Muhly by Morning, Muhly by Day

Autumn is a time of swift change in the garden as plants scurry to have their last hoorah before frost, and it is beautiful watching them play with varying environmental factors.  While much of these shifts occur over days or weeks, sometimes only a few hours can make the difference. 

A few years ago I witnessed such change at Chanticleer with Muhlenbergia capillaris on a crisp autumn morning in October. I was back again in the Philadelphia area speaking to a crowd of 600 at the Perennial Plant Conference. Seeing the garden again was a nice comparison because I had just been there that summer for my guest gardening experience (Day 1, Day 2, and Day 3). I was most excited to see the elevated walkway and how it had developed through the season. This part of the garden was where I headed first.

The elevated walkway has a westward facing slope where even if the sun has been up for an hour or two, parts of it can still be shrouded in shadow.  When I approached the overlook, the muhly left me breathless. 

Wow.

The panicles having soaked up the dew from the night now refracted light leaving little pink to be seen.  It was like a fog and reminded me of the milky clouds in the valleys that I've seen so many times driving the Blue Ridge Parkway further south.  And, having other plants like Eryngium yuccifolium and Kniphofia ‘Wet Dream’ emerging through the haze of plumes like otherworldly skyscrapers piercing stratus was a brilliant juxtaposition of plant heights and textures. 

This photograph I took that morning is one of my favorites of all time. It is three main characters with a few supporting cast, and it shows how such simple textures can create a spectacular view in a garden.

I've admired Muhlenbergia capillaris for many years, but this planting was the icing on the cake. I have no memory of seeing muhly grass when I was there earlier that summer. It is no surprise, though. Most of the growing season the plant is lost in the haze of chlorophyll.  But, when it comes into flower, its mist of cotton candy pink becomes a beacon in the landscape and leads every eye towards it. It goes from nobody to a celebrity overnight, and now, everyone wants it.

But, just like fog, the effect burned off later in the day.  I returned close to lunch to find the whole look had changed, and now I saw a totally different planting.  The rose-colored muhly I've known for so long was back after the dew vanished.  The sun was harsher now, and the towering plants blended into the landscape.  

Such experiences remind me that we need to visit our gardens at all times of day during this darkening season. We never know what nature hath wrought for us nor how long these special moments will last.

The same shot but only a few hours later.

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Many of you emailed from my previous posts on Chanticleer about how you enjoyed the photos. Here are some more images from that trip for your viewing pleasure. 

The teacup garden in its autumn exuberance.

Dew glistens on the ovate leaves of Euphorbia cotinifolia

Such a great cool color theme woven with Symphyotrichum, Plectranthus, Stachys, and Nicotiana.

Another part of the garden was warmed by the rising sun basking on red foliage and flowers. What a wonderful effect to echo the colors of summer Ensete in the fall foliage of an Acer palmatum.

The flowery lawn was at its height of color for the year.

Light shimmers through the emergent Verbena bonariensis in the flowery lawn.

Muhly grass acts a foil for Kniphofia ‘Wet Dream’…

…and as a web for the occasional Ascelpias seed.

Echinacea seedheads punctuate the gravel garden.

Liatris elegans erupts out of the gravel garden at Chanticleer.

Another view of muhly, this time on the rock ledge down from the gravel garden. Joe Henderson said he used more here to connect this planting with the elevated walkway and make the garden feel more cohesive.

Even in their fade, the Colchicum in the bulb meadow look good.

Another shot of the fallen Colchicum.

The Sporobolus meadow in its fall color

The old iteration of the cut flower garden looked spectacular during my visit.

Aster tataricus glows against the autumn sun.

Fall Color at Graveyard Fields

I want to share with you one of the best leaf peeping experiences I’ve ever had. Every October while in grad school at NC State, I met my immediate family in the Gatlinburg area for a short reunion since it was halfway for us to drive.  In 2013, we spent four days in Appalachian country for our annual autumn meet up. It was mid-October, too early for peak color, but that didn't keep us from having fun. Sadly, I knew that this trip would probably be our last for a while. I was finishing up my PhD, and to give you a sense of time, I didn’t even know about the opening for my teaching job at SFA yet.

As our great vacation came to an end and we said our goodbyes, I drove off and began to toy with the idea to take the four hour trek back to Asheville through the Smokies and then onto the Blue Ridge Parkway instead of the interstate.  I-40 was a faster trip, but this scenic route offered the potential for more color and more time for autumn-flavored music like Fleet Foxes.  Plus, with the completion of my graduate degree, I wasn't sure when I'd be back again to enjoy the mountains. 

Driving through the Smokies, the color was hit or miss.  It was the same on the parkway for a while until I hit jackpot just south of Asheville. A spectacular view of colorful foliage came out of no where like a childhood game of duck, duck, goose.  Green, green, green, COLOR!!! 

I was ready to jump out of my seat and out of the car; however, a parking spot didn't immediately present itself.  As I passed the valley where the view opened up, I gasped the loudest gasp when I rounded the corner.  "Next pull off, I'm coming back to see that again!" Then, I saw the Graveyard Fields parking lot ahead and realized that I was about to see something even better.

COLOR!!!

For those of you unfamiliar with this part of the Blue Ridge Parkway, Graveyard Fields (milepost 418.8) is a popular spot along the parkway.  While internet sources vary on the origin of the name, one printed reference I found stated a large fire blazed some 25,000 acres in 1925 and left only stumps.  The ghosts of the trees resembled tombstones in a graveyard (Logue et al., 2010).  Now, small trees and scrub dominate.

The pull-off was a flutter with people who like me were hunkering for color in a green world.  As I donned my hiking boots, one lady prepared a canvas for painting while a dozen or so young hikers made preparations for a hefty hike, evidenced by their backpacks and sleeping pads.

After snapping a few—ahem, a lot—of photos in the parking lot, I headed south along the parkway.  The vantage point along the roadside was much better.  

Ah, heaven. After I parked, the clouds came in. It's as if their hands of vapor were reaching down to give the performing flora high fives.

The best thing about images like these is the zoom function called trails, and whether worn or blazed anew, they offer the photographer and the gardener the chance to step out from behind the camera and go see every living pixel to comprehend the picture's underlying composition.

So, I zoomed to zoom in.  Time was short since it was late afternoon, but I made it far enough along the trail to feel immersed in this beautiful creation.  Sorbus and Acer species provided towers of color while the lower cover was ablaze with Vaccinium and Viburnum. 

Color at every layer in the landscape on this bend in the trail.

The trail through Graveyard Fields.

Another perspective of the trail.

Here you see some taller Viburnum growing out of the scrub. Note the darker purple foliage and the bluish fruit in the bottom right.

Condensation droops on the blue drupes of Viburnum nudum.

If you’re curious about the red, here is a closeup of the ember-colored foliage of Vaccinium constablaei. Thanks to renown blueberry expert Dr. Jim Ballington for the id.

Each blueberry plant was like a pixel of color in the sheet of red in the larger image I took from the parking lot.

I think this trip was the first time I really recognized that Vaccinium could have such good fall color. You can also see a faded Solidago piercing through the red.

Scattered about were also a few Cratageus with their fruit colored in their autumn regalia.

As I walked around, I soaked in as much as I could before the trip home.  I recall thinking multiple times on this venture that if everyone could see this sight, they would all be naturalists or gardeners.  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.

I asked myself how can we as gardeners reproduce vistas like Graveyard Fields?  What really made the view was diversity and repetition of that diversity.  We can mass low shrubs like blueberries, scatter in a few herbaceous plants to rise up out of it and carpet the ground, and then put in a few trees for color.

Sadly, I had to leave and return to the car to finish my five hour journey back to Raleigh. But, I left so full of wonder and awe. I'm constantly amazed at how when I go into these natural places in the world how much of an impression they leave on me.  And, I can’t wait to visit again.

The trail continued, but this point is where I stopped. The sun was setting, and I had miles to go.

One last look at Graveyard Fields.

Literature Cited

Logue, F. V. Logue, and N. Blouin.  2010.  Guide to the Blue Ridge Parkway, 3rd ed.  Mensha Ridge Press, Birmingham, AL.

Cajun Prairie

“I think there’s a prairie in Eunice,” Dawn Stover said as we drove past a sign indicating the Louisiana town a few miles ahead.

I replied, “Oh, really,” as I pulled out my phone to access Google maps to investigate.  Sure enough, just north of town I found a large swath of green with the label Cajun Prairie.

It was last fall, October 2019. We were on our way back to Nacogdoches from the International Plant Propagators’ Society-Southern Region meeting in Louisiana, Dawn and I upfront and Dawn’s greenhouse technician Jordan Cunningham was in the back.  “I’m fine to stop if y’all are,” I said.  Both agreed, and I plotted a course.  

At first, we unknowingly drove past the main ten-acre prairie.  GPS took us to a random spot in the road, and we kept driving to scope out the site.  North of the prairie, we found a gravel parking lot at a granary that we parked in off to the side.  We hopped out and immediately started fending off giant mosquitoes.  Well, I worse than Dawn and Jordan because I was sporting shorts.  So, I shimmied some jeans on over the shorts and the bloodsucking ceased.  But, such a trivial annoyance was worth it to see the field of yellow Helianthus and Solidago swaying in the breeze.  

An 18-wheeler that needed to pull in where we were forced us back in the car, and we drove back to the south side of the prairie and found the parking lot for the main entrance.  Here, we could see a narrow concrete path led off in both directions to allow visitors solid ground to enjoy the ecology.  It ended up being a rectangle walk around the whole area so that visitors could fully appreciate the site.

Saccharum flower heads bend in the breeze

A spot to sit and enjoy the cajun prairie.

The prairie was magical and wild on that cool, autumn day.  The colors were spectacular for fall with flowers and foliage across the field glowing under the drab sky. 

An incredible mix of forbs in the cajun prairie

What a view those houses have in the distance.

Kneeling down, you immerse yourself in the prairie and see a different perspective.

I saw many flora friends like Pycnanthemum tenufolium, Helianthus angustifolius, Arnoglossum ovatum, and Liatris pycnostachya.  I delighted in the color echos between the plant life and the urban sprawl.  There was the russet Schizachryium and the rusted granary roof, the white outbuildings and the ivory petals on Hibiscus moscheutos.  

What a color echo between the grass and the roof.

The petals on Hibiscus moscheutos shines bright white against the prairie.

A late Arnoglossum ovatum stands above the prairie

I always love getting in close and seeing the intricate detail of Arnoglossum flowers.

One species that composed the prairie tapestry that deserves wider use was Hyptis alata (clustered bushmint).  The plant reminds me of Eryngium yuccifolium with the orb inflorescences, but unlike rattlesnake master that clusters the flowers at the top, here the spheres are scattered up and down the stem and look like lollypops with their peduncles.  While I have a few plants at home, seeing them in habitat gave me ideas about how to intermingle them with wispy grasses.  

Hyptis alata tended to be grouped together in the prairie, likely because it sows itself nearby.

Another photograph of Hyptis paired with Schizachyrium, Helianthus, Solidago, and more.

I was also delighted to see the glaucous blades of Carex flaccosperma (or glaucodea, I can’t tell them apart this time of year) growing in the understory of this prairie jungle.  I have long suspected that these twelve-inch tall Carex species that thrive in varying light levels in my yard could grow underneath forbs as a matrix layer, and here it was doing just that in a cajun prairie in central Louisiana.  

Carex flaccosperma (or glaucodea) hiding on the ground plain under the taller perennials.

One new plant that I learned and suspect could be very useful in southern naturalistic plantings was Chromolaena ivifolia, ivyleaf thoroughwort.  Resembling a Conoclinium coelestinum (blue mistflower) on steroids, it tops out around 3–4 ft tall. We had seen it just days earlier near a bridge on our way to Baton Rouge, and here it was again.  The flowers were a rich sky blue, and in their fade they turn dark brown and appear as floating freckles on the golden face of the prairie.  

Such a beautiful blue flower on Chromolaena ivifolia that also contrasted well with the yellows from Helianthus and Solidago.

Even the spent flowers of Chromolaena ivifolia were ornamental when they turned dark brown.

It was interesting to note that no growth was over our heads.  Near the base of some plants I noticed what appeared regrowth from a cut as well as tractor treads that should have been long gone.  I wondered if this prairie had been mowed sometime earlier in summer, and I’d love to talk with those who maintain it to learn if that’s correct. Another observation supporting my hypothesis was how late the Hyptis and Liatris were blooming.  Both were already setting seed at my house back in Texas, yet here they were in full bloom.    

Having soaked in as much of the cajun prairie as we could, we headed back to the car to return home.  I thought cajun prairie was just a label, but after reading more about these ecosystems I’ve learned they are unique and different.  

What we saw today was a recreated remnant, planted back in 1988 by volunteers and those that wanted to share what much of the southeast used to resemble before we humans came along.   I admire the efforts of all those who helped to create this prairie as a lasting vision. Visiting it was great mental fodder as I continue my search for flora to use in naturalistic plantings in the southeast US.  

One last look at the cajun prairie in Eunice, Louisiana.

Rayless Sunflower

It has been a glorious weekend here in east Texas. For the first time in months our temperature dipped below 70F yesterday, and then Sunday morning, the thermometer registered 59F. I adore days like these where a chill hangs in the air.

The return of fall and the arrival of cooler temperatures and rain revitalizes the garden. After months of watching plants struggle, it is so nice to see them perking up and many fall performers beginning their show. One species that is becoming a favorite of mine for autumn is rayless sunflower.

I first saw it on Instagram a few years ago when Andrea England posted a picture of it in a shortgrass prairie in her suburban meadow. At first, I thought I was seeing just spent flowers and seedheads. However, after some sleuthing I realized that this photo was the rayless sunflower in bloom with its black licorice colored disks held on acid green stems. With a brief review of flower morphology, you can see where rayless sunflower gets its name. Many Asteraceae family members have a head inflorescence with two types of flowers, rays that comprised the outer row of colorful “petals” and the inner disks that form the bulk of the flower. The reason the flowers have their orb-like appearance is because they are largely absent of any rays.

The flowers of Helianthus radula emerge in autumn and are a wonderful companion to the ghostly colored Liatris elegans.

What a novelty in the plant world! I was intrigued. I contacted her offering to trade some seed, and soon I had an envelope ready to sow. Seeds germinated quickly, and I transplanted them into a sandy spot since they are native to the gulf coast. They have the most interesting foliage. For much of the growing season their orbicular leaves hugged the ground until the crowns began to elongate later in the summer. And, then out of nowhere these antennae-looking flowers pierced through the fray of grasses and forbs in my garden and attracted pollinators. I was delighted. And, the seedheads stood through wind and rain with very few bending over. Even into the winter, the seedheads were persistent until the spring mowing, although I will add a few were decimated by the birds as these frugivores foraged.

This year is the second that it has been growing in my garden, and there are even more flowers. I haven’t discerned yet if this plant is a reseeding annual or perennial, but either way it is delightful. I should know in the next few years. They are planted in a bed near our driveway, and I’ve noticed the shadows the circular flowers cast on the blacktop when the sun is at an angle in the sky. I really like to pair it with white flowers or those that have hints of white, and the strong texture pops with the more fine textured grasses.

One last note. Jenks Farmer argued that this plant needs a better name. I agree since rayless seems to hint that there is something lacking to this plant. Perhaps button sunflower or lollypop sunflower, something, really anything to better convey how wonderful this plant is.

A closeup of Helianthus radula flowers

Late Summer in the Green Swamp

Tromping through a place titled the Green Swamp Preserve in late summer in North Carolina might not sound appealing.  I don’t know what is the greater deterrent, the mental conjurings of a swamp, heat and humidity, or biting insects that are certain to plague visitors at that time of year. 

But, when I visited in 2012, it was in the mid-seventies and overcast, and instead of finding swarms of biting insects or even a single tick, I found a plethora of late summer wildflowers in bloom and at their prime.  This place wasn’t a swamp. It was a garden of Eden.

The Green Swamp is named not because of the quicksand we’ve seen in the movies but instead for the pocosins found scattered about in the longleaf pine (Pinus palustris) savanna. A pocosin, named by the Algonquian Native Americans for a “swamp on a hill,” are wetlands that are elevated above the surrounding ground due to a build up of organic matter. This habitat is unique and the World Wildlife Fund has designated this area one of the top ten ecoregions in North America. Noteworthy also is the longleaf pine savanna; their range is much larger as longleaf pines once occupied 90 million acres from east Texas all the way around the gulf coast to Virginia. However, now only 5% of this habitat remains. But, thanks to The Nature Conservancy, approximately 15,000 acres were preserved here in the Green Swamp in North Carolina in the 1970’s and 1980’s for those of use who like to wander looking at wildflowers. And, I must say that standing it this longleaf pine cathedral with wiregrass (Aristida) floor tiled occasionally with orchids, carnivorous plants, and other wildflowers was an incredible experience.

I trekked to the Green Swamp because of Flickr.  Some great photos I had seen online had spurred me into visiting this area.  And, then by a fun coincidence, I ran into one of my Flickr friends in the parking lot who I had never met in person!  The connection was made when we exchanged greetings, discussed the flora of the area, and then made introductions.  I knew the name Skip Pudney sounded familiar, and sure enough, he was in my Flickr contacts.  It was wonderful serendipity running into him because he gave me advice on where to look for flowers. Skip told me that the Big Island Savanna, named for the large island of grassy habitat, was the best he had seen it in his 8 years of visiting.  He noted The Nature Conservancy had burned it the past two years.  Fire is essential for many species that can quickly be outcompeted by the scrub. Therefore, perhaps the burning was a factor contributing to this year’s great bloom?

The beautiful longleaf pine savanna. Notice the dark black burn scars on the trees from previous years.

From Skip’s advice, I first ventured back along the trail to find carnivorous plants. The Green Swamp is home to several of them. Venus fly traps (Dionaea muscipula) were one of the highlights from the day. This fascinating species not only has captured insects but also the minds of young and old over the years. Even those who show little interest in plants perk up when they hear about Venus fly traps. And, they don’t hail from far away lands. No, they are endemic to a 100-mile radius around Wilmington, NC. The traps technically are modified leaves. If two or more hairs are touched in succession, then the leaf will close and trap an insect.

My first encounter with Venus fly trap (Dionaea muscipula) in the wild!

On this adventure I also saw Sarracenia for the first time in the wild! Sarracenia flava was scattered about in the wiregrass savanna, and this yellow pitcher plant is one of the tallest in North America. Most were tattered after the summer, but some were producing new pitchers for fall.

A few new pitchers on Sarracenia flava are popping up out of the grass.

Even the tattered foliage and flowers of yellow pitcher plants (Sarracenia flava) looked admirably rustic.

The Green Swamp is also well known for being home to native terrestrial orchids, and I timed it just right to see three of the late-summer flowering orchids in bloom. In decreasing order of fringe, I saw Platanthera ciliaris, Platanthera cristata, and Platanthera integra. While all three were beautiful, my favorite was of course Platanthera ciliaris. It was very showy with its large orange flowers with the frills. And, I loved seeing the gradation from bloom to bud on this indeterminate inflorescence.

Platanthera ciliaris (orange-fringed orchid) dotted the landscape.

A close up of the delicate Platanthera ciliaris flowers.

Platanthera cristata had a little less fringe but was still lovely to see.

As the name suggests, the yellow fringeless orchid, Platanthera integra, has no frills on the lower petal. The epithet integra means entire or undivided.

Scattered amongst the wiregrass were other colorful delights like the bronzing foliage of cinnamon fern (Osmundastrum cinnamomeum) and fire-engine red petals of Lilium catesbaei.

I had never seen cinnamon fern have such good late summer color. Of course, it gets better. Check out Alan Cressler’s photo of it in November.

An opening pine lily’s (Lilium catesbaei) red petals lick like flames against wiregrass.

Here’s a Lilium catesbaei that’s a bit further along. You can see the pollen dehiscing.

Eventually I made it to a back area that was wetter, and I discovered what I like to call a milky way of blazing stars. There must have been thousands of plants in bloom here along a 500 foot stretch near the edge habitat. And, scattered amongst them were other noteworthy wildflowers.

Just look at how the purple fades into the upper right of this image. These Liatris pilosa went on and on.

Grassleaf blazing star (Liatris pilosa) made this a purple milky way.

Grassleaf Barbara’s buttons (Marshallia graminifolia) was one of my goals to see for the trip, and I was happy to see it in abundance.

I believe these Marshallia have garden merit. I just love their pinwheel galaxy appearance.

As the Liatris became more sparse, the rush featherling (Pleea tenuifolia)—and don’t you just love the common name—became more prevalent.

A close up of Pleea tenuifolia in flower

Another species I added to my wishlist to grow one day was Zigadenus glaberrimus or the sandbog death camas. They had these beautiful and persistant tepals.

I know I talked about carnivorous plants earlier, but I think this trip was also the first time in my horticulture career that I realized that flowers could be used as lures by predatory insects. I saw multiple examples throughout the day of predators waiting to ambush a pollinator.

Seems I'm not the only one admiring this yellow fringed orchid (Platanthera ciliaris). A praying mantis hangs on the fringe, undoubtedly waiting for some flying prey to come along.

Don’t mind me. I’m just waiting for dinner.

Grassleaf Barbara’s buttons makes a great stakeout spot for Carolina anole (Anolis carolinensis).

I returned to my car after seeing yet another great example of southeastern flora and a habitat that deserves to be revered more. I know that organizations are working to restore these habitats, and after seeing the diversity of plants in the Green Swamp, I wholeheartedly welcome such efforts.

A Lovely Aster

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I love asters. Their flowers beckon fall and provide a breath of fresh air after the sun has baked the garden for much of summer. I hope one day to have a decent collection of them here in east Texas. I’ve already realized that some gaudy selections don’t fare too well for us, and I’ve begun turning to lesser known types for my garden.

One is Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’. This calico aster has been blooming in the garden since mid-August and is one of my first asters to bloom.  I bought it when we first moved to the house three years ago from Digging Dog Nursery in an effort to start evaluating new-to-me perennials.  

Other plants in my trial bed are showing wear and tear from the summer, but ‘White Lovely’ Symphyotrichum lateriflorum erupts with gossamer blooms.

Throughout the growing season it is barely noticed with its green shroud of clean, thin foliage.   But, when it blooms it imbues the essence of flowering froth as thousands of dainty white flowers cover the plant for several weeks.  I can quickly see how massing these would create a haze surrounding taller perennials.  It is short, perhaps topping out under three feet.

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ highlighted with the morning dew and the first rays of sunrise. Here you can see how the plant blooms laterally or one one side, hence the lateriflorum epithet.

Allan Armitage stated in both his treatise Herbaceous Perennial Plants and Armitage's Native Plants for North American Gardens that this species doesn’t typically perform well south of Zone 6 or 7, which is odd because it is native from Canada to the gulf. But, my experience says otherwise. Some blasted rodent decided to enjoy the root system as a snack last spring. I divided it into three plants, and they were set back into good contact with soil.  If it can survive that and still look good after our summers, it is a winner in my book.

Right now, they are planted next to Pycnanthemum tenuifolium in a bed that started as a holding ground for plants in containers and trial material.  I quite like the pairing.  There is a silvery-white color echo, and the airiness of the aster flowers and the remaining circular seed heads of the mountain mint go well together. 

One final note. The story of ‘White Lovely’ is a bit of an enigma to me. How could such a great plant not have more information available about it? I searched to learn about its origin and only learned that it is likely a sport from ‘Lovely’, a more purple form of the species.  But, I can’t even find much on ‘Lovely’. So, if you know more, drop me a line. This great aster deserves to be known and grown.

I particularly like this happenstance pairing of Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ with the fading Pycnanthemum tenuifolium.

Building a Bog

As I’ve written before, I’ve been bitten by the carnivorous plant bug since moving to Texas.  Thanks to Jevon, one of my students, I feel like I’ve finally gotten a grasp on how to grow them.  For the past couple of years, I’ve had them growing in containers in shallows tubs of water, which has been nice, but a pain in some ways due to having to monitor the water levels.   This summer, I’ve wanted to create something more permanent for them.  Thus, I went the route of building a carnivorous plant bog.  

I talked to Jevon prior to building it for some advice.  The bog is approximately 3 × 8 ft, and 12 inches high.  Jevon gave me the advice to not make the bog too wide or you can’t cultivate the middle very easily since the soil inside is very spongy.  One step in and my foot would sink.  Another consideration was to site it above the ground or in the ground.  I decided to build the bog above ground because 1) it would be much easier, and 2) nearby trees might mean I would damage roots.    

The bog box is built!

After I made the box and leveled it on the site, I got a 7 × 10 ft pond liner sheet and lined the box. I found that since the liner was folded up into a 1 x 1 ft sheet in the package, it made it really easy to visualize a grid over the box and make sure that I had it on right.  I will say that if I had to do it again, I would try to pull it so that one edge lines up with the box edge so that I can try to salvage some of the sheet for other projects.  I then fitted the liner to the box and crimped it down in the corners.  

Here you can see the 1 × 1 ft grid in the liner.

The liner is now fitted to the box.

After that, I began to mix my sand and peat moss mixture.  I ended up doing a 40% sand : 60% peat moss mixture.  Most resources recommend a 50/50 mix, but to try to reduce the number of sand bags I bought, I went with my ratio.  The sand bags were 0.5 cu ft and the peat moss was 3 cu ft, so I did sixteen bags of sand to four bags of peat.  I then mixed them in the bed of my truck 

I mixed the sand and peat moss in the back of my truck. You can see them separate here…

…and blended together here. I tried to break up the clumps of peat as I went along.

I then started filling the bog with the substrate and watered it with every wheelbarrow load.  Peat moss is very hydrophobic and hard to wet; therefore, I didn’t want to wait until the end to try to moisten it all.  

Filling the bog with substrate and watering it in

When I got to the height where I was about the height of a gallon pot rootball away from the top, I stopped and I placed my carnivorous plants out how I wanted.  That way to plant them I would save excavating the substrate, and I could just place it around the plants.  Even though this bog bed is going to be for propagating and breeding plants, I decided to do a somewhat random planting with taller forms to the side and back and shorter ones to the front center of the bed.

The pots are placed! If you look closely, you might see a few other species like Lilium iridollae mixed in with the carnivorous plants.

Once I had them where I wanted, it was planting time.  I had topped my pots with live Sphagnum to help reduce weed growth in the pots, and with it flourishing, I had to rip some off the edges to be able to plant my carnivorous plants.  I saved this moss till the end to top the substrate in the bog.  

I removed the gallon pots.  One thing I’ll note here is that some of the carnivorous plants didn’t have roots all the way to the bottom of the pot, and that soil just fell out.  I think that is due to the fact that I keep them in shallow trays of water for growing up to this point.  And, while I tried to make sure they were never very deep in water, the water levels would shift over the growing season.  My guess is the roots grew to the water table and stopped there.  That is part of the reason I wanted to create this garden so that the plants have more root space to grow.  In the future if I have to have some in these shallow pools of water, I will make sure I let them dry out more between waterings.  

Once all of them were out of their pots, in place, and I did a quick design check by imagining what they’d look like when grown, I filled in around them with the substrate while double checking that the rhizomes and buds were at least at the level of the top of the bog so that they didn’t get buried.  I then went back between the plants and plugged the live Sphagnum so that it can begin to grow and cover the ground.  

I decided to let the bog settle for a couple of days before I trimmed the liner to the wood edge. I didn’t want to cut it and then the liner fall too far below the box lip with substrate settling and water accumulation.  I watered everything in well, and then lightly watered over the next week.  On watering, I’ll note that our water here is pretty pure with not a lot of carbonates or nutrients in it.  It’s what I’ve been using on them for the past two years, and I haven't seen any major issues with it.  

The bog finished and thriving! I’m so pleased with how it turned out!

Just after I planted the bog, we got an inch of rainfall which was glorious.  Some high wind knocked some pitchers over.  The first time that ever happened, I was crushed, but growing these I’ve learned not to fret because they will be pushing new pitchers soon.  Plus, you can then cut them off and use them in beautiful flower arrangements.  Yet another amazing application of these amazing plants.  

Should Sarracenia ever blow over, they make great cut flowers for bouquets!

It’s now been a few weeks, and my bog garden is thriving.  Mind you, I planted them on one of the hottest days of the year, and I’m thrilled the plants are doing well.  Most plants are settling into their new home and putting on new shoots.  I can’t wait to see what all surprises my bog garden has in store.  

A close up of Sarracenia × ‘Dixie Lace’ showing the incredible venation possible on pitcher plants. Notice the new shoots near the base, which indicates it likes its new bog home.

Rain Lilies and Hawkmoths

I witnessed the most amazing spectacle in the garden one evening.  I had just finished transplanting a few perennials when I noticed some flying crepuscular creature darting around in my garden patch.  Against the waning twilight of late summer, I could see that it first appeared to be the size of a small bird, but it wasn’t flying smoothly like our avian friends typically do.  No, it had more jerky movements like a grasshopper. And, it was coming my way.

It flew to five feet behind me.  Whirling around, I saw it start to hover and steady itself above the rain lilies that had just opened from the soaking five days prior.  I stood and watched the beautiful dance between hawkmoth and salverform flower.  Flying about six inches above the plant, it prodded and probed to find the entrance, almost like when you try to plug an electrical outlet into the wall in the dark.   

And, then the second surprise of the evening came.  It descended towards the flower to barely an inch above the petals.  The nectary and ovaries were really that deep?!  Wow, I had never noticed that!  I didn’t grow up with Cooperia drummondii (aka Zephyranthes chlorosolen) in west Tennessee, and after transplanting a few last year into my garden, this time was the first I’ve watched them be pollinated.

Finally, it hit me to pull out my phone and record the spectacle.  I watched as it went from flower to flower to flower repeating the same pattern.  The search for the tube, the dive in, and the move on.   I noticed with this first round of feeding the hawkmoth took its time, perhaps spending 15 to 20 seconds or so per flower.  And, the wings and proboscis were so powerful they were moving the surrounding flowers. 

After the hawkmoth had perused the line of Cooperia, it flew off to another white flower in the garden that wasn’t a rain lily as it soon discovered.  As I gathered my tools, I noticed it then returned for a second round, but this time the visit at each flower was only a few seconds.  I suppose the first pass it had drunk the flowers dry.  It flew off into the night, and I headed inside to try to ascertain which hawkmoth friend I had just made.

To my surprise, I learned it was the adult form of the tomato hornworm, the five-spotted hawkmoth. Even though I detest their destructive habits on my tomatoes, I suppose I could start leaving one or two to enjoy the fall feeding frenzy on rain lilies.

Cooperia drummondii flowering approximately five days after a rain. If you look at the bottom of the photo and follow the scape up, you’ll see the ovary where the green fades to brown.

A few weeks later, the seed heads rupture. I collect seed and scatter it to make more plants. If you look closely at the immature ovaries, you can see the wilting tube attached at the top through which the hawkmoth’s proboscis would have descended.

Seems hawkmoths aren’t the only insect that likes to pause at rain lilies.

Presto, It's Pesto!

Most of our summer garden is winding down due to the insufferable heat and lack of rain. But, the basil has been growing gangbusters through it. Karen and I have been making pesto this summer with an abundance of foliage from cultivars like ‘Dolce Fresca’ and ‘Aroma 2’. It is delicious for dips with pita chips or Italian bread, as a sauce in paninis, and as a melt-in-your-mouth topping on grilled steak. Of course, the question is how do you capture this essence of summer? We prefer to freeze it for use later in the year.

Basil, wet from the morning dew. Cutting it frequently for pesto results in plants that are more bushy. Even if it gets out of hand and flowers, don’t be afraid to cut it back hard.

I use the New York Times recipe and have copied and pasted it below for your convenience along with some helpful notes. The big difference from their recipe is how I store it frozen.

INGREDIENTS

2 cups fresh basil leaves (no stems)

2 tablespoons pine nuts or walnuts

2 large cloves garlic

½ cup extra-virgin olive oil

½ cup freshly grated parmesan cheese

Basil cut and brought in from the garden. I try to get it before flowering, but even if the plant has bloomed, leaves can still be used. I prefer to process it soon after cutting. I’ve placed it in the fridge before, but it developed black spots on the leaves from the cold temperature.

I rip the leaves off the cut stems. Usually, lower leaves have some blemishes and yellowing on them, so I don’t use those. Also, in the process of riping leaves off the stems, some will be bruised and turn a little dark.

I put the leaves through two or three washes of water in the sink, and dry them off. Next, I process them through the food processor. After running the food processor, I always find that some leaf petioles and plant roughage is left on top, and I scrape that off the blade. Next, I put in the garlic, walnuts, olive oil, and cheese. I then transfer it to a cookie sheet or 9 × 13 pan for freezing.

The final product after running everything through the food processor and spreading it out on a cookie sheet with parchment paper. This batch is from six cups of basil or triple the above recipe.

And, this step is where my recipe deviates a bit from the New York Times because I freeze the basil in sheets and then cut it or break it up. I find that trying to get it in ice cubes is cumbersome, and this process is fast and easy. I freeze the pesto in the freezer over night and cut it the next morning. Then, when we need it, we can pull out the perfect amounts and heat it up. Having it cut into similar-sized shapes helps us gauge how much we need for recipes.

Voilà! Pesto brownies! Now, we can easily choose how much of a portion to make.

So, with all that basil you have left in your garden, consider making some pesto with it. No matter the time of year, pesto is a flavorful addition to many dishes, and freezing extends the enjoyment of the harvest.

Meeting my Hero, Eliot Coleman

It is said that you should never meet your hero.  I disagree.  

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This story starts with a book I found in Barnes and Noble back in 2002.  I was 16, and my family and I were shopping in one of the neighboring towns near Memphis, Tennessee. The only reason I know how old I was is because I actually scribbled, “Bought June 2002,” inside the front cover.

I found the gardening section way off in a back corner of the store. Which, let’s be honest, that is usually where that section is stuck.  I was scanning the titles on bindings when near the bottom of a case, four words caught my eye.  The New Organic Grower.  It was written by some guy I’d never heard of named Eliot Coleman.  I remember it being a hefty book, so I pulled it from the shelf and began to scan the pages.  After flipping through it and seeing the incredible detail inside, I thought, “I’ve been looking for this book my whole life."

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Of course, now that I’m in my thirties I chuckle thinking I had that thought almost 20 years ago. Maybe it went through my mind because I had been gardening for over ten years already from the young age of five? (A fun aside, this summer marks my thirtieth year tending the soil and growing plants in some form or fashion).  My parents worked days, and they dropped us off at my great-grandfather’s house where he and my grandmother (Granny) lived.  Mom called him Granddad since that’s what he was to her, and that name stuck for me, too.

Granddad would inevitably go out and work in his garden, and I looking for something to do would follow him.  The memories are a bit of a haze.  The strongest is me following his Troy-Bilt tiller and smoothing our footsteps out with a rake.  I also remember his strawberry patch where he’d renovate a row every year, and his okra, but I never went near it because Granny said it would itch us.  And, I remember his tomatoes and tomato cages made from concrete reinforcing wire.  One year, when I really got into gardening, he created a small spot for me to grow some things.  I grew a two pound tomato that year.  For me it was no longer just something to do. I was hooked, and it was thanks to him.

Granddad passed away when I was 13.  I remember it being cold and windy standing out in the graveyard.  Granny offered to let me keep working Granddad’s garden.  She knew I loved growing plants, and she probably wanted some company, too.  We didn’t really have a good location at our house. My parents had let me try at home, but the only sunny area was between two black walnut trees.  Now, I know about allelopathy, but then I didn’t know why my home garden struggled so much as a kid.  So, Granddad’s garden became my sandbox for trying out new ideas for growing plants.  

But, with Granddad’s death, my source of knowledge and information about how to garden that I had relied on was gone.  I’ve always had this pursuit of figuring out which way is the best way.  I don’t know if it is genetic or if my parent’s taught me to think that way. I realize now that there can be many “best” ways to approach something.  But, as a kid, I wanted to have the best garden.  I had this idea of gardening in harmony with earth. So, I started reading gardening books. Enter The New Organic Grower.

If you don’t know much about him, Eliot Coleman is considered by many to be one of the top leaders and pioneers for the organic movement in the United States, and The New Organic Grower is a testament to his work. Eliot’s book helped me learn to think as a young horticulturist.  It was the science, wisdom, and experience of good growing, and I loved his approach to trying new things.  The chapter he wrote titled “Pests?” was eye opening and well researched.  He asked the question what if diseases and insects aren’t problems but messengers that something is wrong with plant production?  Eliot also wrote about developing new equipment and technologies like the collinear hoe, a tool I use all the time in my garden, and movable greenhouses. His stories and guidance about how to grow plants in winter astounded me. I never wanted the gardening season to end in Tennessee, and here was a guy growing fresh produce during the winter in Maine!  If he could, I could. I started building cold frames and low tunnels covered with plastic. And, I learned about attention to detail with growing plants, one of his central beliefs a steward of the land should hold and practice and how stacking small benefits he called one percenters could lead to cumulative gains in plant growth.

I read that whole book—probably at least twice—about his experiments and methods at Four Season Farm and carried it with me into the garden so many times that the edges and pages are still smudged with soil.  My parents continued to feed my learning by getting me Eliot’s Four Season Harvest and two long VHS videos of him giving presentations.  We even taped his show Gardening Naturally. I was officially a fan.  

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I always wanted to go visit Four Season Farm to meet Eliot.  As I rose in the ranks of horticulture, I would occasionally cross paths with someone who knew him or had visited the farm, which made me feel that one day it would be possible to venture north.  

In 2012 when the Perennial Plant Association met in Boston, I realized I could do an overnight trip at the end of the conference up to visit Eliot Coleman’s farm in Maine!  The website stated that he could not promise to be there for visitors. I hedged my bet that in case he was not there the first day I could catch him on the way back.

I left early that Monday morning.  It was a five hour drive north from Boston through some of the most beautiful, midsummer country.  Eventually, I turned back south toward Cape Rosier where the farm was located.  I pulled into the driveway at the Four Season Farm sign.  I was surprised just how close the farm was to the ocean. 

Giddy giddy!

I pulled up and parked at the farm stand surrounded by beautiful perennials.  I spotted Eliot off to the side working with a guy on a bush hog.  At first I was hesitant to speak with him because I did not want to disturb him, but the girl at the farm stand counter told me that he loved to talk with visitors. So, with that knowledge (and the thought, “Dude, you’ve travelled almost 1,000 miles to see this place…”), I ventured over and introduced myself to him and his friend Mark. I said that I didn’t want to interrupt his work, but I was wondering if I could chat with him for a bit.  

He said that he would talk while they fixed the mower.  He asked how I got into this crazy profession while he knelt over the contraption, and I told him about my great-grandfather.  When I told him about me reading his books when I was 16, he said, “Oh, you are definitely crazy.”  Mark said, “Or, a serial killer,” as he shifted his tools.  I laughed, and they did, too.  

Eliot told me his story about growing plants being an adventure that never ends.  He shared with me his passion to learn, which was inspiring, and his love for reading the research journals.  Eliot asked about my research, and I told him about my work on growing substrate and nutrition.  He talked about the soil and said that he used soil blocks to grow plants. He alluded to his reverence for mother nature and discussed how her systems are amazing if we will just let her work.  

His wife Barbara came out at one point, and they stepped aside to have a conversation.  I said goodbye after they were finished and asked for a photo.  He was so welcoming, and it was amazing to me to see how much he reminded me of my own great-grandfather. He invited me to walk around the farm and take photographs. Here’s a few for your enjoyment.

Wouldn’t you want to stop at such a lovely place and purchase your produce?

Inside the Four Season Farm stand is beautiful produce and clear labelling that welcomes customers.

A shot of the production fields at Four Season Farm

Note the tidy spacing between these onion transplants

They even had some cut flowers like Zinnia off to the side

One of Eliot Coleman’s practices is succession sowing. You can see in this image the even progression of crop age from recently sowed on the right to older plants on the left.

One amazing thing I learned from reading Eliot’s books was that greenhouses could be on wheels! The greenhouse in the distance can be moved down the length of this bed on the pipes. So, one greenhouse can now cover more space. Anchors hold the structure down.

Where this house currently sits are crops that like warmer weather like cucumbers. After these crops peter out, this greenhouse on wheels can be moved further down the field to cover late season crops that need additional protection.

A beautiful planting of leeks

In The New Organic Grower, Eliot details how to effectively market your produce. These seasonal salad boxes are recognized by his customers in local stores.

Young lettuce transplants spaced out in the beds.

This greenhouse was one of the permanent structures on the site. The tomatoes and cucumbers look lovely.

I can say from experience that these tomatoes were delicious!

After I walked around the farm, I stopped back by the produce stand and bought a pound of cherry tomatoes for the road and two large ones for breakfast the next morning.  I left, full from marking an item off my bucket list and filling up on delicious delights from his farm.  It was wonderful meeting one of my horticulture heroes and seeing Four Season Farm.  

That trip was eight summers ago. I still practice things I learned from reading his books to this day, and I’m so thankful to have yet another individual in the world of horticulture who is willing to share his time and expertise to inspire us all. So, thank you Eliot Coleman for being a hero and inspiration to so many gardeners, even those of us who were once 16 years old sitting on the floor in a bookstore and green as ever to all that this incredible plant life could hold. I agree, it is certainly an adventure that never ends.