Lessons from Polly Hill Arboretum

One of the highlights of our summer was when Karen, Magnolia, and I traveled to Martha’s Vineyard in July for me to speak at Polly Hill Arboretum on cultivating a passion for native plants. I didn’t quite know what to expect of the area having never been to Martha’s Vineyard before, but I had heard wonderful stories about this famed island.

And over a four day period we got to explore the arboretum located in West Tisbury and learn more about this magical place.  Our gracious host was Tim Boland, executive director of the arboretum who I had met years ago at a Magnolia Society International meeting, and since then we had remained friends.  

Executive director Tim Boland with a Magnolia macrophylla (big leaf magnolia) that Polly named ‘Julian Hill’ since her husband Julian loved large white flowers.

He told us much about the wonderful Polly Hill that the arboretum is named after. Sometimes people think they’ve started too late in the gardening world to make an impact. Polly sowed her first seeds for the arboretum when she was 50. Her approach was to try as many seeds as she possibly could of temperate zone flora, and this trial and error process allowed her to learn what could grow in her island zone 7a habitat. She had very little formal training in horticulture save for a few botany classes she took to learn terminology, but her dedication to the craft and her efforts to make connections across the plant world made her a consummate plantswoman. She passed away at the age of 100 in 2007, but her legacy and impact on the world lives on.

One of her philosophies was, “Sharing is the very essence of the plant world.” And, Tim was kind enough to share a copy of Polly Hill: Leaves from a Life by Ralph Graves that featured endearing stories and quotes from Polly. I’ve included a few of those below along with inspiration from our visit. And, should you want to further explore the arboretum vicariously, their plant database is accessible using their IRISBG map or this explorer.

The Far Barn (header image) was one of the most incredible speaking venues I’ve enjoyed. It dated back to the mid-1800’s.

EmbracING the SPIRIT of Place

I was surprised by how agricultural the area surrounding the arboretum was. Even right next door was the Martha’s Vineyard Agricultural Society who is hosting their 162nd fair this year. And, a restaurant down the road was named 7a for the USDA hardiness zone. It was quintessential New England.

The arboretum also imbued this agrarian sense of place. Polly Hill Arboretum had two large open spaces, north field and west field, where grasses and forbs are mown in spring late enough to allow creatures to overwinter in the duff. She commented that the meadows were “the real New England scene.” Even though she loved planting as many trees and shrubs as she could, the meadows were off limits for planting. She joked about anyone ever planting the meadows. “And, if they try to do that after I’m gone, I will haunt them!”

A curved path through the north field beckons exploration.

The path through the West Field leads back to other woody collections.  

I loved how they allowed the space around fences to grow up a bit to soften the edges and provide habitat for creatures.  

I have long enjoyed fence rows for their potential to be refugia for species, and at Polly Hill Arboretum they artfully allow their fences to get a little wild.  

A line of Nyssa sylvatica (beetlebung) punctuates the stone wall behind.

This beautiful fireplace adds to the New England charm.  

LEARNING ABOUT THE VINEYARD’S FLORA

I was impressed by Polly Hill Arboretum’s efforts to collect and preserve information. I learned from Tim this practice was original to Polly.

Tim shared with me that the way the arboretum was protected in entirety was thanks to David Smith, a scientist who developed a vaccine for spinal meningitis. With his wealth he wished to protect and conserve natural areas on Martha’s Vineyard. He had already saved the beautiful Moshup Trail on the Aquinnah Cliffs from development and was looking for another location on the vineyard to conserve. David visited the arboretum but wasn’t enthused about supporting a garden. But, then he met with Polly. In their conversation, his interest was piqued when she shared that she had records of every plant and tree planted dating back 39 years to 1957. He didn’t see her as a gardener any more but as a scientist, just like he was. The rest is history.

To me that shows the power of keeping records in gardening. We are so busy, but you never know. Maybe one day someone will come look at your detailed gardening journal and endow your property!

They have expanded their efforts of data collection to create a Flora of Dukes County that contains 1,377 taxa. Tim showed me through their herbarium collection in its climate controlled room and where they dry, press, and catalog their specimens.

Another striking thing about the arboretum was their work to preserve their history. They had every correspondence that Polly had ever sent. Tim quipped that somewhere in the collection was even a letter he wrote to her.

At Polly Hill Arboretum, their education center features places for learning and research on the island flora.  

Polly Hill Arboretum is continually working on a flora for Martha's Vineyard.  They had this really cool collection of algae.  

They also have this beautiful needlepointed pillow that Polly completed just before she passed away of the ‘Julian Hill’ magnolia.

In the education center, I spied pinned to the wall Karen's design she did for Polly Hill Arboretum wildtype kits.  

Polly’s Play pEn

Garden comes from the Old English word geard meaning fence.  There has long been this concept of a garden being something separate from the wilds of the world, and sometimes we as gardeners need protected space to grow and enjoy plants.

Polly had a space called Polly’s Play Pen where treasured plants grew that would have long been eaten by deer.  Tim took me through this space talking about some of them.  One of my favorites was Shortia galacifolia (Oconee bells), a somewhat rare native perennial to the southeast US.  It’s has a famed story where Asa Gray looked for it for almost 40 years before a teenager found it and shared it with a botanist. 

Inside we also spied Rhododendron nakaharae ‘Mt. Seven Star‘. Tim shared the story of how Polly got this plant. Polly had grown this species before, but she wanted plants collected from the wild as the provenance was important scientifically. One of her neighbors Ann Fielder was going to Taiwan, and she gave her $10 to go find someone at the university who could help them find the plant. A gentleman said the Rhododendron grew on Mt. Seven Star. They couldn’t find it but stopped for a picnic on the mountain. One of the Ann’s grandchildren was playing and fell right into the shrub. The cuttings died, but Polly was later sent seed from the same man who had helped them find the original location on Mt. Seven Star. One lived, and she named it after its finding place. From that plant originated the North Tisbury hybrids. That plant is still protected and growing in Polly’s Play Pen.

Polly's Play Pen is a fortress for plants that Polly tried, and today it still serves to protect many unique species.  

Tim admires a large Enkianthus campanulatus (Redvein enkianthus) in Polly's Play Pen.  It is a lovely woody with urn-shaped flowers and red fall color.  

One of my favorite plants from Polly's Play Pen was Shortia galacifolia (Oconee bells).  This encounter was only my second time seeing this wonderful native.  It has a famed story of Asa Gray looking for this southeast native for almost 40 years before it's rediscovery. 

The famed low-growing Rhododendron nakaharae ‘Mt. Seven Star‘.

WILD COLLECTING

Tim and team continue their mission of searching out unique flora. They have made multiple collecting trips to places like the Ozarks in Arkansas and the panhandle of flora. Tim said that the arboretum’s focus is native plants to the eastern US and southeast Asia. And, they are keeping the spirit of Polly alive with these expeditions of continually searching for plants to try to grow on the vineyard.

One of the shade huts at Polly Hill Arboretum features wild collected plants and species propagated from the arboretum.  Note how clean everything is.  They also track every plant that comes in and leaves the nursery.  

I can't write a post about Polly Hill Arboretum without mentioning Stewartia, one of Tim's favorite genera.  Here is a nice upright form of Stewartia malacodendron (silky camellia) from the southeast US.  I commented how in Texas they are much shrubbier.  

The visitor center at Polly Hill Arboretum features a group of Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) collected in the wild in Arkansas.  

Polly Hill Arboretum also sells plants that do well on Martha's Vineyard including some from wild collections.  

It’s funny.  Now that I’ve left, I’ve had conversations with friends about Polly Hill Arboretum, and the word magical continues to be used. I wholeheartedly agree, and I can’t wait to return to see what other lessons can be learned from this enchanting place.

Hymenocallis occidentalis | summer spider lily

I don’t think I’ve experienced a more pleasant July in east Texas.  Or, anywhere in the southeast US for that matter. It feels like the weather is trying to atone for its sins of last summer where we had 36 days over 100°F and not much rain for a month and a half.  

Sure, life was less than ideal when Hurricane Beryl knocked our power out for over two days right before we had over a dozen family members come to our house for Magnolia’s first birthday party.

But, the 4.6 inches of rain and cloudy days gave us mornings in the 60’s.  Another cold front last week dropped the highs into the 80’s and brought another 2.5 inches.  And, then this week, we got another 3.5 inches in the rain gauge.  

To be honest it feels like September when the rains typically return, and there is the slightest chill on the breeze that July never has.  I’m not saying it’s not still hot and muggy, but instead of sweating through five or six shirts a day, it’s three now.  

The plants have responded to the kind weather.  They lack that sunburned, crispy appearance they usually have in midsummer, and there are so many colors of green to enjoy.

The summer geophytes have also begun to emerge.  It always amazes me how within days of precipitation we go from nothing there to brand new flowers. It’s still too early for Lycoris, but the rain lilies and spider lilies are flowering.  I anticipated the rain lilies, but I was surprised to see our Hymenocallis occidentalis (summer spider lily) emerge so early.  Usually, it’s August or September when they make an appearance, but I happily welcome them in early July.  

Though I knew Hymenocallis from seeing their strap-like leaves in the woods before leaving Tennessee, I have gotten to know the genus much better and finally see it flower in Texas. My plants came from back roadsides where they had propagated themselves over the years into large patches.

A large patch of Hymenocallis occidentalis var. eulae with a lull in flowering

The foliage and flowering time is useful to help identify spider lilies in Texas.  Hymenocallis lirisome blooms in the spring with foliage. For Hymenocallis occidentalis, their bold straps of foliage in spring contrast well against the filigree foliage, but the flowers don’t appear on summer spider lily until the later in the season. And, there’s two forms of summer spider lily— var. occidentalis that blooms with most of the foliage still intact on the plant and var. eulae that occurs in Texas where the foliage has faded by the time they bloom but in wet years like this the leaves will hang on as long as they can.  

Spring at Ephemera Farm. Can you find the clump of Hymenocallis occidentalis var. eulae in the lower left of the image? It’s pretty easy to see the wide green blades.

I usually get a few weeks of flowers off one clump as scapes continue to rise as bulbs respond to rain.  I have planted them near the spires of Eryngium yuccifolium (rattlesnake master).  The echo of white in both species’ flowers builds coherence while the different structures provide complexity. The flowers of spider lilies fade somewhat fast, but the papery tissue can be cleaned off easily.  And, like anything worn white their coronas are prone to stains from the pollen.  

Hymenocallis occidentalis var. eulae

Eryngium yuccifolium

A pristine flower of Hymenocallis occidentalis var. eulae that opened minutes ago

Hymenocallis are unique in the plant world for having a corona (the papery tissue at the base of the petals) like Narcisus and Passiflora.

Hymenocallis flowers will pop open in twilight, and standing near one is well worth the theatrics.  The floral parts will jostle as the flower opens and slowly releases like an unfurling umbrella.  And, then the hawk moths come.  We hate them for the damage that their larval hornworms do to tomatoes and peppers, but we love them for their vesper dance as they find the giant white flowers.  And, we thank them for the seed that appear about a month later.

It’s surprising and sad that such a tough, reliable plant isn’t more available in the trade, likely because this species is a stress-tolerator that takes a few years to go from seed to flower.

Hymenocallis occidentalis var. eulae seed sown on top of potting substrate

My first seed came not from plants in my garden but from my friend Greg Grant.  He shared these lumpy green grapes with me. I thought the seed was inside, but he said that these orbs were actually the seed. Quite the oddity in the world of plants!  He advised sowing the seed on the surface of soil or potting substrate, pressed in firm so that they have good contact with the media but can still get light.  Later, I would read in Norman Deno’s Seed Germination Theory and Practice that the seed are photosynthetic and perceive light for germination.  This year was the first that one of Greg’s progeny bloomed.  It’s been at least five years since I sowed them. 

They are a test in patience as plants will take years before flowering.  But, they are well worth the wait. And, perhaps in another wet, cool July years from now the seed I’m collecting this season will bloom and keep this beautiful cycle going.

If you’d like to learn more about propagating plants from seed, my Botanic Bootcamp #1: Success with Seed Sowing will help you solve your seed sowing problems. 

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Keep Growing

Hibiscus 'Lufkin Red'

These long summer days are precious. Here in East Texas the light becomes perceptible right around 5:30 am outside, and it doesn’t take me long to be outside afterwards. The family is still asleep, and traffic on the road is light.

Each morning, I scan the garden to see if there’s anything I need to consider for the day’s tasks. And, in these high days of summer, I’m greeted by the blooms of Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’. It’s baseball-sized flowers are visible from 100 feet away.

I first learned of this plant from visiting Stoneleigh years ago. During a tour, Ethan Kauffman made an off comment about how this selection was named after a town near me, and once he said ‘Lufkin Red’, I immediately recognized the name for the town 30 minutes south of Nacogdoches.

From further investigation, I learned this cultivar was developed with leaf spot resistance in mind. In the deep south where heat and humidity reign, fungal diseases abound. So, Cecil Pounders made selections of native hibisicus species that exhibited leaf-spot resistance and allowed them to naturally cross. ‘Lufkin Red’ (and another selection named ‘Lufkin White’) originated from a blemish free plant collected from East Texas. It is a winter hardy Hibiscus laevis type, but due to being open pollinated, the complete parentage is unknown.

Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’ provides a pop of color along the pergola at Stoneleigh in Philadelphia.

Ethan was kind enough to do a plant swap with me. I sent him some east Texas treasures, and ‘Lufkin Red’ was one of the plants I received in his shipment. Last year was the first full year of it being in the ground, and now the second year is even better.

While the flowers only last one day, the plant is loaded and blooms continuously until we hit the hottest and driest part of the summer. It then resumes flowering later in the fall. I counted almost 20 open flowers one day, and with the indeterminate inflorescences it shows no sign of slowing down.

To me the color is more hot electric pink than red, a color that won’t get washed out baking in the sun. It’s a wonderful hue to welcome the day as the flowers glow in the rising sun. When I walk past the plant again at dusk, I can tell that pollinators have visited as the pollen has shed and collected in the corolla.

In the morning, Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’ flowers are pristine, and after a rainy night they catch rain drops on their petals.

A ‘Lufkin Red’ Hibiscus flower showing the wear and tear of a long day.

Because I was short on room, I planted the hibiscus behind our patch fence where I had other perennials I was trialing. Its performance has me rethinking its placement as it’s a focal point and not something to be tucked away behind a fence. Next year, I plan to move it more to the forefront so that blooms can be enjoyed better.

I’m also practicing good companions for it. Nearby, I planted Canna × ehemanii (Ehemann's canna), a wonderful selection not often seen in the trade from my friend Greg Grant. The color of the flowers is the perfect echo, and the foliage contrasts well. The canna is much less hardy than the hibiscus, and I have to bring the rhizomes in during the winter. But, it is worth the extra effort to perpetuate it.

An abundance of flowers on Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’ is a welcome sight each morning.

Canna × ehemanii and Hibiscus ‘Lufkin Red’ make good bedfellows with their pink flower color echo.

In my Deep South naturalistic plantings, I’m always looking for some bold elements for a different texture that can tolerate our summer heat. Both of these plants will be good options for future plantings.

Blueberries in Texas

We are rejoicing over the clear skies. It seems all it’s done over the past few weeks is rain after an already wet spring. I lamented in one of the last posts about just how wet we were. I didn’t know it could get worse.

We were inundated last Sunday night when instead of the few tenths of an inch of rain forecasted we received 4.6 inches in 3 hours.

I’ve lost most of my tomatoes due to too high a water table, and I’m watching fungal diseases set in on other plants. I finally broke down the other day and just started gardening in the rain, cutting back flopped over Rudbeckia maxima (giant coneflower) and Coreopsis tripteris (tall tickseed) that has exploded in growth with its wet feet.

But, not all the garden is a source of frustration. Our blueberries have loved this wet spring. I have long admired Vaccinium virgatum (rabbiteye blueberry) for the multi-season interest it offers the gardener and its versatility in the landscape. For us in the deep south, this species is our best selection to grow. And, in case you’re curious, the common name comes from the pink hue that fruit turn before they ripen that resembles the color of some rabbits’ eyes.

Before rabbiteyes bloom, their red stems offer color to the void of winter. And, in early spring I delight when the buds start to swell. They have attractive urn-shaped flowers that are pollinated by native bees. I have a fond memory of a southeastern blueberry bee sonicating a stem I was touching one day. I felt a slight shaking on the branch as the bee pollinated the flower by vibrating its flight muscles.

The urn-shaped flowers of Vaccinium virgatum

A Carolina Chickadee inspects the flowers and young fruit on a rabbiteye blueberry

The foliage is worth having in the garden, too. Many cultivars offer a blue-glaucous foliage that contrasts nicely with the myriad of green. And, then in autumn, blueberries light up the countryside as their leaves turn vermillion.

One of my core memories is visiting Graveyard Fields and seeing the patches of blueberries there many autumns ago. It was as if someone painted the landscape with the most vivid reds and oranges. And, here in the depths of November when the blueberries glow, I’m reminded of being high in the mountains with their wild cousins.

A vermillion sea of Vaccinium constablaei (hillside blueberry) at Graveyard Fields

But, there’s no time I love them more than when they are flush with fruit as spring fades into summer. I have been picking blueberries over the past few weeks, nibbling the first ripe ones here and there and then picking handfuls with my shirt held out as a harvest bin. Our waterers also enjoyed them while we were traveling in Tennessee and North Carolina.

Vaccinium virgatum ‘Austin’

Vaccinium ‘Pink Lemonade’

Our flowers took a hit during the late March freeze last year, and I watched as the urn-shaped blossoms that dangle and catch the dew on wet mornings fell from the plants. Thus, we lost most the fruit on ‘Austin’, ‘Climax’, and the red-fruited hybrid ‘Pink Lemonade’. Only ‘Powder Blue’ yielded fruit.

But, this year has been much better, and the plants have been loaded in the absence of a crop from last year. After last season’s dearth of fruit, I’m looking at adding more varieties for diversity to deal with weather issues.

Planting them is easy. I like to put blueberries in the ground in autumn when they are going dormant as I do most shrubs to help them establish and grow with the coming wetness of winter. And, I don’t amend the soil with lime, as I have to for most plants to help neutralize our soil’s 4.2 pH. They thrive in acidic conditions like many of their relatives in the Ericaceae (heath) family. Blueberries have a high iron requirement, and the lower pH frees more of the mineral nutrient into the soil solution. If your pH is too high, you can always use sulfur to bring it down.

The area surrounding Nacogdoches has acidic soil and used to be a nexus for blueberry production. I do hate that many of the farms have closed (save for a few), but we are holding onto our blueberry tradition here in the community with this past weekend’s 34 annual Texas Blueberry Festival.

After eating blueberry pancakes, Magnolia, Karen, and I helped paint part of a new blueberry mural as part of Brushing Up Nac, a non-profit that is making our quaint town even more charming.

Part of the paint by numbers mural on Pilar Street

Other festival attendees painting the blueberry mural

The blueberry mural mostly painted by participants after the 34 annual Texas Blueberry Festival

This native fruit is well worthy of a festival, a mural, and finding a place for a few in your garden.

Reflections from Spring

Grades are entered, and the school year is over for me.  

Whew.  

I’ve been in reflection mode lately as it feels for the first time in 10 months that I’ve had a chance to breathe.

Sure, teaching, running a student botanic garden, giving presentations across the country, hosting a podcast, and then writing a weekly newsletter is a full life, but after throwing a first child into the mix last July, well, suddenly priorities drastically shift.  Being inside listening to baby belly laughs beats pulling weeds.  

But, I’ve barely planted the vegetable garden for the summer, weeds abound, and there are spots I have yet to mow out back.  

It’s not all on me.  The soil has been so wet, wetter than the last few years, that recent time outside is often spent watching the rain.  This spring is one of those similar to when we first moved in where water would run through the property almost to June, and I would discover all the places I could get my mower stuck.  It makes it harder to tend the ground, but I know we’ll be wanting the moisture come August. 

The light beds in their spring glory

However, even though I’m behind on other areas of the garden, the light beds near the house have looked smashing this spring, to the point where I’ve gone from imposter syndrome with this whole naturalistic planting thing to thinking I’m onto something. 

We’ve lived at Ephemera Farm for 7 years, going on 8 in August. And, in this time I’ve watched this space evolve.  The beds, named for the way that light interacts with the plants throughout the day, started as trial spots where I threw plants into the ground after I cleared out the crape myrtles and turf near the garage.  Deer were wary to come this close to the house, and the higher ground didn’t flood and quickly drained after a rainstorm.  I watched what lived and died and replicated what was successful.  

A pathway leads through a verdant planting at Ephemera Farm.

At first these beds were disparate with different species in each one of them so that the plantings in one didn’t feel connected with the other.  Paths that I made felt more like borders separating space instead of a way through the planting.  

So, I started replicating species on both sides of the paths and scattered them throughout the beds to create a sense of community.  To further create harmony, I chose species that offered a cool color scheme featuring pink, blue, and purple with neutral white and pops of red and coral. I then added other beds on the west side of the drive near the orchard to make it have more continuity for the long view.  

Cool colors abound in the light beds in the spring.

Amsonia hubrichtii (Arkansas bluestar) offers a lovely pastel blue color in the garden.

The light beds continue into the orchard to give a greater sense of depth of the landscape.

I look at the light beds and sometimes think that it’s all too much.  I’ve made hard calls to simplify the plantings.  I’ve removed Liatris microcephala (Appalachian blazing star) that seems to struggle in our wet soils and edited out the Liatris pycnostachya (prairie blazing star) that fall over.  And, I dug out the Gladiolus communis ssp. byzantinus (Byzantine gladiolus) that were too much intense color for the area.  I’m left wondering should I remove more?

Is it all too much?

Sometimes editing happens on the fly. A lone Hymenopappus artemisiifolius (old plainsman, left of center) that had seeded itself into these beds didn’t seem right for this planting so out it went.

There, that’s better.

But, I have to remember my garden is also a repository.  There are plants like Penstemon murrayanus (scarlet penstemon). The original population of plants is gone, bulldozed two years ago and the site never built upon.  Where my Baptisia alba (white wild indigo) originated there’s now two driveways through that spot.

I mean, who could bulldoze this incredible native, Penstemon murrayanus?!?

Penstemon murranyanus in the orchard

Baptisia alba is an incredible primary plant to have bloom in the spring.

There are still things I need to fix.  Phlox pilosa (downy phlox) is beginning to get away from me some, but reducing its sprawl is an autumn and winter task I can tackle later.  In the orchard last year, I planted a mix of Penstemon laxiflorus (nodding penstemon) and Oenothera (Gaura) lindheimeri ‘Sparkle White’ (gaura).  I anticipated the gaura flowering later, but they flowered at the same time, and it was too much and too blended together.  I’ve made notes to separate them next year, and space them out more.  

Maybe there’s too much phlox?

Pink froth in the orchard from Penstemon laxiflorus and Oenothera lindheimeri ‘Sparkle White’. Which is which? Hard to tell but an easy fix this winter.

The one thing I feel like the beds are still lacking is a solid ground cover layer.  Carex texensis (Texas sedge) is doing well, but this time of the year it can start looking gangly with the long scapes after setting seed.  I cut them back to start with a fresh clump.  Muhlenbergia reverchonii (rose muhly) is quickly becoming a favorite.  After a couple of years in the ground it has already become a robust grass in the spring.  The height is not too bad for later in the year.  And, Sporobolus heterolepis (prairie dropseed) is doing well where the clumps have had time to mature.  But, many plants and divisions are still quite young.  I sow seed when I can, but patience must be had with that plant.  

I’ll add that my thoughts on relying solely on plants to cover the ground have also changed.  After a years long battle with trying to get gripeweed (Phyllanthus urinaria) under control, I’m finally having success with bark mulch to prevent germination.  It’s amazing how the little seeds seem to get into everything, even the crowns of plants. So, it’s a bit of a hybrid approach. Cover as much of the ground with plants as possible, but sprinkle in some mulch to cover the bare spots.

A part of the light beds where the groundcover layer has filled in well.

Carex texensis at the front of this image can get a bit wild looking toward the end of April.

I’m not done replicating what works. My next big task is to take divisions of the most impactful and ecologically beneficial plants and incorporate them into the front fences of the patch to have harmony with the current plantings. I’m going for the reclaimed fencerow aesthetic.

The patch fence seen behind the chairs is the next project here at Ephemera Farm. The goal is to use species in the light beds to create cohesion for the areas.

Now that we are in May, I’m not the only one taking a breather. The light beds have slowed down, too.  Most of the photos above are from mid-to-late April. The spring rush of color is over, and in early May there is a break before the riot of Echinacea and Pycnanthemum begin. The garden’s pause is a reminder that balance is essential. Just as the light beds take a break, I, too, find solace in this slower time.

Marshallia caespitosa | clumping Barbara's buttons

I’ve admired the charm of Marshallia since I first saw them in the Green Swamp in North Carolina many years ago.  In fact, they are a big part of the reason I went to the swamp in the first place.  I had read about Marshallia graminifolia (grass-leaf Barbara’s buttons) in The Plantsman as a species not seen much in the trade but that offered promise in landscapes.  And like an astronomer with a telescope, I searched the longleaf pine savanna on a sweltering August day until I found their spiraled galaxy-like flowers in the grass.   

Marshallia graminifolia in the Green Swamp of North Carolina

A close up of Marshallia graminifolia open flowers on the outside and swirling buds still tight in the center.

After moving to Texas, I was delighted to learn about Marshallia caespitosa (clumping Barbara’s buttons), another species that inhabited Texas, Louisiana, and a few states to the north.  However, this native was a spring-flowering perennial. While the genus is named after botanists Humphry Marshall and Moses Marshall, I’ve never been able to figure out who Barbara is. Wikipedia of all places is the only theory I’ve seen. Saint Barbara is invoked during lightning and thunderstorms, and perhaps the flowers as they open appear a bit like forked lightning? If you squint.

To me, Marshallia flowers resemble pinwheel galaxies as they open.

A few days later after all flowers have emerged on Marshallia caespitosa

My first few plants came from a friend, which allowed me to learn about their growth habit.  Plants emerge in the depths of winter as thin leaves and grow and enlarge until buds emerge. As flowers open they appear as small pinwheel galaxies, but within a few days as more flowers open, they turn into puff balls.  They appear a bit like a short Allium the way the heads are held above the foliage. 

A large clump of Marshallia caespitosa still in bud

Some clumps of Marshallia caespitosa have had fasciated flowers. This year is the first time I’ve seen it.

Marshallia caespitosa bloom on a roadside in east Texas

I like to use them as a lower layer in the garden scattered amongst the green groundcover species.  One plant is not enough. It benefits from having several. I plant them similar to how I see them in nature, scattered in a matrix of green.  However, clumps in the garden are much larger than what I see in the wild up and down the roadsides here in east Texas. And, larger clumps are more prone to flower flopping after heavy rains.

Marshallia caespitosa at the front of the bed in the orchard.

Marshallia caespitosa dots the spring display here at Ephemera Farm.

In about a month, my plants will set seed and shortly go dormant.  They are one of those plants that has lived in Texas long enough to know they don’t want to hang around during the summers.  

Two years ago, I collected seed to increase my number of plants.  I immediately sowed them into a gallon pot and set it on my small nursery pad in late spring.  The pot sat barren much of the summer getting watered and didn’t germinate until cooler autumn weather arrived.  

The following spring, I pricked the plants out into larger cells and grew them on.  They didn’t flower at all last year, but I noticed their clumps never went fully dormant like plants typically do.  Now, they are blooming their heads off.

This year, I’ll repeat the process so that in two years I’ll have even more blooms to enjoy from clumping Barbara’s buttons.

Marshallia caespitosa seedlings emerge in early December

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If you want to learn more about sowing seeds to grow your own natural garden, then check out my Botanic Bootcamp Success with Seed Sowing. I discuss germinating Marshallia and other spring wildflowers.

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Eclipse Perfection

Karen, Magnolia, and I made the trek last Monday to Arkansas to see the total eclipse.  Having seen it in 2017 in Tennessee, I knew how amazing the experience was and that it was well worth repeating.  

I had been watching the weather forecast two weeks out, and Arkansas offered the only totality path nearby that had consistent mostly clear skies predicted.  The six hour drive paid off.  We had a clear glimpse of totality, all 4 minutes and 13 seconds of it.  And, while I was ready to pull off the side of the back roads anywhere we could find a clear spot, we lucked out finding a regional airport with no obstructions and a small crowd.  There were maybe 40 people there.  

And, yes, it was just as amazing and awe inspiring as it was 7 years ago.  As an educator, wonder and awe are the tradecraft of my life. I have seen many wonderful sights in my life, and yet for the eclipse words really can’t describe it.  We were ecstatic and buzzing with energy afterwards.

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So, what does this have to do with gardening?  

In early 2023, I announced that we named our smallholding Ephemera Farm to celebrate the little things in life.  And, as we drove back home, I began to think about how a total solar eclipse is possibly the ultimate in natural ephemera.  It lasts mere minutes, and it is estimated only 1 in 10000 people see one in their lifetimes. 

But, I started to kick myself as I started to think of everything I had done wrong.  How could something so important have such little planning on my part for the duration of the event?  Sure, cloud forecast watching for days in advance allowed me to find the perfect clear sky spot while other areas of Texas had cloud cover, and I had hauled us 6 hours from home to see something we may only see a couple times in our lives.  

But, I had regrets.

• Not leaving early enough the morning of

• Not buying snacks the night before (although we did get gas)

• Not scouting places in advance 

• Not buying another pair of binoculars for Karen

• Not looking through the binoculars for longer

• Not having the camera settings perfectly figured out

• Not doing a video recording on my iPad.  

Then, I realized that all of the regrets were because I missed the feeling of witnessing the eclipse, and I wanted to recapture every millisecond that I could.  And, because it wasn’t perfect, it was taking away from the experience.   

It’s often the same with the garden.  Too often when I see something not perfect, I think next year I’ll do this differently.  There’s penstemon that are too thick in one spot and blend too much with the gaura.  Next year.  I missed sowing a spring crop of peas.  Next year.  The entrance to the patch looks bare and weedy after moving the 1000 lycoris bulbs last month.  Next year.  I want to overhaul the kitchen garden design, and it’s not planted yet. Next year.

But, the eclipse doesn’t offer much in the chance of a redo. The next one coming through this area is in 21 years.

The one thing I did right during the eclipse was to be present, to really look at it.  I had read online that some people spend the whole time looking at the eclipse through a camera lens.  I didn’t want to make that same mistake.  I remember much from that 4 minutes and 13 seconds—the darkness, the coolness, the appearance of twilight all along the horizon, and right before it ended holding the binoculars as long as I safely could, noting the prominences that were erupting off the sides.  Sure, I may not have the perfect photo or video, but I was there.  

In the garden many areas aren’t so perfect. There’s weeds and even some perennials I haven’t cut back their winter skeletons yet. I will say that raising a daughter means that there’s a few LOT more weeds this year than there have been in previous years.  But, to have a bundle of joy and happiness is a worthwhile trade.  

However, the garden beds near the house look the best they’ve looked in the 7 years we’ve lived here at Ephemera Farm.  I’m so proud of them. I think too often I see one small thing that’s wrong and focus on that instead of appreciating the here and now.  And, I have a feeling I’m not alone with those of you reading this perspective.  I have to accept that things don’t have to be perfect in the garden.  They never will be in a planting. That’s part of the beauty of it.

And, just like the eclipse, I just need to be present and appreciate what I have in the moment.

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Magnolia and I sat outside the other evening enjoying the garden.  The last butterflies of the night came flitting by as phlox perfumed the air.  And, then we heard a Great-horned Owl hoot.  Both of our heads turned toward the sound.

I looked up and saw the thin sliver of the crescent moon that had just days before blocked the sun during totality.  

And, I thought about how in 21 years it’ll be the same moon that will once again cast totality on a path that will come through the southeast.  It would be great if we could catch another total eclipse at some point, but realistically that’s the next one I’ll see.  

But, for now, I’ll enjoy the garden.

Trillium gracile | graceful trillium

Is there a gardener out there not enchanted by Trillium? I think not. When their little umbrellas rise from the ground and soon are topped with their tiny flame flowers that flicker in the understories of forests across North America, we know spring is on the way.  

I grew up collecting Trillium recurvatum (prairie trillium) from local creeks near our house in Tennessee.  And, in the Smokies I relished seeing whole understory hillsides thick with them—Trillium grandiflorum (great white trillium), Trillium luteum (yellow trillium), Trillium catesbaei (bashful wakerobin), and more.  In the ignorance of my youth, I would even buy some of these Appalachian species to grow only to see them not thrive in our warmer, drier west Tennessee conditions. Right plant, wrong place.  Those early experiences framed their range for me in my mind.   

When I moved to Texas, I never dreamed Trillium would be part of the flora, but joining native plant enthusiasts on expeditions quickly opened my eyes to see certain species would grow in warmer climes.  

To my delight there are five species that grow here–Trillium recurvatum, Trillium viridescens (green trillium), Trillium texanum (Texas trillium), Trillium ludovicianum (Louisiana trillium), and Trillium gracile (graceful trillium).  And, as of this spring I can attest that I have seen them all in their native habitats.

Trillium gracile on a forest floor in east Texas

The most common one I have encountered in east Texas is Trillium gracile.  John Freeman named it in his paper in 1969.  He stated that it had been confused in the past with Trillium ludovicianum, but “the smaller usually dark purple flowers, introrse [inward facing] anthers with creamy yellow pollen, three-angled ovaries [versus six-angled on T. ludovicianum], and relatively short stigmas” help to distinguish it.  He noted that the epithet gracile is an homage to the plant’s graceful appearance when compared to other larger forms of Trillium that occur nearby like Trillium ludovicianum and Trillium viridescens. 

It has thrived for me in my home garden since I got my first plant 5 years ago.  I have it on a north facing slope on sandy soil amongst other eastern forest denizens like Heuchera americana (American coral bell), Sanguinaria canadensis (bloodroot), and Polygonatum biflorum (smooth Solomon’s seal).  And, on a cool morning when the light shines through the garden and the little maroon petals glow amongst the other leaves, my soul warms a bit.

Trillium gracile backlit by the rising sun

I want more, but Trillium are a lesson in patience for plants to increase in number.  They are stress-tolerators and may take anywhere from 4 to 7 years to flower from seed.  I delight in finding single and three-leaved seedlings in the garden a bit away from the main plants. Their emergence is evidence of ants assisting in dispersing this ephemeral. They love their elaiosomes, fleshy tissue attached to the seed that encourages insects to move them and leave that worthless seed (at least to them) somewhere it can germinate.

A few patches of Trillium gracile flower in the garden. Look closely and you’ll see one- and three-leaved juvenile forms.

Division is another option.  My original clump has bulked up quite well, and last year, I was able to divide them as dormant rhizomes in early January with the bleached new shoots just elongating. Then, I transplanted them around the garden into new spots to see where else graceful trillium will grow in our garden.  I have learned to be very careful with them as damaging a shoot means that part of the rhizome won’t flower this year. Don’t ask me how I know…

The original clump of Trillium gracile before dividing

I made about 12 divisions of Trillium gracile off the main clump. I did leave part of the clump with more rhizomes for a fuller effect after replanting.

My long term goal is to have one of every species that grows in the southeast, south of say zone 7.  It may take a while, but I’m quite patient for the thrill of a trill.

Last Frost

I woke up around 3 am to Magnolia crying for her nightly bottle.  It was March 19 and the last few hours of winter.  I walked into the kitchen, and looked at the thermometer.  

35°F.  Close.  Too close.  

Would it stay above freezing for the next couple of hours?  I had been tossing and turning already, dreaming about below freezing temperatures.  Most plants had already emerged in the garden yet again this year, and I was worried about a repeat of last spring where we had two nights of 26°F that blackened or nipped so many species—persimmons and peaches in the orchard, and in the rest of the garden we lost blooms on Chionanthus virginicus (white fringetree), Nemastylis geminiflora (prairie celestial), Baptisia alba (white wild indigo) and Baptisia sphaerocarpa (yellow wild indigo), Rhododendron austrinum (flame azalea), and more.  Gut wrenching.  

Loosing the bloom period of a single species is painful because once the buds are nipped, that’s it, and one has to wait another whole year to enjoy the spectacle. But, it hurts even more to see multiple plants lost. I began to wonder with climate change are these our springs to come where a whole wave of bloom may be periodically removed from the garden? And if so, how do we deal with that?

My hope for this year was that this front seemed to lack the punch last year’s did.  Instead of two days below freezing, only one was forecasted.  So, maybe it wouldn’t be as bad?  But, checking multiple websites showed the forecast anything between 29°F–36°F, and living in a little valley makes our garden prone to cold air settling.  I can usually count on the temperature being a few degrees colder than the forecast. 

The bottle warmed, I gave it to Magnolia, said a little prayer, and laid back down.  

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A couple hours later I awoke to find it was 33°F, and once it was light out, I went to inspect the damage.  Frost was on the top of the house, a few low plants to the ground, and the lowest patch of north facing turf where it always appears first in the fall.  But, most things looked ok.  I didn’t see that watersoaked appearance that greeted me last year. A sigh of relief swept over me. I felt giddy. The first day of spring was off to a good start.

It’s been almost two weeks since that scare, and I can happily report the garden is flourishing.  Spires of Baptisia are coming into color, the peach tree is loaded with so many fruit I need to thin them, and the fringetree appears as a misty haze. The garden looks the best it has ever looked in spring.  Having lost several key players last year I don’t think I got to fully see it for what it had become.

There are some gaps in the main beds that I am working to fill.  The matrix layer has really begun to knit together with Carex species like Carex texensis (Texas sedge) and Carex flaccosperma (blue wood sedge) I collected on site and have been propagating.  I’m making notes about where there’s holes.  For example, Vernonia lettermannii ‘Iron Butterfly’ (narrowleaf ironweed) still hasn’t risen yet, and it looks a bit barren in those areas.  I’ll underplant the ironweed with something this coming winter.

Carex texensis glows in the morning light.

Or, maybe I’ll just give the task of covering the ground to some self sowers like my bluebonnets? Lupinus subcarnosus (sandyland bluebonnets) are really shining right now.  My population has continued to grow from the four flowering plants that I initially started with.  They are now quite plentiful along our driveway.

Lupinus subcarnosus thrive along the barren strip of soil next to the driveway.

Lupinus subcarnosus shimmers with dew in the morning light.

I can see the efforts of where I threw seed around into other parts of the garden like the front of the patch and inside it as well. Little slivers of blue are peaking out amongst other plants. I feel like those that self sowed had a better start than those that I broadcast and are now more vigorous, perhaps because the former had more time to get established in the fall.  

Lupinus subcarnosus has begun to weave itself between other plants in the garden beds.

But, my goal was to help this plant spread around the garden.  So, even if they are a little smaller my core focus was still accomplished.

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One day I hope to have a patch of Lupinus subcarnosus this thick at home.

Karen, Magnolia, and I were recently riding the backroads and saw this incredible patch of sandyland bluebonnets just west of town. My hope is to one day have this sight here in our glade where we recently relocated I’d estimate about a thousand Lycoris radiata (spider lily) bulbs. The ground here dries out in the summer, and grass struggles to grow. I thought the Lycoris to be a nice addition for when rains return in the fall, and bluebonnets would be great in the spring. They seem to love filling the barren spots.

The question of how to deal with last frosts after a long warming period jolts most plants into growth is still on my mind. It’s difficult for a gardener to content with 26°F even with frost cloths.

Diversity is one answer. The more rich a planting is with hardy native and adapted species, the more chances yet another species will make it through the cold. It is trial and error, and seeing what works and then replicating that. Sandyland bluebonnets made it through unscathed last year during the cold snap, and that’s just one reason to want more.

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.