Dipping into Baptisia

If I were forced to choose a favorite herbaceous perennial genus of all time, it would be Baptisia. I'm a fan of all the species, and I do hope one day to have them all growing here at my house. I even love the hybrids, some of which occur naturally where ranges overlap.

But, why Baptisia? I think of the many perennials we have in our gardens, it is one of the few that truly offers four season interest. They erupt out of the ground in early spring with their asparagus-like shoots that soon fill with trifoliate, clean foliage. Then, like a colorful, slow moving comet with long tails the inflorescences rise with dozens or even hundreds of flowers present on them. And, I do adore the classic papilionaceous flowers of Baptisia, their banner, wings, and keel that greet pollinators. Bees push against the keel to help get access to the nectar, and that force lowers this fused petal to expose the stamens and pistils. (You can mimic this act by pulling down on the keel to see the stamens.) In a beautiful example of co-evolution, lower flowers that are mostly female are preferred because they have higher nectar rewards. Bees will then move towards the higher flowers on the same inflorescence, which tend to be more male and have copious pollen. When they move to the next flower, they then carry fresh pollen to increase the chances of crossing with the nectar-rich, female flowers of another plant. Once flowers are pollinated they swell into bloated green pods that contain seed. These eventually turn black, and the seeds dehisce, which creates a rattle that even Native American children used for entertainment. These pods will often remain through the winter, held high on the inflorescences that were full of blooms over half a year ago.

But, there's more to this wonderful native. One of the things I love most about the taller Baptisia australis and Baptisia alba is their height early in the season that allows me to create layers in plantings. Tall herbaceous plants are rare in early spring, but their quick emergence puts them in a unique category. Deer tend to avoid them (note the word *tend to* there). Baptisia overall are very drought tolerant, partly because their tap roots grow deep. Wild indigos are also all nitrogen fixers and thus help to enrich the soil in which they grow. I’ve already discussed the interplay between Baptisia and bees, but I can’t forget that some butterflies even host on them. And, for cut flower enthusiasts, they perform well in a vase. I regularly have cuttings last a week for me.

There's also much story and history with this plant. They are called wild indigos because members of this genus was used as a dye by Native Americans and then colonists. In fact, Baptisia comes from the Greek bapto meaning “to dip” or “to dye.” Allan Armitage in Herbaceous Perennial Plants stated that back in the 1700's, indigo was derived from Indigofera, but diminished supply caused the English government to ask farmers in the southeast US to grow wild indigo. Thus, Baptisia became one of the first crops to be subsidized by a government. Evidently the process was challenging, and that's why this species is grown more for its ornamental and ecological purposes rather than coloring textiles.

Look closely at the flowers and you can see the upper banner, the wings, and the mostly hidden keel on the flowers of Baptisia alba.

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Growing up, I didn't have Baptisia around me in Tennessee. I would see it in nurseries, and really Baptisia australis was all I knew. But, several years ago right after moving to Texas, I was delighted to discover Baptisia do grow wild here. While the less showy stem mound Baptisia nuttalliana is the most prevalent, I have been able to find Baptisia alba, Baptisia bracteata, and Baptisia sphaerocarpa in the wild. And, I hope to soon see Baptisia australis in north Texas.

Of the three I’ve encountered, I have most welcomed Baptisia alba into my garden (Don't worry, I'm bulking up the other two!). Years ago, I discovered a massive population of this species about fifteen minutes from our house. Of course, I say massive because I had never seen it in its native habitat. I've seen one or two plants in a garden over the years, but at this site there were at least a several hundred individuals growing from the top of a hillside all the way down toward the floodplain edge. I remember thinking, "What wonderful place is this that Baptisia grows wild and free?" Seeing this stand occurring naturally made me realize that Baptisia could be used en masse for spectacular effect. I will add a nomenclature note. Some authorities call this form Baptisia alba var. macrophylla, but I have yet to read anything about Baptisia alba var. alba. It is possible this name is just a synonym of Baptisia alba.

Here’s one of the first photos that I took of this incredible population of Baptisia alba.

This photo was taken a week earlier when Thomas Rainer visited our students and shows how much these plants can rise and elongate within a week.

In some spots Baptisia alba was highly sociable with some plants so thick they touched each other and formed a hedge.

Here you can see just how close some Baptisia alba stems grew together.

The neutral white flowers of Baptisia alba allow it to combine well with other colors like the light blue Salvia lyrata and coral Castilleja indivisia.

Karen provides scale for some of these large forms of Baptisia alba. It was even over my head!

Like comets with long tails, the racemes rise into the sky and glow a beautiful white.

The swelling seedpods of Baptisia alba. Eventually, these will harden and turn into rattles.

At this site there were a few individuals that exhibited more yellow flowers, shorter habit, and more compact inflorescences. These were likely hybrids with Baptisia nuttalliana.

A close up of the likely Baptisia alba × nuttalliana hybrid.

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From this population, I took cuttings and also collected seed later in the fall, scarified it, and sowed it. And, now I have plants galore at my house. They are come into full bloom in April. I love watching their evolution as the shoots rise with a tinge of smoky purple, likely due to some anthocyanin sunscreen to contend with the early spring sunshine. I use them as plant anchors in my beds, their height providing focal points above the other flowers. And, while I've heard it recommended to plant one here and there to mimic "how they occur in nature", from this population I’ve learned not to be afraid to put then closer together.

Either by itself or in a group, Baptisia alba is most welcomed in a garden.

A few weeks ago, we had this enchanting fog rise over the garden after an afternoon rain that created some opportunities for photographing Baptisia alba against a glorious sunset.

The fog thickened, and created this wonderful atmosphere to enjoy the silhouettes of Baptisia alba.

I’ll be honest. I feel like I’ve just dipped into this incredible genus, and I still haven’t learned all its secrets. One day I hope to have a backyard full of Baptisia, not just Baptisia alba, but many species of many colors. In growing them, I can’t wait to learn more about this wonderful group of plants.

Prairie Celestial

Prairie celestial. What a name. It sounds like the title of some futuristic pioneer-space saga.

I never even knew this plant existed until I caught a glimpse of blue in a ditch riding around looking for wildflowers several years ago. After a turn around and a pull off, I found myself staring at a large, faded-cobalt flower that was a little bigger than a half-dollar coin. The center was adorned with a spot of white and a small crown of yellow stamens. It seemed quite happy it this wet spot and I quite happy I had discovered a new-to-me species.

I had found Nemastylis geminiflora. I consider myself lucky to have caught it in bloom because this plant carries late store hours. It opens mid-morning around 10 or 11 am, and closes in the mid-to-late afternoon. A bit earlier in the day or even later, and I might have have missed it since its petals unfurl with the sun passing through its zenith in the sky.

An overview of Nemastylis geminiflora growing. You can barely make out the wrinkled in the Gladiolus-like spears of foliage.

In another year, I found a larger population of hundreds of individuals a few miles from my original location. These plants tend to prefer more calcareous soils and are plentiful further west. In fact BONAP shows that their range extends over into Alabama and up into Missouri and Nebraska, but I only know of these two populations nearby that are likely remnants of prairies lost long ago.

Hundreds of Nemastylis bloom on a roadside in east Texas with their petals oriented almost parallel to the earth.

I acquired some seed, which emerge from the top of the splitting capsule. Once the inflorescence stem collapses and falls, the seed pour out on the ground out of this elongated green bowl a little distance from the plant. I sowed them and nothing. I put the pot back in my propagation corner and considered them a lost cause. Then, next spring here arose 20 monocot leaves.

Growing this plant in the garden and seeing it flower has taught me more about this species. I delight in seeing the strap-like leaves emerge in spring with the ripples in the leaf, which has earned them another common name, prairie pleatleaf. They resemble a short Gladiolus, but touching them reminds me of how wrinkled fabric gives when you rub it. I now also know that the flowers will open for more than one day; usually a bloom will flower twice. Most stems have two blooms on them, hence the epithet geminiflora since gemini- means twins. I was also curious about the origin of Nemastylis. It translates as thin (Nema-) styles (-stylis) referring to the hairline part of the six pistils on the flower. I also learned that it tolerates drier conditions than I first observed the plants. Mine are growing on a hill that dries in the summer, and yet the couple of clumps seem to get larger each passing year.

The thin pistil styles, which you can make out two each in the image above between the golden stamens, earned this species the name Nemastylis.

Soon, my plants will be going dormant, and I will yet again be collecting seed to make more of this species in my garden. It is certainly a welcome addition of yet another native wildflower in my garden.

Swelling capsules indicate seed! Those that fade yellow failed to be pollinated.

Easter Weekend at Biltmore

Last year for Easter, I shared about a wonderful trip that I took to the North Carolina mountains back in 2011 over this holiday.  The highlight I shared was visiting the virgin forest Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest on Easter morning.  But, the weekend had other forays, too.

That year, Easter fell on April 24, the second latest date that Easter can be (April 25 is the latest). Colleagues had told me that the fourth weekend in April was one best times to visit Biltmore because the last of the tulips overlapped with the first of the azaleas.

If you aren’t familiar with the Biltmore estate in Asheville, North Carolina, it is an incredible place to behold. It was once home to George Vanderbilt, and the house is the largest private home in America with over 170,000 square feet! Frederick Law Olmsted designed the grounds and gardens for Vanderbilt as one of his last large projects, and Olmsted even encouraged him to grow trees. From that prompt Vanderbilt started one of the first forestry programs in the United States. While the house holds the history of the family, the gardens holds a plethora of plant delights.

In planning the weekend, I decided that visiting Biltmore early Saturday morning would fit best into the schedule because the crowds would be small.  Then, I could do wilderness jaunts the rest of the weekend. I hope you enjoy this eye candy as I relive a weekend at the Biltmore estate through this photolog.

I chuckle reflecting back on my handful of visits to Biltmore because I haven’t made it through the house yet.  For me, the gardens are what continually capture my attention.  

One of my favorite views at Biltmore is near the house looking out to the distant mountains across a vast forest. This visit the vista was a bit obscured by clouds, but the gray skies helped reduce the harsh shadows for better photography.

Up closer to the house, I admired the large Wisteria on the arbor.  Yes, I know the Asian species are quite invasive, and I always recommend planting Wisteria fructescens or Wisteria macrostachya.  But, still, it was spectacular seeing this behemoth of a planting.  

As I made my way toward the walled garden and tulip display, I passed by a beautiful mass of Hyacinthoides hispanica under this Fagus in the shrub garden.

I reached the walled garden and was mesmerized by the tulip displays.  Warm pastels were surrounded by dark purples, and in the center a ring of white and black tulips provided contrast. With all the oval flowers it was like an Easter egg hunt on steroids!

The arbor in the above image had these windows that created vistas for looking out into the garden.

A shot from the west side of the arbor. In the distance you can see the wall that gives the walled garden its name. The perennial borders that surround the color beds were also coming to life.  Each time I visit here I always enjoy seeing the combinations the gardeners have made. 

In the perennial borders, I quite liked this contrasting color combination of yellow with purple, tending toward the side of blue, flowers

A clump of Hyacinthoides hispanica emerges from a layer of Stachys byzantina.

White was a popular color used on the edges of the walled garden. Here a single flower of Lamprocapnos (Dicentra) spectabilis ‘Alba’ rests on foliage.

It was such good design to elicit harmony and repetition by pairing these similar-looking yet opposing inflorescence growth habits of this Wisteria and Baptisia.

Paeonia lactiflora 'Krinkled White' living up to its namesake with the white handkerchief petals.

On my way out of the walled garden, I passed this incredible Halesia. I so admire silverbells for their brilliant white flowers that sway in the breeze.

Leaving the walled garden and conservatory area, I entered the azalea garden. It was erupting with color during my visit.

While I like the evergreen azaleas, I really love the native ones.  There’s just something about their flowers that makes me weak in the knees. These plants are magnets for early season butterflies like swallowtails. My jaw dropped seeing these massive Rhododendron austrinum plants.

A closeup of the flowers of Rhododendron austrinum

Rhododendron canescens was a favorite of mine from back in west Tennessee, and I was impressed seeing such large shrubs here at Biltmore. They smell great, too!

Rhododendron canescens is often confused with Rhododendron periclymenoides, but Rhododendron canescens has gland-tipped hairs on the corolla tube; Rhododendron periclymenoides does not.

This visit was my first encounter with Rhododendron alabamense. This species can be identified by its white petals, yellow blotch, and lemon fragrance.

Another species I was delighted to find was Rhododendron vaseyi, a rare and at risk native azalea that occurs in 11 counties in North Carolina. I had seen it on the Blue Ridge Parkway, and here I happened upon it in the garden.

There were other azaleas I didn’t know, likely hybrids or good wild selections. I LOVE this color form. Please send me a message if you know the cultivar!

Further back from the azaleas I found a wilder area of the garden where Asarum canadense was able to form large colonies.

Osmundastrum cinnamomeum fiddleheads unfurl amongst a matrix of green, Packera, and Hyacinthoides.

A closeup of the pubescent fiddleheads of Osmundastrum cinnamomeum.

One last look at the beauty of the Biltmore gardens. Yes, mid-April is an incredible time to visit for inspiration and to witness the marvels of spring.

March at the JC Raulston Arboretum

This post is 3 of 12 of a series I’m doing this year reflecting back on some of my favorite plants from visiting the JC Raulston Arboretum while attending graduate school at NC State in Raleigh NC. Check back next month for more.

March was always a moody month in Raleigh. Well, I guess isn’t it everywhere? Some years it was filled with gorgeous days, and others it taunted the gardener with late freezes. Nevertheless, there always seemed to be plants in bloom some time during the month at the JC Raulston Arboretum. This month, I look back at some of my favorite trees, shrubs, and perennials that welcomed spring. I hope these images inspire you to try some new plants in your garden. I know learning about them helped to build my palette of plants to use for the beginning of the gardening season.

THE TREES

There was an incredible Magnolia collection at the arboretum. Here the vigorously growing Magnolia × loebneri 'Merrill' flowers in the White Garden. This selection is quite hardy up into the northern states.

One of my favorite magnolias is Magnolia × kewensis 'Wada's Memory'. I love its cut-handkerchief-like petals, and I’m considering using this cultivar around our house.

Each spring I loved seeing the floriferous Magnolia stellata 'Chrysanthemumiflora' in bloom. The pink blossoms are so voluminous, and this tree’s short stature welcomes its use in smaller gardens.

Near the Ruby McSwain center was the Asian Sassafras tzumu with its tiered branching habit classic to Sassafras species.

As the flowers fade, the new foliage emerges on Sassafras tzumu with a similar textured Yucca in the background.

J.C. raved about Halesia diptera var. magniflora and for good reason. This variety from Florida highlands features beautiful white flowers a little bigger than a thimble that cover the tree in early spring. This species does well in Texas, too.

A close up of Halesia diptera var. magniflora

I can’t wait to try Melliodendron xylocarpum in Texas. I adored this tree’s Easter egg shaped buds that would open to…

…beautiful star-shaped white flowers. I recall that some years Melliodendron xylocarpum would get burned by late freezes, but like many early spring flowering plants, planting them is certainly worth the risk.

THE SHRUBS

Exochorda racemosa is shrub that takes our heat and humidity in the south well. The little buds look like pearls, hence the name pearlbush. I always enjoyed looking at the intricacies of the flowers once they open.

Spiraea thunbergii 'Ogon' is a reliable flowering shrub that is covered with white flowers in early spring and followed by thin, golden leaves.

A subtle color echo between the emerging foliage on Spiraea thunbergii 'Ogon' and its orange pistils.

Last month I shared my love of Stachyurus. Even more plants would be flowering in March. Here Stachyurus praecox 'Issai' flowers with a Chaenomeles in the background.

There was even a Stachyurus selection—Stachyurus praecox 'Rubriflora'—that had buds and petals blushed pink.

A really interesting and uncommon shrub I learned about at the arboretum was Parrotiopsis jacquemontiana. This member of the witch hazel family would be covered in flowers in March.

In this close up of the flowers on Parrotiopsis jacquemontiana, you can see the plethora of stamens and the skirt of white bracts underneath.

Edgeworthia chrysantha was in full bloom in March many years at the arboretum. The flowers face down, likely to protect the pollen from rain.

Neviusia alabamensis is a novelty native shrub that slowly spreads via rhizomes in the garden. It is rare throughout its range, but deserves wider use for its dainty flowers.

I enjoyed the pompom flowers of Neviusia alabamensis so much that I now have this growing in my Texas garden.

The late witch hazels would still be flowering in March. Here Hamamelis mollis 'Wisley Supreme' flowers with a carpet of Narcissus underneath.

While most lilacs don’t do well in the south, Syringa × laciniata was always a beautiful bloomer in the arboretum and tolerated heat well.

The lavender flowers of Syringa × laciniata

THE PERENNIALS

I also learned about Tulipa clusiana selections at the arboretum. This species tends to do better in the south and can grow well in gravel gardens. Here ‘Cynthia’ flowers with creamy yellow and salmon petals.

Another clusiana type was ‘Peppermint Stick’, named for its red and white petals.

Don't Neglect This Muscari

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The leaves curl a bit, like a bad hair day

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

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

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

Gibbs Gardens

“Jared, we have to go see this garden in Georgia.” On the phone was Mom, and she was telling me about where she read in an early 2012 Southern Living that Gibbs Gardens was about to open its doors to the public for the first time ever. I had never heard of the garden, but she shared about how the article said 5 million daffodils had been planted. I was on board.

So, we planned to meet up the first weekend in March that year for the opening weekend. That Friday night was a bit crazy as vehement storms passed through with rain and hail. At one point, it was so rough we were even discussing going to the hallway or stairs in the hotel. But, the storms passed, and we woke the next morning to find the sun shining.

I told my parents we had to get to Gibbs Gardens early because since this weekend was the first time the garden was open, I knew it would be packed. I had travelled to many gardens before and sometimes been turned away when parking lots were full. So, I knew being just an hour north of Atlanta, there would be crowds. But, when we arrived, we were one of three cars in the parking lot. Haha! We had the whole place to ourselves! I should note in later years when I’ve gone, the parking lot is now packed and people are running to get the good photograph spots without any people in them. So, we certainly lucked out this weekend.

Walking through the garden, the reputation of a world-class garden certainly lived up. There were daffodils everywhere. Millions of them. The website states that over the years with division the garden likely has over 20 million Narcissus on site, which is just a mind boggling number of blooms. I’ll let the photos tell more of the story below.

I would never wish low attendance numbers on a garden, but it sure was nice to be some of the first people there that morning enjoying the garden by ourselves.

One design feature used at Gibbs Gardens was curvilinear lines. They swayed and curled through the landscape, often following the topography of the hills.

I always love to see Narcissus planted on hills because passers-by can better see into their faces.

Just like the Greek myth, these Narcissus admire their own beauty in the pond reflection.

The plantings at Gibbs Gardens were grandiose where ribbons of cultivars were planted on the hillsides and there were flowers as far as the eye could see. Notice the hillside in the distance and check out the next photo.

Here is that hillside upon closer inspection. We were so happy to see that the storms didn’t pound the flowers down too bad.

While cultivars weren’t labelled, occasionally I would see one I knew like these ‘Ice Follies’.

Narcissus plantings also provide a nice backdrop for family portraits of Mom and Dad. :-)

It was nice to see how other plants were integrated in with the Narcissus plantings. Here Edgeworthia, Chamaecyparis, and a hiding coral bark Acer palmatum ‘Sango Kaku’ are surrounded by daffodils.

I adore Edgeworthia chrysantha for its winter perfume and clusters of fuzzy yellow flowers. As a member of the Thymelaeaceae, they have this cool feature where some branches will have three shoots instead of the typical one or two of most species.

Narcissus can be planted beneath deciduous trees to provide color in early spring and brighten these dappled spots before the trees leaf out.

I enjoyed the subtle color echo here between the orange cups of the Narcissus and the golden marcescent foliage of the Fagus grandifolia.

Gibbs Gardens also featured a tranquil Japanese-styled garden.

A broader shot of the Japanese garden reveals plants integrated with rocks, water, and statuary.

This planting is so simple yet effective—the bold foliage of three Rohdea japonica in a fibrous mat of Ophiopogon japonicus ‘Nana’.

Acorus gramineus ‘Ogon’ snakes through this planting and echos the golden Chamaecyparis along the pond edge.

At the top of the property is the Manor House Gardens, which are planted with winter color like Viola.

An arbor near the house was planted with Viola, Acorus, and Euphorbia to provide late-winter interest.

Gibbs Gardens was the first time I had ever seen parsley used as a groundcover underneath tulips. I thought it a clever idea to hide their sometimes lanky bases.

I saw another one of my favorite winter flowering shrubs at Gibbs Gardens, Corylopsis pauciflora. The numerous small flowers on this dense shrub form a buttery haze.

A close up of the pink buds and emerging yellow flowers of Corylopsis pauciflora, or buttercup winter hazel.

Even in their fall, Camellia flowers are beautiful. This one planted near the Manor House I suspect to be ‘La Peppermint’.

Walking down from the house to leave we saw more mass plantings of Acorus. I liked the subtle color echo here between Edgeworthia and Acorus gramineus ‘Minimus Aureus’.

Again, more use of curvilinear lines in the landscape with Acorus gramineus ‘Ogon’.

And, I even admired here where the moss and Acorus shared a similar hue.

One last shot of the incredible plantings of Narcissus at Gibbs Gardens. It was a great weekend with my parents, and I’ll never forget of seeing millions of daffodils in flower.

Celebrating Emergence

The shift to spring is now palpable here at our east Texas homestead. I notice the sun's early morning rays shining more in our backyard, the temperature is hovering the in 60's or 70's most days, and spots of green are popping up in the landscape.

Emergence in the plant world is filled with such anticipation. Around us life is erupting, and it is so good to see fresh growth in a landscape scarred and burned from the extreme cold a fortnight ago.

The daffodils are up. Well, most of them are. I thought this would be a daffodil-less spring as many of the early tazetta types from the Mediterranean were bleached white. But, those that have more northern European blood seem to have made it through safely. The yellow-orange 'Ceylon' and large-cupped yellow 'Carlton' are now beginning to bloom. I noticed their buds above the snowline, but they still survived the cold. These are two Narcissus cultivars that actually do well for us here in east Texas and will increase in number with the years. Most modern hybrids just don't get adequate chilling to flower or grow well.

A bit of burn on the tips of the foliage of these ‘Ceylon’, but other than that, the cold didn’t phase them.

Narcissus pseudonarcissus are now flowering, too. They are much smaller than the varieties above, but I love their diminutive size. I recall seeing their minute buds huddled among the blue-green foliage as I scurried about preparing for the coming cold and wondering if they would survive. Seeing their buttery yellow coronas reminds me of my youth and the abandoned yards full of them on the backroads in Tennessee marking where homes once stood. Even then I would pick handfuls of them to bring their sweet scent into our house, much like I did ahead of the two inches of rain we got this past weekend.

This line of Narcissus pseudonarcissus flowers faces south, soaking in the sun.

Ahead of the rain I divided some large clumps of Narcissus pseudonarcissus and planted them into the beds near our house that I have been developing into naturalistic plantings since our arrival here a little over three years ago. These plantings needed more early spring color, and I plugged in the bulbs before the rain started amongst the emerging foliage of Pycnanthemum and a nice purple foliage form of Tradescantia gigantea I found.

I randomly scattered Narcissus pseudonarcissus into this bed over the weekend. Though I’m not done yet, my goal is to have small groupings, denser in the middle and then less bulbs on the outside.

Ahead of the rain was also a good time to move 20+ Penstemon tenuis and 30+ Penstemon digitalis plants I grew in propagation beds from last year. Both were derived from seed that I collected from plants growing here, and they were just barely beginning to produce shoots out of their basal rosettes. Now I feel like I have enough plants to make an impact come April for the purple-flowering Penstemon tenuis and May for the white-flowering Penstemon digitalis. I was surprised at how shallow their root systems were. I was able to scoop them up with a shovel almost like one would scoop lasagna out of a dish and place into a similar shaped hole.

A wheelbarrow of Penstemon digitalis ready for planting. You can see the fresh foliage beginning to pop.

Nearby other natives are emerging, and it is a real cast of characters—Arnoglossum plantagineum, Trillium ludovicianum, Antennaria parlinii, Sanguinaria canadensis, Stenanthium gramineum, and even my Sarracenia in the bog. All of them know it’s time to grow.

I delight in seeing the hosta-like foliage of Arnoglossum plantagineum. Plants have finally gotten to a decent size at our place, and soon their shoots will rise for form a white corymb of rice-shaped flowers.

I was also happy to see my Trillium ludovicianum emerging amongst the groundcover of Antennaria parlinii I planted to mark the ephemeral. You can barely see the chicken wire cage that I planted it in to protect it from the gophers that plague our property, and if you look closely, you’ll see some one-leaved baby Trillium in the center!

The fists of Sanguinaria canadensis are shoving their way out of the soil and begun to unfurl as leaves.

The slivers of foliage on Stenanthium gramineum emerge from the ground. I’ve always found their maroon sheaths near the ground to be attractive but quickly hidden by the foliage.

I squealed this weekend when I discovered the antennae-like flower buds emerging on this Sarracenia flava ‘Black Ascot’ when cutting back the pitchers.

Yes, all this fresh growth of spring is truly wonderful . Sure, we may have another frost or two along the way, but for now I will celebrate emergence and the return of my many photosynthetic friends to the garden after their long slumber. It is so good to see them again.

February at the JC Raulston Arboretum

This post is 2 of 12 of a series I’m doing this year reflecting back on some of my favorite plants from visiting the JC Raulston Arboretum while attending graduate school at NC State in Raleigh NC. Check back next month for more.

February was one of my favorite times to visit the JC Raulston Arboretum. With the hold of winter receding, walking around the garden was a scavenger hunt in discovering what flowers were in bloom. Even the smallest of flowers were appreciated as the gardening season began to awaken. After visiting for a few years, I became more aware of the flowering schedules and knew better what to expect. Sometimes plants would bloom early, sometimes they would flower late, but February seemed to always be a reliable time to start seeing color increasing in the garden.

For this month’s reflections from the JC Raulston Arboretum, I wanted to share some of my favorites for late winter color. Reviewing these photographs reminds me of how many of these plants I actually need to try in Texas!

I enjoyed studying the Prunus mume collection in the garden. Even going back to J.C.’s first newsletter, he spoke highly of them. This cultivar is ‘Bridal Veil’, a really nice weeping form.

A close up of ‘Bridal Veil’ flowers

Close to the stairs of the Ruby McSwain Visitor Center was ‘Omoi-no-mama’, a nice white-to-blush, semi-double flowering form of Prunus mume. I really liked the placement and how walking up the stairs allowed me to get my face in the flowers.

The arboretum had a few specimens of the winter flowering Cornus officinalis and Cornus mas. In the winter garden was ‘Kintoki’, one of my favorite forms of Cornus officinalis selected by Barry Yinger for its beautiful exfoliating bark.

Near ‘Kintoki’ in the winter garden was Chaenomeles speciosa ‘Contorta’. It was a scraggly thing with its contorted flowers, but getting up close with the blooms I made an amazing discovery.

Even the stamens were contorted! How cool! Whatever genes were making the branches bend also curled the flower stamens. I noticed that the sun was about to shine on the blossoms, so I hung around and got a good progress photograph of sunlight hitting the flower. I use these images in my classes to illustrate how light can change the appearance of flowers.

Here is a minute later when the sun barely began to shine on the flowers producing a nice glow. This diffused light shot is my favorite of the three.

And, here another minute later the light is a bit harsher.

Another genera that I fell in love with at the JC Raulston Arboretum was Stachyurus. Here we see ‘Sterling Silver’ wearing its strings of pearls. I can’t believe I haven’t tried these yet in Texas!

Perennials would also start popping around this time of year. I always enjoyed seeing this large planting of the aptly named Narcissus ‘February Gold.’

Most people are familiar with the yellow form of Narcissus pseudonarcissus, but I always thought that these cream Narcissus pseudonarcissus subsp. moschatus looked charming in the perennial border.

I would lay on the ground to photograph Ipheion that barely rose six inches of out the soil. It is like someone stenciled black lines on the undersides of the petals of this ‘Wisley Blue’.

Now I appreciate Ipheion even more as they are one of the few early geophytes that we have flowering in east Texas this time of year. Some like ‘Froyle Mill’ have a really nice purple color.

Iris unguicularis was another reliable winter flowering perennial. It is unfortunate that the flowers are so hidden.

So, you have to get into the clump of Iris unguicularis to really appreciate the flower intricacies.

Another iris in bloom was Iris tuberosa (or Hermodactylus tuberosus), a really novel perennial. Finding a plant with green and black flowers in February is so funky.

Here’s a close up of the flowers on Iris tuberosa. The black falls seem like velvet.

I also enjoyed seeing the spiraling Euphorbia rigida on the roof garden of the Ruby McSwain Visitor Center. The leaves and flowers had such psychedelic colors for late winter.

Walking around one afternoon, I noticed that this plant had flowers in the middle of the leaves! Turns out these “leaves” are actually flattened stems or cladodes on Ruscus × microglossus.

A close up of the quirky Ruscus × microglossus. Students really find these plants fascinating because of the position of the flowers.

A Cold Week in Texas

At 7:24 AM on February 16, our thermometer here in east Texas read -6F. Back home in Tennessee, I’ve walked out in 0F when the moonlight made our snow covered fields glow as if it were day, I’ve flown into Boston to present in between two snowstorms that year the snow didn’t melt until July, and I even spoke the day after the frigid polar vortex descended on Chicago. But, this is the coldest temperature I’ve ever experienced in my life. It is also funny to note that this is the most southern place I’ve ever lived. We’ve had a winter trifecta hit us this week— 6 inches of snow Monday morning, followed by extreme record breaking cold Tuesday morning, and then an ice storm on Wednesday. At one point the whole state of Texas—all 254 counties—was under a winter storm warning.

We have been mostly fine through this insane weather event so far, and I appreciate the messages from readers and friends checking in on us. We had power on and off until Wednesday at noon went it went off and water until Thursday night due to the water company. My heart breaks, though, for those who have been through worse times this week (you can learn more about helping here and here).

But, who would have ever thought we would hit -6F? The airport registered -3F, so I believe my reading in our little valley homestead. The coldest I’ve measured here at the house before this week is 11F. It even drove Dark-eyed Juncos south to our feeder, my first observation of them here at our house.

These temperatures have made me think about plant hardiness. Hardiness is of course a measure of a plant’s survival based on the average annual extreme minimum temperature. Nacogdoches is located in USDA Hardiness Zone 8b, where on average our minimum winter temperature is 15 to 20F. Just after midnight on the 16th, we were at 0F, which means that for 7-to-8 hours we were basically USDA Hardiness Zone 6 (-10F to 0F), which occurs in the panhandle of Texas, the Kentucky/Ohio border, and on the coast of Maine.

It will be interesting to see what plants survive from this event. As horticulturists we are both horrified and intrigued by the question, “What survived?” These extreme weather events interacting with our plants are opportunities to learn what died and to celebrate what lived.

But, hardiness is not an absolute. It is just a measure that gives us some idea of how the cold can impact plant growth. Cold can affect a plant’s hardiness at three points during winter—an early freeze before the plant has acclimated to winter (17F in November that zapped my Magnolias and citrus a few years ago), an extreme winter temperature minimum (here’s looking at you -6F), or a late freeze that may kill a plant after it has resumed growth, whether that be after the frost free date (like the 2007 April freeze) OR after an extreme warming even in winter.

As we go forward into the next few weeks and months here in the deep south, we will see plants die, especially broad leaf evergreens and tropicals, and some plants live. In some cases the living and the dead may be right next to each other or a short distance away. So, we have to remember that hardiness is a combination of so many factors. Sitting in front of the fire this week scribbling notes down for my weekly blog post, I reviewed the lecture “Untangling the Hardiness Question: What is Hardy and Why?” by Dr. J.C. Raulston included in Bobby Ward’s biography of this incredible horticulturist, Chlorophyll in His Veins. Raulston went through a whole gamut in this lecture he once gave to the North American Rock Garden Society in Seattle, WA in 1995. I wanted to briefly list the factors he discussed below.

• Cold — Gardeners quickly connect cold weather with seeing plants die. Raulston noted that using minimum averages is a complex attempt to simplify the effects of cold on plants. One of my favorite quotes he said was, “I can go into the kitchen and put one hand on a gas flame and the other in the freezer and on average I am very comfortable, but you have problems when you hit those two extremes.” Even the type of cold that manifests matters. For example, convective cold usually occurs because a cold front moves into a region. However, radiative cooling is where heat is lost to the atmosphere on cool nights. The example for radiative cooling that Raulston gave is it may be 38F on the thermometer, but the leaf is 28F. We see this in fall on tomatoes on cool mornings.

• Provenance — Where plants or clones of a particular species originated could have resulted in accumulation of traits that increase (or decrease) survival, just because they are growing in Texas instead of Michigan. They are still the same species, but they have adapted in those areas to the conditions they endure. That is often why growers like to get genetics from nearby or a particular part of the country to grow. But, some species may be hardier than the zone in which they grow. Raulston mentions Magnolia ashei as a great example. This native is found in the panhandle of Florida, but the species is hardy in Chicago. Likely, it is a relic from the last ice age that was pushed south and not able to advance back north.

• Population variation — Even within a population of plants from a single cross between two parents, there may be a wide array of different cold tolerances in individuals.

• Cellular location of freezing — Does freezing occur in the cell? Then, that cell ruptures and death is likely. Does freezing occur in the cell wall? Then, the cell is probably fine, and the tissue will likely live.

• Microclimates — Buildings, stones, pavement, windbreaks, and water may all moderate local temperatures and create microclimates, whether they be warmer or cooler. Until this freeze, we still had ‘Pele’s Smoke’ sugarcane overwintering near our campus greenhouse and starting to put up new growth, and yet it is only hardy in zone 9 and south.

• Snow protection — Snow may protect the bottom of plants, but kill the top. Honestly, I’m hoping for this effect on a number of my plants at home. I noticed our rosemary this morning starting to turn black, but near the base were some hints of green.

• Root hardiness — Can the roots survive the cold spell, even if the top of a plant dies? We really see this difference with plants that are in pots versus in the ground. I moved my container woodies that I haven’t gotten into the ground yet into the garage to protect them. And, I’m hoping that some of my tender perennials make it through because their tops were not exposed (and, their roots were covered with 6 inches of snow!).

• Chilling requirement met — Many woodies have to experience chilling hours to be able to flower, and websites log the hours for different regions. If they have met their requirement, then the cold may damage buds. And, if not, then the plants should be ok. I’m hoping that my peach buds were still tight enough to survive the cold. Time will tell.

• Nutrition — Many experts recommend to stop fertilizing perennials and woodies in late summer and early fall to help them survive. Raulston talked about in this lecture about an experiment where azaleas that were fed all the way up until frost didn’t survive. The plants kept growing actively and didn’t have a chance to shut down. The experimental control azaleas that didn’t get fertilizer at the end of the growing season overwintered just fine.

• Active growth — Is the plant growing? Many plants acclimate based on photoperiod, temperature, or some combination of both. The lack of appropriate acclimating could result in death. Raulston noted that a plant could survive in Siberia at -75F but in active growth die at 25F.

• Summer heat — Some plants like Cercis canadensis var. texensis need summer heat to be able to overwinter well. He mentions how if you grow this in a hot summer, it’s hardy to zone 6, but if grown in the Pacific Northwest, it may only be hard to Zone 8. For other plants, the summer heat drains their sugar load so that they don’t have enough carbohydrates to overwinter.

• Scorch — Scorch occurs when the plant is cold but the sun is shining, and water loss from the leaf is high. I’ve even heard Eliot Coleman say that he thinks that scorch and wind desiccation of plants hurts some winter edibles more than the cold.

So, yes, plants are going to die or be damaged from this extreme cold event, but keep in mind that many of the above factors could nudge them towards death or pull them towards life.

The other question is where do we go from here? How do we respond in our planting to such an event? In Raulston’s talk, he stated that as horticulturists we accept risks, and sometimes we even dare to grow the impossible for pride and glory. He also stated that what would help us assess hardiness would be to have cold measured on a scale of x-year freezes like we have x-year floods. Raulston talked of a 250-year freeze in his lecture when parts of North Carolina dropped to -10F. That way, we can decide whether we want to use certain plants. And, perhaps this risk can be determined when designing or planting by moving up or down a hardiness zone. That way we have stalwarts that can take anything and less reliable plants that are garnishes in a planting with the understanding that we could loose them in a bad year.

So, maybe -6F is a 250 year freeze? Nearby Tyler, TX set an all time low record of -6F, and records date back 138 years to 1883. But, we also have to ask the question was this event a one off or are more events like this coming due to a changing climate? The science isn’t so clear, but a warming arctic could destabilize the cold air at the North Pole and result in more cold entering the United States. On this matter, too, time will tell.

As someone who loves cold, snow, and winter, I am ready for warmer days. It will be interesting to see now what the next flowering plant will be. Much of the Narcissus and Magnolias are zapped. But, the march to spring continues even with this rough week. The temperature will be 60F on Sunday. Which, if we still don’t have power, will be warmer than our house!

A Grand Narcissus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A frosted ‘Grandiflora’ type at my house.