Sky’s The Limit

It was recently calculated (but not by me) that my little back garden is all of 882 square feet.
After 20 years of gardening here, methodically covering every inch of that 882 square feet, with moisture and light now robbed by mature trees and shrubs, this past year I became intensely interested in vines. It is a gardening cliche, but where square footage imposes horizontal limits, think vertical.

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In addition to the above Dicentra scandens for shade, smaller passifloras are being trialed for sun, like this P. sanguinolenta.

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Another group of vines catching my attention are the asarinas, in white, purple, pink.

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Cobaea scandens, a shameless tart for the camera, like the asarina is theoretically perennial in my zone 10, and I just noted fresh buds forming in the wake of a recent downpour while I was away for a week in NYC. I really hate missing a good downpour. The bicoastal tradeoff was, while it poured at home in Southern California, NYC stayed dry and comfortable, perfect walking weather.

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Thunbergias are also snagging my ever wandering attention. I have no photos of the one bloom of a new peachy Thunbergia alata I planted this summer, but I mention them here as an example of a plant that I must have somehow suppressed inquiry into way back, at a time when I was imprudently skipping over anything blooming in orangey/golden yellow. The longer I garden, the more I value the flexibility to recognize the worth of the plants that want to grow where I live, whatever their color. Thunbergia is just such a vine, so I’m planning to include lots more. (For those with an aversion to strident yellows and oranges, your time has come, with new colors appearing every year in peachier tones.) Ducking in for a haircut just before leaving town, I noted the salon’s thunbergia vines in large concrete planters were still blooming lustily, a nonstop, year-round performance of egg yolk-yellow flowers, with only haphazard care from one of the stylists. With color prejudices cast aside, thunbergia offers up some thrilling vines, including the tropical T. mysorensis.

Along with cobaea, thunbergia, and asarina are other valuable vines, annual in zones colder than mine, like Mina lobata and Dolichos lablab of the amazing purple pods and equally amazing name, like a character out of Doctor Dolittle, right alongside Gub-Gub, Dab-Dab, Chee-Chee, and Too-Too (pig, duck, monkey, owl, respectively).

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No luck at all the past couple summers with Eccremocarpus scaber, which flourishes in Northern California, as does Rhodochiton atrosanguineum, which drapes and arranges its blossoms of purple parasols in the most enchanting configurations. Manettia cordifolia arrived in the fall order (from Plant Delights), along with a golden jasmine. Next summer, for pole beans, it will be ‘Trionfo Violetto.’ I may even bring back another Antigonon leptosus, the coral vine I grew years ago. No more sappy dreams of clematis though. Yes, they can be grown in zone 10, but not by me, except for my little winter-flowering C. cirrhosa. And vines don’t necessarily have to climb. They are just as happy meandering along the ground, infiltrating horizontally, or spilling out of pots, where the little firecracker vine, manettia, was planted a few weeks ago.

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Lastly, the timeless grape, Vitis vinifera ‘Purpurea’ has been with me a long time, its curtains a brilliant backdrop for other vines and pots of summer tropicals.

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Nerine sarniensis

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(Followup to Nerinomania.)

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Salvia ‘Limelight’

I certainly don’t have a garden large enough to include a 6×6 fall-bloomer like Salvia mexicana ‘Limelight.’

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And I don’t think there’s an affordable pot in existence roomy enough for a mature plant, except maybe the humble trash can. (On my budget anyway.)

The salvia flowers well in morning sun, filtered sun the rest of the day. During winter, full sun is tolerated, which this salvia receives positioned under a deciduous cotinus. As the seasonal light changes, it’s a simple matter of grabbing a handle and shoving it around to find the best light. Pruning it back hard in spring is also a good time for root pruning, basically running a knife a couple inches from the outer edge of the root ball, in situ in the trash can, removing the old roots, and adding fresh potting soil or even pure compost. This salvia loves rich soil. Eventually, it will be best to take cuttings and start the whole process over, since these big salvias get excessively woody with age.

I admit to feeling occasionally silly employing such goofy tricks, especially during spring when there’s this big, hulking trash can full of a dormant plant to maneuver around. That feeling of foolishness evaporates as soon as this salvia finally hits its stride, when everything else is winding down. The leaves are nothing special, but they are a rich green and not bothered or chewed on by any pests, so it does contribute a luxuriant leafiness even when not in bloom. Once in full bloom, you can’t stand in admiration of this salvia for longer than a minute before a hummingbird darts in, causing the branches to bob and sway by its diminutive turbulence.

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Other salvias reputed to be good fall/winter bloomers for Southern California include Salvia iodantha, wagneriana, madrensis, macrophylla, karwinskii, all which make very large plants. Obviously prime candidates for trash can culture.

If trash can chic is not to your taste, careful placement of summer pots offers possibilities for concealment. I’m thinking my brugmansia’s next home may be in the trash.

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Nerinomania

I went on a treasure hunt for a half-forgotten bulb in the front gravel garden in early fall, Crinum ‘Sangria.’ I was certain it was in there somewhere.

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That’s when I noticed the new green tips of the nerines piercing through a sea of gravel. Spring is full of such miracles. When they happen in fall, it makes one gasp out loud.

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Yet the crinum remained elusive. Brushing lyme grass out of the way, sure enough, the crinum was buried under Pelargonium sideroides and withering away from lack of light.
(If I could remember where I subsequetly planted the crinum bulb, I’d have a photo of that instead of the pelargonium.)

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Which has always been the problem for me with the “other bulbs,” these late summer-blooming bulbs of the amaryllidaceae family: Remembering where I’ve planted them. These bulbs, including crosses like amerines and amarcrinums, were born to thrive in my zone 10, winter wet/summer dry gravel garden, but I’ve been too slow or stubborn, or both, to catch on. For starters, any plant that hates to be disturbed is going to have a difficult time with the incessant renovations taking place in my garden. Pot culture is required by gardeners in zones too cold to grow these bulb outdoors, and that method may provide a solution for me as well, as counter-intuitive as it may seem. (Plus I hate having to mess with lots of little pots.) In my defense, I have never seen these bulbs grown locally, or even offered by local nurseries for sale.

To finish the poor crinum saga, I pulled it out roughly by its pseudostem. With this kind of treatment for a bulb famous for resenting disturbance, I can kiss off seeing a flower from that bulb for, oh, five years. Maybe forever. Sigh. I didn’t really expect it to flower anyway. I’m a firm believer that if you don’t commit, really commit body and soul to a plant, it just will not grow for you. And making a commitment to properly site these summer-blooming members of the amaryllidaceae family where they won’t be swamped by other plants has always been my weakness.

I’m fairly sure I moved the crinum somewhere in the vicinity of the nerines that Matt Mattus of Growing With Plants mailed to me last year in a remarkable gesture of horticultural generosity, in a sunny spot as close to no-disturbance as I can muster. I’m wildly excited about the prospect of seeing Matt’s nerines bloom. The wonders he produces in a Massachusetts greenhouse put me to shame here in mild zone 10.

Upon discovering them in growth in late August, I had carefully marked the site of the dozen or so Nerine sarniensis with blue glass so I didn’t inadvertently stomp on them and began to water them.
(Providing a dry spot for such bulbs has never been an issue. This area was dead dry.)

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On September 27, the flower bud forms, backlit by blazing morning sun, another day over 100 degrees.

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And today, the flower bud just about to open:

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And wouldn’t you know, I’m leaving town for a week on Wednesday. Hurry up, nerine!

In the meantime, here’s a 2006 post by Matt on his nerines, as well as a recent post on nerines from The Exotic Garden Blog.

Warm thanks again to Matt for the gift of nerines. I definitely won’t forget them.

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Dishing with the Girlfriends

You didn’t really expect we’d be discussing the latest Manolo Blahniks, did you?

Below is the transcribed conversation of a group of cyber garden pals on the topic of various approaches to overwintering tropicals. All but me garden in a zone colder than 7.

Deanne: So who stores all their Colocasias/alocasias dormant and who keeps them in the green? Curious minds and all that. I lost my ‘Hilo Beauty’ the last time I tried to keep it dormant over winter so think I’ll keep that one under lights this year. What about ‘Mojito’? That one looks like it might make it dormant???? Any thoughts?

Sue: The best success I’ve had is with them semi dormant — in the dark but slightly growing. I’ve also had a couple make it dormant, but that was just luck, I think. The heavier the leaf, the easier they seem to be to winter over.

Eden: I’ve always kept mine under lights and they’ve done great. This year I have too many that are too large to do that. I’m going the semi-dormant route with those. I’ve been doing a bit of research, and that seems to be the way most gardeners go with them. Doesn’t seem that very many have luck with letting them go totally dormant.

Drema: I keep mine under lights. Sometimes they get scraggly but perk up fairly quickly in the spring. I have had the ‘Hilo Beauty’ for three years, and it is under lights in the far corner, not really direct light. It does fade like the caladiums, then shows back up after being outside a while. I think I am going to be more diligent this year to see if I can keep it going. I am a little haphazard...

Saucydog: I overwintered ‘Illustris’ in its pot. It didn’t break dormancy until late June, though. Somewhere I saw a good article on the subject. I’ll see if I can find it.

This is the article I had bookmarked, but I’ll bet you’ve already seen this.

Deanne: Thanks for the input, everyone, and Saucy for that link. I was just curious as to whether you all kept them growing or tried dormant. I’ve had great luck with the big, green C. esculenta going totally dormant but none of the others. I’ve saved my ‘Illustris’ and ‘Yellow Splash’ by keeping them under the lights with only one or two leaves on them. I keep pruning the leaves off as they make new ones because these plants seem to be magnets for spider mites. Some sites say they can be dormant, but I talked with Steve Silk at M&L’s garden tour, and he said he keeps them dormant but in their original pots, not digging them out. I tried that with ‘Black Magic’ a couple years back and lost it, so I’m thinking I’m going to go the lights route and see how it goes. Sue, I’m interested to see how you winter over that Portadora….

Clemmie: I’m avid with interest but going to let you experts all figure it out — will be interesting to take a survey in the spring to see how they all do.

Saucydog: I’ve got an Alocasia “Borneo Giant” (at least that’s what I can tell from googling – I bought it from Mahoney’s without a tag) and I’m going to try to overwinter it as a houseplant – it’s 6 ft. tall! I’m thinking cool bright light.

That’s how I overwintered ‘Illustris,’ Deanne: kept it in it’s pot and just put it in the cool dark basement. When Nick carried all the pots out into the sunlight, I didn’t have a chance to get to that pot right away and I was surprised at what popped up.

Deanne: Holy cow, Saucy, that plant is giganticenormous! I found this on google when I wanted to see what it looked like:

“My experience of overwintering is that they are best kept going, as if they go dormant are more difficult to restart than Colocasia and take a full season to regain their original sized leaves. Keep above dormancy temperature at 5C plus keeping on the dry side. If the leaves show signs of wilting, water from the bottom, standing the pot in a shallow dish of water for a minute or two.”

Saucydog: It’s a pretty fabulous plant, competing for the banana’s spotlight. I think I read that same information, so I’m thinking I’ll try it in a sunny window in my bedroom (which is cooler than the rest of the house).

Deanne: So do you all cut off all the leaves even if you are going to keep them growing?

Saucydog: I’m going to do what I did with the smaller varieties of bananas – remove a few leaves, but other than that, just grow it as a houseplant. I had great success with M. ‘Cavendish’ and M. ‘Siam Ruby.’ It seems to me they have the same habits, so I’m going to try!

AGO/Denise: Can’t add much to this discussion among you experts at overwintering but will say that I let my ‘Lime Zinger’ xanthosoma go dormant, tip the pots on its side, no water all winter, but outdoors in shade. I don’t see this tropical much anymore — maybe it’s trouble to overwinter? It shared a pot with ‘Illustris,’ which has disappeared — just doesn’t return with the same treatment given the LZ. Wondering what to do now for my ‘Mojito’ too…

Deanne: Saucy, thanks for the input. Denise, I’m so jealous of your Lime Zinger! For some reason, I’ve killed one of that and two X. Chartreuse Giant. I think the Xanthosomas don’t want as much water as the Colocasias. I’ve wanted ‘Lime Zinger’ since I saw these stupendous specimens at Longwood Gardens several years ago. They were huge and gorgeous. Sue has one of her profile pics taken under one of those plants.

M: E. sent me some ‘Illustris’ a number of years ago. I’m pretty sure she let them go dormant in moist hamster bedding. I’ve kept them going under lights, but this year I have a couple of huge specimens that I potted up smaller pieces of and put the largest piece, dirt and all, in a trash bag with moist hamster bedding. Who knows what will happen? But it was worth a try.

Drema: I stored ‘Lime Zinger’ both ways, and the one that was kept in its pot under lights and watered regularly bounced back much faster than the one in the corner with minimal light and water. I still don’t have one that is as big as the ones we saw at Longwood, but I am not as diligent about water, food, etc. And I think they sort of grow to fit the size of pot they are in. I have noticed the same cultivar side by side grows bigger in bigger pots.

Deanne: Drema, I’m jealous you’ve kept ‘Lime Zinger’ alive! I’ve killed it and am going to give up on the Xanthosomas.

M: Looking forward to hearing the results of what you’re doing…

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On the Evening of October 3, 2010

A single brugmansia bloom dangled while Evie groomed. The rest of the unopened buds were jettisoned in response to high temperatures.

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That same evening, the ‘Siam Ruby’ banana unfurled an enormous solar panel, daring the sun to do its worst.

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The banana lost its dare. On the afternoon of October 4, 2010, it began to lightly rain, the first in, oh, six months or so. After a fitful start, on October 6 a proper rainstorm strode into town, rolled up its sleeves, and got down to business.

A cold chronology of dates can’t convey the sweet relief that first rainfall provides. When those long-awaited drops begin to penetrate the soil, some project always presents itself that can’t be delayed and must be accomplished now. Really just an excuse to experience water again falling from the sky and not out the end of a hose, to feel the warm drops on the skin, the hair, squishing into the shoes.

Yesterday, as the skies filled with clouds swollen with impending rain, it seemed a good time to consolidate a bunch of summer-accumulated pots into one gigantic pot vacated by a large sotol.
So in went Fuchsia ‘Hawkshead,’ an enormous pelargonium, two begonias, a golden-leaved jasmine, and the eggplant-colored pseuderanthemum ‘Black Varnish,’ almost 3-feet tall.
As the rain morphs from mist to big splashy drops, I shake my head like a dog to get the wet hair out of my face and go grab more compost. Soil falls onto the wet bricks and creates a muddy slurry, and even as I work I marvel at the glorious mess the rain and I have created in under 10 minutes. A couple lily bulbs are thrown into the pot for good measure. The rain is here, so once again everything is possible.

After the empty pots and shovels are cleared away, the clouds really let loose, and I head for the shower. The rain-soaked pot of xanthosoma which I’ve moved umpteen times all summer now won’t budge an inch and will probably remain in this spot before retiring for its winter snooze, sometime in November. The banana will be pleased with the forecasted temps into the 90s this weekend, but I’m looking forward to my next play date with the rain.

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Mediterranean Zone 10, averaging 15 inches of rainfall per year.

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San Marcos Growers Field Day

Around town, wedged into narrow strips of land under gigantic transmission towers emitting EMF radiation, can be seen rows and rows of plant stock being grown.

But I’ve never seen local plant stock approach the desirability displayed in the photos MB Maher took at San Marcos Growers recent Field Day held on October 1.

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But then those nurseries lack the unerring eye for great plants that exemplifies San Marcos Growers.

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Continue reading

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Jeffrey Bale’s Permeable Road to Paradise

Is it just me, or has all subtlety been suddenly drained from the world? All sense of nuance seems lost. (In addition to lethargy, extreme heat occasionally brings on irritable, sweeping generalizations.) Here in Southern California, record cool temps all summer abruptly spiked into, you guessed it, record high temps the week of the Pacific Horticulture event, “Gardening Under Mediterranean Skies VIII.” In the days just prior, enthusiasm and excitement trickled away drop by salty drop with every uptick in degree, 100, 101, 102, 103, ultimately achieving 113 degrees at USC in downtown Los Angeles, where the official civic thermometer resides.

Enthusiasm for the long-awaited symposium itself never waned, of course. The event was being held at the LA Arboretum, in the foothills only 30 miles away, but always at least 10 degrees hotter than where I am at the coast. As the heat wave progressed, 10 degrees’ difference was beginning to loom as very significant math.

Okay. Just one speaker. If I narrowed it down to just one must-see speaker, who would it be? That’s impossible. Okay. Two speakers. I could always forego the bus tour of local gardens held after the speakers each day, which would tour gardens like Sue Dadd and James Griffith’s Folly Bowl.

MB Maher attended the opening Thursday and provided a glimpse of the garden delights ahead.

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Of course, it had to be Jeffrey Bale on Saturday and Marcia Donahue on Sunday. Amongst the list of stellar speakers, these were two I had yet to see. I had first seen Bale’s pebble mosaic work at a 2008 tour of Lucy Hardiman’s garden in Portland, a small “prayer rug” in her hellstrip, was floored to see a modern revival of pebble mosaics, and have been tracking his career ever since.

After Saturday in the foothills, I opted not to return to see Marcia Donahue on Sunday. I’ll just have to make another trip to the wonderfully cool, foggy Bay Area to attend one of her open garden Sundays. I have to confess, it wasn’t only the heat that did me in. I was spooked, seriously intimidated by the hortilati, the stars in my rarefied galaxy, such as Robin Parer of Geraniaceae. Keeyla Meadows wandered amongst the booths, smiling beatifically, and at his booth John Greenlee vociferously expounded on the beauty of Arundo donax ‘Golden Chain,’ (a plant I just tucked into my garden today, ordered several weeks ago from Plant Delights). Debra Prinzig inquired as to which tour bus I would be joining. Blogging less than a year, I felt sure the press pass hanging around my neck branded me, at best, a cheeky upstart, at worst, an impostor. What an odd, completely unexpected reaction I has having.

Upon arriving, I rushed up to Robin Parer’s booth to inquire if she was selling ‘Salome,’ a geranium I’ve grown and lost several times and, standing before her, was struck freakishly mute. No Latin or common names could be summoned, just lots of nervous hand flapping. Robin, taking me for a rank punter, began to gently advise of the difference between true pelargoniums and herbaceous geraniums, assuming what I was after were probably lipstick red pelargoniums for a lone windowbox. Another customer came to claim her attention, and I slunk away, shamed to the core. Three minutes later, botanical Latin flooded back, and I was able to get a complete question out. No, Robin wasn’t carrying ‘Salome’ today and would not sell it in any case to someone in Southern California because of its poor performance here. I made a small purchase from Robin then headed to the auditorium to find a seat, but was still seriously rattled by my Harpo Marx routine at her booth. (I described it to my husband later that night, to which he rejoined, “So you were piss shy.” Ah, the art of brevity.)

In the auditorium, all nervousness subsided when I joined an audience that oohed and laughed and whispered in astonishment at exactly the same moments, like one giant, delighted organism, in response to Bale’s lecture and slide show of his work. Permeability is on his mind, and breaking up our water-sloughing driveways to transform them into grander, more porous and creative entrances to our gardens. We need to rent concrete saws on the weekend for $200 and get busy. This whippet-lean man inhabits a world that’s a blank canvas waiting to be mosaiced and pebbled and freed from the mundane and utilitarian, to be infused with personal symbology, where designs inspired by Miro swirl underfoot. His mortared-in mosaic work is always surrounded by permeable paving. Examples of ancient permeable paths still serviceable today flickered across the screen, his own photos of Rome’s Villa Borghese, the Boboli in Florence, the Granada in Spain. Bales is a prodigious traveler, exploring the world’s cultures through their poetics of stone, returning dozens of times to South America and Asia. Gravel for surfacing gets high approval, especially when there are cost constraints, as does getting prone in gardens, whether for lounging, bathing, or sleeping. Sitting in a chair is way too formal of a garden encounter for Bale, an unapologetic sybarite who favors layering throw rugs on seating areas in summer. His book on sale after the talk, “The Gardens of Jeffrey Bale,” is full of details than can be adapted on a smaller scale for possibly less energetic stonemasons.

In a New York Times profile published in December 2009, Bale stated of his work, “‘I feel that the designs should have meaning and trigger consciousness.” Elsewhere Bale has stated his intention is “to manifest an Earthly and Heavenly paradise through the gardens that I build.”

In autumn of 2009, MB Maher photographed some of Jeffrey Bale’s design work in the Pacific Northwest.

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After Bale’s talk, I ventured out into the arboretum and shared some shade with a peacock under trees near the cactus and succulent garden. Puya mirabilis’s lime green flowers were just beginning to bloom. The habit of this puya is similar to dierama, tall, arching and elegant, but takes up very little space when not in bloom, perfect for my gravel garden. Sitting quietly with my peacock friend, I watched wedding planners set up chairs on a lawn in 105-degree heat and reflected on how the brick-on-sand path running through my gravel garden could use a bit of inlaid detail. And about the driveway, when the weather cools off, anything is possible…

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Not At Home

When home during summer (in our non-air-conditioned home), I hang out on the cool east side of the house, religiously sweeping this small patio clean and smooth to receive scorched, bare feet, occasionally laying down rugs for the corgi and cats, bringing a sliver of the reading material that piles up in the house, maybe a Peroni (if it’s after 4 o’clock.) The tile was left over from a friend’s DIY project and laid down decades ago, now badly in need of updating. This east side of the house was a no-go zone when we moved in 22 years ago, with massive oleanders pressing against the windows of the house, their girth reaching to the property line, filling this entire area that is now the patio. That Dutch door is where I head every morning with a cup of coffee to spy on to see what the neighborhood is up to. I defend this space like a cornered badger. Construction materials, rowing machines, bicycles materialize from time to time, but the offending space invader is immediately carried off the premises. And then I sweep again. In another life, I would be the sweeper of libraries, late at night. A little reading, a little sweeping…whisk, whisk.

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But I’m rarely at home for the moment. Hope to be back here soon.

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Ironweed

Autumn is a time to dream of American prairies, shoulder high with the blooms of plants bearing the names of forgotten explorers.
Right alongside the list of places I’ve yet to visit is the list of plants I’ve yet to see, such as vernonia, named for English botanist William Vernon.

(V. altiissima, angustifolia, arkansana, baldwinii, crinita, fasciculata, flexuosa, gerberiformis, glabra, karaguensis, Melleri, missurica, noveboracensis and no doubt others.)

An American prairie plant, member of the asteracea, blooming in fall. “Habitats include upland areas of dry prairies, hill prairies, glades, openings in upland forests, thinly wooded rocky slopes, pastures, abandoned fields, areas along railroads, and miscellaneous waste areas.” Looks like purple ageratum in photos. Although British landscape architect Russell Page famously dismissed perennials as so much “colored hay,” the English tried mightily, and still do, along with now the German and Dutch, to marry the classical garden style with the informal use of soft-stemmed flowering perennials, many of them from North American prairies.

Some of us just can’t get enough of the colored hay.

(photo from The Telegraph)

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And sometimes a poem can convey much more than a photo.

Ironweed by Robert Morgan

There is a shade of purple in
this flower near summer’s end that makes
you proud to be alive in such
a world, and thrilled to know the gift
of sight. It seems a color sent
from memory or dream. In fields,
along old trails, at pasture edge,
the ironweed bares its vivid tint,
profoundest violet, a note
from farthest star and deepest time,
the glow of sacred royalty
and timbre of eternity
right here beside a dried-up stream
.

published in the Atlantic June 2010

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