Arnoglossum plantagineum | Prairie Indian Plantain

In the spring for herbaceous plantings, I look for species that can grow tall fast and offer substance in the upper design layer. It’s quite easy to find candidates in summer and autumn when the plants have used months worth of sunshine to reach for the sky, but in spring it is a bit more of a challenge. Perennials are starting from ground zero, and to achieve any height, they must be using stored energy from last year.

I have waxed long about how Baptisia alba (white wild indigo) is one of my favorites for height in early spring, but I’m always looking for diversity in that upper layer. Enter Arnoglossum plantagineum, or prairie Indian plantain.

I first saw it out in the pastures here in east Texas, rising out of the lowly grasses and forbs. It was pretty easy to see when it was feet taller than the surrounding vegetation. I could see how this plant evolved to quickly rise up and spear its way through the detritus of the last growing season. It is native from Texas up through the plains states into Canada, where interestingly it is endangered. One would think with climate change it is finding new spots to colonize there, but there’s always development with which to contend.

For me it serves as a primary plant, an anchor in the planting that offers multi-season interest. For the first month after emergence, it looks like a Hosta growing in full sun, hence the epithet plantagineum for the resemblance to the plantain family’s leaves. Even Arnoglossum references the foliage. It means lamb’s (arnos) tongue (glossa) in Greek.

The basal rosettes are a rich green and are a bold presence. I’ll have a hint of slug damage here and there, but so far it hasn’t been very detrimental. And, with the recent freeze, I can say they tolerate 26°F for a couple of nights ok, rebounding the next morning.

Then, the center begins to elongate, it’s pinstriped green and red stems grow up and up and up to reach a height of 4-to-5 feet tall within a month. Such an awesome native plant must be stylish in its rise to stardom.

In bud it reminds me of angelica going to seed, but once the flowers open, one might begin to recognize it as a member of the aster family. They appear as small head inflorescences minus the showy ray florets. Overall, I’m amazed because much of this plant looks nothing like an aster, but I suppose since it is such a radiative family, there are a few odd ball cousins.

The stalks will last into the summer until eventually the whole plant fades away. But, not before the dandelion-like seeds take to the air and sow themselves around. Each year, I find early in the spring new little seedlings that have the promise to rise like their parents and one day command the upper echelon of a prairie or planting.

Glandularia canadensis

“What was that?” I pondered as a ground-hugging lavender haze caught my eye driving down the road last spring. What once was a forest had been clear cut the previous summer, and a scraggly grassland had begun to cover up the sins on the site. The flowers appeared in the gaps between tan broomsedge.

Glandularia canadensis (rose vervain) from the air

The next time by, I slowed down, and I recognized the plant even from 100 feet away. It was Glandularia canadensis (rose vervain), a plant I had in my own garden. But, these patches were huge. The removal of the trees had opened up enough light for it to thrive and now bloom. Who knows how many years the plants had skimped by in the shade slowly spreading until disturbance opened up the sky.

I flew my drone up to snap some pictures of the hillside over the eight-foot deer fence. Further away from the road was an even larger patch back along the tree line. It was a treat to see just how abundantly this plant could grow in the wild. I’ve had it in my garden for a few years now as small clumps where competition kept it in check. Let go on this hillside it had filled in quite well.

More lavender haze of Glandularia canadensis

I would rank Glandularia canadensis here in east Texas as mostly ruderal with a dash of competitor. They are very short lived in my garden and like to ramble around and through plants. This member of the verbena family shows the pattern of horizontal perenniality, depleting the resources at its center and then dying out as new growth threads itself through the bed to find open spots to seek out new nutrients.

Glandularia canadensis here at Ephemera Farm

Interestingly, the Glandularia genus exhibits what’s called amphitropical distribution, where a species grows in the temperate zones of North and South America, but not in the tropics in between. Genetic studies hypothesize it originated in South America before spreading north.

Rose vervain is one of my first natives to begin flowering in the beds and starts in some years in late February. I’ve watched the earliest swallowtails flit above the flowers. The bloom color combines well with Phlox pilosa. It’s almost a perfect color echo, the vervain being ever so slightly more purple as it fades from bloom and the phlox being ever so slightly more pink as it is just beginning to flower.

The color echo between Glandularia canadensis and Phlox pilosa

My wild type plants finish flowering in spring, but other selections flower longer into the year. ‘Homestead Purple’, a purple variety that was found on a homestead in Georgia, is probably the best known cultivar.

And, over the past year, I have gotten to know ‘Kathy’s Kandy’ well, an introduction from my friend and mentor Carol Reese of Tennessee. Her friend Kathy found it growing in a horse pasture and said that it flowered 10 months out of the year. For us in Texas, that’s true, too, minus the warmest and coldest parts of the year.

Glandularia canadensis ‘Homestead Purple’ make a nice foil for the massive flowers of Oenothera macrocarpa.

The ever-so-slightly semi-double flowers of Glandularia canadensis ‘Kathy’s Kandy’

This year, there are less flowers on the hillside. The grassland has grown wilder and woolier, and pines have been replanted on the site, but I still see hints of lavender in the underbrush. Glandularia canadensis is a survivor in the wild and in my garden, and whether you welcome the species or cultivated forms of rose vervain into your plantings, I know you’ll enjoy watching this spring perennial hop from spot to spot through your beds.

Freeze Warning

I woke up, walked to the kitchen, and my heart sank. The thermometer showed 26°F.  Kudos to Time and Date for calling it 24 hours earlier at 27°F.  The National Weather Service had forecast a low of 31°F, and now they were reporting 25°F.

I knew it was coming. About three weeks prior, I saw a tweet from the NWS Climate Prediction Center warning that we were going to have a particularly bad cold snap around the 20th of March. I just didn’t think it would get this cold. With it being the last day of winter, I suppose it was the season’s last hurrah.

My heart sank even further when I walked outside and saw many plants limp with frost, their foliage water-soaked in appearance. We’ve had light freezes in years before on the spring garden with little impact, but 26°F is the lowest I’ve seen.

The garden before the freeze

The garden had looked glorious this spring, the best it’s ever looked really.  Growth was burgeoning, and many plants were two-to-three weeks ahead of schedule due to the warm weather we had up to that point. The same day that we had the freeze my Day One app popped a photo up of March 19 last year, and the persimmons were not even leafed out. And, now, their already emerged leaves were limp and had turned a putrid green.

I had kidded with Karen that with the plantings looking so good it was time for something to go wrong. History has taught me that any time I’m proud of the garden there’s a flood, a boar, an armadillo, a drought, or some other disaster on the way. Pride goeth before the fall—and now the freeze.

I rallied once the sun came up, and I watched in bewilderment as most plants shrugged it off. Trillium ludovicianum (Louisiana trillium), Lupinus subcarnosus (sandyland bluebonnet), Penstemon digitalis (foxglove beardtongue), Phlox pilosa (downy phlox), Sporobolus heterolepis (prairie dropseed), Halesia diptera (two-wing silverbell), Spigelia marilandica (Indian pink), and more seemed unphased. It amazes me how we can drop below freezing and fully leafed out plants can survive.

But, I wasn’t taking any chances for the second night. I had gone into this cold snap thinking it would be a good learning experience. But, after seeing Baptisia alba (white wild indigo) that is such an anchor in my garden wilted and burned, I realized what a gut punch it would be to loose all of them. I’d have to wait an entire year to see flowers again.

So, right before sunset we set about covering up what we could. With 27°F predicted again that night, Karen and I scavenged anything that could potentially trap heat. Recycling boxes were brought from the garage, trash cans were flipped over, floating row cover was erected, pots and tubs were brought out, and sheets were placed over plants.  I kidded with her before we headed inside that I liked my new garden art installation.

The next morning, a similar scene of water-soaked foliage and limp plants greeted me. I waited until the thermometer hit 32°F to begin uncovering plants, but a few hours later, most things defrosted from the cold yet again with little to no freezer burn.

Now, a week has passed, and I can safely say that most plants made it through the freeze well. The persimmons and peaches are gone, our Chionanthus virginicus (fringe tree) white flower show is now black, and my Baptisia sphaerocarpa (yellow wild indigo) lost some blooms. What possibly helped save us on most other plants was that were were cold approximately 36 hours before the freeze hit. Had we gone from 76°F to 26°F things might have been more dire. But, cold acclimation increases the sugars in plant tissues to make them more resilient to freezing.

I’m left wondering what can we gardeners do to prepare for events like this? My biggest concern is that data shows a warming trend with plant growth occurring earlier in the spring. I remember how terrible the April 2007 freeze was. Here’s a few thoughts.

CHECK AT LEAST THREE WEATHER FORECASTS. I like the National Weather Service, Time and Date 14 day forecast, and Carrot weather. I compare the three forecasts to get an idea of what to expect for the coming week. And, be prepared that it might dip lower than what is predicted. I recall reading where Johnny’s Selected Seeds said anytime the forecast showed a temperature below 42°F, they covered plants.

LEARN THE LAY OF YOUR LAND. Get an accurate hobby weather station and start learning how temperatures change across the lay of your land. Know where the frost pockets are, and where things tend to stay warmer. Also, compare your temperature with the local weather station to have an idea of what is predicted versus the actual temperature you experience on a regular basis.

PLANT DIFFERENT CULTIVARS. Various cultivars of the same species begin growth at different times. For example, many fruit trees have different chilling hours requirements that influence when they flower. My ‘Tropical Beauty’ peach is toast for the year because it had already formed fruit, but my ‘Sunraycer’ nectarine 20 feet away was just starting to bloom when the cold hit. So, it is best to plant a diversity of varieties to lessen the impact. Mark Diacono in A Year at Otter Farm warned that when gardening for food, anticipate 3 out of 10 crops each year will fail due to weather woes.

PLANT LATE EMERGERS. My Baptisia purpurea var. minor (dwarf wild indigo), Eutrochium fistulosum (hollow Joe Pye weed), and Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) haven’t even emerged from the soil good yet. So, learn what plants are later to emerge if frost is a concern.

TRAP HEAT. I learned from my teenage days of extending the season that soil radiates heat that it absorbed during the day at night, and by covering it, I could trap some of that heat to keep plants above freezing. That’s why freezes are rare on cloudy nights, but occur frequently on clear nights below or near 32°F. If you cover plants, the cover has to be all the way to the ground. Otherwise, heat can escape. Eliot Coleman also noted in The Four Season Harvest that there is evidence that covering plants also helps to protect them from desiccating winds.

WATER BEFORE A FREEZE. If a plant is experiencing drier growing conditions, it can be more susceptible to freeze damage. Watering before a freeze can help to lessen the effect, and the water can help to absorb more heat during the day if done early enough. Also, water releases heat as it freezes from a liquid to a solid. My great-grandfather used to run sprinklers on his strawberry patch all night when a hard freeze was expected, and the energy released during phase change would keep the flowers and fruit just above freezing.

Whether you still have some frosts to go or you won’t see another freeze for eight months, I hope the tips and advice I shared above help you protect your plants from cold damage. And, your heart from sinking.

Anemone caroliniana

I hold off mowing the yard as long as I can in the spring as the turf is full of little treasures in late winter.  From the first weeks of December, Claytonia virginica (spring beauty) has been crescendoing to its peak.  Nothoscordum bivalve (crow poison) starts a little earlier, their white and yellow scapes appear after the first rains of autumn, and now thousands twinkle in the lawn. 

And, down along either side of the driveway by the ditch we have Anemone caroliniana (Carolina windflower). Their pinwheels stretch up a foot above the fray saying, “Look at me!” The drop off beside the culvert provides a spot where I can crouch and put myself on the flowers’ plane without having to lay down much.  

Being that it’s the only spot on the property that these flowers bloom I’m left to wonder how it got here. Was it planted? There are other spots wetter. There are other spots more sloped. But, it is here either side of the drive that they have found their home.

The flowers are small, not much larger than a quarter, and like other anemones are apetalous. The colorful whorl we see are sepals. Our patch only has white flowered forms with a splash of purple on the undersides of the calyx, but I’ve seen photos of the purple variants. And, they dance and sway in the breeze, as if acknowledging the Greek origin of their name, anemos, which means wind.

Plants spread by seed and rhizomes, and their numbers have increased over the years since I have encouraged their growth by holding back the mower blade. Their dissected leaves are now easy to pick out since I have a mental search image, but before I identified them, they just looked like a weed in the lawn.  

I struggled a bit the first year trying to figure out which anemone I had as Carolina windflower is very close in resemblance to Anemone berlandieri (ten-petal anemone). But, I realized they can be distinguished by the three-lobed involucres that occur on the scape that holds the flowers aloft.  Anemone berlandieri occurs above the midpoint of the scape, and Anemone caroliniana occur below the midpoint.

If I was adamant about mowing, I would probably never see these little jewels.  However, I am content to let the mower rest for a few more weeks to allow the windflowers to spread and ensure that even more return next year.

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.