Garden Show Road Trip

Can there exist a more potent rite of spring than the garden show road trip?

Can’t think of any offhand. This week’s road trip was up to the San Francisco Flower & Garden Show, continuing through this weekend.

Driving up from Los Angeles, about seven hours, Highway 5 through the Central Valley. On the CD player, Vampire Weekend, interspersed with a couple old novels on audio, The French Lieutenant’s Woman and, yes, Moby Dick. Call me excited, Ishmael.

The West Coast’s main garden shows, the San Francisco and Seattle Northwest Garden Show, gave us a bit of a cliffhanger last year when the current owner called it quits. A buyer finally stepped in, so the relief to garden show junkies was palpable when both shows got the green light for spring 2010. The SF show moved venue out of SF to San Mateo. I went up with photographer MB Maher, whose vastly superior photos are still unprocessed, so this is a sprinkling from my camera. (Edited 3/27/10. See Dirt Du Jour’s post with a slideshow of MB Maher’s photos.) Because previous garden shows always seem to take place in unlit caves, we had picked up some rental lights at Adolph Gasser’s photo equipment shop in SF, but the lights proved to be unnecessary (for a professional anyway), and this year’s venue, though out of the way, was reasonably well-lit.

If there was a theme for the show, it’d be Resistance is Futile. That would be resistance to succulents, which abounded at the show, as exemplified in the giant Borg cube of succulents suspended in a moat by Organic Mechanics in their visual double entendre entitled “The Living Room.” A detail of the cube’s gothic doorway and dining tableau within.

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From the “Salvaged Creole Jazz Courtyard,” a detail of the fountain, very Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil:

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From the same garden, succulents suspended in rebar in a treble and bass motif fence:

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In “Re-Generation ‘The World Without Us,'” I was told the armadillo does double duty as a BBQ when you roll back his armored plate.

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Detail from the same garden, which was a post-apocalyptic-lite vision vastly different from, say, Mad Max or Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Spare and lean, rust and stone, I understand this was the grand prize winner:

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Detail of steps:

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At the other end of the spectrum from spare and lean was the cast concrete wonderland by Keeyla Meadows, “The Habitat Dance with a Red Snake.” At first glance, I assumed it was an homage to Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland, but the program describes it as inspired by the endangered San Francisco Garter Snake. Whatever its inspiration, children will be delighted.

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Typical for garden shows, most of the display gardens seemed intended to demonstrate the contractor’s facility with hardscape for outdoor sitting and eating areas, as in this very traditional treatment:

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Those designers daring to exercise restraint, such as Huettl Landscape Architects, stood out amongst the over-the-top displays. “Via Aqua”:

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I didn’t make it to the vendor booths, since we were there for the preview and the booths weren’t open yet. I would guess the general gardening public will be pleased with the show, the garden cognoscenti possibly less so, but it’s a solid effort by the new owners. Let’s hope the show continues on next year and attracts more of the talented Bay Area garden designers.

Lastly, a nice touch at the show was fairly diligent plant labeling.

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Poppies of Spring

Visual kief, intoxicating to the eye, O’Keefian, the ephemeral poppies of spring.

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These are not the flamboyant Oriental poppies immortalized by the painter Georgia O’Keefe. The Orientals won’t grow in Southern California, requiring more winter chill hours than we have to give, but there are lots of annual poppies with which to console
one’s self for that grievous loss.

Along with the Spanish poppies colonizing the front path, Papaver ruprifragum, the Poppy of Troy, P. setigerum, has found a home this spring next to the back porch, in the crevice between porch and path. These Dwarf Breadseed poppies might be my favorite, and I’m so glad a few have returned this year. None were found in the main garden beds, just these few that reseeded into the cool verges at the pathways’ edge.

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I’m getting some suspicious queries like Why are these weeds growing here?

My enthusiastic reply varies but usually includes something along the lines of Weeds? No, this isn’t a weed! (This point is endlessly debatable and best dealt with abruptly.)  It’s the Poppy of Troy!  (Men go for this.) Don’t worry, it’s an annual and will disappear when summer arrives. Isn’t this a great opportunity to really get a look at the pistils and stamens? Did you notice how the seed capsule is a perfect seed dispersal unit, a gorgeous pepper shaker? etc.

Usually, the questioner is satisfied with these explanations, or pretends to be because they’ve had about as much botanical conversation as they can tolerate.

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The Poppies of Troy don’t make masses of leaves that can smother neighbors. At 2 to 3 feet, they never need staking. They are perfectly proportioned and self-contained, in stature if not seed. I’d probably enjoy them sprouting up through the kitchen floor, but then that’s just me.  Intoxicated by poppies.

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All In A Day’s Work

The desultory, unfocused morning stretched into the same kind of afternoon, and I gave up the pretense of attempting to accomplish anything and headed for a bath.

With an unread December Gardens Illustrated issue propped on the reading stand (often I just read the Frank Ronan pieces in the back and skip the main magazine entirely, saving the photos for more desperate, needy times, which would be now) I sat back in the hot water and examined my frustration at not accomplishing much. I would be heading north to the San Francisco garden show in two days and needed to get some work items out of the way, and this is just what I had been assiduously avoiding doing all day. I could tell this was beginning to eat at me when I found myself blasting PJ Harvey out of the garden office’s computer speakers to counter a neighbor’s more easy listening selections. Off to the tub for some hydrotherapy before the neighbors started to complain.

A wise choice. The bath house itself breathes sanctuary. It was painstakingly built by my husband, now asleep for an afternoon nap a few feet away.
I wouldn’t trade its rustic splendor for the Taj Mahal.

I pulled from the bath stand my little amber bottle of bath salts from Florence and placed it on the window ledge to better work its talisman magic on my mood. Although now empty, just the sight of it cheered me immensely. In Florence we had spent hours on foot searching for the Boboli Gardens, a rare instance of failure of navigation skills while traveling. Minutes before leaving Florence for home, I had run into a small pharmacy shop and managed to communicate a need for local bath salts and successfully procure them. There was the intrepid spirit I seemed to be missing today.

Irritation gradually seeped out into the bath water, and it occurred to me I had a few minor accomplishments to salvage from the day. Quite a few, actually. So what had I done today?

*Potted up three dahlias, moved the pots into the sun and gave them a good, long drink.
*Added fresh potting soil to the Xanthosoma ‘Lime Zinger,’ moved the enormous pot into the sun, soaked it.
*Weeded the brick terrace with a butter knife to ease out the weeds between the bricks.
*Found a seeding of Glaucium flavum in the terrace bricks (hooray!) and transplanted it into the garden.
*Found a eucomis bulb under debris on a pathway, miraculously intact and not mushed out, and planted it.
*Transplanted a seedling of a hyacinth bean vine.
*Swept the terrace.
*Weeded garden beds.
*Added blood and bone fertilizer to the clematis.

Sure, this was minor garden puttering, but still I was grateful for a small list of accomplishments. What do people without gardens do when plagued by such an unsettled mood? And will I ever go back to Florence for more bath salts and to actually find the Boboli Gardens this time?

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From Ants to Squills

This fantastic architecture must have an equally fantastic pollinator, yes? The Giant Fork-Tongued Moth maybe?

Well, let’s leave out mythical insects. What’s left would be the usual garden-variety pollinators, and possibly just ants.


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Just ants? Don’t let E. O. Wilson catch you making that offhand remark. Someone left his book The Naturalist on the dining room table yesterday, a book I never finished but mean to eventually. That category makes a very tall stack near my bed. You can hear a brief interview here, where he “characterizes the mutualistic symbiosis between ant and fungus as ‘one of the most successful experiments in the evolution of life.'” Ants rarely play the role of pollinator, a curious fact given their abundance. The Wikipedia entry on the mega-colonies of the Argentine ant asserts that the “enormous extent of this population is paralleled only by human society.”

In the interests of science, I cordially invite Mr. Wilson to remove the entire colony of Argentine ants now living under our house and garden to study far, far away. And then report back his insights in another wonderful book.

Back to the squills, Scilla peruviana, Giant Squill, Peruvian Lily, etc. All is not as it appears there either. Apparently, the ship bringing the bulbs from Spain was named PERU. Mr. Linnaeus in 1753 mistakenly named the bulbs for the ship and not country of origin. As often as botanical nomenclature shifts around, whereupon cimicifuga must now be known as actaea, apparently one doesn’t tinker with Mr. Linnaeus’ handiwork unless it’s for reclassification purposes, and not merely mistaking ship for country.

Scilla peruviana, from the Mediterranean (Spain) is lovely with the green-flowering hellebores, so I’ve been transplanting hellebore seedlings among the bulbs. Most references on the bulb allude to its sporadic blooming habits, taking the occasional year off. These bulbs were planted last fall, and this is their first year in my garden. Zoned 8 to 10.

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Who’s Zoomin’ Who?

With salvias planted just a few feet away from windows and doors, humans and hummers are in constant close proximity here. This is by necessity, the constraints of a small garden, rather than by design. The fact is, hummers and I both happen to be crazy for salvias. It makes for some interesting encounters, spilt cups of coffee, and cats rudely awakened from a dozy afternoon nap. Who wouldn’t be enchanted by these little guys darting in several times a day for a quick nip?

Right now, the salvias and verbenas outside the office are a big draw. When I hear a hummer come skidding in for a landing, I make a grab for the camera but always come up empty. Doesn’t help that they’re green. Today the blur of speed materialized out of pixels into barely recognizable shape. Although my best photographic attempt thus far, this hummer’s name must be Waldo, as in where the heck is Waldo in this photo? Squint and focus on the far left verbena, just to the right.

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Friends and family assume that because I garden I am a de facto font of wisdom regarding the natural world. It shames me to admit that I’ve just recently learned that Southern California is one of the few places blessed to have hummingbirds year-round. I’m just as bundled up in my own little world as everyone else, and mostly step outside my kitchen door assuming that the world that greets me also greets everyone else in much the same form, with a few superficial details altered.

Again Waldo, the little Anna hummingbird:

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I’ve even become able to recognize certain hummers by the distinct thrum of their wings. One little guy makes a a poker cards-in-bicycle-wheels racket when he wings in. Several years ago, there was a hummer who demanded face time, literally flying in inches from my face and hovering for a few seconds before heading off to the flowers. This became an everyday custom for a whole summer season, but hasn’t been taken up yet by another hummer in subsequent years. I miss the face time and that little guy’s chutzpah. Yesterday a hummer bathed in the jet of water from the hose, which I then took pains to keep a soft spritz, not the “power cone” setting, to keep him from tumbling out of the sky. I still haven’t decided if they are the most sociable bird since the chicken or if it’s just me in my usual state of anthropomorphic overdrive.

See you around, Waldo.

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Spring?

Seems impossible that just two days ago I was having that tender moment about spring.

Yesterday and today heat records were broken, and now everyone is grousing that it’s hotter than Jakarta (really only mid 80’s but we’re a delicate bunch, donchaknow).

So instead of spring ephemerals, we’re grinding gears a bit to shift to singing the praises of the stoic heat lovers, fennel, Phlomis italica and Prostranthera ovalifolia ‘Variegata’

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And So It Begins Again

Yes, phrases do bubble up from the depths unbidden until I find myself saying them aloud on a day such as this, about 75 degrees, neither cold nor warm, more like an amniotic bath, birds and insects attending to their business while I can’t attend to mine, hopelessly distracted by such a fine spring day.

And so it begins again. Another spring.

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Groundwork

Great name for a garden blog (or coffee house, dance company). The term has stuck with me since first
reading it used by Gertrude Jekyll in her color theories for gardens.

I can’t locate my Gertrude Jekyll compendium at the moment, but I believe she used the term
“groundwork” in a painterly sense, as in to lay a foundation of grey and glaucous foliage against which
other colors will always reap the benefit by juxtaposition.

Jekyll’s exhortation to lay down a good groundwork is never far from mind when I look at the blue-grey
leaves of the succulent Senecio mandraliscae, the Blue Chalk Sticks, in the front gravel garden. It is
pure balm for the eyes, which want to linger on its soothing, icy blueness. Focusing on another color
after drinking in that cool blue gets the color receptors, rods and cones, firing on every cylinder. For
sun, this senecio is a very worthwhile plant getting lots of use here in zone 10.

Both senecios mentioned here would make great components for containers of mixed succulents in
colder zones, filling out quickly to contrast with slower growing rosette types (but watch out for vigor
matching vigor).

There no longer seems to be much need for convincing astute gardeners of the value of leaves when
planning their garden. Many of us have so absorbed this truism that our little gardens can look like
contenders for permanent installations in the hubba-hubba spring flower shows now opening across
the temperate world, where every leaf is a rich flambe or brulee, melba and bordeaux. Horticultural
appetites are in danger of being whipped up into a constant craving for dessert in the garden. And
who doesn’t love dessert? In zone 10, where tender succulents are grown outdoors year-round,
available in every color and shape imaginable, it’s easy to overindulge. I like the way a simple swath
of blue can cleanse and refresh an overstimulated palate. Remember, we live with these plants
all year, unlike colder zones who can take a breather and put the display to bed for the winter.

Though I’ve never grown a hosta in my life, I imagine the blue-leaved types would make good
groundwork, as does Festuca ‘Elija Blue’ for sun. Crambe maritima, too, if you can keep the
snails away, though more of a specimen than a carpet. Helicotrichon, Nepeta, and Stachys,
the lamb’s ears, are also appreciated for their recruitment as groundwork.

Okay. Ready for a little experiment? Blink and clear the cones with this:

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Now slowly scroll to this deep orange gazania:

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Any tingles? The succulent two photos above is Senecio vitalis, Narrow Leaf Chalk Sticks, which is more blue-green
and of a shrubby growth about 2 feet high. Both these senecios want to cover a lot of ground in frost-free zones but
take cutting back well, which thickens them up. Both are excellent “groundwork” succulents against which to show off
prized agaves, echevarias, crassulas , and make a wonderful background for the flowering iceplants when in bloom or
gazanias, arctotis, osteospermums.

S. mandraliscae in back, Graptoveria “Fred Ives,’ and Oscularia deltoides.

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Where’s a photo stylist when you need one to handle snail-eaten leaves and jacaranda tree debris? This particular
northwest location has every advantage for good strong growth, except for the tree litter constantly raining down.

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Boundaries

I’m constantly accused of not respecting boundaries, of letting plants take over spaces which some
people
feel should properly remain under the control of humans and not the plant kingdom. That
a sight which gladdens my heart, a pathway seeded with Spanish poppies, should be considered by
others a weedy, unkempt nuisance takes me by surprise — every year (ha!)

Papaver rupifragum lighting up the pathway at dusk:

In spring I always welcome the Last Days of Pompeii look, that teetering on the edge between control and
disorder, cultivation and neglect, which to my eye infuses a timelessness that’s otherwise not always easy
to attain. By early summer, I’m wondering where I left my machete.

Agave ‘Mr. Ripple’ broods over this eternal conundrum.

(Photos by MB Maher.)

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Type G Personality

Although the science behind the Type A and B personality theory seems to have become largely discredited,
I believe there is a strong case to be made for the Type G personality. (Type G’s, you know who you
are. Don’t make us examine your fingernails.)

When my Type G personality is in the ascendancy, I can come up with some really odd stuff for the garden.
For the last few years, I’ve been playing with height. Since I’m no artist, the results can be disappointing.
In fact, I’d largely given up and had taken most of the experiments apart. I wanted no more hanging
baskets to knock my head into and keep watered. I craved simplicity again, a trait that runs counter to the
Type G personality, so it’s a continual see-saw between the two.

Moss was a big part of these experiments. I had mossed hanging orbs planted in succulents that proved too
difficult to keep moist. There was candelabra and crystals and whatnot. For me, it is very difficult
to see the line where a project crosses over from the sublime to the silly. And too many projects in a
small garden can be a simple case of overegging the pudding.

One hanging basket with aeoniums, sedum, and Santa Barbara daisy was taken down and plopped in exasperation
on the top of a wrought iron plant stand. The stand is about 5 feet high and has about five pockets, including
the top-most shown, to hold pots. At one time, it held five pots of Sedum ‘Angelina.’ So hard to keep small
pots watered, though. I tried mossing the pockets and planting directly into the moss. More watering issues, as
the moss tends toward impermeability once it’s dry. So the wrought iron stand has been left vacant, a difficult
state for the Type G personality to endure for very long.

Even though just a temporary solution for the aeonium basket, I noticed how the ribs in the basket mirrored the
wrought iron ribs and liked the effect, so it’s stayed in place all winter. I’ve had a pot metal finial kicking around
used in various iterations of Type G projects, tried it the center, and didn’t hate that either.

Now with the daisies blooming, I’m liking it even more, and have seeded the Purple Bell Vine, rhodochiton, in the ground
at the base, for this vine’s amazing ability to drape and swag. It just needs the aeoniums to fill out a bit, don’t you think?

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