E-Garden Almanac

Plant Driven: Southwest Iowa & Virginia Iris

2009-06-01T22:32:00.000-07:00

Nine days and counting before the Ozarks trip...

So I just couldn't help but satisfy the itch to check out some native plants by tromping about my local haunts over the weekend. Of particular interest this time of year in nearby swamps and wet prairie remnants is Iowa's only native iris--the Virginia iris (Iris virginica). I've collected a number of forms over the years; a handful of the best are still under evaluation including a few petite forms that totter in around 20" tall.

My quick foray on Sunday night turned up some neat forms and even a few tetraploids (I'm guessing). Ploidy level (the number of sets of chromsomes an organism has for you non-geeky readers) can be difficult to gauge in plants without a little microscopic examination. But a few tell-tale signs include larger flowers, foliage, and increased nectary production (ie-smells more)--all things I discovered on my trek. Check out the flower size relative to my hand!

Now look at the flower size from a "typical" population (dad's hand used for comparison).

What's the big deal about tetraploidy? It equates to double the genetic information! That means bigger flowers with more space to display color, heftier plants with coarser texture, and more opportunities to shake up the genetic sandbag. That's a plant breeder talking! Even though I don't have a serious breeding interest in them, I think that a great many more forms and varieties should be available to the gardening public. Stay tuned!

But the Virginia irises weren't the only plants catching my eye. It just so happens that early June marks the peak bloom season of the prairie phlox (Phlox pilosa), a sorely underappreciated phlox with remarkable tolerances to the host of diseases that plague so many of the traditional varieties. Low-growing and with medium-textured foliage (not as coarse as P. paniculata or as fine as P. subulata), prairie phlox boasts charming clusters of firey pink blooms that can literally stop traffic. It's easy to grow too and goes great with dwarf irises, heucheras, and shorter ornamental grasses (like Molinia, Festuca, and Sporobolus). If those grasses sound enticing, stay tuned for more about them this summer! :)

My traveling companion for the evening was Dee Rankin, neighbor, dear friend, and biology teacher at a local high school. We stopped by an oak savannah cemetery that we've kept an eye on for nearly seven or eight years. In that time we've watched a stand of Michigan's lily (Lilium michiganense, a previously profiled, awesomelatudinous plant that you should ALL be growing) struggle to find its niche in a limited environment. In the wild, Michigan's lily prefers a marginal habitat between open grasslands and shade. Get the shade too dense and they won't bloom. But put them in the wide open and they'll cower to the ground. Though they sound finicky, they really are just particular and in the garden seem best suited in part shade (I've grown a handsome clump now for at least six seasons). All this aside, Dee and I were elated to discover the most seedlings we've ever seen, probably 20 or 30 scattered in a number of directions from the "original clump". A few will bloom this year but most look to be second or third year plants, which will really start to put on a show in their fourth year. How exciting to watch the pendulum of nature swing to and fro.

Catching up: plant profiles, irises, etc.

2009-05-29T22:38:00.001-07:00

So I'm playing catch up tonight. As I've noted countless times in the history of this blog, the gardening season fills me with all sorts of ideas to write about. I just lack the time (and the ambition some nights) to set fingers to keys and share them. I'll give you my best this summer, simply because too many things warrant sharing. The garden is insistent!

I've got several plants that you should hear about in the next few weeks (remember my Ozarks trip soon too!) All are rock star performers for the Midwest and qualify as "zone-worthy" by any account. In fact so much so that I've talked Iowa Gardening into letting me yammer on about them in print starting next year in a new column called.....ZoneWorthy! A trial run appeared in the Spring 2009 issue. But with only four issues a year, I'd need about 16 lifetimes to scratch the surface on the cool stuff worth talking about. So that's where the blog comes in! ;)

Irises. While feeling the gladness of May each year, I'm totally immersed in irises. Check out Rainbow Iris Farm if you haven't already. Also watch for me on Twitter (absolute, up-to-the-minute notices from the farm, garden, and my frazzled mind on most days of the week). But even if you don't tweet or follow twitter, you can check out Rainbow Iris Farm's Twitpic feed 24-7 at this link. It's a fast, free, and easily accessed way to check out photos of what's in bloom at the farm and in the garden. I'll post pics throughout the season, even after the irises have long stopped. It'll be like a roll call of fun plants in the garden all summer!

And last but not least....tell your friends about the E-Garden Almanac! I enjoy hearing from readers (either in person or via email) though I still feel slightly embarrassed considering the array of "raw and unedited" material that fills these pages. But let's just consider this little forum a chat between gardeners (one sane=you and one a little overzealous=me).

Weeding is Therapy

2009-05-29T22:22:00.000-07:00

Despite the grudge I hold against vicious weeds like dandelions and white clover, I don't mind the occasional therapy borne of happily plucking off their tops and tossing them to the wind.

Mind you it's a chore and often one I don't have time for in the first place. But the older I've gotten, the more I've come to respect the wisdom of weeding as a sort of humble activity that thoughtful minds take up as an occupation of time. When I weed, I think. I think about the plants that surround me, like the spiderworts which have happily colonized a corner of the rock garden. As I untangle chickweed from my pink-flowering prickly pear (Opuntia polyacantha), I dream of what its blossoms will look like in maiden glory in my garden in just a few weeks. As I move on down the limestone wall near a raucous mound of catchflies (Silene), I think beyond the summer through the fall and into next spring, planning for a garden I don't even know yet. Gardens (weeds and all) are immutable life forms, growing and blooming with a rhythm of the season. The perception of that rhythm qualifies any of us to tend earthly space.

So despite the bucket of fluffy dandelions seed heads and three- and four-parted clover leaves sitting in the yard, my time spent weeding equates to much needed mental therapy, that escape that only happens amid flowers and bees. And when I need a little thinking time again, I'm sure a few weeds will be waiting for me.

Shooting Stars: Not the Galactic Kind

2009-05-03T21:13:00.000-07:00

I never was big on watching the skies as a kid. Sure I stayed up and froze my butt off one December morning around 4:00 AM as I watched the Leonids trek across the sky (actually burning up in the atmosphere on their wayward traverse of the universe), but that was for extra credit.

But I've always been fascinated with shooting stars, just not the galactic kind. Members of the Primulaceae, the primrose family, the 14 species of the genus Dodecatheon qualify as some of the coolest damn plants alive. Seriously, who can beat petite, pendulous, pointy flowers with colorfully vibrant and reflexed petals? Plus they aren't so small that you need a magnifying glass.

I'm up to six or seven species with a few cultivars thrown in the mix for fun. They're perfect (absolutely perfect) companions for miniature dwarf and standard dwarf bearded irises. They bloom together and light up that garden with an ephemeral energy not possessed by anything else in the rock garden. The cultivar pictured above is a hybrid of unknown origins called 'Aphrodite'. Discovered in the Netherlands in 1990, its flowers are larger than most clones of any of the species in the trade. Let's put it this way--hybrid shooting stars don't happen every day!

Even with so few species in the genus, most haven't been grown in gardens or evaluated horticulturally. Names like D. frigidum (Latin for "damn cold" referring to its native home of Alaska and Siberia) and D. conjugans (Latin for....let's not even go there) top my list, though in southwest Iowa I doubt I can keep them all happy. All plants won't do well in all places, you know. But just because I can't grow all the shooting stars doesn't mean I'll stop reaching for them.

News from the Garden: the loosestrife wars

2009-05-02T14:58:00.000-07:00

It seems like I blog less when it's gardening season, ironic (or maybe not) for a gardening blog. But boy do I have news to share today. The garden is thoroughly alive and in a place or two, at war. Yes, that's right--at war.

I suppose the loosestrife wars began long before I ever had the notion to start amassing my favorite Lysimachia. I know what some of you are thinking, "oh that silly boy, he's gone and planted those weedy loosestrifes and now they run amuck." Au contraire! In fact the loosestrife are on my side.

The loosestrife wars began with the installation of Saponaria officinalis, the common bouncing bet found naturalized in road ditches from Bedford to Philadelphia. It was purely innocent. A young, bright-eyed gardener took pity on the semi-double pink blossoms that attracted sphinx moths and hummingbirds and lifted them from their rocky homes along the road. Up to the garden he came, toting a shovel full to plant inside the cement square frame of a long-gone outhouse in the backyard. That was 1997.

Since that idiotic lapse of conscience and morality, the cement square has fallen apart, another bed built around it, and the bouncing bet happily overrunning everything in sight. It forms a mat of perilous darkness over the ground, snuffing out weed seeds and anything else keen to germinate in its midst. Why I didn't completely remove it when I constructed that new bed, I'll never know. It's royal looking in mid-July, don't get me wrong. Butterflies, sphinx moths, bees, and hummingbirds adore me. Then it goes to seed--jet black beds spurned from hell itself.

So rather than continue the futile resistance, I elicited the help of my friends in the genus Lysimachia. Calling on their fortune, I planted the following: L. atropurpurea 'Beaujolais' and L. ciliata 'Firecracker'. One of each and neither far from the edge of the soapwort. They'll establish, sleep a bit, creep more, and then leap with fervor into the soapwort's domain (at least I hope). Let the battle begin. This is what you call a duel to the death.

What will I do with the situation should the loosestrife conquer? Move onto the less than obedient plants, Physostegia virginiana.

Twitter in the tulips!

2009-04-13T17:51:00.001-07:00

Join Rainbow Iris Farm on Twitter! You can add us with handle @rainbowirisfarm. We'll keep you posted with updates to the website, new things in bloom at the farm, and other quick little tidbits to keep your iris appetite whet. Should be fun!

Vernal Moments

2009-04-13T17:10:00.000-07:00

After a sunny, warm weekend with highs near 65, April showers lowered temperatures to well below normal today. The thermometer settled near a chilly 41, with dampness and breeze making it feel colder yet. But on the advance of spring, which assuredly continues in the face of such seasonal shortcomings, I have this to offer:

Don't you always find spring the most paradoxical of times? I lust for the growing season but by the same mind ponder the ruinous state of my yard. Limbs and debris scattered here and there. The spot where my dogs lounged all winter. The crusty, brown remains of my Chamaecyparis. All of this adds up to foulness in my head despite the joyous throng of Corydalis solida that sings in redness near a coincidentally red fence. Even the sunny faces of my favorite daffodil 'Mary Gay Lirette' don't contrast enough with the abundant mud which sullies my optimism.

Yet this very feeling of unrest and dismay defines the moment of the season. It's in this bleak and thankfully fleeting window of time that I learn the most about my garden--what's hardy and what's not, or what's well-sited and what isn't. In slogging through water-clogged soils and pulling back leafy layers, I admire these august ephemerals for the tick of time they last. Though on grey and cloudy days, like today, my mood grows dim, tomorrow something else tiny but not trivial will open until successionally an ode to growing things is born. Piece by piece in spite of those elements of days that make me weary, my love for the garden will grow exponentially.

Here are a few from the vernal tribe that keep my hopes aflame:

From top to bottom: (Narcissus 'Mary Gay Lirette', Muscari latifolium, Corydalis solida, Helleborus Mellow Yellow Strain)

Plant Driven: Central Iowa

2009-03-21T19:42:00.000-07:00

I think it goes without saying that I'm plant driven. Some would say driven to the point of madness, but then they really don't know many plantsmen then do they?

As alluded to in my last post, I'm going to start blogging about my plant hunting experiences. At my core (root, haha horticultural pun), I'm a plant explorer and a plantsman. In search of new plants to thrive in American gardens, I along with my fellow hortiholics Josh Schultes and Elizabeth Childs will embark upon a number of little expeditions this growing season including a June trip to the Ozarks. I want to use these opportunities to extol the virtues of native plants. Maybe you already grow some that we'll see. Maybe not. At any rate my goal is to expose you to the joys of wandering wild lands and the bounteous rewards that our native lands hold for gardens.

The first such installment of Plant Drive happened this past weekend during a spell of fabulous early spring weather here in Central Iowa. About a week ago I caught word of blooming Trillium nivale (pronounced ni-valley), the snow trillium, at a nearby wildlife preserve. Sojourn our cadre did on Saturday and Sunday in search of this and other bijou ephemerals, the harbingers of spring.

We spent Saturday hiking around without much success. Several hepaticas (Hepatica nobilis, formerly H. acutiloba) were budded and showing off some fabulous foliar variegation, but alas no blossoms. We stumbled upon an expansive outcrop of ferns including maidenhair fern (Adiantum pedatum), walking fern (Asplenium rhizophyllum), and bluntlobe woodsia (Woodsia obtusa). We'll revisit this site nestled among the cliff faces and sandstone outcrops this summer. We did find a few evergreen specimens of maidenhair fern, something fairly unusual as far as ferns in this part of the world go.

Sunday yield the most rewards. We found extensive swaths of snow trillium, perky little hepaticas popping out from the leaf litter, and even some of the first claytonias (Claytonia virginica).

The ephemerals get a bad rap it seems from high-browed muckety mucks who pompously proclaim that greenlings that small have no place in gardens--they'll be overlooked. Who's doing the overlooking I wonder? The flowers of spring offer gardeners more gladness than their size might suggest. Indeed that gladness was our motivation.

Check out a geeky little video from our adventure:

Something to be said about first...

2009-03-15T16:16:00.000-07:00

In much of Zone 4/5 you'll be pressed to find many things in bloom on March 15 (beware the ides of March!) Maybe some hellebores in sheltered or southern locales or some snowdrops too. But the first woody plant to come into bloom across much of the region is vernal witchhazel (Hamamelis vernalis). I've always been fond of this ephemeral, which often blooms through cold snaps and snows abiding by its evolutionary programming.

Vernal witchhazel is native to the Ozarks of southern Missouri and northern Arkansas, a relict of the last glacial advance which left a number of species stranded on top of a rising plateau. Many believe the species formerly occupied a much broader range but succumbed to a changing climate.

My mention of this early garden darling doesn't come unplanned though. This summer I'm taking the E-Garden Almanac on the road to the Ozarks with fellow plant nerds Josh and Elizabeth on a five-day horticultural exploration. We're in search of shrubs like vernal witchhazel (which we'll collect scionwood of), Indian cherry (Rhamnus caroliniana) and deerberry (Vaccinium stamineum). Vines are also on the docket including yellow passionflower (Passiflora lutea) and climbing milkweed (Matelea decipiens). But the star finds of the trip will hopefully be new horticultural accessions of Missouri orange coneflower (Rudbeckia missouriensis), Bush's skullcap (Scutellaria bushii), downy skullcap (Scutellaria incana), and redring milkweed (Ascelpias variegata). The Ozarks are a botanical wonderland uncharted for horticultural potential. We'll post daily journal entries and video blog posts (via YouTube) of our progress, adventures, finds, and general silliness. Plant nerds know how to have fun!

Stay tuned for other summer explorations in the garden and the wild beyond!

We in thought will join your throng!

2009-03-12T16:57:00.001-07:00

The most pleasant aspects of this interim period between winter and spring come in the form of everyday things. Longer days, sunshine that seems brighter, sunsets that seem more vivid, and air that, though begrudgingly, becomes warmer.

But pleasant introductions aside, Iowa seems to be following the trend of milder climates so far: spring sags behind the normal clock. Friends in the Pacific Northwest continue to get snow (as do we!) and tell me that instead of hellebores and reticulated irises in bloom, like normal, the snowdrops have just begun. Only a seer could offer a far-sighted guess as to what the next few weeks will hold. But I suppose the reassuring comfort is that something profound will definitely happen.

I recently came across a poem, albeit in the form of a song, that I'd like to share excerpts from. By William Wordsworth (what a killer name for a poet), the nine-stanza ode called "Intimations of Immortality" contain in them a number of springly themes. The poem itself is deeply philosophical and if you'd like to wade through it all click here.

What I'm taken with:

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
...
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

The idea strikes me as a resounding affirmation of what I've long held true, that gardeners are vernal people. But our soulful cultivation of the earth is hardly ephemeral. Even in the depths of a bitterly cold and icy winter, we feel stirring inside the gladness of the May. So today when I was sweeping off my deck, watching robins and finches graze unabashedly on a few remaining crabapples, I felt joy in the smallest of ways. It was a chilly 29 degrees today and the only green I saw was the crushed end of a Mountain Dew bottle in the last snow bank of the season. Still, those birds flew about unbothered even taking a few dips in a muddy puddle in the driveway. Though Wordsworth is right, nothing can bring back the hours of joy in the garden amongst green things, that shouldn't prevent us from joining the throng in thought at least.

Nashvillian Adventures

2009-03-03T20:48:00.000-08:00

Long fed up with winter in the Midwest, I took leave a few weeks back for Nashville, TN and the PLANT Winter Seminar featuring plantsman extraordinaire Dan Hinkley. I could effuse about how wonderful the weather was, the company, Dan's lecture, my hosts, and all the food, but I'd rather like to inspire your winter weary minds with a few shots of what will surely come in the next few weeks.

Hellebores might as well be called queens of the winter garden, royal as they are this time of year in colors black to white. I've become quite a hellebore snob lately, as has my friend and Nashville-based garden designer Troy Marden. Check out what he just wrote about our favorite winter perennials on his blog. Here are a few favorites taken at Bill Hewitt's nursery where my friend Marty (pictured above) works.

Another cool find at Hewitt's was this new mondo grass from Bluebird Nursery called 'Sparkler' (Ophiopogon japonicus 'Sparkler' PPAF). Look at those rad blue berries! Wow! Definitely need to put my hands on some of these this spring. Harlan Hamernick does it again!

The PLANT seminar was held at the Cheekwood Botanical Gardens and Art Museum. Troy and I skipped lunch and traipsed around the property checking out things like Chimonanthus praecox and Edgeworthia chrysantha (pictured below), plants I'd only read and dreamed about but had never seen. Winter gardens in the Midwest, as many of you know, consist of lots of snow and the remaining seed heads that peak through. Oh and conifers too. That's about it. In Zone 7, a winter garden actually contains blooming plants!

My visit was made ever better by my stay with dear friends Leann and Jay Barron, who also grow a fabulous winter garden. Even in spite of heavy rainfall on the Thursday night of my stay, the garden looked fetching. Hellebores cropped up on the south side of the house. A lovely Spiraea 'Ogon' (pictured below) flowered off the porch. And perhaps best of all, though surely regarded as commonplace by those who can grow them, were the bountiful clusters of red berries hanging from Nandina (pictured below).

On a final non-plant note, if you're ever around Nashville and looking for some great southern cuisine, you should definitely check in on the Loveless Cafe at the Loveless Motel. Fabulous, fattening, and filling southern foods await including fried chicken, country ham, and their world-famous biscuits (pictured below) courtesy of the biscuit queen Carol Fay. Even if you can't make it to the restaurant in-person, you can order their delicious food products online (see link above).

Thanks to Fort Dodge!

2009-03-08T21:10:00.000-07:00

My thanks to the 120+ gardeners that turned out on a cold, wet day yesterday for my lecture at the Fort Dodge Area Gardeners' Spring Seminar. What a great group of energetic and spirited folks! You inspired me with your smiles, ideas, and thoughts of spring.

Thanks also to Hans Madsen at the Fort Dodge Messenger for writing this article about the event. I really believe that the more people see and hear about gardening, the more it will become a habit of our society instead of just a hobby.

Best wishes to this fine group of green thumbs on future conferences and endeavors!

The Great Garden Shed Clean-up

2009-02-22T20:39:00.000-08:00

In a month as notoriously gray as February, I click through old photos on my computer of past garden seasons attempting to whet my insatiable appetite for the season in which I was born. Regardless of what the calendar says, March 1 is the ceremonial beginning of spring in my mind. The wool overcoat heads for the closet, the sunglasses come out, and my mind shifts gears with hopes that the weather and everyone else will cooperate.

But while I'm still dreaming, I thought it might be fun to share something of an annual tradition in our garden, the Great Garden Shed Clean-up. It usually happens around the first of June. The photos here are from the 2008 event. Over the years it's taken on a variety of forms, from all-family event to solo performance. 2008 was a solo year for yours truly.

I'm sure many of you have a similar shed, packed to the brim with things that you absolutely need, tools you always use, and mysterious treasures that couldn't possibly be yours. Luckily I've got three other family members to blame those on. But I'll confess, most of the junk that accumulates in our dear old shed each season comes from dear old Kelly's projects. Antique garden implements. Pots, pots, pots. Rakes and shovels and trowels and hoes and buckets and strange "thingys". So without further adieu, I present in pictures (with appropriate captions) the Great Garden Shed Clean-up.

Before: No, this shot has not been stylized for this photo shoot. Large crates and superfluous boxes removed prior to taking photo to evidence size of shed and depth of junk.

During #1: Note number of participants, size of mess, and required dump truck.

During #2: I live by the motto "He who dies with the most pots, wins!"

During #3: Note newcomer at very right and bare shelves (progress).

After: You might keep too much stuff if you need a dump truck to haul it away.

In Pursuit of My Sissinghurst

2009-01-25T21:00:00.000-08:00

A recent conversation with a colleague prompted me to think about how I make gardens, present and future. A wise person told me once to find inspiration in everything, to seek it out in whatever was around, and borrow what you could make off with your eyes.

I guess Pam Duthie often says "steal with your eyes". The world is full of ideas all waiting to be spun in a thousand new ways, particularly so in the making of gardens. That's why I don't feel too ashamed looking back through the writings of William Robinson, Gertrude Jekyll, and Vita Sackville-West, all saints in the canon of garden manor writers of the early 20th century. Of the three, Robinson probably writes the best. Jekyll certainly wins when it comes to original ideas. But Vita trumps all because she collated her predecessors' ideas into a living legacy known as Sissinghurst.

But don't think for a minute that I'm starry eyed with thoughts of my own English garden. Sissinghurst, while obviously a beloved paragon, represents much more than just a collection of progressive ideas of its heyday. It was the culmination of Vita's gardening life, something she wrote about many times. While Sissinghurst was the largest garden she and her husband Harold created, her first garden was at Long Barn not far from Sevenoaks in Kent. Since she wasn't a childhood gardener and lacked professional training, Sevenoaks was a studio of sorts and a blank canvas. Vita gardened in a very practical way, something that made her popular with the readers of her weekly gardening column. She advocated experimentation, ruthlessness, serendipity, while all in the confines of an elaborate scheme. She admits that she made many mistakes at Sevenoaks, blunders that could've been avoided with a little more thought and ideas that just didn't quite fall into place. But it was a start, the workings of an expressive drive that would soon mature into its own. When she got to Sissinghurst, it did.

I wish we thought about gardening more like Vita did almost 75 years ago. Why does it have to be so formulaic and complex? Sure we live in a complex world but isn't it complex by nature and default? I'm a horticultural scientist. For me gardening is a way to explore nature, to curiously observe things like genetic diversity and ecology in my own backyard. Those are the things that fascinate me, and I like to think of my garden as my own little plant zoo or a laboratory for my creative expressions. Gardening has no greater context than that which we give it. Your way of gardening is different than mine and your garden probably shows it. But in the midst of drumming up the gardening bandwagon, we've lost a few green-hearted folks, those who just want to be outside amidst something of their own creation. The specifics don't matter so much, though they certainly revere and appreciate them. That's why Sissinghurst is so great. For scholars like me, it's a successful experiment in art and plantsmanship. For gardeners seeking ideas, it's a mother lode of inspirational moments. For people with an affinity for green, it's heaven.

I think if she were alive today, Vita Sackville-West might pen a critical review of horticulture. But what an advocate I imagine she'd be. She'd be a diplomat for the professionals, an envoy to the enthusiast, and a celebrity of great renown just like her garden. Though many may not know her name or even remember the great things she did, the fact that she did them serves as a reminder that when tucking in those annuals in the spring, we're in good company. Gardening is okay.

In the spring, I'll tuck in a few annuals at my Sevenoaks, beds and borders full of mistakes, error, and flaws in judgment. I'm growing some blunders too. My gardens certainly aren't the masterpieces I had in mind, but I grew up in them learning along the way. I'm proud of that, even though I take heed of Vita's ruthlessness as often as I can. I guess my Sissinghurst is still to come.

Resilient Grasses

2009-01-18T13:22:00.001-08:00

I just got back from the Twin Cities earlier this afternoon after spending a very cold couple of days interviewing for graduate school. The drive from Ames to St. Paul transects a number of biomes, beginning with the tallgrass prairie and phasing through the transition from grassland to forest. The area is floristically diverse, historically, and thanks to both state's Departments of Transportation, the roadsides sport a network of restored patches of native prairie grasses and forbs.

But it's now that I appreciate those grasses the most, for their resilience mostly. Amidst snow, ice, and the occasional wrecked car, these fine textured plants hold forth with evolutionary determination to sail in the breeze again. Their roots extend meters into the ground, below that of most plants and the frost layer. Their strategies at thriving, not just surviving, in one of the more turbulent climate zones of the world warrants my admiration as I drive along an otherwise monotonous stretch of highway. Can you honestly imagine views like that above (taken in a prairie at the Lake of Three Fires State Park north of Bedford, Iowa) stretching for miles on end dotted every so often by fireworks of color from summer-blooming forbs? I honestly can't, though the temptation crosses my mind frequently. The very idea of millions of acres stretching endlessly beyond either horizon moves me to do what I can as a gardener to recreate the feelings associated with such an edifying wild place. Gardening in this way becomes not just a means to cultivate plants for aesthetic value but a conduit through which to transmit emotive ideas.

Sounding off...

2009-01-09T19:34:00.000-08:00

If I chimed in last time, I might as well sound off this time. After all, it's a new year, and another rollercoaster year of sense-skewed and long-winded blog posts straight from the noodle.

I couldn't be more excited about 2009, though. I'm going to be all over the map in the next 12 months doing what I love best: looking for plants, looking at plants, writing about plants, talking about plants, and planting a few things of my own in my garden here at Rainbow Farm. I'll share as much of it as I can muster with you. After all, keeping a blog is dreadfully hard work.

I realize of course that it's only January 9, and here in Iowa we've safely got another two months before hope dawns on any horizon. Yet I still ambled about the garden today, pretending to make the rounds as if it were June, inspecting and looking over my greenly subjects. Dwarf conifers are about the only greenly things left though, and even a few of them are showing signs of burning in the wake of bitterly cold temperatures (and more to come). The Chamaecyparis selections that I coddled through the summer thanklessly wither amongst the stones of my rock garden. The hellebores I've collected look pan-fried too.

But a few salient emblems of 2008 hang on, reminders of the bounty, joy, and all the seed I didn't but should've collected. Stiff legumes of Thermopsis montana, the mountain goldenbanner, jut out from behind a snow-smashed clump of bearded irises. The wispy, vase-like seed heads of Solidago drummondii hang over a stone outcropping in the rock garden, probably shedding their hairy cypselas amongst achilleas and centaureas; a confab of Asteraceae indeed. Another aster family perennial around the corner and to the east, the Maximilian sunflower with seven foot tall flower stalks, consumes its garden habitat and sprawls into the lawn, hydrant, and any unassuming passerby. Hollyhock stalks litter the backyard like limbs after a hurricane. 2009 will find the relocation of the hollyhock breeding to a field location, relieving the backyard of the Malvaceous menagerie.

Enjoyably the weather was suitable for my midwinter escapade. Temperatures in the low 50s quickly gave way though to the 20s by night fall. The cycle continues...

Upcoming engagements:
January 20: Lecture at the Iowa Turfgrass Conference on native plants
February 9: Lecture to the Muscatine Garden Club promoting The Iowa Gardener's Travel Guide

Chiming In...

2008-12-17T21:53:00.000-08:00

So I guess I'm doomed to not actually accomplish anything today...I've got two chapters sitting half completed but that hasn't stopped me from cruising around plant websites all day dreaming of spring.

In many parts of the world, Iowa notwithstanding at the moment, there are two versions of winter. Let's call version one "coldness", simply just cold weather that warrants heavy overcoats, mittens, scarves, and the like. The other version is known as winter, where both syllables are stressed begrudingly and contemptuously Winter set in with earnest in Iowa but a few days ago.

And winter gardener comes the e-gardening season. You're reading the E-Garden Almanac after all! Though I've never really embodied the term almanac in my posts, I'll offer below a brief divulgence of my Internet history today in hopes of teasing you the same way I've teased myself all day.

Seneca Hill Perennials (www.senecahillperennials.com) Oh wow. So much fun stuff, so little money. You can blow a $100 in about 10 minutes. That's power shopping gardening style.

Bluestone Perennials (www.bluestoneperennials.com) Ok, nothing spectacular but generous discounts, good quality plants, and most everything comes in a multiple of three. Plus their 2009 catalog flew into my mailbox yesterday and at about 12:30 AM I made a quick run through. My intial selections totaled nearly $375 but I managed to weed out some unnecessary buys (like EVERY Anemone in the catalog) and the total to a more manageable $125.

Odyssey Bulbs (www.odysseybulbs.com) What am I doing looking at a bulb place in December? Getting a head start on NEXT fall's planting regimen. It's never too early to starting thinking about bulbs. Nothing is active on the site to buy but all the photos and descriptions are still up.

And for the last three hours or so I've been combing through the just-released list of the North American Rock Garden Society (www.nargs.org). Sorry, members-only. But membership is cheap and you get access to 25 packets of the seed exchange (and more later if their is a surplus). Shipping costs chalk up to a nominal $15. How can you go wrong? Most of this stuff is golden.

AND since I have yet to plug myself on here (wink, wink), it's only prudent that I mention my first book that came out last month, the Iowa Gardener's Travel Guide. Check it out at www.iowagardenersbook.com. It makes a great Christmas, New Year, or tomorrow gift for the gardener in the family (that includes you). I'll even sign it for you when we run into each other next.

Snowdrops

2007-02-16T16:27:00.000-08:00

Recently I have found myself defending my liking of the Galanthus or the snowdrops to my horticulture major friends. They balk at the minuscule nature of this darling spring ephemeral, dismissing it with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. Though not a "galanthophile", I have come to admire these vestiges of spring really out of a general adoration for anything to offset the doldrums of winter.

Snowdrops certainly are not denizens of color like the crocus of the reticulate irises who follow their display. But snowdrops' persistant, do-or-die attitude says to me that this is a geophyte worth appreciating. In snow or ice, they charge updwards into the sun only to find themselves the first form of plant life in the barren garden. My friends couldn't imagine how something like this would ever be noticed in the garden at such an early time of year. For me, they are a lighted billboard with neon arrows. I abhor snow and winter and come late February am on a careful watch of the soil for anything that will hinder the prolonging of cabin fever. Simple they are with two ranks of modified tepals ("petals" that can't be distinguished and called as "petals", so the botanists play anagrams and create...tepals) coming only in cream and white. But the coolest part is the stains of green that blush to varying degrees the lobes of the tepals. Such intricacy and detail reminds me of hand painted china.

Plus, their diminutive nature forces the gardener to view the world from another perspective. I've found a vignette in my garden that is best viewed lying on my stomach looking at ground level. Can you guess where my snowdrops are?

A Plant to Thrive

2007-07-26T20:17:00.000-07:00

Torrents of rain splash against the worn shingle roof of my Ames apartment. The pleasant, pearly droplets of a summer rainstorm are mild and refreshing. This summer has not afforded me or my garden with this simple pleasure nor has it offered either of us respite from the sweltering heat and humidity for which Iowa summers are known. Bee balms (Monarda didyma) looked great in late June only to be plagued with their arch nemesis: powdery mildew. Early asiatic lilies (Lilium cultivars) showed signs of a promising season ahead but their oriental cousins have been less than enthusiastic. Several strains of my hollyhock (Alcea) breeding program showed remarkable progress early on but have suffered, their thirst not at all quenched. However, in all of this I find that their is one group of plants that routinely live up to all that I come to expect from them.

Sedums are one of my garden's prizes. Truck loads for a summer couldn't haul in all of the species, cultivars, and unnamed variations that abound in this large, cosmopolitan genus. But I'd surely try! I won't even begin to tackle the present taxonomic state of sedums as it is mind-boggling and far from settled. I would surmise that no horticulturist will be racing to change tags anytime soon. Here are a few of my favorites and brief comments on this summer's performance:

'Black Jack'- The purported "king of black sedums" is not my favorite when it comes to colorful richness or intensity. The color is excellent but is reminiscent of gooey, hot fudge glazed with raspberries. It is not shimmering but rather soft and smooth.

'Bon Bon'- Deliciously named and delectably colored. Slicky, glossy foliage seems to magnify the red stems of this would be "black" sedum. But despite its deviance from categorical cognomens, it is still one of the best in terms of growth and performance. Frothy pink blossoms are just the right garnish and have started early this year!

S. cauticola 'Lidakense' (pictured)- Here's a dapper fellow that is fast becoming one of my favorites. A glaucous blue overlays a teal-gray leaf that is shaped like a coin. Irregular pink halos on the leaves abound this roving groundcover as it meanders its way into serrendipitous combinations throughout my rock garden. I've selected a stable version of the pink halo that literally glows in the right light. Watch for more details.

S. apoleipon- Supposedly called something else. I'm happy with it regardless of its name. Fine gray-green foliage of impeccable texture slowly forms a touchable mat in a few seasons. This tiny titan has settled into the crevices of a gravel walkway in my scree garden and delighted us this summer with pinhead-sized, yellow blossoms. Tangibly rewarding too! (Pet your plants.)

I could go on but the list would never be exhaustive and my next stop at my favorite sedum nursery's webpage would turn up half a dozen or so more that I honestly could not be without. Sedums are super easy and collectably enticing. But most importantly, I feel, in the absence of care and oft-perceived "ideal garden conditions" they continue to thrive. I'm thankful for the pitter patter on my roof and hope the storm will swing by my southwest Iowa garden a few hours away. But even if not, my sedums will still be there to greet me when I get home, carefree and wonderful.

The Party in Bakersville

2007-08-11T14:34:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, August 5-6, I had the good fortune of speaking at the Baker Creek Heirloom Summer Garden Show. I was in the company of fellow raconteurs Doug Olson, Wesley Green, Merlyn Neidens, Len Pense, and Andy Thomas. Doug's book Grow Organic is on my desk and I hope to offer a review (along with several other titles I've been reading) in the coming months. He gave a lively lecture on the benefits of gardening organically and his personality surely has to radiate in his book.

But the party in Bakersville was not limited to a barnhouse (literally) speaking venue. Old-time country musicians filled the air with tunes of yesteryear, and the grounds were fittingly adorned with a medley of vendors offering fruits, and vegetables, of their labors. These two days were a welcome respite from the flurry of activity I've found myself in lately. Peace and calm are two hunted adjectives in life but are staples of the atmosphere in Bakersville, the recreated pioneer town at Baker Creek Heirloom Seed Company north of Mansfield, MO. Though warm, the festival was a treat.

So in follow-up to my lectures I offer the following. (Apologies to those who attended for the lateness of this post).

Wandering the Wild Lands

Wow! I had a great time. This was the first opportunity I've had to give this lecture and your attentiveness and engagement made it worthwhile. The handout is posted here. Only yesterday I was given an advanced reading copy of a new book due out in December. If you were interested in the topics I spoke about last Sunday or had your thoughts provoked, this book is for you. This book is delightful! Douglas Tallamy covers many of the same topics that I did on Sunday and does so eloquently and intelligbly. He's a university researcher trained in methods of good science and though I'm not finished with the book I have a feeling we're going to get along just great. The book is called Bringing Nature Home and you can check it out on the publisher's website. It won't be out until December. Christmas gift?

The 20th Century American Garden

My gratitude goes out to the six hearty attendees who beared the heat to listen to the final lecture in the series on Monday. We covered some good ground but a lack of time left us with much uncharted. My advice: keep subscribing (or do so if you haven't) to The Heirloom Gardener. Click here to do so! You'll continue to see my historical profiles in the magazine as well as the other great content that Myrna and staff manage to rangle from crazy garden writers like myself.

Thanks to all for a great party in Bakersville!

Travels Here and There

2007-10-08T20:30:00.001-07:00

It has been a very busy past few weeks and I'm ready to be home for a while. From Sept. 28 through Oct. 2 I was in Oklahoma City for the Garden Writers Association Symposium. The occasion of winning a 2007 Silver Garden Media Award (pictured above) was marked by fellowship with fellow plant fanatics and talented scribblers from across the globe. Our tours took us to some fine gardens in the area as well as culturally significant sites like the OKC Federal Building Memorial and the National Cowboy and Western Museum.

As if a glutton for traveler's punishment, I returned yesterday from another weekend getaway with the ISU Horticulture Club to St. Louis, MO. Blistering heat accompanied our visit to the Missouri Botanic Garden and other culturally interesting sites in the area.

From here to there, my appetitive mind has found some time to wander to thoughts of landscape design, ecology, plant usage, and the human spirit of horticulture; otherwise known as the usual table fare. In the next few autumnal weeks of our gardening season I'll share these with you. We truly live in a great world filled with rigorous, yet fulfilling challenges. The realm of horticulture shall not be excluded! Here are a few tidbits to whet your reader's appetite:

Gardening with Generation X/Y
Landscaping with ecological goodness
The autumnal garden
Ornamental grasses

Lust: In the form of hardy pampas grass

2007-11-04T20:16:00.000-08:00

If I were to write a horticultural series on the seven deadly sins, I'd start it with an entry on lust: in the form of hardy pampas grass. So, as Monty Python would quip, "then we'll begin"...

I helped move my best friend to Denison, IA this weekend. As we familiarized ourselves with his new home, our travels took us through a quiet and aesthetically charming suburb at the north edge of town. Poking along at 25 mph gives a person ample time to evaluate and remark on the fine points of each landscape (though your friend may not relish in this undertaking). As we rambled around another loop in the road my eyes fell upon something which I shouldn't have seen. At first I took it to be an apparition, a mere participle to my fantasizing. But it wasn't. It was a living, thriving clump of hardy pampas grass, Cortaderia selloana.

This plant is the fuel for my wanderlust to travel to Argentina. Can you imagine the pampas of Argentina and its pampas grass? But this far-fetched mental voyage has been quickly voided by cautious naysayers who've decried the plant's ineptitude in our harsh winters. But here in Denison, IA (a colder Zone 4/5 than my garden) a handsome tussock was found growing in an alcove of conifers, unfettered by a night of bitter, frost-warranting temperatures. I once again have inspiration to try.

Cortaderia selloana is frequently listed as cold hardy to only Zones 6 or 7. In the south the plant thrives in abundance often verging on weedy. The raucous agglomeration of finely textured foliage is quite satisfying until the frothy plumes pinnacle its achievement in late summer and early fall. It's also a grass that is choreless. Don't bother mowing it down or chopping it back in the spring; time and band-aids conserved. Who is chopping it back on the Argentinian pampas? But if you must, you may though if you're going to do it you should only manage so with a long handled scythe. Allan Armitage offers it praise when he says "The ugliest, trash-strewn, treeless yard can be made almost inviting when the magnificent plumes proudly rise above the light green foliage." Indeed!

Many cultivars are available to the gardener who needs more than one (me!). 'Pumila' is a dwarf selection only attaining a height of 3-4', perfect for the urban landscape that is simply to small for an otherwise skyscraping proportion. 'Carnea' is a pink-flowered selection. Can you say cotton candy? 'Silver Stripe' sports a silver stripe (as horticulturists we tend to get really creative with names sometimes) along the margins of the needle-like leaf blades. Taller selections tend to work well for creating formidable barriers and property lines. Smaller ones can replace trifle hedges at the foundation of the house or other building.

Fleeting visages of fall

2007-11-19T13:31:00.000-08:00

From Bedford:

Miniature dwarf iris 'Trimmed Velvet' pops through the fading blossoms of Gaillardia 'Goblin'.

Ornamental kale with riveting color thanks to the cooler nights.

A early (yes, early) surprise this afternoon was this Helleborus argutifolius. I was out checking on floral bud development on the hellebores and it's going to be an exciting winter garden in a few months! Lots of little buds ready to flower up a storm!

Fleeting visages of fall: part 2

2007-11-20T14:48:00.000-08:00

From Bedford:
Today was a lesson in yellow. Here's part two of fleeting visages with a decided emphasis on the bounty of a protracted fall season.

A cultivar of Weigela florida (possibly 'Courtalor') showing remarkable fall color for a weigela. In 9 years I have never seen the color this clear or intense.

Though often avoided because of its roving tendencies, Lysimachia clethroides is a favorite plant of mine, especially for its fall color. Ours is planted in a drier location and thus usually doesn't develop phenomenal fall color like it would if it were planted on a wetter site. While I'd love to have the rich red, amber, and orange mix, I'll settle for this rusty yellow blend instead.

In a garden I found serendipity! Who'd of thought that the fading foliage of this Lilium cultivar would produce such an alarming display of gold?

Hail to Helianthus

2007-11-22T21:58:00.000-08:00

I love sunflowers. But the best thing about sunflowers is that they aren't just annuals. In fact many members of the genus Helianthus are perennial natives to the Great Plains and thereabouts. One favorite of mine from this throng of prairie stars is Helianthus maximiliani or the Maximilian sunflower.

Maximilian sunflower owes its name to German Prince Maximilian of Wied-Neuwied who traversed the American West in the 1830s. No doubt the German prince-explorer, or his botanist-in-tow, found this stout perennial growing throughout the Upper Midwest. The species' range covers much of the central and eastern United States and thrives in a variety of conditions from dry prairies to mesic uplands and wet lowlands. Its durability is a point of paramount significance. Rhizomatous as well, the plants are long-lived and will happily form small colonies warranting envy from all your gardening friends.

In my garden Maximilian sunflower takes advantage of a porous, evenly moist soil on the east side of the house. In fact it grows only three feet from the hydrant, ensuring a steady supply of moisture. But it certainly doesn't need this pampering and were I to reinstall it, I'd recommend against it. It's plush lifestyle leads to exuberance nearly cumbersome to its situation. Helianthus maximiliani can easily attain 10' in height and this year probably came darn close. In drier climes, or more in more strenuous settings, it might also come in at 6'. I imagine many gardeners are keen on staking it but I've been known to let it flop about (see photo above).

This hulking mammoth makes a handsome structural plant in the border throughout the summer often towering over much of the garden as it grows to blooming height. Then the fun starts. In early to mid-September a graceful bevy of gold begins to shower over the bed making the plant a fitting companion to other late blooming perennials like lespedeza, vernonia, and aster. The flowers offer a choice nectar banquet for migrating butterflies and other insects. Almost as fun are the green remnants of the flowers, actually leaf-like structures called phyllaries. The starry, fibrous structures precede the flowers as well, unassuming co-stars in this autumnal garden performance.

Maximilian sunflower is quite hardy, Zones 4-10. I only know of two cultivars available both of which were released for conservation use. 'Aztec' and 'Prairie Gold' are reportedly available from commercial seed sources, though I've never seen them offered ornamentally. Seed and nursery liners of the species, however, can be found from native plant nurseries.