Winter Preparations

The other day I wrote January 17, and I paused. “Is the first month of the new year already half over,” I thought. It was. My how time flies. I had hoped to accomplish so much thus far. But, having a head cold the first half of the month has slowed me down. And, then there’s the outside cold of the past week. We ended up being 8°F here with the slightest dusting of snow, our 8b temporarily becoming 7b for a few hours.

We prepped and covered what we could, and things seem to have made it through fine here. Cold nights before the extreme freeze helped plants acclimate. But, now I turn my gaze to winter preparations for the coming growing season. Author of Good to Great Jim Collins talks about productive paranoia, the approach of doing what one can in the time allotted because uncertainty lies ahead.

How to know where to start? Some tasks I know to do from experience. I know to prep the potato bed for planting soon because I’ve done it so many years in early February. I know to start cutting back the vegetation to make room for the rising blades of bulbs like Leucojum and Narcissus that I noticed breaking ground the other day.

I also use this down side of the calendar to move and divide perennials since we get hot and dry here quick. But, it can be hard to remember what I said needed to be relocated in May or where I said we need more of a plant in July, especially now that plants are dormant. On some their top growth has already collapsed or rolled away like tumbleweed in a stiff wind.

I find it helpful to keep a running list of tasks to remember on my iPhone notes app. Notion and Google Docs are also useful tools. I label the note “Winter 2024”, and I jot down all the ideas I see in the garden that need to wait until winter. Move this here. Thin that there. I be sure to include the date so that I know when I had the thought. Occasionally, past me even included a photo to help future me understand what to do.

Just a snippet of my winter to do list that I accumulate throughout the year in the iPhone notes app.

But, not everything makes it on the list. I find winter a good time to note tasks that have gone unnoticed during the growing season in the haze of hauling hoses and sweeping the soil of weeds. Sections of the fencerow need to be cleared of privet to make room for better natives. And, now that the turf has bleached beige in the yard from frost, I notice all the green tufts of Carex albicans (white-tinged sedge) that I want to move into the beds for a groundcover.

I’ll admit I still have some tasks that are stragglers on the to do list from 2023. And, 2022, and probably earlier than that if I’m being honest. I still have some daffodil bulbs to get in the ground that I got last fall. I’ve been waiting for top growth to perish in a spot where I want them to go, and now that the ground has been laid bare, they shall find their home. They should still bloom, albeit a bit later, but their cycle should be more normal next year.

I’m also firming up my final seed orders, too. Just this week someone in town told me how wonderful ‘North Georgia Candy Roaster’ winter squash had done for him. It had evaded squash vine borers and thrived in our Texas heat. And, then I get sucked into looking at seeds and remembering that I need to check my “Plant Wish List“ note and order Lablab purpurascens (purple hyacinth bean) and ‘Seminole’ pumpkin.

And, in that time, the sun has sunk lower, and the to do list hasn’t shrunk. Oh well. Trying that winter squash is now one less item I have to put on my 2025 list.

---

LEARN FROM THESE SIMILAR POSTS

Native Wildflower Seedlings of January

It’s a new year, and even though we are mere weeks into winter, I can already see new life has begun to stir in the garden amidst the detritus of the previous season. And, even though much of the garden has gone brownscale, there are sparks of green appearing at the ground level. The verdant threads of Muscari and Ipheion foliage are weaving themselves through the grays, browns, and tans of last year. And, Achillea millefolium (yarrow) clumps are so robust they are throwing up flowers.

I haven’t quite figured out how to reconcile the green with the brown. In some areas, they seem a bit at odds as if the seasons are competing against each other. It is as if spring has sprung, and I haven’t cut things back yet. I debate should I remove or reduce the green in certain areas.

But, greenery I will never remove are my native wildflower seedlings. They tend to be less conspicuous, and I love seeing these little seedlings tucked under, around, and even in other plants. Their time to shine will come later when I need ruderal color for creating layers in the garden while other plants are just getting going.

And, more so this year than any previously I am ecstatic to see the number of seedlings of native annuals that have established themselves in my beds. It seems that encouraging them has payed off.

Lupinus subcarnosus seedlings

Lupinus subcarnosus in bloom

Last year was the first year I had a decent stand of our more wet tolerant Lupinus subcarnosus (sandy-land bluebonnet). I collected what pods I could from the plants in my garden and stored them in a galvanized bucket in the garage. I was surprised one sweltering afternoon months later when the sunlight hit the bucket just right, and I heard a pop, much like a kernel of popcorn popping on the stove. I figured that drying would have already released all the seed by now, but could heat be an additional requirement? I sat the bucket on the pavement and moments later I heard pop, pop, pop! Seemed so.

Later in autumn a few hours before a good rainstorm, I separated the chaff and scattered it around wilder parts of the patch I don’t get to weed much in case there were some seed I missed. The seed left in the bucket I scarified by pouring boiling water over them. Once the water cooled, I scattered the the swollen brown specks around the garden right before the rain began to fall. I saw nothing at first, but as autumn deepened I started noticing their characteristic cotyledons appearing in the open spots.

I wasn’t able to get my hands on all the pods. A number of them went rogue and sowed themselves into driveway cracks and mulched pathways near the garden. I can’t do much with those in the drive, but those in the path I have been slowly relocating with a sharp garden knife so I don’t disturb the taproot too much.

Steptanthus maculatus seedling

Steptanthus maculatus in flower

I did something similar with Steptanthus maculatus (clasping jewelweed). I collected what seed I could in a box, and then I went around beating the leftover stalks around the blackberries trellises to release what seed I missed. I probably looked like I was doing some ancient seance to any passers by, but nope, I was just sowing seed. And, now their jagged plum rosettes have germinated and gotten quite large this winter. They seem to like germinating in organic matter since they abhor our acidic soils.

Nemophila phacelioides seedlings

Nemophila phacelioides in flower

But, then there were other wildflowers I didn’t even know were increasing in number. I was stunned to pull back a curtain of Muhlenbergia capillaris (pink muhly grass) foliage to find a clump of around 40 seedlings in a bed clustered together that I didn’t quite recognize at first. Then, when I looked at the lobed foliage I knew they were Nemophila phacelioides, and their proximity to the original clump helped me id them. I now had many to transplant around the garden to encourage their spread. I moved a good number of them in December during a good warm wet stretch, and they have settled in well, their tentacle-like leaves stretching out to capture the warming sun.

But, I shall wait to move any more seedlings until after next week’s cold snap. I like to see at least two weeks of not too harsh weather when moving little seedlings in the winter time. That way I give them the best chance at success so that in Januarys to come I’ll continue to see the beds littered with seedlings once more.

---

Learn from these similar posts

Longwood and Stoneleigh in November

I’m still processing through photos from my recent trip to Philly to keynote the Ecological Landscape Alliance’s conference Regenerative Solutions for Resilient Landscapes. I’ve already written about my visit to Chanticleer and the things that I learned there. Today, I wanted to share my visit to Longwood Gardens and Stoneleigh with you. I love these two gardens for all that they have to offer horticulturally. My only regret was that I didn’t have more time!

LONGWOOD Gardens

Since the conference was held at Longwood Gardens, I found a few gaps during the day where I could explore. Longwood’s Chrysanthemum Festival was wrapping up, but there was still plenty of beauty to see in the conservatory. This combination of the purple Salvia leucantha (Mexican bush sage) was striking with the white mums.

I finally got to experience the giant Thousand Bloom mum! I’ve had this horticultural marvel on my bucket list for a while, and I was fortunate as this year is the first year it’s back after a two year break. This specimen of ‘Susono-no-Hikari’ has a total of 1,366 blooms, stretches 12 feet, and it took 18 months to grow it from a single cutting!

We have Senna bicapsularis (winter cassia) growing on campus, but this lighter flowered form named ‘Butter Crème’ turned into a standard was striking.

The contrast between the carpet of Chrysanthemum × morifolium ‘Himegokoromo’ (mum) and Sansevieria (mother-in-law’s tongue) was so striking. I thought this could also be easily done with summer annuals like vinca or Profusion zinnia.

Chrysanthemum balls hang above this reflecting pool in the conservatory. Don’t you just love the wall of plant tapestry beyond?

I made my way down to Peirce’s Woods to enjoy some of the fall color of Longwood. This mass of Deschampsia cespitosa (tufted hairgrass) was a nice foil for the colors of Cornus florida (flowering dogwood) and Hydrangea quercifolia (oakleaf hydrangea) to pop against.

The seeds of Halesia diptera (two-winged silverbell) glow like ornaments against a hazy sun.

I always chuckle seeing Eupatorium capillifolium in gardens because it is a weed around my house. But, what a spectacular weed it is! This selection is appropriately named ‘Elegant Feather’.

I swooned over these Sarracenia (pitcher plant) bowls near Pierce’s Woods. They had such a wild yet formal look to them.

STONELEIGH

The next day I made my way to Stoneleigh with Steve Foltz after we visited Chanticleer. Stoneleigh is a young garden that is building quite the reputation for its focus on natives. I’ve covered it in previous posts during visits in June and August, and I interviewed director Ethan Kaufmann on The Plantastic Podcast. But, having never visited it in the fall, I was excited to see what treasures the garden held at the end of the growing season. We were fortunate that Lead Horticulturist Eloise Gayer gave us an engaging tour of the grounds.

Looking up towards the house at Stoneleigh we enjoyed the fall color of Rhus scattered about.

When I visit gardens, I keep my eyes peeled for good color combinations, even if the plants are not close. For example, these fuschia-colored fruit on Symphoricarpos orbiculatus (coralberry) were a glorious color. Then…

…when I got near the house, I noticed these Opuntia humifusa fruit glistening with rain. I didn’t recognize the color echo between the two until I got home and started going through photos. That’s the benefit of taking many and processing them after a trip!

‘Tis the season of the witchhazels, and Hamamelis virginiana ‘Green Thumb’ was in full bloom. I always admire these plants that hug the end of the gardening year. Is it the end of one growing season or the beginning of another?

I have longed to be able to grow some of the heat-sensitive Acer pensylvanicum (striped maple) in the deep south, but I’ll have to settle for seeing them when I travel north. The orange-red stem color of ‘Erythrocladum’ with these bleaching yellow leaves were a nice analogous pairing.

While they can look a little ratty due to the faded pitchers of the growing season, my favorite time to see Sarracenia is in autumn when many species produce fresh fall pitchers. The colors on them seem even more vibrant than when they first emerge in the spring.

Near the bogs, these Aronia arbutifolia (red chokeberry) were loaded with fruit. Ethan shared with me that this selection seems to be heavier fruited than others in the trade.

I can now say that I have seen a Baccharis halimifolia (sea myrtle) hedge! The white pappus added a nice effect to the tapered plant. On the right was another native that generated some discussion while I was visiting Philly gardens—Helianthus argophyllus or silver-leaf sunflower. The leaves feature a gorgeous silver pubescence, and then in autumn the plant is loaded with flowers.

We just had to stop and admire the twisting, sinuous bark of this Thuja occidentalis (eastern arborvitae). Eloise told us this specimen was one of her favorite plants at Stoneleigh.

When I visit Stoneleigh I’ve delighted to see cultivars of native plants I never knew existed. This garden was the first place I ever saw the weeping Cladrastis kentukea ‘White Rain’ (yellowwood). The fall color was just starting to show.

My first time experiencing fall color on Franklinia alatamaha (franklinia) was this trip to Philly. I had heard it turned a brilliant red, but I had never experienced it for myself.

And, even after the leaves fall, Franklinia leaves are blood red. The rain helped saturate the color.

At first, I thought this groundcover was native Pachysandra (pachysandra), but upon closer inspection I was delighted to see a thick carpet of Phacelia bipinnatifida (fern-leaf phacelia). In another correspondence, Ethan shared with me that this ruderal makes a great groundcover before flowering in the spring and going to seed.

And one last photo showing the new lovely water feature in Catalpa Court.

Chanticleer in November

I had a wonderful trip to Pennsylvania earlier in the month keynoting the Ecological Landscape Alliance’s conference Regenerative Solutions for Resilient Landscapes. The next day, I garden hopped to see some of the great flora of the region.

I so love traveling north in autumn to experience fall before the color starts to show in east Texas. Some years due to our drought and heat, that’s the only color I see. While the Philly area was just past prime for fall color, there was still plenty of leaves hanging on.

One of the highlights was visiting Chanticleer. While it had closed for the season, Steve Foltz, Director of Horticulture at the Cincinnati Zoo and Botanical Garden, and I got a behind-the-scenes tour of how the garden shuts down for the winter from dear friend and grounds manager at Chanticleer Jeff Lynch. Since Chanticleer was closed for the season, Jeff talked about how the garden deconstruction had begun and apologized saying that things didn’t look as good. Steve and I chuckled, because we knew that on a scale of 1 to 10 this meant things had gone from a 14 down to a 13.9. Tsk tsk. Jokes aside, visiting this magical garden anytime of the year is worthwhile to see the craft that the horticulturists have wrought through the seasons.

Bill Thomas also joined us for part of our visit, and it was good to catch up with him and get his perspectives on how the garden was changing. New paths were being installed for permeable paving, and we talked about how much of the garden equipment had gone to battery powered. I left inspired, and I hope that in the photos that follow you find inspiration and ideas, too.

The best fall color I’ve seen on Frangula (Rhamnus) caroliniana (Carolina buckthorn). The fruit of this native are beloved by birds.

A ‘Candy Roaster’ winter squash hangs in the vegetable garden in a macramé net. I’m always amazed how they make every inch count at Chanticleer, and that includes growing plants vertically.

A myriad of foliage textures and colors including Acorus, Pulmonaria, Brunnera, and Helleborus emerge from freshly fallen leaves. This time of the year is wonderful to inspect the garden for interesting basal foliage.

Jeff Lynch said that Epimedium ‘Domino’ (barrenwort) is one of the best performers for them. Even when not in flower, it forms a wonderful green carpet.

Leaves of all shapes and sizes float in a stream at Chanticleer.

Dan Benarcik grew these seedling Metasequoia and used them as a miniature forest in the tennis court garden step planters. It’s a cute idea to use saplings that pop up in plantings.

The rain picked up for a bit while we were in the tennis court garden. At this time of the year, I could really see the winter bones emerging. For example, the lime green stems of Cornus sericea 'Bud's Yellow' (yellow-twig dogwood) popped against Taxus × media 'Hicksii’ (yew).

Areas of the lawn where bulb displays are planted are not cut in the spring until the bulbs have time to store up energy for next year, and then after their initial cut, they were kept short. But, this summer to be more ecologically friendly and provide habitat for insects, they mowed these areas about once every six weeks. The halo in the image above shows one of these areas that had just been cut.

Massive Strelitzia nicolai (white bird of paradise) made it through two nights of around 25°F Jeff said. He also noted the ingenious idea one of the gardeners had of building a wire cage around plastic pots, filling it with sphagnum, and then planting the quickly spreading Chlorophytum comosum ‘Variegatum’ (spider plant) in the sphagnum to hide the pot.

But, the Aechmea blanchetiana ‘Hawaii’ didn’t fare as well. Even in their demise, the ghostly foliage still look stunning.

The flowery lawn behind the house is always inspiring to me. Using a mix of fescue grasses as a matrix to plant other things into is a brilliant idea. The yellow foliage was from Hemerocallis ‘September Sol’ (daylily).

A bowl of fruit on a table near the house shows the abundance of the season. How many different species can you identify? I see blackened Musa velutina (hardy orange), Magnolia gynoeciums, the orange Rohdea japonica (sacred lily), the yellow Citrus (Poncirus) trifoliata (hardy orange), and green brains of Maclura pomifera (osage orange).

Avid readers know I’m an aster nut, and this Ampelaster caroliniana (climbing aster) on the elevated walkway made my jaw drop. Jeff provided an excellent scale of just how large this climber was. It’s a later flowering plant that can usually skirt around light frosts.

This incredible yet little used climbing aster deserves a close up! Even though the garden was closed, these treasures could still be seen.

I have longed to see a mass planting of Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) in the autumn, and this display quinched that thirst. Pycnanthemum incanum (hoary mountainmint) seed heads dotted throughout were a nice touch. The foliage has also dropped enough off the Salix alba ‘Britzensis’ behind to see the firey stems smoldering.

Asian woods were all aglow with colors from Acer palmatum (Japanese maples) and Lindera angustifolia (aka Lindera salicifolia, Asian spicebush).

The comment was made, “Look up!” Above us we saw a majestic and enigmatic Emmenopterys henryi (emmenopterys) with its persistent bracts. To see it in flower this summer would have been stunning. The species has only flowered a handful of times in the US, and people are still trying to understand the flowering mechanics.

Up on the rock ledge we were able to appreciate the complexity and coherence of colors and textures around the pond. I love the echo of the white bark of the Plantanus (syacmore) with the white pappus of Baccharis halimifolia (sea myrtle).

The gravel garden was mostly absent of flowers, but the evergreens contrasted nicely with the grasses.

A late Liatris elegans (elegant blazing star) still has colorful, lavender-colored bracts

Steve and Jeff stand next to a beautiful specimen of Hydrangea anomala subsp. petiolaris (climbing hydrangea) that scales the ruin at Chanticleer.

One of my favorite Hydrangea quercifolia (oakleaf hydrangea) cultivars is SNOWFLAKE™ (‘Brido’). I love the double bracts, and in the fall the foliage turns lovely shades of maroon.

Acer palmatum ‘Sango-Kaku’ burns bright in the Sporobolus heterolepis (prairie dropseed) prairie.

Where some gardeners might see disaster, at Chanticleer they see opportunity. This fallen tree uprooted part of the garden in Bell’s Woodland, but after making paths accessible, they allowed the rootball to remain. Now, asters bloom on this green wall, a seedling Cercis (redbud) has sprouted on the top, and other seeds have been sown to take advantage of this windfall. We talked about how the holes they leave behind in the ground are great habitat for salamanders and frogs.

Symphyotrichum drummondii | Drummond's aster

We’ve had our first light frost a few weeks early.  It was 29°F the morning of our Fall Plant Fair.  Figures. As if I didn’t have enough going on that day.  

At home I brought in what I could and covered a few things that I hadn’t finished enjoying for the season like my Passiflora coccinea (red passion flower) that just started flowering.  Further in the garden the cold was enough to wither the tender Ipomoea alba (moonflower), blacken the Senna alata (popcorn plant), and collapse my various Celosia cultivars.   

However, the late season perennials march on, slightly burned from the chilly air.  Helianthus angustifolius (swamp sunflower) now has white halos on the rays, and Symphyotrichum georgianum (Georgia aster) is still standing tall, its purple frills a bit sagging.

One plant that made it through unscathed is Symphyotrichum drummondii, or Drummond’s aster.  Its persistence is wonderful for all the insects that swarm this native.  Fiery skippers, hornworm tachinid flies, bees, wasps, and various others dart from bloom to bloom underneath the waning sun in a vanilla sky.  The dainty flowers—white rays with yellow disks that fade to a light pink and eventually brown—bob on their arching stems with all the activity.

Sprays of Symphyotrichum drummondii spill through Eragrostis spectabilis.

Here the disk color shift on Symphyotrichum drummondii from yellow to pink to brown is apparent.

Having these late season flowers are not only good for garden ecology but also for having late season color since it flowers for four-to-six weeks in October and November. And, in a world of confusing asters, I was happy to see the heart-shaped leaves at the base with long petioles that helped narrow it down to Drummond’s aster. As the foliage rises early in the spring, their shape offers a different texture amongst the finer grasses in the garden.

I give the plant a good cut back in early-to-mid spring when it still has its basal leaves.  So many of our asters bulk up enough foliage in late winter that they are triggered into flowering by the short days.  The reduction in foliage resets them for fall flowering and prevents ganglyness.  In summer, the basal foliage disappears as the wiry stems elongate and produce sprays of side shoots that will eventually be covered with flowers.

Symphyotrichum drummondii finds its way amongst other Asteraceae members.

I’m not 100% sure where my plant originated as it just appeared in my garden.  I noticed an odd basal rosette of leaves that whispered aster. I was patient to see what it would become, and I was greatly rewarded.  That’s not always the case with stowaways that find their way into the garden.  My guess is it was a seed stowed away on a clump that I wild collected, or perhaps it sprung up from bird droppings.  But, no matter how it found its way here, I’m happy it did.  

Drummond’s aster spills over the patch fence amongst Celosia and Gomphrena.

My single clump has enlarged enough that I made four divisions off it this past spring. And, next spring I plan to repeat that task so that I and the creatures that share my garden have even more frothy flowers to enjoy.  

The Grand Opening of the Plantery Trial Garden

This past Thursday night was one of the highlights of my life. My colleagues and students celebrated the grand opening of our new 7,000 square feet trial garden in the Plantery, our student botanic garden on campus. This project has been in the works since we applied for a $32,000 grant last fall with the Center for Applied Research and Rural Innovation. We requested the funding to build a trial garden to evaluate herbaceous native plants in the southeast similar to the gardens you see at Chicago Botanic Garden or Mt. Cuba Center. I can’t tell you how many hundreds of hours went into this project, but we are beyond proud to have it to the point where we can open it to the public.

I’ll have a more detailed post at some point in the future, but I can provide a brief design synopsis. Since the site is sloped, we decided to build a terrace out of 1/4 inch metal similar to Corten steel with steps running offset through the middle and a platform near the top. Our aesthetic in the Plantery is for the space to look like a reclaimed farm since we are part of the Department of Agriculture, and when the metal rusts, the patina will fit in nicely with the landscape. Their are five large terraces that will allow us to do replicated trials of natives over three year periods, and the surrounding space will feature less formal evaluations of species. Perforated pipes were installed and covered with grit to allow for rainwater capture on site so that the terraces don’t turn into the Plantery waterfall garden.

What amazed me was the capability of our team and the spirit of the students. We didn’t contract things out. No, instead it was over 30 students working alongside faculty to get this project accomplished and learn lifelong skills. We still have to finish planting some things in the spring, but it is so good to get the garden to a point where we can share it with others. Here’s a few pictures to give you a sense of the site.

The site in February 2023 before we began deconstruction

The new terraced trial garden in November 2023

The bottom of the trial garden will feature a Sporobolus prairie with a mixture of herbaceous perennials.

The terrace steps are a big improvement over the previous iteration of the site. They now have consistent rise and run.

We integrated our trial garden grand opening into our Fall Plant Fair where we sold student-grown plants. And, if you’re going to have a grand opening, it is important to have cake and mocktails! Enjoy these photos of the night.

Kate, one of our Plantery apprentices, made this beautiful terraced cake to match the terraced trial garden. Notice the already rusted metal, the gray gravel Rice Krispies, and the graham cracker soil. Such talent!

Tess (L) and Kate (R) cut the terraced cake and served it. It was delicious and a highlight of the night.

We also had three flavors of autumn-themed mocktails. Tess (R) and three of her hospitality friends served them for attendees.

We also had wonderful acoustic music from local artist Jackson Wendell.

And, with a plant fair, we can’t forget the plants! Students grew some great winter annuals for our attendees to purchase.

The weather had cooled off, and Dr. Michael Maurer reprised his role of managing the s’mores station.

An overhead shot of the s’mores station showing how our summer color somehow made it through the 29°F the morning before!

Our other plantings that students had done were in their fall glory. The gravel garden grasses were in their full haze, and in the veggies behind in Sprout looked delicious.

We also debuted a new logo this fall thanks to Kubs Kubisch in SFA marketing. Not only do we have shirts but also a swanky new sign painted thanks to our talented Plantery apprentices Jadyn (L) and Kendal (R).

We did a trial run of putting colored panels on the glasshouse this fall for a fun effect, and they glowed with the twinkle lights behind.

An overhead shot of the Plantery with luminaries and twinkle lights all aglow. You can also now see in the terraced trial garden that we have a gator accessible pathway through the Plantery, something that we were greatly lacking before.

And, one last shot of the terrace steps with luminaries. This night will be one I will remember for many years to come thanks to all the hard work from my colleagues and students.

Lycoris radiata | red spiderlily

It’s finally autumn, and I certainly am celebrating this year after our torrid summer.  It’s amazing how different the garden looks.  A few rains, cooler night temperatures, and shorter days make a world of difference on plant growth and my sanity.  

After such a harsh summer, it’s a miracle that plants survived.  Geophytes are fortunate, having waited out the worst of it dormant in the ground.  And, for me there is no better harbinger of autumn than red spiderlilies.  

I grew up with Lycoris radiata back in Tennessee where I heard them called naked ladies since they bloomed sans foliage.  We had several massive clumps on the south side of our house that were so old they didn’t flower well.   I never really appreciated them for what they were, a plant that could take the worst of summer and pop up days after a rain.  To me they were old fashioned and not new and cutting edge.

My tastes have changed in the fifteen years since I left home.  I’ve learned that not everything new is good and to see a plant for what it’s truly worth.  I now have a hefty collection of Lycoris bulbs.  They have come from three locations near our home.  

A few originated here at Ephemera Farm.  One of the joys of buying a new property is discovering plants that aren’t visible when the closing paperwork is signed.  The fall after we moved into our log cabin, a single inflorescence emerged along the east fencerow between barbed wire and a lone water oak.  Even from almost 300 feet away I could make out the coral red amongst the shadows.  Shaded out for years the bulbs had sat there quietly, barely photosynthesizing enough to sport a flower let alone stay alive.  Once more rains came, the foliage appeared in a neat row following the fence line.  I dug them and moved them to a spot closer to the house.  I counted 60 bulbs.  

Another 200 bulbs came from near an old oak on a backroad that likely was some old home place.  I’m glad I got them when I did.  The oak and the surrounding forest are now gone as they clearcut the woods this past spring.  

And, I noticed some growing along the fencerow of one of our neighbor’s property four years ago.  I asked him if I could dig the clump, and he obliged.  I counted 258 bulbs from what I dug, save for the handful I gave him as a thank you.  

So, by my count I’ve planted at least 500 Lycoris radiata in my time here, and this time of the year I love to see the flowers of my labor.  Where I found them is a testament to just how tough these bulbs are.  Most of the Lycoris radiata in the southeast are triploid and thus labelled the variety Lycoris radiata var. radiata.  A tripled chromosome count means that they don’t produce seed, but that saved energy is diverted back into the plant for vigor.  

For now I’ve had them lined out on either side of the front pathway between the double fence surrounding the patch. They don’t all flower at once, which is both a blessing and a curse.  The good is that I get to enjoy them for over a month’s time as the bulbs hydrate and spring forth, their scapes rising in bud like a candle with a waxing flame.  But, the bad is there inevitably are gaps.  I wanted more of a shock and awe effect with their bloom.  I mean can you imagine over 500 Lycoris radiata in flower at once?  I have seen pictures of understories that look like a crimson tide.  And, as I have begun planting the front of the patch with more perennials, I find the Lycoris more difficult to see.  Also, it’s a pain to dig into dormant bulbs all the time.  

I’m leaning toward moving them into the grassy areas in the orchard, a space where I dominantly have reds, pinks, and yellows.  And, to help me decide, this evening I picked a handful of Lycoris blooms, pried the turf’s soil open with my soil knife, and stuck the stems in to get a sense of what they would look like in this space.   I stood back and was happy with the result.  

And, come a cold winter day when I’ve forgotten just how hot summer is, I’ll move the bulbs with their green and gray foliage to this space to enjoy the flowers for many autumns to come.  

Granddad's Cowpeas

I’m always delighted at the people who say they’ve read my story on my website and how they learned that my great-grandfather got me into horticulture.  His name was Eron Edward “Crip” Conley.  Crip was a heartless nickname that came early in life when someone accidentally chopped off two of his toes with an axe.  But, I knew him as Granddad because that’s what mom called him, and even though he was my great-grandfather, the name stuck for me.  

He was the man that taught me to garden.  We used to work his plot together, he pushing his Troy Bilt and I following behind raking our footsteps left in the tiller’s wake.  We buried tomato stems to help them form new roots. We used string to mark straight rows.

Once he realized my interest, he started a small plot for me to grow some of my favorite vegetables like corn, beans, and tomatoes a few feet away from his garden.  Any question I had he could answer.  I loved every minute of gardening with him.  

He passed away when I was 12 going on 13.  The year after he died, my Granny, his daughter that lived with him in his house, allowed me to take over his garden since we didn’t have a good spot at our house due to the shade.  And, his absence and the desire to learn more about growing would take me on a path that would eventually lead to a Ph.D. in plants.  

But, that’s a different story. Today’s tale goes back to that first year I inherited his garden spot.  It was a piece of land about 30 feet wide and 50 feet long.  That year I grew what I normally would grow—tomatoes, corn, and beans.  But, off to the side of the garden I noticed what looked like a bean plant but wasn’t.  Once it got some heft to it, I realized it was a cowpea, and it was a seedling from Grandad’s crops the past year. Though he had left me, one single seedling from his plants from last year had germinated. I was delighted and ecstatic. I let it grow in the less than optimal spot, and at the end of the growing season, it produced a single pod with nine seed in it.  I planted those seed the next year and the next and the next until I had saved up a nice bag of seed. They were much more vigorous growing in better soil.  I’ll be honest. I really didn’t like to eat them back then, but I did like to use them as a cover crop, their nodules fixing nitrogen in my garden’s soil.

2007 was the last year I had a garden up at Granddad’s house because I moved away to graduate school in 2008.  The peas went into the fridge in my parent’s basement and were forgotten.  

I was home this past March, and I saw the bag in the fridge.  It hadn’t been touched in 16 years. And, now that I was a connoisseur of cowpeas, I was curious if they would still grow.  I had yet to find a good variety that I liked to cultivate here in Texas.  I had thought at times of Granddad’s peas, but I was worried they might fail here like many of my other plants I used to grow in Tennessee. I did a test sowing of the seed to make sure they were still viable after sitting in a fridge for 16 years, and sure enough a few days after putting them in a bagged moist paper towel, out they popped.

After prepping the beds, I sowed them using the trick of holding a waist-high piece of PVC pipe to plop the seed in the tube to limit bending over as I walked down the row. A few days later up they came.  I cared for those plants like it was the first plant I ever grew so many years ago.  I fertilized them, I thinned them, and I even used our mini-Dyson to vacuum leaffooted bugs off them (don’t tell Karen!).

The lovely purple flowers of ‘Conley’ cowpea

They grew and flourished, the first purple flowers appeared, and then came the blushed pods and green peas.  I ate the first couple of handfuls of seed in the garden raw.  It’s an acquired taste I suppose you could say—earthy and fresh, but sans bacon grease that we normally use to flavor them.  And, with the first mess, that’s exactly what we did.   

But, what were they?  Sure, they were my Granddad’s peas and a family heirloom, but I loathe not having a cultivar name. Greg Grant and I bounced possible cultivars of black-eyeds, Crowders, and purple hulls off each other but none stuck based on flower color, seed pod, and seed color.  The closest we got was ‘Whippoorwill.’  So, for now I will call them ‘Conley’.  

What amazed me as much as 16-year-old seed germinating and successfully growing was the number of insects the plants attracted.  From cultivating them years ago in Tennessee, I don’t recall the plethora that I now see flitting and stirring in front of me as I make my way down the row. Gulf Fritillaries, Gray Hairstreaks, American Bumble Bees, Winged Red Velvet Wasps, Eastern Tawny-horned Spider Wasps, Swarthy Skippers, Northern Cloudywings, and Clouded Skippers were a few of those I could identify.  Even in the leaf litter below I found assassin bugs waiting for prey. They were coming because cowpeas have extrafloral nectaries on the leaves and the inflorescences. Most species that have these nectaries outside of the flowers attract beneficial insects that then reduce pests on the plant. And, in such a rough summer where much of the garden was a desert, I was happy these insects found sweet nectar in my the oasis of my pea patch.

Gulf Fritillary

Northern Cloudywing

Clouded Skipper

Common Thread-waisted Wasp feeding from extrafloral nectaries

Gold-marked Thread-waisted Wasp

But, the plants are now tired, and the pea harvest is coming to an end. I have enough dried seed for next year and perhaps a batch or two for New Year’s. I’ve started clearing the vines to make way for collards and other greens that will no doubt accompany the first meal of 2024 with them. As I was clearing the vines dotted with pods I overlooked picking, I noticed a single cowpea had broken ground and germinated from the recent rains we’ve had. And, I thought back to many years ago when I found that first pea seedling that gave rise to the 60 foot of row I’ve enjoyed this summer.

I doubt anyone has ever rejoiced over cowpeas this much, and I doubt Granddad thought anything special of them. They were probably just what the farm store had in stock that day.

But, to me, these seeds are priceless. That’s the power of saving seed. The act transcends generations. Saving seed reminds us of who we are, who we were, and who we are going to be. One day when Magnolia is old enough to help me sow seeds, I’ll share this story with her. And, I hope that after I’m gone, she’ll keep growing these cowpeas, too.

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.