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 Again

I’ve never seen Baptisia australis in the wild, even though it is one of my favorite perennials. I wrote a few weeks ago that I had encountered Baptisia alba, Baptisia sphaerocarpa, and Baptisia bracteata and that I hoped to add Baptisia australis to my life list, soon. 

I decided this spring would be a good time to search for this species. I reached out to colleagues who were familiar with the northeast Texas region since that is the nearest place to me that this blue wild indigo grows.  My friend Sonnia introduced me over the internet to Carol Clark, a naturalist who is quite keen on the flora and fauna of north Texas.  After Carol and I conversed for a bit, she put together a wonderful itinerary for seeing Baptisia in the wild.

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For our first stop on the Baptisia tour, Karen and I arrived to Clymer Meadow around 10:30 am.  This 1400-acre Nature Conservancy site is a virgin prairie north of Dallas that has never been plowed and only used as forage for livestock.  Many consider it an excellent preserved example of the Blackland Prairie that once covered much of the middle of North America.

Clymer Meadow is a collection of various tracks of land that is managed by The Nature Conservancy.

We parked at the top of a hill near a grove of trees where we could survey the acres of grassland that surrounded us under an ash-colored sky.  Here, I met Carol for the first time, her friend Stephanie Jennings who works at the Heard Museum, and Brandon Belcher who stewards the Clymer Meadow with The Nature Conservancy. 

We walked down the hillside, and Brandon showed us a population of 50–100 Baptisia australis that straddled a mowed section of pipeline.  I was curious to see their habit in the wild as well as the different colors, and I was delighted to see many variations on the theme of blue.  Slivers of cobalt, periwinkle, purple, indigo, and chambray rose above the mosaic of last year’s brown duff.  In the clearing Castilleja purpurea also blazed magenta against the unkempt, wild grassland.  It was such a great analogous color combination that I wish I could recreate in a garden; however, the Castilleja is a hemi-parasite; thus, it feeds some off the roots of neighboring plants and is difficult to grow in cultivation.

Baptisia erupt from the tapestry that is last year’s tan threads and this year’s green flush.

The pink you saw in the left corner of the image above was Castilleja purpurea, purple Indian paintbrush. This particular clump was had richer purpling.

A smoky purple selection of Baptisia

Castilleja and Baptisia made a most excellent pairing.

My mind drifted back from the Castilleja to the Baptisia.  They were much shorter than I expected and shorter than the types that I encountered in gardens.  This form was Baptisia australis var. minor, a more compact variety that many love to use in naturalistic design for its dense stem mound habit.  Carol and Brandon noted they were usually a little taller and attributed their diminutive demeanor to the cooler spring and commented that they just hadn’t fully expanded yet. 

A rich purple form of Baptisia australis var. minor. Notice how the plants barely rise above the fray.

Brandon commented on how other plants were late, too.  In the matrix of foliage below we saw Manfreda, Eryngium, and Silphium short and waiting on their moment later in the year.  Even Nemastylis geminiflora wasn’t in flower quite yet. 

After sampling the variations in the Baptisia population, we walked back up the hill.  Brandon mentioned that at Clymer Meadow, a fascinating soil phenomenon called can be observed.  He took us just beyond the tree grove where we parked to an open spot in the grassland.  He had me stand on the top of an elevated soil spot, and he stood a few feet away in a wet depression called a gilgai.  On flat ground we had been looking eye-to-eye, but now there was at least a two foot difference in our height. 

Here I’m looking down on Brandon from my small hill. In the lower left you can see a wet pocket, or gilgai. These depressions fill with water while the higher spots stay dry and provide habitat for grasses like Pancium, which you can see its tan ribbons scattered about in this image.

He explained these small pools and small hills develop from soil wet/dry cycles.  When the soil dries, it cracks open and sediment falls in.  Then, when it rehydrates during the cooler seasons, the soil expands and the sediment gets pushed upward.  This process then repeats over years and years until it creates a vast honeycomb appearance across the landscape. This soil pattern is also called gilgai, just like the little pools of water. 

He said that this micro-typography creates some interesting habitats for plants because within a few short feet you go from hydric conditions where Juncus grows to more mesic/xeric conditions where Pancium can be found.  Brandon commented that the small pools in the depressions can be wet all the way into summer and provide a home for frogs and other critters. 

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We left Brandon at Clymer Meadow, and the rest of us headed to Pioneer Park next to eat a quick sack lunch and see if we could find Baptisia there.  We did not, but while walking through the prairie and being serenaded by Dickcissels, I was able to see Callirhoe alcaeoides for the first time in the wild.  This light poppy mallow is a delightful perennial that deserves wider use. 

At first I thought these Callirhoe alcaeoides were an Oenothera from a distance. Was I surprised to see this species in the wild!

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Next we went to the home of one of Carol’s friends who had a five-acre prairie in her backyard.  Pulling in the driveway, I was delighted to again see Baptisia in bloom, and there were more here in this front part than we saw at Clymer Meadow.  Carol commented that this section wasn’t the best, and it would better behind the house.  She was right.  Behind their house was long grassland, and at the very back were hundreds of Baptisia.  Again, there was a myriad of colors of blue and purple here.  We found some very floriferous forms as well as a compact form that had already finished flowering.  She said they never burned it, but they would mow it each year. 

Hundreds of Baptisia australis var. minor bloom in this backyard prairie.

Here’s another section where you can see the variations of blue and purple flowers.

Here was a form with a rather dense inflorescence, packed with flowers.

We found this compact, early form quite interesting. It finished flowering a week or two ago, while all the other plants around were in their full splendor.

I quite liked this periwinkle color on this Baptisia.

I shared with Carol and Stephanie how I learned in writing my last post on Baptisia that bees will move up the inflorescence from lower, nectar-filled pistillate flowers…

…to more pollen heavy staminate flowers nearer the top. Then, they hopefully will take that fresh pollen to the next flower and repeat the process. It helped to have a bee demonstrating this pollination syndrome as I described it. :-)

 Mixed in with the Baptisia were other great natives like Linum berlandieri, Penstemon cobaea, and Amsonia ciliata var. texana. 

For all the blues and purples we saw today, it was nice to have the contrasting yellow and orange in Linum berlandieri at this site.

This site was also my first encounter with Penstemon cobaea in the wild. Don’t you just love those big honkin’ flowers?

I was intrigued by Amsonia ciliata var. texana. They formed these large clonal colonies, something I was unfamiliar with seeing Amsonia do.

The flowers of Amsonia ciliata var. texana had a surprising sweet fragrance with echoes of vanilla.

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It was getting later in the afternoon, and Carol suggested that as a last stop we should go check out a spot north of us where they were expanding the road and she had heard from a friend some Baptisia were in the construction area.  We found it and pulled off to survey the population.

The site where the road is being expanded cuts right through a population of Baptisia.

I climbed out of my truck, my eyes saw it, and I exclaimed, “A WHITE ONE!!!” 

GASP!!! Jaw drop. Wowzers.

We had seen hundreds of Baptisia all day, and yet here in this construction area was a white Baptisia australis var. minor.  We rescued this specimen as well as a few other plants that had been run over and were in the kill zone before we parted ways and headed home.

Overall, it was a great day learning more about Baptisia australis var. minor in the wild and making new plant friends. We hope that some of the forms we saw can be propagated. Gardens need more Baptisia, and it is even better knowing exactly where they grow and where they originated.

Sweet on Sweet Peas

I’ve had that new plant feeling all over again this spring. You know that feeling where you try and try to grow something but fail and fail. But, then something clicks, and you’re off to the races. For me the species that has elicited these emotions is Lathyrus odoratus, the sweet pea.

I used to look reluctantly at people who held fistfuls of sweet pea flowers, thinking that I would never have that. Some of you readers may be surprised to hear that I’ve had challenges with sweet peas since they are relatively easy to grow. But, here in the deep south, they are more challenging. Success with them has eluded me when I have tried them in previous springs. They would quickly peter out from the heat with barely a bloom or two emerging.

So, what changed this spring? My friend Caleb Melchior suggested sowing the seed in the fall to overwinter. On November 1, I soaked seed overnight, and direct sowed them the next day. I was delighted to see their green threads emerge from the soil. I mulched them with aged leaf mold and staked them with nylon netting using this trellising technique I saw from Neversink Farm. They slowly grew over the winter, somewhat creeping along the ground as if searching for an upright to climb even though the trellis was above them. I was surprised when they survived the -6F we experienced in mid-February, no doubt due to the insulation from the heavy snow that came with the cold.

Soon after they began to produce rising shoots. I took Matt Mattus’s advice and pinched them to one shoot per plant to help concentrate the resources into fewer smaller blooms. And, did that practice pay off because my plants began producing giant flowers on foot-long peduncles.

‘Nimbus’ started flowering first with a single deep purple and white flower in early April. I cherished that first little flower. I took it to class, showed it off to students, and described my challenges with this species. Then there were three flowers, and then ten, and now, I chuckle because I’ve probably harvested over a hundred inflorescences off my ‘Nimbus’ plants.

‘Mars’ and ‘Wiltshire Ripple’ followed, and now the eight varieties that I tried this year are in full bloom. From my writings on Baptisia, you readers already know I’m keen on the papilionaceous flowers of the Fabaceae family. But, I could never imagine the beautiful colors of these sweet peas. And, the speckling, ah, to die for! It is amazing to see these dots and stripes that those in the know call flakes on cultivars like ‘Mars’ and ‘Wiltshire Ripple’. I had heard sweet peas were fragrant, but I never imagined how a bouquet could perfume a room. I find myself bringing fresh flowers into the house a couple times a week. Of course I should add that the seeds are poisonous, but my plants never get a chance to make a pod as I keep the flowers clipped.

The success makes me feel like a kid again, giddy with excitement on something that has eluded me for so long. I’m hooked on sweet peas, and you can bet I’ll be growing even more next year.

‘Nimbus’ was my first sweet pea to flower this spring, and it has been an incredibly prolific flowering cultivar.

‘Mars’ started flowering shortly after ‘Nimbus’. I do love the red flakes on this form.

‘Wiltshire Ripple’ has this lovely wine color to the petals.

‘Promise’ offers two tones, a pink banner and white wings.

The color of ‘Carlotta’ reminds me of the petal color on Gladiolus communis var. byzantinus. They also bloom at the same time here in east Texas. Perhaps a possible combination for the future?

Coral is one of my favorite colors, and when ‘Florencecourt’ started blooming, I swooned.

I have been impressed with the size of the pale pink ‘Anniversary’.

I only had a couple ‘North Shore’ germinate. Its variable blue-to-purple flowers are welcome in the dominant red-to-pink cultivar assemblage I planted this year.

One morning’s sweet pea cuttings show the analogous color scheme I unintentionally planted this year. The more flowers you see, the more prolific and longer blooming that cultivar has been. Left to right back row ‘Mars’, ‘Nimbus’, ‘Wiltshire Ripple’; middle ‘North Shore’, ‘Promise’, and ‘Florencecourt’; and front ‘Anniversary’ and ‘Carlotta’.

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.

Don't Neglect This Muscari

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The leaves curl a bit, like a bad hair day

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

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

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

A Grand Narcissus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A frosted ‘Grandiflora’ type at my house.

Witch Hazels at The Scott Arboretum

I’ve been enamored with witch hazels ever since I realized they were a thing. As a young horticulturist, I was amazed to discover that a species could flower in the dreariest of winter weather.  And, bloom they do, their petals blazing yellow, orange, red, and even purple against a cold winter sky. These pompoms of color warm the heart and say spring is near.  Where I’ve lived in Tennessee and North Carolina, these have been planted in the gardens I knew and visited, but now living in Texas, they are largely absent from the landscape, save for a few native species.

So, I was happy a few years ago when Karen and I travelled to Philadelphia for a business trip in February.  I wanted to show her The Scott Arboretum where I had interned 10 years ago at the time.  (Wow, has it really been that long?)  I had visited this beautiful campus in spring, summer, and fall but never winter.  I was hopeful that the Hamamelis would be in full bloom. The collection features all kinds of Hamamelis vernalis, Hamamelis × intermedia, and Hamamelis mollis.

We made our way through campus as a cold rain diminished and left a dismal sky in its wake. Yet near the Cunningham House, the pale yellow ‘Luna’ glowed. It is considered by some to be one of the lightest forms available. 

The honey colored ‘Luna’

Around the back the short and dense ‘Quasimodo’ echoed the color of the stem colors found in the Cornus planted nearby. It is such a good cultivar for small spaces.

‘Quasimodo’ is such a cutie. It is short and sweet.

The colors on the petals of 'Quasimodo' were echoed by the nearby Cornus alba ‘Bud's Yellow’ (front) and Cornus sanguinea ‘Arctic Sun’ (back).

We continued past Parrish Hall in the center of campus and the long allée of swamp white oaks to find a few witch hazels on the other side just above the famous amphitheater.  ‘Strawberries and Cream’ had this delicious red to yellow fade outward on the petals that mellowed the color.  Also nearby was a young ‘Diane’, one of the best red witch hazels. She still clung to her marcescent coat of leaves, but I found a perfect spot to navigate a photo without the clingy foliage. 

‘Strawberries and Cream’ just looks delectable, doesn’t it?

‘Diane’ is considered one of the best red forms.

I can’t talk about Swarthmore and The Scott Arboretum without showing you the beautiful natural amphitheater with the scattered tulip poplars.

I almost missed my favorite specimen of the day.  On our way to the main collection, I passed by the Clothier courtyard, but with a quick glance back my eyes caught a blob of yellow and I stopped in my tracks.  Espaliered against the north wall of the courtyard in the fragrance garden was Hamamelis mollis ‘Early Bright’.  Reading in Chris Lane's book Witch Hazels, I realized that this cultivar was found at The Scott Arboretum as a chance seedling, and the name was registered by my friend Andrew Bunting who was curator there for many years because it bloomed a few weeks earlier than other Hamamelis mollis forms.  Seeing it espaliered gave me some serious plant lust for wanting to grow witch hazels in east Texas.  Alas, we lack the winter cold that fans their buds into flames.

Clothier Hall. The courtyard is to the right of the bell tower.

My jaw dropped when I saw this incredible espaliered Hamamelis mollis ‘Early Bright’.

This espaliered ‘Early Bright’ was quite large.  Karen helps us get a sense of scale.

Our arrival to the collection proper near the tennis courts was quickly evident as hazes of crimsons, tangerines, and saffrons filled the drab landscape with color.

Hooray! The main witch hazel collection is in bloom!

I was so impressed by the sheer size of the plants.  Most of the time I see young developing witch hazels in gardens, and I had never seen Hamamelis this large.  Two behemoth specimens were ‘Jelena’ and another ‘Early Bright’, this time allowed to grow into its true form.

Ah, what an incredible specimen of ‘Jelena’. I would say this cultivar is one of the best and most popular forms in the US. Sadly, my two-year old plant is about to die here in Texas due to the lack of winter chilling.

Staring at ‘Jelena’ is like looking at a fiery sunset.

And, here is a large ‘Early Bright’ in full flower.

A close up of ‘Early Bright’.

I really like collections like this because it allows one to study the plants and see their growth and seasonal differences. Some like ‘Primavera’, ‘Feuerzauber’, and ‘Wisley Supreme’ were in full bloom while others like ‘Gimborn's Perfume’ and ‘Sunburst’ had yet to flower.

‘Wisley Supreme’ is one of my favorite yellow forms.

Another good red is ‘Feuerzauber’. It tends to grow more vigorously than ‘Diane’

I love seeing the curls in Hamamelis petals like you see here on ‘Primavera’.

‘Red Imp’, a fun named selection of Hamamelis vernalis, held onto its leaves.

Having seen most of the flowering specimens in the collection and with light waning, we left. It was so much fun to visit this collection and get a better idea of which witch hazels deserve more use and attention in gardens. I hope this overview provides a few ideas and inspiration about using witch hazels in your garden.

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.

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?

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

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

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.