Plectocephalus americanus | American basketflower

The summer solstice has arrived, which means it’s time for American basketflower (Plectocephalus americanus, or previously Centaurea americana) to bloom. Every year, it starts flowering just as the days reach their longest.

There’s a large patch near our house where the blooms count in the thousands. On first glance years ago, I shrugged them off driving into town thinking they were one of the non-native thistles taking over the roadsides. But, finally their beauty won me over to investigate. What I found was one of our most showy native annuals, and now each year, I make a stop when they are in full bloom.

Sometimes I look at a basketflower, and it feels like I’m looking at a dahlia or chrysanthemum.

I haven’t been the only one confused by these aster family relatives. Linnaeus once put many Centaurea together into one genus. Sunflower expert Henri Cassini recognized this issue, writing in 1817, “Linnaeus has united, under this name, in a single genus, a multitude of species that indeed have many characters in common, but which should of necessity be distributed amongst several genera, if only to make it easier and more convenient to study. […] Linnaeus certainly assigned his centaureas to many sections, but this was not sufficient to prevent the confusion that resulted, especially as he used the same generic name for too many species.” And, when a single Centaurea genus was found to have eight different pollen morphologies in the 1950’s, the genera split began.

It’s quite amazing to stand amongst so many American basketflowers in bloom and in bud.

Now, we know Centaurea americana as Plectocephalus americanus, plecto- meaning to twist and -cephalus referring to head. My assumption is that this wordsmithing is a reference to the head inflorescence’s phyllaries, the prickly-looking bracts that give the plant its common name basketflower since the involucre appears to have a woven appearance.

Ray florets emerge from the involucre “basket.”

Even in their fade, American basketflowers are lovely to behold.

The lavender flowers are dazzling and pompous in appearance, like having an exploded firework frozen in time. Like most head inflorescences, the outer ray florets are quite showy helping to attract pollinators toward the fertile disks in the center. And, on breezy days the heads bob in the breeze carrying the sweet, honey-like scent; though, the fragrance is more intense when I stick my nose in the center and get dusted with the off-white pollen.

A carpenter bee dances around the disk of American basketflower. You may notice a bit of off-white pollen on its legs.

The flowers are open in the morning, but most will close by the afternoon. However, blooms make decent cuts lasting almost a week, and when removed from the plant, the flower remains open for longer.

I have the goal of welcoming this plant into my garden using local germplasm. And, each year, I keep meaning to stop and collect some seed, but often the road maintenance mower blades get them before they have a chance to finish producing their sunflower-shaped fruits called cypselae (or singular cypsela). Its a shame they are cut too soon, even beyond my own selfish desires. Bobwhite Quail and other songbirds love the seeds.

Somehow there are enough to return year after year in these roadside patches so that even if I didn’t look at the calendar I would know when the sun was about to start its trek back south.

Hundreds of basketflowers were in bloom with thousands more to come.

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After taking photos for this post and returning home, I hadn’t started sweating through my shirt good when I heard the roar of the mower blades. I knew where they were headed, right to the patch of American basketflowers I had just left hours ago. And, what are the odds that the day I go enjoy their flowers is their death knell.

I didn’t spot any open blooms remaining the next morning amongst the thrashed debris, but later that afternoon I spotted one solitary basketflower by the fence. A survivor. When I pulled off I found two more that had escaped the mower’s blade. I noted their spots for seed collection in about a month.

From years past when the mowers have come early, I have learned they will return from the seed bank in the soil. But, it’s so sad to see something I love and hold dear mowed down to fulfill a contract. But, that’s the power of bringing these plants into our gardens. So that when the sun is high in the sky and the mowers come, I’ll still have a patch to enjoy as we welcome the arrival of summer.

A lone basketflower survives against the fencerow where the mower blades couldn’t get to close.

A Morning at Oudolf Field

This post is part 1 of 2 on our visit to Oudolf Field last summer. Check back soon for part 2.

As we approach the summer solstice this week, my mind has been drifting back to our trip to England last summer. Our last part of the trip was to visit Bath, a quaint city with a fair amount of horticultural sites nearby. One of the highlights of our visit was going to Durslade Farm where the Hauser & Wirth Somerset gallery is, and of course, Oudolf Field.

Durslade Farm looked like an Instagram farmhouse Pinterest board. Karen and I swooned at the blending of wood and iron and stone.

The entrance to Durslade Farm where modern meets rustic.

I loved these log sign and rope holders.

Near the gallery was a farm store where one could purchase a variety of produce and other agrarian staples.

The gift shop featured this lovely dried arrangement hung from the ceiling.

And, dried arrangements featuring perennials like Allium and Achillea were placed on the windowsill.

The men’s bathroom featured another blending of new and old.

For those of you who have seen the documentary Five Seasons: The Gardens of Piet Oudolf by Thomas Piper, Oudolf Field was the garden that was woven through the documentary where they showed it developing from concept through installation to its grand opening within a year.

From my copious notes I took watching the documentary when it was aired online in 2020 thanks to Hauser & Wirth, I learned more about Piet’s design process. He wanted this 1.5 acre planting with its meandering paths to be a space that people could “get lost in.” The story he told through the design was to have a wetland garden with a pond near the gallery that then faded into a block-style perennial planting with the middle being dominated by species erupting from a Sporobolus heterolepis (prairie dropseed) matrix.

In talking about his design process, he stated that he first started with a sketch of the paths, and then once he liked that illustration, he expanded it up to a 1:100 scaled drawing. He would then make a list of 50 to 60 plants that suited the atmosphere of the site, and then he would break them into categories like primary plants or seasonal color.

To ensure a year of color and interest, he would then think about what flowered before June and what looked good in autumn. And, then he would fill the succession gap in between with summer blooming plants. From there he would make the drawing where different colorful shapes would be designated with counts like 3, 5, or 7 to show how many plants would be in each symbol.

He also talked about putting himself on the ground in his mind’s eye and thinking about what people would see when they round a corner or asking himself were things repeating too much across a pathway to make sure that each species was appropriately placed.

A final rendering of Oudolf Field framed on a wall at Durslade Farm

And, now we had the chance to see the rendering made real. As we made our way through the gallery, there was a small cloister garden that Piet designed featuring Molinia caerulea 'Moorhexe' (moor grass) and Sesleria autumnalis (autumn moor grass) matrix out of which the bold leaf Kirengeshoma palmata (yellow wax bells) emerged.

The greenery in the courtyard in the gallery helped soften the architectural lines.

And, then we exited the gallery out the back into Oudolf field. The garden was in its stunning glory for the summer as many perennials were in full bloom. The field is a hortus conclusus, an enclosed garden surrounded by hedges. They make a neutral backdrop for the plants to pop against, and they help to frame the planting like the border of a rug holding all the color of the threads inside.

With my back to the gallery, I look northeast through Oudolf Field.

As Piet talked about in Five Seasons, the first part of the garden was a wetland area. It was much quieter colorwise and featured more greens. This part had a pond where aquatic plants grew. To me, it was a more calm space colorwise as we exited the gallery. I could speculate that in considering the long view perhaps part of the reason this space was more neutral in color was to allow the eye to move past this planting further back instead of stopping it too short with too much vibrancy.

The small pond in Oudolf Field featured aquatic vegetation.

The greens in the front area of the wetland garden were punctuated by the bold foliage of Darmera peltata (umbrella plant) and the light pink of Lythrum salicaria 'Blush' (purple loosestrife).

From here, we advanced into the perennial plantings. An undulating gravel pathway down the middle was sprinkled with turf circles. The perennials were just high enough to hide the various pathways and encourage exploration.

One of my favorite photos from Oudolf Field as it shows just how incredible blocked plantings of perennials can be.

Facing back toward the gallery, one can see ten circular islands of turf in a gravel pathway. Ok, maybe one is hiding…

A more off center shot of the gardens and the circles of turf. Juxtaposing geometric lines with the wildness of the perennial plants is one way that these plantings achieve legibility.

The gray-green Sporobolus heterolepis matrix is visible in this long perennial shot.

In the middle of the garden we found the Sporobolus heterolepis dominated planting where perennials like Echinacea, Monarda, and Amorpha appeared above the seedheads. These matrix plantings appear a bit more natural than the block style plantings.

Echinacea pallida (pale coneflower) emerges from the Sporobolus heterolepis haze.

And, then at the north end of the field was another block style planting that terminated in Smiljan Radic's fibreglass pavilion. At the end of the black is a lookout, and I thought the angle not being oriented toward Oudolf field was a tragedy.

Where the matrix ends and the blocks begin.

Repetition quietly reinforces the intention of design in the subconsious, and Richard Long’s Stone Circle mimicked the round turf areas in Oudolf field.

I remember in Five Seasons, Iwan Wirth, president and co-founder of Hauser & Wirth, said that Piet’s garden was a living masterpiece, and he was right. To see the manifestation of a drawing on a page is always incredible. But, I’m not quite done yet. In Part 2, I’ll write more about the plants of Oudolf Field. Until then, keep growing!

Phlox drummondii and a Texas (Mini) Superbloom

I love ruderals for their flashy essence. They are the YOLO of the plant world. Live it up because life is short.

And, in the youth of a planting, ruderals are wonderful for quickly filling the gaps, providing color, and helping support ecology. Often, perennials need a few years to get established before they can have a presence, but ruderals hit the ground running, often blooming within months of their seeding while covering the ground to reduce weed growth.

I have been noting good choices for east Texas and the deep south. A new one I can add to my growing list is Phlox drummondii (annual phlox). I’ve seen it scattered pretty sparsely on roadsides, but thanks to a planting project just north of Nacogdoches, TX where it is intensely planted, I have a new appreciation for this native (header image). Over the past month I’ve watched this roadside planting explode with a multitude of tints and shades of red as I drive into town.

What a wonderful explosion of color! I don’t know if I’ve ever seen so much color diversity in species mix as I did with these Phlox drummondii.

If you’re unfamiliar with Phlox drummondii, annual phlox is a short lived native wildflower with sticky leaves. It is native to Texas and Oklahoma, though in some states it is introduced. It was so beloved by Europeans that after Thomas Drummond—this phlox’s namesake—sent seeds back in 1835, they were able to select up to 200 different color strains. And, now Rudbeckia hirta (black-eyed Susan) is starting to pop in this planting.

It’s amazing to see all this incredible color right next to the road.

One of my favorite color morphs of Phlox drummondii was this pink with watermelon-colored eye.

My friend Dawn Stover helped create this beautiful tapestry, and besides the usual Texas bluebonnets, it is one of the best wildflower plantings I’ve seen in east Texas. The first time I passed by I was stunned by how good the flowering was on these median patches.

Dawn works at the USDA–NRCS East Texas Plant Materials Center (ETPMC). She shared that the City of Nacogdoches approached the ETPMC in 2021 about doing a wildflower planting in median areas that were difficult to mow along the four lane leading north out of the city. She worked with the Texas Natives Seeds Project to create a blend of species that would work well in this area. Here’s a full list of the species included in the mix.

ANNUALS AND COVER CROPS

• Gaillardia pulchella (Indian blanket)

• Rudbeckia hirta (black-eyed Susan)

• Monarda punctata (spotted beebalm)

• Phlox drummondii (annual phlox)

• Hordeum pusillum (little barley)

PERENNIALS

• Asclepias tuberosa (butterfly milkweed)

• Coreopsis lanceolata (lance-leaved coreopsis)

• Penstemon digitalis (smooth beardtongue)

• Pycnanthemum tenuifolium (narrow-leaf mountain mint)

• Rhexia mariana (Maryland meadow beauty)

• Eryngium yuccifolium (rattlesnake master)

• Solidago rugosa (rough goldenrod)

• Symphyotrichum laeve (smooth aster)

• Mimosa strigillosa (herbaceous mimosa)

NATIVE GRASSES

• Schizachyrium scoparium (little bluestem)

• Andropogon gerardii (splitbeard bluestem)

• Bothriochloa laguroides (silver bluestem)

• Bouteloua hirsuta (hairy grama)

• Eragrostis secundiflora 'El Reno' (red lovegrass)

• Bouteloua curtipendula (sideoats grama)

• Eragrostis trichodes (sand lovegrass)

• Sporobolus cryptandrus (sand dropseed)

• Elymus virginicus (Virginia wildrye)

They prepped the site in the summer of 2022, and seed were sown this previous February. In naturalistic design, we call this approach a randomized mix where seed are broadcasted over an area, and plants establish where conditions are favorable. Changes across a site like a slight wet spot here or a subtle change in pH there can cause a shift in what species thrive. And, a plant’s presence or absence can be further shifted by varying the seed mix concentration across the site.

Of course, the ruderals are quite happy, and under their cover are the other species bulking up. Dawn shared that the biggest challenge has been people trying to pick the flowers, which is not good as the plants need to be able to go to seed for next year. The area will be mowed after the spring flush has been allowed to go to seed. And, eventually as the other perennials and grasses begin to dominate and leave less room for the ruderals, this wildflower planting will be more subtle.

As conditions change across the site, species shift. Notice how there’s less Phlox drummondii running through the middle of the planting.

This planting reminds me of the Tower of London Superbloom that we saw last year while in England that was designed by Nigel Dunnett. While that planting was ephemeral as part of a celebration of the queen’s platinum jubilee, this installation is more permanent.

England Superbloom

Texas (mini) Superbloom

And, I think that seeing this mini-superbloom in east Texas is a reminder that ruderal mixes are possible in a variety of different habitats. I have the hope that one day our roadsides will be viewed as not a place that needs to be constantly mowed but a space where we can have ecology and beauty for creatures big and small. And, I believe that plantings like these are just the start of better things to come.

May Wildflowers of Arkansas

My Tennessee family wanted to meet in Little Rock earlier this month to visit for a weekend, and with the semester over, Karen and I made the trek up to Arkansas to see them. After they left, we decided to spend a few days driving around looking at wildflowers in the diamond state.

Arkansas is a floristically rich state. And, since readers responded so positively to my field notes from our excursion with Thomas Rainer last year (part 1 and part 2), I wanted to share some observations from our travels this spring. I love these trips because they help me better understand how plants grow, where they like to grow, and their floral and faunal associations. Visiting wildflowers in situ helps me become a better horticulturist, and I hope that some of the images and notes I share below help you.

Baptisia sphaerocarpa (yellow wild indgo) was in full bloom. Every time we saw it, it was riding that hydric/mesic line whether it be here in a ditch just up from a larger creek as seen here or along the wet edge of a field drain.

I wasn’t the only one enjoying Baptisia sphaerocarpa. It’s the bee’s knees for insects.

If you are an avid reader of the blog, you’ll remember last year where we saw a field of Baptisia sphaerocarpa that was just coming into bloom. We hit it perfectly with this trip. I have never been so mouth agape in my life seeing so many yellow wild indigo in bloom. Again, this field was a wetter spot.

One thing that I’ll add is that about these Arkansas populations of Baptisia sphaerocarpa is the leaves seem a bit greener and less silvery than my Texas progeny. My theory is that Baptisia sphaerocarpa in Texas likely have more drought tolerance traits (like silvery leaves).

We saw other Baptisia in bloom like this Baptisia bracteata var. leucophaea (longbract wild indigo). Most of them had finished flowering, but a handful still remained in bloom. I liked the darker stems and veins on this plant.

And, of course, my beloved Baptisia alba (wild white indigo). These were rarer, and we only saw them twice.

Thistles get a bad wrap, but they are actually one of our best plants for insects. I loved how this Cirsium carolinianum (Carolina thistle) dotted it’s flowers along this forest edge.

Coreopsis grandiflora (large-flowered tickseed) is such a cheerful plant growing on the roadsides, and I have found myself taking it for granted. Besides in these grassy patches, we found it hugging gravelly hillsides.

We saw a few clumps of Oenothera fruticosa (narrow-leaved sundrops), again in edge habitat where they brightened the forest floor. The buds and stems have hints of red.

Driving back roads I noticed from my truck this flushing red Hamamelis virginiana. Many plants have red in the new foliage to help deal with excess sunlight, and I have seen some blushed tinges on Hamamelis but never this rich!

Matelea (milkvines) are funky natives in the southeast. Here the vining Matelea baldwyniana (Baldwyn’s milkvine) flowers look like a cluster of galaxies. It also serves as a host plant for Monarch larvae!

At Chanticleer years ago I admired their use of Silene virginica (fire pink) under trees along the elevated walkway, strategically placed so that one looks at them at eye level. Seeing the plant in glades here in Arkansas, I can see how nature can inspire such garden design.

I’ve written of my love for Hymenopappus in the past, and on this trip I found a nice patch of the frillier-leaved Hymenopappus scabiosaeus (Carolina woollywhite). This native is a good upright ruderal for spring blooms.

It seemed we saw Penstemon arkansanus (Arkansas penstemon) along dry ridges everywhere we drove while Penstemon digitalis (foxglove beardtongue) tended to hug the wetter areas.

Even a fire can’t kill these Heuchera americana (coral bells) growing along a rock cliff. Talk about a tough plant. This species is one gardeners often kill because they give it too much moisture.

Last spring, Monarda russeliana (red-purple beebalm) was just coming into bloom, and for this trip we found many clumps in full flower along forest edge.

After the shady forest, we visited some full sun sites. At this roadside pull off, Echinacea pallida (pale purple coneflower) rises out of a carpet of Valerianella longiflora (long-flower cornsalad).

A close up of Valerianella longiflora flowers. They had this lovely purple-maroon color to the flower tubes. As a ruderal, this species would be a nice filler under taller plants.

The raggedy rays of Echinacea pallida look so dainty and were fun to watch blowing in the breeze. If you look closely, you can see the dissected leaves of Silphium laciniatum (compass plant) starting to rise for their summer blooms.

I was amazed to see the harsh conditions where Echinacea pallida grew. These clumps are growing in cracks in the rock strata!

I loved this roadside vista of Echinacea pallida, Delphinium carolinianum (Carolina larkspur), and Coreopsis grandiflora. It had this mountain glade/alpine feel.

This trip was first time seeing Parthenium integrifolium (wild quinine) in the wild! Here it grew in a large clump along the tree line just up from the Echinacea pallida. I remember fondly seeing it at the Lurie Garden years ago and was curious what its native habitat was. This plant has been used by native Americans for many ethnobotany purposes and supposedly as recently as World War I as a quinine substitute for malaria.

A close-up of the button flowers of Parthenium integrifolium. They also make good cut flowers.

Nemophila phacelioides (Texas baby blue eyes) was in full bloom. We kept seeing it growing in people’s front yards underneath shrubs and along edge habitat. As a ruderal, it seems to fill the same niche that bluebonnets do here in Texas, though in wetter spots.

We returned to one of the sites where we found Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) last spring. Plants were in full bloom and thriving right alongside this waterway. Last year, we visited six Amsonia hubrichtii sites, and all were located next to water. My theory is that the seeds are dispersed in waterways, but as many of you know, the plant is quite adaptable for drier sites.

At one rocky site, we found Amorpha fruticosa (false indigo) growing out of the rocks, illustrating it’s durability. However, nearer water’s edge in the scourge habitat it was an aggressive colonizing thug! Again, it amazes me how habitat influences growth.

And, I was delighted to find Streptanthus maculatus (clasping jewelflower) for the first time in the wild. Kind of funny that I grew this uncommon wildflower before I saw this in situ. It, too, was growing on this rocky ledge.

On our last day, we stopped to visit the site where I found Echinacea pallida in the past. A glimmer of purple caught my eye, and after a u-turn I was ecstatic to see Asclepias purpurascens (purple milkweed) in the wild for the first time! There was a healthy colony of several plants blooming.

A close up of the purple puff ball known as Asclepias purpurascens

I thought it was so neat how the Asclepias purpurascens flowers open from one side to the other. Many individuals exhibited this pattern.

And, last I wanted to share with you this neat two-sided painting we saw near the front of someone’s driveway. The blue sky version was on the north side, and the sunset was facing south. It definitely gave me some ideas about integrating art into the outdoors. And, with all the beauty of the region, sometimes you just have to paint a picture (or snap a photo).

Late April at Ephemera Farm

The spring plantings here at Ephemera Farm are the best they’ve ever looked. The perennials have matured, and the matrix species have knitted together. Even though the Baptisia alba took a hit from the freeze we had, their lack of floral dominance has allowed other species to shine.

I call this first area I’ve developed the light beds for the way that the sunlight interacts with it throughout the day. There’s so many opportunities to see magic from the dew glistening from sunrise to the warmth of the last rays as the sun sets below the tree line.

There are three beds near the house totaling approximately 1,300 square feet with two mulched pathways leading through them away from the house. Where two beds are now turf grass and an old satellite pole occupied the spot when we moved in. I treated the beds as independent at first and a holding ground for species that I had been carrying around in pots for a while. But, they felt too disjunct. Therefore, I killed the grass pathways in between, made them more narrow, and mulched them with hardwood bark to make them feel more cohesive.

And, I unified them with color. I was inspired by the native wildflower color palette I’ve seen on our roadsides, and used species that feature pink, purple, blue, red, and white, and variations on those hues. I decided for these beds to primarily keep the yellows and oranges out. I would say that 90% of the species in the beds are natives.

I’ve used mulch to make things tidier. I realized that mulch is a bit like Powerpoint or a hammer, a tool that if overused can make things look terrible, but when used with good technique could be an ally. A thin layer and the matrix species like Carex and Sporobolus knitting together has helped keep the weed pressure at bay.

Enjoy these photos from the light beds in late April.

I love pausing at these photos and thinking about where does the eye go? This photo was taken on April 23, and the Penstemon digitalis (foxglove beardtongue) had just started blooming.

But, six days later on April 29, Penstemon digitalis was in full bloom creating a frothy effect in the planting.

A little further into the beds gives a different perspective. The matured Magnolia laevifolia on the right helps to hide the air conditioner.

The light beds, looking toward the house. I use fallen branches found on the property to line the bed edges.

I primarily grow Rudbeckia maxima (giant coneflower) in the back of this bed for the glaucous foliage.

Looking west the beds continue to effervesce with Penstemon digitalis.

I love how the purple Streptanthus maculatus (clasping jewelflower) rises out of the bed in the background.

Emergents like Arnoglossum plantagineum (prairie Indian plantain) and Penstemon murrayanus (scarlet beardtongue) add another dimension to the planting by occupying the upper layer.

Penstemon murrayanus is one of my favorite spring wildflowers. I don’t know of another plant that embues the green, blue, purple, and red side of the color wheel so well.

Ruby-throated Hummingbirds love Penstemon murrayanus as much as I do!

Phlox pilosa ‘Bonnie’s Pink’ (downy phlox) is a great seasonal filler for spring. It is an aggressive spreader, which means that it can quickly fill a spot where it is planted. And, the swallowtails seem to love it more than my wild Phlox pilosa selections.

We found some purple-foliage Tradescantia gigantea (giant spiderwort) in Central Texas a few years ago, and it has grown well in east Texas, usually fading out as summer approaches.

The flowers of Tradescantia gigantea (giant spiderwort) are wide open in the morning and on cloudy days. The darker foliage pops against the green.

Not everything is beloved for the blooms. Here Rhus aromatica (fragrant sumac) provides a verdant splash with a matrix of Carex texensis underneath.

I love the subtle color echoes of the rusted stems of Pycnanthemum tenuifolium (narrow-leaf mountain mint) and Arnoglossum plantagineum.

Penstemon laxiflorus (nodding penstemon) is a reliable source for spring color. I have to give them a haircut before they flower to keep them from lodging. It’s hard to do with flower buds already on the plant, but a late March chop results in later blooms and more compact plants.

Ruby-throated Hummingbirds also love Penstemon digitalis. I enjoy watching them flit around the blooms.

One final sunrise shot as we head into May.

Streptanthus maculatus | clasping jewelflower

Clasping jewelflower has sent me on a treasure hunt trying to figure out how to grow this beautiful native. After two failed attempts, I’m happy to report that I’ve had success this year with Streptanthus maculatus!

I first learned about this spectacular plant from naturalist Matt Buckingham. He posted on his website about it in 2019. That fall, by coincidence a friend of mine shared some seed with me they had collected further north in Texas.

I sowed them into trays that winter, planted the seedlings out that following spring, and was sorely disappointed to find them get barely above 6 inches tall. They were puny and sad looking. I was intrigued because the scale of the plants in the images that I saw from Matt’s blog looked bigger; however, maybe this height was as big as the plant grew, and he was just using a macro lens?

Last year, I decided to let mother nature take care of things, and I sowed the remaining seed on my front bank under dappled shade, thinking perhaps they weren’t too happy growing in peat or being transplanted. I was delighted when my plants grew and rose to a height of around 18 inches. But, they still looked spindly. My concerns that there was still something wrong were confirmed when my friend Mark Tietz posted some images of three-foot tall plants on Facebook and made me realize that this plant had the potential to get much taller and fuller. In his comments he shared that the plant grew on alkaline soils from ancient seabed sediment.

I had realized in my time at Ephemera Farm that I had better luck with plants if I sweetened the soil with lime prior to planting. Our pH of 4.2 has been rough on many native perennials, some even from just down the road that originally grew in less acidic soil.

Armed with this information, I collected what seed my plants produced on the front bank, and then set about sowing them this past winter. This time, I made sure to start them in slightly larger cells (32’s instead of 72’s). I planted 25 transplants. For most of them, I limed each hole prior to planting as if I was lightly dusting a beignet. The scientist in me made sure to not lime three holes to act as a control. The growth differences, as you can see below, were visible soon after planting.

March 25 2023: The control Streptanthus maculatus without lime added to the planting hole. Plants in the three plugs were stunted in growth.

March 25, 2023: A Streptanthus maculatus with a dusting of limestone added to the planting hole. Notice how much larger the leaves are compared to the control.

And, let me tell you, I am ecstatic to see how well the limed plants are doing this year. Most plants top out at two-to-three-feet tall, and they are loaded with flowers.

I cannot tell you how much joy I got from seeing these Streptanthus maculatus thrive after failed attempts.

And, if you’re wondering how the plants I didn’t lime fared, check out the images below.

A close up of one of the three Streptanthus maculatus plugs that didn’t receive lime. This plant is approximately 15 inches tall, and the other two look similarly bad.

And, a close up of one of a Streptanthus maculatus that did receive lime. This plant is three feet tall, and loaded with 50+ flowers in just one inflorescence!

To me, clasping jewelflower is a native Lunaria without the large translucent seedpods. The clasping name comes from the perfoliate leaves that wrap around the stem. I should note that the plants I have are Streptanthus maculatus var. maculatus with their more lance-shaped leaves. The other variety Streptanthus maculatus var. obtusifolius has more obtuse foliage.

My first Streptanthus maculatus coming into bloom earlier this spring. Don’t you know I was giddy! You can see in this image the opening flowers twist a bit, hence the other common name twistflower.

The two-tone flowers play so well off my already cool color scheme of pink and purple. Note the clasping or perfoliate leaves of clasping jewelflower.

Being in the Brassicaceae family, it has that classic four-petal cruciform flower shape. Another common name is clasping twistflower, which is a nod to the petals that twist a bit as they open. I’ve also had slight issues with cabbage looper worms trying to eat the leaves. A dusting of Bacillus thuringiensis brings them quickly under control. I was concerned about spring storms toppling them. They have bent a bit due to some storms (header image), but overall they are still mostly upright and standing. And, the honeybees LOVE them. Every afternoon they swarm the plants.

I was just fascinated to see how a little bit of lime transformed the growth of this native annual. I dug deeper into this plant’s propensity for alkalinity, and I found an interesting note about the closely related Streptanthus squamiformis (pineoak jewelflower), an Ouachita Mountain endemic. Virginia McDaniel reported in a 2014 edition of Claytonia, the newsletter of the Arkansas Native Plant Society, that they had seen similar scrawny plants in bloom when doing Streptanthus surveys. Then, her friend visited a site that same day that was burned earlier that year and discovered a purple haze of flowers. She stated, “As he climbed higher, the numbers increased and the plants got bigger. Hundreds of individuals were scattered across the mountain side!”

She hypothesized that the fire had created excellent conditions for germination. But, I’m wondering if there’s another effect from the fire. Ashes left from fires are known to raise soil pH and be a source of calcium (references from Michigan State and University of Wisconsin-Madison). I’m not sure if fire enhances germination for this species as it does others, but I’m left wondering could it be that the ash generated after a fire burns through helps create conditions ripe for these plants to have a sudden growth explosion if they are not already growing in a calcareous soil? I’m already mentally thinking of the next experiment to set up!

But, for now, I’m delighted to have found an obscure native with such horticulture potential. Clasping jewelflower has become a gem in the crown of my spring garden, and now that I know how to successfully grow it, I look forward to being bedazzled by its reappearance every spring.

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.