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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Some Agaves and Aloes

From a recent visit to the Huntington Desert Garden. I was quite excited to see the blue-leaved form of Agave attenuata. There’s some discussion on the nomenclature of this foxtail agave from San Marcos Growers, which indicates there’s varieties with differing degrees of blueness, but this one would fulfill all my blue needs. No visible label in the garden, but this colony of foxtail agaves would seem to be the ‘Huntington Blue’ San Marcos refers to.

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Agave schidigera ‘Durango Delight’

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An Agave victoriae-reginae before bloom.

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And another after.

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I was most interested this visit in checking out moderate-sized aloes that grow in a single stemless rosette. Hopefully, the photos and identification notes correspond correctly.

Aloe aculeata, South Africa, zone 9-10.

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Aloe berhana, Ethiopia.

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Aloe chabaudii.

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Blooms of Aloe sinkatana, described by the HBG as “one of the most useful small landscape aloes.”

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(There are currently multiple threads posted this November on the GardenWeb Cacti & Succulents forum like this one and this one, photodocumenting a single astounding collection of aloes that will be a great reference for identification purposes. Really worth a look.)

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Studies in Tetrapanax

Blooms in the classic rosette or composite shape would seem to be selected by many humans as the ideal flower, but gardens throughout the seasons reveal a much more complicated diversity of inflorescence.

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Though it may not cause one to reflexively reach for a vase and shears, in morning light the otherworldly tetrapanax blooms conjure galactic explosions, crystalline comet tails, smoky nebulae. And I’m generally not one to rob the garden much for vases anyway.

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(I see tetrapanax spelled a multitude of ways, but my Hortus Third uses the spelling “papyriferus” rather than, for example, “papyrifera,” so I’m going with the former.
Hortus describes the flowers “in small, globose umbels arranged in large, terminal woolly panicles.” And it lists a cultivar ‘Variegata,’ which does not appear to be widely available. I would think one could retire on the proceeds from selling nothing but variegated tetrapanax, so it must be a beast to propagate. Isn’t that where tissue culture comes in and saves the day?)

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The Montezuma Cypress

Wandering a botanical garden such as the Huntington, one cannot but give thanks to rich industrialists for their interest in botany, whatever their sins. We can only hope the likes of Mark Zuckerberg, Bill Gates, or George Soros will follow in their footsteps.

Thanks to Henry Huntington, I finally made the proper acquaintance of this tree, Taxodium mucronatum, the Montezuma Cypress. I snapped the photo last Saturday as an afterthought, mainly to remember its placement next to the Temple of Love.

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I’ve never found a name tag for this giant, a tree I’ve walked by at the garden many times, and Saturday I overheard the familiar murmuring by those sitting near it or walking its enormous perimeter: “What is it? Do you know its name?” I can and do walk by many trees destined to forever remain anonymous, but any tree that can induce a physical reaction similar to being punched in the stomach deserves to have its name acknowledged. Maybe I’d bump into a docent later on in the day.

For me botanical gardens are increasingly a setting to see trees allowed to unfurl in height and width to their full potential. When such conditions are granted, trees present a face that is both familiar and other. If street trees are tabbies, botanical gardens house the tigers of the arboreal world. This cypress hadn’t been limbed up at all, branches sweeping down to the lawn, ferny dissected leaves within strokable reach.

The Huntington’s excellent bookstore would probably offer a clue, but we didn’t stop there this time, and I never found a docent to ask. And I was sure a quick search on the Internet would quickly churn up a name. This magnificent specimen had to be world famous.

My first guess was metasequoia, but never having met one before I needed confirmation. I started search strings like “metasequoia near Temple of Love.” Nothing. And the images for metasequoia just didn’t fit. “Giant tree Huntington Botanical Temple of Love.” Endless search string variations were tried, all dead ends. I’ve become spoiled, accustomed to having any fact at my keyboard, and being stymied was an exasperating surprise. I did learn that the Temple of Love is of French origin (18th century, Louis XVI period, attributed to Louis Simon Boizot, purchase price $7,824), that Huntington’s railroad fortune included establishing Los Angeles’ first public transportation system, the Red Car, which my great-aunts have such fond memories of, dismantled after WWII to make way for automobiles and freeways (See Who Framed Roger Rabbit?), but no identity for the tree. It was unthinkable that such a patrician of a tree would go nameless.

My head cold made me pretty much unfit for anything else, so I kept up with the search off and on all day yesterday until the name Taxodium mucronatum surfaced, mentioned in a description of the rose garden, which is just adjacent to this tree and the temple. A quick image search confirmed that this might be the answer. Coincidentally, I’d been enjoying reading about the native bald cypress, Taxodium distichum, on southern blogs like Pam’s Digging. I know the Huntington has lost mature oaks to excess irrigation, but this moisture-loving tree must be having no difficulty with the irrigation required for the lawn and nearby rose garden.

It is the girth of the Montezuma cypress that is most remarkable. Many trees easily surpass it in height. From The Ancient Giant of Oaxaca: “The Mexican bald cypress is a member of the Taxodiacea, the family of giant sequoias, California redwoods, and bald cypresses, which, excluding tropical species, has the greatest potential of all tree families for achieving both great age and enormous size.”

I love what the authors write under “Our First Encounter”: “Having seen giant sequoias and redwoods…we were accustomed to the drama of large specimens. However, when engulfed by [its] spreading arms…we experienced a totally different degree of awe, not comparable to anything we had previously encountered. While the big trees of California are majestic, like the skyscrapers of downtown New York they are out of reach. [Here] is an accessible ‘seated giant,’ welcoming us with broad, sweeping branches.”

Without finding a name, I would never have learned that another Taxodium mucronatum, the legendary Cypress-of-Tule known as ‘El Gigante,’ grows in the churchyard of Santa Maria del Tule in the village of Tule, Oaxaca, Mexico, and is estimated to be between 1,500 and 2,000 years of age, considered to be among the oldest and most massive of all living things.

If anyone can verify whether the ID of this tree at the Huntington depicted in the above photo is either correct or incorrect, I’d love to hear from you.
(Epilogue: I called the Huntington this morning and had verification from a botanist in less than a minute. Montezuma Cypress it is.)

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Glasshouse Dreams

With the cold snap on in the western U.S., and the heat temporarily off in our home pending repairs, the Saturday after Thanksgiving found us heading for the warmth of conservatories. Last night’s temp inside the house was 57 (Fahrenheit), so it’s not that cold, but it’s not that comfortable either.

When I stepped through the doors of the Huntington’s conservatory, where their most exquisitely sensitive specimens are housed, it felt as though we were on the heels of Rousseau.

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Henri Rousseau never set foot in a jungle, but he did spend many afternoons in Paris’ botanical gardens and conservatories. He described his frequent visits to the Jardin des Plantes: “When I go into the glass houses and I see the strange plants of exotic lands, it seems to me that I enter into a dream.”

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I usually rush by the cactus tables, but not this time. It was warm inside, so I lingered, circling the tables again and again.

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One Smooth Agave

Not just one but a regiment of smooth agaves, A. desmettiana in bloom, a dynamic but also hauntingly melancholy sight.

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As we agavephiles know all too well, flowering heralds their death, the definition of monocarpic.
I wonder if the Museum of Latin American Art knows that the jig is up on a large percentage of their fairly new landscaping.

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“Smooth” refers to this agave’s lack of barbed leaves, having just the one terminal central spike.

I’ve been watching these blooming agaves at this nearby museum since before summer, scanning for signs of their inevitable descent into decrepitude, which can take up to a year once flowering begins. Knowing their days are numbered, I asked MB Maher to swing by MOLAA earlier in the week to grab some photos while they still radiated vigor, piercing the sky with bloom spikes over 6 feet in height. This landscaping was installed approximately 2007, and the smooth agave blooms after approximately ten years of age, so it seems pretty clear that large, mature agaves were chosen for maximal visual impact. There’s also cactus and aloes, Aloe striata just visible in this photo.

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Due to a pressing pre-holiday workload, I wasn’t able to physically leave the office to gadabout taking photos of agaves in their death spiral, but that doesn’t preclude extended bouts of procrastination at my desk, hitting on nearly every A. desmettiana link in cyberspace. I tumbled into cyber rabbit hole after spider hole after rat hole, found some truly odd home videos people made about their agaves, discovered some astounding Dutch agave porn, but little useful content and much of it contradictory.

But I am now in possession of the following facts (and sharing them makes me less a procrastinator and more a researcher, doesn’t it?):

1) Agaves striata and bracteosa are some of the few agaves that don’t die after flowering. A relief to learn my little A. bracteosa may have a long life still ahead of him. I say may because it’s also reputed to be monocarpic by many sites. (Typical of Internet research, gathering information is like building on quicksand.)

2) Agave desmettiana, one “t,” is the preferred but less widely used spelling, in that the agave is named for Louis De Smet (1813-1887), a Belgian horticulturist and nurseryman.

3) Agave desmettiana cannot be reproduced from seed, only offsets. (On this blog’s All My Agaves post, I erroneously referred to mine as seed-grown, which is how they were labeled at the nursery.)

4) A study on nectar-feeding bats in Colombia found that this agave produced more pollen and 10 times more nectar than other plants visited, so its flowering is a feast for wildlife.

5) A. desmettiana may be an ancient cultivar, possibly derived from A. sisalana or A. kewensis Jacobi (the Flora of North America). Possibly originated in tropical and subtropical Mexico. There are no sightings of this agave in the wild but it has been in cultivation for centuries. The canard persists about all specimens coming from only Pre-Columbian sites. Personally, I’d love to believe Chichen Itza was once studded with this agave.

As moving as this spectacle of dying agaves is, I’m already wondering what they’ll plant in their place. For a replacement, high-impact agave, maybe the salmiana hybrid ‘Mr. Ripple,’ which doesn’t offset too obnoxiously and grows large enough to be effective in this huge space. But it does lack variegation. The variegated americanas, though large, produce way too many offsets. Maybe a variegated attenuata? More procrastinating research is in order to find the perfect landscape agave.

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Veltheimia bracteata

Yes, Joseph, this one will be a slow grower, so settle in.

My system for summer-dormant bulbs is fairly lackadaisical, as in if I’m lucky I just might trip over the pot tucked in an out-of-the-way spot and notice the new green growth. Which is pretty much what happened in early September with this South African bulb, veltheimia, lying above ground all summer in a clump of dry potting soil in the shade. I was jolted into action at the sight of the healthy green tip and promptly repotted the bulb for its winter growth cycle, keeping it above soil level and watering it in thoroughly.

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This is what we’re hoping for, V. bracteata in flower from the Pacific Bulb Society page. Its hyacinth family lineage is easy to see in the shape of its flowers.

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Progress as of today:

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In my zone 10 veltheimia may be semi-dormant and not need complete drying off in summer. If I can bring this one to flower sometime late this winter, I’m going to reward myself with a serious perusal of the Telos Rare Bulb catalogue.

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