An in-depth article on the origins and evolution of the garden recently appeared in Manzanita Today here:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/15nPmWR_pZV7KrmEUPQa56DhIPrWTdhv4/view
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give it up for Lobelia tupa
Any description of Lobelia tupa is bound to contain words like “huge,” “robust,” “monumental,” and it’s all true. Which would seemingly indicate it’s not a perennial for a small garden like mine. Except this mega-perennial here at the Oregon Coast is as useful in my little garden as a choice deciduous shrub. It’s quick to leaf out with broad, slug-proof, celadon-colored leaves and begins throwing flower spikes in early July. As of mid-September, there’s still a quarter of the flowers on the 20+ spikes yet to open. Hummingbirds have been parking on nearby Stipa gigantea stems all summer to take a breather between sips, which is cute as heck.
Formerly just another entry on the list of plants I’ve always wanted to grow but couldn’t in my hotter, drier zone 10 garden, here it’s become an invaluable full-season anchor for the ebb and flow of the surrounding garden. Thrives in good soil, sun, and apparently lots of winter rain, but seems to tolerate the drier conditions of summer too. Loves the coast, where I’ve always seen the happiest specimens — not sure how this Chilean would handle extreme inland heat. (For that kind of heat I’d experiment with growing Erythrina x bidwillii for a similar effect, also hardy to zone 7.).
This four-year-old clump in full bloom is roughly 7X5 feet. I don’t begrudge it that amount of space but would prefer not to hand over any more and may have to tackle dividing the clump in another year or so. Hardy to zone 7. More soon, AGO
Posted in journal, Oregon garden
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first week of September
The garden’s third September of its fourth year. The biggest change September brings is this mid level fizzy layer provided mostly by deschampsia, sesleria and Scabiosa ochroleuca that envelopes the plantings in a gauzy champagne scrim. The scabiosa is an energetic reseeder but is easily edited. It finds openings to grow I never could, billows out like low-lying tulle fog, then retreats to a small basal clump in spring.
Lots of yellow confetti continues to be thrown in September by the annual Madia elegans, which closes in sun, and Verbascum roripifolium. The madia leaned into the vacuum left by removal of a large clump of Silver Spike Grass. After briefly considering adding something new in the grass’ place, a small piece of it was resettled — can’t think of anything better! Another clump of this grass may also need dividing in spring, but I couldn’t bear to disturb the status quo by untangling the sanguisorba and others entwined with the grass. I’d like to have some jobs done before leaving end of October but not at the expense of enjoying the fall garden.
Heading east off the patio, a small planting of ‘Hawkshead’ hardy fuchsia, mountain mint, Bergenia ciliata, miscanthus and Calamagrostis brachytricha surprised me by becoming a living embodiment of the cooler weather to come. Lots of rain predicted for September too.
I’m excited about the potential of a shrubby fatshedera found at Secret Garden Growers in spring. ‘Yvonne’s Petticoats’ is described as a 4×4′ shrub. It shot up to 3 feet fast, a worrisome vigor since it was planted too close to the south fence with no room to expand. It was moved last week to give it a better chance to show what it can do. (The bigeneric cross of ivy and fatsia are normally lanky, vine-like creatures. I have one winding around a triangle palm in the SoCal garden.)
And I do need to correct the record that I couldn’t tell much difference among the several persicarias I’m growing this summer. ‘Blackfield’ is a bit later to flower than ‘Summer Dance,’ but the blooms are noticeably darker and tighter, and the entire plant is more finely drawn, the leaves smaller, more tapered.
Gardeners are like judicious goats, constantly nibbling at things — or maybe I should speak only for myself. I’m getting a jump on spring by cutting back a few things, dividing the biggest clump of Silver Spike Grass, pulling euphorbias, verbascum, cerinthe and others from the gravel area for a clean slate until spring brings loads more. Spiders and slugs rule September! More soon, AGO
Posted in journal, Oregon garden
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thoughts while strolling a local dahlia grower’s field
On a visit to a local dahlia grower’s field in August, I find the range of flower shapes and colors head spinning. Apart from the variety of shapes and sizes, what amazes me is the range of color on offer for our consideration. And everyone faces decisions about color for their gardens, whether to have all of it, none of it but green, or make judicious selections based on color wheel compatibilities. There’s no escaping it. Even if you forego flowers, there’s still decisions to be made on the color of leaves.
Back home at the computer, it’s also head spinning how easily my random musings can be validated and expanded on now that AI assists my inquiries. For example, on color: Outside the natural world, for furnishings and clothing, vibrant color wasn’t always an option. Which is part of my pet theory explaining an eternal and abiding love for gardens and the natural world, places that provide astonishing sights whether you’re rich or poor. From a quick AI-assisted search string (“daily experience of color before aniline dyes”):
Before the invention of aniline dyes in the mid-19th century, the daily experience of color was markedly different from today, shaped by natural sources, cost, class, and the fading effects of time. Rather than an array of vibrant, readily available shades, color was a precious commodity, its intensity and permanence dictated by its origin.
And we all know the period before aniline dyes must include the critical chapter on cochineal. This insect-based source of crimson farmed from opuntia was brought back to Europe from Mexico by Spanish explorers/conquistadors in the 16th century, a precious commodity hoarded by the wealthy, military and religious orders. The working class world would be dressed and furnished in hygge greige until 1856. But the color-saturated splendors of the natural world unfurling every spring, summer and fall were classless experiences and free for all to enjoy and celebrate with Maypoles and harvest festivals even before the hybridizers got to work. (Yes, my search strings seem to betray slightly socialist leanings.)
Flowers that are useful in several arenas can be especially problematic as far as making choices for the home garden. Dahlias, for instance, are bred for flower show competition, floristry, as well as including in summer gardens, and it would be a rare dahlia that can serve all three purposes. For my main garden I prefer the long-stemmed singles — nothing too complicated. And it’s always a kick in the morning to find bumblebees asleep on the flowers. For a cut flower garden, the choice is limitless.
Some genera like tulips and dahlias really get you wondering about the outsized influence of hybridizers on our gardens, especially as far as color choice. When the rhododendrons are in bloom in spring, I’m convinced, perhaps wrongly, that their searingly vivid colors are probably the work of men. Both anecdotally and scientifically, there is support for the male preference for, say, strong reds. And seeing as the early plant explorers and nursery professionals were exclusively male, it stands to reason that their color preferences ruled in early hybridization. Of course, other considerations besides color were in play, such as hardiness and the plant material available at the time — yellow shades were not available for early hybridization efforts. (Search string: “choice of color in earliest rhododendron hybrids.”)
House-high sheets of magenta-flowered shrubs when color-dozy eyes are just waking up in spring? No thanks. But what about house-high sheets of magenta bougainvillea in summer? Absolutely! No wonder discussing color in gardens is so difficult — we’re all so arbitrarily opinionated! And we have to be when there are thousands of colors and shapes in some genera to sort through and judge as to which to include or reject.
And tastes are of course ever evolving, though some selections do stand the test of time. Last summer I grew pale pastel Dawn Creek hybrid zinnias, a far cry from the saturated colors bred by Ernst and Friedriech Benary in 19th century Germany, which have been the gold standard for strong colors and stems to the present time.
Now easily satisfied by AI, my musings are in danger of becoming out of control, to wit:
And just how did Amsterdam become the world’s producer of tulips, a bulb native to Central Asia? Search string “Ottoman tulips arrive in Amsterdam” provides a quick answer with enough specifics to ring reasonably true:
“Ottoman tulips were brought to the Netherlands, and eventually Amsterdam, in the mid-16th century after a diplomat, Oghier Ghiselin de Busbecq, took seeds from the Ottoman Empire to Carolus Clusius in Vienna, who then brought the bulbs to Leiden, Netherlands, in 1593. The flowers quickly gained popularity, leading to Tulip Mania in the 17th century, a speculative market frenzy where a single bulb could be worth a fortune.
But I’ll leave it there and spare you further musings, with just a few more photos of the dozens taken.
Okay, just one more: First plant catalogue in history?
“The first plant catalog is generally considered to be the Florilegium Amplissimum et Selectissimum, published in 1612 by Dutch grower Emmanuel Sweerts. This catalog was distributed at the Frankfurt Fair and contained 560 hand-tinted illustrations of flowering bulbs and plants he had for sale, marking the first time a publication was used to sell plants in this way.”
Posted in commerce, cut flowers, design
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sometimes you just gotta rip it out
Feathertop Grass, known as the least robust of the fountain grasses, is everything I want in a medium-sized fluffy grass. Admired daily, I watched how the circumference of the clump expanded and stretched into the gravel and grew more and more exceptional in every way I wanted.
But there was that mission creep. The grass was doing everything I wanted, even if it was more vigorous than expected. Not wanting to interrupt its summer flowering, I decided it could easily be divided next spring.
But this morning I reasoned there was no harm in removing some of the runners, just to be on the safe side, and there would still be plenty of plumes left. And that’s when I was confronted with how pernicious and deep the roots were, and how dangerous its presence was to this little garden, As a light rain fell, the Feathertop Grass and I battled for control. I wanted none of it left to take root again. (Frustration over glaringly obvious dangers to a healthy civic life is undoubtedly spilling over into the garden.)
I moved the pot of flowering oregano and Blue Oat Grass into the void. Goddess Flora, grant me enough self-control to not replant the area until I’m sure the Feathertop Grass is truly eradicated.
In happier news, my potted Aloe boylei, the largest-leaved of the grass aloes, is throwing a bloom. It was kept in its pot under the porch awning last winter.
This small garden can’t accommodate more than one strapping eucomis, but at least it obligingly throws a sensational flower.
Eryngium pandanifolium needed a frustrating amount of cleanup in spring, and the sprawling clump was reduced to two rosettes. Both are blooming, and I have to admit that once the onerous work is done in spring it requires no attention. Camassias are planted behind the eryngo, which may or may not work. We’ll see next spring.
Take care! AGO
Posted in Oregon garden
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topping the fence
It’s mid-August, when the south fence disappears under a tsunami of summer growth when viewed from the back porch. (We had the best kind of tsunami-warning experience recently after the record-making 8.8 earthquake near the Kamchatka Peninsula. We packed a few things like food for Billie, left the bags by the door, slept all night, and woke to calm seas and no tidal surge. I’m told that for the 2011 Japan earthquake, there were tsunami sirens and evacuation orders and subsequent damage reported.)
The fence-topping giants include Selinum wallichianum, which keeps beautiful leaves spring through fall. Angelica stricta ‘Ebony’ has grown shoulder to shoulder with the selinum but has mostly gone to seed by mid-August.
There was an unexpected day of rain last Friday, a really good soak. Plant people were thrilled, the general public irritated. Nothing was smashed down other than the Silver Spike Grass flattening temporarily, restoring when the wind picked up again to dry its plumes, which have left their silver phase behind.
When there was still some bare ground in late spring, I slipped in three Madia elegans, a native annual which had done so well a couple summers back but didn’t reseed. Then the summer tsunami began to build and they were submerged under growth and forgotten. Deploying some clever gymnastics, the madia managed to reach for the light and surprise me with blooms, a much appreciated effort!
Another heroic effort was made by the tiny Persicaria orientalis seedlings squeezed into bare ground in early spring. They too found their footing and shimmied up amongst the pressing growth and are about to bloom — the heart-shaped leaves in the center. Snails leave them alone once the leaves toughen as they mature.
More fence-toppers are sanguisorba and this one very prolific, long-stemmed dahlia ‘AC Rosebud.’ I cut back the bronze fennel by half in early summer. I’m slightly apprehensive regarding this fennel, which is a terrible weed in zone 10, but I had a suspicion its strong stems would support the other giants, and so it has. The acid yellow blooms add a vase-like composition to the scene, but there will be a vigilant lookout for rampant seediness next spring.
I don’t know of a current source for Anisodontea ‘Strybing Beauty’ now that Annie’s Annuals currently doesn’t offer mail order. I moved my remaining plant to the front garden last year, because it always seems to outgrow the back garden. It was beat up bad by winter winds, and only a small rooted piece could be salvaged in spring, which I dug up and babied before planting in the back garden. It blooms year-round in zone 10, so I’ll be taking some cuttings south in a few months.
I have to give up all my Los Angeles preconceptions about growing annuals like breadseed poppies, which are finished in LA by spring but behave much differently in this cooler summer climate. Here on the Oregon Coast, I let a flowering patch go to seed on the east side of the house, and in late June/July new seedlings germinated that are flowering now. And old plants gone to seed also throw up new flowering shoots. I’ve noticed honeywort, Cerinthe major, doing this too, with seedlings germinating mid-summer building into good solid plants for August.
More soon, AGO
Posted in Oregon garden
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tweaking August
I can easily reach all of my back garden with two hose lengths fastened together, so that’s something to be said for a small garden. (But if I had the money, I’d buy up any adjacent property that comes up for sale, knock down the fence, and probably the house too, and plant it up.) New transplants, stock tanks and pots are watered daily in about 15 minutes or so. In this modified Mediterranean climate on the North Oregon Coast, summer is rainless — except this summer we had rain June 20ish and, two days ago, a full day of it. The heavy soil holds on to a day of rain for a good while.
Truth be told, other than deadheading and watering, there’s not a lot to do in August, and I miss the busy-ness and nurturing of early summer. I notice that I lay in bed a little longer on an August morning than spring/early summer, when I’d be up before first light. Chiltern’s seeds did arrive and some have been sown, and now the shed has flats of seed trays again. I hate it when nothing is growing in the shed! Volunteering at a local veg garden means there’s some winter stuff like kale, leeks, pak choi growing in the shed too. But the chief occupation of August is passively looking, staring, taking it all in.
Easy August tweaks include deadheading flopping Parahebe perfoliata down to budding side shoots, whereupon it regains its stature and blooms again like August is the new early summer. Phygelius reacts the same way if pruned down to side flowering shoots.
Choosing what to deadhead is a very subjective task. Digitalis parviflora’s seedheads make tight, tidy verticals, so I’d rather not cut them back.
The seedheads of dierama are captivating, but there will be trouble ahead with seedlings insinuating themselves where they’re not wanted. In this case, beauty has a price that I’m willing to pay next spring.
Having started them from seed, protected them from slugs, pinched them back, kept them watered since the end of May, it’s not a chore to keep seedheads from forming on cosmos — it’s a mission.
The coppery seadheads of Euphorbia ‘Miner’s Merlot’ give it a rusty, mini-hydrangea look. I’m still reluctant to cut it back even though new growth is coming from the base. Just opposite the euphorbia, on its right a pajaroensis hybrid manzanita hits the same color notes, an unexpected collaboration that always satisfies my eye. I’m always looking for a through line in this overplanted little garden.
The persicarias are to mid-late summer what the geums are to spring/early summer, and they use the adjacent ground well together and appreciate similar growing conditions.
Aralia ‘Sun King’ was great as the garden found its legs but began to threaten important woody plants like Stachyurus salicifolius. Removing the aralia was a monster job, so it was definitely time to curtail its spread. A couple of summer plants also had to be moved before bloom or risk being engulfed forever, including Heliopsis ‘Burning Hearts’ and a Helenium ‘Summer Cinnabar.’
I’m thrilled that the young Sinopanax formosanus survived the transplant in April. Sandwiched in the middle of a Bupleurum fruticosum and Senecio monroi, something had to give. I liked it’s protected spot slightly under the overhang, and the move near the back fence may lessen its odds over winter, but it was clearly going to be too tall. I really should move it to the protected east side of the house, which is just now getting planted up.
When establishing woody plants in this zone, I always assume that there will be failures — and sometimes, surprisingly, there are no failures, everything flourishes, and once again I’ve obviously planted too closely. Now the adjacent Acacia pravissima is flourishing, and the sinopanax is once again squeezed! But one hard winter and another ice storm could change everything.
The narrow east side of the house, where the previous owner grew strawberries and vegetables, is for me an overflow utilitarian area. Some vegetables, some orphan plants, some plants on trial. The borders on either side of a central grassy path are narrow and backed by either the house or the east fence — some of my least favorite conditions to plant. I think in deep borders! But I did notice some of the orphan plants are thriving, so I’m beginning to take this area a little more seriously.
The kniphofia which grew too large for the back garden was sold as K. hirsuta, supposedly one of the smaller kniphofias. It’s the most aloe-esque kniphofia I’ve encountered. It bloomed in spring, but it’s that gorgeous arching urn shape that is the main attraction. I’m curious how it will tolerate a harder winter than last year’s and whether it can be reliably incorporated into more prominent planting.
I love the flowering oreganos and somehow ended up with none this August. A couple were found local (‘Rosenkuppel’) planted in a pot with the grass Helicotrichon sempervirens. I repeatedly planted this grass in zone 10 and it repeatedly failed. Maybe a cool zone 8/9 is the trick.
One of the big daisies of August, Helianthus ‘Lemon Queen,’ opened its first flowers today. Now that the acacia is taking over this corner, all or part of the helianthus will be moved to the narrow borders on the east side, which is filling up rapidly.
More soon! Best, AGO
Posted in Oregon garden
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grasses for the win (wind!)
This summer seems windier than most I’ve experienced here. Only in July have the winds finally dialed down from fierce to breezy. (July also marks the end of the disgusting but mostly harmless reign of the spittlebugs too.). I imagine that growing grasses in gardens with summer rain might result in repeatedly frustrating scenes of flattened chaos, so they might not be suitable for every garden (or taste). Here, one of the few perks of a rainless summer is how I get to indulge my appreciation for them: miscanthus, deschampsia, molinia, calamagrostis, sesleria, stipa, achnatherum, chionochloa, festuca, and the sedges too.
I’ve never been a fan of turbulent winds, but the swaying grasses are slowly making a convert of me. (Marty has a sailor’s temperament, so the wind excites him whereas I’m inclined to hide.) Now that July has reduced the strongest afternoon winds (is it a temperature gradient thing?), I like nothing better than moving a camp chair around the garden all afternoon for the best views of the action. Two hummingbirds have found the garden and are regular visitors. The buzzing activity seemed low to me in June, but the garden has really come alive in July.
Sanguisorba ‘Red Thunder,’ of all the plants in the garden, is most susceptible to the wind. (Even the roof-high thalictrums were unbowed by really strong wind.) This year, new growth on the sanguisorba was selectively cut back in May/early June, and it was lightly supported with bamboo stakes, and that seems to have helped a lot. It does lean but stems don’t break. Stems overly intrusive on neighboring plants are cut for vases where it lasts for weeks.
Cosmos has such a light footprint, doesn’t take up much room (unlike dahlias) and handles wind well. Two kinds were sown, ‘Apricotta’ and ‘Rubenza.’ The former was good last year, but germination this year was poor and the plants markedly weak growers compared to ‘Rubenza.’ Cosmos blooms well in containers as well as in the ground. I sow seeds in April and grow them to blooming size in containers, which saves disturbing the early summer garden as they bulk up, and a few are planted in the ground if space opens up (as when the Joe-pye weed was removed). Most pots, 3 plants to a 12-inch pot, are dotted around the garden and become quickly concealed by summer growth.
Even on the worst of the early summer windy days, hanging out under the overhang was a safe bet for some peace and quiet, and is Billie’s preferred place to lounge. Hope July is treating you well. Take care, AGO
Posted in journal, Oregon garden
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time to sow biennials
Just one seed of this angelica germinated out of a packet sown February 2024, and to be honest, one angelica is all I have room for, but a couple of backups for insurance would have taken off the pressure of losing it. I’ve read angelica seed needs to be sown as fresh as possible, so I should have sown it when purchased June 2023. After this bloom goes to seed, I’ll get a bunch more plants started by fall, hopefully, from its very fresh seed.
It’s a big biennial, easily 3′ across. What a looker! Snails weren’t interested, so it’s been a flawless study of finely cut compound leaves in moody purple. And enthralling to watch the flower sheath swell taut, growing as big as a fist the past several days until the crown of the lacy umbel broke through this morning. The ultimate height has been estimated to be as much as 6 feet. The flower will be lighter in color than the leaves. For a dark purple flower, Angelica gigas is what you want.
Biennials are a little tricky as far as timing, and unless they reseed for you, they can be one-off novelties. So remembering to sow biennials for next year now, in early summer, is the tricky part. Hesperis, lunaria, and Digitalis ferruginea are already established reseeders. I’m about to send off a seed order for a few more biennials including Verbascum phlomoides ‘Spica’ and some selections of Dianthus barbatus like ‘Sooty.’
I love the seed selection at Chilterns Seeds in the UK, which works if you obtain a Permit to Import Plants and Plant Products from the Dept. of Agriculture. My permit was issued in 2022 and is good until October 2025. Like everything else now, there’s uncertainty whether this permit will be honored and how easy it will be to obtain a new one. Getting this one online was a breeze, a matter of a few weeks until issuance — the old Talking Heads song “Don’t Worry About the Govt” comes to mind a lot these days (“Some civil servants are just like my loved ones…”)
A few more early July happenings.
It was an alternate from a local dahlia grower, but I keep it because it’s sturdy enough to deal with the fierce daily wind! Only just in the past few days of early July have the roaring afternoon winds failed to appear, and it was bliss working in the garden all day.
More soon, AGO
Posted in clippings, Oregon garden, Plant Portraits, shop talk
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summer & dieramas
The SoCal garden churned through a lot of attempts at growing dieramas. I’d figure they’re South African, I’m zone 10, we should get along famously. So many plant fails are due to faulty assumptions. Matching growing zones is only the beginning of the investigation as to whether conditions are suitable. Dieramas are not for hot dry gardens but come from cool mountainous regions in southeastern Africa. The fact that the famous Slieve Donard hybrids were developed in Northern Ireland says a lot about their preferred growing conditions. Hot and dry conditions in Northern Ireland must be thoughtfully provided, whereas in Los Angeles those are the brutal default conditions. (Simply compare the latitudes of Northern Ireland and Los Angeles for the strength of sunlight, something I’ve only recently started to take into account.) Novices make many such mistakes, but still trial-and-error can prove the astonishing range of plants and bring surprising results — just not, in my experience, with dieramas.
In fact, a theory I brought north to the Oregon garden, that growing conditions here would suit plants that are also happy in Ireland and Northern Europe, has been borne out. Here at the Oregon coast, dieramas bloom from a small size, often the first year they are planted out. No struggle, no gnashing of teeth.
Many faulty assumptions were also absorbed by the mostly photo-less books read in my formative garden years by plants people who were also great writers like Jekyll, Sackville-West, Russell Page, and Lloyd — when they referenced plants for hot, dry areas, I ignorantly assumed it as a ringing endorsement for Los Angeles gardens! British garden writers already had centuries of garden culture at their backs to lend that authoritative, confident tone to their writing. The Empire had been sending out explorers and botanists as far back as 1768, when Joseph Banks joined Captain James Cook’s voyage to observe the Transit of Venus. And all those plant specimens were brought back to the very propitious growing climate of the roughly zone 8 British Islands, which has a lot in common with the climate of the Oregon Coast.
What I’m realizing attracted me in those formative years reading about mostly zone 8 gardens was a framework for thinking about gardens, and the confident inclusion of selections and representations and, most importantly, sequences and chronology of natural cycles in this framework. The relative predictability and structure of planning for spring, summer, fall, and the creativity and purpose unleashed by the hard limitations of frost dates.
That whole psychological notion of the “summer garden” being this rare, fleeting phenomenon you have to grab with both hands, this is what was imparted and took hold in my garden imagination. And that’s what I’ve experienced in the Oregon garden. (And abandoning those misconceived notions is when I really began to explore the potential of the little zone 10 garden in Los Angeles.)
Newly planted this spring, Symphytum ‘Axminster Gold’ has proven robust enough to co-exist with grasses, not an easy niche to fill. Pinched back when planted, it’s branched out and muscled its way up and between the Silver Spike grass, Achnatherum calamagrostis.
I mentioned on June 17th that Joe-Pye weed would eventually have to be moved, maybe next spring. But the idea became embedded like a sliver, and removal of the eutrochium was accomplished within the week. The enormous root ball was not easy to extricate, and because of its extensive roots the entire area was very dry, even after a good rain we had on the 20th of June.
This certainly turned out more long-winded than usual! And on to July. More soon, AGO.
Posted in climate, journal, Oregon garden
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