm the heart on a cool evening while photographing Andropogon ternarius

The cinnabar-colored culms warm the heart on a cool evening while photographing Andropogon ternarius

 

While the primary role of the hairs, technically trichomes, is to help the seeds disperse in a stiff breeze, I’m amazed at how well they capture light and diffuse it. From a distance they look like lines of white dots, a natural pointillism if you will.  However, up close when I stood behind the plants and squatted down to see the sun through them, I noticed an interesting phenomenon with how the waning light interacted with the seed hairs.  The light formed concentric circles around the sun as each bristle became a mini light reflector. 

 
The light orbits the sun in the seedheads of Andropogon ternarius

The light orbits the sun in the seedheads of Andropogon ternarius

 

In my photographing the plants against the light, a Carolina Wren popped up to the barbed wire fence and sang its cheeseburger–cheeseburger-cheeseburger song.  It pranced a little bit, perhaps curious who was disturbing its niche, before flying off home. 

The bird of a feather bluestem. I wonder what this Carolina Wren thinks of Andropogon ternarius?

The bird of a feather bluestem. I wonder what this Carolina Wren thinks of Andropogon ternarius?

I'm so glad I stopped to enjoy the beauty of these feather bluestem late that Wednesday afternoon. Two days later roadside mowers came through and cut the whole patch to the ground.  It is sad the feather bluestem won't be there for me to enjoy it all winter as I drive to town.  But, in their clearing the roadsides, they just propagated more of the plant by dispersing those seed for me to enjoy in years to come.

I, too, will be propagating this plant via seed. You see, having lived here for four years, I was anticipating their autumn cutting, and I collected some seed that evening in the twilight. I’m just glad they waited long enough for me to enjoy this final show and let the seed ripen. And, soon I won't have to just enjoy the patch down the road.  I'll have my own feather bluestem here glistening in the setting sun for my enjoyment and the Carolina Wren’s. 

Thanksgiving Snowdrops

Thanksgiving makes me think of snowdrops because the weekend after the holiday my friends and I would travel to Hillsborough, NC to see one of the rare forms of Galanthus at Montrose, a historic garden tended by Nancy Godwin.  While most snowdrops typically start flowering later in winter, these autumn snowdrops (Galanthus elwesii var. monostictus) can be in full flower sometime around Thanksgiving, a full month or two earlier than other Galanthus. 

Closeup of autumn snowdrops. I love how the petals of the inner perianth have the green upside down heart on them.

Closeup of autumn snowdrops. I love how the petals of the inner perianth have the green upside down heart on them.

My friends Alice, Keith, and Kim traveled with me on my last trek to see snowdrops while living in Raleigh in 2013.  The weather that Sunday afternoon was lovely.  Nancy described the mid-fifties with a sunny, bluebird sky as a “miracle,” and with it and good conditions over the past few weeks, the snowdrops were looking superb.  

Nancy stops our group briefly at Montrose to give us a teaser of the tour.

Nancy stops our group briefly at Montrose to give us a teaser of the tour.

We were some of the earliest of the sixty or so visitors to descend on the garden for the snowdrop walk, and our prompt arrival ensured us Nancy as our head guide.

As we approach the back of the garden, excitement began to build as THOUSANDS of snowdrops come into view.

GASP!  It almost looks like a dusting of snow in places, doesn’t it?

GASP!  It almost looks like a dusting of snow in places, doesn’t it?

While Galanthus can be appreciated while standing, the diminutive size of snowdrops beckons gardeners to humble themselves upon the earth to appreciate their beauty, much like we see Kim doing here with her camera.  

While Galanthus can be appreciated while standing, the diminutive size of snowdrops beckons gardeners to humble themselves upon the earth to appreciate their beauty, much like we see Kim doing here with her camera.  

Nancy was keen to lead us along the path to highlight her favorite views, which finally crescendoed into us seeing the plants with the sunlight to our backs and the snowdrops in our front, a perfect angle for the light to play off the flowers well.  She tells us that in 1987 she acquired 12 bulbs from a local seed store for less than a dollar, and by happenstance they were this rare variety.  She started the mass planting seen above in November 2002 and has helped it enlarge via division.  She made the comment that she’s glad she bought the bulbs.  We are, too. 

The snowdrops don’t stop here. We are then lead through the woods where a large, long drift—perhaps a 1/10 of a mile long—has been planted, and along the path Nancy points out a few Cyclamen coum that have just started flowering.  However, most need not be in bloom to be attractive as the leaves on some cyclamen appear as if ornately arrayed shields of green, gray, and white.

 
The long drift pulls you into the woods to see just how far it goes.

The long drift pulls you into the woods to see just how far it goes.

 
Some of the diversity in Cyclamen foliage along the path through the woods.  The leaves look like little shields scattered upon the forest floor.

Some of the diversity in Cyclamen foliage along the path through the woods.  The leaves look like little shields scattered upon the forest floor.

For me, snowdrops mark a turning point in the year, evidence that even though winter is here, spring approaches.  Many gardeners are fascinated by these winter bloomers to the point of obsession.  I’m not there yet, but I hold with Christopher Lloyd as he wrote in Garden Flowers, “We all of us need more snowdrops in our gardens”, and “[s]nowdrops are graceful, welcoming, sheer delight, and I fail to see how one could have too many of them.” If you’ve never seen them before, the pictures included here will certainly help.  When visuals are absent, I describe the plants as diminutive street lights, the white perianth dangling from six-inch scapes, much like a lantern might have hung from posts in days of old.

Galanthus flowers hang like lanterns on hooks. While they produce no foot candles, they certainly brighten winter.

Galanthus flowers hang like lanterns on hooks. While they produce no foot candles, they certainly brighten winter.

The lantern comment brings to mind a story I once heard in a sermon.  Robert Louis Stevenson as a child was sickly.  One evening, the nurse came to check on him and found him sitting near the window watching the lamplighter.  The nurse hastened him to get back in bed, but he was mesmerized by the lamplighter who he said was “poking holes in the darkness.” For me that’s what snowdrops do.  They poke holes in the darkness of winter, and having some that bloom early like these autumn snowdrops and some that bloom late can make sure that all of winter is a little brighter 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.

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

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

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?

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 thrives in a gravel garden in Denver.

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

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!

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 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.  

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.

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.

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?

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.

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 t…

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.  

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

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.