2024 Philadelphia Flower Show

The first weekend of March I headed to the city of brotherly love to speak at the Philadelphia Flower Show. This visit was my first time ever seeing the flower show inside. Karen and I went a few years ago when it was held outside in June, but to have the show inside much like it has been for much of its 195 year history is an incredible feat to witness.

The theme this year was United by Flowers, a focus on community and overcoming the loneliness pandemic that has only increased since the COVID. Most designs featured the ways that we connect with each other with plants or celebrating gardens as a way to come together. And, I wanted to share what I saw with you readers to give you a glimpse into this incredible spectacle. Enjoy the pictures and inspiration below.

The PHS Entrance Garden right at the entrance was a sight to behold. Water was the unifying element here, and this exhibit was the largest water feature in show history. A line of flowering cherries framed the view, flowers hanging above resembled clouds, the bouquets reflected beautifully on the water, and a rainbow of tulips and other bulbs up front provided a pop of color in the foreground.

There were also these pillars of flowers in the entrance garden as well.

Just a few of the many entries at the PHS Hamilton Horticourt, the nation’s largest judged horticulture competition. There are so many entries that they had three change outs of the items on display during the course of the entire flower show.

I helped judge the succulent teacups along with two other people. It was a fun exercise in evaluating plants for display, appearance, health, and rarity.

After judging I went exploring the flower show. My first target was Apiary Studio’s Right of Way that won the PHS Philadelphia Flower Show Cup for Best in Show – Landscape (also see header image).

Apiary Studio’s approach was to play off how America’s road system unites us and the plants that then grow on the shoulders of our nation’s arteries. But, I also felt it was also a play on words, that this approach to embrace these ecosystems as habitat and places where refugia exist for unique species is a right way of thinking. Instead of mowing them and spraying them we should relish them for what they are.

I loved their creativity in using the reflectors as plant markers, their plant-themed highway signs, and even having a guard rail to frame the exhibit. It left me asking what little things can we do in the garden to make our spaces more unified to theme or purpose?

And, unfortunately litter sometimes ends up on the right of ways. Another clever touch was using these paper mache trash bags to play off the ruinous landscape.

The Rhus (sumac) and dried forbs were a nice touch. There were comments made about how different this winning wildscape design was from winners in previous years. Most winners had more traditional landscapes, so I was excited to see this style of design celebrated.

Kelly Norris also played off the naturalistic design style with A Beautiful Disturbance. The design featured nature reclaiming an abandoned lot and celebrated how nature finds ways to heal that which we have disturbed.

Another shot of A Beautiful Disturbance showing the textures and colors. The plant material grown by Peace Tree Farm looked stellar, too.

I loved Kelly’s use of dried material like these Asclepias (milkweed) seed capsules.

I absolutely loved this America in Bloom exhibit by Jennifer Designs. It’s a floral USDA hardiness zone map! The theme here played off a floral roadtrip.

And from a distance Schaffer Designs installation Connected A Floral Legacy appeared as exploding floral clouds above the USA map.

Mark Cook Landscape and Contracting won second place for Two Worlds, where a modified shipping container featured a place to connect with people and beyond a green oasis was a delight for the senses. The Corylopsis (wintersweet) was a nice touch on plant material choice.

Generations by Susan Cohan Gardens was a more ecological take on the outdoor dining area. There was a place for generations to eat (even a high chair!) and there was space in the garden for insects and (not pictured but on the other side) bird houses to rear their young.

And, then some displays like Jacques Amand Circle Of Color were just a riot of blooms. Think of the timing it takes to make sure that all tulips bloom together at once.

Laurel-Brook Gardens installation Celebrate was a colorful exhibit that featured seating area and (not pictured) a backyard projector showing family photos.

I just loved these spray painted branches. So simple and yet so effective.

And for some gardeners connection to other people occurs in the kitchen garden and allotments. Students at Delaware Valley University did this garden called Lettuce Turnip the Beet. The different beds focused on the uses of plants beyond just their edible uses. A green roof and rain barrel also illustrated sustainability.

Another garden that featured how food connects us was Mercer County Community College’s Two Cities One Garden. It was an educational exhibit to show the process of urban farming. Inside the shipping container were posters about food handling.

Temple University’s Piers, Progress, and Processes focused on the waterfront and wet habitats. They brought attention to rising sea levels and the impact that might have. If you look closely at the center of the image you’ll see where they cleverly used Symplocarpus foetidus (eastern skunk cabbage) in their garden.

And, then Waldor Orchids had a flair for the tropical with Vanilla, an exhibit about one of the world’s spices that connects us.

Students at Rowan University had a cool exhibit about a smell wheel fan. They are taking a class on smells in the garden and visitors could spin the wheel fanl to smell something. I got spicebush (and was one tick away from getting skunk cabbage!). You can read more about this project here.

I delight every time that I see Hudson Valley Seed Company’s packets. They are such a good example of how we can graft a concept like art into horticulture and do it in a creative way.

Before leaving the flower show I was stunned at the number of people that flooded in. The entry garden that had hardly anyone earlier in the day was full of shoulder-to-shoulder traffic.

Erythronium albidum | white trout lily

When I lived in Tennessee, as a teenager I would go to the woods in early spring to see if I could find any wildflowers starting to emerge or in bloom. I was a bit perplexed why my little spot in the northwest part of the state was so devoid of flora. Later, I would learn it was because high soil fertility reduced diversity in the Mississippi Delta region. But, that’s another blog post.

The dearth of wildflowers made me look even more for relics that might be along fencerows or river bottoms that the plow missed. And, in my searching I discovered plants that were brand new to me.

I remember the first time that I stumbled upon Erythronium albidum (white trout lily). In 2005, my journal noted that the sighting of some Phlox divaricata (woodland phlox) near a creek beckoned me to see what else could be found in the area. After walking through the crunchy brown duff that had fallen the previous autumn, a clearing appeared with a massive patch of ghostly green mottled leaves. These leaves were alive unlike the foliar skeletons that carpeted the ground beneath their short stature. There were many single leaves rising from the forest floor while pairs of blades held little white flowers that nodded in the cool breeze and looked like octopi with their arms outstretched. Since it was mid-afternoon, the flowers were open. Had I been earlier or later, they might have been closed.

Back home, I would identify these plants as Erythronium albidum, the white trout lily. I would read how they were ephemerals, plants that grow for only a slice of the season, in this case perhaps two months, while they captured what light they could before the canopy closed. I also learned white trout lilies had storage organs but were also rhizomatous or had droppers, which explained them occurring in such a large swath yet having an abrupt edge of the colony.

The next year I returned to the same patch with my first digital camera in hand to take some photos. They had returned once again in their diminutive yet wide splendor, and I writhed my body as low to the ground as I could to snap some photos. The blooms mere inches above the soil were hard to see inside. I wanted to lay down, but the barren sprigs of poison ivy that rose throughout the clump suggested that wouldn’t be a good idea. Plus, I might have crushed some of the trout lilies. I angled the camera the best I could and snapped away. From that day came some of the first photos I ever took of a wildflower, which helped further cement the memory

The reflexed tepals of Erythronium albidum, taken in 2006

Erythronium albidum bloom in a Tennessee bottomland forest. I count somewhere around sixty flowers in this shot alone.

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It’s been almost 20 years since I first discovered Erythronium albidum. I’ve learned many more wildflowers since those days, even a few new Erythronium, but this one still holds a special place as one of the first wildflowers I ever found. I’ve also learned more about this native in that time, how it is visited by the specialist bee Andrena erythronii and how seed have elaiosomes and are spread by ants. It has been observed ants seem to have this interesting dispersal where seeds are moved a short distance but then dropped, perhaps due to the volatiles dissipating once removed from the plant.

I stumbled upon them here in east Texas unexpectedly, much like my first encounter in Tennessee. I was driving to town one day when a patch of the characteristic ghostly colored leaves caught my eye on a woodland edge. After my discovery I got permission from the landowner to investigate and collect some plants.

Once I walked in the woods I was surprised to see there were several different patches. Each colony was uniform in color, but each patch had a slightly different leaf color, some a little whiter, some a little darker, and some more speckled. And, to my delight there was one clump that also was loaded with flowers, many more so than the ones around it. From that colony I collected a few plants. My guess was the ants had done their work years ago starting a single plant that had now become these diverse patches.

Another patch deeper in the woods was much larger and reminded me of my initial find in Tennessee those many years ago. I noted that the colony seemed to stop at a creek’s edge and how fallen logs had separated plants temporarily from each other.

Note in this photo how the colony of Erythronium albidum appears to stop at the creek.

Erythronium albidum are isolated for now on either side of this log. It won’t last long in the heat and wetness of east Texas though.

Erythronium albidum rises alongside a fallen tree.

I like to think that digging them is fishing for trout lily bulbs. The shovel has to be deep enough as their storage organs are about 6 inches down. My King of Spades blade was long enough to access their deep geophytes. I just made sure to not disturb the block of soil that contained them.

There seems to be some debate on whether they sprout from bulbs or corms. I have always felt they were bulbs, though I have not brought myself to cut the storage organ of a white trout lily open yet. However, Ian Young of Scottish Rock Garden Club Bulb Log was curious enough to slice a different Erythronium species open in 2005, to which we own him thanks for his sacrifice. (Seems that was a banner year for learning about trout lilies!) And, in the second set of images from the link one can see the buds emerging from what appears to be a basal plate and surrounded partially by scales, two tale-tell signs of a bulb. And, I think it’s not too much conjecture to say the same is true for Erythronium albidum. So, after I wrote this post, I decided to go out and investigate when I was dividing my trout lilies. I cut open the geophyte, got out my hand lens, and sure enough, there’s no scales inside. It’s a corm!

The absence of scales indicates that Erythronium albidum is a corm (modified stem tissue) and not a bulb (modified leaf tissue).

Back home, I located my trout lilies underneath a sweet gum in the front yard, provided them with ample organic matter, and watered them in well. And, then I waited.

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A bud appears on a plant in my garden from a floriferous clump of Erythronium albidum

My plants from that colony have been in the ground for three years, and I was delighted this week to see their maculate blades rising through the leaf litter. And, by the time you read this, the buds are likely opening. They only bloom for a few days, but in their short time they bring me great joy.

Trout lilies demand humility. One must come down to their level and lay prostrate on the ground to fully enjoy the intricacies of the leaves and flowers. Picking one and raising it up high just isn’t the same.

And, one must be patient. A clump can take years to size up to something breathtaking. But, I’ve waited around 20 years to welcome this fun native into my garden. What’s 20 more?

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UNC Charlotte Botanical Gardens

A few months ago when I was giving a presentation at Longwood Gardens I crossed paths with Claudio Vazquez and Amanda McClean of Izel Plants. In our discussions, they mentioned that co-worker Shannon Currey had heard something about a more heat tolerant Pachysandra procumbens (Allegheny spurge) from Louisiana named ‘Angola’. My ears perked up. I knew this native groundcover from the mountains of Tennessee, but a selection from Louisiana would make it from one of the southwest most populations I knew. Sure enough, BONAP listed a single county in Louisiana.

Finding selections of plants that grow on the margins of their range provide new opportunities to expand their use in gardens. They often have traits that make them more adapted to those extremes, whether the conditions be hotter, colder, drier, wetter, or more. And, a selection of Pachysandra procumbens from Louisiana would likely do better in east Texas than one from Kentucky or Tennessee.

So, I emailed Shannon, who said that it was collected by the late Dr. Larry Mellichamp and Tony Avent on one of their trips through the southeast. She had learned about it from Ed Davis, Assistant Director of the UNC Charlotte Botanical Gardens. She connected us, and Ed offered to share some. He didn’t quite know the entire story but knew it was a great plant. We then put two and two together and realized I would be coming to speak in Charlotte in February. So, we coordinated my visit to the UNC Botanical Gardens.

I had visited in 2011 as part of a conference in Charlotte, but my time was rushed and I only remembered the moon gate. So much had been developed and planted in that time like a brand new natives terrace. Ed was a gracious host, and he made sure to show me a few spots in the garden where ‘Angola’ had spread well.

Pachysandra procumbens ‘Angola’ is a vigorous, more heat tolerant selection of Allegheny spurge from Louisiana.

The emerging flowers of Pachysandra procumbens ‘Angola’

Ed also welcomed me to walk through the rest of the garden. I remembered the moon gate from my previous short visit many years ago, but the place had developed so much. The photos below show how much care the gardens have received since my first visit.

The moon gate frames the entrance to the Asian garden.

I probably saw over ten Edgeworthia chrysantha (paperbush) during my time in Charlotte, and it has been exciting to see the interest in this shrub surge over the past 15 years or so. One of the nicer forms was ‘Gold Rush’ at the gardens.

I love the intricacies of the Edgeworthia chrysantha flower and how they catch drops of rain and fallen petals.

The garden had a massive Hamamelis vernalis ‘Amethyst’ (vernal witchhazel), and with a dark green background the flowers were easily visible.

Hamamelis vernalis ‘Amethyst’ was selected by plantsman Tim Brotzman for the plum-colored petals that appear in February.

The natives terrace featured a variety of textures that were even more apparent in winter.

On the natives terrace Ed said that they grew Eryngium yuccifolium (rattlesnake master) in containers for a novel effect (and to avoid the rabbits!). He commented that they did well as structural elements.

In the Asian garden, I noticed this espaliered Acer palmatum ‘Sango-kaku’ (coral bark Japanese maple) and thought that training it along one plane was a neat effect.

It’s been years since I have seen or even thought about Corylus avelllana 'Contorta' (contorted filbert). It has such good winter interest with the twisted branches and catkins emerging.

Cascading down this rock wall was a gorgeous prostrate Gardenia jasminoides ‘Radicans Variegata’. Even if it didn’t bloom (which it does!), this plant would be a worthwhile addition to brighten a dark spot in the garden.

Acer palmatum ‘Murasaki Kiyohime’ was an interesting study in plant shape and texture. Ed said that they had pruned it back from the path a few times.

A close up of the colorful twigs of Acer palmatum ‘Murasaki Kiyohime’

The Van Landingham Glen featured a mesic hardwood forest that would become carpeted with wildflowers when warmer temperatures arrived. Ed told me that they had encouraged moss to grow by blowing the leaves away from the pathways.

I also spent some time in their greenhouses and headhouse area. These facilities are essential for teaching classes on campus.

On of the neatest pieces of garden art I’ve seen was this metal Dionaea muscipula (Venus flytrap).

Even though it was cool and dreary outside, inside the greenhouses was lush and verdant.

Orchids of all kinds were in bloom inside the greenhouses.

I also loved their bog garden that featured a number of Sarracenia (pitcher plant) species from the southeastern US. The curved structure allowed them to create a gradient in height for water applied by hand to move through the bog.

Here’s another photo of the bog garden showing the curvature and the slope.

And, thanks to Dr. Mellichamp the UNC Botanical Gardens are a wonderful place to learn about the unique flora of the southeast US, as shown on this mural. I can’t wait to visit again!

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.

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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.

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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.