Friday, March 30, 2007
Hellebores
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Juliana Primroses
The juliana primroses are all starting to open now; small to tiny plants with an amazing spectrum of flower colors (go to my post of 5/6/06 to learn what a juliana primrose is, then report back). I freely confess I am gaga over these cool little plants; most of them are wonderfully (and surprisingly) hardy here... I'll show more varieties as they bloom.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Livers Never Shiver
The weather today turned cold and misty, so many of the small early bloomers called it a day and folded up their flowers, but the hepaticas (liverworts) were quite nonchalant about the chilliness. This sunny little flower belongs to Hepatica nobilis, the common hepatica of Europe. The taxonomists have been having a field day changing the classifications of the members of this genus... I good naturedly went along with the last shakeup, but now they've gone too far. We used to have a nice group of species: H. acutiloba, the sharp-lobed hepatica, and H. americana, the round-lobed hepatica, both native to this country. Then Europe had H. nobilis, and Asia had H. asiatica var. japonica; a fine system, understandable to all. Well, then japonica was moved into nobilis as Hepatica nobilis var. japonica... suspect to my mind, but being a good sport, I went along with it. Now I find they are also shoving acutiloba and americana into nobilis, as var. acuta and obtusa, respectively. These taxonomists must think plant labels grow on trees.
The people who work in this field are a different breed... very focused. Tom is a botany major at the U. of Iowa here in Iowa City; I met him because he compiled the plant community manual for the woodland nature preserve that I've been volunteer-managing. He loves mosses, and took me off down a trail in the woods to show me a rare club moss. Now, he's been accepted in the graduate botany dept. at Berkeley. I lived in Berkeley in the early 70's when I was doing my internal medicine residency; I lived two blocks off of Telegraph Avenue, and had hair down over my shoulders and an attitude. Internal medicine may have been my specialty, but partying and having fun were at least my sub-specialties. When I heard that Tom was moving to Berkeley, I excitedly started telling him I'd fill him in on all my old haunts and all the great places to hear music and dance and party. This offer didn't seem to cause even a stir of excitement in him... then I realized; this is a fellow who is planning a lifetime career around the taxonomy of mosses... sigh... my old apartment with the black walls covered with rock record album covers probably isn't there anymore to rent, anyway.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Primula Vulgaris ssp. Sibthorpii
I grow many of these hybrids, but best like the original sibthorpii subspecies; it is the first primrose to bloom in the spring, and never fails to be covered with pale pink flowers with a yellow center. While many hybrid primroses are lovely, too often they just don't look natural in our garden; even though they may have been growing outside for years, they can't escape that look of just having been popped out of a greenhouse pot and stuck in the ground. Sibthorpii, with its crisp, light green small leaves, and its much more modest and complementary flowers, escapes that hothouse look. It is the best.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Raggedy Robin
Bulbocodium vernum is sometimes called "Raggedy Robin"; a name both endearing and apt; the flowers, even when freshly open, always look a little bit like somebody who just got out of bed, wearing the same rumpled clothes they had on last night. It is closely related to colchicums; some have even lumped it into that genus (it contains the same toxin as colchicums: namely colchicine, which is used medically to treat gout). It certainly looks like a miniature colchicum, with the same bright, lilac-pink color. For now, taxonomists have placed it in its own genus, so it is monotypic. Bulbocodium seems to be kind of a sometime bulb... it doesn't seem to stick around in most gardens. I do have a little patch that has persisted for about ten years; sunny, well-drained, and neglected. This little bulb is native to the Pyrenees; a mountain range of high waterfalls and higher mountain passes, that divides France and Spain. In our garden it blooms right after the snowdrops, blooming with the early spring crocuses. I've always wanted to plant blue Siberian squills around Bulbocodium, but I 'm not sure Raggedy Robin appreciates competition, though I've heard of planting it under a patch of thyme.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Galanthus Woronowii
The Third Snowdrop
The third species of snowdrop that we grow in our garden is Galanthus plicatus; to plicate is to fold, referring to the leaves of this species,that are rolled or folded inwards... especially noticeable when the leaves first emerge. This is a large snowdrop, reaching up to a foot tall, and there are two recognized subspecies: ssp. byzantinus from Turkey, has two green markings on the inner petals, and the second subspecies is Galanthus plicatus ssp. plicatus, which has one green mark and is endemic to northern Turkey and the Crimea (our plant is the latter).
We started with a single bulb, and already have a small patch of this vigorous snowdrop, so it will be a keeper.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
From A Far Island... Hepatica Insularis
Spring has finally found Iowa... or vice versa. This morning the clouds are almost scraping the far ridge, there is thunder rumbling intermittently to the west, and much to the deer herd's relief the grass is greening up; they've already been up the hill twice today to see if it's growing yet. The cardinals are having a running courtship dance back and forth through the trees and brush; it's really more a free-for-all than a dance. A few days ago I could count on my fingers how many different flowers were blooming in the garden; this morning there are probably a hundred varieties, and in a week there will be double that.
I was supposed to drive out east to a woodland nature preserve to help clear brush, but the weather radar shows a blobby all-morning rain moving right down the interstate towards us, so instead I took the camera out to the garden to see what I could find before the rain settles in; the crocuses, in a full palette of sunny colors, tempted me, but instead I poked around the rhododendrons, and found this little treasure. This is Hepatica insularis, a rarely seen relative of our native woodland hepaticas. It is endemic to the southern tip of South Korea, and to Cheju Island, which is Korea's largest island, lying rather like the period at the bottom of a question mark. Cheju is an old volcanic island, a spot where temperate and sub-tropical plants come together. One of the treasures of Cheju Island is this little hepatica, which is unique in that it is deciduous in cold climates like ours... our native hepaticas (americana and acutiloba) are essentially evergreen. The flowers of H. insularis are tiny, and white to pale pink. It is the earliest hepatica to bloom, its flowers rising shyly above the dead leaf litter of our Iowa woods. The leaves will come later, and they also are strking, being silver mottled. I'm not sure why hepaticas aren't grown more in our gardens; they are far more popular in Europe and Asia (especially Japan)... they are too subtle, perhaps. There are few plants as care-free and reliable, and even fewer that bring flowers of such jewel-like loveliness to our March garden.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Perhaps I Was Too Harsh
I recently disparaged Helleborus niger a bit by saying that its foliage takes a beating in some of our winters (this spring, with the heavy snow cover, it looked like a large dog had sat on it); the foliage makes a rather poor background for the flowers, but to my mind, the flowers look odd if you cut all the foliage off. I will say, if you give the plant and its flowers a few days in the sun, everything looks better, with the initially white flowers on this plant turning sugar pink (it's one of the Sunset strains of niger)... I may have been too hasty in judgement. However, the Helleborus orientalis types are already starting to open up (two are shown below), in a multitude of colors and patterns, and overall they are better plants here; with the orientalis hellebores, you can cut off all the old foliage, as the new foliage comes out with the flowers.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Galanthus Nivalis
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Four Amigos... Snowdrops
There must be some sound in the garden (perhaps Galomph !), that occurs when everything blooms at once. Every spring here in our Iowa garden is different; this year we had a mild January, so all the early snowdrops started blooming, only to be buried under a foot of snow and assailed by a record-breaking cold February. Now in March, the snow finally melted, and almost all of the snowdrops are in bloom at once... earlies, lates, doubles... they're all blooming. In addition to some named varieties, we've got four different species of galanthus, which I'll show, beginning with Galanthus elwesii. This is the giant or early snowdrop, native to the Balkans and western Turkey. It is indeed early; we had one blooming at Thanksgiving, and most of the rest started blooming in early January, only to be buried under the snow. The giant part takes a while, but after a few years, some of them are eight inches tall. In large clumps, when the warm sun strikes them on a cool morning, they give off an intoxicating, sweet perfume... almost lily-like, which wafts down the honeybee burrows, and wakes them from their winter sleep. The broad-leaved foliage of elwesii (el-wez-ee-eye), is a very distinctive grey-green, and the large flowers typically have two green spots on each inner petal, the lower one shaped like an upside-down heart. This is the best snowdrop for most gardeners; it's very early blooming, it's got a nice perfume, it's indestructible and multiplies fairly well, and it takes more sun and dryness than, say G. nivalis, the other commonly available snowdrop. Because of all these qualities, but especially its earliness of bloom (it's always the first thing to bloom here), it is the single most indispensible flower in our garden; it is not just a neat little plant...it is the beginning of the gardening year.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Cyclamen Coum
Although I've been gardening longer than most of the readers of this page have been breathing, every spring I am surprised when Cyclamen coum starts blooming. The small flower buds just seem to sneak up through the leaf litter, and one day you suddenly notice what looks like numerous bright little sparks of fire floating above the brown leaves. These sparks unfurl their petals, and the flowers gaily dance in the breeze, in shades of color ranging from deep magenta to pink to white. Perhaps part of the surprise is that this plant, native to areas around the Black Sea, survives here, and in fact thrives here. In spite of growing Cyclamen coum for many years, I've somehow never been completely at ease with it; I keep expecting it to disappear. You'd think the little seedlings which appear here and there would be reassuring... I guess I've never entirely been able to separate in my mind, the small, hardy garden cyclamens from the large, overblown hothouse variety. We have, I think, about five different species of cyclamens in the garden now, and I mean to try perhaps two or three others. On a sunny, crisp March day, there are few things finer than getting down on the garden path and looking closely at the perfect little flowers of Cyclamen coum.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Eranthis Pinnatifida
A few days ago I showed Eranthis stellata, and opined that I couldn't imagine a more delicate little flower blooming in the open in our garden... that was before it's cousin from the mountains of Japan, Eranthis pinnatifida, opened its wee blooms. I especially like the metallic-lavender centers of these small, white flowers. The little collarette of greyish green leaves will expand slightly with time, but still, the whole effect is liliputian. It's easy for a diminutive plant like this to get 'lost" in a garden setting; I really need to find a nice, grey rock to place behind it to set it off. The temperatures at night have been down to twenty degrees with heavy frost, so Eranthis pinnatifida is tougher than it looks.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Hello Sunshine... Adonis Amurensis
Perhaps the most striking flower in our very early spring garden is that of Adonis amurensis; a small member of the buttercup family, native to Manchuria and Japan. It blooms in late February to early March here, often blooming when there is still snow on the ground. It is a popular potted plant in Japan, blooming at the Japanese New Year, and numerous named cultivars are available there, including some with reddish-orange petals that look quite startling. Only a handful of varieties seem to be commercially available in this country, with Asiatica offering three types, including one of the reddish varieties (listed at a price as startling as the flower: $90). Adonis amurensis kind of has two looks to it: I like it best when the flowers first peek up through the brown leaf litter, before the plant's foliage opens, as shown above. The flowers are almost green-gold when they first open, and very bright. I walked across the garden to see just from how far away I could still see the glowing little flowers... let's just say it was a lot further than I can throw a rock. The second phase for this plant is when its attractive, ferny foliage opens up, further showing off its yellow flowers. When hot weather hits, adonis quickly goes dormant until next spring.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Galanthus Flore Pleno
Speaking of plants that I have a mixed opinion about, include this little bulb; Galanthus flore pleno, the common double snowdrop. It doesn't have the grace of the single form of Galanthus nivalis, and when seen from above, especially when the flower is partly closed by the cold, it looks somehow like a little lobster claw. But it has a certain jaunty air about it, and if you plant it on a slope so you can see it from below without sprawling in the mud, it is quite endearing. You would think I'd have made up my mind about this plant by now, as I've been growing it for some thirty years; the original little handful of bulbs were planted at my parents' house that long ago, in the lawn right by the driveway. The house is long gone now, but the little snowdrops still come up in the same spot every year, like little white lanterns in the scrub grass by the abandoned driveway. The double snowdrops that are blooming now in my garden this spring are offsets from that original patch...I guess I'll keep them.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Helleborus Niger... Yea Or Nea?
I've never quite made up my mind about Helleborus niger, the Christmas rose. Its very early flowers (late February here) are welcome enough, but the foliage... well, it's usually rather ratty. This year we had a foot of wet snow, which ended up being four inches of ice, so niger (its species name refers to the blackish roots), looks like someone sat on it. The last couple of mild winters were kind to this plant, but this year, not so much. Garden writers tell you to just cut the foliage off, but I think its flowers look kind of goofy when blooming nakedly... some plants can pull that off, and some can't. Still, I'll keep it; all the other flowers blooming in the garden now are tiny... the silver dollar-sized blooms of H. niger are reason enough to give it a spot. I wonder if you can get plastic helleborus foliage?
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Eranthis Stellata... Beyond Delicate
Delicate is a word that can seldom be used in our garden; any plant that remotely fits that description is usually chewed up and spit out by our inclement climate in short order. That is why I am quite beside myself seeing this little darling rising up from the still half-frozen soil to check out spring in Iowa. It was planted last year, a tiny little cluster of grey-green leaves, which on the first hot day promptly disappeared... was it going dormant, or was it D-E-D; one never knows in these cases. So, it's a delight seeing it back and blooming. It's Eranthis stellata; the genus eranthis is in the buttercup family and has eight species, all native to Asia except for Eranthis hyemalis, the only one that is well known to gardeners (it's the winter aconite and native to southern Europe). Even winter aconite is not that often seen, so I am intrigued by reading that it supposedly has naturalised in North America... in fact some claim "widely naturalized". Well, I admit I don't get out enough, but when I think about it, I can't ever remember seeing Eranthis hyemalis in anybody else's garden, let alone taking over a vacant lot. Whether that's because nobody else plants it (you won't find it at Lowe's), or whether it doesn't persist around here, or whether it's just that it's so tiny and transient and early that I haven't seen it, I don't know... I'm usually not invited over for garden tours when there are still patches of snow on the ground, when winter aconite is blooming. In addition to Eranthis hyemalis, one occasionally sees a slightly larger species, Eranthis cilicica offered, and very rarely, at a dear price, one sees Eranthis cilicica X hyemalis (E. Guinea Gold) for sale.
The above picture of Eranthis stellata shows the whole thing: it just puts up a little cluster of reddish stems, each topped by a small collar of greyish-green leaves, with a single tiny white flower in the center. It probably is tougher than it looks, as it is native to S.E. Russia, North Korea, and northern China. It certainly is, however, a delicate looking little treasure... in fact, beyond delicate.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The Best
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
March, And The Death Of An Innocent
Early March this year is bittersweet; last year at this time, we lost the sweetest and most innocent of kittens. Punkin' and her sister P.J. (as we later named them) were the tiniest balls of fluff in the animal shelter, curled up together in the corner of their small cage, while dogs stuffed in numerous other cages, barked all around them. These kittens had not been adopted, because they both had badly infected eyes. Punkin', the smaller of the two, was improving but I knew at best she'd be taken from her sister, and P.J. would be put to sleep. They were so closely bonded, that it wasn't a difficult decision to take the pair home. Both were delightful kittens, but Punkin' was, I'll say without fear of being proven wrong, the sweetest little cat that there ever was. When she wasn't with her sister, she'd follow me everywhere, waiting for me to sit down so she could hop up on my lap and purr. When I'd lay down, she'd crawl up on my chest, and lightly place a single tiny paw on my cheek, then contentedly fall asleep.
The unraveling was subtle at first; Punkin' just didn't seem to grow much, then became a fussy eater and slept more. The diagnosis of Feline Infectious Peritonitis left us heartbroken and helpless, and in two months she was gone, still barely more than a kitten. The last day of Punkin's life, her sister held her tight all day, licking her and snuggling her, not wanting to let her go, but Punkin' took a deep breath, curled her little paws, then relaxed and died.
On a slight knoll overlooking the pond, there is now a large, grey rock in the garden, marking a spot. There is a small plaque on the rock, with a single word on it... Sweetheart.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Even Steven In The Garden
One reads all the time about gardeners who have beneficent microclimates for their garden; on the side of a hill, so the cold air all runs off; protected from winds by surrounding bluffs; or sited near a lake which gives cool, moist breezes in the hot summer. Well, nature doesn't like imbalances... most upsides have a downside, and everything tends to even out in the end. Our garden lies in a small, south-facing valley... protected by a slight ridge on the north, we are a bit milder in the winter, with the worst of the north wind being blocked off, and we stay warmer later in the fall, both because of the protection and because a large pond lies at the bottom of the valley, which doesn't freeze over sometimes until January. However, while this means I can grow, for example, elepidote (large-leaved) rhododendrons, it also means their leaves get cooked by the winter sun. I bring up this topic of evening out, because right now is the top of the downside for us (if that makes sense): all around us, in the open fields, the snow is essentially gone... birds are chirping, boys are flying kites, and folks are washing their cars in the driveway. Here in our valley, there is still snow on the sides of the valley under the trees, and the pond is still frozen, so it's rather like sitting in a styrofoam cooler with a block of ice. So, for gardening microclimates, it's pretty much Even Steven for most folks in the midwest, at least... there is no free lunch.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Mud Skating
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Snow Bees
I heard the sound as soon as I let myself in through the garden gate this morning; a rising and lowering hum... the sound of hundreds of bees, busily grazing the large patches of snowdrops that have opened their sweetly perfumed bells in the warm March sunshine. The earth is still frozen solid except for a slippery skin of mud, so how these busy little buzzers get out of their burrows, and how they find my snowdrops, is a nice little mystery to ponder. This is the first truly pleasant day that we've had, and I would suspect that this early there is not another flower blooming within a square mile of our garden. The bees must send out a few scouts on the first inkling of a warm day, and they report back if they find anything... I can imagine the excitement today when the scouts flew back, covered with snowdrop pollen. Our bees here are therefore a priviliged bunch; I've not, however, noted any particular gratitude on their part on those occasions when I've accidentally dug into one of their nests. What a fine sight it is, though, to see them on an early March morning, burying themselves in the pale flowers of the snowdrops, when patches of snow still lie all about... they are snow bees.
Friday, March 09, 2007
A Shakedown Day
After a brutal February (the eighth coldest since they started keeping records here 135 years ago), we've finally started warming up. It may be a weekend pass, rather than a pardon, as the last two Marches have seen heavy snowstorms in the middle of the month. Still, it's nice seeing our snowcover melting, and gurgling down the ravines to the pond below. Nature seemed to be having a shakedown cruise today to get ready for spring: the deer shambled down the hill, looking like they'd just gotten out of bed and hadn't brushed their hair yet. They hoped to scrounge a little grass from the back yard, but our small tabby and white cat was sitting there on the retaining wall, with her back to the yard, looking out over the valley that she considers her domain. As the deer silently came up behind her, they startled her, and she wheeled around with her tail up... the deer scattered in an instant, going four different directions, leaping over fences and shrubs as they went. I was admiring the cat's bravery, when I heard the cat door bang, and she flew up the stairs to the upstair's landing... it was a draw, I guess.
I put on my jacket and headed out to the garden, and spent an hour picking up some of the thousands of branches and twigs that had fallen on the garden beds and paths in the recent ice storms. The birds were just getting tuned up today, checking in one by one... first the cardinals, of course; then the chickadees whistling their bittersweet spring call, and the tufted titmice lofting their liquid Peter Peter from the tops of the tall cottonwoods. Finally, the Carolina wren chimed in, with its call of Teakettle Teakettle Teakettle, floating out of the deep ravine. It is not truly spring; the ground is still frozen solid, and slippery with ice melt, but as Swinburne once penned:
The hounds of spring are on winter's traces.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
A Beautiful Day For A Funeral...
The purpose of our recent trip to Hot Springs was to attend the funeral of my wife's Uncle Dick. His demise was startlingly sudden: he was a strong, vigorous man who left us just as if one day a door had opened, he walked through, it closed and he was gone. The day of his burial was warm and shiningly clear... a beautiful day for a funeral. If this comment seems odd, let me explain: before my retirement from medicine, one of the biggest joys for me was caring for, and getting to know, the plain, bare-bones midwesterners who made up the bulk of my medical practice. Stoic and unassuming in good times, when facing hopeless illness and their demise they became almost noble; accepting and at peace with the path that lay before them. I will always remember a man I saw on consultation one dark November; a man I diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer. He had not had an easy life, and was rather alone in the world. After his diagnosis and his fate sank in, he told me that he understood his lot, and didn't resent it, but that he only hoped that he would last until spring, because he just didn't want to die in winter. As a fellow midwesterner, having lived through many gloomy winters, I immediately understood how he felt, and nodded my head. He had stripped all of the dreams and frills from his life, and got down to the essentials: his one humble wish was that he might survive long enough to be buried on a bright, warm spring day, ringing with birdsong and redolent with the smell of mown grass and dark, wet earth. This man was from a small town some distance away, and I never had the opportunity to see him again or learn if his wish was granted him. I know Uncle Dick, who in his final few days chatted with each family member about old memories they shared, and then calmly discussed practical matters that needed to be taken care of after he died... I know that he was glad that he'd be buried on a soft spring day, with the bluebirds that he loved, singing all around... a beautiful day for a funeral.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
We Tour Garvan Gardens In Winter
Anyway, one day we buzzed over to Garvan Gardens, a nice little botanical garden in Hot Springs that is on a peninsula overlooking Lake Hamilton. There wasn't a terrific amount of stuff blooming yet, but it was quite scenic (actually, as a botanical garden it seems somewhat underplanted... whether this is by design or by slow progress, I'm not sure... maybe they just need to come see my jam-packed garden, though they just might go back and dig some stuff up after they tour my place). I knew I wasn't going to find a lot of flowers when I didn't see a single gardener walking around with a potted plant, looking for a place to plant it. Still, the magnolias were nice, a fair number of daffodols were blooming, and it was a glorious, warm day. The highlights of the garden are surely the water features; above a full moon bridge.
The water features include many waterfalls, which splashed and gurgled down the hills to Lake hamilton.
Quite a few critters were seen; above some nice koi looking for a handout, below water striders.
The camellias at Garvan Gardens were still blooming, and a nice sight for a (jealous) northener to see.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Microsoft Vista... Wow Is Right!
Well, I have Microsoft's new OS, Vista, on my new computer. According to Bill Gates, with Vista, "The Wow is now!" He's right: Wow... my computer just crashed again! I've been creaking along on my old computer for some time with an essentially full hard disk. I made the mistake of getting a p.c. with only 40 GB of hard disk space last time; at the time it seemed to be plenty (after all, my previous computer, a Mac, had only 8 GB). However, 50 jillion digital pictures later, my last computer was full; I kept having to remove stuff to keep it working... sort of like throwing stuff overboard to keep a lifeboat from sinking. I wanted to keep it going until the new operating systems came out this year. I originally thought to switch back to a Mac, but decided I didn't want to wait until April or May for the new mac OS, Leopard, and since my last computer was a p.c. and I wanted it to be easy to move everything over from it, I decided to go with another p.c. and the new Vista OS. What a mistake! Vista is the most frustrating, incompatible, non-intuitive, inexplicable, intrusive, unstable piece of crap that MS has ever foisted on an unsuspecting public (and that's saying a lot)! My two year old printer turns out to be incompatible, and essentially all of my software. Even the "compatible" software was a major pain to get installed, and doesn't work completely right. I've already crashed the computer about ten times. I've heard the computer repair shops are expecting a boom in business from people destroying their hard drives by crashing their computers all the time. Running Vista is so frustrating and time consuming; a constant barrage of popups asking me if I really want to do what I'm doing... phony security, like frisking little old ladies at the airport. How Microsoft could release this p.o.c. at this level of functionality, and before software and peripheral manufacturers have caught up with compatibility issues, is beyond me. WOW... Why Own Windows... my next computer will be a Mac!
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Rhododendron Olga Mezitt
Since you're already (hopefully) taking my advice, and trying the hardy primroses I've just posted about, you'll want a nice shrub to plant them under, to give them a little shade; a shrub that likes loose, moist soil just like the primroses. May I suggest rhododendron Olga Mezitt (sometimes just labelled as "Olga")? It is from the same background as the famous PJM, being a later cross of R. minus Carolinianum X dauricum, and was hybridized by the same nursery (Weston). It blooms just as PJM is going over, so carries on the season, and is less likely to have its flowers damaged by a hard freeze. Like PJM, it has wonderfully winter-persistent foliage, being more bright green during the growing season, and taking on bronzy tones in the fall. It's a little more upright, and I think is a heavier bloomer in partial shade than PJM. The real attraction, though is its bright pink flowers (they have rusty red spots in the throat). It's a more complementary color than PJM's mauve flowers, yet is actually even brighter, drawing attention from clear across the garden. I don't know about New England; it may be widely overplanted there, but here in Iowa you rarely see it, while PJM is everywhere. Olga gets about five ft. tall, and I also grew it in a previous zone 4 garden. Your garden wants Olga!
