Carex cherokeensis, Cherokee sedge

Ever since I learned of the concept of matrix species from Noel Kingsbury and Piet Oudolf’s book Planting: A New Perspective I have searched for and evaluated good ground covering plants for the southeast.  One that I have enjoyed getting to know better is Carex cherokeensis or Cherokee sedge.  

 
A snapshot of Carex cherokeensis in our modest grass and Carex trial at the Plantery at Stephen F. Austin State University.

A snapshot of Carex cherokeensis in our modest grass and Carex trial at the Plantery at Stephen F. Austin State University.

 

I first learned about this species when the Plantery conducted an informal trial of grasses and sedges at SFASU thanks to the help from the fine folks at Hoffman Nursery in Rougemont, NC.  Carex cherokeensis showed us it was a stalwart for east Texas.  In my naiveté, I didn’t realize it was native to our area until I found it growing along a roadside west of town.  And, then imagine my delight when I found three plants in a wet spot of my yard this past winter.  I chuckle when I think that we ordered plants from halfway across the country, and they were growing in my own backyard (literally!)

While the inflorescences are not very showy, closer inspection reveals there is a beauty to the dainty seedheads of Carex cherokeensis.

While the inflorescences are not very showy, closer inspection reveals there is a beauty to the dainty seedheads of Carex cherokeensis.

So, why do I like this living mulch?  For a variety of reasons.  The verdant foliage livens a dappled understory, and it tolerates full sun conditions like a champ with little burning.  It was also tolerate most soils save for those with heavy sand. From my encounters with Cherokee sedge in the wild, I noticed that it tends to occur as small, almost solo crowns. However, plant it in a bed, and it will form a nice cespitose clump.  It may sit there for a year, but be patient, and let it get established.  The inflorescences are not too conspicuous. They resemble inverted wheat ears and hang like thin beaded earrings above the foliage.  We do remove the whole peduncle after the seed have dropped. 

A mass of Carex cherokeensis

A mass of Carex cherokeensis

The students used this Carex in our food prairies in the Sprout garden, and we have slowly watched over the past three years as it has colonized open spaces with rhizome and seed.  We mow it once a year in early January when we cut back our plantings to prepare for spring bulbs to emerge. It divides well, too.  I regularly have students divide a few plants early in the semester for a primer on division and then use it in later exercises on grading propagule sizes.   

This past year, I tried propagating it from seed at home.  I collected seed from my Texas germplasm last spring and stratified it for a couple months.  I sowed it in a flat outdoors last fall and waited.  After a few weeks, I noticed a couple of green slivers popping up out of the soil but only a few.  At first I wondered what I did wrong and why more weren’t germinating.  Later, I saw that the tray had more, and eventually I came to realize that it seemed as if a few new ones were germinating each month.  

Grading Carex cherokeensis seedlings at my house. These were large enough to pot on.

Grading Carex cherokeensis seedlings at my house. These were large enough to pot on.

The rest were allowed to remain in the tray to bulk up. Again, notice how some are barely up while others have some size to them.

The rest were allowed to remain in the tray to bulk up. Again, notice how some are barely up while others have some size to them.

I’m not sure if it’s an effect of my sowing efforts or the plant’s staggered germination biology.  Either way, I’m happy to have about 50 more plants to add to my landscape of this great Carex species.  

I spy with my little eye, Spigelia

I shrieked as my truck came to a sudden stop.  

“What is it?!” Karen said after jumping out of her skin.    

“Spigelia marilandica!!!” I exclaimed.  

“I thought you had hit something in the road,” she said with a bit of consternation in her voice.  

I apologized.  It was just that I had never seen this incredible native in the wild!  

 
I spy with my little eye something red. Note the abnormal flower on the right with six yellow lobes. Most have five.

I spy with my little eye something red. Note the abnormal flower on the right with six yellow lobes. Most have five.

 

I pulled my truck off to the side of the broken back road and hopped out to walk over to the forest edge.  Camera trained on the flower, I snapped away in delight.  How lucky was I finding this ruby in the rough four miles from our house.  And, since it was early May 2018, a few weeks earlier or later and I might have missed this spectacle.  

Eventually, I got back up to walk to the truck.  I gazed down the road with the dark forest on the left and bright pasture on the right.  In the glare from the sun, I noticed a few more red flowers just down the lane and smiled in delight.  There were more than just this one! And, as my eye traced the road edge further, I began to make out hundreds of the little slivers of crimson that graced the north-facing forested slope.  My jaw dropped.  I had hit the Indian pink jackpot.  

I got to know this wonderful wildflower better through my friend Jimmy Williams.  In a similar discovery as mine, he drove around all day in Henry County, Tennessee until he found a solitary flower growing in a roadside ditch.  He saved that plant from the mower blades and cultivated it into several clumps in his red border.  He has so many he was even able to share a plant with me that’s still back at my parent’s home in Tennessee.  

 
Spigelia marilandica in the foreground here provides color in Jimmy William’s red border in Paris, TN between the spring and summer flowering gap.

Spigelia marilandica in the foreground here provides color in Jimmy William’s red border in Paris, TN between the spring and summer flowering gap.

 

But, I was quite surprised to find it here in the wild in Texas.  I guess having never even seen it in situ I really didn’t know what its range or its habitat was.   

However, one thing I did know is that the plant wasn’t pink.  No, it seems to have been adorned with the same name as pinks or members of the Caryophyllaceae family that appear to have their petals clipped by pinking shears.  But, Spigelia isn’t even in the same family (it’s in Loganiaceae) or even order, and yet it has the same froufrou name.  Go figure. 

I liberated a few clumps from the roadside that day to take back to my house.  They were growing in gravel tailings, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before a grader would come along and do them in.   I planted them near our house because I was afraid that deer would come along and nibble them down.  I’ve since learned that’s probably not too big a concern due to the presence of toxic alkaloids in the leaves.  

Spigelia marilandica flowering just behind our house.

Spigelia marilandica flowering just behind our house.

The next spring, I was delighted as my plants came back and bloomed heavier than any of the clumps I saw the previous year on that shaded hillside.  I chuckle now reading accounts about how this plant needs TLC, woodland edge, and moisture.   Mine are planted on a north facing slope in sandy fill soil and receive over half a day of full sun that burns other shade lovers I’ve tried in the same spot.  And, y’all, this is in Texas.  

One plant is lovely in bloom, but en masse the floral effect is spectacular.  I’ve notice over the years in large plantings at botanic gardens that there can be quite the range of colors in flowers from seed-derived plants, everything from a dark crimson to a light salmon. Even bloom time varies within a population.  My small grouping of six plants seemed to exhibit a range of genetics, too.  

How spectacular is this mass of Indian pink in Bell’s Woodland at Chanticleer in Wayne, Pennsylvania?

How spectacular is this mass of Indian pink in Bell’s Woodland at Chanticleer in Wayne, Pennsylvania?

The variation in color in Spigelia marilandica is apparent in this seedling-derived population in a dry creek bed.

The variation in color in Spigelia marilandica is apparent in this seedling-derived population in a dry creek bed.

 
While most Spigelia marilandica vary in their color of red, this pink Indian pink in my garden is a testament to their color variation. Note this individual’s lack of red in the developing flowers on this cyme. I’m monitoring it because along with t…

While most Spigelia marilandica vary in their color of red, this pink Indian pink in my garden is a testament to their color variation. Note this individual’s lack of red in the developing flowers on this cyme. I’m monitoring it because along with the lack of color there seems to be something off about the way the flowers open.

 

And, being planted near where I sit, I’ve enjoyed watching Ruby-throated Hummingbirds dart through the Indian pinks.  They and the flower have enjoyed a long dance of coevolution, the flower preferring the lead of the bird over the bee, evidenced by evolving the long, tubular red flowers.  Yes, I was quite happy with myself to see my transplants doing so well.  

I gasp as I sped up a bit on the same broken back road.

“This is not good,” I said to Karen who was joining me on yet another backroads excursion.

On either side of the pavement there wasn’t a leaf to be found.  It was August 2019, and while the month can certainly be a scorcher, this blight was from herbicide.  

I pulled along side where my precious Spigelia had been blooming only months earlier.  The curtain of foliage that was there had been removed and I could see deeper into the woods than I ever had.  And, there wasn’t a single Spigelia plant on the roadside edge to be found.  I was crushed.  

It kills me when road crews blanket herbicide.  I understand keeping the right-of-ways in check, but what was so bad about this hillside that needed to be controlled?  Did I need to put a sign up that said, “Only known county record of Spigelia marilandica”?  I found myself thinking about how glad I was that I did move those six plants to my house, and I drove off anxious to see this population next spring.

This month, I revisited the site, and I’m happy to report that there are still Indian pink on the hillside.  In fact, after some snooping I’ve come to realize that the population is quite safe as there are hundreds on the slope further up from the road.  I guess with such a thick edge I wasn’t able to see the Spigelia for the forest.  And, somehow even a few plants remained on the road edge.  A few show a bit of herbicide residue from their curling leaves and stunted growth.  

I’m happy that this population of Spigelia marilandica is safe from roadside spraying. This snapshot is only a few of the hundreds of plants growing on the hillside.

I’m happy that this population of Spigelia marilandica is safe from roadside spraying. This snapshot is only a few of the hundreds of plants growing on the hillside.

But, this time I didn’t take any chances.  I rescued several clumps from the ditch that I had passed over previously, and they have since joined their brothers and sisters at my house.  Plants as good as this deserve to live and flourish without want or worry from county road maintenance.

Keep Calm and Garden On

It was a simple graphic I found.  The message “Keep Calm and Garden On” was printed in the vintage British-style World War II poster with a watering can on it.  I thought it would be a nice image to share on Facebook with the first dominos of COVID-19 beginning to fall with the closing of universities and churches. I pushed post and sent it off into cyberspace.  

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Within a week, this image had over a thousand shares.  I was blown away.  I realized there is something about that message.  Keeping calm.  And, gardening on.

I remember my first semester as a graduate student sitting in a statistics night class on September 29, 2008.  Earlier that day, the stock market had crashed, and the class was a flurry with conversations about the dismal news.  There was uncertainty about what would happen. 

But, being a fledgling horticulture master’s student, I heard discussions about people gardening—accounts of first time planters who had never grown anything in their life suddenly had a plot out back or a few containers on their patio.  And, from my attending trade shows, people were talking about the rise of edible gardening.

I remember that like yesterday. That in this time of trouble, people turned to gardening. When people loose so much, they go back to the basics of life.  It is hard to visualize an investment portfolio, but one can see plants and food that’s tangible, real, and in reach growing in the backyard.  

Here we are yet again with another crisis on our hands. It is very different from the last one, and yet we hear stories of germinating gardening interest and seed companies overwhelmed with orders. A rule of mother nature is that she cannot tolerate bare soil after a disturbance.  Perhaps it is a rule of humanity that human nature can’t either in a crisis?  We seem to have this pattern as humans.  Just like when hardship befalls us and we want to call Mom and Dad or fall into a friend’s arms, in crises we return to the earth.

But, why?  I had often heard people speak of this gardening roller coaster, but it was anecdotal. I hadn’t seen good literature on the subject until I sat on a graduate student’s dissertation committee a few years back.  In her writing Jheri-Lynn McSwain cited a thesis by Joshua Birky where he made the case that gardening and crises are connected.   And, while the below quote focuses on community gardens, I believe that it also holds true of backyards or balconies.

“It can be seen that throughout the history of the U.S. movements, many forms of community gardens have often been looked at as undesirable landforms necessary only in times of great disturbance or social need; they are seen as the refuge of only the poor, homeless and unemployed. These gardens have many times been a common reaction to a societal feeling of panic or desperation when it is believed that life within the city, or the nation as a whole, is being threatened. Yet once the war is over or the unemployment rate decreases, the “normal” faces of urban design take over and the gardens are once again lost until the next disaster arises.  

This pattern can be recognized by realizing that each spike of public or governmental interest in community or allotment gardens within the U.S. (and to a large extent with in the U.K.) generally follows a crisis period. Although easily comparable quantitative data for each one of these spikes is not available, studies do suggest that as public and governmental interest in community and allotment gardening increases, so does the number of gardens. Given this information, the histories of both the U.S. and the U.K. and further anecdotal evidence, we can conclude that there have been approximately eight major crises and seven major spikes (within the U.K. and the U.S). These crises and spikes include – two reactions to poor wages and living conditions in 1790s (U.K.); reaction to the swing riots of 1830 (U.K.); reaction to poor conditions and unemployment in the 1890s (U.S.); reaction to World War I (U.S. and U.K.); reaction to the great depression (U.S. and U.K.); reaction to World War II (U.S. and U.K.); and reaction to marginalization, oil shortages and environmental hazards in the 1970s (U.S.). The current movement has been steadily growing since the 1970s with slight reductions during the 1980s due to pulled government funding and support.”
— Joshua Birky

So, there you have it. In hard times we cultivate creation, only to drop our plowshares once life stabilizes. And, then the pattern repeats.

While gardening has become more hip in recent times and I believe less viewed as “undesirable landforms” that is just “refuge of only the poor, homeless, and unemployed” as in times past, there is still something that causes the post-crisis gardening spike to drop once the good times return. Perhaps priorities shift back. Perhaps these people see that gardening has its own issues—deer, rabbits, weeds, fungi, viruses, boar, gophers, flooding, and ultimately plant death—and it’s just as easy to go to the store and buy that head of lettuce. Perhaps people just don’t want to work that hard. Yes, I’m not afraid to say that gardening is work. It is incredibly fun, life fulfilling, and passionate work, but it’s work. There are days that I collapse from having done so much only to get up the next day and go again. And, I’m gardening for fun, not necessarily just for survival!

Or, perhaps we all have a bit of prodigal son in us. Garden does come from the old English geard, meaning fence or enclosure. Back centuries ago, walled gardens were viewed as safe havens from the wild beyond. And, maybe it is just part of our nature to venture out from growing plants for survival when things are well in the world to engage with the lavish trinkets of life only to return home of cultivating the earth when things go bad again.

Whatever the reason, I want to unlink the crisis and the garden. To tear down those fences and make gardening an integral part of life. I believe that is our role as plantspeople. To help those that are just starting. To rear the seedling gardeners and help them stretch towards the light. To encourage and promote and educate and cheer them on. To share plants and to share knowledge, even if it is difficult with social distancing.

This pandemic is a crisis, and I pray, hope, and truly believe that we will make it out of this winter to find a rich and rewarding spring on the other side. But, I don’t want us to forget plants and the life that they gave to all of us while we were struggling, this time or the many times before this crisis.

So, let’s keep calm and garden on. We’ll be here again one day. We might as well keep the practice up.

Even Assassin Bugs Need Something Sweet

I was out photographing plants the other evening when something caught my eye.  It was Zelus longipes—a milkweed assassin bug—slowly crawling across the corymb of Achillea millefolium.  These are such great insects to have in the garden because they prey upon many pests.  Fun fact on their feeding behavior—they stick their stylet into their prey and release digesting enzymes, and then they suck their nourishment out of the exoskeleton shell. What a way to go!

I retrained my camera lens from flowers to this insect as I like to use my own photos of good (sadistic!?!) bugs in the garden when educating folks.  But, then it did something unexpected.  It lowered its head into one of the flowers.  And, then another.  And, then another!   

I guess when the milkweed assassin bug isn’t digesting its prey it needs something else to feed on.

I guess when the milkweed assassin bug isn’t digesting its prey it needs something else to feed on.

I was so surprised to see it feeding on nectar. It seems I’m not the first person to document this behavior.  

I have long heard that Achillea millefolium is a wonderful native to grow in your garden for insects, and this observation further strengthens that case.  We never know all the good—and schadenfreude when I think of all the bad bugs this creature will eat—that can come from having a diverse planting.  

A Clematis from Texas

Growing up, I knew Clematis as mailbox plants.  The gaudy, colorful saucers adorn the post at the end of many driveways.  

But, once I did my internship at The Scott Arboretum in 2008, my world of Clematis was blown wide open.  I had no idea that there were so many forms and that there were so many great native species as well.  Here, they lost their mailbox supports; I found many species and cultivars rambling into shrubs and tree boughs.  

My favorite from that summer was Clematis texensis, the scarlet or Texas clematis.   I remember the first time I ever saw this central Texas native.  It had threaded itself through the glaucous blue foliage of a low hanging Cedrus branch right by the arboretum’s main office.  This pastel dyad of blue and red made the Clematis flowers pop.  When I see the flowers, I think of pink hot-air-balloons, even if they are turned or upside down. They aren’t the size of the mailbox blooms. No, the urn-shaped blossoms are smaller and more delicate, but I can still see them from 100 feet away. So can Ruby-throated Hummingbirds.

 
Who needs a mailbox? The boughs of a Cedrus are the perfect trellis for Clematis texensis!

Who needs a mailbox? The boughs of a Cedrus are the perfect trellis for Clematis texensis!

 

I loved it so that I got a plant from Dan Long at Brushwood Nursery in 2014. For a few years, this member of the buttercup family grew in a container on my patio and did quite well pot-bound in a large terra-cotta planter.  My only recommendation if you go this route is to make sure it has a stable trellis.  

Can you see the hot air balloon?

Can you see the hot air balloon?

Once we moved to our house, I relocated it from pot into firmament on the southside of my vegetable patch. The fleshy roots survived the transplanting just fine.  Along the fence I’m building a collection of native and interesting clematis species, and Clematis texensis has started the show by coming into bloom this last part of April. 

 
Clematis texensis climbs up the fence surrounding our vegetable patch.

Clematis texensis climbs up the fence surrounding our vegetable patch.

 

If you don’t have a fence, consider having it grow at the base of an open shrub or tree.  You’ll find that it will clamber up through it with the help of leafy tendrils that will curl around anything these appendages can find. 

Nice crosses have been made with Clematis texensis to produce ‘Duchess of Albany’ and ‘Gravetye Beauty’. I still prefer the pure species, but all three deserve wider use in gardens. That means on your mailbox or anywhere else you see fit.