Asters of Autumn: Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AUGUST 23

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

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ in early September

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘White Lovely’ in mid-September

AUGUST 30

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

Symphyotrichum oolentangiense

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

Symphyotrichum ‘Coombe Fishacre’ in early September

Symphyotrichum ‘Coombe Fishacre’ in mid-September

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

Eurybia hemispherica ‘Pink Dawn’

SEPT 6

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

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

Symphyotrichum novae-angliae ‘Purple Dome’

Symphyotrichum novae-angliae ‘Violetta’

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

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

Symphyotrichum lateriflorus ‘Bleke Bet’

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

Eurybia hemispherica

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

SEPT 13

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

Symphyotrichum lateriflorum ‘Lady in Black’

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

The Return of Oxblood Lilies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gomphrena and the Dog Days of Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first of many posies to come of globe amaranth

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

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

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

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

Superbloom

I love wildflower eruptions. I’ve witnessed these floral spectacles a few times in my life. An Appalachian forest floor covered in Phacelia, the roadsides here in the lone star state littered with Lupinus and Castilleja, and a bottomland hardwood forest so thick with Packera I could barely walk are a few that come to mind.

And, this summer, what were the odds? We booked a trip to England the same year that a superbloom was going to be planted in the moat surrounding the tower of London. Of course, superblooms are more intense than just a showy patch of wildflowers. They are a product of nature, the perfect environmental conditions causing all seeds of handful of denizens to erupt into bloom, usually carpeting the barren desert. Some superblooms are even visible from space.

However, this Superbloom was one made by man, a flora synthesized from species around the world to create a spectacle celebrating the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee. Nigel Dunnett designed the planting to make the Superbloom in the moat surrounding the Tower of London happen this summer. Over 20 million seed were planted and nurtured to be enjoyed by countless visitors.

While visiting London in July, we made a point to visit the Tower of London Superbloom. It was a wonderful case study in seeing the end result of synthesizing a naturalistic planting from seed. While I had seen naturalistic plantings developed from plugs and gallons, I had yet to really see a seed-based system. Such systems are more open to randomness and plants appearing where environmental conditions suit them. Thus, I tried to pay attention to the little details throughout the planting.

I have to had it to Nigel and his team. The bloom was probably at the closest to peak as we could have experienced it. And, bringing a superbloom into the heart of London I hope only inspired and educated people about the power of plants.

ENTERING THE SUPERBLOOM

We arrived right after they opened and thus beat the crowds. I was aware of the calm colors used at the entrance—whites, soft yellows, greens, browns, and blues with a few other pastels mixed in.

The view walking into the superbloom. Notice how the colors started soft and mellow. A pathway allows exploration, and a kettle hides a grate.

Here we see pops of color, but overall the planting isn’t too intense.

Woven willow added legibility between path and flowers. The introduction of oranges from Calendula, Dimorphotheca, and Eschscholzia add some pop to the planting.

SUPERBLOOM SLIDE

I mean, if you’re going to have a superbloom, you might as well have a superslide, right? Near the entrance was a fun way to get kids more engaged with the space.

The planting around this structure was my favorite of the experience, I think because of the layering, texture, and color. Verbena bonariensis and Oenothera (Gaura) lindheimeri both provided this moving, emergent layer above the umbels and asters below. In this section it was clear that plugs had been introduced as we saw Kniphofia, Sedum, Stachys, Agastache, and other plants that had significant biomass that would have unlikely been achieved in one growing season from seed.

Wildflower plantings around the superslide.

I was quite fond of Verbena bonariensis and Oenothera lindheimeri early on in the display. Here it was evident they had used plugs to bolster the underplanting.

I also admired the verticality of the Agastache inflorescences.

Here you can also see the diversity in this initial section.

The Verbena bonariensis faded away as we approached the mass planting on the western side of the Tower of London.

THE WEST SIDE

Past the superslide was a large open area where the flowers formed a living tapestry. Blues of Echium vulgare and Centaurea cyanus softened our approach to the more vibrant oranges and yellows . It was shocking seeing so much color after the cooler colors of the Verbena and Gaura section.

You can see the shift in color and planting here as the blues and purples gave way to the yellows and oranges.

Atriplex hortensis ‘Rubra’ emerged from the golden haze of wildflowers below.

The eyespots of Coreopsis tinctoria were a nice color echo with the Atriplex hortensis ‘Rubra’.

Further from the Atriplex hortensis ‘Rubra’, sunflowers were used to provide the emergent layer.

As we walked on, other colors were mixed back in to give the eyes a break from the yellows and oranges.

This photo is one of my favorite shots of the superbloom for the diversity of colors and species.

It truly is amazing thinking that most of this developed from the planting of 20 million seed.

One of the few sections of the superbloom that we saw where things were beginning to be past prime for color. The seedheads were noted to be important for birds.

In this western section, it became clear that the superbloom was designed to be an immersive experience. While the path was off to one side, there were these small circular viewing areas that allowed visitors to step into the space.

You can see there are a few of these compartments for a visitor’s viewing pleasure.

A photo from the walkway above before we entered really gives a perspective of these puzzle piece edges. I liked how on this western side that the foot traffic was confined to one side so that it really allowed us to appreciate the scale of the wildflower planting.

A close up of one of viewing areas

Karen paused in one of the circular areas for a photo with the wildflower backdrop.

THE NORTH SIDE

As we approached the north side, one of the pleasant surprises we experienced was natural music being played. Erland Cooper who creates natural synth music composed Music for Growing Flowers specifically for the superbloom. It was a twenty-minute looped piece, and you can listen to it here. It was a delight to hear the music over the bustle of the city, and it made me ponder why we don’t use music more in gardens?

On a sign he said, “I plough themes of the natural world for inspiration and wanted the ambient score to feel conducive to a growing environment. As music is just vibrations of sound, I’d like to think that it is encouraging the flowers to grow in their life cycle over the summer, boosting biodiversity and helping on this rewilding journey.” A lovely thought indeed.

I really admired the efforts to educate the public with the signage provided. Below is just one example of many that communicated the dynamics of the superbloom site.

While I took photographs of many of the signs, I chose to share this sign specifically because it alludes to the changing conditions for establishing seedlings on the site.

I noticed that in one area, the seeds seemed to have a hard time getting established. I asked a volunteer about it, and he said that heavy rains in March had washed some of the soil away.

While I was standing looking at this space, I saw a demarcation line between a big expanse of yarrow and the seed-sown wildflowers. It hit me that I was looking at wildflower sod.

As the sign alluded to above, there were establishment issues in the spring, and so I assume that wildflower sod was brought in to fix that issue. I think the first person I heard using wildflower sod was Carrie Preston at the 2017 Philadelphia Flower Show. This section of the Superbloom was the first time I had seen it used in person, and I thought it a brilliant backup plan because I’ve had issues with getting seed to establish via direct sowing, too.

Here you can really see the sod line on the yarrow and the lack of establishment from the seed.

This photo is a shot right behind the one above where you can see the sod line. Isn’t this mass of Achillea lovely? My guess is that at least part of this was established using wildflower sod.

I was also very curious about these patches that were devoid of any flowers that I saw at the Superbloom. They were mainly on this northern side of the Tower of London. I noticed them before we entered from the walk way above. At first, I thought that they had cut the wildflowers back for regeneration, but once on the ground I realized I was wrong.

I don’t think that the bare spots detracted. They served as breaks in the superbloom, areas where just like in nature the wildflowers aren’t as abundant.

Instead, what I was seeing was fresh wildflower sod that had been laid. In some areas it was more established than others. My guess is that as sections have petered out or had poor establishment, the sod is an opportunity to replace those areas. I had wondered how one could keep such a spectacle going, and so these observations helped make more sense, though I’m not suggesting they used the sod over the entire area. I really think they had crafted a mix for long season interest. But, if the seedlings don’t take, this technique is an option for a bandaid for these styles of plantings.

A close up section of wildflower sod that looks recently laid down. I can make out what looks like the silver-leaves of Lychnis and the emerging feathery foliage of Achillea.

A patch of wildflower sod from a broader perspective. Notice the overall brown coloration, and compare with the photo below.

Here is another section of sod that is more established. Notice how much more verdant this space is.

I share all this not to detract from the Superbloom or to degrade it but to share the nuts and bolts of how it is managed. As I said earlier, seeing it in bloom is a wonderful case study for learning, and I am fascinated by such minutiae. I admire the creativity to have options to keep the space looking fresh and alive.

THE EAST SIDE

As we walked eastward, we began encountering small hillsides of wildflowers. Yet another way to make the site more engaging was to create changes in elevation for the wildflowers, which was achieved by bringing in soil and sowing seed on these raised areas.

Here you can really see the elevation change on this hillside. You can barely see the people on the other side who are standing on the pathway.

What I liked about the elevation change is that it brought many of the wildflowers up to face level, so that instead of looking down one looked toward them.

On the far northeast side was a beautiful willow sculpture called Nest by Spencer Jenkins. Having structure in the Superbloom gave it a sense of permanence, even if it was made from natural materials.

I’m a sucker for woven willow, and Nest by Spencer Jenkins was a lovely homage to the animals that share the space with wildflowers.

This vantage shows how the curves of Nest blend well with the sways in the planting beyond.

The last section had a vegetable garden feel. There were enclosed spaces with winding pathways. The incorporation of dill and sunflowers added to the allotment feeling. It was as if the design communicated, “I’ve taken you through what it might look like in the wild, and now let’s consider how we could incorporate these ruderals into our gardens, big and small.” In this space there was a nice pollinator display with woven branches and metal sculpted pollinators above.

This space looked like a summer vegetable garden erupting with growth.

More willow structures added to the organic feel of the site.

Papaver, Anethum, Centaurea, and Echium were the last big dominant species in this space.

Another shot of the wildflowers at the end of the Superbloom.

Artist Mehrdad Tafreshi made these cool brass and copper pollinators that hovered over this last section.

SUPERBLOOM AT NIGHT

We had a glimpse of the Superbloom the night before we walked through it. My colleague Andrew Bunting of the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society had visited only a week earlier. I saw his incredible twilight photograph on Instagram, and I knew we had to visit in the evening. I snapped a few photos just before sunset. It was really something else to see lit up at night.

An almost duplicate of the image I saw Andrew post a week prior to our visit. Seeing the Superbloom early before it got crowded was on my itinerary, but after seeing his photo, I knew we had to visit at twilight, too.

It was amazing to see how the wildflowers at night glowed when shined with colored lights.

A photo of the eastern side of the Superbloom glowed under purple lights.

One of the things about wildflowers is they not only catch sunlight but they also are great at refracting light at night.

The July 2022 super moon shined over the glowing Superbloom.

After the experience, I thought it funny. I’ve never been out west to see the famous California superblooms, and here I have traveled a quarter the way around the world to see one. And, just like many of the superblooms here, this display was ephemeral. It won’t last much longer with the close of summer upon us.

But, the memory of such sights lasts. I hope that with this photo journey you feel inspired at such a massive display of wildflowers, too. It makes me think about how I can incorporate more ruderal plants into my garden to make a mini-superbloom of my own.

An Evening Stroll at Great Dixter

“A sensible notebook is essential.  I keep two of them going concurrently.  One is for ongoing notes with names of plants seen or acquired. ... The other notebook is for when I’m away from home for two or more days.  It spends most of its time at my bedside and is a diary of events which I write up in bed, early the following morning, while all is still fresh in my mind.  In future years, it is an invaluable source of reference. ... Make yourself more observant.  You miss so much that you shouldn’t.  So much around you is interesting and deserves a mental image.  Note it down there and then, and make a good description that will mean something to you when you next look it up.”

From “New Years Resolutions” in Cuttings: A Year in the Garden with Christopher Lloyd by Christopher Lloyd

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There was the view of the rolling hillsides that I remember from my last visit some 12 years ago to Great Dixter. “This has to be one of the best parking lot views of any botanic garden in the world,” I said to Karen as we climbed out of the car.  I made sure I had my camera ready and pocket Field Notes that I carry with me when visiting gardens for taking notes. Christopher Lloyd had written that advice years ago in his book Cuttings, and these pocket notebooks have served me well to remember what I saw.

The sun was sinking in the afternoon sky riddled with clouds as we walked toward the great hall. I saw a lady in the white barn, and I said, “We are looking for Fergus.”

“Oh are you?” she stated back as if it was a question she had been asked a thousand times.

“Yes, I’ve never met him, but we’ve been in touch, and he said to meet him this evening at 5:30.”

“Well, he’s one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet.  They are wrapping up the symposium now.  He should be near the house.”

We walked toward the great hall and paused in front of its rustic majesty.   I closed my eyes to bolster my ears, and the hunt for voices in the garden began.  “This way,” I said to Karen as I heard some noise around back.  Behind the house we started encountering some attendees from the symposium that Fergus has been hosting, and I started asking the question, “Have you seen Fergus?” 

“Not recently,” one person answered.

“Hmm, I just saw him, but I’m not sure,” piped another one. We saw more people in the distance and went to ask them.

“Perhaps he’s in the house,” this group answered.

“Could you please show us?” I asked. “We’re not from around here.”

“Oh, I could have never guessed that,” one of them joked back.

She took us through the house. We emerged through the front door, and in an inverted host-and-visitor greeting found Fergus standing outside with the biggest smile and a hearty welcome.

With pleasantries aside, we introduced ourselves.  We talked about our trip highlights so far, saying we were balancing gardens for myself with Downton Abbey’s Highclere Castle and bookstores for Karen. Fergus asked Karen if she liked plants, to which she replied she did and liked to draw them.

Two symposium attendees sauntered up, and I recognized an accent I really hadn’t heard in a few days. They were from the states, one from Ohio and one from just outside Philly.  They had come to learn more about the horticulture techniques used at Great Dixter.  I was amazed that people travelled that far to come to this symposium. They were discussing the day’s content. Meadows and encouraging biodiversity had been the topics for the day, and both ladies were amazed at how a small planting with the right species could welcome all kinds of the creatures to their gardens.

“Let’s find somewhere to chat. Come in the great hall,” Fergus said as he took us back in the house. Not rushing this time, we were able to appreciate the ancient architecture, the massive wooden beams, and the off-white walls.

He offered us tea and biscuits in true English fashion, and we gladly accepted as he gave us a quick tour of the house that Christopher Lloyd had lived in.  “Let me take you upstairs,” Fergus said. We entered a door off the back side of the room.

As we climbed the stairs, I said, “I told Karen this house dates back to the 1400’s.” “Yes,” Fergus stated.  “About 1450 to be more exact.” We entered to find a large collection of library books.

“There is much history in this room.  It’s special.  I thought you would would like this, Karen, since you like Downton.”

Karen smiled and nodded in appreciation. We headed back downstairs and out of the house.

“Wow, that planting looks great,” I said in reference to the silvery theme they had in the solar garden in front of the house, an area that changes out a few times a year with different annual displays. The grays of Plectranthus and Helichrysum glistened amongst Canna and other annuals.

“Yea, we just planted it two weeks ago.” He showed me a photo on his phone of the display only a month ago that was ripe with reds and oranges. “We left a bit of the annuals in for seed here at the left. The planting before had turned brown as it ended its seasonal display.”

“How do you keep things from falling over with freshly planted material?” I asked as I find new plants can be floppy.

“We make sure that they are heavily watered before planting,” Fergus replied.

We walked north of the house toward a patio where a container display of mostly conifers sat in the corner, resting on a patio of stones cobbled in the pattern of two dogs. I knew from reading books that these dogs were Christopher’s two dachshunds, Canna and Dahlia.

We then turned and walked down beside the house where a Magnolia grandiflora shaded plants in pots.  Fergus said that these plants and containers were for the attendees of the symposium for the morning.  The student interns would make the arrangements and then the attendees would appraise them from what they had learned in the symposium.

Around the back of the house on the terrace, Fergus sat for a moment with the topiary lawn in the background, the manicured shrubs and billowy Cotinus erupting from a sea of grass. A cat hopped up on the ledge. “Why, hello there. What’s the cat’s name?” I said.

“Neil,” Fergus said as he smiled. “This cat is from Afghanistan”, Fergus revealed as he petted him.  At first I thought it’s origin odd and far off, but then I realized we were only a channel away from being on the European continent with a direct beeline to Afghanistan. Neil would join us for the rest of our tour, following in Fergus’s footsteps. I didn’t realize until after we left that Neil is famous. He has a book written all about him.

I took the pause in our exploring to ask Fergus how he taught his audience, whether they be symposium attendees or interns.

“It depends on the person you are educating.” He paused as he petted Neil. “I bring them along on a journey. I weigh their capabilities and gauge what they are able to do. You have to tailor your lessons to the person, to their abilities.”

He paused again as Neil nuzzled up to Karen. “Let’s go to the exotic garden.” I began to realize this was a pattern, Fergus using the imperative to encourage our exploring and always suggesting what was to come next.

As we approached a hole in the yews, he quipped, “Go in there,” and we did.  We found ourselves immersed in the foliage of a secret garden hidden by a hedge. It was not a claustrophobic feeling but instead an embrace by the plants around us.  It felt like a jungle.

“Yes, that’s what it’s supposed to feel like,” Fergus replied to my comment.

“Wow, in only a few square feet there’s a Ginkgo, a Taxodium ascendens, and a weeping Cedrus,” I said astonished.

Then, Fergus said the words that any young plantsperson loves to hear from an elder.  “You know your plants.”

I grinned a bit, and then said, “But, I don’t know that.”

“That’s Iochroma australis (Eriolarynx australis).” Of course, the flowers resembled Iochroma cyanea that I knew from southern gardeners.

“Let me go turn the water on while you explore.”  We wedged our way under the foliage of bananas, past Persicaria and Boehmeria, and rounded the dissected foliage of Rhus not able to see around the next curve.

Suddenly, Fergus reappeared dragging a yellow hose. As we exited for him to turn on the water, the bright-eyed Inula magnifica greeted us on the other side of the exotic garden against a background of Gunnera tinctoria.  Karen went for a photo, and I commented on how she loves the aster family.

I noticed that a single leaf of the Gunnera had dry down damage, but didn’t say anything. “It’s so dry.” It was like Fergus read my mind. This was his first lamentation of many about the dryness.

“Is it always like this?” I inquired.

“No, this is abnormal,” he responded.

As we walked back toward the house, I piped up, “The exotic garden was great. I remember reading about it from Christopher’s book and how it used to be a rose garden? Oh! I should ask did you call him Christo?” I asked stressing the i into an e. “Am I saying that right?”

“Chris-TOH,” Fergus corrected me. “Yes, the exotic garden has changed since Christo’s time but the meadows are the same. I’ve tried to make the exotic garden more wild.”

Back near the house, we saw Erigeron karvinskianus, Centranthus ruber, and succulent plantings growing in stone circles near a 100 year old mulberry. “Edwin Lutyens designed these steps and circles, am I correct?” I asked as I butchered the name.

“Yes,” Fergus said, pronouncing Lutyens as Lutchens.

“Forgive me; I’ve learned by reading,” I replied. Fergus smiled.

“Let’s look at the long border” Fergus said as we walked under the mulberry’s crown.

The long border was spectacular, better than I remembered. Overall, the planting was heavier on the yellows at this time of the year, mostly because of the gold foliage of several species and the butter-yellow panicles of Verbascum olympicum rising above the splattering of colors below.

We walked and Karen began snapping photos of plants to draw.  I asked about a dahlia that Karen eyed asking what was the cultivar.  It didn’t matter since we can’t really grow them well, but I though it nice to know the name. Fergus bent down to find the label, and he read off 'Kenora Wow’.

I noticed as Fergus pulled the foliage back that near the base of a plant was sheep wool.  “What’s that for?”

“Slugs,” Fergus responded. It was interesting to see such an ingenious solution to keep the pest at bay.

We walked the long border’s length, pausing to take photos with the fragrance of Phlox paniculata wafting in the air. Fergus lamented again it was dry.  I said, “Yes, but so is Texas, and this looks nothing like Texas.  But, it’s cooler here.”

Fergus, chuckled, “Yes, it is cooler here.” I couldn’t see the stress on the plants, but Fergus could. He talked about if rain didn’t come that plants would soon start to crisp.

Reaching its end Fergus invited, ‘Let’s sit here and talk.” He revealed to us that this was one of Christo’s favorite places to sit at the end of the day, and he and Christo would often sit and chat about the garden.

We talked about many things, how Fergus went to college at Wye where Christo and Nigel Dunnett went. “The real learning happens on the ground,” Fergus shared about the benefits of hands-on learning. He revealed that he had been here for 30 years, and was married in 1994.

“What is your favorite food?” Fergus asked us. We said that we really liked pub places in Texas, and there was an Asian fusion place where you can get tacos and fried rice in town.

“Tacos… tacos and Mexican seem to be the number one thing people miss from the states. I ask people this question who have been here a while, and that’s the one thing that seems to always come up.” Karen and I realized that we really hadn’t seen that cuisine here.

I asked him what was Christo like?

“Eccentric,” was the first word that Fergus used. “If you worked hard, he would give you anything you wanted. Christo valued work ethic and would work hard, partly because he was so focused.  But, he was kind,”

I said, “You’ve probably been around the world. Where’s your favorite place you’ve been to?” he replied, “New Zealand was special,” which was followed by Japan.

I asked about the people visiting from the states, amazed that they travelled so far.  “Oh, yes.  We get visitors from all over for our weeklong symposium. We host four a year.”

He got up and said, “Let’s go up here,” while snapping a photo of the border for an Instagram post.

As we walked through the border up toward the orchard stock beds, he said, “We’ve been doing a biodiversity assessment here.”

I said, “Yes, Thomas Rainer shared that with me, some story about a spider.”

“Yes, the endangered Meioneta mollis was found here.” Gardens often get a bad rap for being deserts of biodiversity, but the surveys that Fergus is having conducted really give him concrete evidence to show that Great Dixter is a special place for many organisms.

“Have a look in there while I go check on water.”  

We walked a few steps down a narrow passage to find the most spectacular pairing of plants while Fergus disappeared through a hole in the hedge. Verbascum, Lythrum, Inula, Oenothera, Erigeron, Dipsacus, and more were backlit by a lowering sun.  It was one of the best contrasting color combinations I had ever seen. I had heard before from others that if you want reliable color drama to pair yellows and purples together, but this mixture blew it out of the water.

Behind us, more Verbascum olympicum rose with Cynara cardunculus and a lovely yellow Alcea. With just the two of us Karen asked, “Why didn’t you talk this place up more?! This is one of the best gardens I’ve ever been, too.” Ah, yet another person enraptured by the spell of Great Dixter. I suppose I left out that we were visiting Christopher Lloyd’s home, a man who many consider to be the greatest garden writer of the 20th century. Sadly, he passed away in 2006, but it was quite evident that Fergus was doing a smashing job of keeping his spirit alive at Great Dixter.

Just when the sun disappeared behind a cloud and the light became right, we heard a familiar voice. “That’s nice isn’t it.” Fergus came back to say he was checking on sprinklers, and I said no worries. 

“So, with this planting and the color combination, do you do designs the previous year?” I asked

“No, it sometimes just comes together from what we grow,” Fergus replied.

“So, what do you call this garden?” I inquired.

“This is the orchard stock beds.” Fergus stated.

“Really?” I exclaimed. I had never seen propagation beds look so good. 

“Yes, we will dig most of this out to propagate for the nursery,” he replied. Ingenious, if you ask me.

“Let’s go up here.”  We walked through the hole where Fergus had disappeared and found yet another beautiful planted area.  Erigeron dotted the dark foliage of a low hedge of Symphyotrichum lateriflorus ‘Horizontalis’. In the background fading giant fennel and flowering hollyhocks rose for height.

I had never seen Ferula communis in seed, and was amazed.  “Wow that’s so big!” I said in reference to the giant fennel. Then, I noticed the color echo. “Ok, did you plan that?” I asked pointing to the fennel stem and the hollyhock having the same pink color. Fergus smiled, “I have to be honest and say no.”

We made our way up to the high garden where the vegetable garden and compost area were.

“I always love to see vegetable gardens as that’s where I got my start,” I commented.

He said, “Have you ever seen that?” pointing to the compost pile. Pumpkins draped themselves down either side of the behemoth mound. 

“We planted about 10 different varieties on top.” I reached down and grabbed a handful of the black gold. Strands of grasses were still visible.

He dug around in the pile for a bit, the pitchfork hitting dry layers. “We cut the grasses in the meadows and then everything from the garden goes in these piles.” I thought of all the things I’ve seen so far here, I think I’m most envious of this compost pile.

We retraced our steps back toward the house and arrived where we had first begun. Neil made a point to assess the display containers in front of the house that are regularly changed out to keep up appearances.

Fergus then took us to the barn garden.  Edwin Lutchens had designed this area to be flat but there was now a sunken pond in the middle.  We walked around admiring the plants, and the diversity in this small space seemed the richest we had seen thus far. Everywhere we looked were plants thriving. There was a lovely pink Abelia with more Phlox paniculata that perfumed the air, a haze of Salvia sclarea against the electric Euphorbia donii ‘Amjilasa’, an espaliered fig on the wall whose girth was too wide to photograph up close, flaming Cuphea cyanea in the pots, the puffball of Santolina neapolitana, and the neon pink Salvia microphylla ‘Cerro Potosi’ with Verbascum chaixii ‘Album’.

And, Karen was quite keen on the hydrangeas. I noticed ‘Ayesha’, one of my favorite varieties for its cupped sepals.

As we exited the barn garden, I asked him about a comment from Thomas Rainer about woodland management. “Thomas said you had some type of system to manage your woodlands.”

“Yes, here, I’ll draw it for you.” Fergus took my Field Notes and began to sketch it out. “It’s a coppice with standards system. You have the oaks as your standards for building and are grown for 50–100 years. You coppice the ash and hornbeam for firewood; let’s say 20–40 years for them. Last you have your chestnut for poles, 15 years of growth.

He turned the page and said, “Let’s say this is your woods.” Then, he divided it up into segments drawing oaks, then ash and hornbeam on the left and chestnut on the right. “So, you cut progressively overtime so that you have this dynamic forest with changing light levels over a 25 year period. It’s an ancient way of managing woodlands through coppicing.”

I was amazed. Even the woodlands that surrounded Great Dixter were managed with care and thought, just like the gardens.

“Well, I must go.  I have another day of symposium tomorrow to prepare for.” He and I both agreed about garden talks that the slides were easy and fun.  The plant list was the hard part, getting the names right and proofing them. We thanked him for his generosity and time, we said our goodbyes, and we left, the same way we came, down the long path through the meadows toward the parking lot.

The sheep were gone but the sky riddled with clouds remained, as do our memories of this special evening strolling through the gardens of Great Dixter with Fergus. I can’t wait to visit this place again and spend some time with our new friends Fergus and Neil.

Liatris pycnostachya, Sparklers for the Summer Garden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons from Leuvehoofd

It was cool gray June day when I hopped off the train in Rotterdam. I was in the Netherlands for a soilless substrate conference in Leiden, almost ten years ago now. While there, I took the time to explore local gardens. Of interest to me were plantings that Piet Oudolf had designed in the city along the waterfront. One was found at Leuvehoofd, a park right on the Nieuwe Maas or New Meuse River.

Planting: A New Perspective by Piet Oudolf and Noel Kingsbury had just come out, and I snagged a copy before heading across the ocean, reading it furiously on the flight and during down time in the hotel. It was so interesting to have a guide to the planting right in my hands as I was visiting the site.

I approached the park from the south, where a long bed dominated by mixed grasses, Iris, and fading Allium came into view against a monument for those lost at sea in World War II. I would learn it was named De Boeg, which translates to The Bow in English. The memorial stands 150 feet tall with a pair of iron wings at the base that appear to be breaking water.

Iris sibirica ‘Perry’s Blue’ pops against the green foliage of grasses as the Allium above fade.

Turning a photo black and white so helps me appreciate the textures of the site. De Boeg was a war memorial to those lost at sea in World War II, and here it appears to be breaking through a colony of floating jellyfish

Here you can see how the naturalistic planting softens the starkness of the memorial.

From there four angular beds rippled out from the monument like waves getting larger until they hit the river’s edge. I quickly noticed that the planting this time of year had an overall cool color scheme of blues and purples. For a bit of brightness, down the center of the planting ran a river of Deschampsia cespitosa ‘Goldschleier’. Walking around the garden was interesting because viewing it from different points allowed me to see different perspectives and plant combinations.

Years ago, I downloaded several images from Piet Oudolf’s website to be able to study the designs. The one above is of an early rendition of Leuvehoofd that I cropped to show the four primary beds of the planting.

A perspective showing the essence of the planting at Luevehoofd Park. It is mostly a sea of green dotted with blue Amsonia, purple Allium, and the strip of Deschampsia.

One of my favorite photos from this experience was this view of the planting right next to the water with the Erasmusbrug or Erasmus bridge in the distance.

From this angle you can better see the mass of Deschampsia cespitosa ‘Goldschleier’ that runs through the center of the planting. You may notice on the drawing above that Sporobolus was recommended, but in the book Planting: A New Perspective, Deschampsia was mentioned instead. It was a nice glimpse at the iterative nature of developing a planting.

An unknown light blue Iris softens the sea of green. The design had called for Iris siberica ‘Perry’s Blue’, but it seemed that a few different blue variants were mixed in to play off the analogous color scheme.

A long view of the largest bed along the river front. The scattering of the Allium is quite apparent here. From this view I also really began to appreciate the presence of the matrix or groundcover level out of which other perennials arise.

Calamintha served as a skirt around Amsonia.

I also admired Piet’s ability to create combinations between plants to elevate the planting. This topic was one that Thomas Rainer and I discussed on the recent podcast, these small decisions about color, texture, and/or plant form made when pairing plants that really show the artist’s touch.

Here the colors of rosy purple Salvia nemorosa ‘Amethyst’ echo the umbels of Allium christophii.

Spires of Salvia nemorosa ‘Amethyst’ rise from a block within the planting.

Another example of color echo was between Allium christophii and Sedum ‘Matrona’. Both have hints of that smoky purple hue.

I also admired the repetition of starry shapes in parts of the planting. For example, here the stellate flowers of Amsonia are similar to the stellate flowers of the Allium. Perhaps they seem minuscule, but I believe such small choices are instrumental in elevating a design.

One final shot showing the blending line between the mass of Deschampsia cespitosa ‘Goldschleier’ and the mixed planting.

Overall, it was a good first introduction to a Piet Oudolf design. Leuvehoofd was moderately sized yet digestable. In the coming weeks, I’ll post a second planting I saw right down the river at Westerkade along with the lessons I learned there.

Stoneleigh

Last summer, we visited Philadelphia for the flower show. We had a very short trip arranged, which I had packed full to see gardens and other sites of interest that Karen was keen on. But, once there I was highly encouraged to make some time to go see Stoneleigh. It’s a newish botanic garden in Villanova that was given to Natural Lands in 2016. I was promised it would be worth our time stopping for a visit.

So, we carved out 45 minutes after lunch to see the grounds. And, I am so glad we did. They are doing amazing things with native plants.  As the website says, Stoneleigh focuses on native plants but with a twist.  Walking through had a different feel than most gardens that focus on endemics. It was natives, elevated, with unique selections of great plants around every corner.

I also count myself fortunate to be able to visit. This conservation easement was once at risk of being gobbled up by a school to make new ballfields and new buildings. However, the community rallied together with a vigorous campaign, and with help from the state legislature, Stoneleigh was saved.

I kept my eye out for the unusual and I was rewarded during our short visit. In this post, I wanted to share some of the incredible plants I encountered, many of them variants on the natives we know and love. A huge thanks to Ethan Kauffman for helping me identify the plants I couldn’t in the following photos. And, the next time you visit the Philly area, be sure to visit; this gem is a garden is going to make this brimming heart of horticulture even better.

The parking lot at Stoneleigh evoked this wildness. In the middle was a bioswale where natives like Packera aurea were planted, and on the end cap, two yellow foliage Gleditsia triacanthos var. inermis ‘Sunburst’ provided a bright spot of color.

Across from the parking lot was the largest planting of Penstemon digitalis I had ever seen. Their white flowers created a pointillistic froth.

Near the garden entrance, it was apparent that natives would be at the forefront of our visit. Here Baptisia ‘Solar Flare’ brightens this edge planting.

I got weak in the knees seeing this magnificent cut-back Acer rubrum ‘Snow Fire’ on the way into the garden. Ethan commented that they prune it like a shrub to keep it short. My mind pondered how could I have this in Texas without it frying.

This mix of Carex socialis, Carex plantaginea, and Carex laxiculmis provided an excellent example of their functionality as a green groundcover.

The matrix of Carex was a great living groundcover for trees and shrubs like this variegated Hamamelis virginiana ‘Green Thumb’.

As we ventured toward the house, we walked along a long winding pathway past a meadow and giant trees.  Poa pratensis had been left unmown along either side

Scattered around the edge of the great lawn were towering trees like this Magnolia acuminata. This giant is the 6th largest cucumber magnolia in Pennsylvania.

Tucked into the grass were woody trees like Corylus americana SUNDROPS.

As we approached the house, Eragrostis elliottii ‘Wind Dancer’ served as a matrix for emerging Echinacea pallida and Gaura lindheimeri.

Near the house was a pool that had been filled in to make a patio. The purple Penstemon smallii had sown itself around in the beds for a pop of color.

The pool had been replaced with a flagstone patio that featured circular shaped bog gardens. These gardens contained carnivorous plants like Sarracenia and a plethora of other funky native endemics.

I thought these Helenium brevifolium were cute popping out of the bog plantings.

The main house partially hidden by a giant Platanus featured foundation plantings of natives.

A perspective of the main house from the south side. Columnar Juniperus virginiana ‘Taylor’ and even the spherical Catalpa bignonioides ‘Aurea’ provide a formality to the plantings.

The plantings around the house were rich with diversity in native plants. The front steps were flanked on either side with Styrax americanus in full bloom. It is a wonderful and underused native large shrub to small tree.

A close up of the delicate Styrax americanus flowers

Near the house I began to better understand Stoneleigh’s concept of natives with a twist. We kept seeing these variants of natives I had never encountered like Heliopsis helianthoides var. scabra ‘Sunburst’. Ethan shared with me that the variegation comes true from seed on this cultivar.

Here’s another variegated plant I had never seen before—Physostegia virginiana ‘Variegata’. The leaves have the thinnest sliver of white on the margin.

The house served as a trellis for espaliering Cercis canadensis BLACK PEARL. Also, don’t miss the gray-purple foliage of the Populus deltoides ‘Purple Tower’. It almost blends in with the stone.

Here the house is once again used as a surface for espaliering Hamamelis virginiana ‘Lemon Lime’, a nice speckled leaf form of our native witchhazel.

In a world of exotic roses, I always keep my eye out for native species. This Rosa virginiana near the house was quite floriferous.

Behind the house was a mixed planting of natives featuring Coreopsis, Itea, Eutrochium (Eupatorium), and more.

A little further down the bed Panicum amarum ‘Dewey Blue’ and Lonicera reticulata ‘Kintzley’s Ghost’ echoed each other’s glaucous blue.

I have long admired Artemisia ludoviciana ‘Valerie Finnis’ for its narrow, silvery foliage. It pops when surrounded by green.

If seeing one variegated Acer rubrum made me weak in the knees, guess how surprised I was to learn there are two variegated cultivars! This one is ‘Vanity’. And, in case you are curious, the wine-colored foliage plant on the right is Calycanthus floridus var. purpureus 'Burgundy Spice'.

A close up of Acer rubrum ‘Vanity’. Don’t you love that splashed foliage and red tips?

Yet another eclectic mix of natives on the north side of the house. Acer negundo ‘Kelly’s Gold’ is espaliered against the wall while the the bold golden foliage of Silphium perfoliatum ‘The Holy Grail’ pops against the small starry blue flowers of Amsonia ludoviciana on the right of the image.

One of the most impressive trees I saw at Stoneleigh was this fabulous specimen of Nyssa sylvatica ‘Sheri’s Cloud’. The foliage was so clean with the slightest hints of amber on the tips.

I love Kentucky yellowwood, and I was delighted to discover this weeping form Cladrastis kentukea ‘White Rain’. It has to be spectacular in full bloom.

I love the color echoes here. The chairs on the main deck matched the Callirhoe involucrata blooming behind in a mix of Opuntia, and the golden flowers of Oenothera fruticosa complimented the Ptelea trifoliata ‘Aurea’ in the distance.

Echinacea sanguinea, sanguine coneflower

We said goodbye to the last hints of spring this past week.  A cold front brought us mornings in the low fifties with a good breeze.  

Such a cool down is short lived at the end of May in east Texas for this week the heat and humidity have returned.  We have begun the earnest transition to summer.  Many of my spring wildflowers are fading, some all out going dormant and others giving their last hurrah as they produce seed.  I have collected and already sown the progeny of Nemastylis geminiflora (prairie celestial), Callirhoe alcaeoides (poppy mallow), and Marshallia caespitosa (Barbara’s buttons) in hopes of having more next year.

As the summer cast of characters become more prevalent, I find that some like Echinacea sanguinea (sanguine coneflower) still straddle both seasons.  They’ve been blooming now for a few weeks, and as we head into June they are still a lovely site to behold.  

A mass of Echinacea sanguinea grows near Diospyros 'Nikita's Gift' in one of the orchard beds.

I had extra plants of sanguine coneflower and I threw some into the front of the kitchen garden as well.

My plethora of plants all came from seed I collected two years ago.  Near our house there’s a decent stretch where they hug the pine forest edge, and the mowers are late enough to allow the heads to ripen. 

From whence my seed came. Echinacea sanguinea can be found along the roadsides in east Texas. This particular section near our house is quite thick with blooms.

I sowed the seed into trays and planted the plugs last spring.  They petered along as basal rosettes, one here and there trying its best to throw up a flower stalk.  But, this year the display has been spectacular.  

At first the color of the rays is a soft rosy white with the end nearest the disk watercolored with red wine and allowed to bleed down the ligulate petal. But, as they mature over several weeks the white shifts into a myriad of pinks

I love watching sanguine coneflower come into bloom. Often, the ray petals will twist and curl.

The butterflies love them, and standing at a distance I can see a swarm of activity above the blooms.  It’s so much fun to stand and watch all the little creatures with names like Wild Indigo Duskywing, Funereal Duskywing, and Red-banded Hairstreak flying back and forth above the coneflowers like kids darting around the school yard.  I also admire how late in the day the light catches the trichomes on the stems.  The plants glow in the sun with their hairy stems.  Some are prone to flopping late in bloom. My solution is to increase the stress by planting more grasses underneath this fall to wane their vigor.

The beds near the house were planted to be able to interact with light at various times of the day throughout the year. Off on the center right the budded stems of a lone Echinacea sanguinea rises and glows with the trichomes (or what we call hairs).

I want more, and I’ll be collecting seed off them again later in the season.  I learned something new year that will aid in my increasing them.  They propagate readily from root cuttings.  When I pulled a tray up that I overwintered, I found it stuck to the soil and requiring a good yank to remove.  The roots left in the ground soon began producing new shoots, and much to my surprise they are coming into bloom now.  

We won’t likely see temperatures in the fifties for another five or six months, but when cooler weather arrives, I’ll move these propagules to a spot where I’ll be able to enjoy them next summer.  

Rhododendron vaseyi at Southern Highlands Reserve

May brings to mind the flowers of pinkshell azaleas for this time of year is when they reach peak bloom in the mountains of North Carolina. Rhododendron vaseyi is one of our beautiful yet lesser known native Rhododendron. This species was first found by George Vasey in 1878 and is native to only a handful of counties in western North Carolina, perhaps owing its success to slight disturbances from time to time. While not extremely rare, it is considered threatened due to climate change and loss of habitat from development. The good news is even with its limited range, it grows great in gardens where the environment suits it well. And, while I do want to give it a go in Texas one day, I do believe it is better suited to climes further north.

Years ago in grad school before I moved to Texas, I learned of this species, and wanted to see it in the wild. While there are scattered plants along the Blue Ridge Parkway, I had heard that a botanic garden in the southern Appalachians named Southern Highlands Reserve housed one of the largest populations in the world. If you’ve never heard of Southern Highlands Reserve, this garden is a biological ark whose mission is to preserve, educate people about, and propagate the incredible diversity of the southern Appalachians. For on these eroded pinnacles grow species unique to the southeast—some rare, some only occurring in a few counties, and some relics of the last ice age. These mountain tops have been called islands in the sky since they house species that can’t go any lower or higher to avoid a warming climate that is creeping up the slopes.

I arrived after driving a winding road through a private development to find the gardens imbued with spring freshness under a clear, bluebird sky. The tour started in the modern meets rustic Chestnut Lodge where we learned that the 120 acre garden was once slated to become 22 lots for development until Robert and Betty Balentine, who live right across the road, stepped in and decided that they would rather preserve nature than see it destroyed. 

Even though this botanic garden is relatively young having opened in 2006, the unique mission and climate of the gardens has already reached international renown.  And, once outside we saw that even though the landscape had been molded by the hands of man, it looked mature for its age since many large trees remained. On the tour early spring flowering plants like Phlox stolonifera (creeping phlox), Trillium catesbaei (Catesby’s trillium), Podophyllum peltatum (mayapple), and Iris cristata (dwarf crested iris) had begun their spring displays, and perennials in the labyrinth were just starting to emerge.

Phlox stolonifera carpets the ground.

Phlox stolonifera softens the edges of this staircase.

A vibrant pink Trillium catesbaei sports wavy leaves and petals.

Podophyllum peltatum umbrellas rise from the forest floor.

Iris cristata provides a nice footing for emerging Osmundastrum cinnamomeum (cinnamon fern) fiddleheads.

Though only a few years old, the hardscape at Southern Highlands Reserve were already imbued with age.

I loved this carpet of moss with various forbs emerging from it.

The wildflower labyrinth is easy to navigate now before it erupts into an herbaceous maze later in the summer.

It is no surprise that the flora grows well here. This site receives around 90 inches of rain a year, which classifies it as a temperate rainforest! I first learned about this ecosystem in the southeast when I visited Highlands, NC several years ago. There's something about hearing the word rainforest that enchants the mind and conveys something other worldly.

We walked down the Vaseyi trail toward Vaseyi pond where as the website says “the largest known natural stand of Rhododendron vaseyi in the world“ is known to occur, and the pinkshells were just popping into bloom. This part of the preserve was designed by renowned garden designer W. Gary Smith, who has a hand for crafting incredible natural areas. The tour guides noted that specimens in the landscape and around the pond were in peak blossom, but under the deciduous forest canopy, buds had barely begun to pop open, a difference which illustrated something the gardeners monitor. Southern Highlands Reserve compares the phenology in wild and cultivated areas to see if any differences are observed, knowledge which is internal to The Biodiversity Project at the garden. It serves as a catalog to document climate change as well as a comparison for areas that are managed versus allowed to remain natural.

Closeup of the pinkshell rhododendron flowers. Note the id characteristics; most blooms have 5 (to 7) anthers and spots on the upper part of the throat.

A much lighter form of Rhododendron vaseyi…

…and a darker pink Rhododendron vaseyi.

Rhododendron vaseyi on the edge of Vaseyi Pond shimmer in the reflection.

Doing an about face from the pond photo above yields this view. Named the Viewsite, this spot provides a spectacular view of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Fothergilla (witch-alder) bloom with their bottlebrush inflorescences near the Viewsite.

We then walked up to their propagation area. This neat staircase was modeled to look like a snake.

Of course, studying the gardens is not the only way they conduct research about the Appalachians. The gardens also propagate species like Picea rubens (red spruce) as part of Southern Appalachian Spruce Restoration Initiative. This conifer is so threatened in the southern part of its range that spruce-fir forests are the second most endangered ecosystem in the US. The population has suffered from logging, fires that decimated plants 100 years ago, air pollution, and a warming, drying climate. Restoration is compounded by the fact that growth is slower at high elevations. These trees serve as a valuable niche for Carolina northern flying squirrels, a federally endangered species that in this part of the world is a relic of the last ice age. These mammals eat truffles that grow at the base of the trees, and eating male red spruce cones provides the squirrels with an oil that suppresses a parasite they catch from their southern flying squirrel counterparts. The garden reported that they are the only facility in the southeast growing these trees for reintroduction. The tour guides shared that the staff is excited to help plant seedlings into damaged ecosystems.

Picea rubens being grown for reintroduction into the surrounding forests.

Thus, preservation of the land at Southern Highlands Reserve has lead to efforts to save species throughout the Appalachians, and the garden's mission becomes a holistic cycle of protecting things that are beautifully and uniquely southern. May we all share this same spirit of saving what we can while we can.