Returning to Wild Daffodils

The weather has been volatile this week. It’s the start of the battle between the lions and lambs as spring arrives and the sun warms the northern hemisphere.  I enjoyed sitting on the porch Monday evening in shorts until almost 10 pm, and now we are inside feeding the fireplace on this cold, rain-soaked day.

I feel for the plants that emerge early this time of the year. I seem to forget every spring just how tough they are as they thwart the frosts scattered amongst the warm spells. I suppose these early adopters have lived this life for thousands of years, and I underestimate their perseverance each year.

Take Narcissus pseudonarcissus, for example. On frigid mornings the flowers of wild daffodil kiss the ground, but as the day warms they return more upright to greet the sun.  I’m always tempted to pick the solitary blooms for fear of loosing them to the freeze, but they always surprise me with their toughness.

It was one of the first flowers I learned as a child. I would find them massed in pastures where they served as the only remaining evidence of an old homeplace. Near our house they survived in a fence row alongside a creek, planted long ago when bulldozers had cleared the land. They grew through barbed wire, and it amazed me they had survived all that disturbance. I would pick fistfuls and bring them inside to enjoy.

I don’t think I appreciated them in my youth enough.  When planting garden beds, I overlooked their use and moved on to the more flashy hybrids. But, after a few years, the cultivars petered out, and the wild daffodils continued to shine.

A naturalized colony of Narcissus pseudonarcissus grows near an abandoned house in east Texas. How long ago were the first bulbs planted?

In Texas the heat limits our options for spring bulbs much more than my previous haunts north, and I find myself returning to these species types that will grow and bloom here.

Growing them in my garden I’ve been able to get to know them even better than in my youth. I’ll say for years pseudonarcissus always threw me for a loop.  How could it be a false Narcissus?  But, I learned that the epithet refers to it being a false poet’s Narcissus, the smaller cupped form that blooms later.  

I do hate it when the epithet is so bland. Why not name it after the flowers? They are so charming and smell sweet. I love when they emerge and brighten the dingy detritus of the garden beds. The six light yellow petals has a slight twist, and they serve as a nice back drop to the darker yellow corona. And, I find myself admiring the skirt of blue-gray green foliage below the blooms.  I’ve been tucking some in around Eryngium yuccifolium and Rudbeckia maxima to echo their glaucous color.  The later emerging foliage of wild daffodil isn’t seared like many of the flagrant blades of the paperwhite types whose foliage appears in late fall, and the leaves are less conspicuous than many of the modern varieties after flowering. 

For me in Tennessee they lived up to their other common name Lent lily by blooming during that season, but often in Texas they start before Ash Wednesday. There have been years I’ve noted them flowering in the last days of January. However, this winter, they’ve been much later due to our La Niña induced dry spell.  The ones close to the house with no tree root competition have just started flowering good while the plants further back near trees are barely poking through the soil.  

I took advantage of the latter’s delayed emergence this week by digging a few clumps of wild daffodils to divide and replant in the front of my garden patch. I set them a bit higher than they were, and firmed the soil in around them. And, now the rain pitter-patter I hear above the crackling of one of the last fires of winter is settling them in so they can produce flowers for many years to come.

Magnolia 'Susan', Just One of the Girls

Midwinter has arrived, and from the emerging Narcissus to the early slivers of buds swelling on trees, it is good to see more color manifesting in the landscape.  

Over the past month I’ve also spied Magnolia popping out of buds around town, especially the starry blooms of Magnolia stellata.  However, most show some burn as they’ve had a roller coaster ride through temperatures this winter.  They’ve gotten mixed signals from an extremely warm fall followed by a sudden drop to 22°F on January 2. But, my ‘Susan’ has had a decent show of late. The warmth the past few days has coaxed the flowers further into bloom.

As the flowers of ‘Susan’ open, they have a bit of a twist to the petals.

When we bought our house, I counted myself fortunate to have three Magnolia on the property.  There were two large 30-to-40 foot tall Magnolia grandiflora out front, and off in the side yard was a shrubby deciduous Magnolia I couldn’t immediately identify in mid-summer.  

The following late winter when it bloomed, I was rewarded with rich deep pink flowers.  I posted photos online, and Greg Paige and Barry Yinger helped me identify it as ‘Susan’, one of the Little Girl hybrids that came from breeding work at the US National Arboretum (USNA).  Key features that helped them key out this cultivar were the presence of 6 (rarely 7) tepals per bloom, each having a slight twist.

The “girls” were bred to develop selections that would bloom a little later than Magnolia stellata and miss the early frosts that plague many of these early magnolias.  According to Dorothy Callaway in The World of Magnolias, four of the Little Girl hybrids come from the breeding work of USNA horticulturist William Kosar.  In 1956 he fertilized Magnolia lilliflora ‘Nigra’ with pollen from Magnolia stellata ‘Rosea’.  This cross resulted in not only my ‘Susan’, which was named after the director of the arboretum’s daughter, but also ‘Betty’, ‘Jane’, and ‘Pinky’.  The other four girls (‘Ann’, ‘Judy’, ‘Randy’, and ‘Ricki’) were from breeding work done earlier by Dr. Francis deVos.

‘Susan’ is an award-winning plant; Andrew Bunting wrote in The Plant Lover’s Guide to Magnolias that she won the RHS Award of Garden Merit in 1993. This cultivar has a shrubby habit similar to Magnolia stellata. Ours is not much over 10 feet tall and approximately as wide; however, one that I saw at the Scott Arboretum in 2014 was at least 15—20 feet tall and had a much wider spread. I see the benefit of using ‘Susan’ in smaller landscapes.  The plant grows lush in the spring and is enjoyed by not only me, but the blasted white-tailed buck that decided to use a side stem as an antler rub.  It is healing well from that injury.  And, I never irrigate ‘Susan’, and yet she keeps blooming and thriving year after year.

A mature ‘Susan’ Magnolia at The Scott Arboretum in full bloom in mid-April.

Buds emerge fairly dark, almost a black-purple but lighten to a vivid pink when coming into bloom, and there is a gradient of lightening color as one follows a tepal toward the outside of the flower. Acclimated buds survived two nights of 19°F and 20°F last week and have begun to bloom in earnest the past few days celebrating the arrival of midwinter.  Of course the running joke is that it coming into full bloom is a sign that another freeze is upon us.  I’m sure it’s about as accurate as the groundhog seeing its shadow, but coincidentally, we will be in the low 20’s the next few nights with the cold front that moved through yesterday.  

Nevertheless, I still love having magnolias like ‘Susan’ in the landscape for the good years when they liven the bleak midwinter with their brilliant color. For now, I have just one of the girls, but seeing how well ‘Susan’ has done, I can’t wait to add more of them to our garden. 

Our ‘Susan’ has a ways to grow before it reaches the size of the one at The Scott Arboretum, but I enjoy its show each spring.

The Winter Foliage of Parlin's Pussytoes

We had a hard freeze while we were traveling for the holidays.  The weather station at the airport registered 22F on January 2.  Collards, mustards, kales, even winter weeds like chickweed I found blistered upon our return.  Normally, these plants can survive low temperatures, but they had not acclimated because for weeks we were in the 60’s or 70’s each day.  Even Christmas eve was 80F. 

But, this week feels like winter.  There’s a persistent chill in the morning air that hasn’t been there that I feel now.  The growing season has ended, though some late season perennials were waiting forever for their closing call. And, in their absence, I see so much I didn’t see before.

Verdant basal growth becomes apparent through the remaining tattered brown stalks and duff as I walk through the garden.  Many perennial species have foliage that hugs the ground during winter that then shoots forth an inflorescence.  They are not dormant.  No, they are bidding their time, accumulating what little sunlight they can muster for when the days warm and they can rise from the ground.  

There’s the web-like foliage of Viola pedata gearing up for flowering.  I even saw a lone bloom on one the other day.  I’m surprised how large the foliage of Delphinium carolinianum already is.  It seems to have thrived with the warmth, but winter did nip the new growth a bit.  Even Callirhoe alcaeoides has emerged from dormancy and is readying its green palms for the coming spring.

One plant that I’ve become quite fond of for its winter basal foliage is Antennaria parlinii.  At first I was curious if Parlin’s pussytoes would knit together to cover the ground well since my transplants seemed patchy. But, now in its third year, the silver foliage has grown into a circular patch that is three feet wide.  The foliage is robust and has a thick feel as many polyploid plants do. It has six sets of chromosomes, likely from outcrossing with other species over the eons.  As the plant creeps out slowly via stolons that begin to emerge at this time of the year, I find it helpful to throw some fine mulch down on the edges and brush it in between the foliage to further discourage weeds ahead of the advancing front.  It seems to thrive as it grows and spreads out through the light organic matter.  

The winter foliage of Antennaria parlinii grows around a lone, tattered Carex glaucodea in the top left. It may not look much to some, but with the dearth of plants in winter, I welcome the green groundcover. If you look closely you see threads of Nothoscordum bivalve emerging and even an early Trillium!

I can’t let you get away without seeing the sweet, dainty flowers of Antennaria parlinii. These will rise in a few months with the arrival of spring.

With all this winter basal foliage, I can see spring even though it is officially two months away. The flower show of Claytonia virginica is crescendoing, and the last of my Narcissus to emerge are pushing up foliage.  I hear the American Robins sing again in the mornings, their sweet song.  It won’t be long now.

A Walk to See Possumhaw

“This looks like Antarctica.” I stare off to the blinding south, the albedo glaring from the snow with the sun halfway up in the sky, lightly filtered through some high cirrus.  However, some trees on the horizon make me reconsider.  “No, perhaps the far north.  Antarctica doesn’t have trees.”  

But, I’m in neither place.  I’m visiting family back home, and I’m out for a walk on the edge of our property in Tennessee.  Two and a half inches of snow fell yesterday, and the field that was once soybean roughage has now become a beach of white glistening sand.  

I love these winter walks to see what beauty snow has wrought.  It’s cold, 25F, and mostly calm.   The landscape is quiet, minus the Horned Larks that pipe their sweet song as I stir them up.  To my north is a field of winter wheat, which looks more like a raked zen garden with the alternating lines of green and white than an agronomic crop.  I dare not disturb either pristine scene, so I trod the path between the two where the wheat stopped the snow and made it more shallow along this edge of soybeans.

The field to my south…

…and the field to my north.

I have a destination in mind.  I’m going to see an old friend.  On the corner of our land is an old possumhaw that I remember from childhood.  And, I’m curious if there are any berries on it this year.  I catch a glimpse of red jutting out of the grays and browns of the fencerow, so I at least know I’ll see some fruit.  

Ilex decidua is a wonderful, often overlooked plant.  As I walk, I remember the many memories of them along fencerows.  In some areas you couldn’t drive a quarter mile in Tennessee without seeing a flash of red from this deciduous holly, and now having made the Texas-to-Tennessee trek many times during the winter, I can say the same about Arkansas.  They hide all year, but once the leaves fall and their berries burn bright, they can’t be missed.  Their locations became etched in my mind. 

Well, at least the females couldn’t be missed.  They flower as separate male and female plants, so the males would never be conspicuous.  In these wild places, concern about pollination doesn’t seem to be an issue as there are berries a plenty, but making sure a male is nearby should be considered when we welcome berry-bearing possumhaws to our gardens.  Even male Ilex opaca can serve as a pollen source for crossing.  

Hello, old friend. Possumhaws are stalwart shrubs that thrive much of what mother nature throws at them.

I make it to the corner where two fencerows converge and end, one running north-south and the other east-west.  Here, the possumhaw grows with heavy fruit on the branches, not all of them, but enough for a winter smorgasbord for birds.  While we call them berries, technically the fruit are drupes and consist of fleshy tissue that surrounds one or multiple pyrenes, the nut-like seed inside.  And, on snowy days like today, the red orbs pop against the bleached white background, like tomato sauce spots on a white table cloth.  They also glow against the sky, as Joseph LeMay sang,

“Possumhaw up against a pale grey sky

Tennessee winter, man the sun don’t shine”

But, the sun is shining, and the berries beam bright.  I’m surprised there’s not a Northern Mockingbird nearby to taunt me.  I usually see them standing guard over a fruit niche this size.  But, this one is just for me to enjoy today.  

I begin wondering what other creatures have found shelter and forage with its arching branches?  While Eastern Bluebirds, Northern Bobwhites, and Wild Turkey feast on the fruit , they don’t compare to the onslaught from Cedar Waxwings.  I can’t tell you the number of times that I’ve watched a flock mob a possumhaw as they stripped the plant bare in late winter. Here today, gone tomorrow.   And, while I know that some holly berries can ferment and cause intoxication, I haven’t found a good source stating that this shift occurs with possumhaw. From personal observations and research, I know the birds tend to wait until later in the winter to gorge themselves on the fruit.

Though I have never seen one in it, evidently opossum like the fruit, hence the common name.  And, in case you’re wondering, the -haw comes from the fruit resembling those found on hawthorn (Crataegus). 

In the bleak midwinter, possumhaw brightens life.

A closeup of the hawthorn-like fruit of possumhaw.

I also ponder how many moons this plant has seen.  Multiple, thick gray stems rise out of the base and reach out to capture what light they can under the hackberrys and oaks above.  Possumhaws are tough; they have to be to survive on the fragmented and disturbed habitat of fencerows.  Possumhaws can live for many years, and thrive in full sun or dappled shade, though the more light, the more fruit one will get.  And, while this one shouldn’t face flooding anytime soon, there is a record of possumhaw surviving 105 days submerged under floodwater.   

Another shot of Ilex decidua a few miles from our house. Possumhaw thrives even in the dense shade and competition of this fencerow. This ditch will frequently flood over the road during the winter, submerging the possumhaw root systems for a few days.

Can you make out the floodline from where this possumhaw was submerged for a few days? Note the color shift from red at the top to orange about midway down.

Because of its ecological value and resilience, I’m working to add more possumhaw to our garden in Texas.  There’s ‘Finch’s Golden’ I have rooted as cuttings; this variety has brilliant yellow fruit.  I have seed of a nice red-berried form that we found in east Texas.  And, I’m not beyond purchasing a reliable fruiter like ‘Pocahontas’; I saw an excellent specimen of this cultivar at Nancy Goodwin’s Montrose Garden recently. For me, there’s also a nostalgia to them; seeing them brings back memories of my long winter walks.

Ilex decidua ‘Finch’s Golden’

Ilex decidua ‘Pocahontas’

By now the sun is getting low, and the vanilla cirrus are starting to swirl in some caramel from the golden light.  As I start my walk back, a Northern Harrier beats its wings half a dozen times and coasts mere feet above the field hunting for life in the winter amongst the snow.  I found some, and I hope it does, too.  

One final look back at the fencerow corner that my possumhaw calls home.

Gentians for Advent

Gentiana saponaria have become one of my favorite flowers in late fall. I don’t like calling them soapwort gentians, named so because their leaves resemble Saponaria.  It leaves a bitter taste in the mouth just saying it and sounds like a compound the dermatologist would prescribe.

No, I so find the name harvestbells much more delightful. It is as if we are ringing in the end of the growing season as we head into Christmas time.  The egg-shaped flowers of these natives remind me of the chunky holiday lights colored for advent, their cobalt blue petals with hints of purple and pink as the flower fades after being pollinated.

I’ve had one on my small nursery pad now for a few years in a container that I got via a colleague, and it has been fun watching it develop and produce 40+ flowers this fall.  I’m afraid to plant my one little plant out; however, I’ve been germinating seedlings, and with a few back ups, I’m about to become more courageous and try it in the ground.

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The Native Plant Society of Texas planned an outing last Sunday to see them blooming in the wild, and I jumped at the chance to go.  While they occur all the way north to Wisconsin, over to coastal New York and New Jersey, and down into Florida, they are rare in Texas and only occur in two counties. Even Karen was interested in seeing them in the wild.  

We arrived at Six Mile Boat Ramp on Toledo Bend Lake Sunday morning to meet up with the group and drove the short distance to the gentian site.  This site is the same that we visited in January 2020.  After walking down the road a bit, friend Peter Loos who helped lead the group directed us into the woods.  The soil here was wet as we stepped carefully and looked down to start searching for the little blue bottles amongst the brown and silver sweet bay leaves.  

“Found one,” Peter yelled.  

Two harvestbells hug the ground and barely appear above the leaf litter. Can you find them?

And, then another and another as we walked through the muck.  On most plants the hefty flowers hugged the ground on long stems as if tucked in for winter’s rest amongst the leaf litter.  The flowers might be a good 18–24 inches away from the crown of the plant.

A good overview of Gentiana saponaria habitat in east Texas.

We first encountered isolated individuals, but then they started appearing in small groupings of three here or eleven there.

One of the most populous concentrations of Gentiana saponaria we saw. How many do you count in this photo? I see seven clusters of flowers and counted eleven plants at this site.

The larger plant in the image above seemed well placed leaning against this pine.

Rounding the corner in the stream, we found an individual that had a flared open flower where we were able to see inside, which was quite unusual. Harvestbells don’t open and close like other gentians such as Gentiana catesbaei.  Instead, bees have to force the petals open to access the pollen. I noticed on it that the pistil was covered in some type of fungus, and there was a small pool of water in the bottom of the flower.  

A close up of the open flower with fungus on the pistil.

I’ve long wondered about the closed flowers of gentians, thinking that it was coevolution with a pollinator. But, seeing this fungus and the water pooled in the bottom clicked with a previous observation. This fall on my plant at home, I pollinated the flowers by prying the flower petals open with my finger and swirling it around.  Then, I would go to another receptive flower and swirl. And, another and another, any that looked ready to receive pollen.  The next morning when I got ready to do more pollinations, I was surprised to find that the flowers I had slightly forced open the day before now had copious water in their little blue bottles.  That didn’t happen last year because this year I installed automatic irrigation for watering my plants. Last year, I got good seed set, but my gut told me that water sitting in the flower wasn’t good. I turned the plant up to dump out what I could and relocated it where I could hand water it. 

But, now seeing this fungus-ridden pistil, I wonder if the closed flower evolved first not to entice bumble bees to pry their way in but instead as protection from rain.  I can think of a handful of late fall and winter flowering plants like Edgeworthia chrysantha with its downward facing flowers or Claytonia virginica that open when the sun is shining that have adaptations that protect the pollen from rain.  While it’s just a hypothesis, it would be easy to test.  One could have a group of plants where the flowers are forced open and allowed to get wet versus a control that remain closed, and then do seed counts on both groups. But, I digress.  

One flower I found had the top eaten off, so I inspected the flat seed before blowing them to the wind.

We walked further down the stream seeing more and more harvestbells. There were stream-side flowers, nibbled on flowers, backlit flowers, and plants with robust flowers.

Once pollinated, the flowers fade from blue to purple or a pinkish-purple.

We are not the only organisms that like gentians. A few of these flowers have been eaten on.

When the sun perfectly pierced through the pines, the harvestbells would be backlit and glow like Christmas lights.

One of the heaviest flowering Gentiana saponaria individuals that we saw.

Gentians weren’t the only notable flora we saw. On our way out, we saw a trio of Liatris with their fluffy seed.  Liatris pycnostachya was so plentiful. There were thousands of stems standing stolidly in the dappled shade. I noted here in the wild they were much less floppy than I am use to seeing in garden culture. While much more muted now in seed, I would have loved to see this sea of purple in bloom this past summer.  

We also saw Liatris tenuis with its more spindly seed heads.  And, to my great delight I saw Liatris squarrosa for the first time.  The feathery pappus made the seedheads almost the size of dandelions puff balls and created a great architectural essence along the trail back to the car.  

The vertical lines of Liatris pycnostachya rise from the forest floor.

My jaw dropped upon seeing the size of these Liatris squarrosa seed heads. They were somewhere between a quarter and half dollar size.

We left having seen so many harvestbells, probably almost 100 at this one site.  I love visiting places like these where they occur because you get such a better feel of what conditions the plant needs to live.  

Back home I discovered that my plant was going to seed. It was an early Christmas present, and once they germinate after three months of chilling will keep giving the gift of delight for many years to come.

Interested in joining the Native Plant Society of Texas?  Click here.  

A Favorite Aster

I’ve been waiting for this moment since we planted the gravel garden back in April. Symphyotrichum oblongifolium ‘Raydon’s Favorite’ has come into bloom, and it is spectacular. This aromatic aster glows amongst the haze of Muhlenbergia reverchonii and the white dust of Calamintha nepeta subsp. nepeta to beckon the end of the year.

A bit of repetition with Symphyotrichum oblongifolium ‘Raydon’s Favorite’ and Calamintha nepeta subsp. nepeta.

Its hard to convey to students what this plant will do in autumn no matter how animated you get in saying, “IT WILL BE COVERED IN PURPLE BLOOMS,” in front of some non-descript foliage. And, spelling the name Symphyotrichum oblongifolium ‘Raydon’s Favorite’ on a plant id exam can be a bit of a turn off I guess. But, after it puts on a show, ‘Raydon’s Favorite’ consistently becomes one of their favorites, too. Perhaps because witnessing the transformation is amazing. One week its another green mound in the landscape, and then the next its smothered in blooms.

For us in east Texas, bloom time lasts around 6 weeks, which is enough time to help cement the name into their heads. This year the asters were a bit later. I’ve depended on them to start flowering toward the end of September, but they all seemed sluggish to get going.

A spray of Muhlenbergia reverchonii erupts from the purple rays and yellow disks of Symphyotrichum oblongifolium ‘Raydon’s Favorite’.

I began wondering from where my original plant came. If I remember correctly, I picked up my first ‘Raydon’s Favorite’ attending the 2007 Tennessee Master Gardener Conference in Kingsport, TN. Some speaker highly recommended it, and once I had it in the ground I could see why. Each fall, it was covered with hundreds of purple rays and yellow disks. This aster spread in my parent’s garden, so much so that I was able to get starts to bring to Texas a few years ago. I do wish that I could say mine at home look as good as these in the gravel garden at school, but I have the voles to blame for their haggard appearance.

The gravel garden planting is a wonderful entrance for the Sprout garden. Even more so now that ‘Raydon’s Favorite’ is in flower.

I also began to wonder where this wonderful cultivar originated. I reached out to Allen Bush. I happened to see online this week he put the name ‘Raydon’s Favorite’ on this selection. I met Allen in 2007 at the Perennial Plant Association in Columbus, Ohio, probably around the same time that my ‘Raydon’s Favorite’ was just getting rooted in well, and he has been a good friend to this day. A phone call later we were swapping aster stories.

Allen said he named this aster after Raydon Alexander of San Antonio, TX. Raydon had seen this aster around the south as a passalong plant, and he shared it with Allen to evaluate and grow. Raydon said he thought that it was a form of Aster × frikartii, but the morphology wasn’t right.  Once in Allen’s hands, he had an aster expert key it to a form of Symphyotrichum oblongifolium. However, this selection was more compact than the typical species, which warranted its horticultural use. With Allen’s help it got around, so much so that the Garden Club of America named it Plant of the Year in 2016.  Allen added that while sometimes you’ll see the variety name angustatus on it, he doesn’t think that it holds much nomenclatural merit.

We talked about how well our plants were performing in the gravel garden. Allen said he thinks that the grit is closer to the actual habitat than just regular garden soil. He is used to seeing aromatic aster in Kentucky thriving in limestone road cuts and xeric outcrops.  He cuts his back in mid-June to help prevent flopping.

Before saying goodbye, we both chatted about how we needed to try ‘October Skies’, an even tighter aster and two weeks earlier flowering than ‘Raydon’s Favorite’.

Don’t you just love how tight these purple mounds are?

But, no matter what new asters come out, ‘Raydon’s Favorite’ is still one of Jared’s favorites, and I can’t imagine a world without it. So, thanks Allen and Raydon for sharing this wonderful plant with all of us.

The Warmth of Tickseed Sunflower

The air was chilly outside the mornings this week, so chilly that I saw my breath. However, there is still enough residual heat from the summer radiating out of the ground. That means I’m still in shorts even though the thermometer read below 50F. I love this time of the morning when the sun is just starting to warm the autumn landscape.

At a distance I see the flowers of Bidens aristosa beginning to shine with the breaking of the day. I wanted some color at the base of the willows we planted along our property line. So, I welcomed tickseed sunflower as an herbaceous layer under the growing trees. I should add another reason I brought it home was because Karen loves yellow flowers.

A glance down the line of Bidens aristosa

After we moved into our new house in August four years ago, I noticed this native growing in a spot along the roadside. One day, the blooms vanished when the highway crew mowed their end-of-season cut. So, I stopped and dug up a plant that looked like it still had some life to it. That one plant became hundreds that now grow along this western property line that runs almost north-south. I never expected them to spread so much within such a short time, but I suppose with other common names like bearded beggarticks I should have anticipated this ruderal’s ability to find purchase in other locales. Bidens are named for the two teeth-like (bi- meaning two, and -dens meaning teeth) projections on the seed that aid dispersion and cause the seeds to act like ticks on clothes and animal fur.

A close up of Bidens aristosa flowers. Doesn’t it just look like a happy color?

From my vantage in the morning the flowers glow. The effect is lost a bit once the sun traces the sky; once the sun is behind them, the gold rays don’t pop as much with the sun to their backs. However, I do hope our neighbors enjoy when they are lit by the western sun.

The plants tend to not start flowering heavily until the end of September when we reach short days. In years past I’ve noticed one side had more blooms than the other. I suspected our security light was the reason why. However, we had that turned off to help reduce interference with birds and bugs, and the numbers of flowers on either side are more equal this autumn.

This weekend once the day had warmed, I stood and watched the frenzied activity from all kinds of insects on tickseed sunflower. Gulf Fritillaries, American Bumble Bees, and Monarchs were the easiest to spot. I should note that The Xerces Society reported that this species is very good for serving as a nectar source for Monarch butterflies as they travel south. This reference reported 1893 Monarch observations, the most of any plant for the southern plains!

The show doesn’t last too long. We’ll get to enjoy Bidens aristosa for about a month before the plants start going down. But, for now they are a welcome sight and warm the garden with color as the season gets cooler and cooler.

A Peachy Keen Lycoris

This week has been pleasant for mid-September.  It is rare this time of year for us to be cool and cloudy during the day without the help of a cold front. I thank Hurricane Nicolas for bringing us a change in the weather.  We were forecast to get 2 inches of rain, but only a quarter of an inch fell.  At least the clouds and breeze kept it in the low eighties for a few days.

Such weather is perfect for admiring the emerging scapes on a lovely peach-colored Lycoris in my garden.  My starts came from the Smith County Master Gardener bulb sale that’s held every fall in Tyler, TX.   The name on this plant is a bit muddled. So, I reached out to Greg Grant who is the extension agent for Smith County to get his take on them.  

Greg said that he was the source of this particular cultivar for the sale.   His clone has gone by the names Lycoris × elsiae and Lycoris carnea over the years, but the name Lycoris × albiflora ‘Dorman’ is the most accurate name currently.  Greg said that his plants came from Cleo Barnwell of Shreveport, LA who got them from Sam Caldwell, a well-known Lycoris breeder who lived in Nashville, TN.  

Lycoris × albiflora ‘Dorman’ emerges for fall in the garden.

I like to throw Lycoris × albiflora ‘Dorman’ into fall bouquets. I’m skimping until I have a few more scapes to use.

No matter the name or the source, this Lycoris is a beautiful addition to the late summer and early fall garden.  It starts blooming about three weeks ahead of my Lycoris radiata. My scapes have doubled from four last fall to nine this year, and I feel comfortable the plants have reached a size for dividing.  It’s also time to find a better spot for them.  I’ll be honest.  When I first got the tunicate bulbs, I just threw them in a perennial bed.  

A close up of Lycoris × albiflora ‘Dorman’. The flowers open more pink and then fade to a peachy white.

I’m contemplating where to put them to create a good plant combination to play off the color. Siting for contrast doesn’t feel right because the flower has hints of white that fades through butter, peach, and pink. So, I find myself looking more for color echo. I’ve been scratching my head looking around my home garden for perennial candidates but finding none at this time of the year. Then, I realized the flowers are the same color as the flowering Muhlenbergia reverchonii that we just planted this past spring in the gravel garden at school.  I don’t have any yet at the house, but it’s now on my plant wish list to pair with this Lycoris for a peachy-keen color echo.  

A photo of our gravel garden backlit by the afternoon sun. Muhlenbergia reverchonii (in the upper right) would provide a perfect back drop for Lycoris × albiflora ‘Dorman’ flowers emerging amongst the panicles.

A Hint of Autumn from Hyptis alata

The last Saturday in August was one of those rare cool summer days.  The temperature didn’t break 90F, and I was actually able to stay in one shirt instead of sweating through three or four.  It was the first hint of fall, albeit faint and barely whispered by the clouds that kept the sun off my back and at times drizzled enough rain to wet the ground.  There’s something about petrichor mixing with the bleached foliage of summer that smells like autumn.  

Fall plants are responding to the shift in the season.  The blackberry floricanes that were loaded mere months ago are now withered, and the cool day was an opportune time to clear them.  My first Lycoris radiata emerged quite early this week, and nearby, fall perennials like Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ and Solidago rugosa ‘Fireworks’ are starting to flower like they do every year around this time.  

A new perennial that I’ve added to my garden that begins to enchant me in these late days of summer is Hyptis alata or clustered bushmint.  My genetics came from Mark Tietz of Wildscapes LLC in east Texas, but my introduction to the species was driving to Houston years ago.  I can’t quite remember the reason for the trip, but I do remember seeing these little cream-colored balls on stems rising from the highway ditches.  It looked like someone had stuck cake pops on a stem.

Hyptis alata is a species that hugs the coastal plain. It was quite at home in this cajun prairie in Eunice, Louisiana a few years back.

A few Octobers ago, I again encountered Hyptis alata in the cajun prairie in Eunice, LA . It was here that I realized the orbs were a great contrast to the linear grasses.   So, when Mark gave me a couple plants, I already had an idea of what to expect from this species.

Hyptis remind me of the orbs of Eryngium.  However, instead of white balls of flowers concentrated at the top, a single stem of Hyptis alata sports a dozen or more flower clusters held oppositely a few inches from the stem as it rises in the garden.  And, with 20 to 30 stems, the layering of these dots is like a pointillism painting.  

As the flower clusters continue to grow in size, they begin to resemble mini-cake pops.

I like the contrast of the white Hyptis alata with the black seedheads of Baptisia alba.

This native has an overall white appearance in the garden, which is welcome at a time when blacks and browns are begin to accumulate.  The white color comes from the combination of the spotted white flowers, the light green sepals that remain after the flower falls, and hazy-colored bracts under the flower cluster.   Once flowering finishes in another month or so, the orbs will turn more green and then fade to a dark umber. In this state I will enjoy Hyptis through winter until spring cutback.  

Hyptis alata looks lovely in the winter. The seed heads are quite persistent.

Now that I’ve had it for a few seasons, I’ve learned to cut it to the ground in mid-spring to help delay the onset of flowers and keep the height in check.  It can flop from the breezy rains we get in autumn. I’ve also learned that it attracts pollinators a plenty. I’m amazed that my photos don’t show any of the black wasps that go nuts over this plant. I usually have 5 to 10 buzzing it.

Some of you may be wondering about hardiness.  This gulf coast species is a bit frost sensitive.  This past spring after it had emerged we had a night that dipped below freezing.  A day later the foliage looked a bit burned while all the other perennials in the bed remained untouched.  Thus, I’m not sure how well it would overwinter further north.  It can be a bit seedy, which increases its chances of returning, but in my garden keeping the soil covered with vegetation seems to prevent most from germinating.  It’s only when there is bare soil that they find a start, and they are easily weeded out.

Yes, there’s a hint of autumn in seeing Hyptis alata in flower. It won’t be long now.

A Little More Thyme

My thyme is in full bloom.  It’s one of the plants that I’ve had the longest in my life.  

My original start came in the early 2000’s from visiting Denise and Charles Berryhill’s herb weekend at their farm Briarwood Gardens right across the state line in Kentucky.  They were both generous in teaching me as a teenager about herbs and organic gardening, and I bought some of my first herb starts from them. The label said mother of thyme, but I’m still not 100% certain of its identity.

I planted the first little sprig of thyme in my little herb bed in the vegetable garden I had at my grandmother’s house.  It was welcomed amongst the mountain mint, sage, yarrow, and comfrey.  I watched it cover the ground and quickly form a dense woody mat. I enjoyed its little flowers it would don in early summer and the fragrance the leaves released with a simple brushing.

Time passed, an offer came for graduate school, and I moved to North Carolina.  I had to leave many of my plants behind, including the thyme. And, within a few years, the Bermuda grass that I had fought for almost a decade reclaimed the ground I had tended.  

After I got my teaching job in Texas, I wandered back to my old garden one Christmas.  I could still make out the worn down paths, but they were now covered by bleached turf mixed with sprigs of green yarrow that had survived my absence.  And, then it caught my eye.  A single sprig of thyme with its red winter cast.  I was ecstatic, as it had hung on this long as if waiting for me to return.  I dug it that day, and brought it back with me to Texas.  I nurtured it in a container, and soon it spilled over the edges and outgrew the pot.  

Once we moved to our log cabin, I planted it back into soil, and it took off once again.  I figured that being Texas it would die in the ground.  But, the plant’s survival surprised me again. This thyme grows during our wet spells, tolerates the hottest days next to black pavement, and shrugs off the cold winters.  I may occasionally loose a small patch, but the plant quickly works to fill the hole.  In June it comes into flower and attracts beneficial insects like bees and wasps.  And, with the first frost each leaf is outlined with a brilliant white, which forms an interesting pattern. Throughout the year, we like to use it chicken dishes as well as Poole’s Diner mashed potatoes with herb-scented cream.

In our kitchen garden it has grown into a dense layer of green that stops most weeds growing.  When needed, I rip off the edges and cram them into an open spot of soil where I want a good groundcover to help prevent erosion.  Life could always use some more thyme, especially one that’s been around for the majority of my time here on earth.

A wasp exits stage left from the thyme patch in our kitchen garden.