Holly Scoggins

No point here, really…

Just go back and watch the video that Bert the Incensed posted Monday. I can’t top that.

Hope he’s had a beer and calmed down since. Now I need one.

My first reaction was more like slack-jawed disbelief over the nonsense contained within. A second viewing brought my blood pressure up a notch. For instance, I swear he says “Calcium nitrate” softly and then quickly rephrases it to “vitamins and minerals.” There’s more crap in this video than a dairy retention pond. Kudos to whomever put the “Garden Professors” comment on the site.

If the content is reasonable, I can overlook questionable video production values, such as the host also serving as the director (“Over here…there ya go!”) and the bug crawling across the lens. But for this train-wreck of misinformation, it was doubly irritating.

Deep breath. Let’s part on a positive note, shall we?

Here’s the little-known, summer and fall-blooming Salvia involucrata (Rosebud Sage). Alas, it is not hardy for me, but is for Zone 7 and up. Took this last week before the hard frost (I really do think of y’all when I’m running around with my cocktail and camera at sunset…)

Fresh, light green foliage to about 4′, nice branching habit, pinkish petioles and stems, topped with a fabulous, fuzzy, flower explosion. In HOT PINK no less.

Glorious. And perfect for getting your Garden Tart TM on!
Thank you so much, Linda – I believe you’ve coined the perfect description of my gardening style. Hee, hee.

When You Gotta Go, Go Green

Here’s a bit of the fact-filled, intrepid reporting we at Garden Professors are pleased to provide.

Just back from a visit/droolfest to Pennsylvania’s "Golden Triangle" of horticulture: Swarthmore’s Scott Arboretum, Chanticleer, and Longwood Gardens.

At closing time on Saturday, I was wandering through the cavernous halls of the Longwood conservatory, looking for either my travel companion John Greenlee (Mr. American Meadow Garden), or the restroom. Found one, then followed the signs to the other…

Whoa.

And it keeps going, way on around the bend.

Unveiled just a week prior, the green wall system was designed by GSky Plant Systems. At a little over 4,000 square feet with 47,000 plants, it’s now the largest green wall in North America.

The modular panel system is very clever:

Plants are held in place by a geotextile surrounding a fiber substrate. Computer-controlled drip irrigation is woven throughout the entire structure.

Except for the glass ceiling, the corridor is subterranean. Perhaps because it was closing time and mostly empty, we found it just a tiny bit unsettling. John flailed about, muttering something like "Soylent Green is people!"

Anyhoo, it was very grand and inspiring. In case you’re wondering what was behind all those shiny steel doors:

Folks, you can’t get this kind of in-depth information on just ANY garden blog…

Pssst…over here…trees got nothing on us…

We usually look up to the trees for the spectacle of fall foliage color but there’s plenty happening down low. Ornamental grasses in autumn are, of course, amazing – I think I’ll give them a post of their own. But there are a few perennials that consistently deliver good fall color instead of turning to brown, crunchy paper.

For the shade to part-shade garden, Polygonatum odoratumthen ‘Variegatum’ is a plant for three seasons. Arching stems
spring forth in, well, Spring, with fresh green and white variegated
foliage. Pairs of little creamy bell-like flowers dangle from each leaf
node. The foliage looks terrific all summer long, and you get a shot of golden yellow for fall.

More reliable than a tulip poplar! Newport, VA, October 10.

I know I’ve mentioned Amsonia hubrichtii in some past posts, but I just can’t help it. Finally, finally named “Perennial Plant of the Year ” for 2011 by the Perennial Plant Association. Not sure what took so long. Exhibits the best boofy habit of all perennials (somewhat like “floofy”, but rounder). Native to southern/central U.S. and totally drought tolerant. The pale blue star-shaped flowers in late Spring are fairly underwhelming, especially given all the other stuff going on at the time. The fine, needle-like foliage adds a wonderful soft texture throughout the summer. As the days shorten and the nights cool down, it begins to glow…first a soft gold, and then adds bronze and apricot to the mix – basically a color twin of Sporobolis heterolepis (Prairie Dropseed, previously described in a GP post).

The first flush of gold, just getting going in our garden last week…

In full glory. Late fall at Chanticleer (Radnor, PA).

Some cultivars of Hosta, such as ‘Sum & Substance’, reliably produce gold fall color, as do some ferns. Any others you’d like to add to list?

The Deer Thing

Gave a talk last week to the Arlington, Virginia Master Gardeners and friends (howdy!). What a wonderful group. I was warmly welcomed, they brought awesome goodies, and even laughed at my silly anecdotes.

As is inevitable during any plant presentation, the topic of deer came up. When the question arose of whether a particular perennial that I had enjoyed in my own garden was deer-resistant or not, I responded with “I’m not sure, I don’t have a deer problem.” I regretted my words the moment they came out. The audience erupted, and I swear cupcakes were (figuratively) flung at my head.

1. It was incredibly insensitive of me.

But I didn’t know! I was gently informed that yes, deer were indeed a huge problem. Arlington is tucked deep within the Beltway, right next to D.C. Though they have some nice green spaces and lots of big trees, I wouldn’t describe it as suburban, which is where I’ve heard all the deer problems were in Northern Virginia. The D.C. metroplex is bumper-to-bumper traffic about 22 hours per day, at least in the experience of this Country Mouse. How they haven’t been wiped out by deer-vehicle collisions, I’m not sure. Maybe the traffic never goes fast enough. I feel just awful for these folks. One lady described afterward how she couldn’t even have pansies in a container on her patio. She said she gardens “in her dreams.” I misted up.

2. I then had to try to explain why I don’t have a deer problem.

I’m not sure! What’s worse, I haven’t had too much of a problem at any of my previous residences (just digging the hole deeper, aren’t I). Currently, we live in the Country with a capital “C”, on the side of a mountain, surrounded by forests, pastures, streams, etc. There’s minimal fencing. The nearest neighbors* are not very near. We should be crawling with deer.

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty around – picturesque herds roam the hayfields across the valley. Driving home at dusk in the spring and fall is an adventure in deer-dodging. They do occasional visit closer to the house, traipsing through our blueberries, and eating fallen apples, or nibbling the tops out of my okra. They have damaged some of our veg garden, but no worse than our own destruct-o-chickens. But they rarely mess with the ornamentals. Of which there are LOTS.

* Incidentally, most of those (very nice) neighbors possesses multiple rifles and armloads of 30-06 rounds. I know this because deer season is nigh, and everyone’s adjusting their scopes and blowing out the dust. Blam, blam, blam.

My best guess as to our relative freedom from deer damage? Neighbors who enjoy deer steaks, plus an active assault-hound program. OUR weapons of choice:

Bebe (B.B.) the Basenji-mix and Bunny the Whippet. Faster than speeding bullets. Joel is asleep so I graciously cropped him out.

Not very fearsome as depicted here, but two sight-hounds can give the deer a run for their money. They love to patrol the grounds. Plus it’s great exercise for the little couch lizards.

The deer explosion has turned many people off from gardening (both novice and experienced). To have something you’ve grown and/or spent a chunk of money on – there one evening and gone the next morning – must be very, very frustrating. My heart goes out to the kind and hardy gardeners of Arlington and all others for whom deer are an absolute plague.

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Cake and Cultivars

I was working on something entirely different, but thought better of it. I’d like to continue Bert’s (now Dr. Mister Smartypants) really intriguing discussion.

Because when I read it, I felt a pang of…guilt? Confusion?

I’d describe my usual perspective on the “native” topic as ultra-liberal, highly plant-introduction-centric. New plant? Gimme!!! (“Native” shall appear in this post surrounded by quotes throughout, as a safety measure.)

Commenter Wes perceptively noted “part of the gardening public is becoming so enamored with the concept
of natives that I think they are grasping at straws to to assuage their
belief in ecological principal. In my opinion, many want to have their
cake and eat it too.” As a card-carrying member of the gardening public, yes, I do like using “native” plants, there is some portion of “feel good” to it, and I adore it when a hot new cultivar is also a “native”. And many breeders, propagators, growers, and garden centers would like to assist me with this.

A good example: the “American Beauties Native Plants” program from a large propagation nursery in Pennsylvania. Some straight species, lots of cultivars, all with marketing materials to match (tags, pots, banners).
Has “Big Plant Introduction and Branding” (really, not that big or scary an entity) co-opted “native”? Discuss.

Finally, some advice, please: in our campus garden, we’ve nearly an acre of new plantings in a meadow style that consists of lots of cultivars and some interspecific hybrids; all of “native” plants (even the freakin’ buffalo grass is a cultivar). How in the heck should I refer to these plants, let alone the entire concept, in our educational/interpretive materials? Any and all suggestions will be considered.

Animal, Vegetable, Irritable

I’m a big Barbara Kingsolver fan. Just finished “Prodigal Summer” – her tall, lanky, introverted, 40-something forest ranger-heroine encounters handsome, mysterious, much younger guy in the woods; sparks fly, etc. Rowr! Ahem.

I really enjoyed “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” when it came out a couple of years ago. It was the perfect dead-of-winter read as she captured flawlessly the itch to grow things, the scent of thawing soil, the joys of mud, the overwhelming greenness of spring, the mess of canning tomatoes. I was only slightly annoyed at the quiet pace and perfectness of her home life; as a normal working stiff I don’t have time to bake my own bread daily, or make fresh mozzarella every time we have pizza for dinner (darn this time-consuming, bill-paying job).

But I was totally mesmerized by the cover art – her daughter’s cupped hands filled with the most beautiful shelled beans in the world. The huge maroon and white Christmas Limas shined like leguminous jewels. Now THAT I can do.

So, Dr. Miss Smartypants here devoted an entire row to them this spring – about twenty feet with plants spaced on one-foot centers and a 20’ x 6’ span of netting for them to scramble up. The second 20’ row was planted with red and green yard-long beans (see my previous post about how fabulous they are). Both rows received the same amount of irrigation (a little), weeding (some), and zero additional fertilizer except the pre-plant amendment of chicken poop (of which we have a lot).

Summer wore on, life got busier. The yard-long beans just kept coming despite drought, stinkbugs and 3’ tall lambsquarters. I’d poke around wistfully in the Christmas Lima vines – there were a few green pods buried amongst copious foliage. I do know these kinds of beans do better in hotter, drier climates, but it’s been pretty much that kind of summer here.

The pods finally, FINALLY filled out a bit and turned dry and brown – ready to pick!! I filled most of a five-gallon bucket and sat down with a beer to shell them (OSHA requirement).

Behold, my bounty!

Total yield: one mess of beans. Two if used as soup components. Yes, they’re listed with Slow Food USA’s Ark of Taste. Yes, they are indeed beautiful and will probably be totally delicious whenever I get the nerve up to cook them.

It’s just… I’m not sure how to put this… but a family of four would BLOODY WELL STARVE if they devoted much of their garden to these lovelies. I don’t know whether to eat them, frame them, or string them onto a necklace.

p.s. still getting yard-longs by the handful…

It’s a Bird! It’s a Plane! It’s a …Butt?

So we last left off discussing the issue regarding the fact that the point is incumbent on us that one can’t refer to a native as "invasive" withou…

Look!

What’s that??!
There! Amongst the Pachysandra!

Is it a freshman? Perhaps passed out in our campus garden in despair after yet another stinging defeat of the Hokies?

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Nay, ’tis a pair of Calvatia gigantia – Giant Puffballs.

'Tis not a butt

Pretty impressive, though. Note toes for scale. Unfortunately, with all the foot traffic in our garden, there’s little chance they will make it intact to the "fun stage" (official mycological term for when the exterior turns dark ‘n crispy and the internal spores floof out in huge clouds upon poking).

I fully expect our Pacific Northwest people to be all "You should see the size of OUR Calvatia species!"
Bring it.

Defining Your Terms

Loyal reader and thoughtful commenter Ray Eckhart posted a while back (something along the lines of) wouldn’t it be nice if we could come to some agreement on all this “what’s invasive” terminology. This has been flitting in and out of my brain but has not found sufficient gray matter to come to rest. Regardless, here goes. I’ve attempted to capture these concepts in as few words as possible. My opinions in no way reflect those of the Garden Professors, blog host Washington State University, or anyone else important, for that matter.

Native. From these here parts.
Or this half/region/corner of the Continent, depending on your definition. And there are LOTS of them. We had this discussion in my Herbaceous Landscape Plants class last week. My students alone came up with 10 different definitions and/or criteria, all probably legit. I teach a plant as native if it is found east of the Mississippi (these are garden plants, it’s not a botany class). I try to describe its “nativeness” more in terms of whatever biome it came from (tall grass prairie, deciduous piedmont forest, etc.) as cue to how to best use it in the landscape. If it’s found even closer to home, I find myself describing it as “really native” which makes no sense, but I can’t seem to stop.

Alien. Not from here (wherever here is).
Is a broader term than “native” because “here” seems to refer to land masses, whether continental or island. Alien has a rather negative and even inter-planetary vibe to it. “Must…thinkofway… to… eliminate… Japanese Privet. Helpme…, Spock.”

Non-native. The kinder, gentler alien.
As in, Hosta are not going to take over the planet. Even though non-native is often used in the same breath as alien, we need it to stand on its own in this case: what do you call a Calochortus (Mariposa Lily) in Virginia? It’s not native to the east coast, but species of the genus are native to the western part of continental North America and further south. So I deem it non-native, but not alien. Maybe “mail-order” should be a category.

Exotic. An attractive but promiscuous alien.

Invasive. Aliens amuck.
Lists are created, but are unfortunately often ignored (see previous post on ligustrum). There are lots of good invasive plant definitions out there. But can native plants ever be invasive? Or are they just “vigorous” or “aggressive”? See below.

Vigorous. This has positive connotations. Holds its own in difficult situations, makes lots more of itself, can share with friends.

Aggressive. See vigorous, but cue theme to Jaws. Makes a WHOLE LOT more of itself. Can share with unsuspecting friends.

Passive-aggressive. Just when you think “I don’t know what all the fuss was about”, BAM you’re pulling out it of every nook and cranny. I can think of many examples – good fodder for a future post.

Based on these definitions, I see a few of our favorite garden natives as aggressive or passive-aggressive. You’re not sure whether to be pleased or perturbed that a delightful, wildlife-friendly native is reseeding all over your garden. Two examples right here in our campus garden: Joe Pye (Eupatorium purpureum) and Cup Plant (Silphium perfoliatum). Completely out of hand.

I am no authority on this stuff, just happy to be part of the conversation. Feel free to agree/disagree. But please be gentle; I’m suffering from a late night of watching the Hokies get splatted by Boise State (invasive Broncos).

Quiz Plant Revealed

Ha ha hahahaha
*mad scientist-type cackling*

Purslane? Nyet! (but good guess).

It’s an Impatien! Specifically, Impatien repens, common names variously Ceylon Jewelweed, Golden Dragon Impatien, etc. Ours is actually pretty small – can form huge clumps and cascading torrents in warmer zones.

Flower is typical of many members of the genus, and they ALL have the little spur in the rear.

For more weird, wild species impatiens, visit the Cistus Nursery website (I’m pretty sure they used to sell this, but I don’t see it listed currently). We got ours from local plantswoman, gardener, and mail-order-addict Elissa Steeves.

Thanks for playing, all!</d

Quiz Plant!

Ooooh, this is a good one.

Factoids:
– Tropical, but doing well in our campus garden (Blacksburg, VA).
– Succulent stems; alternate, lima bean-shaped leaves.
– Rampant scampering.
– Very cute yellow flowers. (Hee hee, that really won’t help.)
– I hesitate to say this, ’cause it may just give it away: a couple of other members of this genus are common as mud.

Guesses, anyone? Or maybe this one’s already common as mud for you Pacific Northwesterners…
(and P-Dub, do refrain until others have had a chance 😉

I’ll post the "D’oh!" flower photo in the morning.

Hellebore and Hosta for scale. There are flowers, just not in this pic.

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