Anemone caroliniana

I hold off mowing the yard as long as I can in the spring as the turf is full of little treasures in late winter.  From the first weeks of December, Claytonia virginica (spring beauty) has been crescendoing to its peak.  Nothoscordum bivalve (crow poison) starts a little earlier, their white and yellow scapes appear after the first rains of autumn, and now thousands twinkle in the lawn. 

And, down along either side of the driveway by the ditch we have Anemone caroliniana (Carolina windflower). Their pinwheels stretch up a foot above the fray saying, “Look at me!” The drop off beside the culvert provides a spot where I can crouch and put myself on the flowers’ plane without having to lay down much.  

Being that it’s the only spot on the property that these flowers bloom I’m left to wonder how it got here. Was it planted? There are other spots wetter. There are other spots more sloped. But, it is here either side of the drive that they have found their home.

The flowers are small, not much larger than a quarter, and like other anemones are apetalous. The colorful whorl we see are sepals. Our patch only has white flowered forms with a splash of purple on the undersides of the calyx, but I’ve seen photos of the purple variants. And, they dance and sway in the breeze, as if acknowledging the Greek origin of their name, anemos, which means wind.

Plants spread by seed and rhizomes, and their numbers have increased over the years since I have encouraged their growth by holding back the mower blade. Their dissected leaves are now easy to pick out since I have a mental search image, but before I identified them, they just looked like a weed in the lawn.  

I struggled a bit the first year trying to figure out which anemone I had as Carolina windflower is very close in resemblance to Anemone berlandieri (ten-petal anemone). But, I realized they can be distinguished by the three-lobed involucres that occur on the scape that holds the flowers aloft.  Anemone berlandieri occurs above the midpoint of the scape, and Anemone caroliniana occur below the midpoint.

If I was adamant about mowing, I would probably never see these little jewels.  However, I am content to let the mower rest for a few more weeks to allow the windflowers to spread and ensure that even more return next year.

Placing Narcissus

It probably looks odd, me standing in front of a peach tree holding out a handful of Narcissus blooms as if I’m waiting for a branch to grasp them from my hand. But, today the petals have become paint chips as I’m deciding where I can incorporate daffodils to my plantings.

Narcissus are in full bloom here, and it is so good to see their cheerful flowers dotting the landscape.  Most of them like Narcissus tazetta (tazetta daffodil), Narcissus pseudonarcissus (Lent lily), and Narcissus × odorus (campernelle) I have in holding beds where they have been bulking up over the past few years while I decide their final destination. It can be hard to determine color from a catalog photograph; therefore, I like to have the flower in hand when I’m walking around creating color combinations and deciding where they should be placed.

Some may ask why not use more modern hybrids, but in east Texas we lack the winter chill our friends further north have. Thus, I find myself turning more to species types or old heirlooms that are proven to bloom reliably in the deep south. There is opportunity in constraints, and the goal is to pair what I have plenty of with where they will look the best.

I used the same approach last year with Narcissus pseudonarcissus (top image) that are now in beds near the house where the soft buttery yellow contrasts well with emerging Phlox pilosa (downy phlox), Glandularia canadensis (rose vervain), and Muscari neglectum (starch grape hyacinth). I relocated them from a holding spot once I realized they would combine well with the plants in this bed and provide a nice pop of color. After bloom their foliage lasts for a bit as other species around them emerge, and the glaucous blades echo well the color in the nearby leaves of Rudbeckia maxima (giant coneflower) and Eryngium yuccifolium (rattlesnake master).

But, in my hand are Narcissus tazetta, and I have been pondering for a fortnight about putting them into the orchard beds that span between fruit trees. The petals are white, and the corona starts a warm yellow and then fades to cream. I confirm that the color does look good with the peach blossoms. I have tried saturated yellow Narcissus in this spot in the past, but they didn’t look right with the abundance of the soft pink in the naturally-occurring Claytonia virginica (spring beauty). So, I place the posy on the ground and become satisfied that these two pair well also.

With the clump back in hand, I walk over to Andropogon virginicus (broomsedge). I’ve been propagating them in the orchard beds. Yes, I know they seed around, but they are one of my favorite native grasses. They remind remind me of my childhood days in Tennessee. In the winter months, I love their russet orange color and how rigid they stand even in a strong north wind. I check that the tazettas pair well with them, too. The grass really accentuates the bulb’s orange stamens.

In this moment I realize that with the Narcissus I’m straddling the pastel side of the warm spectrum with tints of pinks, tangerines, and butters.  I feel content that I’ve considered all possibilities with my petal paint chips and decide that this area would make a good spot for this daffodil. Perhaps a random scattering through the orchard beds, clustered densely in groups and then fading out to singles, much like bulbs arrange themselves in nature. And, I won’t cut the grass back until the daffodils are finished flowering to further play off the color echo.

Narcissus tazetta and Prunus persica

Narcissus tazetta and Andropogon virginicus

Narcissus tazetta and Claytonia virginica

Next, I consider the Narcissus × odorus that I’ve been hoarding for years in a bed in the back of the patch. I’ve found the perfect place for them. It’s a bit easier since it is now a mostly blank slate. East of our house is a glade that is now more open since we had two live oaks cut that suffered greatly from the -6°F freeze in 2021.  There is a large Magnolia ‘Susan’ in this space. It is here the campernelles will go. Both have very saturated petals, and I have the goal of adding more short statured Magnolias to this area to continue playing off the spring colors. And, yes, I do check to make sure their colors go well together, too.

Narcissus × odorus and Magnolia ‘Susan’

I’ll start moving the Narcissus after they finish blooming.  I don’t have issues relocating Narcissus in the green.  I just make sure that they get watered in well after I plant them.  Often I’ll choose a day or two right before a good rain comes for relocation.  

When placing Narcissus, I just have to remember that they don’t always look this way, and that after they bloom, I’ll have the foliage to look at or deal with over the next three months until it either fades away or is trimmed around Mother’s Day.  The delayed cut back ensures the bulbs can store enough sugars for more handfuls of blooms next year.

The Colorful Twigs of Winter

In the winter I feel my perception of the garden is elevated.  Like when I can’t see because it is dark and all my other senses are heightened.  I notice things that I might otherwise overlook. The catkin swelling on an Alnus. The first sliver of color showing in a Magnolia bud. The swirl of foliage appearing from Pedicularis. These little things are celebrated in the dearth.

The garden is a bit more barren this year after the cold snap we had a few weeks ago. Gone are many of the flowering annuals that overwinter—snaps, pot marigolds, stock, and honeywort. Even pansies and violas took a hit. It’s a bit depressing in thinking about that time wasted planting them. Even some of my shrubs suffered. We are without flowers this year on Edgeworthia chrysantha (paperbush).

I learned long ago that color on growth organs like leaves can be more reliable than flowers. The same applies to the woody tissue, too. Colorful plant stems have long been an aesthetic I’ve gravitated toward in the winter time.  As a kid I marveled at the red maple regrowth along fencerows where they were cut every year to prevent them from reaching the power lines above. Their fresh shoots were rich with hue in winter and looked like they could be coloring pencils if cut and sharpened. And, I long wondered why they were so vivid until I discovered the color is solar protection and helps the plant deal with excess light when the sun is low in the sky.   

Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’

Vaccinium ashei ‘Powder Blue’

Salix ‘Flame’

I do have a few favorites. I love the red-twig dogwoods. Oh, how I have longed to be able to grow Cornus sanguinea that I see en masse in plantings in England where one has to do a double take to make sure the planting isn’t on fire.  But, I have so far killed at least two of them here in Texas.  Mom and Dad still have a ‘Winter Beauty’ (aka ‘Winter Flame’) outside my window back home in Tennessee that grows quite well (header image). 

I have made do with Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’.  My friend Jason Reeves of UT Gardens in Jackson, TN recommended this silky dogwood to me. He shared how this selection was found by Dr. Michael Dirr in a swamp in Virginia. In its first year here, this eastern US native is thriving.  The winter color is a little lacking compared to Cornus sanguinea, but beggars can’t be choosers. From where I sit writing, the red pops against the dark mass of what’s left of Helianthus angustifolius. Both like the wet spot.

I also discovered that the new stem growth on Vaccinium in winter can be very attractive.  After plants drop their crimson foliage, we are left with stems that turn a muted red. ‘Powder Blue’ is one of my favorites that has winter color in the stems and glaucous leaves that turn a brilliant red in autumn. 

And, of course, I have loved Salix ‘Flame’ since I set eyes on it many winters ago at the JC Raulston Arboretum in Raleigh, NC. It hasn’t quite decided if it likes it here yet, but I think I can coax the few I have into establishing well so their stems become a source of warmth in the landscape. 

Most of these plants benefit with a yearly or every other year cut back as the color is most intense on new growth (except the blueberry since cutting that back would remove the flower buds for spring and the delicious blue orbs that follow).  I use what stems I can in holiday and winter arrangements, and then cut the rest of the plant down right before buds start to break. 

And, it won’t be long now. Red maple tips are already swelling. Soon the landscape will wake, and I’ll have plenty of sights to see. But, for now the bright twigs of winter will help me see through the dark.

Solstice Seedlings

We are a a little over a week away from the winter solstice. The year has wrung about as much light out of the day as it can, and we have mere minutes left to lose until we hit the shortest day of 2022.

It’s in this solstice season that I start planning in earnest for next year. With the semester over, the growing season ended, and the new year on the horizon I have time to consider the goals and projects I want to move forward in the coming year.

The plants in my garden are preparing for next year, especially those whose growth culminates in spring. Even though March is months away, amongst the duff there are hints of the next growing season starting to appear. Every day harnessing the sun counts in the march toward warmer weather for making sugars that will become more blades and blooms.

I’ve spied the lobed foliage of Delphinium carolinianum (prairie larkspur) and Viola pedata (birds-foot violet) in the garden. The maroon leaves of Claytonia virginica (spring beauty) no longer hide amongst the tawny, frosted turf. I even found two with open flowers in our backyard this week. The little toothpick leaves of Phlox pilosa (prairie phlox) are emerging. And, the first of my perennial sowings from this year are germinating.  

Late last spring, I sowed Marshallia caespitosa (Barbara’s buttons) and Callirhoe alcaeoides (white poppy mallow) from seed collected in my garden.  I love both for their white flowers and desired more as they are good fillers for spring color. Callirhoe has this ability to thread itself through the matrix of foliage, and looking down on a Marshallia is like looking up at a galaxy. Both go dormant in my garden soon after they flower and set seed.

I decided instead of letting the progeny sit in storage in the fridge, I would promptly sow them and put them on my small nursery pad where they would receive occasional irrigation over the summer. Often with the first time sowing a batch of seed, I will sprinkle them on potting substrate in a gallon pot, trust mother nature, and watch and learn for next time. Both seem quite happy with this approach thus far.

Marshallia caespitosa

Callirhoe alcaeoides

Marshallia caespitosa seedlings

Callirhoe alcaeoides seedlings

Even though they got water all summer long, their emergence coincided with the return of cooler weather this autumn. Like many native perennial seeds, the delay makes sense to wait and start growth when conditions are more appropriate. The Callirhoe germinated fast while the Marshallia were more staggered.

Towards spring I’ll tease them apart and pot on into trays to allow each plant to have space to grow.  And, then once they’ve bulked up a bit, I’ll welcome these plants into the garden.

I suppose in retrospect my planning for 2023 started earlier in the year than just here at the end. Every seed I sowed in anticipation of having more plants for next year is hope and planning for greater things to come. Their appearance is yet another thing to celebrate in this solstice season.

The Blessing of Seedheads

Today looks cold enough to snow with the low gray sky. I’m more used to this weather in February than I am November. The forecast said the high won’t break 50ºF today. Alas, the only thing falling from the sky will be rain.

I do a final walk around before the clouds burst. We’ve now had a few frosts, one hard one this past weekend. Looking out over the garden, most of the flowering plants are now done. I’m afraid even my late flowering ‘Halloweenie’ glads (Gladiolus dalenii) that haven’t bloomed yet (and with their tardiness in past years I’ve joked should be named ‘Thanksgivingie’) are going to get hit with more freezing temperatures we have coming this week.

So on this walk I’m thinking of frost-proof winter interest I have for the next few months in the garden. I’m counting my garden blessings if you will to see what at the end of the season I can appreciate.

Seed heads are at the top of the list as they have such a prominent presence in the winter landscape. They are skeletons of the past that, a glimpse of what the garden once was in the height of its empire.

Near the house Helianthus radula (rayless sunflower) still looks spectacular as the black stems pop against the froth of Eragrostis spectablis (purple lovegrass, header image). On the other side of the lovegrass rise the black buttons of Pycnanthemum tenuifolium (narrow-leaf mountain mint). It is one of my favorite perennials for its multi-season interest in the landscape. I make a note to pair more blacks with the winter foliage of the love grass for next year.

There are also some Lilium formosanum (Formosan lily) in the bed that rise up and have started to release seeds from their brown chalices. I just transplanted them to that spot this spring, so their height is much shorter. I quite like their more diminutive nature.

Pycnanthemum tenuifolium

Lilium formosanum

As I walk further along the bed, I see the spherical seedheads of Hyptis alata (clustered bushmint). They will last the rest of winter, though I have to be careful whenever I remove them come spring because they are loaded with seed that I’ll be weeding for months afterwards if they spill.

Hyptis alata

Nearing the orchard, I startle some Dark-eyed Juncos. They are the first I’ve seen this year, and I’m delighted the cold fronts have brought them back to the garden. They dart under the glimmering split-beard bluestem (Andropogon ternarius). Even on a sunless day, the plant still shines. The clumps are now in their second year, and I realize the site I put it on is too fertile as some have lodged and thus made an even better hiding place for the juncos and other little brown birds mixed in the flock. Next year, I’ll have to cut them back in mid-summer much like they do when mowing the roadside to help keep it shorter for lasting winter interest.

Andropogon ternarius

There are still a few Baptisia alba (white wild indigo) in the orchard beds. For us they start going dormant in late August or early September. It’s always a hard call for me to ask do these dead twigs stay or do they go. But, I seem to always err on letting them stay. Some have already blown away with their tumbleweed action, and I have found them next to a fence or in the ditch by the road. It’s a creative approach to seed dispersal.

Another Baptisia, yellow wild indigo, is nearby in the front of the patch and has more spherical fruit, hence the epithet sphaerocarpa for the round (sphaero-) fruit (-carpa) it forms.

Baptisia alba

Baptisia sphaerocarpa

Vernonia baldwinii (western ironweed) also looks good in its last moments. I have found they have staying power into the winter with their feather-duster seed heads. The pappus is such a nice light tan and pops against the dark stems.

Vernonia baldwinii

A flock of winter birds is once again startled as I make my way back toward the house. I think how seedheads are not just a blessing for me. I know that the winter birds enjoy them, too. That’s why I admire them while I can before they and the wind spread the seeds. Such thoughts warm my soul, perhaps as much as the corn chowder I’ll have tonight after a cold autumn day.

Copper Plant

While the calendar said that fall arrived this week, the thermometer wasn’t so sure. It’s been a scorcher, one of the hottest last few days of September that I remember. Every day is clear, and the sun bakes us by mid-day. But, it’s different from July. There is at least a relief in the mornings that wasn’t there a few months ago.

There are other differences from the summer. As autumn arrives, I love seeing copper leaf colors intensifying as the days get shorter. A few months ago, they were a paler pink, but now the leaves are reddening as the season comes to a close.

I can’t think of another plant that pairs well with so many different colors. I planted them to play off our dark brown log cabin, thinking their warm tones would pair well. A dusting of Gomphrena globosa ‘Ping Pong White’ beneath them plays off the older, off-white leaves. Now that we’ve put pumpkins on the porch, I’ve realized copper leaf has even hints of orange. And, at the Plantery, students sited them next to pink as a color echo.

A close up of Acalypha wilkesiana ‘Tricolor’

Who says you can’t pair orange and pink? I feel like you can with Acalypha wilkesiana ‘Tricolor’. We let the Senna alata sow themselves around last year near the house, and I left them for texture and for their late season yellow blooms that will be appearing soon.

In the Plantery, the students paired Acalypha wilkesiana ‘Tricolor’ with Vinca ‘Cora Pink’ for a nice pink color echo.

It’s interesting to me how the leaves play off different colors. As I told my Landscape Plants class, flowers are for a day but foliage is forever. At least until we have the first good frost. Until then, I’ll be enjoying all the warm colors in copper leaf until the forests around us can take over the autumnal show.

Asters of Autumn: Part 1

We got an early taste of fall this week in east Texas. The mornings were in the 50’s. Though it warmed up quick, the air still held a base chill throughout the day. Or, maybe it was just the cold front knocking the humidity down.

With the return of the cooler weather, albeit short-lived cooler weather, the asters have started in earnest, and I so love them. In the past few years, they have become one of my favorite groups of plants since moving into our log cabin. How can anyone not love natives smothered with light blue, purple, pink, white, and every color in between.

As I reviewed this week in plant id, asters have a classic head inflorescence, ray florets on the outside that advertise the bloom to pollinators and many disk florets on the inside where the pollination and seed set occur. It’s a successful pollination strategy, a testament being the aster family is the largest family of flowering plants in the world. And, the flowers are good at communicating. Many asters disks florets will change colors to indicate to pollinators that the flower is finished.

It seems I’ve inadvertently started an aster trial here at my house. I didn’t know how many I had until I compiled my list from my notes and realized I have over 20 taxa here. I have been tracking their flowering week by week so that I can build a calendar to know when they bloom so I can site them appropriately.

I’m working on a bloom calendar for the asters in my garden. Note that the colors reflect an approximation of the ray florets.

A few notes on care. Almost all asters were cut back at least once in late May. I’ve learned this is good practice to prevent them from looking haggard by the end of summer, where they have bare stems with tassels of leaves at the top.

I also struggle with some plants being triggered into flowering in March. Asters are photoperiodic and bloom during short days. I thought it was our security light messing with their rhythm; however, we had that turned off, and yet they still try to bloom. My hypothesis is that here in the deep south we have such good growth early in the spring that the plants have enough leaf tissue to perceive the changing light and attempt to bloom. Pruning back helps to prevent that.

Below I have shared images of the aster with the week it started blooming. Basically, if I saw one flower open that Monday, I counted it as coming into bloom that week.

AUGUST 23

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ started to bloom first. I’ve written about this great aster before. It is the first aster each year to begin blooming for me, and the white flowers with yellow centers are a breath of freshness as we leave August.

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ in early September

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ in mid-September

AUGUST 30

I’ve had Symphyotrichum oolentangiense since 2019 when I picked one up at the Chicago Perennial Plant Association meeting. When it starts blooming, it lives up to its common name sky blue aster, as if the rays have reached out to the horizon and dipped themselves in a light blue sky. The flowers here in the south quickly fade more white. The habit seems to be a bit lax, the inflorescences flopping a bit. But, the early flowers are worth its relaxed growth.

Symphyotrichum oolentangiense

Also starting this week was ‘Coombe Fishacre’, one of my new favorite asters for color and floriferous growth. I was blown away how loaded with blooms this cultivar was, and even though it dates back to the 1920’s, I wondered why I had never heard of it before. ‘Coombe Fishacre’ is likely a hybrid between Symphyotrichum ericoides, which would explain the vigor, and Symphyotrichum novi-belgii.

Symphyotrichum ‘Coombe Fishacre’ in early September

Symphyotrichum ‘Coombe Fishacre’ in mid-September

Another aster that started blooming for me in late August was Eurybia hemispherica, a lovely, little used native aster that has spiky foliage and is adorned with starry flowers on top. ‘Pink Dawn’, a pink selection found by my colleague Dawn Stover, features a pink hue instead of the typical blue-purple seen in this species.

Eurybia hemispherica ‘Pink Dawn’

SEPT 6

Symphyotrichum ‘Bridal Veil’ is another incredible flowering aster that started flowering the first full week of September. This cultivar was bred by Dr. Jim Ault of the Chicagoland Grows program. Aster ericoides 'Snow Flurry' is reportedly a parent. The stems are very prostrate and loaded with small white flowers

Symphyotrichum novae-angliae 'Purple Dome' and Symphyotrichum novae-angliae 'Violetta' both also started blooming this week. I was hesitant against trying these since they are selections of a more northern genus; however, I realized in writing this post that the species does extend down into Mississippi and Alabama, so I suppose it is possible there is some heat tolerance there. ‘Violetta’ is a darker purple than ‘Purple Dome’, but it has a little less vigor so far. They are two of the darkest colored asters I grow.

Symphyotrichum novae-angliae ‘Purple Dome’

Symphyotrichum novae-angliae ‘Violetta’

Also starting to bloom this week was an aster I’ve had since I moved in. The first fall, I ordered a variety of plants, one of which was Aster novae-angliae 'Harrington's Pink'. It has struggled in the bed I had it in due to low soil pH and also trying every year to bloom in May. I moved a couple of small pieces to a new spot, and it has exploded into growth. Like ‘Purple Dome’ and ‘Violetta’, the flowers tend to be closed in the morning and open as the day progresses. That must be a characteristic of the New England asters.

Symphyotrichum lateriflorus 'Bleke Bet' is a classic calico aster where the center changes color after pollination. It starts a creamy white, and then after the flower is finished, the disk turns a much darker color. Again, this color change helps pollinators find the flowers that are ripe for pollination.

Symphyotrichum lateriflorus ‘Bleke Bet’

The blue-purple Eurybia hemispherica began flowering this week. You can compare the blue with the pink above to see the markedly different coloration. In growing this species, I’ve learned it is quite rhizomatous when happy.

Eurybia hemispherica

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum var. horizontalis 'Prince' also started blooming this week, but it is a very sad plant so far. I’m curious to see if it will do better next year. I’m not even posting a picture of the little sprig.

SEPT 13

Sadly, Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘Lady in Black’ does not achieve the dark foliage color I have seen in photos. Alas, but it’s nice to have the small flowers bloom. I’ve noticed unlike ‘Bleke Bet’, the disks don’t show as much color change over time.

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘Lady in Black’

I have about a dozen more asters coming into bloom as we continue into fall, so I will do a part two later likely in November to continue sharing which ones are growing well for me. Stay tuned!

The Return of Oxblood Lilies

I’ve been doing a happy dance. We were blessed with another 2.5 inches of rain this week, which brings our total since mid-August to over 4.5 inches. The precipitation has certainly set the stage for fall, and everything just feels cooler with the ground and vegetation primed with water. The garden looks so much fresher. Leafless twigs have new growth emerging, and plants that were sulking have a vibrancy they have lacked for months.

With the return of the rains we also see the reappearance of autumn geophytes like oxblood lilies. And, my, are they making a show this year. They looked quite funky a few days ago as the scapes emerged, like gnarled red fingers rising from the earth. And, now that they are in full bloom, I am amazed. I don’t ever remember them looking so good or all blooming at once. Perhaps they’ve finally settled in. The red is such a brilliant crimson. If I’m honest, I’ve never been very impressed with their performance here, but this year has changed my mind. I’m so glad that I planted them.

Rhodophiala bifida flower scapes rise from the ground after a soaking rain

I lined thirty rescued bulbs of Rhodophiala bifida out in our patch a few years ago in turf to hold them until I could decide where would be a good spot for them in the garden. Beside these additions, I have found a few bulbs that were here when we moved in five years ago. A handful of Rhodophiala were grouped with Lycoris radiata and Leucojum aestivum under an old oak, and over the years, I sorted them as they finally developed enough to bloom. Who knows how many years they held on in dense shade before I relocated them.

I was delighted to find a couple more in another part of the yard today. I’m surprised in the five years we’ve been here I’ve never seen them bloom, but the bulbs were just under the drip line of a live oak we lost from the February 2021 cold spell. My guess is with the tree gone, they’ve been able to finally capture enough sunlight to bloom. I spotted the backlit red inflorescence from 250 feet away, and I thought perhaps that hillside would be a perfect spot for more. It’s amazing how perceptible their red is at a distance.

When I compare the flowers from all the bulbs, they seem to have the same flower structure and color. I believe all of them to be clones of the ‘Hill Country Red’ strain that has graced Texas gardens for years. Scott Ogden writes in Garden Bulbs for the South that while Rhodophiala bifida is native to Argentina and Uruguay, the vigorous, polyploid form seen in Texas gardens is absent from its native lands.

It is believed that Peter Henry Oberwetter, a German immigrant, is likely responsible for finding this vigorous selection. He introduced oxblood lilies to the US between 1860 and 1915.

Seeing how they are still holding on at old home places is a testament to their staying power. The flowers may be gone in a week, but the plants won’t be. They will continue sitting there quietly, soaking up their sunshine, and then singing with crimson bells when the autumn rains return year after year.

The line of ‘Hill Country Red’ Rhodophiala bifida at home.

Gomphrena and the Dog Days of Summer

Every August I pay attention to what plants don’t look like they’ve just been through the oven. I want the garden to look fresher in midsummer without having to water so much. One species that I’ve learned I can depend on is Gomphrena globosa.

Yes, it might seem odd to suggest an annual that has to be planted every year as many of them are dependent on irrigation, but it is so worth having globe amaranth for the explosive growth come the dog days of summer. Before the glorious two inches of slow rain this week from tropical systems, we were bone dry, and yet, Gomphrena continued to thrive and bloom. In Armitage’s Manual of Annuals, Biennials, and Half-hardy Perennials, he quotes a Texas cut flower grower joking that the plant grew at the gates of hell, hence its ability to take the heat.

One of the reasons that Gomphrena is able to tolerate the hot, dry Texas summers so well is that it is a C4 plant. C4 plants have a different type of photosynthesis where they are more efficient at capturing carbon during high heat and drought conditions. It is not unique to Gomphrena as C4 photosynthesis has evolved in different families. Corn and sugarcane, also good warm-weather growers, also share this type of photosynthesis.

Wild and wooly with Gomphrena globosa ‘Ping Pong White’, Zinnia elegans ‘Benary’s Giant’ cultivars, and Gossypium herbaceum ‘Nigrum’

I’ve had the goal to enclose the patch where I have my vegetable garden, cut flowers, and trial plants with a double fence, and I finished building the inner front fence of the patch this past winter. There’s two beds on either side of a narrow pathway in the six feet of space. I envision this front area as a place where the planting scheme will change with the seasons. This year, I planted a plethora of Gomphrena globosa ‘Ping Pong White’ in the beds between the fences. It acts as a groundcover for Zinnia elegans ‘Benary’s Giant’ cultivars (zinnia) and Gossypium herbaceum ‘Nigrum’ (black-leaf cotton).

But, the Gomphrena have grown so thick we can’t see the ground of the path. It amazes me how plugs planted two feet apart now hide any bare soil.

Karen has taken to drying more flowers this summer, and the pathway becomes visible again once she makes a pass through cutting flower stems. Our backporch has become a drying room for Gomphrena and other stems. It is a wonderful cut flower and dries well. At night we sit on the porch and strip leaves and make posies of the flowers to preserve this celebration of summer a little longer.

The first of many posies to come of globe amaranth

I’ll likely thin the plants out in the next month. Underneath them are over 1,000 Lycoris radiata bulbs ready to spring forth. I thought the red and white together would be a nice combination.

But, I will leave a few until frost. Years ago when we first planted globe amaranth, the plants the froze in the fall, and the White-throated Sparrows loved tearing the flowers apart and scouring the ground underneath for seed.

The dog days of summer are fading, and I can’t wait for the winter birds to return.

Cut flowers have been filling a pitcher we brought back with us from the Hauser & Wirth farm store in England. This week, it is festooned with Gomphrena globosa ‘Ping Pong White’.

Liatris pycnostachya, Sparklers for the Summer Garden

I have long loved the Liatris sparklers that burn bright in the garden. They erupt throughout summer, the earliest species starting their floral celebration around the 4th of July here in east Texas.

While I grew up in the eastern part of the country with Liatris spicata (dense blazing star), Liatris pycnostachya (prairie blazing star) has become one of my favorite species. It hugs the line of the prairie states north, and we have used it predominantly in our naturalistic plantings in the Plantery where it thrives in the heat and drought. We planted a river of them in front of the agriculture building to capitalize on their massed effect, the purple batons standing stolid in a sea of grasses and perennials (header image).

I delight seeing the creatures that visit prairie blazing star, but sometimes they turn into a meal! A green anole waits for unsuspecting prey to visit this Liatris pycnostachya.

Even before a plant blooms, it is lovely as its spirals upward, the thin foliage looking like swirling sea anemones. One wonders about a plant that evolved to rise toward sky with a single stalk, likely for piercing the dense foliage of the prairie.

In an interesting twist, most spike-like emergents are indeterminate, meaning they begin flowering at the bottom of the inflorescence (think Baptisia, Gladiolus, or Physostegia) when the final flower on a stem is not yet fully formed. However, Liatris have a determinate inflorescence, meaning the plants begin flowering at the apex once all the buds are formed, and like a sparkler the blooms are lit from the top and blaze toward the base.

The transition zone on Liatris pycnostachya where the flowers shift from being open at the top and more in bud at the bottom. You can also see the individual star-shaped flowers that give the plant its common name.

It is true that some stems will lodge after bloom, usually falling from one of those afternoon popup thunderstorms that we so hope for in the dry days of late summer. We will cut back the ones that flop after they finish flowering; however, I try to leave the uprights into the fall. Once the seed mature, they have wonderful lasting qualities in the garden and glow against the lowing sun.

Liatris pycnostachya bending and twisting like pipe cleaner in the Lurie Garden in downtown Chicago. Should they become less upright, they tend to correct and reorient upward.

Liatris pycnostachya persists into the late fall. Here the linear architecture pops against Muhlenbergia capillaris ‘White Cloud’.

And, prairie blazing star sets copious seed.  They glide a short distance away with their feathery pappi, and the tiny spears appear next spring. While plants return year after year from a knotty corm, we find hundreds of seedlings the following season that look like weedy grass. They are hard to pull for knowing what they will become. Thus, we straddle the line by leaving a few and pulling the rest. That way the bed doesn’t look too untidy, and we welcome more floral fireworks for the summer garden.