Where Was The Sun?

One of those drizzly, grey days where one mumbles phrases from Conan Doyle’s The Musgrave Ritual:

‘Where was the sun?’
‘Over the oak.’
‘Where was the shadow?’
‘Under the elm.’

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Not a bad day to keep to the couch and stream the Granada production with Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes. And if by some unfortunate confluence of events you’ve managed to miss these adventures, you have the whole winter ahead of you to catch up. For the holiday season, you could do no better than starting with The Blue Carbuncle. Fairly soon, you will be thoroughly familiar with every painting, Persian slipper, bookcase, and settee in Holmes and Watson’s sitting room as they are waited on hand-and-foot by Mrs. Hudson, smoke pipes, play violins, administer the occasional 7 percent solution of cocaine, and stare at the fireplace while deciding their course of action before bursting out the doors of 221B Baker Street into the teeming, muddy streets of Victorian England. I can never decide what I envy more, their adventures or a housekeeper like Mrs. Hudson.

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Geared Up

Apart from tools, very little gear is required to garden. It can be done in your bathrobe, coffee cup in one hand, spade in the other.
No special shoes are required. Hats and style of clothing mostly depend on how much sun one feels comfortable taking on board.
Granted, my experience has been confined to zone 10. Very little rain, very little mud — except for one unpaved path leading to the compost bin.

Perhaps this is one of gardening’s basic PR problems. People regard pursuits that require uniforms much more seriously.
I often head out to the garden in the very clothes I wore in a somber conference room earlier the same day. Pretty much, anything goes.

Today all that has changed. Without any further involvement on my part, other than passing my mailing address on to Valerie Easton, my Khombu boots arrived today. With these fleece-lined rubber boots, I instantaneously feel a member of that elite group of gardeners who practice the craft in appropriate and suitably practical footwear.

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My only other piece of gardening uniform has been this jacket, heavy cotton now frayed at the elbows, about to be sent to a local seamstress to be used as a pattern to make another in new fabric. It has large patch pockets for shears and seeds, deep underarm gussets for maximum freedom of movement, and sleeves that can be buttoned to the wrists for repotting agaves or rolled up to the elbows for cooling down. The scarf is just a photo prop serving to hide stains.

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It is a beloved garment many years old. I feel as loftily purposeful in this jacket as Christiane Amanpour setting out to interview heads of state.

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And now with the new boots, I’ve got all the gear I need. Thank you, Plant Talk!

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Phlomis

Phlomis can be such fine plants year-round, with many kinds suited for gardens colder than my zone 10 garden.

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The familiar Jerusalem sage, Phlomis russeliana, is hardy to 0-10F. Mine came labeled as P. aurea, but it’s not showing much of a chartreuse cast to the leaf. Though phlomis are renowned for being sun-lovers, this one is obviously enjoying winter’s cooler temperatures and intermittent rain. With pink flowers, it’s most likely P. italica, which is what I called it in a June Bloom Day post. I appreciate the staying power of the subshrubs. It’s already apparent that the scabiosa in bloom in June are no more, as is the rehmannia, the catanache, the Lysimachia purpurea, and I haven’t planted much to replace them. I pulled the gaillardia to give its spot to a grevillea.
Looks like 2011 is sizing up for a very meager June Bloom Day post.

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Phlomis are tough plants but not without issues. A phlomis grown in the gravel garden in near-xeric conditions collected scale in its leaf axils during the summer but is shrugging them off as summer’s stressed growing conditions recede. And I do think phlomis would prefer better circulation than I give them. Some plants don’t mind tight quarters, but not this one.

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Unnamed Future Garden Project

Yesterday started out great. I won a pair of boots from Plant Talk.
I’m purposely avoiding my typical over-reliance on hyperbole because there are simply no words to adequately describe this event.
Thrilling? Way beyond thrilling. In this case, thrilling is a ridiculously puny word.
In celebration, I hung around at Venice Daily Photo yesterday afternoon and imagined wading in my new boots through the Piazza San Marco this winter.
Not that I’m really going anywhere.

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The middle of the day sagged a bit. My seatmate on the Metro Blue Line, who I assumed, via his unseen phone earpiece, was discussing an annoying co-worker that he’d had “enough of” and wanted to figuratively “slaughter,” was not on the phone at all but staring glassy-eyed into the middle distance of the train and affectlessly recounting what he wanted to do about his disappointment with all humanity.

But the day ended on an upbeat note. Again, I’m resisting hyberbole, such as The day ended on a stupendously deafening note of jubilation.
I’ve blogged before about the lack of inspiring planting displays in my home town. After much hand wringing and procrastination, just two days ago I took a flying leap and wrote this email. I’m leaving off identifying information for the present time until this plan firms up.

Dear ___________,

With Christmas just weeks away…there could not be a more auspicious time for the local horticultural community to ‘gift’ a garden to _____. The long borders that run alongside the sidewalk in front of ______, backed by the brick clinker walls, would be an ideal, high-profile space to display the wonderful range of drought-tolerant plants that can be grown in Long Beach’s unique frost-free, Mediterranean climate.

We may not have $15 million to donate, as the late Frances Brody has bequeathed to the Huntington Botanical Garden, but there is a wealth of local horticultural resources to draw upon in the form of designers, nurserymen, neighborhood groups, and City College horticultural students.

There is incredible momentum building with regard to recognizing the role landscapes play in water conservation, yet there is a sore lack of local display gardens to help the public conceptualize the aesthetic possibilities of a less-thirsty landscape. Orange spears of winter-blooming aloes from South Africa would greet…attendees as they enter…., flanked by the boldly architectural massing of soft-leaved agaves in vivid chartreuse and deep blue. A riches of water-wise plants such as these can only be grown in the celebrated mild climate of coastal Southern California. Planting these borders which are visible from ________ would solidify in the public’s mind ________ identity as not only a destination for cultural and artistic events, but for cutting-edge garden design as well, much as the Robert Irwin-designed garden at the new Getty has become such a popular feature of that museum.”

The recipient of the email wrote back the next day, saying they were “delighted” with this proposal. There may yet be unforeseen details that sink the project, and though it is still the faintest of green lights, for this brief moment I am beyond delighted that they are delighted. More details will be forthcoming as the project matures.

Reading Gardenrant yesterday about the financial woes of the wholesale grower Monrovia, along with the illuminating comments by many in the nursery industry about the truly dire state of affairs, has me convinced that there is no better time than the present to promote gardens, garden designers, and the nursery industry in every way possible — even, as in this case, practicing a form of Guerrilla Gardening Lite, where you ask permission first. Whatever works.

(For more information on the entire Brody bequest to the Huntington Library, Art Collection, and Botanical Gardens, you can read here.)

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Grace’s Technicolor Coat

I’ve been eagerly anticipating the moment when the smoke tree Grace drops her leaves, at which time we have a pruning date scheduled to rein in her exuberance. Planted as 4-inch rooted cutting in the northeast southeast corner, she’s now a tri-yard, multi-trunked tree, and both neighbors on either side have taken saws to her in the last year. So, of course, just to vividly impress me with her irreplaceable charms, the little minx flaunts some amazing colors this year, the best I’ve seen from her.

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This smoke tree is the result of a cross between C. coggyria with our native C. obovatus. C. coggyria is as underperforming for me in zone 10 as Grace is overperforming. I’ve probably written before that fall color in Southern California is a rare commodity, and apart from some blazing, lemony-yellow Ginkgo bilobas a couple streets over, Grace is the only tree on my street putting on such a brassy show.

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Winter Whites

The gift of Solanum marginatum from Dustin opened a chilly-looking bloom yesterday.

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For a solanum from Abyssinia, the White-Edged Nightshade really knows how to dress for winter.

(Labeled from the grower as S. marginata, but my trusty Hortus Third says S. marginatum.
Not many references to its use as an ornamental, but lots of treatises on its pharmaceutical importance.)

And what a handy chart from the USDA on this solanum’s place in the plant hierarchy:

Kingdom Plantae – Plants
Subkingdom Tracheobionta – Vascular plants
Superdivision Spermatophyta – Seed plants
Division Magnoliophyta – Flowering plants
Class Magnoliopsida – Dicotyledons
Subclass Asteridae
Order Solanales
Family Solanaceae – Potato family
Genus Solanum L. – nightshade
Species Solanum marginatum L. f. – purple African nightshade

The USDA considers this plant a noxious weed in California. If I was less urban and more rural, I’d be concerned. Still, I won’t be freely passing seedlings, if any, of this one around in California.

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Winter Sun ‘Variegata’

I never met a variegated leaf I didn’t like, which might be considered the equivalent of a horticulturalist recessive trait, a weakness of character, a penchant for the flashy. In other words, not in the best of taste.

Variegated derives from the past participle of Late Latin variegare , from Latin varius , “various” plus agere , “to do, to make.” To make varied in appearance, as in:

The varied appearance of light in winter is one of the few compensations for miserably shorter days and colder temperatures.”

Variegation in plants is caused by a lack of plastid pigments, which creates that negative space that irresistibly draws my eye, really a barren space where the plant is concerned because no photosynthesis will take place in it, which is why variegated plants are slower in growth. With what amounts to possessing a second edge, no wonder the variegated literally makes a garden “edgier,” more exciting.

x Fatshedera lizei ‘Variegata’

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But variegation is not just limited to center stripes (medio-picta) or marginal striping (marginata). It can include blotches, spots, speckling, two, three or more different colors. I have to admit I’ve so far avoided the spotty kinds like the plague (e.g. Ligularia tussilaginea ˜Aureo-Maculata,’ the Leopard Plant.) They just look plaguey and poxed to me. But never say never where plants are concerned.

Unnamed variegated pelargonium

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Interesting that variegation occurs rarely in nature. It is an anomaly that the plant explorer finds when, wandering lost in a tropical understory, he sits down to read his map and absentmindedly strokes the leaves of the brilliantly variegated gesneriad at his elbow. (In my childish mind’s eye, I always see this adventurous plant collector in pith helmet and khakis. And, yes, he might resemble Tintin just a bit.)

This rarity in nature is why I think the old-fashioned word “gardenesque” applies to variegated plants and justifies their inclusion in a garden as appropriate rather than an abomination: “Partaking of the character of a garden; somewhat resembling a garden or what belongs to a garden.” Variegation could almost stand as a metaphor for the garden in its own right: The natural world mediated by the human hand (for aesthetics, not profit — well, very little profit anyway).

Pelargonium ‘Indian Dunes’

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Particularly in a small garden, they separate and delineate.

Euphorbia ‘Silver Swan’

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No need to fear disease is causing the “broken colors” of variegation. In Ken Druse’s chapter on variegation from his book “The Collector’s Garden,” he quotes a study from Cambridge University where it was found that in “99 percent of the cases, the variegation is not viral. It is chimeral and often very stable.” (Druse goes on to explain that “Chimeras are plants or plant tissues consisting of more than one genetic composition.” I love how the language of science borrows from the mythical.)

Echium fastuosum ‘Star of Madeira’ (Variegated Pride of Madeira aka Echium candicans)

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Sometimes in sowing a batch of seedlings a variegation will arise, and fairly stable seed strains can then be developed, like the ‘Alaska’ nasturtiums that are self-sowing in my garden. Or mature trees or shrubs will spontaneously produce a variegated branch called a sport. The variegated are generally weak growers, but there will always be an outlier. For example, the variegated Daphne x burwoodii ‘Carol Mackie’ is rumored to be a stronger grower than the species. (The growth habits of daphnes will forevermore remain rumors to me. I witnessed the slow death of a mature D. odora once, and that was more than enough torment for me.)

Erysimum linifolium ‘Variegatum,’ variegated wallflower

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The variegated is not to everyone’s taste, and some gardeners have expressed outright loathing. I find the variegated leaf sometimes sublime, occasionally garish perhaps if the garden is loaded too heavily in their favor. But in winter light, I’m always glad for the shimmer of their luminously deviant leaves. (Viva la deviance!) My eyes follow the variegated leaves these brief, dark days in December like a devoted planet loopily tracking the winter sun.

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The Great Corgi Caper

Maybe your local newspaper was following this story. Possibly the breaking Wikileaks news edged it off the front page. Now that Bunny and Peter have been rescued, I can exhale and indulge in some flippancy, but make no mistake, for the two days they were missing, a gloom was cast over our household.

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And the gates were locked ever since the newspaper advised residents to “Be on the lookout for these dogs,” dogs that look a lot like this one.

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Distressed as we were over the lost dogs, we were also worried an overzealous bounty hunter might mistake our Ein for the kidnapped corgis.
(Some of you anime fans may remember our dog’s namesake, the corgi Ein, as the boon canine companion and “data dog” of those interstellar misfits and bounty hunters in Cowboy Bebop.)

We tried to hide the news as best we could, but we could tell he was anxious.

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Sure, his nerves of steel steadied him, but the strain was beginning to crack through that courageously stoic, Buster-Keaton facade.
(Note chew marks on legs.)

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Welcome home, Peter and Bunny, and congratulations to Peter, unfazed by the ordeal, going on to win best in his class at the Los Encinos Kennel Club Dog Show in Long Beach yesterday. Nice fortitude, Peter! And good luck to Peter and Bunny in the AKC/Eukanuba National Championship this weekend.

(Recent purchase of Aloe peglerae doing paperweight duty for the good news “Stolen Dogs Recovered.”)

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Stand down, boy. They’re safe.

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Extraordinary Pots for Extraordinary Plants

I was in the area for work-related business so decided to pay a late-afternoon visit to the California Cactus Center in Pasadena. I’ve had aloes on the brain since visiting the Huntington and wanted to check on the CCC’s aloe selection in small sizes. I also wanted to check on availability of the blue form of Agave attenuata, and was brought around to the back where, saints be praised, a new shipment of five was just being unloaded. Flushed with happiness over finding my quarry so soon, I secured a good specimen then wandered the store and grounds for over an hour. (I did find one small aloe, A. peglerae, stemless, glaucous blue thorny leaves, from South Africa.)

Strolling through the store, I found myself reaching for the camera to record not just their plants but their pottery.
It’s been over a year since I last visited, but I don’t remember the CCC having such an amazing collection of hand-made pottery.

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Potting Up

Real estate may still not be improving much, but in the garden houses are always moving, as with this Agave americana var. medio-picta ‘Alba’ that has been upsized to a new home that can be comfortably inhabited for several years, an amber-glazed beehive pot, trading up from garden-variety terracotta.

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At the base of the pot grows another of the surprising gomphrenas that are trickling in to nurseries without much fanfare, presumably a hybrid of perennial and annual species because they live over year to year here in zone 10. Last year it was ‘Fireworks,’ and this fall it’s ‘Balboa,’ a gomphrena I found under that name, with no other information. Silver, succulent-like leaves are its striking feature. The familiar gomphrena flowers are in a much lighter hue than ‘Fireworks.’ These new gomphrenas don’t provide the floral mass effect of the annual kinds, but they do provide a drought-tolerant display of tiny little supernovas attached to wand-like stems, similar to the bobbing effect of the bottle-brushes of sanguisorbas or the starbursts of astrantias, without the requisite buckets of supplemental irrigation. For someone who enjoys collecting plants, far too many plants, but also likes the challenge of finding ways to best display each plant’s unique characteristics, such see-through plants are invaluable, obscuring no one and adding an architectural vitality and a line-drawing effect that the eye delights in tracing over and over. I gave it the sunniest spot available, something I failed to do with ‘Fireworks,’ which I know can perform beautifully if well sited.

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