Placing Narcissus

It probably looks odd, me standing in front of a peach tree holding out a handful of Narcissus blooms as if I’m waiting for a branch to grasp them from my hand. But, today the petals have become paint chips as I’m deciding where I can incorporate daffodils to my plantings.

Narcissus are in full bloom here, and it is so good to see their cheerful flowers dotting the landscape.  Most of them like Narcissus tazetta (tazetta daffodil), Narcissus pseudonarcissus (Lent lily), and Narcissus × odorus (campernelle) I have in holding beds where they have been bulking up over the past few years while I decide their final destination. It can be hard to determine color from a catalog photograph; therefore, I like to have the flower in hand when I’m walking around creating color combinations and deciding where they should be placed.

Some may ask why not use more modern hybrids, but in east Texas we lack the winter chill our friends further north have. Thus, I find myself turning more to species types or old heirlooms that are proven to bloom reliably in the deep south. There is opportunity in constraints, and the goal is to pair what I have plenty of with where they will look the best.

I used the same approach last year with Narcissus pseudonarcissus (top image) that are now in beds near the house where the soft buttery yellow contrasts well with emerging Phlox pilosa (downy phlox), Glandularia canadensis (rose vervain), and Muscari neglectum (starch grape hyacinth). I relocated them from a holding spot once I realized they would combine well with the plants in this bed and provide a nice pop of color. After bloom their foliage lasts for a bit as other species around them emerge, and the glaucous blades echo well the color in the nearby leaves of Rudbeckia maxima (giant coneflower) and Eryngium yuccifolium (rattlesnake master).

But, in my hand are Narcissus tazetta, and I have been pondering for a fortnight about putting them into the orchard beds that span between fruit trees. The petals are white, and the corona starts a warm yellow and then fades to cream. I confirm that the color does look good with the peach blossoms. I have tried saturated yellow Narcissus in this spot in the past, but they didn’t look right with the abundance of the soft pink in the naturally-occurring Claytonia virginica (spring beauty). So, I place the posy on the ground and become satisfied that these two pair well also.

With the clump back in hand, I walk over to Andropogon virginicus (broomsedge). I’ve been propagating them in the orchard beds. Yes, I know they seed around, but they are one of my favorite native grasses. They remind remind me of my childhood days in Tennessee. In the winter months, I love their russet orange color and how rigid they stand even in a strong north wind. I check that the tazettas pair well with them, too. The grass really accentuates the bulb’s orange stamens.

In this moment I realize that with the Narcissus I’m straddling the pastel side of the warm spectrum with tints of pinks, tangerines, and butters.  I feel content that I’ve considered all possibilities with my petal paint chips and decide that this area would make a good spot for this daffodil. Perhaps a random scattering through the orchard beds, clustered densely in groups and then fading out to singles, much like bulbs arrange themselves in nature. And, I won’t cut the grass back until the daffodils are finished flowering to further play off the color echo.

Narcissus tazetta and Prunus persica

Narcissus tazetta and Andropogon virginicus

Narcissus tazetta and Claytonia virginica

Next, I consider the Narcissus × odorus that I’ve been hoarding for years in a bed in the back of the patch. I’ve found the perfect place for them. It’s a bit easier since it is now a mostly blank slate. East of our house is a glade that is now more open since we had two live oaks cut that suffered greatly from the -6°F freeze in 2021.  There is a large Magnolia ‘Susan’ in this space. It is here the campernelles will go. Both have very saturated petals, and I have the goal of adding more short statured Magnolias to this area to continue playing off the spring colors. And, yes, I do check to make sure their colors go well together, too.

Narcissus × odorus and Magnolia ‘Susan’

I’ll start moving the Narcissus after they finish blooming.  I don’t have issues relocating Narcissus in the green.  I just make sure that they get watered in well after I plant them.  Often I’ll choose a day or two right before a good rain comes for relocation.  

When placing Narcissus, I just have to remember that they don’t always look this way, and that after they bloom, I’ll have the foliage to look at or deal with over the next three months until it either fades away or is trimmed around Mother’s Day.  The delayed cut back ensures the bulbs can store enough sugars for more handfuls of blooms next year.

Winter Wonders at the Atlanta Botanical Garden

Last week, I shared some gleaned nuggets of knowledge from the Atlanta Botanical Garden’s day long symposium. This week, I want to share some photos of the garden and plants. Dr. Andy Pulte of the University of Tennessee at Knoxville joined me on a stroll through the gardens. My last visit to the botanical garden was 9 years ago as I was wrapping up graduate school, but this visit was my first one in the winter. It was fun to see the garden at a different time of the year and see what had changed.

We first wondered around the Kendeda Canopy Walk. For a Saturday in January we noticed many people out and about enjoying the gardens. I also love these canopy walks for the shift in perspective they give people of being above the plants.

We admired the textural and color contrast between mondo and monkey grass that created the appearance of a river through this bed near the entrance.

Camellia yuhsienensis (Yuhsienensis fragrant camellia) was in flower and seemed to survive the Christmas eve cold snap they had of 8°F well. The white flowers of this species are sweet and have a light fragrance.

It has been years since I have seen Sycopsis sinensis (Chinese fighazel). At first glance I thought it to be Parrotia since both feature these red staminate flowers, but what little evergreen foliage held on was the giveaway. It is a nice small statured tree for landscapes.

Acer palmatum ‘Bihou’ (Japanese maple) is one of my favorite Japanese maples for the wonderful yellow bark. Even once specimens mature a bit, they still retain that coloration. Selective pruning can be done to get more of the reds and oranges in the new growth.

Edgeworthia chrysantha (paper bush) were in full bloom and perfumed the entire landscape around them. It really is remarkable how far the fragrance travels in the air.

Lonicera × purpusii (hybrid winter honeysuckle) is a fragrant winter flowering shrub. It is a hybrid between Lonicera fragrantissima (winter honeysuckle) and Lonicera standishii (Standish honeysuckle).

A new plant to me was Lindera reflexa (mountain spicebush). Even if the plant didn’t do much during the growing season I would grow it solely for the verdant bark.

A close up of the Sassafras-like buds of Lindera reflexa

We wandered through the Edible Garden where a number of vegetables still looked good for midwinter. I love their faux fruit on the espaliered trees behind, too.

They also had these nifty signs in the Edible Garden for teaching people about plants. Here, the use of sorrel is encouraged.

Throughout the garden were origami sculptures as part of an exhibit. This piece was titled Scents of Gratitude and is a bouquet of a variety of origami flowers.

In the conservatories they were getting their orchid exhibit set up. I love to see the behind the scenes approach to how these displays come to be. Each orchid tray has flagging tape to prevent the orchid spikes from falling or breaking.

One of the neatest orchids we saw was Dendrobium spectabile (grand dendrobium). It has these fascinating curled and twisted petals.

The carnivorous plant bog was designed to be like a bog in nature where water can seep through the bed and not become stagnant. You’ll notice there’s a slight slope from left to right.

I loved these imbricate buds on Rhododendron colemanii (Red Hills azalea).

Another shot of the buds of Rhododendron colemanii to illustrate their diversity. They look like painted Easter eggs.

Welwitschia mirabilis (welwitschia) is one of the most fascinating plants on the planet. It’s has cones like conifers, it only has two leaves that can grow over 10 feet, and it is suspected plants can live for over 1,000 years.

The semi-double flowers of Prunus mume ‘Rosebud’ (flowering apricot) were just starting to pop into flower.

Ilex verticillata ‘Winter Gold’ (winterberry) berries were still showing off even as they begin their decline.

Magnolia stellata ‘Star Dust’ (also banner image) in the glow of another star. (A note on this variety. I can’t seem to find out anything about it, which makes me wonder is it new or a synonym for another cultivar? It is not ‘Pink Stardust’.)

Notes from the Atlanta Botanical Garden

I’m processing through my notes and photos from my recent trips to Atlanta and New York City. Here’s a few thoughts I jotted down from the Atlanta Botanic Garden’s Spring Gardening Symposium.

DR. ANDY PULTE | REWILDING

The first talk was by Dr. Andy Pulte (pictured with me above) on Rewilding and naturalistic planting. 

• I have long been curious where the bedding plant craze originated. He shared how in Europe after the discovery of new annual plants, carpet bedding became the rage, and then it faded away as gardens became more wild.  But, carpet bedding came to the United States after the Civil War, and he joked that it never left.

• One of Andy’s biggest take aways was for gardeners to start small when shifting their gardens to become more naturalistic.  He encouraged them to plant something for a butterfly and start to leave stems up in the winter.

• Andy also shared this awesome app called Sunseeker that lets you know where the sun will be in the sky using your phone and augmented reality. It is really nifty for those of us interested in how sunlight and design interact at different times of the year.

ETHAN GUTHRIE | PLANTS WITH PROMISE

Ethan Guthrie, the greenhouse and nursery manager at Atlanta Botanical Garden’s Gainesville location, was next, and he shared a slew of plants that he felt offered promise in our gardens. A few that I noted as interesting:

• Tricyrtis ‘Lemon Twist’, which he encouraged us to buy it if you find it

• Iris × amplifolia ‘Ming Treasure’ is a flowering powerhouse of an iris!

• Scutellaria ‘Appalachian Blues’, a new hybrid skullcap that is a hybrid between Scutellaria serrata and Scutellaria ovata

• Agastache MEANT TO BEE ‘Queen Nectarine’, a plant that I also saw thriving in Dallas back in October

• A new redbud for me was Cercis chuniana. It blooms on racemes where the flowers can have this lovely bicolor pink and white once the flowers fade a bit, and in the fall the tree offers red foliage, too.

• Ethan is a magnoliaphile, and he shared the new Magnolia ‘Blackbird’, a hybrid between ‘Yellow Bird’ and ‘Genie’ that flowers later when the yellows typically bloom.

• I also loved the Magnolia × soulangeana Verbanica Broom, which was a witch’s broom off a Magnolia × soulangeana ‘Verbanica’. Plants were probably three feet tall and loaded with flowers. This diminutive selection doesn’t have a cultivar name just yet.

JOHN WHITTLESEY | LIVING WITH BUMBLE BEES — BY DESIGN

John Whittlesey shared such fascinating information, and it was touching to see someone who cared so much about bumblebees. I learned so much that I didn’t previously know.

• Bumblebees can generate their own heat. So, they can fly during chiller weather when flies are typically the only other pollinators out.

• A bumblebee can visit 6000 flowers a day. When bumblebees visit a flower for the first time, it can take them about 10 tries to access nectar to learn how to get to it.

• Male bumblebees don’t come back to the nest at night. We see them asleep on flowers the next morning.

• He also talked about the fascinating process of sonication or buzz pollination, where bumblebees vibrate on a flower and cause the pollen to release.

• He recommended books by Dave Goulson like A Sting in the Tail for us naturalists.

Jennifer Jewell | Invitations to and from the Garden: Cultivating Place & a Garden Culture of Care

Jennifer Jewell provided a wonderful close to the day by focusing on this idea of invitation and how gardens and plants can invite people from all walks to life to explore, grow, and thrive.

• She talked about how all cultures have at sometime gardened in the past, and that her podcast Cultivating Place was a way for her to learn about the diversity of plant experiences out there. She talked about a few gardens and gardeners who she felt best imbued this sense of invitation.

• Detroit Flower House was new to me. It was an incredible floral art exhibit in 2015 in Detroit where a run down house was filled with flowers by top floral artists. The house was later demolished and now features a park in its place.

• She talked about the Los Angeles Natural History Museum, and how they had transformed a parking lot into a garden. To welcome people from all cultures, they had signage available in multiple languages. She said this garden changed the way people think about plants. For example, they taught people that instead of viewing dead plants as lifeless they could think this dead twig could be part of a hummingbird nest. She also shared the idea that there being just one type of beauty for gardens is insane. She knew an entomologist that said if I don’t have bug sounds in my ears the garden isn’t beautiful.

• She also talked about the origin of Theodora Park in Charleston. It was a beautiful story about how David Rawle passed this unkempt, overgrown lot daily and decided he wanted to turn the spot into a garden in honor of his mother. She shared how not all the seating was bolted down in the garden because his research had shown people feel more comfortable if they can move chairs around and configure them. And, so far no chairs have been stolen. This park was a place of solace after the Mother Emanuel AME Church tragedy, which is only a block away.

Next week, I’ll be back with some of my favorite plants from the Atlanta Botanical Garden.

Welcome to Ephemera Farm

The idea came to me weeding, like many good ideas do. There’s something about ripping life out of the earth that primes the mind for thought.

It was a bright, sunny morning in April, and I had been thinking about my frustrations of trying to decide on a name for this place that we garden. I had iterated through dozens of ideas over the past five years when all of a sudden they crashed together into two words.

Ephemera Farm.

It’s almost if the ground spoke it for in that small moment all the other small moments I so wished to revere were incapsulated in a name.

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We name things to be able to talk about them, even gardens. James Golden has Federal Twist, Stephanie Cohen has Shortwood Gardens, Jimmy Williams has Tennessee Dixter (a play off Christopher Lloyd’s Great Dixter), Andrew Bunting has Belvidere, and Vita Sackville-West had Sissinghurst. With a name, a story can be told.

But, giving a garden a name is scary. A name says that the place is here to stay, that there is a permanence to it. Giving a garden a name is also a difficult decision. The name has to feel right and have an energy to it.

I kept struggling because I wanted to name it after something that perfectly described our smallholding here in east Texas. The challenge was what to name it after as there are so many things that we love.

• The bright full moon of January shining through the barren tree branches.

• The silence of snowfall in February broken only by the chirps of birds searching for food.

• The first flowers of March and the fragrance they perfume on the south winds.

• The fireflies that emerge in April and dance in the gloaming.

• The Monarchs that break out of their chrysalises and head north in May.

• The first tomato of June warmed by the sun and when bit juice drips down the wrist.

• The last Wood Thrush that sings its song before migrating in July.

• The butterflies that swirl themselves above plantings in August.

• The asters that start to pop in September with shortening days.

• The first cold morning of October where I can see my breath.

• The blazing foliage that manifests in the woods in November.

• The gifts that December gives us to use in winter decor.

It seemed like every month something small would cast its vote to have its essence tied to a name. And, with all these little moments, it is hard to pick a favorite.

Until, with a handful of weeds in my hand, I realized that perhaps instead of naming this place after one little thing why not name it after all the little things that make life worth living. These small moments that we love and cherish in the garden don’t last forever and may occupy mere seconds of our day before fading away.  They are ephemera, seemingly insignificant, but when added together over a season or a life are greater than the sum of their parts. Ephemera Farm is be a place to celebrate these little moments and a place to learn and then share how we can garden better.

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Sometimes when I’m out in the garden and one of these fleeting moments passes me by, I think is this the last time? Is this the last time that I’ll see the glistening hoarfrost melt against sunrise or strain to hear the song of a Whip-poor-will through the trees or watch leaves dance as they fall to the earth from a good gust or glimpse fog rolling out of the woods after a rain?

I’m in my late thirties, and statistically, my time on earth is half over if one looks at the average life span. I’m not trying to sound morbid or put myself in the grave yet, but such thoughts keep me grounded, humbled, and centered as a person. I pause to appreciate these ephemeral moments and remind myself of how special and rewarding the gardening life is. After all, life is but a vapor.

So, when you come, I can say welcome to Ephemera Farm. We are going to live in these little moments and soak them up. Even the mundane like pulling weeds.

The Colorful Twigs of Winter

In the winter I feel my perception of the garden is elevated.  Like when I can’t see because it is dark and all my other senses are heightened.  I notice things that I might otherwise overlook. The catkin swelling on an Alnus. The first sliver of color showing in a Magnolia bud. The swirl of foliage appearing from Pedicularis. These little things are celebrated in the dearth.

The garden is a bit more barren this year after the cold snap we had a few weeks ago. Gone are many of the flowering annuals that overwinter—snaps, pot marigolds, stock, and honeywort. Even pansies and violas took a hit. It’s a bit depressing in thinking about that time wasted planting them. Even some of my shrubs suffered. We are without flowers this year on Edgeworthia chrysantha (paperbush).

I learned long ago that color on growth organs like leaves can be more reliable than flowers. The same applies to the woody tissue, too. Colorful plant stems have long been an aesthetic I’ve gravitated toward in the winter time.  As a kid I marveled at the red maple regrowth along fencerows where they were cut every year to prevent them from reaching the power lines above. Their fresh shoots were rich with hue in winter and looked like they could be coloring pencils if cut and sharpened. And, I long wondered why they were so vivid until I discovered the color is solar protection and helps the plant deal with excess light when the sun is low in the sky.   

Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’

Vaccinium ashei ‘Powder Blue’

Salix ‘Flame’

I do have a few favorites. I love the red-twig dogwoods. Oh, how I have longed to be able to grow Cornus sanguinea that I see en masse in plantings in England where one has to do a double take to make sure the planting isn’t on fire.  But, I have so far killed at least two of them here in Texas.  Mom and Dad still have a ‘Winter Beauty’ (aka ‘Winter Flame’) outside my window back home in Tennessee that grows quite well (header image). 

I have made do with Cornus amomum ‘Cayenne’.  My friend Jason Reeves of UT Gardens in Jackson, TN recommended this silky dogwood to me. He shared how this selection was found by Dr. Michael Dirr in a swamp in Virginia. In its first year here, this eastern US native is thriving.  The winter color is a little lacking compared to Cornus sanguinea, but beggars can’t be choosers. From where I sit writing, the red pops against the dark mass of what’s left of Helianthus angustifolius. Both like the wet spot.

I also discovered that the new stem growth on Vaccinium in winter can be very attractive.  After plants drop their crimson foliage, we are left with stems that turn a muted red. ‘Powder Blue’ is one of my favorites that has winter color in the stems and glaucous leaves that turn a brilliant red in autumn. 

And, of course, I have loved Salix ‘Flame’ since I set eyes on it many winters ago at the JC Raulston Arboretum in Raleigh, NC. It hasn’t quite decided if it likes it here yet, but I think I can coax the few I have into establishing well so their stems become a source of warmth in the landscape. 

Most of these plants benefit with a yearly or every other year cut back as the color is most intense on new growth (except the blueberry since cutting that back would remove the flower buds for spring and the delicious blue orbs that follow).  I use what stems I can in holiday and winter arrangements, and then cut the rest of the plant down right before buds start to break. 

And, it won’t be long now. Red maple tips are already swelling. Soon the landscape will wake, and I’ll have plenty of sights to see. But, for now the bright twigs of winter will help me see through the dark.

A Hard Stop

We had a hard stop for our growing season this year.  The bitter cold that rushed down dropped us to 9ºF with a few more nights in the teens. 

The day before the front arrived I ran around covering tender plants with tarps, blankets, leaves, and leaf cages. A week later they seem to have made it through just fine, but plants I didn’t cover were not so fortunate. The landscape looks bleached. The vegetable patch is done, save for the carrots, but they now need to be dug before the delicious sugars start being redirected into regenerating top growth.  I picked what I could of the cabbage, broccoli, and kale before the cold arrived.  They are all now turning to mush. 

I suppose that the story the landscape is telling this year decided it was time for a chapter break instead of a comma. I do love to extend the season and keep it going, but it does feel refreshing to have a bare slate garden for the new year.  

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I’m reflecting back on 2022, a year that has been good to us.  We have lived here in our log cabin for five years now, and I now know this place better than I ever have. I can predict how the light will move and irradiate a certain group of plants through a gap in the trees. I see how the water runs and where currents can be an issue.  I remember where the first frost will settle and the first spring beauty will bloom. And, I have built a hefty list of plants that do well in our little valley. There is a peace that comes from knowing a spot of earth and guiding it towards a better future.

And, now looking forward to 2023, I’m planning what comes next.  I see many peers in the creative community going through their end of the year reviews.  What went well? What didn’t go well and can be made better? We in the green industry can do the same. But, where to start? There have been several moons and many more sleeps since the clock struck midnight 364 days ago.

I have tried to get better at capturing ideas this year to remember and reflect. I used to walk around with a Field Notes in my back pocket, jotting down ideas and sketches, but now I find my phone more convenient.  I can take photographs of beds, circle and scribble notes on them using the edit function, and save them in an album for later. 

I use the iPhone’s Reminders to track what needs to be done in the garden.  I will either walk around with it open and type as needed or tell Siri to create a reminder for my garden list, and then dictate whatever needs to be done.  Once inside I can filter through them and move those with more importance to the top.  And, I can set deadlines or due dates so that when I need to pull those seeds out of the fridge from stratifying in 1 month and 11 days it pops up on my phone when needed. 

For capturing ideas that I see online I have a few options.  Day One journal app is great for not only documenting what happened in the garden that day but also screenshotting ideas that I find like a surprising plant combination or adding plants to a wish list. I think it is now a monthly subscription as I subscribed early on and got grandfathered in. Other options include the free apps Evernote, Trello, Google Docs, and Notion for capture. Each can be used in endless ways from tracking seeds and cultivars to storing notes and research about plants.  Notion is my current favorite for its quick sync across multiple devices and its customizability.

Of course, it can be overwhelming to see so many items on a to do list but remember, small steps. One or two things done a day or a week can move you forward faster than you think on a gardening project or goal. There’s also the grace of the short days of winter.  We are inside more starting the new year and planning what needs to come next.

Sometimes I feel like E.B. White who listed a plethora of tasks in his 1941 essay “Memorandum” with most sentences starting with “Today I should…” or “I ought to finish.…”

I suppose he was employing the Getting Things Done methodology before it was vogue, this idea of emptying your mind of all that has to be done because how can you have ideas when your brain is too busy trying to hold them?  He jumps from task to task to task, each one leading him to another thing he has remembered needs to be completed. Just one example, he must rake the brush that was left in the field, and today would be good to burn it since it rained recently, but before he burns it he needs to research is it better or burn or let rot into compost. I chuckle and think how often my mind goes in these items in a series loops, too.

Of course, it is a bit tongue in cheek because there’s no way he can get all the things done that he needs to today.  But, listing them is a good first step. 

He closes with “I’ve been spending a lot of time here typing, and I see it is four o’clock already and almost dark, so I had better get going.” 

I should, too.

The (Impulsive) Gift of Bulbs

If last week’s post on my forethought of sowing seed made you think that I always have everything planned out, this week’s writing will change your mind. I like to think that I’m not too much of an impulsive gardener, but perhaps I just live in denial.

When Brent and Becky’s Bulbs announced a 50% off sale on bulk orders last week, I jumped at the chance to view their offerings online. At first, it was casual scrolling, but the adrenaline started pumping as I watched inventory of some bulbs vanish before my eyes. Maybe next time, ‘Gravetye Giant’ Leucojum.

There was no time to let family or Santa Claus know what I wanted. I would splurge on bulbs that I’ve been wanting to get and call it an early Christmas present to myself.

I love seeing the underground structures that produce the flowers we so enjoy above ground. Bulbs clockwise from top, the chunky Ipheion uniflorum ‘Wisley Blue’, the tufted Tulipa clusiana ‘Cynthia’, and the rupturing tunics of Narcissus papyraceus ‘Galilee’.

I was delighted to see Ipheion uniflorum ‘Wisley Blue’. I think some consider these geophytes second rate, but beggars can’t be choosers. In Zone 8b, this bulb is a reliable grower for us. I found some years ago in an abandoned lot here in town, added them to my garden beds where I have a cool-colored planting, and they thrived. In the time since, they have multiplied, their glaucous blades having already emerged this fall. I’ve also noticed how they can be good groundcovers to prevent too much weed growth in the spring.

A close up of Ipheion uniflorum ‘Wisley Blue’

I zipped down the page to see the status of the tulip selection, and sure enough Tulipa clusiana ‘Cynthia’ and ‘Lady Jane’ were available. Lady tulips are known for growing well in the south. You can identify those of this lineage with their candy-like bicolored petals and the little tuft of hairy trichomes at the top that resembles a mouse’s ear. I have been looking for warmer colors to play off the browns in our log cabin, so I only ordered ‘Cynthia’. I already had a handful of them growing well from the Smith County Master Gardeners bulb sale and ‘Lady Jane’ is a bit too pink for where I want it. Even in impulse there is some restraint!

‘Cynthia’ Tulipa clusiana in my home garden

And, then I backtracked to Narcissus where I knew I would spend some time. I’ve been wanting to add some more Narcissus papyraceus to my garden, which are just starting to bloom well here. I settled on ‘Galilee’, a cultivar that was bred for indoor forcing in Israel in the 1970’s but is still a handsome performer for outdoor plantings in the deep south.  Even though paperwhites are already coming into bloom, these will have a late start this year and catch up later.

By chance the other three Narcissus I ordered all have Narcissus cyclamineus in their pedigree.  They typically need growing conditions to be colder and wetter than what we have in the south, but hybrids like the three I purchased—‘Jetfire’, ‘Tête-à-tête’, and ‘February Gold’—should perform well.

I have fond memories of visiting the JC Raulston Arboretum around Valentine’s Day and seeing a large number of ‘February Gold’ in flower. We need more winter interest in front of our house, and I think that these will go well in that spot.

‘February Gold’ at the JC Raulston Arboretum in Raleigh, NC

‘Jetfire’ was one of the first daffodil varieties I ever grew.  My friend Jimmy Williams of Paris, Tennessee introduced me to it.  He had it planted throughout his back woods where the reflexed yellow perianth and orange cups would catch the warming March light and glow.  They should go well with ‘Ceylon’, another orange-cupped selection that does well for me.

‘Jetfire’ Narcissus at Duke Gardens in Durham, North Carolina

I also got ‘Tête-à-tête’, a popular diminutive cultivar that I grew back in Tennessee. ‘Tête-à-tête’, which is French for face-to-face, is a dainty little Narcissus that can sport 2 (or 3) flowers per scape. I knew Michael McDowell of the Instagram account @planoprairiegarden had success with this selection, and I thought I would give it a whirl. Its short stature makes it good for planting in the shade of others.

I’ll be honest. I have faith in the starflower, lady tulip, and paperwhites. But, I realize the Narcissus hybrids are on more of a trial basis. The challenge with some of these bulbs is knowing if they will get enough winter chilling to bloom reliably. I like to reference Daffodils in Florida by Linda M. Van Beck and Sara L. Van Beck and Scott Ogden’s Garden Bulbs for the South to know which types will likely grow well here and the conditions they need to be successful.

So, I’m going to not put all of my bulbs in one basket. I’m going to scatter them around in a few small groups to see where they are happiest here. I’m also making sure that I lime a bit where they go into the ground as our soil pH tends to be 4.5 or lower.

I suppose if you think about it bulbs are like little Christmas presents, hidden in their wrappers until the joy inside is revealed. My goal for these geophytes to thrive is for them to be the gift that keeps on giving for many years to come, even if it they were just an impulse gift to myself.

Solstice Seedlings

We are a a little over a week away from the winter solstice. The year has wrung about as much light out of the day as it can, and we have mere minutes left to lose until we hit the shortest day of 2022.

It’s in this solstice season that I start planning in earnest for next year. With the semester over, the growing season ended, and the new year on the horizon I have time to consider the goals and projects I want to move forward in the coming year.

The plants in my garden are preparing for next year, especially those whose growth culminates in spring. Even though March is months away, amongst the duff there are hints of the next growing season starting to appear. Every day harnessing the sun counts in the march toward warmer weather for making sugars that will become more blades and blooms.

I’ve spied the lobed foliage of Delphinium carolinianum (prairie larkspur) and Viola pedata (birds-foot violet) in the garden. The maroon leaves of Claytonia virginica (spring beauty) no longer hide amongst the tawny, frosted turf. I even found two with open flowers in our backyard this week. The little toothpick leaves of Phlox pilosa (prairie phlox) are emerging. And, the first of my perennial sowings from this year are germinating.  

Late last spring, I sowed Marshallia caespitosa (Barbara’s buttons) and Callirhoe alcaeoides (white poppy mallow) from seed collected in my garden.  I love both for their white flowers and desired more as they are good fillers for spring color. Callirhoe has this ability to thread itself through the matrix of foliage, and looking down on a Marshallia is like looking up at a galaxy. Both go dormant in my garden soon after they flower and set seed.

I decided instead of letting the progeny sit in storage in the fridge, I would promptly sow them and put them on my small nursery pad where they would receive occasional irrigation over the summer. Often with the first time sowing a batch of seed, I will sprinkle them on potting substrate in a gallon pot, trust mother nature, and watch and learn for next time. Both seem quite happy with this approach thus far.

Marshallia caespitosa

Callirhoe alcaeoides

Marshallia caespitosa seedlings

Callirhoe alcaeoides seedlings

Even though they got water all summer long, their emergence coincided with the return of cooler weather this autumn. Like many native perennial seeds, the delay makes sense to wait and start growth when conditions are more appropriate. The Callirhoe germinated fast while the Marshallia were more staggered.

Towards spring I’ll tease them apart and pot on into trays to allow each plant to have space to grow.  And, then once they’ve bulked up a bit, I’ll welcome these plants into the garden.

I suppose in retrospect my planning for 2023 started earlier in the year than just here at the end. Every seed I sowed in anticipation of having more plants for next year is hope and planning for greater things to come. Their appearance is yet another thing to celebrate in this solstice season.

Thankful for the Return of Snowdrops

“YES!” I exclaimed! “They came back!”  Before me was the cupped blade of a single snowdrop piercing up from the soil.  I scraped some leaves back and found more shoots.  “And, another!  And, another!” I added. 

It was early November, and I was so ecstatic. I have been searching for bulbs to grow in east Texas outside of those that have a reputation for thriving here. Autumn-flowering geophytes that don’t need significant winter chilling to flower I felt held promise as our lack of vernalization is the limiting factor for many species. Galanthus elwesii var. monostictus (one-spotted greater snowdrop) was high on my list to try. 

Galanthus elwesii var. monostictus has a single upside down heart-shaped spot on the inner tepal tip, while Galanthus elwesii has a second green blotch above the spot at the base.

My introduction to this late autumn flower was from visiting Nancy Godwin at Montrose Gardens in Hillsborough, NC. She turned a handful of bulbs years ago into thousands of plants that now carpet the understory behind her home.  I have multiple memories of visiting Montrose around Thanksgiving for one of her snowdrop walks with friends. And, now mine were blooming right on cue.

I had bought some bulbs from Nancy before and tried them in a container thinking that the soil here might be too dry, but I lost them twice.  I figured third time was the charm, and I acquired more bulbs in the green from Nancy last winter.  I decided to be brave and try them in two in-the-ground locations; both spots I amended with grit and lime to improve the soil conditions.

I planted a few in my fenced in patch where they would be protected from uprooting armadillos and able to get more water during the summer when I irrigated summer cut flowers and veggies.  Years ago, I read in Scott Ogden’s Garden Bulbs for the South that most Galanthus should not dry out during the summer and often like wetter spots. 

However, Nancy told me that where she has these autumn-flowering snowdrops in her woods turns bone dry in the summer. Therefore, site two was higher and drier underneath trees in a new bed that magically appeared after we lost some azaleas in the freeze of February 2021. I didn’t water this site all summer.

This shaded spot is where I have found snowdrops emerging first, and they are further along than those in the patch where a scraping of soil showed the bulbs are still intact but haven’t produced foliage yet. I’m sure autumn rains are a trigger for emergence, but I ponder if they also need to have cooler temperatures to appear, which they are able to get sooner from the waning shade of sweetgum and oak? 

There’s no way that I can grow the multitude of selections my colleagues do further north—well, in absence of a walk-in cooler that is—nor do I wish to become such a collector. But, I’m happy to potentially add yet another geophyte to my garden cast of characters. I may be counting my snowdrops before they have hatched—er, make that returned again next year—but I do believe that seeing them this year in flower is a good sign. I’ll give them my choicest compost with some bone meal, and I’ll hope that next year I can once again be thankful for their return.

The Blessing of Seedheads

Today looks cold enough to snow with the low gray sky. I’m more used to this weather in February than I am November. The forecast said the high won’t break 50ºF today. Alas, the only thing falling from the sky will be rain.

I do a final walk around before the clouds burst. We’ve now had a few frosts, one hard one this past weekend. Looking out over the garden, most of the flowering plants are now done. I’m afraid even my late flowering ‘Halloweenie’ glads (Gladiolus dalenii) that haven’t bloomed yet (and with their tardiness in past years I’ve joked should be named ‘Thanksgivingie’) are going to get hit with more freezing temperatures we have coming this week.

So on this walk I’m thinking of frost-proof winter interest I have for the next few months in the garden. I’m counting my garden blessings if you will to see what at the end of the season I can appreciate.

Seed heads are at the top of the list as they have such a prominent presence in the winter landscape. They are skeletons of the past that, a glimpse of what the garden once was in the height of its empire.

Near the house Helianthus radula (rayless sunflower) still looks spectacular as the black stems pop against the froth of Eragrostis spectablis (purple lovegrass, header image). On the other side of the lovegrass rise the black buttons of Pycnanthemum tenuifolium (narrow-leaf mountain mint). It is one of my favorite perennials for its multi-season interest in the landscape. I make a note to pair more blacks with the winter foliage of the love grass for next year.

There are also some Lilium formosanum (Formosan lily) in the bed that rise up and have started to release seeds from their brown chalices. I just transplanted them to that spot this spring, so their height is much shorter. I quite like their more diminutive nature.

Pycnanthemum tenuifolium

Lilium formosanum

As I walk further along the bed, I see the spherical seedheads of Hyptis alata (clustered bushmint). They will last the rest of winter, though I have to be careful whenever I remove them come spring because they are loaded with seed that I’ll be weeding for months afterwards if they spill.

Hyptis alata

Nearing the orchard, I startle some Dark-eyed Juncos. They are the first I’ve seen this year, and I’m delighted the cold fronts have brought them back to the garden. They dart under the glimmering split-beard bluestem (Andropogon ternarius). Even on a sunless day, the plant still shines. The clumps are now in their second year, and I realize the site I put it on is too fertile as some have lodged and thus made an even better hiding place for the juncos and other little brown birds mixed in the flock. Next year, I’ll have to cut them back in mid-summer much like they do when mowing the roadside to help keep it shorter for lasting winter interest.

Andropogon ternarius

There are still a few Baptisia alba (white wild indigo) in the orchard beds. For us they start going dormant in late August or early September. It’s always a hard call for me to ask do these dead twigs stay or do they go. But, I seem to always err on letting them stay. Some have already blown away with their tumbleweed action, and I have found them next to a fence or in the ditch by the road. It’s a creative approach to seed dispersal.

Another Baptisia, yellow wild indigo, is nearby in the front of the patch and has more spherical fruit, hence the epithet sphaerocarpa for the round (sphaero-) fruit (-carpa) it forms.

Baptisia alba

Baptisia sphaerocarpa

Vernonia baldwinii (western ironweed) also looks good in its last moments. I have found they have staying power into the winter with their feather-duster seed heads. The pappus is such a nice light tan and pops against the dark stems.

Vernonia baldwinii

A flock of winter birds is once again startled as I make my way back toward the house. I think how seedheads are not just a blessing for me. I know that the winter birds enjoy them, too. That’s why I admire them while I can before they and the wind spread the seeds. Such thoughts warm my soul, perhaps as much as the corn chowder I’ll have tonight after a cold autumn day.