Bringing Daffodils In

Last Saturday was one of the rare days I actually donned more layers as morning progressed into afternoon.  Shorts were replaced by pants, then long sleeves went on over the t-shirt, and then I put on a rain jack to shield against the blustery wind, which would soon be accompanied by a cold drizzle.  I was hoping for warmer weather over spring break, but alas, it turned off chilly.

Before heading in, I decided to pick a bucket of daffodils. I never know how they’ll take the freezing temperatures, so I wanted to bring in what I could just in case the next morning they were all frozen and laying on the ground. The forecast for the night showed a low of 28°F, but I knew that we would register even colder. (In hindsight, I was right. I woke the next morning to 23°F.)

Daffodils are some of the first flowers to grace the house in bulk in the new year, and we now have several posies sitting in bottles on a rustic metal tray. Over the past few years, I’ve been accumulating types that grow well here.  Some have come from back roads and old homesteads, others from friends and companies who have promised their success in Zone 8B.  

First is the short, soft yellow Narcissus pseudonarcissus I wrote about recently. More have been opening as the month has progressed.   Also present is Narcissus jonquilla, or jonquil named for the thin, rush-like (Juncus) foliage.  The tiny flowers are incredibly fragrant for their size.  Their offspring Narcissus × odorus sits between the two. It is a vigorous hybrid that wouldn’t win any awards for the frequent misformed corona and odd number of petals, but its heterosis is welcome in my garden. My patch of over 1000 bulbs will bloom for weeks, and the thin foliage isn’t too overbearing in the landscape after flowering.

Narcissus pseudonarcissus

Narcissus × odorus

Narcissus jonquilla

I also have a few selections that do well here in east Texas. One is a lovely Narcissus tazetta, likely ‘Grand Primo’, that sports white petals and golden-colored cups that fade to an off-white (banner photo, second from left).  Like the jonquil, the fragrance is intense. As I sit here writing, I keep catching a whiff of Narcissus, and it’s probably a blend of the jonquils and ‘Grand Primo’. Another selection is the double Narcissus incomparabilis var. plenus, which is also known as “Butter and Eggs” for the scrambled white-and-yellow petals. Their scapes are usually not strong enough for the hefty flowers to be held upright, so it’s worth picking them and putting them in a bottle.

I have two cultivars that are fairly easy to find on the market. ‘Carlton’ features large, bright yellow petals and a similar colored corona, and ‘Ceylon’ has an orange cup perched against warm yellow petals.  ‘Carlton’ has a tendency to flop in rain, so I prefer the more stolid ‘Ceylon’.  The orange is a bit of a challenge to pair with companions in late winter, but I’ve realized they will go well under the ‘Flame’ willows I’m propagating.

Narcissus incomparabilis var. plenus

Narcissus ‘Carlton’

Narcissus ‘Ceylon’

I’m glad the cold forced me to bring them inside. I’m always hesitant to pick some because I know the minute the flower leaves the plant, its demise is only a matter of time. But, I forget how much fun it is to bring the outside in and to have little bottles of sunshine on a gray, dreary day.

Returning to Wild Daffodils

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magnolia 'Susan', Just One of the Girls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wire Weeding

The lengthening daylight is now imperceptible. A month ago when I got home from teaching, there was barely enough twilight to do anything outside. However, now I find that I can see easily until about 6:15 pm, giving me almost an hour of time gardening in the evenings.

My recent task has been cleaning out the vegetable garden for the coming peas and potatoes. The freeze that hit over the holidays while I was gone was severe, enough to tank the broccoli, mustard, and Swiss chard that I’m usually continuing to harvest. By now, the mustards are usually bolting to provide some early season nectar for insects, but they’ve just turned to mush. I’ve learned my lesson for next year. I’ll cover plants with floating row cover before traveling for the holidays.

The biggest surprise is that the soil is fairly clean of weeds, even more so than it has been in the past few years.  It’s not because I used my leaf mold mulch; no, I’m saving that precious resource for the tomatoes in the spring.  

I credit the practice of using the wire hoe.  This ingenious tool was my favorite discovery of 2021. It features a long wooden handle that holds a thin piece of wire bent into a triangle and attached to a hex head insert, much like the head one would use in an interchangeable cordless drill. There are four sizes of these triangles from roughly 8 inches wide to barely over 2 inches that can be changed out based on plant spacing.

Wire weeding is a pleasant task in the garden. Doing it regularly beats hand pulling all those weeds.

The wire is not sharpened. No, the strategy here is to get weeds while they are mere threads through shallow cultivation, perhaps only disturbing the top 1/2–1 inch of soil. It’s almost like sweeping the garden of weeds, much like one would sweep the kitchen regularly to get the crumbs up from making dinner. If weeds are controlled early in the first several weeks of plant growth, the plants will typically then cast enough shade to discourage other weed growth.  

It is incredibly pleasant to use. The handle is long enough to allow the user to stand up straight with both thumbs facing upward and weeding the garden.  I was amazed years ago when reading Eliot Coleman in The New Organic Grower write about the four thumb positions on a handle while weeding.  I mean, who thinks about these things? But, such a consideration has a big impact on the ergonomics of the tool. Both thumbs out or both thumbs in don’t make much sense, so I won’t discuss those. Both thumbs down toward the blade is horrible on the back and how most gardeners have to hold a common hoe to actually cultivate the soil due to the head length and angle.  Both thumbs up away from the blade is how one wants to hold a handle to be to minimize back issues, and the wire hoe allows for this position.  

I made it the first task in the garden, and in 15 to 20 minutes I could weed over 700 square feet by shallowly cultivating the top layer of the soil.  They key is not digging deep; it is actually better because that will reduce the number of new weed seeds brought to the surface.  I had students use this tool on campus last fall, and it did a good job of keeping the beds clean of weeds as well where they used it.  You can use it in perennial beds, too, but I find that Roy Diblik’s Dewit diamond hoe works better.

The design of the wire hoe is so simple.

Working with this hoe has given me that this-tool-is-so-simple-I-could-have-created-it-and-been-a-millionaire feeling. But, it was the brain child of aforementioned Eliot Coleman. On the episode of the Winter Growers podcast (1:01:30), Eliot notes how he was first inspired by Michael Fitzpatrick who said that his favorite tool was this little hand held device that had wires on it for cultivating in the greenhouse. He went back and made a version that could be attached to a long handle using a bolt you screw onto the handle. Conor Crickmore then took the design and put hex head inserts on the wires and ran with it making several versions of the wire hoe. And, really it has been Conor who has helped popularize it and get it into mainstream horticulture.

You’ll note earlier I didn’t just say that it was the wire hoe but the practice of using the tool. The key to weeding in the vegetable garden is developing it into a routine to see results. It becomes something you do frequently, every day or a few times a week.  Seth Godin shared Elizabeth King’s quote in the front of his book The Practice, “Process saves us from the poverty of our intentions.” And, wire weeding has saved me from a wealth of weeds.

Tomato and Carrot Soup

It’s cold. Well, cold for Texas. I love winter, but these days where the clouds dim the sun and frigid gusts cut through clothes, its requires more to be outside.  So, I bundle up head to toe with layers. And, with the neck gaiter I’m sporting, the band around my eyes is the only skin visible. 

A sane person would wait it out inside, but I find these dreary days good for tackling projects that have been on my to-do list—woodworking and building fences, cutting out invasive plants along the fencerows, raking leaves, and earthworking.  Planting is out of the question until the weather moderates as I don’t want to to have the desiccating winds dry my new installs out.

I find myself craving soup after being outside in this weather as it warms the soul.  And, one of my favorites is tomato and carrot soup. I love the blending of summer and winter in this flavorful dish.

We entomb the taste of those hot days long gone by freezing tomatoes we pick in June. We process those delicious orbs into crushed pulp and juice and save both for cooking later in the year. The former makes delicious spaghetti and chicken cacciatore sauce, and the latter stores well in large glass jars for later soups.

And, then there’s the carrots from the dark side of the calendar. My carrot tops are blemished from the sudden cold snap we had earlier this month.  But, as they emerge from the ground, I find they are beautiful. And, sweet!  As Eliot Coleman described in his book The Winter Harvest Handbook, he sells these overwintered carrots as “candy carrots,” and kids go wild over them.

When carrots are exposed the cold temperatures, the roots accumulate sugars to help act as an antifreeze.  So, I like to harvest carrots in January once we’ve had some chillier weather.  They taste sweeter than those harvested in warmer spells.  The roots come out of the ground all shapes and sizes, but they taste and cook the same. Often, I will harvest a whole batch, steam them, and freeze them at this peak of taste. Once they’ve been vernalized (chilling exposure that induces flowering), it won’t be long until they start bolting, which for us can start as early as February. ‘Rainbow’ is a favorite cultivar of mine for its incredible sweetness, and I like ‘Napoli’, ‘Mokum’, and ‘Bolero’, too.

Sweet multi-colored ‘Rainbow’ carrots picked and ready to go into soup.

I had not thought of adding carrots to tomato soup until we travelled through Washington, Connecticut a few years ago. I still remember our visit as clear as ever.  Karen had wanted to see the town that inspired Gilmore Girls, and after walking around for a few hours on a cold, sunny day, we were hungry. We made our way up the hill to G.W. Tavern, a quaint restaurant in an 1850’s colonial home. On a whim, I ordered their tomato soup, and it was THE most delicious tomato soup I’ve ever eaten in my life. There was a texture and especially a sweetness to it that I had never tasted, and it wasn’t too runny. They even had these little harvest crackers to go along with it that were made with sunflower seeds and other grains.

The revolutionary styled G.W. Tavern where I first had this delicious soup

I immediately got online and found a copycat recipe from whenwegettoit.com. We made it after returning home, and it was very close to the original we had on our trip.

But, I realized over the holidays that the website was no longer active, and that recipe was gone! Fortunately, I had saved it, and I want to welcome this delicious dish back to the internet with a few changes of my own.

Let me know what you think. We serve ours with gooey grilled cheese.

Ingredients

Two tablespoons olive oil 

Two medium-sized onions

Two large carrots (or several small-to-medium-sized carrots if you like more texture)

Two cloves of garlic

One 32 ounce jar of tomato juice frozen from the summer (or tomato juice from the store)

Additional fresh or canned tomatoes as needed (depends on how tomatoey you want it)

One 32 ounce container of stock (chicken or vegetable)

Fresh or dried basil

1/4 to 1/2 cup heavy whipping cream

Sugar, salt, & pepper to taste

DIRECTIONS

1. Peel and chop up carrots, onions, and garlic.

2. Heat olive oil in a big soup pot.  Add the vegetables and cook for 10 minutes.  Cook until onions are golden and carrots are just getting soft.  A little water can help prevent the vegetables from browning.

3. Add stock, tomato juice, and additional tomatoes. (For the additional tomatoes, I’ve used diced, stewed, paste, crushed, or fresh. It just depends on how much tomato flavor you want or what you have available in the pantry). Bring to a boil, then simmer for another 10 minutes. If the tomato juice is too runny, you can simmer for longer periods of time to boil off more water.

4. Turn off the heat and add dry or fresh basil leaves to the soup. 

5. Blend the soup with a hand blender until smooth or in batches in a normal blender.  Mix in cream as needed until soup reaches the desired consistency, usually 1/4 to 1/2 cup for me.  Add sugar (I like to add at least 1 tablespoon to help play off the sweet carrots), salt (I add 1 tsp as a general rule), and pepper to taste.  Place back on heat to warm if needed.

6. Enjoy after a long day of winter gardening.

The Winter Foliage of Parlin's Pussytoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Walk to See Possumhaw

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

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

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

The field to my south…

…and the field to my north.

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

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

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

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

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

“Possumhaw up against a pale grey sky

Tennessee winter, man the sun don’t shine”

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

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

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

In the bleak midwinter, possumhaw brightens life.

A closeup of the hawthorn-like fruit of possumhaw.

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

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

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

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

Ilex decidua ‘Finch’s Golden’

Ilex decidua ‘Pocahontas’

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

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

December at the JC Raulston Arboretum

This post is the final post of a series I’m doing this year reflecting back on some of my favorite plants from visiting the JC Raulston Arboretum.

This past year, I’ve had fun reflecting back on my time in grad school visiting the JC Raulston Arboretum. I decided for my last post of this year-long series to actually visit when we saw family in Raleigh instead of recapping plants from grad school. 

I visited on the last day of 2021, and much like the rest of the country, the weather was unseasonably warm.  The warmth had spurred the winter bloomers, and I have to say that the arboretum looked the best I’ve seen it this time of the year.  Most winters plants will bloom in spurts between cold spells. They have have good days in lively color and bad days in brown and black from a sudden freeze.  But, La Niña has been present this fall keeping our weather warmer and drier across the south.  I’m sure climate change isn’t helping things either.

However, the absence of hard freezes was a benefit for this photographer. Get ready for a photo overload because there was a ton of winter interest.  And, I wish I could share the fragrance with you. I had forgotten with all the winter flowering plants just how good the arboretum smelled at this time of the year.

One final request from this series.  Arboreta and botanical gardens are places of inspiration, solace, conservation, and beauty. While we benefit from their plantings, they benefit from our support. Consider becoming a member of one near you!

WINTER FLOWERS

Ah, the Prunus mume!  I think this visit was the most spectacular show of flowering apricot that I’ve ever seen in all my years of visiting the arboretum.  Usually they are pummeled by the winter cold, which interrupts their bloom period.  Above white-flowering ‘Tojibai’ blooms against the pink ‘Bonita’ in the background.

Prunus mume ‘Bonita’ has lovely bowl-shaped semi-double pink flowers. They are incredibly fragrant, too. The smell reminds me of those Valentine’s Day conversation hearts.

‘Big Joe’ Prunus mume was a white behemoth of blooms visible from the road before I ever walked in the gate. The fallen petals made the ground underneath appear to be covered in snow.

‘Rose Bud’ is another semi-double Prunus mume type where the petals fade from pink outside to whiter ones in the center.

Another Prunus I like for winter display is Prunus incisa. This lovely short-statured shrub offers dainty flowers.  Even the sepals are attractive after the petals fall.  

Camellias are staples of the winter garden in the south, and the arboretum has a plethora of them.  I loved this white flowering, semi-double Camellia × vernalis ‘Ginryû’.

Camellia ‘Yume’ reminded me of peppermints with these lovely two-toned pink and white flowers.

Some Camellia have attractive buds even before they flower like this Camellia tsaii ‘Erina’.

Camellia × hiemalis ‘Green's Blues’ turns this interesting mauve-pink as the blooms fade and will eventually turn more purple.  

Three of the early-flowering magnolias were in full splendor.  Magnolia platypetala near the visitor center...

…Magnolia cavaleriei near the lath house... 

… and Magnolia maudiae near the winter garden.  All three can be hit or miss based on cold snaps.  But, during good years, they are spectacular.  

Mahonia were outstanding in flower at the arboretum this visit.  Mahonia × lindsayae ‘Cantab’ has long be a favorite of mine.  The long, sinuous inflorescences smell spectacular on a winter day and were attracting a plethora of bees.  

A new Mahonia to me was Mahonia ilicina.  The long inflorescences featured sprays of off-white flowers.

I couldn’t write about visiting the arboretum in the winter without mentioning Chimonanthus praecox.  Even though wintersweet is a bit of a one-hit wonder and fades into the landscape the rest of the year, the winter fragrance is well worth planting it.  There were four that I counted in close proximity to the winter garden and perfumed the air with their sweet smell.

Even from a distance, I could make out the brilliant gold flowers of ‘Luteus’, a cultivar of Chimonanthus praecox that has deeper yellow in the petals and lacks the red blotch like seen in the image above.

There are a handful of winter honeysuckles that perfume the air with their lemony scent. Here is a comparison between the flower size of the larger Lonicera fragrantissima (left) and smaller Lonicera × purpusii ‘Winter Beauty’ (right).

I was surprised to see Hamamelis × intermedia ‘Jelena’ beginning to flower with the lack of winter chill from the unseasonably warm winter we’ve had. A lone branch on the back was blooming well while the rest of the plant had swelling buds.

Jasminum nudiflorum has long been a favorite indestructible winter flowering shrub. I often see it planted in urban areas and hell strips.  ‘Aureum’ features golden colored foliage once it leafs out in the spring.

I always kid with students when teaching Parrotia persica that the apetalous blooms are pretty non-descript in the winter, and the flowers shouldn’t be a selling point of this species. But, I could make the dangling stamens out from several feet away on this ‘Pendula’ and found them attractive. Maybe I should rethink my downplaying of the flowers!

STEM COLOR

Acer negundo ‘White Lightning’ shows some yellow stem color on fresh growth from the year.  Many consider box elders a trash tree, but coppicing this cultivar is worth it.

Red-twig dogwoods look so striking in late winter.  Cornus alba 'Minbat' BATON ROUGE shined with the low afternoon light.  

I’m always looking for winter interest from unexpected plants (especially perennials!), and I found the bleached white stems of Hibiscus ‘Cherry Cheesecake’ to be quite striking.  Against a dark background or dark building these would look lovely through winter.  

‘Bihou’ is one of my favorite Acer palmatum cultivars for the vibrant stem color they offer during the winter. The branches exude such a warmth as they transition from red young growth through orange to the older yellow tissue.

A close up of the more mature stem color of a larger ‘Bihou’ at the arboretum.

VIBRANT FOLIAGE

Fall color still holds on to the appropriately named ×Sycoparrotia semidecidua ‘Purple Haze’.

Wowzers. Daphniphyllum teijsmannii ‘Mountain Dove’ looked stunning in the lath house. 

I’ve loved Daphne since I discovered they offer wonderful winter fragrance.  In fact, I even had one in a container on my patio in grad school!  There were two nice variegated forms at the arboretum that were just coming into flower.  Above is the bold yellow margined form of ‘Mae-jima’.

And, here is the more subtle lime green coloring on dark green leaves of Daphne odora ‘Nakafu’.

I have never seen a darker leaf color on a Loropetallum like this Loropetalum chinense var. rubrum ‘Spg-3-017’ GARNET FIRE.  Or, really any other plant for that matter.  They were almost jet black for the winter.

The variegation on this Ilex vomitoria ‘Tricolor’ adds a splash of color to the understory and this love-it or hate-it native shrub.

The Life Herbaceous

I always get giddy seeing the white propellers unfurl on Galanthus elwesii. While snowdrops straddle growing seasons, many consider them one of the first flowers of the new year.

Euphorbia are beloved for their persistent foliage through winter. I appreciated ‘Canyon Gold’ with its burgundy highlights from the winter light.

Narcissus ‘Rijnveld’s Early Sensation’ was often a Christmas flower for me in Tennessee, and here it was at the arboretum blooming right on cue tucked under some shrubs. 

I was pleasantly surprised to see the warmth loving Abutilon ‘Voodoo’ still in flower.

Iris was another unexpected flowering plant at the arboretum. I saw three different cultivars in flower including this purple and white ‘Say Okay’.

Hellebores often face downward, but many of the new hybrids have been bred to have more upright facing petals.  Here Helleborus × ericsmithii ‘Coseh 790’ SHOOTING STAR flowers in a berm.  

Solstice Trees

“Augh, I cannot believe I did that,” I said as my hand rubbed my furrowed brow.  I thought I had done everything perfect. 

I took the two different Magnolia cultivars out of their pots and bashed their rootballs to knock off the excess substrate.  I inspected their roots and untwisted any that were crooked or circling, even in one case teasing the whole root system out from a cylinder shape into a broom-like spray.  I planted their root flares level with the soil, in a circle mind you!  I backfilled the holes with the original soil and double checked their bases were level with the ground.  And, I turned the water on a slow trickle to settle them in. 

And, that night, looking at photos from the day and jotting notes in my gardening journal I realized I never double checked the labels. The Magnolia trees were in the wrong holes.  

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I love celebrating the winter solstice by planting trees; for those of us in the northern hemisphere, it is the best time to get them in the ground. The cooler temperatures are less stressful, and the soil is more saturated with moisture. My goal is to get the majority of the woodies I’ve hoarded from the past year installed before Christmas, and this month, I’ve already made strides toward achieving it. 

I’ve planted Hamamelis vernalis ‘Amethyst’ and Hamamelis × intermedia ‘Diane’ that I received as bare roots back in the spring. They were planted up upon arrival into pots, and this fall, I watched them swell with buds. The former is just beginning to bloom even though we’ve only had around 250 chilling hours. 

I’ve planted Magnolia virginiana var. australis ‘Mattie Mae Smith’ that I got in Tennessee back in May.  I sited it to be able to enjoy the variegated foliage against the darker background of the fence row.  

I’ve planted Osmanthus fragrans f. aurantiacus I bought this summer in North Carolina and hauled back with us 16 hours across the country.  I sited it near my garden patch where I spend much of my time in the fall.  I can’t wait to smell those sweet blossoms. 

And, Friday I planted Magnolia ‘Lois’ and Magnolia ‘Yellow Bird’, two lovely yellow-flowering Magnolia that will compliment the landscape close to our house.  I chose yellow cultivars since they are on the same side of the color wheel as our log cabin.  ‘Yellow Bird’ is the taller of the two, and I had meant to site it away from the house and ‘Lois’ closer.   However, somehow in setting them out, I got them mixed up. It’s a good life lesson—check the labels twice, plant once.

I can’t wait to see the golden glow of Magnolia ‘Lois’ on my tree.

Immediately I knew why. I was in a hurry ahead of the promised rain projected for the next day.  “Blast, I’ll have to do it tomorrow morning before the front hits,” I thought to myself. I checked the forecast, and it showed precipitation before sunrise.  

Then, it hit me.  We have twinkle lights around our house.  AND, there’s a full moon tonight amplified by the sparse cloud cover.  So, I threw on my gardening shoes and sure enough, both provided enough light to swap them with the darkness brightened. 

I headed out with my shovel to fix my mistake with the golden glow of the twinkle lights and a Cold Full Moon (only in name though, it was in the high sixties and quite comfortable in shorts).  I could see just fine, and within 10 minutes they were in their rightful spots.  I sighed relief, knowing that the promised rain coming tomorrow would help settle them in even further.

With planting and watering finished, I laid down on our drive to stare at the sky and watch the clouds race by.  I love nights like these, where there is a breeze and everything is imbued with a shade of silver.  Even without the twinkle lights on, the night was so bright one would never imagine that it was one of the darkest days of the year.  But, it was. 

The winter solstice is Tuesday.  Wednesday we will brighten the day by a mere second of more light, and by the end of the month, we’ll be getting half a minute back a day.  And, then it’s onward to June.  

These little things add up, whether they be seconds of light or trees we plant. I’m excited for the return of light.  And, to see the solstice trees I’m planting now grow in the new year.

Gentians for Advent

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

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

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

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

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

“Found one,” Peter yelled.  

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

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

A good overview of Gentiana saponaria habitat in east Texas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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