Monday Morning Garden Report: 15 April 2024
Last week’s garden report described the beds immediately adjacent to the Alumni House patio. This week, my focus is on two of the garden’s largest flower beds–the “C” and “L” beds located between the Alumni House patio and the lawn area. Before recounting what I saw this morning, I wanted to comment briefly on recent mammal and insect encounters. One morning after entering the garden through the east gate, I looked in front of me and saw a large skunk on the gravel walkway. As we were staring at each other, he raised his tail and I retreated, mutual signaling that neither of us sought an escalation in hostilities. While I was backtracking under the pergola, the skunk trotted along the gravel walkway and disappeared behind the gazebo. Later that same morning, the skunk was on the south side of the Alumni House, digging in a mulched area under the viburnum bushes. The last I saw of him, he was cruising across the lawn, heading toward McCabe (see photo).
When I was about ten years old, I recall seeing my father hop off of his old Case tractor, pick up the axe next to his seat and chasing something across the unmown field. A few minutes later he arrived at the kitchen door and shouted for my mother to bring him some clean clothes. When my Mom opened the screen door, she could smell my Dad, and informed him in no uncertain terms, “Don’t you dare come in this house!” She returned shortly and handed Dad clean denim overalls, a clean work shirt, and a bar of lava soap. Dad then walked down to the creek, thoroughly washed himself with the lava soap, buried the clothes doused in skunk juice, and headed back to the tractor to finish mowing a field that contained a dead skunk executed by a farmer and his axe.
A more pleasant garden event occurred last Thursday morning. It was a warm, sunny morning, and as I was walking by the grape hyacinths in the “L” bed, I spied a butterfly, my first butterfly of the year. I soon counted six butterflies, five of them red admirals–which in their wing markings resemble miniature monarchs–and one painted lady. Most years the first butterflies I see are the cabbage whites, but it was only this morning, four days after the sighting the lady and five admirals, I spied my first two cabbage whites, dancing around each other, not far from the grape hyacinths
The grape hyacinths were among the first bulbs I planted in the Alumni House garden, I believe in the fall of 2014. One colony is at the NE corner of the “L” bed and the other at the SE corner of the “C”–each group within a few feet of their respective garden benches. The Muscari armeniacum in the “L” bed have expanded more vigorously in all directions. They often bloom a week earlier than the “C” bed Muscari (which are in the shade for most of the day) and now have almost double the number of blooms. I never saw any butterflies visiting the grape hyacinths in the shady corner of the “C” bed. The visitors spent their morning examining the more mature blooms in the warm sunshine. While the admirals were constantly on the move and would often fly away from the Muscari, I never saw them land on other flowers. They had clearly found their favorites (see photo at end of this report).
`
The following observations, based on my notes from April 15, comment on most (but not all) of the plants that I surveyed on this warm, sunny morning in these two perennial flower beds.
• Anemone blanda (common name Grecian Windflower–the Greek word “anemos” means “wind”): I love these members of the buttercup family; they are about 5" tall and produce 2" wide, daisy-like blue or white flowers over a lovely necklace of fernlike leaves, one flower stalk per plant; they have notably expanded their numbers in the last two years and have created a lovely border of flowers along the eastern border of both beds; by the first of June they will have completely disappeared.
• Tulips: five varieties in bloom in the two beds, none planted last fall; the two clumps with pink blooms look rather haggard and did not enjoy this weekend’s hot temperatures and wind; but the row of white tulips in the “L” bed look quite animated and beautiful.
• Daffodils: the Tetes were the first narcissus to bloom, and their flowers are now crusty and faded; in contrast, the larger yellow daffs with the orange trumpets are looking quite spry.
• Foliage: plants with fresh, attractive foliage include cat mint (which forms tight blue-green domes at this stage), the bloody cranesbill (just beginning to add leaves), yarrow (the older “C” bed yarrow much larger than its younger kissing cousin in the “L” bed), many young columbine in the shadier areas of the “C” bed, dozens of allium in both beds (including several allium with quite large foliage spears in the “C” bed), dozens of daylilies, Husker Red penstemon (counted 28 clumps in the “C” bed, all products of self-seeding), the large patch of perennial coreopsis in the “L” bed (hundreds of coreopsis stalks with their tiny leaves, resembling a miniature pine forest), the hollyhocks in the “L” bed (it appears all of last year’s hollyhocks are coming back, plus a new one close to the gravel walkway), and the Siberian Iris in both beds (each group suffers from diminished flower numbers and needs to be dug up, separated, and replanted).
• Three blooming dandelions: I dug up about 50 dandelions in the lawn but missed these three in the flower beds. Most of the weeds in the garden are the progeny of plants intentionally planted but now out of control (whether by seeds or rhizomes or both), determined to appear wherever they want: wormwood, ground ivy, bloody cranesbill, horsetail, goldenrod, swamp milkweed, crown vetch, gooseneck, river oats, the ox-eye daisies, and a crafty little sedum determined to carpet the entire rock garden.
• Winter aconites & snowdrops: these small spring-flowering “bulbs” are finished blooming but their green foliage is busy storing energy before they disappear in May.
• The white blossoms of flowering crab tree behind the NW bench are just beginning to open, trailing by a couple of days the reddish-pink blooms of the espalier crab (located west of the patio) but a day or two ahead of its partner behind the SW bench. All the flowering crab trees are three weeks ahead of their bloom cycle in 2022 when they were delayed by a long spell of cool, rainy days through April and early May.
• Flowers in the “L” bed but not in the “C” bed include Nigella damascena (“Love-in-a-mist,” a fascinating annual that germinates in the late summer and remains green through the winter), ox-eye daisies (each year dozens are removed but they keep coming back–I’m curious why they rampantly produce new daisies in the “L” bed but not the “C” bed ), the gorgeous Brunnera macrophylla ‘Jack Frost’ behind the NW bench, and the Leucojum summer snowflakes (which resemble tall snowdrops with their drooping white flower bells).
• The short variegated miscanthus in the “C” bed and the tall variegated miscanthus in the “L” bed both have new grass stalks emerging from last year’s cropped stalks.
• The two viburnums on either side of the gravel walkway leading to the lawn area were pruned earlier this spring and their leaf buds are just now breaking open. The praying mantis egg case on the “C” bed viburnum appears to be intact, patiently waiting for warmer weather.
• One purple crocus bloom in the “L” bed, the last crocus for 2024.
Last week’s garden report described the beds immediately adjacent to the Alumni House patio. This week, my focus is on two of the garden’s largest flower beds–the “C” and “L” beds located between the Alumni House patio and the lawn area. Before recounting what I saw this morning, I wanted to comment briefly on recent mammal and insect encounters. One morning after entering the garden through the east gate, I looked in front of me and saw a large skunk on the gravel walkway. As we were staring at each other, he raised his tail and I retreated, mutual signaling that neither of us sought an escalation in hostilities. While I was backtracking under the pergola, the skunk trotted along the gravel walkway and disappeared behind the gazebo. Later that same morning, the skunk was on the south side of the Alumni House, digging in a mulched area under the viburnum bushes. The last I saw of him, he was cruising across the lawn, heading toward McCabe (see photo).
When I was about ten years old, I recall seeing my father hop off of his old Case tractor, pick up the axe next to his seat and chasing something across the unmown field. A few minutes later he arrived at the kitchen door and shouted for my mother to bring him some clean clothes. When my Mom opened the screen door, she could smell my Dad, and informed him in no uncertain terms, “Don’t you dare come in this house!” She returned shortly and handed Dad clean denim overalls, a clean work shirt, and a bar of lava soap. Dad then walked down to the creek, thoroughly washed himself with the lava soap, buried the clothes doused in skunk juice, and headed back to the tractor to finish mowing a field that contained a dead skunk executed by a farmer and his axe.
A more pleasant garden event occurred last Thursday morning. It was a warm, sunny morning, and as I was walking by the grape hyacinths in the “L” bed, I spied a butterfly, my first butterfly of the year. I soon counted six butterflies, five of them red admirals–which in their wing markings resemble miniature monarchs–and one painted lady. Most years the first butterflies I see are the cabbage whites, but it was only this morning, four days after the sighting the lady and five admirals, I spied my first two cabbage whites, dancing around each other, not far from the grape hyacinths
The grape hyacinths were among the first bulbs I planted in the Alumni House garden, I believe in the fall of 2014. One colony is at the NE corner of the “L” bed and the other at the SE corner of the “C”–each group within a few feet of their respective garden benches. The Muscari armeniacum in the “L” bed have expanded more vigorously in all directions. They often bloom a week earlier than the “C” bed Muscari (which are in the shade for most of the day) and now have almost double the number of blooms. I never saw any butterflies visiting the grape hyacinths in the shady corner of the “C” bed. The visitors spent their morning examining the more mature blooms in the warm sunshine. While the admirals were constantly on the move and would often fly away from the Muscari, I never saw them land on other flowers. They had clearly found their favorites (see photo at end of this report).
`
The following observations, based on my notes from April 15, comment on most (but not all) of the plants that I surveyed on this warm, sunny morning in these two perennial flower beds.
• Anemone blanda (common name Grecian Windflower–the Greek word “anemos” means “wind”): I love these members of the buttercup family; they are about 5" tall and produce 2" wide, daisy-like blue or white flowers over a lovely necklace of fernlike leaves, one flower stalk per plant; they have notably expanded their numbers in the last two years and have created a lovely border of flowers along the eastern border of both beds; by the first of June they will have completely disappeared.
• Tulips: five varieties in bloom in the two beds, none planted last fall; the two clumps with pink blooms look rather haggard and did not enjoy this weekend’s hot temperatures and wind; but the row of white tulips in the “L” bed look quite animated and beautiful.
• Daffodils: the Tetes were the first narcissus to bloom, and their flowers are now crusty and faded; in contrast, the larger yellow daffs with the orange trumpets are looking quite spry.
• Foliage: plants with fresh, attractive foliage include cat mint (which forms tight blue-green domes at this stage), the bloody cranesbill (just beginning to add leaves), yarrow (the older “C” bed yarrow much larger than its younger kissing cousin in the “L” bed), many young columbine in the shadier areas of the “C” bed, dozens of allium in both beds (including several allium with quite large foliage spears in the “C” bed), dozens of daylilies, Husker Red penstemon (counted 28 clumps in the “C” bed, all products of self-seeding), the large patch of perennial coreopsis in the “L” bed (hundreds of coreopsis stalks with their tiny leaves, resembling a miniature pine forest), the hollyhocks in the “L” bed (it appears all of last year’s hollyhocks are coming back, plus a new one close to the gravel walkway), and the Siberian Iris in both beds (each group suffers from diminished flower numbers and needs to be dug up, separated, and replanted).
• Three blooming dandelions: I dug up about 50 dandelions in the lawn but missed these three in the flower beds. Most of the weeds in the garden are the progeny of plants intentionally planted but now out of control (whether by seeds or rhizomes or both), determined to appear wherever they want: wormwood, ground ivy, bloody cranesbill, horsetail, goldenrod, swamp milkweed, crown vetch, gooseneck, river oats, the ox-eye daisies, and a crafty little sedum determined to carpet the entire rock garden.
• Winter aconites & snowdrops: these small spring-flowering “bulbs” are finished blooming but their green foliage is busy storing energy before they disappear in May.
• The white blossoms of flowering crab tree behind the NW bench are just beginning to open, trailing by a couple of days the reddish-pink blooms of the espalier crab (located west of the patio) but a day or two ahead of its partner behind the SW bench. All the flowering crab trees are three weeks ahead of their bloom cycle in 2022 when they were delayed by a long spell of cool, rainy days through April and early May.
• Flowers in the “L” bed but not in the “C” bed include Nigella damascena (“Love-in-a-mist,” a fascinating annual that germinates in the late summer and remains green through the winter), ox-eye daisies (each year dozens are removed but they keep coming back–I’m curious why they rampantly produce new daisies in the “L” bed but not the “C” bed ), the gorgeous Brunnera macrophylla ‘Jack Frost’ behind the NW bench, and the Leucojum summer snowflakes (which resemble tall snowdrops with their drooping white flower bells).
• The short variegated miscanthus in the “C” bed and the tall variegated miscanthus in the “L” bed both have new grass stalks emerging from last year’s cropped stalks.
• The two viburnums on either side of the gravel walkway leading to the lawn area were pruned earlier this spring and their leaf buds are just now breaking open. The praying mantis egg case on the “C” bed viburnum appears to be intact, patiently waiting for warmer weather.
• One purple crocus bloom in the “L” bed, the last crocus for 2024.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 8 April 2024
A beautiful day, perfect timing for an eclipse. My trip around the garden was five hours before the eclipse was scheduled to arrive. Although I was tempted to report on the entire garden, which is quite attractive at the moment with hundreds and hundreds of daffodils in their prime bloom period, I decided to look more closely at the plant activity in the beds on three sides of the patio: the “A1" and “A2" beds south of the patio, the “B1" and “B2" next to the east side, and the “M1" and “M2" beds on the north side, at the NW gate entrance. This report is mostly a brief inventory of the plants and their appearance on this pleasant morning (temp about 60F, nary a cloud in the sky, just a slight breeze). ~Bob
“A1" bed (south of the patio):
• A marvelous group of large yellow daffodils in full display; although not King Alfreds they resemble King Alfreds in their size and color. In front of them is a group of smaller, late season daffodils that don’t yet have any flower buds; they probably won’t bloom until after the big yellows are finished.
• A good number of columbine with fresh foliage; the new leaves emerge in a tight, exquisite design as they unfold from the center.
• All the snowdrops are finished blooming; what is left behind are the thin spears of foliage, which resemble chives, and a seed pod that looks like a pea. The bloom cycle of the winter aconites is also history, but they retain an attractive spread of thin leaves in a radial, somewhat like an Elizabethan collar. At the top of the 2" tall plants is a tight cluster of seed pods.
• In the upper tier at the back of the bed is a millennium allium, a row of tulips (no buds yet), two small St. John’s Wort “Blues Festival” planted last spring, and a large patch of goldenrod (two mid-size cultivars, less rambunctious than the taller Canada goldenrod).
• In the area once stocked with plants from the Wilderness Field Station, only Harlo’s herb garden thyme and the wild strawberries have survived the transfer in 2015. Now the bed is home to a cats mint, several salvias, several dwarf mulleins, several myrtle spurge, and three kniphofia planted last summer. The red hot pokers (the kniphofia) are really a zone 6 flower, but I keep planting and some of them manage to survive an Iowa winter. This spring all three kniphofia in this bed have fresh growth.
• The white flowering crab has emerging leaves and tiny flower buds that might be producing blooms by this coming weekend. The blooms on this crab tree are usually a couple days behind the blooms on the espalier crab tree with the rosy-pink blooms on the other side of the patio. On the other hand, this white blooming tree usually produces blooms a couple days before the six older and larger white flowering crab trees on the north and south perimeters of the garden.
• Under the branches of the “A1" crab tree can be found two heuchera (neither looking very happy), a ground cover ginger, two varieties of cranesbill (one is a Geranium renardii, the other I can’t identify), a group of daffodils with large yellow petals around wide orange trumpets (these might be “Pride of Lion” narcissus). While I see no bees or butterflies on the daffodil blossoms, they are being visited by many small flies. Also in the bed are two brunnera that produce small but gorgeous blooms (which look like they should be forget-me-nots) and three gentian that have grown smaller in recent years. I’ve read that they don’t like to moved, but it may be time for these to be replanted.
• At the east end of the bed is a small shrub, one I’ve forgotten its name and lost the zinc name plate. In most winters its branches have been eaten by rabbits, but this spring it appears in much better shape, and if its white blooms return, perhaps I will figure out its real identity.
The “A2" bed, which shares a wall with one of the “Nussbaum era" apartments:
• Through the morning the bed remains in the shade, which means that it’s seasonal clock runs one or two weeks behind the “A1" bed. Only one lone daffodil blooming at the east end, in an area that has been taken over by the perennial sunflowers.
• There are several hyssops with fresh foliage (which I find quite attractive) along the fence. In front of the hyssop are several daylilies with new, broad, grass-like leaves.
• At the back of the bed is a red bud but no evidence of any leaf or flower bud activity. In contrast the large red twig dogwood in the middle of the bed has new leaves emerging from top to bottom. I should do some pruning of the dogwood since at this time of the year it is easy to distinguish between the live, dark burgundy branches and the dead yellowish gray branches.
• The buttercup (originally planted in the Wilderness Field Station bed, but it quickly sent seeds across the gravel walkway and several of these Ranunculus now reside on the south side of the walkway. Although they can be an invasive non-native, they have not been a problem in the garden, and they have lovely green foliage with buttery yellow flowers impossible not to love.
• Next to the buttercups are three lone snowdrops, planted last fall, that are still blooming, one of them looking quite fresh with its distinctive green raindrop on the inner petals.
• The three Hicks yews look good, but no action yet with the patch of goats beard that I transplanted into this bed last summer.
• The comfrey, lemon balm, and hostas are just beginning to emerge–with the exception of one hosta next to the SW gate that already has spears two inches tall.
The “B1" and “B2" beds at the front of the patio are relatively quiet as we enter this second week in April:
• Both beds are dominated by the bloody cranesbill, and they have not yet shown any inclination to start producing new foliage; their leaves are remnants from last fall.
• Both beds had a few crocus and winter aconites blooming earlier in the spring, but they are now finished. Next fall we need to add some bulbs to these beds, perhaps small daffodils that can provide these beds with April blooms as we wait for the cranesbill to take over.
• The tall stone crop in both beds look good, as does the new Sedum ‘Blade Runner,’ planted last summer, with the jagged foliage. The “B2" bed also has a couple patches of Lady’s Mantle with new foliage. This is not a great location for the Lady’s Mantle during the hot and dry summer months, but the patch closest to the patio wall benefits from the afternoon shade and still looks in decent shape by the end of the summer.
• Several patches of allium that have emerged in the “B2" bed and the perennial coreopsis in both beds have new fern-like leaves, which are quite small and blend with the beds’ hard-wood mulch.
The “M1" bed, the largest and deepest of the beds surrounding the patio:
• The current star attraction in this bed is a pair of Imperial Fritillary planted last fall with gorgeous yellow blooms; it appears a third fritillary is just now breaking through the soil. We have not had much luck with these fritillary surviving more than one or two years, but they are so visually impressive that I’m willing to continue planting new bulbs in the fall. And there is a large imperial in the “I” bed that is now in its 4th or 5th year.
• The bed has four clumps of blooming daffodils, but several dozen (all planted last fall) are just now emerging; the primary daffodil bloom period for this bed will be much later than for the rest of the garden.
• Another notable April bloomer is a myrtle spurge, its sedum-like leaves draped over the paver stone and onto the gravel walkway.
• The honeysuckle is now awakening with new foliage, as are the two small rose bushes next to the message board. The millennium allium at the NE corner of the bed is already quite tall and surrounded by many small black-eyed Susans.
• The old Baptisia plants have just a few small spears beginning to break out, but across the front of the bed are dozens of tiny Baptisia seedlings that would have germinated in the last two weeks.
And, finally, the “M2" bed, beginning with the Crevice Garden:
• More spurge blooms, the only plant currently blooming. The reticulated iris are finished; all that remains are the 6" tall, thin, erect, bluish-green leaves, and they will be gone in May.
• The sedum ground covers and the sempervivum (e.g., the Ruby Heart Hens & Chicks) all look great; the stonecrop in the back of the bed is vigorous and flourishing.
• The German Thyme is badly misshapen, all of one side removed last summer after the branches had died, but the remaining little shrub looks quite healthy.
• Between the Crevice Garden and the Kennedy Memorial Butterfly Garden is the espalier flowering crab. Its attractive burgundy-wine leaves are unfolding, and the flower buds are not far behind. Below the tree are a couple dozen red tulips, ones planted several years ago who keep returning.
• Finally in the Kennedy Garden, the only plants now in bloom are a few Star of Bethlehem, which several days ago were a beautiful row of star-like white blooms across the front of the bed. Most were beaten up by the recent stretch of cold & wet weather, but a few have rebounded. There is also one small moss phlox at the back of the bed, with two pink blooms. Several species tulips in the back of the bed will likely be blooming by this weekend.
• The last garden plant I will comment on is the Sedum reflexum ‘Angelina’ with its vibrant yellow-orange foliage. When I replanted this bed last year after we installed the Kennedy Memorial, I attempted to remove most of that sedum. Fortunately, I missed several pockets, and now it’s a most welcome visual presence. It’s a vigorous spreader, and we will have some challenges keeping it under control, but for now we’ll let it fill in some gaps while other flowers planted last summer (such as a Dwarf Alpine Aster and a ‘Little Raspberry Lewisia’) have an opportunity to become more established.
A beautiful day, perfect timing for an eclipse. My trip around the garden was five hours before the eclipse was scheduled to arrive. Although I was tempted to report on the entire garden, which is quite attractive at the moment with hundreds and hundreds of daffodils in their prime bloom period, I decided to look more closely at the plant activity in the beds on three sides of the patio: the “A1" and “A2" beds south of the patio, the “B1" and “B2" next to the east side, and the “M1" and “M2" beds on the north side, at the NW gate entrance. This report is mostly a brief inventory of the plants and their appearance on this pleasant morning (temp about 60F, nary a cloud in the sky, just a slight breeze). ~Bob
“A1" bed (south of the patio):
• A marvelous group of large yellow daffodils in full display; although not King Alfreds they resemble King Alfreds in their size and color. In front of them is a group of smaller, late season daffodils that don’t yet have any flower buds; they probably won’t bloom until after the big yellows are finished.
• A good number of columbine with fresh foliage; the new leaves emerge in a tight, exquisite design as they unfold from the center.
• All the snowdrops are finished blooming; what is left behind are the thin spears of foliage, which resemble chives, and a seed pod that looks like a pea. The bloom cycle of the winter aconites is also history, but they retain an attractive spread of thin leaves in a radial, somewhat like an Elizabethan collar. At the top of the 2" tall plants is a tight cluster of seed pods.
• In the upper tier at the back of the bed is a millennium allium, a row of tulips (no buds yet), two small St. John’s Wort “Blues Festival” planted last spring, and a large patch of goldenrod (two mid-size cultivars, less rambunctious than the taller Canada goldenrod).
• In the area once stocked with plants from the Wilderness Field Station, only Harlo’s herb garden thyme and the wild strawberries have survived the transfer in 2015. Now the bed is home to a cats mint, several salvias, several dwarf mulleins, several myrtle spurge, and three kniphofia planted last summer. The red hot pokers (the kniphofia) are really a zone 6 flower, but I keep planting and some of them manage to survive an Iowa winter. This spring all three kniphofia in this bed have fresh growth.
• The white flowering crab has emerging leaves and tiny flower buds that might be producing blooms by this coming weekend. The blooms on this crab tree are usually a couple days behind the blooms on the espalier crab tree with the rosy-pink blooms on the other side of the patio. On the other hand, this white blooming tree usually produces blooms a couple days before the six older and larger white flowering crab trees on the north and south perimeters of the garden.
• Under the branches of the “A1" crab tree can be found two heuchera (neither looking very happy), a ground cover ginger, two varieties of cranesbill (one is a Geranium renardii, the other I can’t identify), a group of daffodils with large yellow petals around wide orange trumpets (these might be “Pride of Lion” narcissus). While I see no bees or butterflies on the daffodil blossoms, they are being visited by many small flies. Also in the bed are two brunnera that produce small but gorgeous blooms (which look like they should be forget-me-nots) and three gentian that have grown smaller in recent years. I’ve read that they don’t like to moved, but it may be time for these to be replanted.
• At the east end of the bed is a small shrub, one I’ve forgotten its name and lost the zinc name plate. In most winters its branches have been eaten by rabbits, but this spring it appears in much better shape, and if its white blooms return, perhaps I will figure out its real identity.
The “A2" bed, which shares a wall with one of the “Nussbaum era" apartments:
• Through the morning the bed remains in the shade, which means that it’s seasonal clock runs one or two weeks behind the “A1" bed. Only one lone daffodil blooming at the east end, in an area that has been taken over by the perennial sunflowers.
• There are several hyssops with fresh foliage (which I find quite attractive) along the fence. In front of the hyssop are several daylilies with new, broad, grass-like leaves.
• At the back of the bed is a red bud but no evidence of any leaf or flower bud activity. In contrast the large red twig dogwood in the middle of the bed has new leaves emerging from top to bottom. I should do some pruning of the dogwood since at this time of the year it is easy to distinguish between the live, dark burgundy branches and the dead yellowish gray branches.
• The buttercup (originally planted in the Wilderness Field Station bed, but it quickly sent seeds across the gravel walkway and several of these Ranunculus now reside on the south side of the walkway. Although they can be an invasive non-native, they have not been a problem in the garden, and they have lovely green foliage with buttery yellow flowers impossible not to love.
• Next to the buttercups are three lone snowdrops, planted last fall, that are still blooming, one of them looking quite fresh with its distinctive green raindrop on the inner petals.
• The three Hicks yews look good, but no action yet with the patch of goats beard that I transplanted into this bed last summer.
• The comfrey, lemon balm, and hostas are just beginning to emerge–with the exception of one hosta next to the SW gate that already has spears two inches tall.
The “B1" and “B2" beds at the front of the patio are relatively quiet as we enter this second week in April:
• Both beds are dominated by the bloody cranesbill, and they have not yet shown any inclination to start producing new foliage; their leaves are remnants from last fall.
• Both beds had a few crocus and winter aconites blooming earlier in the spring, but they are now finished. Next fall we need to add some bulbs to these beds, perhaps small daffodils that can provide these beds with April blooms as we wait for the cranesbill to take over.
• The tall stone crop in both beds look good, as does the new Sedum ‘Blade Runner,’ planted last summer, with the jagged foliage. The “B2" bed also has a couple patches of Lady’s Mantle with new foliage. This is not a great location for the Lady’s Mantle during the hot and dry summer months, but the patch closest to the patio wall benefits from the afternoon shade and still looks in decent shape by the end of the summer.
• Several patches of allium that have emerged in the “B2" bed and the perennial coreopsis in both beds have new fern-like leaves, which are quite small and blend with the beds’ hard-wood mulch.
The “M1" bed, the largest and deepest of the beds surrounding the patio:
• The current star attraction in this bed is a pair of Imperial Fritillary planted last fall with gorgeous yellow blooms; it appears a third fritillary is just now breaking through the soil. We have not had much luck with these fritillary surviving more than one or two years, but they are so visually impressive that I’m willing to continue planting new bulbs in the fall. And there is a large imperial in the “I” bed that is now in its 4th or 5th year.
• The bed has four clumps of blooming daffodils, but several dozen (all planted last fall) are just now emerging; the primary daffodil bloom period for this bed will be much later than for the rest of the garden.
• Another notable April bloomer is a myrtle spurge, its sedum-like leaves draped over the paver stone and onto the gravel walkway.
• The honeysuckle is now awakening with new foliage, as are the two small rose bushes next to the message board. The millennium allium at the NE corner of the bed is already quite tall and surrounded by many small black-eyed Susans.
• The old Baptisia plants have just a few small spears beginning to break out, but across the front of the bed are dozens of tiny Baptisia seedlings that would have germinated in the last two weeks.
And, finally, the “M2" bed, beginning with the Crevice Garden:
• More spurge blooms, the only plant currently blooming. The reticulated iris are finished; all that remains are the 6" tall, thin, erect, bluish-green leaves, and they will be gone in May.
• The sedum ground covers and the sempervivum (e.g., the Ruby Heart Hens & Chicks) all look great; the stonecrop in the back of the bed is vigorous and flourishing.
• The German Thyme is badly misshapen, all of one side removed last summer after the branches had died, but the remaining little shrub looks quite healthy.
• Between the Crevice Garden and the Kennedy Memorial Butterfly Garden is the espalier flowering crab. Its attractive burgundy-wine leaves are unfolding, and the flower buds are not far behind. Below the tree are a couple dozen red tulips, ones planted several years ago who keep returning.
• Finally in the Kennedy Garden, the only plants now in bloom are a few Star of Bethlehem, which several days ago were a beautiful row of star-like white blooms across the front of the bed. Most were beaten up by the recent stretch of cold & wet weather, but a few have rebounded. There is also one small moss phlox at the back of the bed, with two pink blooms. Several species tulips in the back of the bed will likely be blooming by this weekend.
• The last garden plant I will comment on is the Sedum reflexum ‘Angelina’ with its vibrant yellow-orange foliage. When I replanted this bed last year after we installed the Kennedy Memorial, I attempted to remove most of that sedum. Fortunately, I missed several pockets, and now it’s a most welcome visual presence. It’s a vigorous spreader, and we will have some challenges keeping it under control, but for now we’ll let it fill in some gaps while other flowers planted last summer (such as a Dwarf Alpine Aster and a ‘Little Raspberry Lewisia’) have an opportunity to become more established.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 18 March 2024
Over half of my hours in the garden the last three weeks have been absorbed with pruning the garden’s two largest flowering plants: the two honeysuckle along the fence next to the NW gate and the six wisteria climbing up and over the pergola at the east end of the garden. The honeysuckle and wisteria were planted early in my Coe gardening career. Both reflect my occasional desire to resurrect old garden experiences. Probably most gardens become a personal autobiography, though the text may remain illegible to anyone other than the gardener. Certainly these honeysuckle and wisteria attempt to recapture personal moments that resonate in my memory.
First, the honeysuckle. Around the farmhouse where I was raised in SE Kansas, there were three dependable sources of flowers: a self-seeding petunia patch in front of the kitchen porch and “separator room” (originally used for separating cream from fresh cow’s milk), an enormous lilac bush looming over the entrance to the storm cellar, and a sprawling honeysuckle that engulfed what was originally the farm house’s front porch–an entrance abandoned long before I arrived on the scene. Although I seldom paid much attention to the honeysuckle, it did play an important role in our family life on “Decoration Day.” The honeysuckle was always in bloom the last week in May. Before our annual trip to Gracelawn Cemetery, my Dad would harvest two large bouquets of honeysuckle for decorating my grandparents’ graves. Since the honeysuckle blooms would wilt rather quickly, my Dad would wait until the last minute to cut and wrap in damp newspaper the freshly cut vines.
Without any serious hesitation, I decided that the Alumni House Garden needed a honeysuckle, and it made sense to plant it next to the NW fence, giving it the vertical support that on the farm was provided by the front porch. I have no idea what was the variety of the honeysuckle on our farm, but once I found in a local nursery a honeysuckle that had blooms matching in appearance and fragrance with my memory, the purchase was consummated. I removed the large climbing rose along the NW gate fence (a rose that had rather ugly, scentless white blooms that did not last long) and replaced it with two Lonicera japonica ‘Halliana.’ Within a couple of years, the honeysuckle had covered most of the fence and was producing the fragrant blooms of my childhood. Only after the honeysuckle was well-established, I discovered the “Hall Honeysuckle” is often invasive and can be difficult to eliminate. In Hortus III, Liberty Hyde Bailey and his team indicate this popular honeysuckle has become naturalized throughout North America and in some areas is a “serious woodland weed.” The American Horticultural Society Encyclopedia of Plants & Flowers is more generous, informing readers that this vigorous honeysuckle “is ideal for hiding an unsightly fence, shed or wall and also as good groundcover”–but it does require control. And thus, each spring, I’m busy pruning hundreds of branches and pulling up runners that have often reached over 20' across the flower bed, producing multiple sets of new roots where the runners have developed an intimate relationship with the soil. I suspect my future garden caretakers will be cursing my decision to bring the “Hall Honeysuckle” into the Coe garden. It remains, however, one of my favorite plants with its long bloom cycle stretching across the summer and into October or even November. And there is some evidence I am not alone in my positive attitude toward this honeysuckle. While trimming the vines this spring, a special treat was discovering two praying mantis egg sacks. The honeysuckle is also a favorite location for birds’ nests. One of the two nests remaining from last summer had a delightful long blue ribbon wound through the nest. Quite lovely.
As for the wisteria, I first fell in love with this genus while we were living in a rental house in Huntsville Texas. In front of our dilapidated garage was an enormous wisteria that in late spring was covered with hundreds of deliciously fragrant racemes of white and light blue flowers. I assume this wisteria was an Asian variety, either Wisteria floribunda (Japanese Wisteria) or the less fragrant, later blooming W. Sinensis (Chinese wisteria). In the spring of 2014–while making my initial assessment of the Coe garden–I requested (with some vigor) that the rotting pergola in front of the east entrance be replaced with a stronger, long-lasting structure. I knew I wanted to plant wisteria along the new pergola, but I knew the Asian forms could be invasive and I had concerns about their ability to survive an extra-cold Iowa winter. I soon discovered that North America had its own native W. macrostachys–known as Kentucky Wisteria. I also discovered a plant breeder in Minnesota had developed a Zone 4 wisteria, “Blue Moon.” In the springs of 2015 & 2016 I planted six Blue Moons, three on each side of the new pergola.
The wisteria vines have been a mixed success. The middle wisteria on the south side, closest to the rain garden, has become a large, exuberant plant that stretches across the pergola in all directions. The wisteria behind it, closest to the East gate, has also done well and produced a good number of blooms last spring. But as I was trimming the wisteria last week, I discovered that most of it apparently died during the winter. I left the primary trunks, hoping they might revive, but I’m not optimistic. The other Blue Moon on the south side has gone through a recurrent cycle for several seasons of producing new growth, dying off, and then new vines emerging from its large root system. Late last summer new growth emerged, only to be eaten off during the winter, probably by a rabbit. We’ll wait and see what happens this spring.
As for the three wisteria on the north side of the pergola, they have all been moderately successful. Each year they produce new growth and extend their reach over larger areas of the pergola. They produce some blooms, but nothing comparable to the larger wisteria on the south side. As for the blooms, they are lovely and evolve into attractive dark brown seed pods, but the blossoms do not have much fragrance and the blooming is not as prolific as I had hoped. I had read that Kentucky wisteria need not be pruned, but I decided to engage in a major pruning operation this spring, hoping that might stimulate more flowering. Extensive pruning certainly makes a big difference in energizing the Hall Honeysuckle to produce more blooms. We’ll see what happens this spring with the wisteria. ~Bob
Over half of my hours in the garden the last three weeks have been absorbed with pruning the garden’s two largest flowering plants: the two honeysuckle along the fence next to the NW gate and the six wisteria climbing up and over the pergola at the east end of the garden. The honeysuckle and wisteria were planted early in my Coe gardening career. Both reflect my occasional desire to resurrect old garden experiences. Probably most gardens become a personal autobiography, though the text may remain illegible to anyone other than the gardener. Certainly these honeysuckle and wisteria attempt to recapture personal moments that resonate in my memory.
First, the honeysuckle. Around the farmhouse where I was raised in SE Kansas, there were three dependable sources of flowers: a self-seeding petunia patch in front of the kitchen porch and “separator room” (originally used for separating cream from fresh cow’s milk), an enormous lilac bush looming over the entrance to the storm cellar, and a sprawling honeysuckle that engulfed what was originally the farm house’s front porch–an entrance abandoned long before I arrived on the scene. Although I seldom paid much attention to the honeysuckle, it did play an important role in our family life on “Decoration Day.” The honeysuckle was always in bloom the last week in May. Before our annual trip to Gracelawn Cemetery, my Dad would harvest two large bouquets of honeysuckle for decorating my grandparents’ graves. Since the honeysuckle blooms would wilt rather quickly, my Dad would wait until the last minute to cut and wrap in damp newspaper the freshly cut vines.
Without any serious hesitation, I decided that the Alumni House Garden needed a honeysuckle, and it made sense to plant it next to the NW fence, giving it the vertical support that on the farm was provided by the front porch. I have no idea what was the variety of the honeysuckle on our farm, but once I found in a local nursery a honeysuckle that had blooms matching in appearance and fragrance with my memory, the purchase was consummated. I removed the large climbing rose along the NW gate fence (a rose that had rather ugly, scentless white blooms that did not last long) and replaced it with two Lonicera japonica ‘Halliana.’ Within a couple of years, the honeysuckle had covered most of the fence and was producing the fragrant blooms of my childhood. Only after the honeysuckle was well-established, I discovered the “Hall Honeysuckle” is often invasive and can be difficult to eliminate. In Hortus III, Liberty Hyde Bailey and his team indicate this popular honeysuckle has become naturalized throughout North America and in some areas is a “serious woodland weed.” The American Horticultural Society Encyclopedia of Plants & Flowers is more generous, informing readers that this vigorous honeysuckle “is ideal for hiding an unsightly fence, shed or wall and also as good groundcover”–but it does require control. And thus, each spring, I’m busy pruning hundreds of branches and pulling up runners that have often reached over 20' across the flower bed, producing multiple sets of new roots where the runners have developed an intimate relationship with the soil. I suspect my future garden caretakers will be cursing my decision to bring the “Hall Honeysuckle” into the Coe garden. It remains, however, one of my favorite plants with its long bloom cycle stretching across the summer and into October or even November. And there is some evidence I am not alone in my positive attitude toward this honeysuckle. While trimming the vines this spring, a special treat was discovering two praying mantis egg sacks. The honeysuckle is also a favorite location for birds’ nests. One of the two nests remaining from last summer had a delightful long blue ribbon wound through the nest. Quite lovely.
As for the wisteria, I first fell in love with this genus while we were living in a rental house in Huntsville Texas. In front of our dilapidated garage was an enormous wisteria that in late spring was covered with hundreds of deliciously fragrant racemes of white and light blue flowers. I assume this wisteria was an Asian variety, either Wisteria floribunda (Japanese Wisteria) or the less fragrant, later blooming W. Sinensis (Chinese wisteria). In the spring of 2014–while making my initial assessment of the Coe garden–I requested (with some vigor) that the rotting pergola in front of the east entrance be replaced with a stronger, long-lasting structure. I knew I wanted to plant wisteria along the new pergola, but I knew the Asian forms could be invasive and I had concerns about their ability to survive an extra-cold Iowa winter. I soon discovered that North America had its own native W. macrostachys–known as Kentucky Wisteria. I also discovered a plant breeder in Minnesota had developed a Zone 4 wisteria, “Blue Moon.” In the springs of 2015 & 2016 I planted six Blue Moons, three on each side of the new pergola.
The wisteria vines have been a mixed success. The middle wisteria on the south side, closest to the rain garden, has become a large, exuberant plant that stretches across the pergola in all directions. The wisteria behind it, closest to the East gate, has also done well and produced a good number of blooms last spring. But as I was trimming the wisteria last week, I discovered that most of it apparently died during the winter. I left the primary trunks, hoping they might revive, but I’m not optimistic. The other Blue Moon on the south side has gone through a recurrent cycle for several seasons of producing new growth, dying off, and then new vines emerging from its large root system. Late last summer new growth emerged, only to be eaten off during the winter, probably by a rabbit. We’ll wait and see what happens this spring.
As for the three wisteria on the north side of the pergola, they have all been moderately successful. Each year they produce new growth and extend their reach over larger areas of the pergola. They produce some blooms, but nothing comparable to the larger wisteria on the south side. As for the blooms, they are lovely and evolve into attractive dark brown seed pods, but the blossoms do not have much fragrance and the blooming is not as prolific as I had hoped. I had read that Kentucky wisteria need not be pruned, but I decided to engage in a major pruning operation this spring, hoping that might stimulate more flowering. Extensive pruning certainly makes a big difference in energizing the Hall Honeysuckle to produce more blooms. We’ll see what happens this spring with the wisteria. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 11 March 2024
The second Monday in March, by the numbers:
• 1 cardinal, 4 sparrows, and 2 small gray and black birds with flashes of white as they few away when I entered the garden.
• 2 clumps of winter aconites blooming in the “A1" bed and 6 clumps of yellow, white, & purple crocus in the perennial flower beds.
• 1 wind chime in the SE corner of the garden, hanging from the limb of a flowering crab tree, gently murmuring.
• 7 flowering crab trees with white flowers, 4 with red flowers (1 espalier and 3 trimmed standards), and 1 hawthorn (all the hawthorn on the outside of the garden walls devastated by the derecho).
• 8 works of sculpture created by Cara Briggs-Farmer, 16 iron plant supports she designed, and the clamps she created for displaying the 7 plexiglass garden quotes.
• 5 sculptures by the Nelsons (father and son) and their blacksmith shop in Wisconsin; their large mobile in front of the patio is so well balanced that it rode out the derecho.
• 12 park benches, plus 1 picnic table, 2 Adirondacks, and a small table with 2 chairs in the gazebo.
• 3 sundials, all installed for recording God’s Time; 1 of the three also serves as a seasonal sundial, recording solstices and equinoxes.
• 7 pieces of trash I collected during my walk around the garden: two plastic bags, two paper receipts, a styrofoam box for carry-out food, a receipt confirming the return of a garment at Old Navy, and a Nutter Butter Bit wrapper (a snack I did not know exists).
• 2 blooming forsythia, the one on the south side with far more blossoms than the one on the north side next to the gazebo; both need serious trimming after they finish blooming.
• 2 budding dwarf lilacs.
• 10 foxglove in the “D” bed; all have green leaves and appear to have survived the winter; last year only one bloomed, perhaps more blooms this year.
• 1 pulmonaria with 2 small blossoms, one blue and one pink; it’s early and there will be many more blossoms in the next few weeks.
• 5 different groups of tête-à-tête daffodils in bloom in the “I” bed; these delightful miniatures are always the first to bloom each year, followed by several groups of larger yellows with full-sized trumpets (perhaps King Alfreds).
• 12 hyacinths emerging in an area in the “H” bed created last fall for snowdrops, hyacinths, and several other varieties of spring-flowering bulbs.
• 180 yellow and purple crocus blooming in the SE lawn quadrant (the “180" is a guess; I counted 45 crocus in what I estimated was 1/4 of the lawn area and multiplied that total by 4); the NE lawn section has a comparable number–and more are on the way.
• 6 clumps of white wind flowers have in the Kennedy Memorial Butterfly Garden; the dark blue blooms of the reticulated iris in that small garden are now history and the plants will completely disappear by the beginning of summer.
• So far only 3 Imperial Fritillary have broken to the surface in the “J” bed; the ones planted last fall in the “E” bed have not yet made their appearance; in both beds there appears to be a hearty population of Dutch tulips planted last fall.
• 1 garden light pole is missing; if the pole is returned (or replaced) it will evidently have new wiring. I had requested the physical plant crew find some means for improving the lighting in the garden during the summer, including the installation of new lighting for the water fountain; the garden can be remarkably beautiful at night when all the lights are working. ~Bob
The second Monday in March, by the numbers:
• 1 cardinal, 4 sparrows, and 2 small gray and black birds with flashes of white as they few away when I entered the garden.
• 2 clumps of winter aconites blooming in the “A1" bed and 6 clumps of yellow, white, & purple crocus in the perennial flower beds.
• 1 wind chime in the SE corner of the garden, hanging from the limb of a flowering crab tree, gently murmuring.
• 7 flowering crab trees with white flowers, 4 with red flowers (1 espalier and 3 trimmed standards), and 1 hawthorn (all the hawthorn on the outside of the garden walls devastated by the derecho).
• 8 works of sculpture created by Cara Briggs-Farmer, 16 iron plant supports she designed, and the clamps she created for displaying the 7 plexiglass garden quotes.
• 5 sculptures by the Nelsons (father and son) and their blacksmith shop in Wisconsin; their large mobile in front of the patio is so well balanced that it rode out the derecho.
• 12 park benches, plus 1 picnic table, 2 Adirondacks, and a small table with 2 chairs in the gazebo.
• 3 sundials, all installed for recording God’s Time; 1 of the three also serves as a seasonal sundial, recording solstices and equinoxes.
• 7 pieces of trash I collected during my walk around the garden: two plastic bags, two paper receipts, a styrofoam box for carry-out food, a receipt confirming the return of a garment at Old Navy, and a Nutter Butter Bit wrapper (a snack I did not know exists).
• 2 blooming forsythia, the one on the south side with far more blossoms than the one on the north side next to the gazebo; both need serious trimming after they finish blooming.
• 2 budding dwarf lilacs.
• 10 foxglove in the “D” bed; all have green leaves and appear to have survived the winter; last year only one bloomed, perhaps more blooms this year.
• 1 pulmonaria with 2 small blossoms, one blue and one pink; it’s early and there will be many more blossoms in the next few weeks.
• 5 different groups of tête-à-tête daffodils in bloom in the “I” bed; these delightful miniatures are always the first to bloom each year, followed by several groups of larger yellows with full-sized trumpets (perhaps King Alfreds).
• 12 hyacinths emerging in an area in the “H” bed created last fall for snowdrops, hyacinths, and several other varieties of spring-flowering bulbs.
• 180 yellow and purple crocus blooming in the SE lawn quadrant (the “180" is a guess; I counted 45 crocus in what I estimated was 1/4 of the lawn area and multiplied that total by 4); the NE lawn section has a comparable number–and more are on the way.
• 6 clumps of white wind flowers have in the Kennedy Memorial Butterfly Garden; the dark blue blooms of the reticulated iris in that small garden are now history and the plants will completely disappear by the beginning of summer.
• So far only 3 Imperial Fritillary have broken to the surface in the “J” bed; the ones planted last fall in the “E” bed have not yet made their appearance; in both beds there appears to be a hearty population of Dutch tulips planted last fall.
• 1 garden light pole is missing; if the pole is returned (or replaced) it will evidently have new wiring. I had requested the physical plant crew find some means for improving the lighting in the garden during the summer, including the installation of new lighting for the water fountain; the garden can be remarkably beautiful at night when all the lights are working. ~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 4 March 2024
At the crevice garden, next to the NW gate, I was down on my hands and knees, inserting my nose into several rock garden iris blooms, trying to capture a hint of their fragrance. I’ve read in several different resources that these reticulated iris have a sweet violet-like fragrance. Every year I try to find that fragrance, but it appears my nose lacks the appropriate sensitivity to whatever molecules these blooms are dispensing. Of course, it may be that as these iris have been cultivated and hybridized, fragrance has been sacrificed in the horticulturists’ search for visual glory. That’s the story with many roses. Perhaps it’s the same plot with these diminutive iris.
I don’t recall I had ever seen a reticulated iris until the spring after I had planted a handful of these diminutive bulbs in the crevice garden in the fall of 2016. I had seen them advertised in several bulb catalogs, and decided to try the ‘Katherine Hodgkin’ hybrid, created by marrying an Iris winogradowii (pale yellow flowers) with an Iris histrioides (pale blue flowers). The beautiful hybrid was introduced in 1958 and named in honor of the wife of Eliot Hodgkin, a rare bulb enthusiast. The result is a pale blue flower with deep blue veining and a purple-spotted yellow streak at the base of each fall. They typically appear in early March in the crevice garden, rising up to 6" tall, with 2-4 narrow light green leaves. Although the orchid-like blooms might appear to be rather fragile, I’ve discovered the blooms are impressively resistant to snow, wind, cold temperatures, even a brief hail storm. Once open, they stay open.
The “reticulated” in their name refers to their netted (i.e., reticulated) “tunics” (bulb coverings). The species is native to western Asia (Turkey, Caucasus, Lebanon, northern Iraq and Iran). To date they have thrived in the crevice garden, and apparently they don’t appeal to squirrels, rabbits, or any other garden critters.. They like spring-time moisture in a well-drained soil in full sun, followed by dry summers during their long dormancy. A high percentage of the bulbs I have planted have naturalized and created tight masses of blooms, always a single bloom per plant. It is the case that few people ever see them in the Coe garden because they bloom so early in the year–well before most people think about visiting a garden to see spring flowers–and the blooms do not last long, perhaps two weeks in ideal conditions. By the middle of May, the plants will have disappeared without any evidence they live in the neighborhood.
I’ve also planted reticulated iris in several perennial flower beds in my back yard garden, and they have succeeded in a manner similar to the crevice garden. I am not aware that these iris are attractive to any pollinators. While I see honey bees visiting the crocus and winter aconites, I can’t recall ever seeing a bee visiting the rock garden iris blooms. But they remain open around the clock, and it’s possible they have insects visiting when I’m not looking.
Two years after introducing the first reticulated iris, I added the “The Eye Catcher” variety. The catalog described these slightly larger blooms as “white with striated deep ink-blue star bursts on the standards and falls decorated with yellow stripes amidst a mini galaxy of variable deep blue spots.” At Coe they have been more energetic expansionists than the Katherine Hodgkins. In the last two years, two more varieties have been introduced into the crevice garden. The histrioides Katharine’s Gold, a mutation of Katharine Hodgkin, has creamy, pale green, yellow flowers and a few bluish spots on the falls. The reticulata ‘Alida,’ planted last fall, has six light purple interior petals and three narrow, darker purple falls accented by yellow stripes surrounded by a faint white feather-like design. Hidden between each standard-fall pair is a single, erect, yellow-capped stamen.
As I was finishing this report, I harvested a single ‘Alida’ blossom, hoping to confirm a few details in my description of an individual blossom. On a whim, I held the bloom to my nose and for the first time detected a light, sweet fragrance. Quite lovely.
At the crevice garden, next to the NW gate, I was down on my hands and knees, inserting my nose into several rock garden iris blooms, trying to capture a hint of their fragrance. I’ve read in several different resources that these reticulated iris have a sweet violet-like fragrance. Every year I try to find that fragrance, but it appears my nose lacks the appropriate sensitivity to whatever molecules these blooms are dispensing. Of course, it may be that as these iris have been cultivated and hybridized, fragrance has been sacrificed in the horticulturists’ search for visual glory. That’s the story with many roses. Perhaps it’s the same plot with these diminutive iris.
I don’t recall I had ever seen a reticulated iris until the spring after I had planted a handful of these diminutive bulbs in the crevice garden in the fall of 2016. I had seen them advertised in several bulb catalogs, and decided to try the ‘Katherine Hodgkin’ hybrid, created by marrying an Iris winogradowii (pale yellow flowers) with an Iris histrioides (pale blue flowers). The beautiful hybrid was introduced in 1958 and named in honor of the wife of Eliot Hodgkin, a rare bulb enthusiast. The result is a pale blue flower with deep blue veining and a purple-spotted yellow streak at the base of each fall. They typically appear in early March in the crevice garden, rising up to 6" tall, with 2-4 narrow light green leaves. Although the orchid-like blooms might appear to be rather fragile, I’ve discovered the blooms are impressively resistant to snow, wind, cold temperatures, even a brief hail storm. Once open, they stay open.
The “reticulated” in their name refers to their netted (i.e., reticulated) “tunics” (bulb coverings). The species is native to western Asia (Turkey, Caucasus, Lebanon, northern Iraq and Iran). To date they have thrived in the crevice garden, and apparently they don’t appeal to squirrels, rabbits, or any other garden critters.. They like spring-time moisture in a well-drained soil in full sun, followed by dry summers during their long dormancy. A high percentage of the bulbs I have planted have naturalized and created tight masses of blooms, always a single bloom per plant. It is the case that few people ever see them in the Coe garden because they bloom so early in the year–well before most people think about visiting a garden to see spring flowers–and the blooms do not last long, perhaps two weeks in ideal conditions. By the middle of May, the plants will have disappeared without any evidence they live in the neighborhood.
I’ve also planted reticulated iris in several perennial flower beds in my back yard garden, and they have succeeded in a manner similar to the crevice garden. I am not aware that these iris are attractive to any pollinators. While I see honey bees visiting the crocus and winter aconites, I can’t recall ever seeing a bee visiting the rock garden iris blooms. But they remain open around the clock, and it’s possible they have insects visiting when I’m not looking.
Two years after introducing the first reticulated iris, I added the “The Eye Catcher” variety. The catalog described these slightly larger blooms as “white with striated deep ink-blue star bursts on the standards and falls decorated with yellow stripes amidst a mini galaxy of variable deep blue spots.” At Coe they have been more energetic expansionists than the Katherine Hodgkins. In the last two years, two more varieties have been introduced into the crevice garden. The histrioides Katharine’s Gold, a mutation of Katharine Hodgkin, has creamy, pale green, yellow flowers and a few bluish spots on the falls. The reticulata ‘Alida,’ planted last fall, has six light purple interior petals and three narrow, darker purple falls accented by yellow stripes surrounded by a faint white feather-like design. Hidden between each standard-fall pair is a single, erect, yellow-capped stamen.
As I was finishing this report, I harvested a single ‘Alida’ blossom, hoping to confirm a few details in my description of an individual blossom. On a whim, I held the bloom to my nose and for the first time detected a light, sweet fragrance. Quite lovely.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 26 February 2024
Every year the garden is a different garden. While most of the garden’s plants are perennials–ones that should come back in the same location at about the same time each year–you soon discover that a few do stay put, but many plants disappear, some expand their territory, some move to a new location. Concerning plants in the 4th, vagabond category, the ones I most appreciate and value are the Black-eyed Susans. When I first started working in the garden ten years ago, these Rudbeckias were only to be found close to the pergola at the east end of the garden. Last year these Midwesterners had spread to almost every bed in the garden, and for a few weeks in August are the garden’s most prominent bloomers. All of that movement has been accomplished without my assistance. They decide where they want to go, and I’ve tried to stay out of their way. They are a tough native flower, requiring virtually no care, with attractive winter-resistant seedheads. They have become one of the garden’s most appreciated citizens.
Of course, this early in the spring, the Rudbeckias are nothing more than small clumps of green foliage, huddling close to the ground. It’s the spring-flowering bulbs, all those aliens from foreign lands, that are the garden’s main attraction for visitors seeking a quick confirmation of spring’s imminent arrival. I was hoping that this spring we would witness a notable expansion in the snowdrop numbers. Last fall we planted several hundred Galanthus bulbs, positioning new groups in almost every bed. We planted three varieties and their numbers have not disappointed. We now have a lovely series of snowdrops along the stepping stone walkway in the “D” bed and two notably enlarged groups behind the bench in the garden’s SE corner. There are also snowdrop colonies planted along the front of several borders, plus a hundred planted in the two eastern lawn sections, and a commendable increase in snowdrop numbers in the two “J” beds of snow-in-summer (Cerastium tomentosum)–a flower & foliage combination that I find quite attractive.
While the snowdrop display was hoped for and fulfilled, I was not prepared for the vigorous expansion of the winter aconite population. In Hortus Third, Liberty Hyde Bailey lists five Eranthis species cultivated in North America, but I think the couple hundred Eranthis tubers planted in the Coe garden in the past 4-5 years were limited to two species–E. cilicia & E. hyemalis. I never have much faith planting bits of Eranthis roots because they resemble tiny broken pieces of wood–or, as described by Ann Pavord, “dried sheep’s dung.” According to Pavord’s Bulb, a beautifully illustrated and masterfully written commentary on over 600 of the author’s favorite bulbs, the differences between these two Eranthis species are relatively minor. The Cilicia blooms are “a bit bigger,” the leaves “more finely cut,” and they emerge “slightly later” than the Hyemalis. I’m sure she’s right, but I can’t tell the difference. What I do know is that for the past week, when the sun is shining from about 10:00 a.m. until about 2:30 p.m., the beautiful yellow Eranthis blooms are the visual stars of the garden. In several beds (e.g., the crevice garden next to the NW gate, the two long beds in front of the patio, the front of the lower “J” bed) they have significantly increased their numbers since last year and are for a few days out-performing the crocus. Eventually, within another week or two, the crocus numbers will take over, but for this past week the garden has belonged to the Eranthis.
Winter aconites had already assumed a significant role in English gardens by the middle of the 16th century. The writer Henry Lyte portrays them as “venomous and naughtie hearbs” and John Gerard (in his Herbal published in 1597) tells us they come “forth of the grounde in the dead time of winter, many times bearing the snowe upon the heads of his leaves and flowers; yea, the colder the weather is and the deeper that the snowe is, the fairer and larger is the flower; and the warmer that the weather is, the lesser is the flower, and worse colored.” Given how well Coe’s winter aconites have thrived in our unusually warm February, perhaps Gerard’s reservations about warmer temperatures can be called into question. On the other hand, the frigid temperatures we suffered for a couple nights were tough on the snowdrops and crocus, but the near zero temperatures did not faze the aconites.
I’ll conclude my report by quoting a paragraph on these tiny members of the Buttercup family (Ranunculaceae) from Louise Beebe Wilder’s Adventures with Hardy Bulbs (first published in 1936):
Often one sees the round, tightly folded flower bud protruding just above the soil while frosts are still bitter and snows fly in the air. I always want to push them back or cover them up, but somehow they seem able to weather whatever vicissitudes are sent them by the grim mother. As soon as they feel it to be safe, and long before we are so sanguine, up pushes the flower stem carrying its single round gold ball, which presently opens wide to look like a buttercup, with just below it, and forming a very pretty setting for it, a frill-like green involucral bract, which has been compared to an Elizabethan ruff. The palmately cut leaves are slow to make their appearance, usually hanging back until the flower is well developed.
Thank goodness for flowers that do not depend on a gardener’s sanguinity.
Every year the garden is a different garden. While most of the garden’s plants are perennials–ones that should come back in the same location at about the same time each year–you soon discover that a few do stay put, but many plants disappear, some expand their territory, some move to a new location. Concerning plants in the 4th, vagabond category, the ones I most appreciate and value are the Black-eyed Susans. When I first started working in the garden ten years ago, these Rudbeckias were only to be found close to the pergola at the east end of the garden. Last year these Midwesterners had spread to almost every bed in the garden, and for a few weeks in August are the garden’s most prominent bloomers. All of that movement has been accomplished without my assistance. They decide where they want to go, and I’ve tried to stay out of their way. They are a tough native flower, requiring virtually no care, with attractive winter-resistant seedheads. They have become one of the garden’s most appreciated citizens.
Of course, this early in the spring, the Rudbeckias are nothing more than small clumps of green foliage, huddling close to the ground. It’s the spring-flowering bulbs, all those aliens from foreign lands, that are the garden’s main attraction for visitors seeking a quick confirmation of spring’s imminent arrival. I was hoping that this spring we would witness a notable expansion in the snowdrop numbers. Last fall we planted several hundred Galanthus bulbs, positioning new groups in almost every bed. We planted three varieties and their numbers have not disappointed. We now have a lovely series of snowdrops along the stepping stone walkway in the “D” bed and two notably enlarged groups behind the bench in the garden’s SE corner. There are also snowdrop colonies planted along the front of several borders, plus a hundred planted in the two eastern lawn sections, and a commendable increase in snowdrop numbers in the two “J” beds of snow-in-summer (Cerastium tomentosum)–a flower & foliage combination that I find quite attractive.
While the snowdrop display was hoped for and fulfilled, I was not prepared for the vigorous expansion of the winter aconite population. In Hortus Third, Liberty Hyde Bailey lists five Eranthis species cultivated in North America, but I think the couple hundred Eranthis tubers planted in the Coe garden in the past 4-5 years were limited to two species–E. cilicia & E. hyemalis. I never have much faith planting bits of Eranthis roots because they resemble tiny broken pieces of wood–or, as described by Ann Pavord, “dried sheep’s dung.” According to Pavord’s Bulb, a beautifully illustrated and masterfully written commentary on over 600 of the author’s favorite bulbs, the differences between these two Eranthis species are relatively minor. The Cilicia blooms are “a bit bigger,” the leaves “more finely cut,” and they emerge “slightly later” than the Hyemalis. I’m sure she’s right, but I can’t tell the difference. What I do know is that for the past week, when the sun is shining from about 10:00 a.m. until about 2:30 p.m., the beautiful yellow Eranthis blooms are the visual stars of the garden. In several beds (e.g., the crevice garden next to the NW gate, the two long beds in front of the patio, the front of the lower “J” bed) they have significantly increased their numbers since last year and are for a few days out-performing the crocus. Eventually, within another week or two, the crocus numbers will take over, but for this past week the garden has belonged to the Eranthis.
Winter aconites had already assumed a significant role in English gardens by the middle of the 16th century. The writer Henry Lyte portrays them as “venomous and naughtie hearbs” and John Gerard (in his Herbal published in 1597) tells us they come “forth of the grounde in the dead time of winter, many times bearing the snowe upon the heads of his leaves and flowers; yea, the colder the weather is and the deeper that the snowe is, the fairer and larger is the flower; and the warmer that the weather is, the lesser is the flower, and worse colored.” Given how well Coe’s winter aconites have thrived in our unusually warm February, perhaps Gerard’s reservations about warmer temperatures can be called into question. On the other hand, the frigid temperatures we suffered for a couple nights were tough on the snowdrops and crocus, but the near zero temperatures did not faze the aconites.
I’ll conclude my report by quoting a paragraph on these tiny members of the Buttercup family (Ranunculaceae) from Louise Beebe Wilder’s Adventures with Hardy Bulbs (first published in 1936):
Often one sees the round, tightly folded flower bud protruding just above the soil while frosts are still bitter and snows fly in the air. I always want to push them back or cover them up, but somehow they seem able to weather whatever vicissitudes are sent them by the grim mother. As soon as they feel it to be safe, and long before we are so sanguine, up pushes the flower stem carrying its single round gold ball, which presently opens wide to look like a buttercup, with just below it, and forming a very pretty setting for it, a frill-like green involucral bract, which has been compared to an Elizabethan ruff. The palmately cut leaves are slow to make their appearance, usually hanging back until the flower is well developed.
Thank goodness for flowers that do not depend on a gardener’s sanguinity.
Monday Morning Garden Report:
19 February 2024
“A single crocus blossom ought to be enough to convince our heart that springtime, no matter how predictable, is somehow a gift.”
~David Steindl-Rast
In the summer and fall, the garden’s dominant species are the North American natives: coneflowers, sunflowers, asters, daisies, black-eyed Susans, false indigo, goldenrod, blazing stars, dahlias, coreopsis, switch grass, big bluestem, Indian grass, Joe Pye weed, zinnias. Of course, the garden is also home to dozens of immigrants from foreign lands--but the tall, hardy, indigenous natives tend to be louder and more prominent. In most instances they don’t mind the frigid winter temperatures (the dahlias being a notable exception), and they are patient in the spring, quite willing to wait until May and June’s warm temperatures before taking over the garden and claiming it as their homeland.
It’s in the early days of Spring, from the middle of February to the middle of May, when the garden belongs to the aliens, plants that were first cultivated in the mountains of western Asia and the lands surrounding the Mediterranean. This week, inspired by three weeks of unusually warm weather, the first flowers of 2024 have emerged and are blooming, all immigrants from Asia and Europe: snowdrops, crocus, winter aconites. These are small plants with small flowers, everything low to the ground. They seem impervious to any re-occurrences of winter weather. I’ve seen all three blooming after burial in a recent snowfall.
While the snowdrops have been blooming since the first week in February, today we had the first golden crocus blooms in the “J” bed on the north side of the garden. This bed receives a full dose of early morning sun, and the dark soil warms up faster than most other areas of the garden. In her book Hardy Bulbs, a classic commentary on bulbs first published in 1936, Louise Beebe Wilder describes crocus as “gregarious characters” who like to be close together. I have attempted to oblige their preference by planting them in several distinct communities around the perimeter of the bed. One of their responsibilities is to serve as welcoming committees for the tulips, whose leaves are just beginning to appear. There are about 80 crocus species, and I’m not sure the species of these early arrivals, but they were shipped from the Netherlands, and I suspect they are C. verna, often identified as “Dutch Crocus.” The petals have dark vertical stripes on the exterior of the golden yellow petals and intense orange stamens. Gerard, the 16th-century herbalist, described the shining yellow of their “floures” as a “hot glowing cole of fire.”
This morning I saw a petal moving. Inside one of the blooms was a bee, intently gathering pollen. My bee identification knowledge is quite limited, but based on what I could see of his size and his black & yellow abdomen stripes, I assume he was a western honey bee. For the next few minutes he proved to be an impressive gymnast, crawling over every millimeter of the crocus bloom, top side and bottom-side. While watching him, I kept wondering where his home was located. Somewhere nearby must be his colony. I wondered how far did he travel? How did he find these crocus blooms? How many of his compatriots are also out looking for early spring flowers in this zip code? I knew the crocus blooms would be closing up in a couple of hours. They are quite disciplined, open only when the late morning sun wakes them from their 20-hour slumber. Will this honeybee be back tomorrow to visit other blooms? While I was watching he would periodically buzz away for a few seconds and then return to the same flower or a nearby relative. Will the bee inform other bees in his hive about this golden bonanza? The bee is another reminder that there is so much happening in the garden about which I know almost nothing. It’s truly a garden full of secrets.
19 February 2024
“A single crocus blossom ought to be enough to convince our heart that springtime, no matter how predictable, is somehow a gift.”
~David Steindl-Rast
In the summer and fall, the garden’s dominant species are the North American natives: coneflowers, sunflowers, asters, daisies, black-eyed Susans, false indigo, goldenrod, blazing stars, dahlias, coreopsis, switch grass, big bluestem, Indian grass, Joe Pye weed, zinnias. Of course, the garden is also home to dozens of immigrants from foreign lands--but the tall, hardy, indigenous natives tend to be louder and more prominent. In most instances they don’t mind the frigid winter temperatures (the dahlias being a notable exception), and they are patient in the spring, quite willing to wait until May and June’s warm temperatures before taking over the garden and claiming it as their homeland.
It’s in the early days of Spring, from the middle of February to the middle of May, when the garden belongs to the aliens, plants that were first cultivated in the mountains of western Asia and the lands surrounding the Mediterranean. This week, inspired by three weeks of unusually warm weather, the first flowers of 2024 have emerged and are blooming, all immigrants from Asia and Europe: snowdrops, crocus, winter aconites. These are small plants with small flowers, everything low to the ground. They seem impervious to any re-occurrences of winter weather. I’ve seen all three blooming after burial in a recent snowfall.
While the snowdrops have been blooming since the first week in February, today we had the first golden crocus blooms in the “J” bed on the north side of the garden. This bed receives a full dose of early morning sun, and the dark soil warms up faster than most other areas of the garden. In her book Hardy Bulbs, a classic commentary on bulbs first published in 1936, Louise Beebe Wilder describes crocus as “gregarious characters” who like to be close together. I have attempted to oblige their preference by planting them in several distinct communities around the perimeter of the bed. One of their responsibilities is to serve as welcoming committees for the tulips, whose leaves are just beginning to appear. There are about 80 crocus species, and I’m not sure the species of these early arrivals, but they were shipped from the Netherlands, and I suspect they are C. verna, often identified as “Dutch Crocus.” The petals have dark vertical stripes on the exterior of the golden yellow petals and intense orange stamens. Gerard, the 16th-century herbalist, described the shining yellow of their “floures” as a “hot glowing cole of fire.”
This morning I saw a petal moving. Inside one of the blooms was a bee, intently gathering pollen. My bee identification knowledge is quite limited, but based on what I could see of his size and his black & yellow abdomen stripes, I assume he was a western honey bee. For the next few minutes he proved to be an impressive gymnast, crawling over every millimeter of the crocus bloom, top side and bottom-side. While watching him, I kept wondering where his home was located. Somewhere nearby must be his colony. I wondered how far did he travel? How did he find these crocus blooms? How many of his compatriots are also out looking for early spring flowers in this zip code? I knew the crocus blooms would be closing up in a couple of hours. They are quite disciplined, open only when the late morning sun wakes them from their 20-hour slumber. Will this honeybee be back tomorrow to visit other blooms? While I was watching he would periodically buzz away for a few seconds and then return to the same flower or a nearby relative. Will the bee inform other bees in his hive about this golden bonanza? The bee is another reminder that there is so much happening in the garden about which I know almost nothing. It’s truly a garden full of secrets.
Monday Morning Garden Report: 12 February 2024
The April weather in early February continues unabated. I’ve read that the average mean temperature has been over 15 degrees above “normal” temperatures for the first two weeks in February–and the long-term forecast predicts a continuation of the warmer temperatures during the rest of the month. Last year the snowdrops were enjoying their peak display in March. This year, they are 2-3 weeks ahead of that schedule, their pristine white blooms appearing throughout the garden.
Truth be told, many of the garden’s perennials are on the move. While you might expect the daffodils to be emerging (many of them first broke ground in November), today I saw several red peonies appearing in the bed north of the patio, and tulips were unfurling their foliage in beds that receive direct morning sunshine. Flower buds on the hellebores are unwinding and we have our first golden crocus blooming in the “J” bed. It also appears that many of the garden’s tall verbena (V. bonariensis) have not been devastated by the 2024 winter. While they are a perennial in their native Argentina, the plants typically don’t survive an Iowa January and must function as self-seeding annuals. Although occasionally one or two will survive into the spring, a high percentage may be around for 2024. Most notable is a colony of verbena that popped up last spring in the gravel walkway in the “J” bed area. While the tops of the plants look gray and tired, their fresh green basal leaves demonstrate they are alive and thriving. The verbena were lucky that our subzero temperatures in January were accompanied by a foot-deep snowfall, providing them with an ideal insulation. And now these consecutive days of warm weather have convinced them they have been magically transported back to their South American homeland and can again become perennials. Ash Wednesday and Lent arrive early this year, and the garden has now committed its energies to celebrating an early Easter.
Amidst all this early spring-time exuberance, my favorite moment occurred this weekend when a few minutes of research confirmed that three egg cases I found in the garden were laid by last year’s praying mantis. Two egg cases (called "oothecae") were on branches of a viburnum and the third on a calendula in the herb garden. The cases, which look like hard fists of a tightly compressed honeycomb, were wrapped around plant stems, and according to what I’ve read, they should contain hundreds of tiny eggs. It’s my impression Iowa is home to two species of praying mantis, and I suspect Coe’s resident population is the Chinese praying mantis (Tenodera sinensis). Late last summer I found praying mantis adults in four different locations in the garden, including one glued to the side of the greenhouse. None of the ones I saw were in the viburnum or the calendula. The green stem of the calendula, covered in last year’s gray foliage, is such a different environment from the exposed viburnum branches, stripped of any leaves in the winter months. I’m curious how madame mantis decides where to lay her eggs.
Nearly all my garden work this past month has been focused on cutting down and removing vegetation left to overwinter in the garden: asters, Joe Pye weeds, goldenrod, perennial sunflowers, coneflowers, black-eyed Susans, phlox, daylilies, coreopsis, cranesbill, goats beard, obedient plants, false indigo, milkweed, balloon flowers, beard’s tongue, blazing star, hollyhocks, tall verbena, lavender, tall stonecrop, Russian sage, rue, Siberian iris, salvias, ornamental grasses (Karl Foerster feather reed grass, Northwind & Heavy Metal switch grass, big and little bluestem, Sioux Blue Indian grass, several miscanthus cultivars, pennisetum fountain grass, river oats). Many of these plants are left in the garden to over-winter and provide sustenance or protection for wildlife (including praying mantis egg cases). They are also left undisturbed because many have attractive foliage and/or seedheads. Some, such as the tall stonecrop, are quite beautiful when surrounded by snow. But most of the garden’s plants were beaten down by the heavy snowfall, and they now look bedraggled and worn out. Normally this maintenance operation would not occur until March, but as noted in this report's first paragraph, in this little garden Easter is coming early this year.
Because of the warm weather, we started opening up the garden the first week in February. I’ve been surprised how many students have visited the garden. The first day the NW gate was unlocked, we had an instructor and his class use the garden for a class session and a variety of small-group activities. In several instances, we’ve had students set up shop in the gazebo for private study. Even on chilly days, the gazebo can be surprisingly comfortable since it provides protection from the wind and catches the early morning sun. One afternoon a student walked into the garden, stood in the gravel walkway facing the fountain (which won’t be functioning for another two months), and quietly stood there, looking around at the garden for at least twenty minutes. I was tempted to ask her what she was seeing and feeling, but I sensed that would interfere with the reason for her visit. It’s okay that people use the garden for many different purposes.
Addendum: A few hours before I did a final editing of this report (Tuesday, 13 February), three students came into the garden, without coats, walking around and chatting. They eventually sat on the border of the fountain and two of them adopted yoga positions, just breathing and meditating. That strikes me as a good reason for visiting a garden.
~Bob
The April weather in early February continues unabated. I’ve read that the average mean temperature has been over 15 degrees above “normal” temperatures for the first two weeks in February–and the long-term forecast predicts a continuation of the warmer temperatures during the rest of the month. Last year the snowdrops were enjoying their peak display in March. This year, they are 2-3 weeks ahead of that schedule, their pristine white blooms appearing throughout the garden.
Truth be told, many of the garden’s perennials are on the move. While you might expect the daffodils to be emerging (many of them first broke ground in November), today I saw several red peonies appearing in the bed north of the patio, and tulips were unfurling their foliage in beds that receive direct morning sunshine. Flower buds on the hellebores are unwinding and we have our first golden crocus blooming in the “J” bed. It also appears that many of the garden’s tall verbena (V. bonariensis) have not been devastated by the 2024 winter. While they are a perennial in their native Argentina, the plants typically don’t survive an Iowa January and must function as self-seeding annuals. Although occasionally one or two will survive into the spring, a high percentage may be around for 2024. Most notable is a colony of verbena that popped up last spring in the gravel walkway in the “J” bed area. While the tops of the plants look gray and tired, their fresh green basal leaves demonstrate they are alive and thriving. The verbena were lucky that our subzero temperatures in January were accompanied by a foot-deep snowfall, providing them with an ideal insulation. And now these consecutive days of warm weather have convinced them they have been magically transported back to their South American homeland and can again become perennials. Ash Wednesday and Lent arrive early this year, and the garden has now committed its energies to celebrating an early Easter.
Amidst all this early spring-time exuberance, my favorite moment occurred this weekend when a few minutes of research confirmed that three egg cases I found in the garden were laid by last year’s praying mantis. Two egg cases (called "oothecae") were on branches of a viburnum and the third on a calendula in the herb garden. The cases, which look like hard fists of a tightly compressed honeycomb, were wrapped around plant stems, and according to what I’ve read, they should contain hundreds of tiny eggs. It’s my impression Iowa is home to two species of praying mantis, and I suspect Coe’s resident population is the Chinese praying mantis (Tenodera sinensis). Late last summer I found praying mantis adults in four different locations in the garden, including one glued to the side of the greenhouse. None of the ones I saw were in the viburnum or the calendula. The green stem of the calendula, covered in last year’s gray foliage, is such a different environment from the exposed viburnum branches, stripped of any leaves in the winter months. I’m curious how madame mantis decides where to lay her eggs.
Nearly all my garden work this past month has been focused on cutting down and removing vegetation left to overwinter in the garden: asters, Joe Pye weeds, goldenrod, perennial sunflowers, coneflowers, black-eyed Susans, phlox, daylilies, coreopsis, cranesbill, goats beard, obedient plants, false indigo, milkweed, balloon flowers, beard’s tongue, blazing star, hollyhocks, tall verbena, lavender, tall stonecrop, Russian sage, rue, Siberian iris, salvias, ornamental grasses (Karl Foerster feather reed grass, Northwind & Heavy Metal switch grass, big and little bluestem, Sioux Blue Indian grass, several miscanthus cultivars, pennisetum fountain grass, river oats). Many of these plants are left in the garden to over-winter and provide sustenance or protection for wildlife (including praying mantis egg cases). They are also left undisturbed because many have attractive foliage and/or seedheads. Some, such as the tall stonecrop, are quite beautiful when surrounded by snow. But most of the garden’s plants were beaten down by the heavy snowfall, and they now look bedraggled and worn out. Normally this maintenance operation would not occur until March, but as noted in this report's first paragraph, in this little garden Easter is coming early this year.
Because of the warm weather, we started opening up the garden the first week in February. I’ve been surprised how many students have visited the garden. The first day the NW gate was unlocked, we had an instructor and his class use the garden for a class session and a variety of small-group activities. In several instances, we’ve had students set up shop in the gazebo for private study. Even on chilly days, the gazebo can be surprisingly comfortable since it provides protection from the wind and catches the early morning sun. One afternoon a student walked into the garden, stood in the gravel walkway facing the fountain (which won’t be functioning for another two months), and quietly stood there, looking around at the garden for at least twenty minutes. I was tempted to ask her what she was seeing and feeling, but I sensed that would interfere with the reason for her visit. It’s okay that people use the garden for many different purposes.
Addendum: A few hours before I did a final editing of this report (Tuesday, 13 February), three students came into the garden, without coats, walking around and chatting. They eventually sat on the border of the fountain and two of them adopted yoga positions, just breathing and meditating. That strikes me as a good reason for visiting a garden.
~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 5 February 2024
April in February. Daytime highs “should be” in the 20s, but this afternoon temp was in the 50s, warm enough that I was gardening in shirt sleeves. And the forecast is for even warmer temps later in the week. My schedule has made it impossible for me to do any gardening the last two weeks, but this afternoon I was free of other obligations and spent over four hours at the Coe garden, primarily focused on maintenance of the perennial flower beds in front of the patio. Here are a few observations from a lovely afternoon, mostly on my hands and knees.
• Snowdrops are blooming all over the garden. I saw a couple hundred today, including several dozen in the “C” and “L” beds, and many more on the way. Two rows of snowdrops, planted in November, are in bloom along the stepping stone walkway that leads to the new picnic table.
• The winter aconites (Eranthis hyemalis) are just beginning to emerge in the “B1" and “C” beds. These guys are typically a few days ahead of the Eranthis planted in the crevice garden, north of the patio. It would appear that the number of aconites in the “B1" bed may be increasing, suggesting that they are naturalizing in that area. I also spotted a few emerging crocus spears. I read last night that the name “crocus” derives from a Latin word for yellow, a name chosen because the plants are a source for saffron. Last fall we planted about 500 crocus bulbs in the two east-side lawn quadrants, and I was pleased to see that the lawn crocus are beginning to emerge. Most of the new crocus should produce golden-yellow blooms, accompanied by some whites and purples.
• While I was trimming back dead stalks and stems in the “K” bed–asters & Joe Pye weeds & Arkansas blue stars & lamb’s ears & coneflowers--I was immersed in a wonderful early spring fragrance. I suspect the perfume came from a mixture of sources, not just one species. An aroma impossible for me to describe, the first adjectives that came to mind were earthy and refreshing. The air was slightly moist, no wind, in the shade--the sun having set behind the Alumni House–the time and space and plants creating a subtle but rich and satisfying gift, unsought but most welcome.
• My work in the “B1" and “C” beds involved trimming back the bloody cranesbill, Geranium sanguineum. I had long wondered about the epithet “sanguineum,” assuming the species name would refer to the red color of the blooms. That association, however, never seemed quite right: the bloody cranesbill blooms in the Coe garden are not red but a bright magenta. My bedtime reading last night informed me that the “bloody” refers to the dark red leaves in the fall, which is a primary reason why I leave the cranesbill untrimmed through the autumn. They are an attractive three-season plant with their blooms in late spring, their symmetrical green domes in the summer (with an occasional bloom in July and August), and their autumnal foliage. I also admire their indomitable toughness, though once entrenched, they are tough to dislodge and they don’t hesitate to run over their less muscular neighbors. For several years I’ve been digging them out of the crevice garden, and every year they reappear.
The “B1" and “B2" beds are an ideal location for these perennial geraniums, constrained by the terrace and the gravel walkways on the remaining three sides. The only plants they share their space with are a couple of tall stonecrop–who have a dense, impenetrable root system–and a few spring-flowering bulbs, e.g., the winter aconites, crocus, and a few snowdrops. Those early bloomers are emerging now, but they are covered by a dark mass (and mess) of last year’s compressed cranesbill foliage mixed with oak and flowering crab leaves. The bulbs have no problem piercing through this rotting foliage, but to my eye it’s not an attractive combination. It would be okay if this were a woodland acreage, but in a formal garden, where everything is so condensed and space is so precious, the early spring flowering bulbs deserve a stage setting where they can best display their wares. Of course the winter aconites and friends would probably prefer being nourished with the rich humus of the dead stems and leaves.
~Bob
April in February. Daytime highs “should be” in the 20s, but this afternoon temp was in the 50s, warm enough that I was gardening in shirt sleeves. And the forecast is for even warmer temps later in the week. My schedule has made it impossible for me to do any gardening the last two weeks, but this afternoon I was free of other obligations and spent over four hours at the Coe garden, primarily focused on maintenance of the perennial flower beds in front of the patio. Here are a few observations from a lovely afternoon, mostly on my hands and knees.
• Snowdrops are blooming all over the garden. I saw a couple hundred today, including several dozen in the “C” and “L” beds, and many more on the way. Two rows of snowdrops, planted in November, are in bloom along the stepping stone walkway that leads to the new picnic table.
• The winter aconites (Eranthis hyemalis) are just beginning to emerge in the “B1" and “C” beds. These guys are typically a few days ahead of the Eranthis planted in the crevice garden, north of the patio. It would appear that the number of aconites in the “B1" bed may be increasing, suggesting that they are naturalizing in that area. I also spotted a few emerging crocus spears. I read last night that the name “crocus” derives from a Latin word for yellow, a name chosen because the plants are a source for saffron. Last fall we planted about 500 crocus bulbs in the two east-side lawn quadrants, and I was pleased to see that the lawn crocus are beginning to emerge. Most of the new crocus should produce golden-yellow blooms, accompanied by some whites and purples.
• While I was trimming back dead stalks and stems in the “K” bed–asters & Joe Pye weeds & Arkansas blue stars & lamb’s ears & coneflowers--I was immersed in a wonderful early spring fragrance. I suspect the perfume came from a mixture of sources, not just one species. An aroma impossible for me to describe, the first adjectives that came to mind were earthy and refreshing. The air was slightly moist, no wind, in the shade--the sun having set behind the Alumni House–the time and space and plants creating a subtle but rich and satisfying gift, unsought but most welcome.
• My work in the “B1" and “C” beds involved trimming back the bloody cranesbill, Geranium sanguineum. I had long wondered about the epithet “sanguineum,” assuming the species name would refer to the red color of the blooms. That association, however, never seemed quite right: the bloody cranesbill blooms in the Coe garden are not red but a bright magenta. My bedtime reading last night informed me that the “bloody” refers to the dark red leaves in the fall, which is a primary reason why I leave the cranesbill untrimmed through the autumn. They are an attractive three-season plant with their blooms in late spring, their symmetrical green domes in the summer (with an occasional bloom in July and August), and their autumnal foliage. I also admire their indomitable toughness, though once entrenched, they are tough to dislodge and they don’t hesitate to run over their less muscular neighbors. For several years I’ve been digging them out of the crevice garden, and every year they reappear.
The “B1" and “B2" beds are an ideal location for these perennial geraniums, constrained by the terrace and the gravel walkways on the remaining three sides. The only plants they share their space with are a couple of tall stonecrop–who have a dense, impenetrable root system–and a few spring-flowering bulbs, e.g., the winter aconites, crocus, and a few snowdrops. Those early bloomers are emerging now, but they are covered by a dark mass (and mess) of last year’s compressed cranesbill foliage mixed with oak and flowering crab leaves. The bulbs have no problem piercing through this rotting foliage, but to my eye it’s not an attractive combination. It would be okay if this were a woodland acreage, but in a formal garden, where everything is so condensed and space is so precious, the early spring flowering bulbs deserve a stage setting where they can best display their wares. Of course the winter aconites and friends would probably prefer being nourished with the rich humus of the dead stems and leaves.
~Bob
Monday Morning Garden Report: 1 January 2024
I did not work in the Coe garden today, but I did spend a few minutes walking around the garden, looking at plants, taking a few photos. On Saturday I did a more exhaustive observation, taking 55 photos, primarily focused on seeds, seed pods, seedheads, many quite small, many that I had never before studied with any care. I ended up with seed-related photos for forty different plants in the garden. For the year’s first MMGR, I thought I would comment on several of the Asteraceae/Sunflower/Composite seedheads.
• Black-eyed Susan (Rudbeckia): These black, cone-shaped balls of seed in a tight Fibonacci spiral are so exquisite and efficient in their design. In contrast to the larger seedheads of their cousins the purple coneflowers, the Susans never seem to be missing any seeds. Even in the spring, the seedheads often appear intact and apparently untouched by winter’s assaults. And yet somehow, some way, these seeds have managed to spread across the flower beds in the nine years I’ve been working in the garden. In 2013, their presence was limited to a few small areas at the east end of the garden. They have now spread to every bed in the garden, all without assistance or guidance from me.
• Purple Coneflowers (Echinacea purpurea): Perhaps the garden's most common seedhead. Many are already decimated, missing most of their seeds. I see more birds (particularly the goldfinches) on the coneflowers than any other plant in the garden. Over the years I’ve taken dozens of photos of these seedheads because each is so distinct, due to the different patterns created by the missing seeds. Many of the seedheads resemble a monk’s tonsure, bald on top and a few remaining seeds around the base of the noggin.
• New England Asters: These tall, back-of-border plants have small seed balls of white puff, some totally intact, others partially dispersed, and a minority seedless. Because they are so small, their photographic portraits often help to reveal their beauty. They can be a nice addition to a dried flower arrangement.
• Aromatic Asters: Most of these are in the “D” and “K” beds. The winter plants are populated with innumerable compact, grayish-brown seedballs. Their tight binding reminds me of the Black-eyed Susans but they are much smaller. Because of their diminutive size, the individuals don’t earn much attention; their impact depends on their large numbers.
• Goldenrod (Solidago): In my walk around the garden I noted four goldenrod varieties. The wild Canada goldenrod are by far the most common. The plants are topped by trails of white, fluffy seeds, many of which have already been dispersed by the wind. Every year I remove hundreds of goldenrod plants, but their vigorous root systems and expert seed production insure that their numbers quickly rebound. There is one variety of goldenrod that has appeared at a corner of the “I” bed, its foliage quite different from the other Solidagos. I did not suspect it was a goldenrod until I examined the small yellow blooms–which are in a unique circular arrangement--and realized it was almost certainly in the goldenrod family.
• Ironweed: Vernonia is a vast genus with over 1000 species, but most dislike winters. I think the only species in the Coe garden is the V. noveboracensis in the Rain Garden. These East Coast natives grow quite tall, a few over 6', and form large flower clusters of small purple blooms. About half of the seedheads are intact, similar to the tan New England aster seedheads; the other half have lost all their seeds and the remaining bracts look like tiny white blossoms, creating delightful visual combinations.
• Kansas Gayfeather. Truth be told, I’m not sure if these native North American Liatris are L. pycnostachya (Kansas Gayfeather) or L. spicata (Spike Gayfeather). Since I’m a native Kansan, I prefer to think of these Blazing Stars as fellow Kansans. Perhaps I’ll eventually figure out their true identity. Their erect, gray seedhead spikes are evocative of small cattails, but by the end of December, the seedheads look rather frazzled, missing many of their seeds. They are fertile and have slowly expanded their terrain in the two beds in front of the patio. This summer I planted a giant Liatris in the rain garden, but its seedhead has disappeared among the river oats and ironweed.
• Perennial Sunflowers. Several years ago I planted two varieties of Helianthus in the corners of two beds facing the patio. The taller H. maximiliana have taken over both beds, each colony producing hundreds of yellow daisy-like blooms in the summer and into the fall. The flowers in turn are transformed into small, attractive seedballs, in many respects resembling the aromatic aster seed clusters.
• Big-leaf Ligularia (L. dentata). This is an old plant, probably added to the Rain Garden in 2015, the year after that area was re-landscaped. Despite my neglect, it has somehow survived; the leaves and flowers often look rather bedraggled and unkempt, but this fall I’ve discovered the seedheads are quite attractive. Today the seedheads were missing half or more of their seeds, but I don’t know if this was the result of a hungry bird or some other reason. I’m not aware this Asteracea has ever produced any offspring.
~Bob
• Black-eyed Susan (Rudbeckia): These black, cone-shaped balls of seed in a tight Fibonacci spiral are so exquisite and efficient in their design. In contrast to the larger seedheads of their cousins the purple coneflowers, the Susans never seem to be missing any seeds. Even in the spring, the seedheads often appear intact and apparently untouched by winter’s assaults. And yet somehow, some way, these seeds have managed to spread across the flower beds in the nine years I’ve been working in the garden. In 2013, their presence was limited to a few small areas at the east end of the garden. They have now spread to every bed in the garden, all without assistance or guidance from me.
• Purple Coneflowers (Echinacea purpurea): Perhaps the garden's most common seedhead. Many are already decimated, missing most of their seeds. I see more birds (particularly the goldfinches) on the coneflowers than any other plant in the garden. Over the years I’ve taken dozens of photos of these seedheads because each is so distinct, due to the different patterns created by the missing seeds. Many of the seedheads resemble a monk’s tonsure, bald on top and a few remaining seeds around the base of the noggin.
• New England Asters: These tall, back-of-border plants have small seed balls of white puff, some totally intact, others partially dispersed, and a minority seedless. Because they are so small, their photographic portraits often help to reveal their beauty. They can be a nice addition to a dried flower arrangement.
• Aromatic Asters: Most of these are in the “D” and “K” beds. The winter plants are populated with innumerable compact, grayish-brown seedballs. Their tight binding reminds me of the Black-eyed Susans but they are much smaller. Because of their diminutive size, the individuals don’t earn much attention; their impact depends on their large numbers.
• Goldenrod (Solidago): In my walk around the garden I noted four goldenrod varieties. The wild Canada goldenrod are by far the most common. The plants are topped by trails of white, fluffy seeds, many of which have already been dispersed by the wind. Every year I remove hundreds of goldenrod plants, but their vigorous root systems and expert seed production insure that their numbers quickly rebound. There is one variety of goldenrod that has appeared at a corner of the “I” bed, its foliage quite different from the other Solidagos. I did not suspect it was a goldenrod until I examined the small yellow blooms–which are in a unique circular arrangement--and realized it was almost certainly in the goldenrod family.
• Ironweed: Vernonia is a vast genus with over 1000 species, but most dislike winters. I think the only species in the Coe garden is the V. noveboracensis in the Rain Garden. These East Coast natives grow quite tall, a few over 6', and form large flower clusters of small purple blooms. About half of the seedheads are intact, similar to the tan New England aster seedheads; the other half have lost all their seeds and the remaining bracts look like tiny white blossoms, creating delightful visual combinations.
• Kansas Gayfeather. Truth be told, I’m not sure if these native North American Liatris are L. pycnostachya (Kansas Gayfeather) or L. spicata (Spike Gayfeather). Since I’m a native Kansan, I prefer to think of these Blazing Stars as fellow Kansans. Perhaps I’ll eventually figure out their true identity. Their erect, gray seedhead spikes are evocative of small cattails, but by the end of December, the seedheads look rather frazzled, missing many of their seeds. They are fertile and have slowly expanded their terrain in the two beds in front of the patio. This summer I planted a giant Liatris in the rain garden, but its seedhead has disappeared among the river oats and ironweed.
• Perennial Sunflowers. Several years ago I planted two varieties of Helianthus in the corners of two beds facing the patio. The taller H. maximiliana have taken over both beds, each colony producing hundreds of yellow daisy-like blooms in the summer and into the fall. The flowers in turn are transformed into small, attractive seedballs, in many respects resembling the aromatic aster seed clusters.
• Big-leaf Ligularia (L. dentata). This is an old plant, probably added to the Rain Garden in 2015, the year after that area was re-landscaped. Despite my neglect, it has somehow survived; the leaves and flowers often look rather bedraggled and unkempt, but this fall I’ve discovered the seedheads are quite attractive. Today the seedheads were missing half or more of their seeds, but I don’t know if this was the result of a hungry bird or some other reason. I’m not aware this Asteracea has ever produced any offspring.
~Bob