wendyimmiller

[wendyimmiller]

Leaf Blower News from California and Some Lawn-Bashing in the NYTimes

Did you hear about the GREAT news from California? The legislature passed and the governor signed a law banning gas-powered leaf-blowers and lawn-mowers! (Also chain saws, weed-trimmers and golf carts.) The ban takes effect as early as 2024, when all newly sold small-motor equipment primarily used for landscaping have to be zero-emission – either battery-operated or plugged-in.  The law applies only to any engines of less than 25 gross horsepower, so it doesn’t apply to on-road motor vehicles, off-road motorcycles, all-terrain vehicles, boats, snowmobiles or model airplanes, cars or boats.

Yes, it’s a burden for the landscape-care industry, so the state set aside $30 million to help professional landscapers make the transition. Industry representatives say that’s not adequate for the estimated 50,000 small businesses that will be affected by the law. 

Margaret Renkl’s Rant in the NY Times

Nashville-based Margaret Renkl included the California news in her column  “First Thing We Do, Let’s Kill All the Leaf Blowers,” describing the noise in fall as a “deafening, surging swarm, blasting from lawn to lawn and filling the air with the stench of gasoline and death. I would call them mechanical locusts…”

She quotes Audobon Magazine:

Some produce more than 100 decibels of low-frequency, wall-penetrating sound — or as much noise as a plane taking off — at levels that can cause tinnitus and hearing loss with long exposure.”

And the DC-based writer James Fallows:

James Fallows summarized the emissions problem this way: “Using a two-stroke engine is like heating your house with an open pit fire in the living room — and chopping down your trees to keep it going, and trying to whoosh away the fetid black smoke before your children are poisoned by it.”

I’m SO on board with these sentiments! I too hate the noise but also the crap they blow into my eyes whenever one is operating nearby.

A National Trend?

Quoting Renkl, 

 Only the Environmental Protection Agency can set emission standards. But California, owing to its unique climate and geography, which allow airborne pollutants to coalesce and linger, is the exception to this federal limitation. Other states can opt to follow California’s more stringent tailpipe emissions standards, as 12 states and the District of Columbia do.

More than 100 cities across the country have already passed regulations to ban or restrict gas-powered leaf blowers. For people committed to their manicured lawns, the good news is that powerful electric and battery-operated leaf blowers now exist, and they are quieter and greener and healthier than gasoline-powered blowers. Their market share is also growing rapidly; electric equipment now represents roughly 44 percent of lawn-care machinery sales.

Kill your Lawn, Too!

But then Renkl goes after lawns – all of them:

Nearly everything about how Americans “care” for their lawns is deadly. Pesticides prevent wildflower seeds from germinating and poison the insects that feed songbirds and other wildlife. Lawn mower blades, set too low, chop into bits the snakes and turtles and baby rabbits that can’t get away in time. Mulch, piled too deep, smothers ground-nesting bees, and often the very plants that mulch is supposed to protect, as well.

Then, while endorsing another popular meme – Leave the Leaves! – she slings this zinger at turfgrass:

[Leave the leaves] if your lawn consists of entirely of unvariegated turf grass (which it should not, given that turf grass requires immense amounts of water and poison to maintain). 

Like SO many Americans with lawns, when I had one I dumped neither poison NOR water on it. Eco-gardeners these days promote “good-enough lawns” that are care-free and require NO inputs, much less poisons and scarce water resources. (Okay, maybe some overseeding, watering in the new seeds, and aerating every few years if the soil is compacted.)

And from my observation, most regular homeowners take the lowest-maintenance approach possible, especially when it comes to buying the “poisons” and having to apply them. That’s no fun. I imagine.  Never done it! 

Oh, and Renkl’s term “unvariegated turf grass” is something she must have invented. At least hers is the only use of the term to be found online. If she meant perfect, uniform lawns, we’d know that’s what that means – not the typical good-enough one.

But speaking of attack high-maintenance, golf-course-quality lawn care that’s done by the wealthiest minority of homeowners, let’s keep on ranting about it, maybe changing more laws.

But lumping all lawn-owners in one batch of poisoners can turn off some who might just improve their lawn-care practices with good information – and no shaming.

Back to Renkl’s column. When I see sweeping generalizations I naturally click on the author’s source (if there IS one), and in this case I assumed that Renkl was misinterpreting or exaggerating some study or other. The article she linked to is “Electric or Gas Leaf Blowers…Neither?” from Washington University in St. Louis. Call me a stickler but that article says NOTHING about water and poisons being required to maintain turfgass. 

I guess the NYT doesn’t have factcheckers. In this case I’m not surprised – I’ve seen other exaggerations in Renkl’s columns. 

That’s so unlike the Times’s actual garden writer, the reliably trustworthy Margaret Roach. She does the research, and keeps doing it.

Washington University and “Leave the Leaves” 

But I was sorry to see that the Wash. U. article go farther, using the Xerces Society as a source:

Leaves are free mulch, protecting perennial plants, especially those that sprout early. Consider piling leaves on empty vegetable beds or perennial beds, or around the bases of trees to protect from cold and keep in moisture

Oh, dear! I complained about statements like that in my 2015 post “The NWF’s Terrible, No-Good Gardening Advice Goes Viral.” In it, I challenged the idea that turfgrass and ALL perennials are just fine under a bed of leaves all winter. Not all plants are the same!

Interestingly (or sadly), the National Wildlife Federation’s original article (just ignore the title) actually advises leaf-leaving IN WOODLANDS, not gardens! But others have taken up the meme and run with it for gardens, period.

Is it possible to say “Most plants are fine under a bed of leaves all winter – but check!” For checking I’d suggest reading about them – do they like to dry out between rains? Or uncovering some of your sun-loving plants from places where leaves don’t fall (Mediterranean climates with few deciduous trees), like lamb’s ears or groundcover Sedums, to see if they’re doing okay.

But I know that’s way too complicated for memes. And meme’s gotta meme!

Leaf Blower News from California and Some Lawn-Bashing in the NYTimes originally appeared on GardenRant on October 29, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

Garden light

Autumn may be the most wonderful time to enjoy the effects of light in the garden. The sun is lower and softer, and the result can be amazing.

We have anything but a flat garden. It does give visitors a good initial overview, and we are sheltered from the worst winds by virtue of a huge ridge behind us – to the south.

This is a view into a small valley, rising to the woods at the far side. The ridge behind the garden is to the right, and to the south.

So my photographer husband complains about it every year. Photographers like flat gardens. They may be boring (flat gardens) but any available light will be there, and light is what photographers need and enjoy. It’s why they get out of bed at unbelievable times when the rest of us are still asleep. Anyway, having a huge ridge above us to the south means that in winter, when the sun is low, we can lose all sunshine for two weeks or more. And for quite a while it is filtered through trees on the horizon.

You need that sunshine if you’re going to enjoy the best of any snow or frost. Snow without sun is rather flat, and like flat gardens… boring. And it’s not only for photographs that that matters. It’s rather dull and disappointing for a spectator or snowman too. (sorry, ‘snow person’?)

You can see some of that effect here, where the sun has got into the woods:

The light in the woods shows how comparatively dull the frost on the hedges looks.

So, it’s a bit of a shame in a way that a light lover like me has this dead time in winter. But in autumn and spring the sun reaches over that horizon and lights up the garden in a glory that summer never quite manages. Summer sun is rather too harsh.

When we open the garden we watch the weather forecast anxiously, dreading rain most of all. Rain is a bit of a killer to garden delight. But really so is  bright sunshine, which can make it hard to really see and appreciate a garden. Never mind that at too high a temperature garden visiting can be exhausting. I hate heat!

Our openings are basically dictated by the times when people expect to visit a garden. In the UK that’s mostly Sunday afternoon. Mornings and afternoons during the week are close followers for groups – except at Veddw, where we charge extra to any party which tries to get us out of bed early. Yet, apart maybe from dawn, which I have no experience of, the evening is the time when the light is most likely to be glorious. It is evening light which gives us these amazing reflections:

Photograph courtesy of Charles Hawes.  This is evening light – paying visitors sadly miss this.

And autumn, when we’re also closed, may be the very best time, the time when adding sun to autumn colour can truly take your breath away.

Vitis coignetiae doing its thing.

Sun spotlighting.

And look what sunlight can do to ornamental grasses in their late season colour:

 Miscanthus Malepartus, Veddw, copyright Anne Wareham

But its not always about those glowing oranges and reds. It’s light which does this for us too:

Light is our greatest partner of all in the garden. No matter what we do, however well we employ our resources and create scenes of splendour and delight, it is light that will transform it all into beauty. The world is rather dull in our country until someone turns the light on. Then suddenly there is joy and beauty.

These ferns suddenly came alive….

It’s quite hard to know what to do with all this when you have it. It can be quite overwhelming. I can look up from my desk and see  sun pointing out the glow of a tree, as demanding as any teacher requiring an instant response. Or Pampas Grass suddenly illuminated:

It makes me want to wave my arms about, jump up and down or rush around mindlessly. I even take pictures from the car (as a passenger only..)

Soon these beeches will go orange…!!

And would I have taken this picture of that bloke pruning a holly unless the light in the trees had set me alight?

I can love light in winter even with no sun the garden:

The Reflecting Pool melting…

and I love those ominous skies with light breaking through brooding cloud in spring:

A storm may be on the way?

And when the sun shines behind a flower you suddenly see it quite differently:

Thalictrum aquilegifolium

I love the meadow in the early evening:

And in the meadow, the globes capture all the light in the sky, so that they even glow in moonlight. I haven’t taken photographs in moonlight though.

BUT  the sun can be dangerous, even in Wales. So sadly this is a picture I daren’t replicate, having caused smouldering with a crystal ball once:

Is autumn maybe the absolute best?? Sorry, visitors – you’d have to book a special to see ours. But you probably have plenty of your own. Some countries and climates do much better than we do. What a treat.

The downside is that that low autumn sun makes the windows look filthy.

Garden light originally appeared on GardenRant on October 28, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

Halloween in the garden

The word “hallow” derives from the Old English halig, meaning holy. All Hallows Eve, the evening before the holiness of All Saints Day (November 1st) is the night when the ghosts and ghouls come out—hence the garish plastic ghoulishness of many a suburban Halloween garden display. People used to be content to celebrate Halloween with a pumpkin jack-o-lantern in the window, but now many front yards host a whole stage set of Halloween characters, and keep them up a full month.

The surge in popularity of a month-long domestic Halloween display during the COVID-pandemic was understandable; people in many parts of the world were locked down and entertainment had to take place outdoors and at a distance. No one wants to open their front door to unknown trick-or-treaters during a pandemic; that turned out to be a boon to the marketers of massive howling electrically-activated Halloween light shows.

It used to be that Halloween was a time to display what came out of the garden, not to put pre-fabricated objects into it. It was the time to burn fallen branches on a bonfire and share the marrow harvest, a time for apple-bobbing and making witch faces out of the ones that had wrinkled past their best-before date. It was the night for pumpkin-carving artistry, candles flickering on windowsills, and porch lights left on for costumed candy-harvesting kids. Now the costumes are worn by the plastic ghouls and Halloween is families walking the neighborhoods viewing them.

The demotion of the apples and marrows—which is a demotion of the earth-based symbolism around the harvest season—seems a pity. Halloween in agricultural societies was one of the highest of annual holidays; it was a celebration of successful harvest, restocked food laid in for winter, and a season of relative leisure, much like the semi-hibernation of the plant and animal world.

We can still celebrate All Hallows Eve by including the bats and owls that used to take a leading role. If we want bats, we can leave hollow trunks standing, with cavities for nests. If we want owls, we could plant pine, beech, cedar, and cottonwoods. They like to roost in large trees and hate glare, so the suburban garden Halloween light display is ironically anti-owl, despite their presence on Halloween greeting cards.

Some folks miss the old days when nongenetically engineered pumpkins emitted that specially pungent pumpkin-scent at the first insertion of the carving knife. We can’t recapture that from the pumpkins piled in the grocery store parking lots, nor will we scoop out seeds that can be planted for a crop next year. We can, though, in most areas, get organically grown pumpkins or seeds from open-pollinated crops planted at organic nurseries or from online sources. The scent of pumpkin seeds and pulp is most enjoyable when mingled with autumnal bonfire smokiness and the heady aroma of leaves decaying in rich soil, evoking pagan earth-based race-memories of seasonality under the harvest moon. These are memories no mechanized display can recapture.

Halloween in the garden originally appeared on GardenRant on October 27, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

I know: just kick everybody off Facebook but the gardeners

Gardeners may occupy one of the more benign sectors of social media. I was thinking of this after seeing headlines citing “indisputable harm,” “rage and misinformation,” and “choosing growth over safety” in today’s Washington Post. It’s all part of the fallout over the recent release of the Facebook Papers. This has been building for a while, but the drumbeat is getting loud enough to suggest something might actually happen. What, I don’t know.

I’ll be sorry if Facebook goes away, for many reasons. For one, it’s an easy way for businesses to establish a presence on the web. Many restaurants that don’t have the expertise, time, or other resources to maintain a robust, updated website can get most of what they want done via Facebook. As a magazine editor, when looking up events and other info, I often trust a business’s Facebook page over its website, because it’s a simpler matter to update. And then there are the benefits we’re all familiar with, like keeping in touch with geographically distant friends and relatives or just a way for busy people to maintain contacts of all sorts.

Our local Facebook gardeners’ group (above), which has close to 9,000 members, was threatened with extinction over a hoe-related brouhaha a few months back, but, as outraged and exasperated as members were, it was mainly because they wanted the group to continue. They appreciated the opportunity it provided to get answers, share successes, or just complain about the weather. A group like this takes some policing, and we, the admins, get disgruntled complaints now and then, but, overall, it’s been a success. We can never forget we’re at the mercy of Facebook, which recently changed its group protocols, but we also know that Facebook does offer tools that allow control—and we use them.

It is maddening that the small, “kinder and gentler” groups who use this network may suffer just as much as the extremists, spammers, clickbaiters, and others who have benefited from poor regulation. Indeed, the bad actors likely won’t suffer; they’ll just move over to another vulnerable arena. I may complain about inaccurate gardening info existing on a level playing field with factual advice, but, over the months, I’ve also seen that most group members seem to be able to weed out the nonsense. I guess I’ve learned to stop worrying and accept the occasional chaos of it all. It may be an evil empire, but I’ve gotten used to it—and so have a lot of other gardeners.

I know: just kick everybody off Facebook but the gardeners originally appeared on GardenRant on October 26, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

Why am I JUST Discovering Zinnias in Borders?

Zinnias at the Delaware Botanic Garden

Zinnias – I’m reading everywhere about their fabulousness in attracting pollinators, especially butterflies. In fact, when I googled the topic I surprised myself by finding my very own post, from 2015. I won’t repeat any of that but still recommend that link for info about which varieties are best at that, at least in the informal trials of one Maryland gardeners near me.

(I was also surprised that in that old post I pledged to grow Zinnias as part of a new pollinator garden, which I don’t believe I ever did. Never mind!)   

The chorus of praise for Zinnias seemed to grow louder this year and recently Elizabeth declared her love for them, saying she’ll never be without them again! She reported on success with seedlings (not seeds), and planting them in containers.

Even one Zinnia in a border catches the eye, right? So next year – MORE!

And she’s not the only GardenRanter taking up the cause. This year I experimented with both Zinnias and Marigolds directly in my borders, something I’d never done, and was wow’d by the impact they had. Okay, not the Marigolds – too small – but even just one Zinnia can pack quite a punch. Or to speak in HGTV lingo, they POP!

So my question is – when did they get so great-looking? So large, with such vibrant colors? Is it new hybrids are catching my eye or have I just been immune to Zinnias’ charms all along? 

Above, the other orange Zinnia I planted in that border, popping even more next to an errant Morning Glory and some White Wood Aster, and being visited by a butterfly.

Care and feeding – apparently not much needed!

According to American Meadows, which sells Zinnias, these annual don’t need the daily watering that I normally give to container-grown flowering annuals.

To grow Zinnias, make sure to plant them in an area that gets full sun (at least six hours per day). Although they prefer well-draining soil, they’ll grow almost anywhere as long as they have plenty of sun. They don’t need a lot of supplemental water in the summer months, which makes them a great candidate for hard-to-reach areas or for gardeners who are trying to conserve water. 

I suppose they still need to be fed, which I try to do twice-monthly for flowering annuals like the container-grown Petunias shown above.

Planning for 2022

Like most avid gardeners, I’ve been fantasizing all season about the improvements I plan to make next year. Because we obsessively do that, right?

Well! This little border in my front garden, which for so long held Arborvitaes (that were ugly) and Black-eyed Susans (that ran amok), now holds Russian Sage, Little Bluestem grasses and Sedum. I planted two clumps of ‘February Gold’ daffodils there but you know what else that spot needs, right? 

Fuchsia Zinnias like these babies! So when people approach my house they’ll see them and in the background, metal chairs in the same color.  But best of all, I’ll be wow’d with that color all season long.

Ah, 2022…

Why am I JUST Discovering Zinnias in Borders? originally appeared on GardenRant on October 24, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

“Do You Like Fall?”

My physical therapist recently asked the question as she was prodding and poking me this week, and it illicited an immediate positive reaction from the part of me that still works very well – my mouth. But it also put me in mind of another friend (a nursery owner) who can never wait to tell me how much she dislikes autumn. Though her posts on social media tell a very different story – as posts always do on social media – she sees autumn as cold, wet, dismal and dark. 

I shared these thoughts with my tormentor, and surprisingly she felt instant kinship with my friend. And I say surprisingly, because I have always considered my friend’s views on autumn to be thoroughly heretical – and if I’m being perfectly honest, somewhat capricious.   

The therapist confessed to her patient. She didn’t like the shrinking of days, she told me. The closing in of everything. The quiet finality of the season.

I laid there and thought about what I loved about autumn. For I do love it – spirit, mind and body. And I thought about it as I left the warmth of the office for an outside temperature that made me shiver; and I thought about it as my feet squelched through mud on the way to the car; and I thought about it as I drove home and recognized that the tulip poplars had divested themselves of three quarters of their leaves and that somehow it had become mid-October while I wasn’t watching.

My love for this season goes far beyond wafts of cinnamon and the draping of porches in what has become the tedious standardization of autumn. It is a recognition of the need for contraction and for rest. For my garden, for the creatures who inhabit it, and for myself. 

When I am ready, it allows me the freedom to do without the inevitable undo of rampant growth. It is a true celebration and conclusion of all that has come before – the awakening of the earth and its long Dionysian revels. It is as necessary as the parent who picks up her toddler and puts it to bed long before the toddler thinks he is ready.

    In the many years of my city and suburban life, I was a willing participant in Autumn — adding my straw bales and cornstalks to neighborhoods that would certainly never suffer the actual, messy creation of such things in back gardens during the rest of the year.

I was joined by many others, who today move with even greater alacrity from tawny bales to evergreen wreaths, until the lack of commercially viable holidays make the bleakness of winter inescapable, and the long stretch to spring a dreary countdown.

No doubt expensive pumpkins await trash collection on a suburban curb, signifying a profound disconnect to autumn. So much for the “harvest.”

The longer I live rurally, the less I feel any need for the manifestation of the consumer season. The true fall season is immersive, deeply meaningful, and a lot less expensive.  And yet it still must be sought out. If I do not take time to appreciate autumn through morning walks, or snapping photos in the garden, or hunting mushrooms, I can easily be overwhelmed by all that must be done before that first frost, and how cold my hands are doing it.

Spring is not coy. It is an awakening. It is a joyful, positive, energizing season that transcends place and challenges the most melancholy to still find darkness.  And as such, it is not the exclusive privilege of the country mouse who stares across greening fields with her morning coffee in hand.

Step out of your apartment on the twenty-third floor (please use the stairs), and you’ll feel life returning to the gray, deadened streets of a city. The temperature is warmer, the restaurants are setting up tables outdoors, the street trees are blooming, and everyone is being a hell of a lot nicer to one another.

All is potential.  When I close my eyes and think back, I can remember the incredible feeling of exhilaration on the first fine day in March in the heart of whichever city I happened to be inhabiting at the time.  The contrast was heartbreakingly joyful.

But that is spring.

Conversely, autumn is a period of contraction. It is a season that, at core, is taking away from us. If growth, vigor, life…energy must end, we want a damn good reason to be okay with it. Otherwise, in a heavily urbanized existence it is simply cruelty. Thus, #harvest signs where there is no harvest. The cinnamon oil assaulting the senses from grocery store to boutique shop. The tasteful and the tacky – all to provide some level of meaning as to why we’re being punished.  Why we’re being put to bed.

The meaning and the joy are there without the superficialities of retail therapy, but I think finding them requires some measure of natural connection; and if you don’t live rurally, you must actively seek it out. It is present in the quiet corners of parks and river walks. It is present in moments spent tending balcony window boxes, and in those street trees, now throwing leaves on the cars parked below. It’s even present in the warming soups and stews we instinctively crave which connect us to a harvest we did not reap, but in which we may share.

Autumn is far more subtle in its joys than spring, and the worries of modern life can cunningly conceal those joys. It’s dark. I’m cold. There are wet, slimy, leaves everywhere, and I’ve got 6,459 tender plants to bring in.  How much is heating oil this year?!? If we don’t look for a true connection to autumn, and thus recognize its worth, we face winter even earlier than we should.  

Why must the season end? Why must there be autumn?  Mother Nature has spoken. Time for bed everyone. We might as well enjoy the story. – MW

“Do You Like Fall?” originally appeared on GardenRant on October 21, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

Weepers Are the Pedal Steel Guitar of the Garden

There’s nothing remotely like the pedal steel guitar. When played by a true artist, its caressing whine instantly collars even the most detached listener and unceremoniously shoves them down the five flights of stairs that lead directly to an emotional reckoning. 

A beautiful weeping tree adds the same affect to the garden. The instant we come upon one, an emotional chord is struck. In our hearts. In our souls. It’s pretty hardcore. The classic weeper, of course, is the weeping willow. There’s nothing like one draping over a lazy body of water.  

Weeping willow.

But there are some among us who argue that an old weeping beech is even better. Until someone else comes along and claims that it is, in fact, the purple weeping beech that is the holy grail of weeping trees. Until someone else shuts them both down with a solid evidence that, no, it is actually the weeping, purple, fastigiate beech that is proof that God exists.

Weeping beech.

Weeping purple beech.

Weeping purple fastigiate beech. ‘Purple Fountain.’

But they’re all wrong. 

Any weeping katsura is not only proof that God exists but will also answer any other hard questions you might have. ‘Amazing Grace’ weeping katsura does all that and also makes you rich.

Cercidihyllum japonicum ‘Pendula.’ Weeping katsura.

‘Amazing Grace’ weeping katsura at Spring Grove Cemetery and Arboretum.

A gaggle of geeks under the boughs of ‘Amazing Grace.’ Indeed.

But the truth is, there are a lot of great weeping trees that can bring tremendous emotional wonder to your garden. Unless you use a lot of them. Okay, you can line a stream with a hundred weeping willows and it will look awesome. Or pepper a road with a dozen weeping cherries. But even a pair of different weepers together is an outrage. And more than one of any in a normal backyard or garden suggests the homeowner needs help. Name one band with more than one pedal steel guitar player. What does that tell you? When something is already great, it’s easy for more to immediately become too much. 

Even when not in bloom, Prunus subhirtella pendula (weeping Higan’s cherry) brings drama.

But in bloom, Oh my!

A low grafted ‘Snow Fountain’ cherry dressing up a wall.

Can’t forget to included a conifer. Chamaecyparis nootkatensis ‘Pendula.’

  Weepers Are the Pedal Steel Guitar of the Garden originally appeared on GardenRant on October 20, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

Gauging Horticulture’s Place in the General Public’s Consciousness

October 16, 2021

Cincinnati, Ohio

Dear Marianne,

So good to receive your letter dated September 2nd. Is it possible that it’s already October 16th? I no longer have any sense for time. Every day I grind, attention set on the items on my to-do list that, left undone, are most likely to get me fired or killed. When I finally look up, it’s time for bed.  I should just stop making promises based on timely commitments. I can’t seem to finish things while they still matter. 

But I have got a bit of an excuse for a tardy letter. Michele and I enjoyed six days in your home state. We flew to San Jose to visit my sister Karen and her family. My dad, other sister, and her husband came along too. We saw everything there is to see from San Francisco to the north to Paso Robles in the south. And we ate and drank so much I’m pretty sure we caused some shortages. Wine, especially. All told, we traveled almost 900 miles packed into a Hertz Grand Caravan minivan with over 63,000 miles on it. It featured slushy springs, hair-trigger steering, and an air conditioner that couldn’t quite keep up. By every rule in the Universe, none of us should still be on speaking terms and three of us should be changing our Facebook status to single, but, except for one meltdown, we got along. And I was reminded of how much I love California.

Heading towards a meltdown in a Paso Robles winery parking lot, a hot, crowded, bouncy Dodge Grand Caravan to blame. Fortunately, the winery offered wine, which restored our wills to live.

Left to right, my lovely Michele, John (Sandy’s husband), Tom (Karen’s husband), Sandy, Marcos (my niece’s fiance), my Dad, Sarah (my niece), Karen, Brett (my nephew) with Baja, and Frances (his girlfriend). Sarah and Marcos announced their engagement during our visit! In fact, minutes before this photo.

Horticulturally, we jammed in more than our fair share of the group’s vacation time. We visited the Tea Garden at Golden Gate Park and a contingent of us stopped by the University of California, Santa Cruz Botanical Garden. The tea garden was awesome. Cool, damp, and comfortable. Perfect, as you would expect, and filled with familiar plants. The UCSC Botanical Garden is a fine collection of plants I refuse to believe are actually from this planet, including many that are supposedly from the Southern Hemisphere. But, damn, it was hot. Really hot. My dad wound up sitting in the shade while my niece and nephew and their significant others followed us around. To their credit, they feigned interest and never complained. But soon enough we realized the heat was visibly aging us so we went back to San Jose and enjoyed–get this–gin and tonics. After 50+ years following a very bad teenage gin experience, I have recovered sufficiently enough that I can, at least, hold gin down and, at most, even enjoy it. 

The Tea Garden at Golden Gate Park, San Francisco.

An alien life form found at University of California Santa Cruz Arboretum.

Karen’s garden in San Jose is just a lovely space packed with a thousand exuberant containers of succulents and tropicals. I took a short walk around her neighborhood and was surprised to see that some of their street trees are the same ones we grow here in Ohio—golden raintree, honey locust, ginkgo, walnuts, and London planes. I asked Karen if they ever get watered. “Oh no.” “You sure?” “Very sure.” “When did you last get rain?” “Might have been April. Could have been March.” “What the…? How the…?” For the hundredth time in recent months, I’m re-thinking everything I ever thought I knew about everything. The more I see and experience, the more I realize I probably am, and always have been, a damned idiot and totally full of shit.

On the way to the airport for our return, we had time enough to swing by the San Jose Municipal Rose Garden and I fell in love with roses again. It’s amazing how clean they are in a climate devoid of any humidity.  

The San Jose Municipal Rose Garden.

  Reminded me of the time it took me an eternity to identify a tree in Utah. It was fall of 2019. We were there to collect two gold medals from GardenComm for articles I had written. Must have done something dumb at the ceremony though. No gold medals since. But, I digress. “What is that beautiful tree?” I kept asking. After far too long, it finally dawned on me that it was…could be…a crabapple. Nothing rare. Nothing “western.” Just a freakin’ crabapple. Felt so damned stupid! Another reminder that I am and probably have always been an idiot and totally full of shit. But, in my defense, it was a crabapple without any of the features we use to identify them here in Ohio. Not a trace of scab. No rust. Zero fire blight. The plant was clean as a whistle! I’d never seen one like that before. Anyway, it just might have been possible that some big influencer from GardenComm saw this whole crabapple struggle play out. Good, old, high-falutin Scott Beuerlein, newly minted gold medal winner times two, seen struggling to identify a common crabapple. So this could be another reason why the gold medals stopped coming but I don’t really know. There could be so many other reasons.

Anyway, my trip to California loaded me up with lots of ideas for future GardenRant posts, and letters, which are sure to come gushing out of me. Of course, when I say “gushing” what I really mean is dribble, dribble, dribble. 

As always, your letter was witty and a veritable stream of smart and interesting thoughts and ideas. One particular aside raised an issue that I really want to dwell on. Paraphrasing here, but you said something about how many, perhaps the vast majority, of the Cincinnati Zoo & Botanical Garden’s visitors are there for the animals and, therefore, to varying degrees, are oblivious to and perhaps unappreciative of the botanical garden and everything that goes into making it.  I might have mischaracterized your point a little, but I think I’m in the ballpark, at least.

Strollers parked while moms and kids ride the train. Are there any among them that notice the beautiful Chamaecyparis nootkatensis ‘Pendula’ along the tracks? Any who appreciate tall bald cypress, or the weeping katsura, or the whiter than white bark of ‘Suttneri’ London plane?

This is something I’ve thought about a lot. I imagine a lot of people in horticulture have. For those of us who are true believers in the power of plants and tirelessly strive to convert non-believers, the challenge has always been: “How do we tease out the value of horticulture when it is almost always part of something else? A home, business, park, community, or whatever?” 

Cincinnati is a good place to consider this question. It is an old city with a prosperous past and more than its fair share of old money. Because of this, we enjoy a rich horticultural legacy and presence.  But nearly all of its public gardens, where many of my best friends work, suffer the same dynamic. We’re all playing second fiddle to something else.

Spring Cemetery & Arboretum in Cincinnati.

At the CZBG, it’s the animals. At Cincinnati’s parks, many of which have great horticulture, most visitors are there to throw frisbees, make out at the overlooks, and attend wedding receptions. At Spring Grove Cemetery & Arboretum, which is as fine a setting as you’ll ever find for a world class collection of old, beautiful, and grand trees, the arboretum is shadowed by the dead body side of the business. And Rowe Arboretum? It has completely given up on horticulture, committing itself entirely to dwarf conifers.

Of course, the first argument for horticulture is pretty obvious. People usually don’t make out, get married, get buried, or experience any of life’s other momentous occasions in hideous, horrible places. Not at all. Folks want to do those things in nice places. And what makes a place nice? Oftentimes, it’s horticulture.

A wedding reception in the making at the overlook at Alms Park.

After eleven years wandering the paths of the Cincinnati Zoo, I don’t believe most of our visitors are oblivious and unappreciative of the botanical gardens. Many, even non-gardeners, truly enjoy the color, the shade, and the feeling they get by being in nature. The rest still feel the horticulture and benefit from it too, but at an even more subconscious level. Perhaps feeling it without knowing it. 

One of many calming paths at the CZBG.

Now, of course, there are places where horticulture is front and center, and the first of these that come to mind is the High Line in New York. The place is always crowded and horticulture is the top draw. But, two questions, 1) How many of these visitors are horticultural literati like you and me? 2) How many are the unwashed, unenlightened, horticulturally ignorant masses? Answers: 1) Tiny percentage. 2) The vast majority.

Masses of humanity enjoying the High Line.

And that’s awesome! The last time I was there, I got emotional. Not surprising. I’m a super emotional guy who chokes up at many commercials that feature soft piano music and any that have a dog in them and there I was, in a sea of humanity, every one of them polite and respectful in their reverence for a garden. They shuffled along at communion line speed and spoke in the hushed tones of a group of Knights of Columbus fellows who had just seen an image of Mary in the condensation of a beer can. And this was proof that horticulture matters! When everyday people see good horticulture they feel it. They get it. They want to bring more of it into their lives.

In my more horticulturally despairing moments, I cling to the idea of the High Line as if it were a floating wooden door after a shipwreck.  

While I gladly rode that emotion, sadly, I didn’t feel the High Line in the same way the others all did. I know too much. I was thinking about the horticulture. I was marveling at the breadth of the plant material. I was wondering where they were able to obtain many of these plants. I was thinking about the other visitors. And I’m willing to bet that the same is true with other horticulturists who visit, which is the reason why I believe that those who know less about horticulture feel it and need it and find joy in it more. Certainly, more purely. Our job, as horticulturists, is to find ways to give it to them. 

Sometimes I want my horticultural innocence back. 

So, yeah, the Zoo isn’t the High Line and only a minority come specifically for the gardens. Most are young families who are there mostly to get out the kids out of the house. They are smack dab in the thickest part of their lives, raising kids, making house payments, balancing two careers with childcare, homework, soccer practices, and more. They are tired, stressed, distracted, and, dammit, they probably aren’t gardeners. So maybe they are not especially primed to enjoy a first-class horticultural experience, but they get it anyway. Simply because it is there. And who can measure what it means to them, collectively and as individuals? When you add up all the countless moments of all the millions of guests who find themselves in the presence of magnificent trees, of beautiful flowers, and surrounded by the very essence of life, you know wonderful things have happened–commitments to improve, changes for the better, life decisions, or maybe just a much needed moment of peace. One of the challenges horticulture faces in proving its importance is that it does most of its best work at the subconscious level.  

Of course, I say all of this in the shadow of having visited the Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park with my non-gardening sister. Can safely say no transformational moment happened there. So, keep in mind, I probably am, and always have been, a damned idiot and totally full of shit.

Yours,

Scott 

Gauging Horticulture’s Place in the General Public’s Consciousness originally appeared on GardenRant on October 17, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

If my Gardens were All-Native, there’d be Missing these Favorites

Nonnative shrubs I’ve grown and loved.

Recently, our English partner in GardenRanting – Anne Wareham – commented (on this post), “It would be useful for someone from the UK to know more about why native plants in America are fundamentally different from others, so that they impact on design this way.”

Native Deciduous Trees – We’ve Got ’em!

Good question! And I promised to answer, starting with the disclaimer that I can only speak for my region (since in the U.S. there are so many different ones). Here in the Maryland, like much of the East, land was mostly covered in deciduous forest, so there are plenty of excellent deciduous trees to choose from that are native here. And according to Doug Tallamy, trees like white oaks are the most important native plants for the wildlife we want to preserve and protect. 

Conifers? Not So Much

Here in the East, native conifers are few and far between – at least ones that would fit in most gardens.  Sources agree:

Margaret Roach’s favorite conifers include just one native to her New York garden – a dwarf White Pine.

The Birds and Blooms list of dwarf conifers for small spaces includes a creeping Juniper that’s native, plus Arborvitae and Bald Cypress.

Fine Gardening recommends the Eastern White Pine, Colorado Spruce and Western Arborvitae – all U.S. natives but not here in the East. One more list from Fine Gardening includes no natives to eastern half of U.S.

Nonnative Shrubs I’ve Grown

Now for shrubs – the plants that form the bones of our home gardens, that make them look like gardens even in winter, these are the nonnative plants most necessary, in my experience and observation.

Of all the shrubs and small trees I’ve grown in my two Maryland gardens, these are the only natives: Ninebark, Fothergilla, Redbud, Dogwood, and some of the near-native Oakleaf Hydrangeas.  None are evergreen.

Now for the nonnatives. Pictured above are some of the nonnative shrub photos that have been major contributors to my gardens: Caryopteris, Weigelia, Acuba, Crepe Myrtle, Spirea, Pieris japonica, Lacecap Hydrangeas, Beautyberry, Forsythia, Roses and Nandina. Others not pictured include Korean Boxwood, Azaleas, False Holly, Purple Smokebush, Koreanspice and Doublefile Viburnum, Japanese Maple, Arborvitae, Chinese Juniper, Acuba, Abelia, and Mock Orange.

And these are the nonnative evergreen shrubs I’ve used as foundation plants – the ‘Otto Luyken’ laurels above in my former garden (plus Korean Boxwoods), and below, ‘Goshiki’ Osmanthus, Azalea, Spirea and Nandina along the front of my current home.

The Need for More Landscape-Worthy Shrubs

A writer for Ecolandscaping.org  addresses this problem in his article High Impact Native American Shrubs”. (Spoiler alert – there’s not much except Ninebark.) Bolding by me.

One of the components of my research and extension program at the University of Connecticut has been the evaluation of native shrubs for landscape suitability.

One of the issues associated with native plants has been their blind recommendation without knowing their landscape adaptability and the false notion that all native plants are well suited for landscape purposes. For example, highbush blueberry (Vaccinium corymbosum) is commonly recommended as a substitute for invasive winged euonymus (Euonymus alatus) because both have vibrant red fall foliage. However, blueberry is not well adapted to the locations where winged euonymus is used, and it performs poorly or dies. Failed attempts at using native plants result in future reluctance of homeowners, landscapers and growers to embrace native species as viable alternatives to invasive species.

The green industry would benefit from a broadened palette of versatile and adaptable native plants to meet the growing desire to utilize natives in landscaping. 

Speaking of blind recommendations of native plants, one often-recommended source of information for home gardens is this booklet of native plants from the National Park Service. Its meagre photos and descriptions give no indication as to which plants perform well in actual gardens, but this inappropriate resource continues to be cited because nothing appropriate exists. So far, anyway.  

The Problem of Groundcovers

Groundcovers are another essential plant group in successful landscapes, the most common one being turfgrass. I quit lawns about 12 years ago and have researched alternative groundcovers ever since. (Because with precipitation, which we have here in the East, ground must be covered or weeds will do it for us.)

The only successful native groundcover I’ve found and recommend is Packera aurea, a woodland plant that prefers shade or part sun. The nonnative ones that perform well in my garden are ‘Ice Dance’ Carex. Sedum takesimense, Mondo Grass, Comfrey (Symphytum grandiflorum), Creeping Jenny, Liriope and Periwinkle.  I hasten to add that none are growing where they might harm natural areas.

Annuals and Bulbs

Petunias and Zinnias in my front yard right now.

Naturally, because this region has freezing temps in winter, none of the annuals that I grow – Zinnias, Sweet Potato Vine, Coleus, Iresine, and Morning Glory, and Bronze Fennel – are native, so they’d be missing from an all-native garden. My spring-blooming bulbs would be missing too – Daffodils, Grape Hyacinths and Spanish Bluebells.

Sun-Loving Native Perennials – Some Great Choices

Now for some good news! For a part of the country that was once forest and will revert to forest if given the chance, it’s surprising that there are so many sun-loving native perennials to choose from. In perusing my photo folder named “Favorite Perennials,” I came across some great native plants that have performed well in my gardens.

Above are Joe Pye Weed, Spiderwort, Aster, Amsonia hubrichtii, Goldenrod, Rudbeckia and Purple Coneflower.  (The Coneflower may or may not be native to this region; some experts say it was introduced in the East by Lewis and Clark.) 

I also currently grow these sun-loving native perennials: Crossvine, Honeysuckle (Lornicera sempervirens), Butterfly Weed (my new favorite perennial), Woodland Aster, Coreopsis, and Little Bluestem. 

Sadly, perennials alone don’t make for a great-looking home garden. So when people ask me about pollinator gardens, for example, I say they’re a great addition to home landscapes but by themselves, no substitute for one that looks good all year round.

Favorite Nonnative Perennials

Fortunately there are also many well-adapted nonnative perennials, of which some of my favorites have been Daylilies, ‘Autumn Joy’ Sedum, Siberian Iris, Lamb’s Ear, Rose Campion, Russian Sage, Mexican Evening Primrose, Hosta, Pulmonaria, Catmint and Autumn Fern.

Back to you, Anne

I hope that answers your most excellent question.

If my Gardens were All-Native, there’d be Missing these Favorites originally appeared on GardenRant on October 15, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

Agent Hash and the Sichuan Peppercorn

  The USDA agent introduced himself as “Mr. Hash.” I worried I was having a flashback. I struggled to avoid asking, “You’re  f#@*ing kidding me?”

This is a follow up to last month’s story Sorrow and Solace in Sichuan on 9/11.

I’d sent 140 seed accessions to Jelitto Perennial Seeds, following a 2001 Sichuan collecting trip. The shipment was approved by the Chinese authorities. Jelitto cleaned the seeds, got a German phytosanitary certificate, and sent a selected few seed packets to me, including one with cleaned seeds of peppercorn, purchased from an open-air Sichuan market.  I sowed the seeds immediately. (My seeds didn’t germinate, but the seed pros in Germany succeeded, as ever.)

I had become fond of Sichuan food flavored with the tongue tingling, fiery-tasting prickly-ash tree, Zanthoxylum simulans. I’d also developed the long-lasting impression that every small Sichuan town smelled like stir-fried peppercorn and diesel exhaust.

Jelitto had labeled the packet with the common name, and though the Latin name is required, it mistakenly passed USDA inspection.

Original Jelitto-grown Sichuan peppercorn from 2001 seed collection. Georg Uebelhart photos.

A week or two after the seeds arrived in Louisville, I got a surprise visit from a new agent of the local USDA office. Jelitto was on good terms with the USDA. We didn’t stock any seed, and played by the rules, but I wondered at the time if the USDA thought our one-person office, marketing over 3000 varieties of perennial seeds across North America, looked suspicious.

The USDA agent introduced himself as Agent Hash.

I worried I was having a flashback. I struggled to avoid asking, “You’re f#@*ing kidding me?” I vaguely recall meeting an incarnation of Mr. Hash at the Atlanta Pop Festival on July 4th, 1970. Jimi Hendrix was about to come on stage. My memory is fuzzy, though I remember a sea of tie-dye.

There was no hidden stash for Agent Hash and, before he left, he told me proudly that he’d confiscated 50 LBS of Sichuan peppercorns in Louisville’s Asian markets earlier in the day. I was confused. I asked Agent Hash what the problem was with Sichaun peppercorns. He said sternly that it was in the citrus (Rutaceae) family.

I had presumed wrongly that the peppercorn was in the deadly nightshade (Solanaceae) family with tomatoes, potatoes, bell peppers, hot peppers and eggplants. The Sichuan peppercorns were banned from entry into the U.S. because of legitimate concerns about citrus canker being spread to oranges, lemons, limes, etc. 

Poivre du Sichuan

I told Mr. Hash how much I loved Sichuan peppercorns. I followed him out the door and, like a curious boy, asked if I could see the confiscated goods from the raid. He popped open the trunk and I felt like I was watching the end to an episode of America’s Most Wanted.

Agent Hash calmly assured me that the Asian markets would be restocked the next week in the continuing culinary cat and mouse game.

For the next three years, until the ban was lifted, I pleaded in Chinese restaurants for my stir fry to be flavored with hua jiao (the Chinese name). My question always raised a red flag. Kitchen doors opened and eyes would appear, and I was told the Sichuan spice was not available. The answer was always the same—unless I was with Asian friends.

I could have been Agent Hash in disguise.

The Feds eventually lifted the peppercorn ban in 2004, when it became clear they were fighting a losing battle. They offered a fix: the seed pods could be treated by exporters for 20 minutes at 140 degrees in order to eliminate any chance of citrus canker.

I’m working up a list of vegetable, annual and perennial flowers to sow early next year. I’ve already sown seeds of chokeberry and bottlebrush buckeye.  I sowed them in beds outdoors. One year I would like to try growing seeds of the Sichuan peppercorn again and also the American relative—toothache tree— Zanthoxylum  americanum.

If I succeed, I will happily share my end-of-the alphabet, botanic booty with Mr. Hash, or a cooked meal, but I haven’t seen him since.

In addition to Zanthoxylum germination fantasies, I now enjoy cooking with Sichuan peppercorns.

Are you tempted?

You should sow seeds of Zanthoxylum outdoors in the fall to allow a warm period, followed by the natural temperature rhythms of the cold winter to break down germination inhibitors. If you’re lucky, germination may proceed as spring is rolled out.

You can find cooking recipes online, but I wing it with my stir fry, lending it a bit of southern flair. Throw peppercorns into a mix with olive oil and minced garlic, then add a vegetable medley of green beans, okra, corn, bell peppers, sun-dried tomato bruschetta plus pieces of cooked chicken or whatever else comes to mind. Touch it up with black pepper, salt, cumin, and turmeric, then smother a plate of wild rice with the stir fry.

You’re still not convinced?

Trust me on this next one.  

I’ve got an addictive alternative: Peanuts flavored with Sichuan peppercorns.

Tell your friends you heard it first on the Garden Rant.

Agent Hash and the Sichuan Peppercorn originally appeared on GardenRant on October 13, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

The AAA of Autumnal Adventure

  If pushed to admit it, and without ranting too much, autumn is my favorite gardening season, maybe about two horticulture notches ahead of spring. It is a close call; a welcome spring does follow a long winter, but then basketball is over and I gotta start mowing the grass again.

Anemone ‘Robustissima’

Fall wins my soul because it follows sweat-drenched summer.

Come that first crisp, clear, sunny blue day I just want to hang around outside, wander and wonder, find joy in just being alive while anticipating the tumbling-down red, yellow and burgundy leaves that come with it.

Hell, I even like to weed on those days; the soil often moist, the weeds easily yanked and the satisfaction in looking back at bare ground ready for spring planting.

Gingko in Cave Hill Cemetery in Louisville, Kentucky in early November

If you have a ginkgo tree – and play that first frost just right – you can stand beneath its magnificent limbs as its golden leaves shower down upon you, all of them suddenly released and falling that same day; a tree as impatient to get on with the cycle of life as your average gardener.

So, OK, we gotta rake up them leaves and shove them into big, non-biodegradable plastic bags. My answer to that is go start a compost pile.

Fall also brings three of my favorite flowers to life, the AAA of autumnal adventure, the allium, anemone and aster.

 The season brightens their colors—and they know it. Understanding they are among the last of the year’s flower parade makes them more appreciated—and we know it. The fact that each is easy to grow, versatile and fairly well behaved—the Japanese anemone a little bit of an outlier – just adds to their appeal.

So, let’s take them in alphabetical order:

 ALLIUM—In common parlance the allium is a genus that includes hundreds of species, among them onion, garlic, shallot, leek, and chives, some available at Kroger. It allegedly symbolizes unity, good fortune, prosperity, humility and patience, although given its odor you might have to hold your nose in the process of reaping your good fortune.

Ornamental onions are also great favorites in the garden, among then the giant spring and early summer monsters such as the ‘Globemaster” which rises an almost threatening two-to-three feet in the air with huge purple flower heads that declare victory over other puny perennials.

But we speak today of early autumn and another ornamental onion, the Allium ‘Millenium.” I was aware of it but had never grown it, found a couple pushing up their clumpy, green grass-like leaves in a favorite nursery in northern Illinois in late September. They looked lonely, needing to be in the ground.

Mission accomplished. Well, almost.

Allen Bush was suspicious. He said his Allium ‘Millenium’ had flowered 6-8 weeks before in his Kentucky garden. Furthermore, the blooms didn’t look quite right. He suggested throwing the question to the clearinghouse on Facebook’s “Plant Idents” page. The plant cognoscenti gathers here to sort out taxonomic questions like this. The answer came back: Allium thunbergii, perhaps the late-flowering cultivar ‘Ozawa’.

You decide… Allium ‘Millenium’ or Allium thunbergii ‘Ozawa’. You can’t go wrong with either.

The result, regardless, was a late September push of very appealing, rose-purple, 12 to 14-inch florets that are very useful in fresh cut arrangements, albeit with an oniony smell and taste when cut or bruised.  I have never tried one with a hamburger – I’m more a ketchup and mustard guy – but it should work for either ‘Millenium’ or Allium thunbergii.

Either plant can easily be divided in late fall or early spring, guaranteed to bloom every year with sunshine and water and will be a star in the front of any perennial border or rock garden.

JAPANESE ANEMONE—This is a plant, given enough time, that will literally rise above almost anything else in your fall garden. Actually a native to central and southwest China, it grabbed the name Japanese anemone – a-nem-o-nee- a few hundred years ago and never looked back.

 I love this plant. It will stretch four-to-five feet tall on slim but durable stems that way in the breeze, prefers part sun but must have continually moist soil. Its buttercup-like flowers come in pure white, all shades of pink, rose and bubblegum and will bloom for weeks, often deep into autumn.

Can it be too tall and invasive? Yes. Do I care? No. I just let its thing every autumn, spilling up into our sidewalk, well-watered from overhead downspouts, and how often do you literally get to walk among your flowers, your fingers touching the petals on the way past.

Anemone ‘Honorine Jorbet’

Next spring, I will take an hour, or so, and thin them out, perhaps starting anemone beds in other places. The bees love them. Other pollen-seeking insects adore them. I planted the first of ours about 25 years ago. They took their time getting started. Then they owned the place; their place. Well worth the wait.

Aster—In autumn mums is not always the word. In fact, roughly 99.5 percent of those millions of mums now lined up for black-potted miles outside grocery and box stores will be dead by December. Tossed in garbage. Forgotten. Replaced, maybe, by Christmas cactus. Or not.

Aster (Symphyotrichum novi-belgii) ‘Wood’s Pink’

Not so with asters. Which in one case – ‘Raydon’s Favorite,’ a purple-blue, very hardy lovely, comes with a local story. In 1991 a south Texas plant lover, Raydon Alexander, sent to Allen Bush, a ranting Louisville plant guru then operating a nursery in North Carolina, a pass-along aster that may have had its roots in eastern Tennessee but had done well in Texas heat and cold.

Aster (Symphyotrichum oblongifolium) ‘Raydon’s Favorite’

The plant went commercial – with reason. Unlike those grocery store mums, Raydon’s Favorite is tough, lovely, shorter than many with proper pruning and always returns. Try teaming it up with ‘Woods’s Pink’ aster, a tough, pink dwarf that will bloom into late fall and has no interest in joining the compost pile either.

Can spring be far behind?

  Former Louisville Courier-Journal columnist Bob Hill wrote more than 4,000 columns and feature stories, about ten books and several angry letters to bill collectors in his 33 years at the paper. He and his wife, Janet, are former guides and caretakers of Hidden Hill Nursery and Garden in Utica, IN., a home-made, eight-acre arboretum, art mecca and source of enormous fun, whimsy, rare plants and peace for all who showed up. Bob’s academic honors include being the tallest kid in his class 12 years in a row. 

The AAA of Autumnal Adventure originally appeared on GardenRant on October 6, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

Philly show to stay outside in 2022

You can thank COVID. When I was at this show last June  (Wambui Ippolito’s Etherea is shown above), the few staffers I talked to seemed to indicate they’d be back in the Convention Center in March 2022. And when I talked to Sam Lemheney, PHS Chief of Shows, immediately afterwards, he said, “The original goal was to do one show outside to get through COVID and we’d go back inside, but we haven’t necessarily made the full decision. We will definitely go back inside eventually.”

Last week, the official announcement was made: the 2022 PHS Philadelphia Flower Show “In Full Bloom” will take place in South Philadelphia’s Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park (FDR Park) from Saturday, June 11 through Sunday, June 19. I again spoke to Lemheney, this time at more length. “The main reason is the uncertainty around COVID and trying to keep everybody safe,” he says. Given the long lead time, the health situation is just not stable enough to be able to predict with confidence that a big crowded indoor event in March would be safe. “We want to make sure that the people who have been coming for decades can still come,” Lemheney states.

There are mixed opinions about this. Gardeners in the US are used to indoor shows. My friend Sally Cunningham has been bringing groups to Philly for some years, including last year. She says, “While my two separate two-night trips there went well, in spite of one day at 94 degrees and another with rain the whole time, I still prefer the indoor venue and a March trip when we are dying for light and flowers.” But she’s already promoting the outdoor show and looks forward to bringing more groups next year. As someone who is still monitoring mask-wearing on all her trips, she notes that, “A lot would fear the crowded indoor one in the coming late winter, I suspect.”

PHS Chief of Shows Sam Lemheney, at a previous show

Lemheney speaks with enthusiasm about the possibilities of an outdoor show. “We are going to produce an amazing show,” he says. “’In full bloom’ is the theme, to provide more flowers, more color, and bring the park to life even more than we did before. We learned from the RHS (Chelsea, Hampton Court), the Singapore show, and others— we share with them on a yearly basis, indoors or outdoors.”

The chief is honest about last year’s problems, which were mainly around traffic flow and parking and plans to work more closely with the nearby sports complex, the park police, and other official entities to make things run more smoothly. He also says that last year’s multiple food and beverage stations—many more than would have been inside the CC—help people stay longer at the show and enjoy more of the display gardens and vendors. Another positive change he notes: “The plant material looked so much better at the end of the show; that is so different from the indoor show.” He also stresses: “June is the beginning of the gardening season; you can take what you learn and go right out and put it to work.”

I have only been to last year’s show and I loved it. As someone who’s tired of the forced bulbs and short list of shrubs that often fill indoor display gardens—as well as the goofy themes that try to make up for the lack of interesting plants—I loved seeing such a full range of plants in sunlight. And it’s impressive that a nearly 200-year-old institution was able to do such an about-face. We all know it will be back inside eventually; that makes me look forward to the second outdoor iteration all the more.

Philly show to stay outside in 2022 originally appeared on GardenRant on October 5, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

Delaware Botanic Garden Update, and How its Meadow is Managed

Five years after my first visit to the not-yet-open Delaware Botanic Garden (which I blogged about here) I returned recently to be utterly wow’d by its progress and the breadth of the vision of its creators. Not to mention the apparent fund-raising success on display. 

Hard to believe the garden just opened in 2019. Here’s its story.

For example, the impressive stormwater management garden for the parking lot, above and described below.

The Meadow

The crowning achievement of the garden – so far! – is the highly acclaimed meadow designed by Piet Oudolf and installed by dozens (or hundreds?) of volunteers.  

My photos are from mid-September, just before the Amsonia hubrichitii turns orange for dramatic impact and even better photos. I may return later this fall, for the Amsonia alone.

For plant names, try this link.

Paths through the meadow are nice and wide, and easy to walk on.

I emailed the garden’s Director of Horticulture, Stephen Pryce Lea, to ask how they manage the meadow, especially weeding and editing out of overabundant spreading by some plants, and he responded:

Here is how the strategy works at DBG – I cannot fully comment on how it has worked in previous years as I joined the team in March 2021.

The weeding in the first, second and third years have been challenging! Not just because of the space between the young plants but because of the surrounding meadows and fields that go to seed in the fall, sending thousands of weed seeds into our newly planted meadow. Also in years 1 and 2 the garden was not mulched to suppress weeds; we have recently began mulching with pine nuggets and letting the grasses cut in February create their own mulch.

This solution was to mulch heavily with bark and dried grasses and to weed regularly through the season. There are no pathways or bare area in the meadow and the denser the planting the less weeds will ultimately survive.

In my experience European gardens do not allow space between plants like here in the U.S. Piet’s designs, like many UK or European designers, plant so that perennials and grasses will grow together to suppress weeds and support each other as they grow.

The most persistent weeds are still a problem, with long travelling root systems these are almost impossible to remove. However, Piet’s style and design does call for a number of native wildflowers, many of which have that natural random spreading habit and has become part of how we control weeds and self-sown plants in the meadow.

For example, Liatris (Blazing Prairie Star) is one we have to remove and thin some of the seed-heads as they seed prolifically. Eryngium yuccifolium is another example that enjoys the sandy soils. Eupatorium are fantastic pollinator plant that appeared and this year we simply removed them before they went to seed. Sorrel has migrated across from the nearby fields and by targeting it early in the season, we’re keeping it in check.

Piet used a lot of ground cover grasses that, now established, have helped reduce the amount of germinating weeds.

Volunteers do have to be careful to navigate between the plants and occasional losses do occur (but fortunately, regrowth is fast).

In summary: My strategy, which I share with the team, is about finding a balance that works. A wildflower meadow will always have some weeds but we find the right time to remove those that are unwanted or aggressive. Adapting your technique to control them is critical and an ongoing element of gardening.

More to Experience at the DBG

Signs like this throughout DBG crediting major donors don’t bother me at all.  In fact, I may be especially drawn to public gardens that are supported by their local breweries! And the signs in this garden are handsome amenities that are perfect for the setting.

The tiny beach overlooking Pepper Creek.

Throughout the woods there are large habitat nests (if that’s the right name) and apparently they inspired Marianne.

Go visit!  Become a member! Enjoy.

Delaware Botanic Garden Update, and How its Meadow is Managed originally appeared on GardenRant on October 1, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

RELEASE: National Young Farmers Coalition Comment on the House Reconciliation Package

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Contact:​ Lytisha Wyatt, National Young Farmers Coalition [email protected] Washington, D.C. (September 29, 2021) – The National Young Farmers Coalition (Young Farmers) commends House and Senate Agriculture Committees for their investments in the current reconciliation package to help farmers, including young and BIPOC farmers, tackle the climate crisis.

Source

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[wendyimmiller]

The Brisk Chill of Autumn Has Arrived. Time for….Crotons?!?

I’m not opposed to a great Summer Romance. Temperate gardeners who have acted upon one of the many blatant hints I have dropped this season and picked up a copy of my new book Tropical Plants and How to Love Them, know that I downright encourage them. 

After all, if a $5.99 one-quart dipladenia purchased in early May (yes, I paid that paltry sum this year) turns into a pot-of-gorgeous for June, July, August, September, and at least part of October, even the most frugal among us can admit we got our money’s worth. Especially if profligates are apparently dropping $549.99 on a 4-inch ‘Albo Variegata’ monstera, and celebrating that incredible bargain with a $5.99 organic nitro cold brew with sweet cream cold foam for the ride home.

  I don’t even understand what I’m seeing here. Somebody call Dave Ramsay.

  Saying a fond goodbye to the dipladenia in October may be tough, but hey, five months is five months baby.

Which is why I get so annoyed when I see frost-tender crotons show up en masse at garden centers in September for the autumn season. Particularly at the BigBox garden centers.

A Summer Romance is one thing. A one-night stand is altogether different.

Okay, maybe not one night. But they ain’t got many ahead of them. Lambs to the slaughter.

  Croton 101

Here are a couple things to know about crotons besides – “Hey, they’re orange. What a great decorating opportunity.”

Crotons are extremely frost sensitive.  They’re not excited about drafts, and cold nights mean dropped leaves. Frost means blackened leaves.  And then dropped leaves. Naked stems. Ugly plants. Disgust and despair. Contempt from your gardening friends. Compost piles.

Autumn 101

Here are a couple things to know about autumn besides – “Hey, it’s time to decorate. What a great croton opportunity.”

Nights are getting colder. Days may be warm but bonfires officially light up cool evenings. Fleeces are being dug out from under cargo shorts. If you’re in cooler climates like Wisconsin or Nova Scotia (Erin Schanen, Niki Jabbour I feel your pain), you could be 24 short hours away from “Holy hell I forgot to bring the houseplants in.”

Autumnal Decorating with Plants 101

Buying a seasonal mum or a flat of pansies or an ornamental kale is one thing. Boring – particularly displayed on their own – but perfectly valid.  They’re frost tolerant and will give you a decent display for weeks – months even.  Years, if you’re a mum martyr. 

Sheffield mums don’t count. Totally not boring.

But a CROTON? You’ll literally get two weeks if you’re lucky. It’s like buying a bouquet of lilies for the front porch.

Aaaaaaaaand, having spent a decent sum late in the game on a plant that is actually worth that money due to the growing time it takes to put on those tough stems and surprisingly fragile, waxy, multicolored leaves, once the inevitable inevitably occurs, you are more than likely to want to take the blackened, frost-injured sticks with four pathetic leaves into the house to overwinter. 

Call me a cynic, but this will 100% end badly for all involved and possibly put you off of tropical plants forever. Which would just. Be. Wrong.

Give a Crotons a Chance

What a missed opportunity for garden centers!  Instead, why not celebrate the incredible versatility of this incredible genera (Codiaeum) from the moment the growing season begins?  There are well over 150 landscape varieties (mostly hybrids of C. variegatum), and choices go WAY beyond the ubiquitous ‘Petra.’ 

Crotons in the summer landscape are simply stunning. (Photo: The Garden of Bill and Linda Pinkham)

I keep a shoestring-leafed ‘Zanzibar’ alive, along with a ‘Mammy’ and a ‘Sunny Star,’ just got a cutting of an oak leaf hybrid, and am always on the lookout for ‘Dreadlocks’ whose long corkscrew leaves are so freaking cool I hardly have words to describe them.

  ‘Dreadlocks’ (Photo from Tropical Plants and How to Love Them)

In late spring, they all emerge from the torture chamber that is my dry house looking like they need a stiff drink and a ticket to Florida, but within a month they are perked up and adding incredible color and texture to plants like autumn fern and bog-standard begonias (which can go meh if you’re not careful). Crotons appreciate dappled shade, lots of moisture in well-draining soil, and a sheltered position from wind if you’ve got it.

Crotons can burn in strong sun, or simply bleach out. The look is not displeasing.

At the end of a long, lovely and lusciously colorful season, you can bid this Summer Romance goodbye, knowing that you got your money’s worth; or cave to base desires, and share your winter life with a High Maintenance Partner that demands humidity, bright light, and moisture. 

Damn I do it every year.

This Fall, Don’t Fall For Cheap Tricks

There’s only one gardener who has any business matching containers of crotons with mini-pumpkins, #Harvest signs, and sprays of faux berries – a gardener who moved to the tropics and can’t reconcile himself to the fact that he doesn’t live in New York anymore.  

A ‘Mammy’ and ‘Sunny Star’ croton wait on the kitchen countertop for winter placement.

  For the rest of us – resist the autumn temptation.  If you succumbed during a trip to [ostensibly] replace your thermostat, I get it. But for Heaven’s sake bring the poor thing inside at once and treat it like it’s a celebrity on an extended spa vacation.

A celebrity you like.  There are so few these days. – MW

______________________________

One last blatant hint: There’s still time to let Tropical Plants and How To Love Them help you navigate the panic and/or process of the fall plant migration season.  Or to simply offer absolution if you’ve had one too many wicked Summer Romances. Available at your favorite booksellers, and the other one.

The Brisk Chill of Autumn Has Arrived. Time for….Crotons?!? originally appeared on GardenRant on September 30, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

LECA? No like-a!

One of the biggest trends taking over the houseplant culture these days is going soilfree. Wait—did I just say growing houseplants in no soil? Yup, sure did. Plant tubers and influencers everywhere are encouraging plant owners to ditch the dirt, falsely suggesting that soil is the root of all their problems. Currently there are two main mediums on the market that people are choosing over soil: LECA (lightweight expanded clay aggregate) and Lechuza Pon. This rant covers LECA.

LECA-lovers are very quick to tout all the reasons one should switch to LECA:  a reduced risk of pests, plant care is easier, and there’s less maintenance. None of those things are true.

First off, LECA is an expensive endeavor. A 50-liter bag of LECA costs $42.90 on Amazon. The same amount of soil would be anywhere between $5 and $20 depending on how fancy you want to get. Additionally, you generally need two pots for a LECA planting: one without drainage and one with. A nursery pot could suffice for the inner pot, but some like to purchase net pots, which are a little extra.

Once LECA is acquired, both the LECA and the plants need to be prepared to transition from soil to LECA. Imagine a plant growing its entire life in soil only to go through the traumatic experience of being unpotted, having all its soil washed away, and maybe even having its roots scrubbed so all organic matter can be removed before putting the plant into LECA. If one can’t remove all the organic matter, it is suggested to just cut off all the roots and treat the plant as a cutting. This is crazytalk.

In addition to LECA itself being expensive, one requires special fertilizers to keep plants growing, because LECA itself has zero nutrients. One must continually purchase different fertilizers and use them in almost every watering to make sure the plant is getting what it needs to grow. There is no “one size fits all” nutrient and LECA-lovers’ cabinets are generally stuffed with dozens of different types.

All those nutrients build up over time, as do water minerals, so that requires flushing the LECA. Which leads us to our next myth-bust: LECA is most definitely NOT less maintenance (or easier) than plants planted in soil. It is advised by LECA experts to flush LECA frequently to avoid the white specs of mineral buildup on the LECA balls. If one has many plants (and houseplant collectors can have hundreds), this is a messy and time-consuming process. Often those little coco-puffs end up all over the place and boy do they hurt when you step on them.

One of the LECA methods suggests keeping plants with a reservoir. This allows the LECA balls to stay moist and encourages roots to grasp onto the balls as they grow. The problem with this, though, is that eventually the roots will seek out the water. Often, people don’t switch out the water in the reservoir frequently enough and this leads to root rot and plant death.

The last myth I am going to bust with LECA is the claim that there are little to no pests when using LECA. Again, this is not true. Even though there is no soil, one can still get all the houseplant pests, even fungus gnats—which seems to be a driving factor to people switching away from soil. One can still also get mealybugs, scale, aphids, and, well, all the pests (see above).

I think one of the reasons why LECA is popular is that many feel it has a cleaner, “nicer,” appearance than soil. And in a houseplant culture where appearance is more important than actual plant care, trends are everything. Hopefully, some of these folks will realize that plants have been growing in soil just fine for centuries. Here’s a plea to stick with what works.

LECA? No like-a! originally appeared on GardenRant on September 29, 2021.

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[wendyimmiller]

Goldenrod has its place in the civilized garden

In recent years, I have found even more reasons not to bother with the standard autumn plantings of mums one sees everywhere—stiff bunches of them on front porches, usually surrounded by pumpkins, gourds, and maybe some corn stalks and/or hay. These displays can be quite effective, and I’d like them more if not for the mums. Mums can’t even be decent enough to provide any kind of longtime bloom; many immediately begin showing brown areas almost as soon as they’re planted. They also have a tendency to fall (stiffly) apart.

Since many of the annuals I already have in pots or elsewhere will bloom through most of mum season, I just stick with those; the increased rain of fall helps with their maintenance.

And recently I’ve begun to add more fall-specific perennials. Like Anne, I am a big anemone fan and have a small stand of them. First, I had to learn that they wanted more sun than I had realized. (This lesson will be a lifelong and never-quite-absorbed process for me.)

Much less picky are the many varieties of solidago. I had always enjoyed goldenrod along the sides of highways or romping through abandoned lots; often, I’d grab some to take home. However, as many gardeners and naturalists know, there are more than a hundred species and dozens of hybrids, most bred to be shorter and less aggressive. I have the ‘Fireworks,’ which looks exactly like its name, with golden spires arcing out in all directions and the Blue-stem (Solidago caesia), which provides a totally different flowering pattern later in the season.  I do need to pull out some of the ‘Fireworks’ every season, but it’s not a big deal.

There are some who prefer goldenrod in wild or cultivated meadow settings, and I get why, but, with limited space to devote to late-season bloomers, goldenrod is perfect for me. It makes its presence known when presence is needed.

Goldenrod has its place in the civilized garden originally appeared on GardenRant on September 28, 2021.

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