Passiflora 'Incense'

The weather lately has been brutal.  Since June 24, we’ve gotten a mere 0.4 inches of rain at Ephemera Farm.  The heat dome has made the usual summer dryness worse.  I’ve lost count of the days that have been above 100°F; the worst we’ve had at the house is 114°F.  It is discouraging watching plants wither away, whether it be transplants I just plugged this spring or the ancient post oak that’s turned brown up the road. I can only drag so many hoses and sprinklers. But, these extremes inform the mean and help me better understand what plants will survive for the future, whether the weather is extreme or not.  

Take my two year old Passiflora ‘Incense’ that has still been blooming and growing through it all. I was afraid that I lost it this past winter; however, once the days warmed, ‘Incense’ was lit, and it exploded into growth from the roots that overwintered.

Passionflowers are quite vigorous, but ‘Incense’ is a hybrid, developed in the 1970’s by crossing our native Passiflora incarnata with the tropical Passiflora cincinnata. Being a hybrid, it is pollen sterile, which means that it doesn’t produce fruit and is able to redirect that energy back into growth. I planted it in a back spot along our blackberry fence where every summer the soil dries out. There it could grow wild, and it has been fairing well with little irrigation.  I did finally break down the other day and throw a hose at the base.  

First instar Gulf Fritillary nibbles on an ‘Incense’ bud

Hanging by a thread… make that tendril

It looked good and lush up until recently. But, the heat and drought wasn’t the issue; the caterpillars were. The Gulf Fritillaries we’ve enjoyed darting around the garden had found the plant and laid their eggs. The spiny orange larvae look fearsome, but as long as you don’t eat them, they are harmless.  

The butterflies reach their peak in the fall when we have a few dozen that enjoy our autumn flowers. Now, we’ll have even more as soon they will crawl away, make their chrysalides, and enjoy the flowers that will come with autumn. There’s a “cold” front forecast this week that will drop temperatures below a hundred, and we got 0.25 of rain Friday evening. Better weather is on the way.

An adult Gulf Fritillary clings to Schizachyrium on a cool autumn morning

Enjoying Peaches

One of my first aspirations for Ephemera Farm was to plant an orchard.  It didn’t have to be big.  I just wanted somewhere we could go out and pick some fresh orbs ripened in the summer sun.

Fruit trees take time to grow, so determining where was a priority when we first moved here.  I decided after a year of watching the sun traverse the property to plant fruit trees in a small patch west of the house.  The area was mostly full sun and rode the mesic line of a shallow hillside. The space allowed for about a dozen fruit trees. Diversity was key, especially for the peaches and nectarines, as I never know what might afflict a single cultivar.

I used the Harris County, TX “Recommended Fruit and Nut Varieties” guide to chose varieties for warmer climates. For us in east Texas we reliably get somewhere around 800 chilling hours, though some years it has been as low as 500. Chilling hours is the amount of cold below 45°F that flower buds on a plant need to perceive to flower. So, having some with low chilling hours and others with a bit higher count helps increase the chance that a crop will bear with either an inadequate amount or a late freeze.

That’s what happened this year. ‘Tropical Beauty’ and ‘Sunraycer’ are the only two so far to make it to bearing age. I got them as larger three gallons instead of little whips. The late March freeze we had zapped all the open flowers on ‘Tropical Beauty’. The buds on ‘Sunraycer’ had barely opened, and I was delighted to see a few weeks later the start of a good crop.

The tree was loaded with fruit for its first crop.

I was so afraid that the heat that set in at the beginning of July would cause the fruit to abort, but they continued to get larger and started to blush. A few days before Magnolia was born, I set up our motion-activated sprinkler to keep the raccoons off the tree.

Once we got home from the hospital, I picked the first fruit. It was glorious, sweet and juicy and ended a bit tart. But, it was at this moment I realized that I don’t think I have ‘Sunraycer’, though I’m happy to be corrected by any experts out there. One, the skin has fuzz meaning it is a peach. Peaches and nectarines are the same save for a single gene that conveys fuzz on peaches and a smooth skin on nectarines. And, two the skin color doesn’t really match. ‘Sunraycer’ is a fully crimson red skin while mine is yellow-orange with a red blush. Being sold the wrong cultivar frustrates me so. But, at this point, I’m not going to cut the tree down.

The supposed ‘Sunraycer’ nectarine

I went out each evening and gave each fruit a gentle squeeze on their blushed spot before picking. I know, you’re not supposed to squeeze a peach. But, it was a good check for ripeness. In total, I picked over 50 fruit off the tree. Dad and Mom came to visit, and I made a cobbler from the pickings for us to enjoy. 

Peach cobbler ready to be enjoyed with vanilla ice cream. My favorite is Tillamook’s vanilla bean.

I grew up eating what mom called poor man’s cobbler where the ingredients are just poured together instead of making anything intricate.  Though cherry was my favorite growing up, it wasn’t until I had peach cobbler at my friend Jeff’s several years ago that I fell in love with Prunus persica. Before that I wouldn’t touch a peach. And, now I am growing them! The proud moment of the day was when Mom said that I had beaten her on taste with my cobbler, though I was just following the recipe I had from Southern Living. She attributed the better taste to my using more fruit than she typically does.

And, because we don’t like anything to go to waste, we saved the peach skins and boiled them with a 1 part water : 1 part sugar simple syrup. Once filtered, it keeps in the fridge for a week, and we use it to flavor teas.

Peach syrup is Karen’s favorite for flavoring teas.

We put up two jars of fruit to capture a bit of summer for later this year. It’s such a joy to be able to preserve the goodness of these warmer months.

An Afternoon at Hillside

Years ago in 2010, I went on a school trip to England to expand my horticultural horizons. My colleague Lis drove us north out of Bath to visit the gardens at Hidcote and Snowshill, and I with camera in hand was photographing everything I could to document my first trip to the UK. As we rode along, a lovely tree line in the distance presented itself to the west. As an admirer of fencerows, I thought the starkness of the tree silhouettes along the flat horizon interesting and snapped a picture. As we drove on, the tree line faded from view, and after some time, from my memory.

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“There’s the tree line,” I said to Karen as we turned on to a one lane road last summer during our UK trip. I was now in the driver’s seat. The road was tight with hedges, tighter than any you’ll see in the US. I prayed we didn’t meet an oncoming car.

After a mile or so, we came to a break in the hedge. “I think this is it,” I said as I parked on the road and opened the gate. I hollered a hello and asked if anyone was there.  Near the house, a voice rang out.

It was Dan Pearson, and we were at Hillside Gardens. If you haven’t heard of him before, Dan is one of the world’s premier landscape designers and horticulturists. It seems silly to attempt to parse his life down into a few sentences, but I’ll try. His training at places like RHS Gardens’ Wisley, the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh, Jerusalem Botanical Gardens, and the Royal Botanic Gardens Kew has led to a plantastic life. He won many awards at Chelsea Flower Show, including a Gold Medal and Best of Show in 2015, he helped design Tokachi Millennium Forest and the new Delos garden at Sissinghurst, and in 2022 he was awarded Most Excellent Order of the British Empire (OBE) from the Queen. I think this sentence from his bio sums his focus up well. “His work is characterized by an innate sensitivity to place, an intuitive and light-handed approach to design, bold and painterly naturalistic plantings, and deep-rooted horticultural knowledge.”

Dan came out to help us move the car in. Exiting the vehicle we exchanged introductions, and Dan took us toward the sitting area just outside the house.  It was a large covered pavilion with a wood-fired stove.  The tables were glorious, hewn from large slabs of wood.  And, though it was a dry July day, I could see where the gutters fed the rain water into catch basins. In the distance the line of trees stood stolid against the afternoon sky just as they had when I first laid eyes on them 12 years ago.

Huw Morgan, Dan’s partner, came out and greeted us with a jovial smile on his face. Together they have published Dig Delve, an online magazine where they have been capturing weekly the minutiae of their horticultural lives since 2016. Most weeks, Dan provides the words while Huw photographs and offers the occasional delicious recipe. And, of course, out bounced Wren, Dan and Huw’s adorable dog. Dan shared with us their late dog Woody had sired some pups before he unexpectedly passed. We could tell they were happy with her unbridled energy.

They were setting tea and invited us to join, which having travelled from Dover on the other side of England, we gladly obliged. They had biscuits with cream butter and jam. Huw noted they were their own raspberries but not their own strawberries. One of their gardeners John joined us.

We talked about our trip thus far, the changes in life the pandemic wrought, how dry it was here in England, how Dan and Huw work together to manage the design firm Dan Pearson Studio and their private garden Hillside, and how they met, through a friend of a friend.

I said, “Oh, I have a small item for y’all.” I pulled out a photo, the one I had taken of the tree line on the hill 12 years earlier, and I shared the story behind it, just as I did with you readers above.

I chuckled that it was interesting because I had forgotten I had even seen the tree line and had since learned it as Freezing Hill from reading Dig Delve. That is until a month before our trip, I was showing Karen old photos of Bath, and my jaw dropped. There was the line of trees I had photographed 12 years earlier, and that I now knew as one of the borrowed landscape aspects of Hillside. They were both appreciative and tried to ascertain where exactly it would have been taken on the main road. Since the trip was in 2010, Dan shared that I would have taken that photo around the same time they moved into their property here, when it was more farm than garden.

Having finished tea, Huw excused himself to do some work inside, and Dan said, “Let’s go have a look at the garden.” We stepped out from the porch. Right by their house was an herb garden with many familiars like fennel, lavender, sage, and rhubarb. Other species like Echinops (globe thistle) splashed in the beds and a Tetrapanax papyrifer ‘Rex’ (rice paper plant) near the house helped break up the round-mounds of herbs. In the distance I noticed two stone water troughs whose flat tops nodded to the Freezing Hill plateau far away, and beyond those were neat and tidy beds of vegetables.  There wasn’t a weed in sight. 

Dan talked about how they lived on the grounds for about five years before they planted gardens to get to know the space. They bought the property after the farmer who owned it passed away.  

“Are you good to walk up through the meadows,” Dan inquired.  “Sure,” we replied, and up we walked following Dan and Wren as grasses and forbs brushed against our legs until we stood on flat ground above the house with all of Hillside in view. It was here I felt the garden’s name so appropriate. Before us, the land sloped downward toward the southwest with the orchard visible before the ground curved back up and started rising past the tree line. To our right was Freezing Hill on the horizon, and to the left we saw a bulge of a hill with a curving thread of a path mowed through the grassy field. Each feature was in it’s own way a stark contrast to the undulating landscape, and both were visible for most of our time walking the property.

Dan pointed out that the ridge we were standing on was where the soil was dug off the hillside and moved to level down by the house, thereby creating two plateaus, one from where the soil was taken and the other where it was added. They terraformed because of the hardships of gardening on a slope like pushing a wheelbarrow. Seeds from a nearby meadow by St. Catherine’s Church were broadcast over this cutaway. He commented their origin was likely near our AirBnb for the night.  

Dan then explained how they managed the meadows to create openings for wildflowers to grow. Their greatest ally is Rhinanthus minor (yellow rattle), a hemiparasite that needs the grasses to grow on. After sowing, the Rhinanthus numbers are few, but once the rattlebox numbers build, the grasses are greatly weakened and perish. The rattlebox number quickly dwindles as they have nothing to parasitize. He said the cycle then repeats, ebbs and flows, and allows for the spontaneity of open spots for wildflowers to grow like the patch of wild marjoram Karen stopped to photograph. I recognized this cycle was much like the rabbit and wolf prey-predator cycles I learned about in ecology classes years prior.

Rhinanthus minor seed

Dan commented that such an approach prevented the grasses from dominating and helped encourage species diversity. He pointed to a plant of Dactylorhiza fuchsii, a common spotted orchid that had finished flowering and talked about how the seed need mycorrhizae to be able to grow. He paused and commented, “Well, you probably know that.” I replied, yes, but enthusiastically added that shouldn’t stop him from sharing. I was happy to learn as much as I could.

Dactylorhiza fuchsii

We walked to the end of this plateau and headed back down through a small copse to see the orchard.  He commented on the fruit trees saying these were plums, mirabels, and damsons, and there were other fruit trees further below.

As we rounded the corner, a mass planting of ruderals were in full bloom at this end of the plinth that extended westward from the house. It was shocking to see so much color after going through the muted meadows above. I wondered how I hadn’t seen it before now, but I realized the barn and growth on the hillside above had hidden this Pictorial Meadows planting. The Pastel Mix of Ammi, Cosmos, Centaurea, and Papaver provided color while the plumes of winter rye offered texture above.

I was at a loss for words and started spewing adjectives.  I probably sounded like a babbling moron to one of the top garden designers in the world, but Dan agreed that it really was spectacular. He commented how other visitors had compared it to walking through a Disney movie.  

“Here, let’s walk through it,” something I wouldn’t have been audacious to do. It was hidden from the side, but we found a narrow path through the flowers that Dan said he had made to allow one to be immersed in the planting.

Dan Pearson with Pictorial Meadows Pastel Mix

“Your shirt really matches,” Dan joked.  And, he was right.  It was an unintentional perfect color combination. Even Karen and Wren had to get in on the photogenic flowers.

Yours truly

One of my favorite photos of Karen

Wren wanted her photo with the mix, too.

We exited the Pictorial Meadows mix and found ourselves at the back barn were a naturalistic planting grew.  “These plants are mostly in rubble,” Dan shared.  North American natives like Baptisia (wild indigo) and Amsonia (bluestar) were thriving in the gravelly mix, and Stipa gigantea (giant oat grass) punctuated the planting.  I noticed how the colors of some species echoed the neutrals on the building. The bronzed Ailanthus altissima ‘Purple Dragon’ (tree of Heaven) and Foeniculum vulgare ‘Purpureum’ (bronze fennel) were a nod to the rust metal and the silvery Eryngium giganteum (Miss Willmott’s Ghost) and Thalictrum flavum ssp. glaucum (yellow meadow rue) played off the gray stone and metal that hadn’t weathered yet.

In a small circle where Erysimum (wallflowers) were fading were a few young pumpkin plants. “The pumpkins are late, everything is,” Dan said, attributing it to a cool spring.

Stipa gigantea

Ailanthus altissima ‘Purple Dragon’, Eryngium giganteum, Foeniculum vulgare ‘Purpureum’, and Thalictrum flavum ssp. glaucum

Foeniculum vulgare ‘Purpureum’

We then walked back toward the house along the plinth they had made by bringing in excess soil, past the vegetable garden where corn, peas, lettuce, zucchini, and other vegetables grew in neat little boxes framed with aged metal.

Asparagus officinalis and Tropaeolum majus ‘Mahogany’

We returned past the house and paused by a little planting near the milking barn that glowed in the afternoon light.  “Oh, Liatris pycnostachya (prairie blazing star),” I said.  Dan shook his head in agreement. We talked briefly about how it grew in Texas along ditches and in forest clearings. Here it was planted with Sporobolus heterolepis (prairie dropseed), which grows well for me, and Bouteloua gracilis (blue grama), which I kill. In the background were Calamagrostis × acutiflora ‘Karl Foerster’ and giant fennel rising against a third water trough to soften its hard edges.

We then walked up the steps pasted our parked car to a long linear grassy path that ran between the hedge by the road and their perennial garden. Dan talked about the history of this space. This spot was where they had their first vegetable garden and trialed plants like Sanguisorba (burnet) and various asters to get a feel for what they would do on site. He commented that the choice ones were in the planting, and threaded underneath all the foliage were the asters waiting to emerge for autumn.

Dan paused for a moment to stoop and pull a few weeds along the edge. I asked him about mulching and he said he used much of it. He commented that a few weeds were making their way back in to the beds. I said, “Well, everything looks great,” thinking I hadn’t see a weed yet, and he in typical gardener fashion said, “I see everything that needs to be done.”

About halfway down the hedge, a path into the garden appeared, and we walked into the middle of the planting finding ourselves surrounded by the coolness of pinks, purples, and blues amid a sea of various green textures.

It was in this space that I asked him the one question I wanted to ask before we arrived—how he could perceive right plant, right place so well?  I commented how in his writings he will talk about how the slightest perceived detail will determine what plant will go there.

He said this skill came with time and practice, of getting to know the plants and place intimately. He had been doing it long enough that it became second nature. Part of it was experimenting and feeling his way.

We paused in the center of the planting for a chance to soak it in. The garden exuded elation.  It was a celebration of plants and how they should be grown, together.  Each plant seemed to be in its prime as if each one was right where it should be.

We both mentioned our love of Clematis ‘Rooguchi’ (hybrid clematis); here it was scrambling up mostly hidden hazel branches, a technique I also noticed they used on tall plants like Sanguisorba. We talked about how electric blue Salvia patens (gentian sage) was. We discussed frustrations with Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) and how I had seen it in the wild the previous April. A pink Asclepias incarnata (swamp milkweed) brought Karen into sharing how she reared Monarchs in the spring. And, at a lone Cercis griffithii (Afghan redbud) Dan mentioned how he was gifted the plant and thought the glaucous foliage would go well with the colors in this spot. Each plant had a conversation with it as we made our way down the slight curving path.

Clematis ‘Rooguchi’

Sanguisorba supported with branches

Cercis griffithii

Salvia patens

The path terminated at a metal gate, and a stream planted with Inula magnifica 'Sonnenstrahl' (giant fleabane) and Filipendula ulmaria (meadowsweet) was visible just in front of us. Beyond was the hillside field with the narrow walkway through the grass that we had seen from the meadows above the house. A bit down the hill and to our right Persicaria alpina (knotweed) and Sambucus nigra subsp. canadensis ‘Maxima’ (elderberry) dotted the grass through the space toward the pond. 

Persicaria alpina and Sambucus nigra subsp. canadensis

Pointing southward, Dan shared with us that they owned the next two hills over, the one we saw with the thread of a path through it and the hill behind. He reiterated the farmer who owned the property before them had kept vegetation in check to grow as much grass as he could.  But, they had relaxed the land and allowed the wildness to return.

“They will mow the grass soon. They were talking of doing it today, so you are lucky you saw the path,” Dan said to us. He went on to explain once the grasses start growing, they bring sheep in on them again, and then they graze hard so that the rattle box he had showed us earlier can germinate and control the grasses the following spring.

He excused himself for a moment to move a hose while Karen and I stood there soaking up this part of the garden. After Dan returned, he said, “Let’s head back up the path.” We passed the blues, pinks, and purples we had seen earlier. The path forked, and suddenly an incredible planting of yellows and whites was revealed to us. 

Euphorbia ceratocarpa, Digitalis ferruginea, Hemerocallis altissima, and Kniphofia rufa

“Wow, I had been so focused on the blues I had totally missed this bright planting,” I said. Dan smiled, and I could tell he enjoyed the surprise reveal much like we had with the Pictorial Meadows mix earlier. “We went the quiet way first,” Dan commented. It was shocking going from such cool colors to the rich brilliance before us.

In this space Digitalis ferruginea (rusty foxglove), Hemerocallis altissima (tall daylily), Hemerocallis citrina (long yellow daylily), and Kniphofia rufa (red hot poker) erupted from a layer of Euphorbia ceratocarpa (Sicily spurge). Dan commented on how both daylilies were night-flowering, moth-pollinated plants and were starting to open.

Kniphofia rufa

The sun was softened against the high clouds. Dan commented how the light was just right during our visit, and I said that Huw had recommended late afternoon as our time to visit when he and I first corresponded several months prior.

Since the grouping of yellows was at the fork in the path, I could explore how the sunlight interacted with it. With our back to the sun, the plants beamed yellow. But, after walking behind them, the planting glowed against the setting sun filtered through high cirrus from the back. This spot provided such a good example of how to use plants to play with light dynamics in the landscape.

Yellows with the sun to our back. Euphorbia ceratocarpa, Digitalis ferruginea, Hemerocallis altissima, and Kniphofia rufa

Yellows facing the sun.

Standing at the fork, I noticed that the upper path had more warm pinks, reds, and oranges. Most prominently in this space were Fergus Garrett’s collection of giant fennel from Turkey that billowed into the sky above.  I asked if Dan paired the giant fennel to play with the browns and pinks here.  “Yes, I did,” he said confidently.  We brushed pasted dots of white and pink Dierama (angel’s fishing rod) that hung over the path. We passed blocks of Stachys officinalis (betony), Parthenium integrifolium (wild quinine), Veronicastrum virginicum (Culver’s root), and a lovely crimson flowered Nicotiana (tobacco). Along the way here, too, Digitalis ferruginea speared the sky.

Stachys officinalis, Nicotiana sp., Veronicastrum sp., and Parthenium integrifolium

At the top of this path where the gravel terminated, the reds and oranges became more prevalent. The crimson red Hemerocallis ‘Stafford’ was a warm welcome to this entrance. I noted how the orange in Asclepias tuberosa (butterfly milkweed) echoed the hues found in a fading Bupleurum. And, I admired the placement of Amicia zygomeris (yoke-leaved amicia) to highlight the crimson stipules.

Hemerocallis ‘Stafford’

Asclepias tuberosa and Bupleurum sp.

Amicia zygomeris

Dan looked toward the pond that they freshly dug. Wren was in the water so Dan excused himself so he could go spend some time with her as she was wanting to play. He encouraged us to explore the property and noted that the view at the top of the hillside in the distance was quite nice. 

Before heading to the top of the hill, we explored the lower path to the left of the fork. Here, yellows faded into whites. It had become clear to me that grouping colors was a strength in this garden. The creamy buttons of Scabiosa ochroleuca (cream pincushions) danced along one side of the path. On the other Veronicastrum virginicum, Chamaenerion angustifolium ‘Album’ (fireweed), and Thalictrum ‘White Splendide’ (meadow rue) provided upright white that popped against the foliage of plants like Selinum wallichianum (milk parsley) and Salix purpurea ‘Nancy Saunders’ (purple willow).

Scabiosa ochroleuca, Veronicastrum virginicum, and the foliage of Selinum wallichianum

Chamaenerion angustifolium ‘Album’ and Salix purpurea ‘Nancy Saunders’

Sanguisorba officinalis ‘Red Thunder’, Salix purpurea ‘Nancy Saunders’, and Thalictrum ‘White Splendide’

Having indulged ourselves with the perennial garden, we headed toward the top of the hill that Dan invited us to explore. We walked back to the bottom gate where we had stood earlier amongst the cool colors, swung it open, and walked over a single log wooden bridge that Karen lusted after to cross the stream where the Inula rose to brighten the space. We turned around to catch a glimpse of the perennial garden before trekking upward.

On the other side, we walked the single mowed path through the grassy field to the top of the ridge and turned around to view Hillside in all its glory. From here we could still see the treeline on Freezing Hill.  It was all spectacular, and even from hundreds of feet away I could still make out the individual silhouettes of plants in the perennial garden.  The masses of Veronicastrum. The spears of Digitalis. The eruptions of Ferula. We just stood there, taking it all in.

Karen and I walked back through the garden one last time soaking up the golden light as it glowed on the planting.  By this time, Wren had found us and wanted to play a bit, too.  It seems we were being pulled into playtime as well.

Huw Morgan and Wren

Back at the house, Huw and Dan came out, and we said our goodbyes. I thanked them prolifically for their time and their hospitality, and they said they were glad they could share their garden with two visitors from the US. We left, driving the same road we travelled to head to our AirBnb for the night, and as we drove away we caught one last glimpse of the tree line on Freezing Hill.

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It has been a year since we visited Hillside, and I often still think back to that afternoon, the warmth of the garden and the hosts. Even the non-horticulturist Karen comments about how she enjoyed her time there.

However, it is a world and a time away now. I still enjoy reading Dig Delve to learn about the progress they are making. In reading their weekly posts, I felt like I had snippets of their garden, but visiting Hillside was like reading the book. Being there I could tell they loved the land by every decision they made. Instead of endless reaping from the land like the previous owner did and like so many of us still do, they gave and gave and gave until nature runneth over in beauty and ecology. To me, that’s the hope and the value of the time that we spent with them, to better ask how can we all, as Dan said, allow the land to relax a bit for the wild to creep back into our gardens.

Even a year later, I’m looking at Ephemera Farm wanting to do more land management. I think of creating more spontaneity in the plantings. I think of how to illicit surprise in the garden. And, I think about the warmth of our hosts and that July sun that hovered above the tree line on Freezing Hill. I do hope to see it again one day.  

The Plants of Oudolf Field

A couple weeks ago I wrote about our morning visiting to Oudolf Field last summer on our trip to the UK. I felt the content too long to try to cover it all in one piece, so I decided to focus on overall design approaches for the first part and the plants for the second part. To walk through an Oudolf planting is a masterclass in planting design. To see the knowledge and experience that a man has observed and witnessed over a lifetime of working with plants made real in front of you creates for breathtaking scenes and pairing. What delights me is how simple some of them were, even if it was a bright morning with strong light that intensified the colors and made the shadows harsh.

Exploring Oudolf Field I was armed with a nice guide that I bought in the gift shop that showed a fold out of the design along with plants that were included in each section. I’ve used that to help me key out some of the plants included below. Feel free to let me know if you see any errata.

An analogous color scheme featuring reds, pinks, blues, and purples. A few of the stars include Helenium ‘Moerheim Beauty’ (sneezeweed), Veronicastrum virginicum ‘Erica’ (Culver’s root), Echinops bannaticus (globe thistle), Thalictrum delavayi (Chinese meadow-rue), and Eupatorium maculatum ‘Atropurpureum’ (spotted Joe Pye weed).

Near the entrance to Oudolf field were plants primarily in blocks where they could play off each other. For example, here the soft yellow of Nepeta govaniana (catmint) contrasts well with Echinops bannaticus (globe thistle).

Here you can see the repetition of white spikes of Lysimachia ephemerum (willow-leaved loosestrife) and Veronicastrum virginicum. Such repetition helps make a planting feel more cohesive.

And, just in case you couldn’t see how amazing Culver’s root is from the above image, here’s another featuring ‘Diane’. Wowzers! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Veronicastrum virginicum look this good in the US.

The silvery-blue satellite dishes of Eryngium alpinum (alpine sea holly) really pop against the chartreuse Sesleria autumnalis (autumn moor grass).

Phlomis russeliana (turkish sage) always has such good texture in the garden with the large leaves and butter-colored verticillasters, and its audacity here is softened by the slender Panicum virgatum ‘Shenandoah’ (switchgrass) and Persicaria amplexicaulis ‘Firedance’ (red bistort).

I loved the unruly looking Datisca cannabina (false hemp) next to the neat sombreros of Helenium ‘Moerheim Beauty’.

Piet Oudolf says that brown is a color, too, and that’s certainly true of these brown seedheads from Monarda bradburiana (Bradbury’s beebalm). I’m not sure how I feel about their early demise. It feels too soon with the riot of color around.

And, some of the pairings were so simple and easy. Take how the purple highlights in this clump of Pancium virgatum ‘Shenandoah’ (which I’ll add here looks a bit more purple than the maroon I’m used to) plays off the burgeoning spikes of Liatris spicata (dense blazing star).

In the middle of the field was the Sporobolus heterolepis meadow where many species erupted from the prairie dropseed haze, and with a good breeze it was fun to watch Dianthus carthusianorum (Carthusian pink) and Echinacea pallida (pale coneflower) straight species and ‘Hula Dancer’ dance in the wind.

I liked how the silvery Amorpha canescens (lead plant) amorphously blended into the silvery seedheads of prairie dropseed.

One of my absolute favorite combinations of the day featured the differing textures yet echoed colors of Sedum ‘Matrona’ (stonecrop), Allium christophii (Persian onion), and Sporobolus heterolepis.

Towards the back of the field, the plantings shifted more back into block style planting. From this angle, you can see a wonderful combination of purple plants featuring Symphyotrichum lateriflorum var. horizontale (horizontal calico aster), Stachys officinalis ‘Hummelo’ (betony), and Panicum virgatum ‘Shenandoah’. The glaucous Eryngium yuccifolium (rattlesnake master) punctuates the planting.

In some parts Nassella tenuissima (Mexican feather grass) was woven through the planting, and with the wind it added such movement to the planting.

It amazes me just how black Symphyotrichum lateriflorum var. horizontale gets in the UK, and really it is just that the plant is further north. For us, these asters tend to be green with a smudge of charcoal. And, how good is the aster paired with the dark inflorescences of Molinia caerulea 'Edith Dudszus' (purple moor grass) in the foreground!

Designers talk about transparent perennials, and I so wish that I could add Sanguisorba officinalis ‘Blackthorn’ (burnet) to my planting palette here in the south. It’s like looking at giant pink cupcake sprinkles—I just want to eat it up!

Karen stands for a sense of scale of the billowy Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar). Even in the UK, these bluestars can get huge!

A nice patch of the bronzed Aruncus ‘Horatio’ (hybrid goat’s beard) stands between a mammoth clump of Eupatorium maculatum ‘Atropurpureum’ and an elongating Symphyotrichum novae-angliae ‘Violetta’.

And, we saw many pollinators in the planting. I was delighted to watch this bee dot around on our native friend Asclepias incarnata (swamp milkweed), and when I got the photos on my computer, I was even more thrilled to see that I had captured some orange milkweed pollinia stuck to its feet!

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.