The Myth, the Legend, the Parasite: Romance, Lore, and Science beneath the Mistletoe

As we hurdle ever closer to the holidays and the end of the year, there’s lots of plants we could talk about – amaryllis, poinsettias (and the abuse thereof with glitter and paint), whether or not your cactus celebrates Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter or is agnostic, and on and on.  Each of these plants have an interesting history and connection to the holidays, but today we’re going to be a little more naughty…but nice.  We’re going to talk about mistletoe.

Now, mistletoe is one of those holiday plants that you don’t really want growing in your own garden. That’s because, even though it is a symbol of love and even peace, it truly is a parasite … and poisonous. It has been celebrated and even worshipped for centuries, and still has a “naughty but nice” place in holiday celebrations.

Burl Ives, as the loveable, banjo-playing, umbrella-toting and story-narrating snowman in the classic “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” claymation cartoon tells us that one of the secrets to a “Holly Jolly Christmas” is the “mistletoe hung where you can see.” But where does this tradition of giving someone an innocent (or not-so-innocent) peck on the cheek whenever you find yourselves beneath the mistletoe come from? And just what is mistletoe anyway?

While mistletoe specialists need mistletoe, the reverse does not hold—mistletoe in many regions is dispersed solely by dietary generalists.
Distribution of mistletoe (and mistletoe specialist birds). Source: Mistletoe Seed Dispersal. Watson, D.M.

There are around 1500 species of mistletoe around the world, mainly in tropical and warmer climates, distributed on every continent except Antarctica.  In North America, the majority of mistletoe grows in the warmer southern states and Mexico, but some species can be found in the northern US and Canada.  A wide variety of birds feed on the berries of mistletoe and thus disperse seeds.  These birds include generalists who opportunistically feed on mistletoe, and specialists who rely on the berries as a major food source.

Mistletoe Haustoria from from Julius Sachs’ 1887 Lectures on Plant Physiology. Source: The Mistletoe Pages

First, we’ll cover the not-so-romantic bits of this little plant.  Mistletoe is a parasitic plant that grows in a variety of tree species by sinking root-like structures called haustoria into the branches of its host trees to obtain nutrients and nourishment. It provides nothing in return to the tree, which is why it is considered a parasite.

 

A heavy mistletoe infestation.                        Source: Pixabay

Mistletoe grows and spreads relatively slowly, so it typically does not pose an immediate risk to most trees.  While a few small colonies of mistletoe may not cause problems, trees with heavy infestations of mistletoe could have reduced vigor, stunting, or susceptibility to other issues like disease, drought, and heat. So be on the lookout for mistletoe in your trees and monitor it’s progression.

This little plant does have a long and storied history — from Norse mythology, to the Druids, and then finally European Christmas celebrations. Perhaps one of the most interesting things about the plant is the name. While there are varying sources for the name, the most generally accepted (and funniest) origin is German “mist” (dung) and “tang” (branch). A rough translation, then, would be “poop on a stick,” which comes from the fact that the plants are spread from tree to tree through seeds in bird droppings.

“Baldur’s Death” by Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg (1817)

In Norse mythology, the goddess Frigga (or Fricka for fans of Wagner’s operas) was an overprotective mother who made every object on Earth promise not to hurt her son, Baldr. She, of course, overlooked mistletoe because it was too small and young to do any harm. Finding this out, the trickster god Loki made a spear from mistletoe and gave it to Baldr’s blind brother Hod and tricked him into throwing it at Baldr (it was apparently a pastime to bounce objects off of Baldr, since he couldn’t be hurt).

Baldr, of course, died and Frigga was devastated. The white berries of the mistletoe are said to represent her tears, and as a memorial to her son she declared that the plant should represent love and that no harm should befall anyone standing beneath its branches.

The ancient Druids also held mistletoe in high esteem, so high that it could almost be called worship. During winter solstice celebrations, the Druids would harvest mistletoe from oak trees (which is rare — oak is not a common tree to see mistletoe in) using a golden sickle. The sprigs of mistletoe, which were not allowed to touch the ground, would then be distributed for people to hang above their doorways to ward off evil spirits.

While the collecting and displaying of mistletoe was likely incorporated into celebrations when Christmas became widespread in Europe in the third century, we don’t really see mention of it used specifically as a Christmas decoration until the 17th century. Custom dictates that mistletoe be hung in the home on Christmas Eve to protect the home, where it can stay until the next Christmas Eve or be removed on Candlemas (which is Feb. 2). The custom of kissing beneath the parasitic plant isn’t seen as part of the celebration until a century later.

Washington Irving, who more or less reinvigorated the celebration of Christmas in the United States in his day and whose writings still define the idyllic American Christmas celebration, reminisced quite humorously about mistletoe and Christmas from his travels to England. He wrote:

“Here were kept up the old games … [and] the Yule log and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe with its white berries hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.”

Whether or not your housemaids will be in peril, the hanging of the mistletoe can be a fun Christmas tradition. Look for it at garden centers and Christmas tree lots this season.  Or maybe you can find some growing wild and harvest it for your own decor. However, I would recommend not getting it out of the trees the “old Southern way” — shooting it out with a shotgun.

Sources:

  • Tainter, F.H. (2002). What Does Mistletoe Have To Do With Christmas?  APSnet Features. Online. doi: 10.1094/APSnetFeature-2002-1202
  • Briggs, J. (2000). What is Mistletoe? The Mistletoe Pages – Biology. Online. http://mistletoe.org.uk/homewp/
  • Watson, DM. (n.d.) (accessed). Mistletoe Seed Disperal [Blog Post]. Retrieved from https://ecosystemunraveller.com/connectivity/ecology-of-parasitic-plants/mistletoe-seed-dispersal/
  • Norse Mythology for Smart People. (nd) The Death of Baldur. Retrieved from https://norse-mythology.org/tales/the-death-of-baldur/

 

My cucurbits won’t stop having sex.

Not really a botanically-correct statement, but you know what I mean. John Porter’s previous blog post did a great job of explaining cucurbit reproduction (loved the Pucchini). Though I was surprised to learn “not getting any fruit” is actually a problem. Can’t say I’ve had an issue with that, ever. We have a really vibrant bee population and they’ve been super busy.

I love growing squash of all sorts, despite not being a terribly gifted vegetable garder. Past Garden Professors posts have addressed this issue. One might ask, why on earth would a two-person household need a 60-foot-long row of zucchini? Because we can!  Though if I recall, I intended to go back and thin the row. Whoops.

The zucchini hedge. And those aren’t weeds, they’re *biodiversity*.

By late summer, we usually end up with gummy stem blight, powder mildew or squash stem borer  No sign yet, though any of these goodies could show up next week. The plants are all healthy and ridiculously enormous. It’s been very warm and dry, but we have a nice drip irrigation system in place.

So guess what happened when we got too busy to check on them for three days?   Many more were still on the plants when I snapped this pic. I’ve worked zucchini in some form into every meal except breakfast. Joel’s still being a good sport. Next step is anonymous *gift* bags to folks at the office. Though I think I’m getting a reputation.

Normal-sized zucchini at top of photo for reference.  Aargh.

Not all zucchini taste alike, as true fans know. The pale hybrid Bossa Nova, right, has very creamy and tender flesh with seeds that are really only noticeable when it gets, er, hefty. Bossa Nova is a recent All-America Selection and perfect for use with those spiralizer thingies.  The ribbed/striped variety is Costata Romensco – an heirloom variety with really wonderful flavor. Humongous plants though, probably not the best choice for square foot gardening fans. Tigress is the white-flecked green selection, allegedly more disease resistant than most. Bright and sunny Gold Rush, an old-school AAS selection, adds some color and is a bit sturdier/keeps longer than yellow summer squash.

I won’t be trying to save seeds – as John noted, can be very tricky/futile when there are other cucurbits about. Plus it’s too much fun to pick out next year’s selections from the winter seed catalogs, when the prospect of bountiful zucchini stacked like firewood actually sounds appealing.

 

 

 

 

Notes from the botanical etymology division, toxicology subcommittee

By Charlie Rohwer (Visiting Professor)

The recent assassination attempt England, interesting and significant geopolitically, has reminded me about one of my favorite Latin plant names. A report on the radio stated that atropine therapy is used to treat the specific poison involved in the attempt. To paraphrase Dr. Randy Pausch, “I’m a doctor, but not the kind who helps people.” Therefore, I have no authority on the medical uses of atropine. The world Health Organization lists it as a preoperative anesthetic on its list of essential medicines, so it must be pretty important.

Atropa belladonna, Leipzig botanical garden

But I do like horticulture and I like words. That’s where my interests lie in relation to this story. Many medicines are or have been plant-based. Atropine itself comes from certain plants in the nightshade family. Like any chemical people use, dosage of atropine determines its effects; atropine can be medically useful, or it can be deadly. The drug is named after a specific plant from which atropine can be obtained, Atropa belladonna. The omnibotanist Linnaeus named it in 1753 (can someone come up with a better word for him than ‘omnibotanist?’).

‘Belladonna,’ as it’s commonly called, is a small shrub native to Europe and Asia. ‘Belladonna’ comes from the Italian words ‘bella’ and ‘donna,’ meaning ‘beautiful woman.’ An extract from the plant was applied topically to eyes during the Renaissance to dilate pupils. One sign of sexual arousal is dilated pupils, so the extract would cause a response that looked like sexual arousal. If you were a lady going to a fancy party during the Renaissance and you wanted to look beautiful, belladonna may have helped (according to beauty standards of the time). My optometrist told me atropine isn’t used for retinal exams today because its effects last too long.

Dilated pupil

The other common name for Atropa belladonna is ‘deadly nightshade.’ The drug, atropine, is made of two isomers of hyoscyamine, made by the plant (and some other related plants). At some doses, hyoscyamine causes muscles to relax (like the iris, for example) due to its effects on nerves that control muscles. At larger doses, it can kill because you need muscles to breathe and to pump blood at a reasonable rate. Dosage and route of entry are important!

The author with one of his favorite books.

So Atropa belladonna was used to make ladies beautiful, hence the epithet ‘belladonna.’ But what about ‘Atropa?’ What’s that mean? Where does the drug atropine ultimately get its name? My favorite book as a kid was “D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths.” Linneaus borrowed from the Greek myth of the three Fates in order to name deadly nightshade. According to D’Aulaires, these goddesses of destiny “…knew the past and the future, and even Zeus had no power to sway their decisions.” Nobody can escape fate. The three fates were named Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. The fates are responsible for the thread of everybody’s life. Clotho spins the thread at birth, Lachesis measures it out and determines destiny (what’s on the thread and how long it is), and Atropos (‘inflexible’ or ‘unturnable’) cuts the thread after Lachesis has apportioned it. Atropos is the goddess directly responsible for the end of everyone’s thread of life, and her action is final.

The Three Fates

Atropa belladonna simultaneously means something like ‘inevitable, inflexible death’ AND ‘beautiful lady.’ Indeed, the dose makes the poison.

 

Howdy and Previous Post Revisited 1.0

Greetings all, and good to be back in the saddle for the Garden Professors.  It’s been a while since I’ve filled you in on my own personal gardening struggles (lots) and triumphs (few) as well as topics I think you’d be interested in.  I’ve always appreciated the kind comments and good questions our readers pose, in response to my off-kilter posts and horrific punctuation.

I’m sure there is one BURNING question that long-time readers have:

“So how’s your Puya doing?”

“Fine, thank you!”

Well, mostly.

Long story short, I bought/committed to a Puya berteroniana in 2012.  If you have no idea what I’m talking about: http://gardenprofessors.com/puya-report/

I’m sure many readers have been at the receiving end of a cactus spine or Agave poke; the genus Puya makes Agaves look like stuffed animals.  Fish hooks line the margins of each leaf, and cascade over the side of the pot. Therein lies the problem…

Still alive, and doing pretty well, but Pootie the Puya really needs re-potting to realize her full potential (the blooms are outrageous, and the point of all this, as I mention here: http://gardenprofessors.com/the-eternal-gardening-optimist/)

I’ve attempted to “go in” a couple of times, but even leather grilling gloves get snagged. Need really strong tongs (two sets?).  I’m probably going to have to just bust the pot.  She didn’t make it out to the deck this summer due to the awkward pot situation. Suggestions welcome, especially from anyone who has wrestled with one of these (and lived)!

Rhymes with nārang

By Visiting Professors Dr. Charlie Rohwer and Ulrike Carlson

I’ve had this dream of doing a full academic etymological study of oranges, with the help of a second-cousin-by-marriage linguist and her historian husband. Being honest with myself, I know that’ll never happen. And also, honestly, they’d have to do all the work anyway.

But, the Garden Professor’s Facebook post about the citrus family tree revived my interest. Not for a full-blown academic analysis of the word ‘orange,’ but for a blog-friendly, factual, interesting post. So I got my linguist cousin Ulrike Carlson to edit for accuracy too.

The name given to the orange by Linnaeus was Citrus aurantium, and the only other citrus species he noted in his first volume of Species Plantarum was Citrus medica. The current taxonomy of citron is Citrus medica L., and bitter orange (or Seville orange, used for marmalade and Belgian beer) is Citrus aurantium L. According to Linnaeus, sweet orange and pomelo were separate varieties of C. aurantium (var. sinensis and var. grandis, respectively). For a pretty image of the family tree, see the National Geographic article here. Basically, it is now known that all common citrus fruits are hybrids derived from citron, mandarin, pomelo, and papeda.

The current taxonomy for sweet orange, Citrus sinensis (L.) Osbeck, clearly defines the fruit’s Eastern origin (sinensis comes from Latin for ‘Chinese’) and altered nomenclature (Osbeck refined Linnaeus’ original taxonomy). But the name given to bitter orange, C. aurantium, points to its South Asian origin, and here’s why. The Tamil (south India) word for orange transliterates to ārañcu; Sanskrit words look similar; the Persian nārang is derived from there. As the bitter and sweet orange hybrids were likely made somewhere between Northern India and Southern China, it would be expected that the European names for these fruits come from these or nearby areas too. The origin of Linnaeus’ aurantium are obvious. Aurantium is Latin for the orange tree, and aurancia is the fruit. If you say these words aloud, they all sound similar to each other, to nārang, and to the English orange.

But here’s where it gets more interesting, with a preface: the word apple has historically been used to describe any fruit that’s not a small berry. Also, bitter oranges were common in Europe before sweet oranges. In fact, when sweet oranges came on the scene in the 17th century, wealthy people built greenhouses or gardens (“orangeries”) specifically for the new, more delicious versions of the fruit.

Orangery at the Château_de_Versailles
By Djampa – Own work

My first time in the Netherlands, I noticed orange juice is called sinaasapelsap. I don’t know Dutch really, but…doesn’t that mean ‘Chinese apple juice?’ Sinaas: Chinese (sinensis); apel: apple; sap: …sap (juice)? I knew in French that it’s jus d’orange (juice of the orange), and I knew ‘orange’ in Spanish is naranja (looks & sounds a lot like orange and narang). Why would the Dutch call it Chinese apple juice? Fast forward a couple years, I’m in Denmark, and what do I see? Appelsinsaft. CHINESE APPLE JUICE…English, Dutch, Danish, they’re all Germanic languages. Shouldn’t the Germanic languages call it orange juice, like I do? Then it hits me. English is the odd duck here. The Germanic languages call orange juice ‘Chinese apple juice’. This reflects the name Linnaeus gave the sweet orange (var. sinensis, or ‘Chinese’). Best I can tell, among Germanic languages, only English, Afrikaans, and Scots gets their word for the sweet orange from the older word for the bitter orange, nārang.

Citrus aurantium
By A. Barra – Own work

That’s not the last word on the subject though. You can go to Italy for sweet oranges and get arance, the Czech Republic and get pomeranče (apple-orange), Ireland and get oráistí, Bulgaria and get oranzhev, or Portugal and get laranjas (aka, oranges). All words that come from nārang or aurancia. You can go to Estonia, Finland, Sweden, Norway, and Germany and get some kind of Chinese apples (aka, oranges). But even as most Italians eat arance, you’d instead ask for a partuallu in Sicily. Or you’d eat a portokáli in Greece, portokall in Albania, etc. The Portuguese, with their awesome shipping routes, imported sweet oranges from China, then grew and distributed them through Europe in the 17th century. They were a big improvement over the bitter orange (which would you rather have, marmalade from a bitter orange, or a juicy sweet orange?). So some countries called the sweet orange by the name of the proximal country they were shipped from, Portugal. Bitter oranges (AKA Seville oranges, named from where they were grown) are called pomerans (from apple-orange) in Swedish, Pomeranzen or Bitterorangen in German, pomeransen in Dutch…so it seems that when sweet oranges came to Germanic-speaking countries, the languages kept the word they’d been using for the bitter orange (calling it an orange-apple or bitter orange), and added a different word for the sweet orange, calling it a Chinese apple. This is all complicated because political boundaries have changed a lot in Europe, and languages borrow from each other. So northern Germans might still eat Chinese apples, but southern Germans might eat oranges.

Also, if you’re interested and you’ve made it this far, the color orange is so named because that’s the color of the fruit. It’s not the other way around. It’s a pretty recent color descriptor. That’s why robins, with their orange breasts, are called robin red-breast. There was no word for the color orange when the robin was first described.

Also of great interest is the House of Orange. If you’ve seen a Dutch soccer game, or been to the Netherlands, you’ll know they like the color orange. William I of Orange, basically the founder of the Netherlands, came from a principality called ‘Orange’, now in France, and the Dutch celebrate their royal family with the color of its namesake. BUT, Orange, France was named, a couple thousand years ago (before the fruit came to Europe), after a Celtic water god, Arausio. At the time, this had nothing to do with the fruit or the color. HOWEVER, since the middle ages, the crest of the French city shows orange fruit on a branch, and the crest for the German city of Oranienbaum (orange tree) has, you guessed it, an orange tree. According to Wikipedia, Oranienbaum was named after the Dutch House of Orange.

Coat of arms for the House of Orange

For more about how these languages are related, here’s a ‘simple’ chart.

Allium Fever

Ornamental onions are hot patooties.  From big, bold, purple globes to small pink half-moons, there is no end to ornamental onion-y goodness out there with 30+ species and cultivars in the trade.  There’s no substitute for ornamental onions in regards to architectural drama – the perfect geometric foil to wispy grasses, floral spikes, and umpteen daisy-thingies.  The seed heads from the sturdier species will persist and add interest to autumn and winter perennialscapes (not sure if that’s a word).

Art-of-Gardening-COVER-3D-1
Not one but TWO cultivars of Allium on the cover of the fabulous new Chanticleer book…

All are members of the Allium genus, just like those onions sprouting in your kitchen counter veg basket – hence the deer- and small mammal- resistance factor.  However…there are some issues.

  • Can be short-lived.  I have first-hand experience with this – plant, enjoy for a year or two, then…where did they go?
  • Bloom time is rather vaguely defined.  Most catalogs list “early summer” or “late spring” for most cultivars.  But if you want continuous purple orbs, what’s the order of bloom?
  • Can be expensive. Bulbs for some of the mammoth “softball” sizes will set you back $5-$7 each (the bulbs themselves are huge).  This is of particular concern due to the first item.
  • Foliage failure.  For some of the largest species and cultivars, the foliage starts to die back around (or even before) bloom time.  Not a lot of time to put the necessary energy back into that big honkin’ bulb.

We already have a multi-year lily perennialization trial going in conjunction with Cornell and some other institutions.  I thought I might try the same thing with Allium.

Student worker Lauren, after a long day of taking data on a gazillion lilies.
Student worker Lauren, after a long day of taking data on a gazillion lilies.

Unfortunately, I had this bright idea in November – well into the bulb-ordering season.  I tried to compile as complete an inventory as I could, ordering from several vendors.  Ended up with 28 species and cultivars – as much as the space prepared (check out that nice soil!)  could hold, at our urban horticulture center near campus (Virginia Tech is in Blacksburg, USDA Zone 6, about 2000′).  We put five or seven bulbs (depending on size) in each plot, and replicated the whole thing three times.

Ready to plant!
Ready to plant!

We’ll take data over the next three years on time of emergence, bloom time and duration, foliage duration (have a nifty chlorophyll meter that can help quantify that), some growth measurements, and perennial tendencies (or not).  My hope is to end up with a really specific chronology of bloom times plus life expectancy.  Yes, this was just a patented Holly wild hair; luckily I had some general funds to cover it. But I do think our little onion project will be of interest to more than a few folks, whether professional landscape designers or home gardeners.  I know I’m excited to see the results ($30 for five bulbs – yeek)!

 

 

2015’s top plants in my garden

For normal people, I gather, New Years is all about making resolutions to loose weight or spend more quality time with family. For me, New Years means reviewing everything I grew in the garden in the past 12 months and deciding what I love and what I’m over. I always try lots of new things, and so I thought I’d share my top new favorites for 2015.

Dianthus chinensis 'Chianti' and 'Victoriana'
Dianthus chinensis ‘Chianti’ and ‘Victoriana’

The only Dianthus chinensis I’d grown before are the modern selections which are about three inches tall with huge flowers and as ugly as can be (in my opinion) but ‘Chianti’ and ‘Victoriana’, two charming old-fashioned seed strains won my heart in a big way this year. Annuals, very easy from seed, and blooming all summer with these wonderfully romantic double blooms that made wonderful, long-lasting cut flowers. I’m hoping they decide to self-sow and return next year.

Populus alba 'Richardii'
Populus alba ‘Richardii’

Poplars are, generally, terrible trees. Weak wooded, short-lived, and weedy with few redeeming characteristics. But I bought this Golden Poplar, Populus alba ‘Richardii’, on a whim, and am absolutely thrilled with it. The foliage stays this bright, beautiful shade of yellow all summer, even in full sun (or at least what passes for full sun in cloudy Michigan) without burning. Great in the garden, and cut branches look amazing in a vase. I suppose it could eventually get large, but I’m planning to keep pruning it back hard to the ground to force it to push out lots of lush, long new stems of bright leaves.

'Little Comet' x h2.3
‘Little Comet’ x h2.3

I love breeding plants, and for the past few years I’ve been deeply obsessed with breeding gladiolus… I had a lot of new seedlings this year, but this one, a cross between the wonderful variety ‘Little Comet’ and one of my unnamed hardy varieties I call h2.3, is my favorite of the year. I just LOVE those colors, and love that the come on a strong stem that doesn’t need staking. If it keeps performing well, I’d love to make it available for sale in a few years.

Finally, I forgot to get a picture of this, but I have a new favorite tomato! For years, my favorites have unequivocally been ‘Black Krim’ for large tomatoes, ‘Matt’s Wild Cherry’ for cherries, and ‘Opalka’ for paste, but ‘Black Krim’ has been replaced! My new favorite: ‘Sweet Scarlet Dwarf’ This plant combines a wonderful compact, tidy, attractive growth habit with big yields and really terrific flavor. It isn’t widely available (the only source I know is Heritage Seed Market) but do track down some seeds. You’ll be happy you did.

Now, please, let me know your favorites in the comments so I can expand my shopping list for 2016!

Joseph Tychonievich

Moss magic

In my opinion, no coastal Pacific NW garden is complete without moss softening the edges of a rock garden or nestling between paving stones. Now that the rains have returned, mosses are lush green sponges, absorbing sound as well as water. They are the finishing touches to our native landscapes.

Bloedel Reserve moss garden
Bloedel Reserve moss garden

A few months ago, however, mosses looked quite different. With our particularly hot and droughty summer, mosses were brown, dry and brittle just like our lawns. But unlike those dead blades of grass, the mosses were only in a state of environmental dormancy. All it took to revive them was water.

Here’s a patch of moss in our home landscape during a hot dry spell. It’s dry and brown:

Dormant moss
Dormant moss

Here’s the same patch of moss 20 minutes after I watered it:

It's a garden miracle!
It’s a garden miracle!

How can mosses recover so quickly? Well, mosses are one of the most primitive groups of land plants still in existence. They lack a true vascular system, so their “roots” are only anchoring structures – they don’t absorb water. Instead, water and nutrients are taken up over the leaf surface. As soon as water hits the leaves, it’s absorbed and literally throws the switch to turn everything back on. Leaves expand, chloroplasts start to absorb sunlight, and the photosynthetic machine is humming along.

In fact, my undergraduate major advisor was a bryologist (one who studies mosses). Jack Lyford’s lab was stacked ceiling-high with shoe boxes. Each box contained a different species of moss – completely dried out of course. All he had to do was take out a piece and place it in a dish of water. Within minutes it was fully functional and ready for study.

So make room for some moss in your garden. It’s a tough and fascinating little survivor.

Pretty in Pink

It’s October. Fall is such an underrated time in the garden, and much pink can be found. In fact, flashes of pink are everywhere!! Got my ma’ams grammed last week; thanks for the reminder, NFL.

Muhlenbergia ‘Pink Flamingo’.
Aye yi yi. Alleged hybrid between M. capillaris and M. lindheimeri. Five feet tall and as wide, huge plumes of pink. Looks like nothing important the rest of the year, then, blammo!!! Sorry, folks north of Zone 6. Actually, it only works here  (Z. 6a) because of outstanding drainage; it’s planted in a pile of gravel. Mine has lived through two winters with -20 F days.  Place where the sun will rise or set behind it for maximum effect. Bunny the Whippet not included.

muhleypinkflamingo

Salvia involucrata – Rosebud Salvia
Big ol’ gal that will not favor you with blossoms until September. Absolutely not hardy here, or anywhere north of Zone 8.  Take cuttings, ’cause baby she’s worth it. The furry, hot pink flowers will thrill any hummingbirds left zipping around (I read ours the riot act this weekend, they have GOT to hit the road soon). Note there is some hullabaloo as to S. puberula vs. S. involucrata vs. some hybrid amongst the two.  Will report back.

salviapink

Chrysanthemum x whatever ‘Venus’ .
Am so tired of the taxonomic uncertainty. ChrysanthemumDendranthemum…  Whatever you call her, ‘Venus’ is a wonderful “real” garden mum (not those heinous meatball things) that brings the pink blooms in September, then fades to palest of pink, but not before every bee in the neighborhood visits.  Fairly compact (2-3’) and pretty darn hardy (Zone 5). Tuck Venus amongst things you know will be done before fall – bee balm, phlox, etc. to keep the show going!

chrysvenus

So there you have it, some pink for our October gardens.  In loving memory of my sister Carlene.

Top Ten Trees and Shrubs with Great Fall Color

 

Sugar maple (Acer saccharum) in full fall color
Sugar maple (Acer saccharum) in full fall color

As promised in my Sept. 9 post of “The Science Behind Fall Color”, I would address trees and shrubs with outstanding fall color. It was hard limiting it to only ten trees and ten shrubs, since I found 5 common shrub species of maples alone, so I cheated a bit and grouped the maples, oaks, etc. into one group so that my list was not entirely all maples.

'Robin Hill' apple serviceberry (Amelanchier x grandiflora 'Robin Hill')
‘Robin Hill’ apple serviceberry (Amelanchier x grandiflora ‘Robin Hill’)

I have seen the below plants with reliable fall color in northern, southern and eastern landscapes. These plants “light” up the landscape in autumn. For outstanding, long lasting autumn color, plant the below trees and shrubs with herbaceous plants which bloom in fall such as asters, mums, sedums, monkshood, toad lilies, and Japanese anemones. Do not forget ornamental grasses with their showy seed heads extending the season of color and texture.

Sweet birch, cherry birch (Betula lenta)
Sweet birch, cherry birch (Betula lenta)

We used to recommend ash for fall color, but not any more due to emerald ash borer. Japanese barberry and burningbush are tops for fall color, but both species are highly invasive and not recommended. There are more plants with great fall color than the ones below. I would love to hear your favorites!

 

Top 10 Trees for Fall Color

1) Black gum, sour gum, tupelo (Nyssa sylvatica), orange-red, scarlet to purple, outstanding

Black gum, sour gum, tupelo (Nyssa sylvatica)
Black gum, sour gum, tupelo (Nyssa sylvatica)

2) Maples, especially:

Sugar maple (Acer saccharum), bright yellow to orange-red

Red maple (A. rubrum), yellow, orange-red to bright red

Freeman maple (A. × freemanii), yellow, orange-red, red to reddish-purple

Paperbark maple (A. griseum), dark red to bronze

Japanese maple (A. palmatum), orange, red to purplish-red

Korean maple (A. pseudosieboldianum), deep orange to reddish-purple

Three-flower maple (A. triflorum), orange

Full moon maple (A. japonicum), yellow-orange to scarlet-red

Moosewood, striped-bark maple (A. pensylvanicum), bright yellow

3) Ginkgo (Ginkgo biloba), bright golden-yellow

4) Thornless honeylocust (Gleditsia triacanthos f. inermis), bright golden-yellow

5) Quaking aspen, trembling aspen (Populus tremuloides), bright yellow

6) Oaks, especially:

White oak (Quercus alba), dark red to wine

Red oak (Q. rubra), red to russet

Scarlet oak (Q. coccinea), red to scarlet

Black oak (Q. velutina), dark red

Scarlet oak (Quercus coccinea)
Scarlet oak (Quercus coccinea)

7) Apple serviceberry (Amelanchier × grandiflora), yellowish-orange to red

8) Buckeyes, especially:

Yellow buckeye (Aesculus flava), golden-yellow to orange

‘Autumn Splendor’ buckeye (A. × arnoldiana ‘Autumn Splendor’), deep, burgundy-red

‘Homestead’ buckeye (A. × marylandica ‘Homestead’), orange-red

9) Birch, especially:

Yellow birch (Betula alleghaniensis), bright yellow

Sweet birch, cherry birch (B. lenta), bright yellow

Paper birch, canoe birch (B. papyrifera), yellow

10) Yellowwood (Cladrastis kentukea), bright yellow to gold

 

Top 10 Shrubs for Fall Color

1) Large and dwarf fothergilla (Fothergilla major and F. gardenia), yellow-orange to red, outstanding

Large fothergilla (Fothergilla major)
Large fothergilla (Fothergilla major)

2) Common and vernal witchhazels (Hamamelis virginiana and H. vernalis), bright yellow to golden-yellow

Vernal witchhazel (Hamamelis vernalis)
Vernal witchhazel (Hamamelis vernalis)

3) Virginia sweetspire (Itea virginica), dark reddish-purple

4) Black and red chokeberries (Aronia melanocarpa and A. arbutifolia), red-orange, wine-red to purple

Black chokeberry (Aronia melanocarpa)
Black chokeberry (Aronia melanocarpa)

5) Sumacs, especially:

Shining sumac, winged sumac (Rhus copallinum), bright red to scarlet

Prairie Flame® shining sumac (Rhus copallinum 'Morton')
Prairie Flame® shining sumac (Rhus copallinum ‘Morton’)

Staghorn sumac (R. typhina), orange to scarlet

Smooth sumac (R. glabra), orange to scarlet-purple

Fragrant sumac (R. aromatica), orange, red to purple

6) Oakleaf hydrangea (Hydrangea quercifolia), reddish-orange to wine

7) ‘Tor’ birchleaf spirea (Spiraea betulifolia ‘Tor’), orange to reddish-purple

8) Viburnums, especially:

Withe-rod viburnum (Viburnum cassinoides), orange-red, crimson to purple

Blackhaw viburnum (V. prunifolium), reddish-purple

Arrowwood viburnum (V. dentatum), depends on cultivar, yellow, red to purple

American cranberrybush viburnum (V. opulus var. americanum, formerly V. trilobum), yellow to reddish-purple

Doublefile viburnum (V. plicatum f. tomentosum), wine-red

‘Wavecrest’ Siebold viburnum (V. sieboldii ‘Wavecrest’), red to burgundy

9) Cranberry cotoneaster (Cotoneaster apiculatus), deep reddish-purple

Cranberry cotoneaster (Cotoneaster apiculatus)
Cranberry cotoneaster (Cotoneaster apiculatus)

10) Virginia rose (Rosa virginiana), deep reddish-purple

 

 

Laura Jull, Ph.D.

a.k.a.: The “Lorax”