Monday, February 27, 2006
Marching Snowdrops
After a relatively mild January, we've had a brutal February; not in terms of snow (there hasn't been much), but in terms of near-record cold. Today, as February wanes, and March is in the wings, the sun finally broke out, and it warmed up. As I walked through the still almost barren garden, one got the feeling the woods and garden have just awakened from a long, deep sleep, and had just stumbled out into the bright sunlight, not knowing yet what to make of it, or just what was happening. The cardinals and titmice were starting to sing off in the woods, but were still tentative, not yet having their hearts in it. Somehow, the greater snowdrops (Galanthus elwesii) have largely remained in bloom, their flowers just a little worse for the wear. When the temperatures drop down severely, the snowdrops lay their flowers down on the ground, somewhat protected by the spathe. When the weather finally warms, and the sun comes out, they stand up again, but never quite as straightly as before; it has been said that they look a little stoop-shouldered. The few hardy honey bees that are out buzzing about are happy to see the snowdrops, as they are the only flowers out, so they get quite a going-over. It is supposed to be 60 degrees with a chance of rain on the first of March... the flower bulbs and I will have trouble sleeping the next few nights. 
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Seeing
I climbed to the top of the red cedar tree,
really not sure just what I wanted to see.
A bright azure sky filled the valley with light,
while a stiffening wind sent the clouds in flight.
The pond below was clear, and quite deep,
for it's here the fresh springs bubble and seep,
melting the ice where these warm waters run,
so the pond sparkles, in the wind and the sun.
Then just when I thought I'd seen what I could,
a red-shouldered hawk flew out of the far wood.
I leaned out to see him, as he glided slowly by,
and then picking up speed, he gave a shrill cry.
The wildness of his call would make rabbits shiver,
but the hawk flew on, and down towards the river.
Sticky with sap, I climbed back to the ground,
and admired the acorn, our young cat had found.
The cat and I, both like to explore and to roam,
but now we just headed back towards our home.
_______________________________don
really not sure just what I wanted to see.
A bright azure sky filled the valley with light,
while a stiffening wind sent the clouds in flight.
The pond below was clear, and quite deep,
for it's here the fresh springs bubble and seep,
melting the ice where these warm waters run,
so the pond sparkles, in the wind and the sun.
Then just when I thought I'd seen what I could,
a red-shouldered hawk flew out of the far wood.
I leaned out to see him, as he glided slowly by,
and then picking up speed, he gave a shrill cry.
The wildness of his call would make rabbits shiver,
but the hawk flew on, and down towards the river.
Sticky with sap, I climbed back to the ground,
and admired the acorn, our young cat had found.
The cat and I, both like to explore and to roam,
but now we just headed back towards our home.
_______________________________don
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Primula acaulis
Writing recently about the daintier little primroses, perhaps I made it sound like I was sniffing at the large-flowered hybrids... I wasn't. 
Friday, February 24, 2006
Erythronium
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Primula Juliana
The last of our miniature garden primroses is really the first; first in bloom (these pictures were taken last March) and first in my heart.This really is a group of hybrids, which go by various names... juliana, juliae, pruhonica, Wanda... it is confusing, because at first you think you are dealing with a distinct species, but they are mostly hybrids. We grow quite a variety of them, and later this spring I hope to write more in depth about them, with more pictures, and to outline what I understand about the classification of them. For now, I will just say they are tiny to small early bloomers, rock hardy for the most part, and are covered with flowers in breathtaking colors. 
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Primula yuparensis
We continue down the small primrose path with Primula yuparensis, which grows naturally in only one spot in the world, on Mt. Yubari in Japan. I am amazed this little primrose is not more widely known and grown; it looks much more at home in a woodland garden than the gaudy commercial primrose hybrids, which tend to look like you just popped them out of a pot. Yuparensis stays in bloom a long time, and its blooms die more gracefully than the vulgaris hybrids. I have it growing on a north-facing slope in a small, shady ravine, right next to some wood steps leading down to a bridge, where I can see this miniature plant blooming in the spring; the picture above was taken last April 15th. The only negative for yuparensis, is that if you get your nose right down into the flowers, it has a faint smell of urine (We do have cats, but they denied going anywhere near it). Monday, February 20, 2006
Primula cockburniana
The next miniature primrose that grows in our garden might well push itself to the head of the list, rather than being buried in the middle, just by merit of its rich orange color, so unusual in small primroses, with the usual palette of purple-mauve-pink-white. This primrose is native to mountain meadows in western China, but is happy here amongst the cornfields in a peaty, well-drained spot in a shady ravine, where shafts of sunlight occasionally light up its burnt orange flowers. It stays in bloom an unusually long time for a late spring-blooming primrose (the pictures here were taken in mid-May). It is said to sometimes be short-lived, but will re-seed... I've only had it a few years, and it seems to be clumping up, but I plan on collecting some seeds this year.Sunday, February 19, 2006
Primula frondosa
Miniature primroses are to me like precious gems scattered on the forest floor; it is not an exaggeration to say that I am thrilled each time I find one of these little plants in bloom in spring or early summer, perhaps nestled in front of a grey boulder, or concealed next to an old moss covered stump in a shady ravine. Primula frondosa, shown above, might be the most perfect little primrose that I grow. I show it and extoll it with reservations, as I would say it persists in our garden rather than fluorishes... our hot, dry summers are a challenge for it, not exactly emulating its native haunts in the mountains of Bulgaria. This is one of the so called "birds-eye" primroses, which you can easily appreciate on its flowers, and it is in the group of farinose primroses; that is its leaves have a light covering of farina, a whitish powder. Farinose primroses in general like Scotland much better than Iowa, but I have had P. frondosa for three years now, so it may be a survivor.Friday, February 17, 2006
The Gentle Winds
The temperature here at the first of the week reached 65 degrees, and tonight is predicted to be 8 below... a drop of 73 degrees in 5 days. It is a wonder we can grow anything other than annuals.
Primula rosea
It is no secret on this blog that my first gardening love is small woodland plants. One of the best of these is Primula rosea, a diminutive primrose native to the Himalayas, so it likes a moist, cool, shady, but well-drained spot in the garden (the shady part is about all it gets around here, but after its initial astonishment at the predicament it now finds itself in, the plant has settled in). It blooms very early, the picture above being taken last April 6th. It actually begins blooming even before the leaves fully emerge, which you can kind of appreciate in the picture above. As soon as the weather turns hot, its flowers begin to decline, but with luck it is in bloom for a month. The picture below, taken two weeks later, shows the small, clumping leaves, with the flowers already starting to fade. Its flowers are pristine, as if made of crystal, and a hot pink, which is very striking when it begins its bloom arising from a still essentially bare spot of ground.
Here Bossy
I remember, as a child, visiting the farm of my uncle George, and watching him call in the dairy cattle.He would open up the gate leading to a long dirt pathway that stretched a quarter of a mile between corn fields, calling: "Here Boss, here Bossy!" and then after a few moments you'd hear a cow bell clanking off in the distance, and the lead cow, followed by all the others, would come ambling up the lane, through the gate, and head to the barn. Not too long ago in one of those unaccountable moments of mental musing, I started wondering why farmers call their cows "Bossy". Googling in "Bossy" got me some interesting porn sites, but no closer to an answer. Then recently it dawned on me... the genus for cows is Bos taurus... duh! Apparently Bos is the Roman word for cow. Other fun cow facts that city folks may not know: a heifer is a cow that has not yet had calves, and a dogie (or doggie) is a motherless calf (as in "Whoopee ti yi yo, get along little dogies, it's your misfortune, and none of my own. Whoopee ti yi yo, get along little dogies, you know that Wyoming will be your new home.")
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The Wee Landscaper
I was probably feeling a bit sorry for myself in a recent post, bemoaning the fact that my garden seems largely bereft of dynamite combos of shrubs and large flowers that would look good on the cover of Fine Gardening magazine. However, as the sleet and snow blow past my window, I've been looking again at some garden pictures from last spring, and started realizing that the garden DOES have some nice spots of landscaping with combinations of plants, but they aren't immediately visible, as they are landscapes in miniature; for these small woodland perennials and bulbs are my first love, rather than the larger plants so dear to the heart of garden photographers. I've always joked that our garden is best seen on hands and knees... perhaps I should trench out the paths.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Ah, Spring!
Well, today it is to be a warm hazy 65 degrees here, but a huge, powerful high pressure area of intense cold is drifting south over Montana, which will create gusty southern winds over the lower midwest, and result later in the week in a temperature difference of 100 (yes, 100) degrees between the upper and lower midwest. The southern wind is going to hit a band of easterly wind over us, lift the moisture, clash it with the frigid arctic air coming south, and probably bury us in snow. Our temperature here will drop from 65 above to 1 below in about 60 hours; a drop of 66 degrees! Ah, spring in Iowa!
Crocus Focus
I've been perusing E.A. Bowles' Handbook of Crocus and Colchicum. I say perusing, as it's too dense to read; I've got his revised edition of 1954, written 30 years after the first edition, filled with a lifetime of knowledge from the man who surely knew more about small bulbs than anyone else. I've got only a few crocuses (like the little blue, un-named charmer above) in our garden, as it's too shady and there is too much competition, but a couple of minor mysteries that I'd run into in growing these little bulbs were cleared up by this book. First of all, from time to time I'd notice the foliage of a crocus laying on the ground all by itself. In his book, Mr. Bowles states that was a common occurence in his garden, and he attributes it to birds pulling out the whole plant by its leaves, eating the bulb, and leaving the foliage... now, he mentions chaffinches as one of the culprits, and I've not noticed any of these little English finches hopping about on the greensward, but he states that sparrows are also guilty, and THESE we've got. In fact, of course, our house sparrow's ancestors were probably pulling up crocus bulbs in England not too long ago. I was also quite interested reading about the saffron crocus, C. sativus. In reality, Bowles states, this is probably not a true species, but rather a garden bulb that was one of the very first cultivated flowers. It may be a selected form of C. orsinii, which grows wild in Italy. In our garden, I've noticed that its pale lilac flowers with their bright orange stigmata appear faithfully, like little ghosts, every October for a few years, then the plants slowly fade away... I had them planted under a creeping sedum, which gave a very pleasing effect. Bowles states that the saffron crocus really needs a bright, sunny spot with no competition, and must be lifted and divided at least every three years, or it will stop blooming, and die. Since mine were lifted like... well, never, I guess that answers that. I must find them a spot of their own.Monday, February 13, 2006
The Indiscriminate Gardener
Our friend Laura is a city girl, with a city yard, but it is filled to bursting with plants that almost shine with care, and she knows each and every one of her plants, and they are all there because she chose them and likes them. Her plants respond to this attention, and fairly quiver with vitality. There are people (well, quite a few folks actually) who think that I, on the other hand, just buy one of everything for my garden, and let the plants fight it out. Once, at a party Laura asked me if there was any plant that I didn't like (afterwards I started wondering if she was asking a question, or more making a statement; did she say "Is there any plant YOU don't like?" or did she say "Is there ANY plant you don't like!" Be that as it may, I do recall that I almost came up blank, finally offering that I don't care for double flowered Rose of Sharons, as their flowers, when they are over the hill, look like wet toilet paper hanging on the bush, especially if it rains. I of course had to then admit that I was crazy about single flowered Rose of Sharons, and even semi-doubles like Lilac Chiffon shown above, and that I consider these to be the single most under-utilized flowering shrubs in the midwest. I am especially enamored of their season of bloom, in late summer, when the other flowering shrubs are snoozing in the heat. Since that party, I've thought some more and have come up with one more plant I won't grow: forsythias. I must admit that my dislike stems not from any problem with the plant itself, but chiefly from the fact that in cold winters most of them lose their flower buds above the snow line here, so they look like a drab dowager with a bright yellow petticoat. I'm also not fond of the way everybody around here trims them into an ugly bun shape. At any rate, I've now doubled the number of plants I don't like... call me picky!Saturday, February 11, 2006
The Random Gardener
This last gardening year, I showed quite a number of pictures of individual plants, and talked about how they fit into our wooded garden. After a while I started getting requests for pictures that showed the overall garden, and finally cobbled together a visual garden tour, which really mainly showed the garden paths more than the beds, explaining that it was hard to show any sense of the overall garden in a small picture, as the flowers are embedded in a woods, with pathways that meander around, precluding any impressive distant shots; I do very much like the garden walk as one of discovery. But I also have a dirty little gardening secret: I am a terrible landscaper, largely devoid of whatever talent it is that allows people to stand back and visualize the beauty that will result in combining plants, and lacking in the patience that it would take to accomplish a pleasing effect. Once in a while, even in my garden, on a modest scale as shown in these pictures, plants come together nicely, but that's a tribute to nature's beauty and forgivness rather than anything I did, for I am a plant collector; an accumulator... I am my uncle Hank.... he started out as a stamp collector, branched out into collecting beer cans, and then became a hoarder. By the time he died, his house had little pathways through the rooms between the piles of stuff. Now if you'll forgive me, I have some spring plant catalogues to go look through. 
Friday, February 10, 2006
More Azaleas, Please!
As the snowflakes fly, I've been doodling through my picture files from last spring, and have been ensnared again by the deciduous azaleas. I already have a fair number of them (a term I use when I'm embarassed to tell people just how many I really DO have). Also, planting rhodys and azaleas is no small undertaking here; our woods has heavy, alkaline clay, and is filled with roots, so I either have to make a raised bed, or completely dig out the present soil and roots, and fill the hole with loose, acidic soil. Still, a couple of more azaleas wouldn't hurt anything. 
Bloodroot Tree?
Something I never thought about before: double bloodroot flowers look an awfully lot like Magnolia stellata flowers. Hmmm. I wonder if I could cross them... of course pruning the tree would be pretty gruesome. 
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Winter Leaves
Those who've been reading this blog for a while, will surely by now have realized I'm a big fan of woodland wildflowers that carry their foliage through the winter. These plants may either have foliage that just persists through the winter, or have true hibernal leaves, which are leaves that are put out by some woodland wildflowers in the fall, then they remain through the winter and more or less die back by late spring, and the plant goes dormant during the summer; this takes advantage of the increased light on the forest floor when the trees are not leafed out.I think I can explain my passion for these humble plants by telling you about my Uncle Bob. He lived in an Iowa town so small, that there was no stop SIGN, let alone a stop light, but I once heard someone ask him what there could possibly be to do in a little godforsaken place like that in winter, and Bob replied "Well, you'd be surprised... there's ALWAYS something going on, and there's lots to do and see!" I must say, he didn't elaborate on that statement with any examples, and I know I must have heard ten times over as many years about the time his dog messed with a skunk, but be that as it may, I think I could say the same about having a surprisingly interesting garden here in winter... there's LOTS to do and see, and these winter leaves are a part of that. You just have to get down close, and admire their beauty. Many of them get a very lovely plum-chocolate color, and have a shiny, waxy sheen. Two examples seen today, with a temperature close to zero this morning, are Asarum arifolium (above), which is the arrow-leafed ginger, native to the SE part of the country, and Speirantha convallarioides (below), which is an oddity... sometimes called an evergreen lily of the valley (it is in the same sub-family as lily of the valley). This particular plant is native to China, and is usually rated as hardy only to zone 7, but it grows here in 5a, remaining evergreen completely without protection... it probably IS wondering how it ended up here, though.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Not Month
February is a month of nots; it's not really winter, but it sure isn't spring, either. It's like a house guest that's outstayed it's welcome... you'd like to get on with spring, but this obstinate month refuses to leave. Even the birds are anxious: flying here and there in noisy bunches, checking out the best nesting spots, but knowing they just have to be patient, for February is still here, hanging around, in no hurry to go. I think I'll go out and see if any new flower bulbs are coming up.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Intrepid Snowdrops
Underneath a leaden, early February sky,Snowdrops hold their pale lanterns high.
Though halfling plants, they stand proud,
Blooming far ahead of spring's gay crowd.
____________________________(db)
Polar air has returned to the upper Midwest; riding a pressure gradient south through Alberta, it comes straight down from just east of the Brooks Range, blowing and then blowing some more, making me sneeze from the dryness of the air, and making the cats curl up in a pile in front of the fireplace. Yet, with no snow cover, the now frozen soil melts slightly in the sun during the day, and freezes up at night, much like the higher elevations of the mountains, so the snowdrops, while not ecstatic about the change in weather, are enduring.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Puss n' Deer
I thought it was quite unusual last spring, when our oldest cat Sadie ran a deer out of one of the flower beds, so I published some pictures of the dustup on this blog. However, it looks like P.J.,one of our younger cats, has been learning the ropes from Sadie, as this evening P.J. ran TWO deer out of the backyard and into the ravine. She then came back into the house and batted her catnip mouse all over the living room... they grow up SO fast! 
Friday, February 03, 2006
Lepidotes In Bloom
A couple of pictures of lepidotes in my garden last April to show that winter foliage isn't their only attraction. 
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Lepidote Rhododendrons: Love Rekindled
When I first began gardening in Iowa, four gardens and a zone colder ago, my first obsession was tulips, which I filled the front yard with, leading to one glorious week of color every spring, traffic jams on the road in front of the house, and an empty garden the rest of the year. My next passion was magnolias, and I planted about thirty different trees, which I had to mostly abandon when I moved on... a few smaller ones were able to follow me to my present garden, and are now 20 to 30 feet tall. Next I focussed on lepidote rhododendrons. This was before PJM, and so lepidote rhododendrons were completely unknown here. I had a collection of perhaps forty plants... a few later were able to be moved to my sister's garden, and I myself only have one of these original rhodys in my present garden, Pale Lilac, which is tough enough to move anywhere, anytime. In subsequent years and subsequent gardens, I went on to other interests... daylilies, deciduous azaleas, daffodils, and presently Japanese maples and woodland perennials. However, a few lepidote rhododendrons have crept back into my garden, and this mild winter, which has allowed their foliage to remain largely intact (see the above photo of Olga Mezitt), has rekindled my earlier attraction to these shrubs, so the spring flower catalogues are out, and my pen is busy. Other than PJM (which is everywhere in Iowa yards, though usually stunted by planting in heavy clay), lepidote rhodys are still very unusual here, even though there has been an explosion in growable hybrids. The local nurseries seldom offer more than one or two common varieties, so they have to still be obtained through the mail. If our climate were a bit more temperate (warmer winters AND cooler, wetter summers), we could grow scads of them. Even so, there are numerous candidates, and as surely as the sap rises in the trees, I am bound to have another spring garden fancy... in this case my old love, lepidote rhododendrons. Candlemas
If Candlemas day brings snow and rain,
Winter is gone and won't come again.
If Candlemas Day be clear and bright,
Winter will have another flight.
__________________________
Today is Candlemas (better known in this country as groundhog day). Set at forty days after Christmas, it is a day combining religion and ancient traditions. If New Year's Day is the ending of the old calendar year and the beginning of the new, symbolized by the Roman god Janus, with two faces, looking backward and forward, then Candlemas might also be a day where we look backward (to winter), and forward (to spring), for it is roughly halfway between winter and spring. It is the last holiday of the Christmas season; the religious days now become referenced to Easter. Candlemas eve was a time to take down the Christmas greenery in the house, and people then placed lighted candles in all the windows of their homes to celebrate and to encourage the sun to return bright and strong. Candlemas day was when the church candles for the year were blessed (hence Candlemas) . It is a day to walk in the woods, and to feel the warming sun on your face, a day to note how the birds are just starting to pair off, and a day to meander slowly through the garden, admiring myriads of flower bulbs showing their new growth on the forest floor. Though cold and snow will buffet us in the coming weeks, Candlemas is a signpost at least on the slowly climbing road to spring.
Winter is gone and won't come again.
If Candlemas Day be clear and bright,
Winter will have another flight.
__________________________
Today is Candlemas (better known in this country as groundhog day). Set at forty days after Christmas, it is a day combining religion and ancient traditions. If New Year's Day is the ending of the old calendar year and the beginning of the new, symbolized by the Roman god Janus, with two faces, looking backward and forward, then Candlemas might also be a day where we look backward (to winter), and forward (to spring), for it is roughly halfway between winter and spring. It is the last holiday of the Christmas season; the religious days now become referenced to Easter. Candlemas eve was a time to take down the Christmas greenery in the house, and people then placed lighted candles in all the windows of their homes to celebrate and to encourage the sun to return bright and strong. Candlemas day was when the church candles for the year were blessed (hence Candlemas) . It is a day to walk in the woods, and to feel the warming sun on your face, a day to note how the birds are just starting to pair off, and a day to meander slowly through the garden, admiring myriads of flower bulbs showing their new growth on the forest floor. Though cold and snow will buffet us in the coming weeks, Candlemas is a signpost at least on the slowly climbing road to spring.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Bold Corydalis
Corydalis Blackberry Wine is getting alarmingly frisky, with our unseasonable warm weather, and I fear for it when the predicted return to winter cold occurs in a few days. Tom Skilling of WGN weather is more strongly predicting a buckling of the jet stream over the eastern half of the country starting this weekend, and worsening early next week, ushering in a return to snow and artic air. The brunt of both the snow and cold should be east of us, more over the Great Lakes, but we will be dropping our temperatures by twenty to thirty degrees also. I don't like having to baby plants, but I might just dump some leaves on Blackberry. I recently mentioned that, along with everybody else in the warm summer areas of the country, over the last few years I watched my sky blue Corydalis flexuosas melt away in the heat (it would be nice if Terra Nova set up a southern test station before they start national distribution on some of these plants). However I am making some baby steps back into the genus, and am actually getting some insight on what will grow here, and perhaps why... after some more observation, I'll make some comments; I want to see how C. flexuosa 'Purple Leaf' does this year. 