Each Little World

Last lilies

These hot sunny days have been just what the water lilies and garden lilies need. The water lilies will keep going for another month but this is the end of the ones growing in the garden.

This one (first two images below) is Lilium oriental 'Time Out' from Brent & Becky's Bulbs.

The next four images are Lilium henryi or Henry's lily. According to Old House Gardens (where I bought this lily), it is a wild Chinese lily and takes sun to light shade. 

These are reaching for more sun but still fully blooming. I kind of like the curving stems so I may leave them where they are. 

I planted these lilies in memory of my late father-in-law whose name was Henry.  He's also represented in the spring garden with Iris ensata 'Henry's White."

I've looked at my plant I.D. cards and assorted garden journal entries from 2008, which is when I received these beautiful red speckled lilies from Brent & Becky as trial plants. At the time, I marked them in B&B's catalog so I would remember the name. But the catalog, along with the name, is long gone.

The coloration is reminiscent of the famed 'Stargazer' lily, but the flowers are more recurved than the typical Oriental lily. Any guesses?

Traffic island update: Spring 2011

This is my full sun garden that's out in the middle of the street in front of our house. It's what's known locally as a traffic island. But I think of it is an example of a garden that survives in spite of everything: drivers run over it, snowplows scrape off the topsoil along with the snow and the city dumps copious amounts of road salt and sand on it each winter while they attempt to keep the roads clear.

These tulips (from Brent & Becky's Bulbs and Old House Gardens) were planted in 2008, so this is their third season of bloom. They could hardly be happier. If you enter "traffic island" in the search button on the top left of the page, all the posts I've written about this garden will come up. You'll find its entire history along with the names of all the tulips. 

In addition to catmint, Hakonechloa grass and sedums, Oriental lilies from Brent & Becky are also flourishing. The lilies and tulips are doing better in this location than anywhere else in the garden. Part of it is the light, but I think some of it has to do with the bulbs not getting overwatered in summer since I ignore that little garden unless there is an actual drought. Sometimes, ignoring a plant appears the best way to treat it.

Tulips survive on the island

My bright orange tulips made it through another winter and have come up with surprising vigor. The clumps are generally large and healthy and so are the flowers. That's something I did not expect, given the fact that tulips generally wither away with age. And that these particular bulbs are planted in poor soil, breathe auto exhaust 24/7 and get an annual top-dressing of salt, sand and road grit.

 

The city just repainted the traffic lines in time for them to harmonize with the tulips in this island planting and the Poeticus Narcissus, with orange and yellow perinanths, which are planted along the curb — just out of view.

This view shows you that the city has not, however, repainted the borders of the raised island bed itself. Its paint is chipping away in big chunks and strips. And you can also see that I've been rather neglectful of this bed, too. I have not trimmed back the dead sedum flowerheads and I've let the Iris germanica get totally out of hand. It likes this location and would happily take over the entire bed.

 

The tulip bulbs came from Brent and Becky's Bulbs and Old House Gardens and I've also written more about them (complete with close-ups of each variety and IDs) here. It appears as though I have as many bulbs in bloom this year as last — essentially the same number as I planted — making them continuing traffic stoppers! 
  

Go Big Red — dahlia

Scott Kunst conducts “rescue operations” on heirloom bulbs (and corms and tubers) via his company, Old House Gardens. He notes that his bulbs are “rare, endangered, and in need of your help — since the only way to preserve these living artifacts — and their incredible genetic resources — is to grow them!” As a gardener and history buff, this is one appeal that I can never refuse. I like their bulbs so much that you will note OHG is actually one of the categories listed on the left side of my blog.

Scott's most recent paper catalog came in the mail this week, along with the information — printed right on the front of the mailing envelope — that American farmers grow 85 percent of OHG's spring-planted bulbs. Equally important news for gardeners in these tough economic times is the fact that OHG has kept their prices the same as last year and actually lowered the prices on on two dozen offerings. That's a company that deserves support — which is no problem for me, given that I am in love with most of their flowers.

    

 

 

The standout in this latest catalog is a new and rare dahlia offering, "Wisconsin Red."  OHG notes "with dark stems and ruby-red flowers, this family heirloom is SO easy to grow and store that it's been a pass-long plant in Wisconsin since the early 1900s." You can read the complete history of the "Wisconsin Red" dahlia in OHG's on-line catalog, which also has many more dahlias and other offerings than the print version. You can order on-line as well. No Badger garden should be without this plant. I can picture a big bouquet of these beauties adorning tail-gate parties all over the state next Fall. Go Big Red! Go OHG!

    

TOP PHOTO: VICTORIA DIRST/ OHG. BOTTOM: OLD HOUSE GARDENS

Bulbs: Martagon lilies

Among the stars of my June garden are lilies. They’re elegantly graceful, hardy to Zone 3, pest-free and grow in the shade. What more could you want? 

. . . Perhaps a little respect. 

These are martagon lilies: a wonderful plant that continues to remain relatively unknown despite having been cultivated for centuries. John Gerard, author of the famous Elizabethan “Herbal,” mentions them in 1596 in a list of the plants growing in his garden. In Uppsala, Sweden, martagons bloom under ancient trees in the garden of 18th century naturalist Carl Linnaeus, the man who devised the two-word system we still use for naming living things.

Martagons come up early in the garden — mine typically are a good two feet tall by Mother’s Day. Their glossy foliage rises in whorls along the sturdy stems and adds a distinctive shape to the garden while you wait for the flowers. One stem may carry dozens of downward facing “Turk’s Cap”-type flowers which come in a wide range of pinks, mauves, scarlet and wine reds as well as white, yellow and orange. They self-seed and, unlike many lilies that fade away after a few years, martagons will outlive the gardener who plants them — rather a nice thought.

The lagging popularity of martagons is likely due to the small size of their flowers. They simply do not have the kind of large showy blossoms that Trumpet and Aurelian and Oriental hybrids sport nor their intense perfume. Some people claim that martagons have an unpleasant scent but I’ve never particularly noticed it.

What I have noticed is that, though martagon flowers are significantly smaller, they have a subtle sophistication their more dramatic relatives lack. A slight breeze will set them dancing rather than falling over. And they have the advantage of fitting into the larger garden design, unlike the big, flashy hybrids which demand to be noticed to the detriment of the bigger picture. 

Martagon seedpods are just as attractive as the flowers and I always leave mine in place for winter interest. So far, it does not seem to have sapped the plants of any vigor. They’re also good markers so I don’t go digging in the wrong spot when I’m adding bulbs in the fall or mucking around in the spring.

But perhaps the real reason martagons have not achieved the same degree of popularity is not so much because of the demure nature of their flowers but the cost of the bulbs. Look in any catalog that sells martagons and you’ll see the prices are anything but demur. However, if you keep in mind that martagons are long-lived, low maintenance plants then the prices seem a bit more reasonable. 

But frankly, I think you just get hooked on martagons the way we gardeners get hooked on dozens of other plants and then the price sounds fine. I can’t imagine my garden without the red lacquered flowers of L. martagon “Claude Shride” (directly above) or “Mrs. R. O. Backhouse (all other photos),” which Old House Gardens describes as “soft amber-gold touched with pink and dotted with maroon.”  Their description is perfect and so is Mrs. Backhouse, who is quickly outperforming Claude — the result of a bit more sun, better soil and less root competition. 

Parts of this post appeared under my byline in a slightly different form in The Capital Times.

Bulbs: Double Dutch

The showstopper flower in last year's Spring garden is wowing us again this year. I took the plunge in the Fall of 2007 and planted tulips for the first time in years. The all performed well, but the one that captured our hearts was “Schoonoord.” In 1935 Louise Beebee Wilder said it was “an old variety but invaluable.” It’s a flower that I've decided I never want to be without now that I’ve grown it.

The green and yellow striped buds open into lushly double white flowers touched with gold. Anyone who's seen them in a vase thought they were peonies. Since they first began to open, Schoonoord's drawn Mark and I out into the garden day after day in every light and weather to enjoy its changing beauty. Luckily I ordered enough bulbs that I felt free to cut as many as I wanted to bring indoors.

It came back this Spring surprisingly strong. And again, is so fetching that I think I must order more bulbs. Luckily they are currently listed on the fabulous Old House Gardens site. Now the big question is 10 more or 25? You know which way I'm leaning don't you?

Mark took photos of Schoonoord like she was our firstborn! And I kept sending him back to get just one more ...

Scott Kunst of Old House Gardens is such a sweet guy; he put a link to my column about Old House bulbs on his Web site. You can see what I said about some of their other bulbs here.

Traffic island tragedy

Back in October I wrote about my "island garden" — meaning the plants I'm growing in a raised bed in the center of the road in front of my house. It's part of a chain of islands going down my street and the center of many of the streets in my town. They're actually "traffic calming islands" intended to slow down drivers by forcing them to brake to get around this jog in the road.

There's a metal post with a traffic sign in the middle of the bed in case drivers are confused. They don't seem confused on my street, except about the speed. I've had a city crew come out a couple of times to replace the post, the sign and the big hunk of concrete that keeps it upright, after someone has driven into it.

My island garden at the beginning of the first winter, a few years ago. Though it looks small, it's currently filled with a full complement of sun-loving perennials and bulbs. 

But that was in the summer and in the old days when there were only a few plants in my island garden; mostly iris and daylilies and catmint transplanted from elsewhere. In the last year, I've upped the ante with plants that I've actually bought, like Gaillardia 'Oranges and Lemons' and Echinacea 'Orange Meadowbrite.' Plus the 40 prime tulip bulbs — from Old House Gardens and Brent and Becky's Bulbs — that I stuffed in last fall wherever I could find room. I've been dreaming of all that brightness buried under the snow.

Then last week, a driver ran over the sign again. But this time they flattened it, leaving a huge tire track right through two feet of snow piled on the island. I was bummed, thinking of the city crew and the damage they could do to my little garden next spring when they replace the sign. 

Turns out I didn't have to wait 'til spring. They replaced the sign yesterday. 

I looked out the kitchen window in time to see a lone city employee hacking away in the snow. He was down to the dirt by the time I saw him; an assortment of tools spread out and the sign at the ready. I thought about going out and giving him a piece of my mind — or the flat side of a spade. 

If it had been spring or summer, when I could have quickly lifted bulbs and plants, a rescue mission would have made sense. But not in January. I know he was only doing his job and on a freezing day, no less. My job, alas, was to let him get on with his. 

Is it the end of my dreams about red and orange and yellow tulips making a splash come spring? Did he actually dig up dirt or just shove a new sign into the old cement?  Give me a couple of months and I'll have the definitive answer.

I realize I could just as easily have lost all the bulbs to four-footed pests, but they've actually left this little garden alone since it's inception. It's the drivers — the two-footed pests — who are my nemesis. And it's clear now that there is no season when they go to ground. My garden is at their mercy winter or summer. 

The late winter snow scene: hard, crusty, dirty and piled at least shoulder high at the end of driveways. Those white blobs further down the street are more snow-covered traffic islands. 

My island garden

I can just imagine what you were picturing when you saw the words “island garden.” Alas, for me, you’re wrong. Not only is my island located in the decidedly non-tropical state of Wisconsin, it’s right in front of my house out in the middle of the street. In the parlance of our town, it’s what’s called a “traffic-calming island.” Not an ideal location, nevertheless, it’s free garden space — in a spot that gets more direct sunlight than anywhere on my own property.

Gaillardia 'Oranges and Lemons' (above) continues to bloom in late October. 

The idea is that these raised garden beds, running like a dotted line down the center of neighborhood streets, force cars to jog to the side thus keeping drivers alert while slowing them down. Before the traffic islands went in, my street was pretty much a speedway — a hilly but straight stretch of pavement with no stop signs for a mile. Most drivers have accepted the lowered speed limit as well as the physical changes to the roadway. That seems to be the case with drivers in other neighborhoods as well, judging by the gardeners I’ve talked to around town who tend their own island gardens. 

Alas, there's still a handful of hardcore speeders who travel down my street who have not accepted the changes or don't see them in the dark until it's too late to stop. As a result they now hit the sign in the middle of the island (which barely slows them down) or they bounce off the island's curb and crash into the 160-year-old Bur Oak tree at the end of my driveway, which is a marginally more effective deterrent.

Lilium 'Time Out' from Brent and Becky's Bulbs (above).

Tending this garden is sometimes more along the lines of a sociological study than gardening. As I’m out there on my little mound of dirt and concrete I watch to see which drivers will slow down for this highway worker; and it’s not always the ones you would expect who make eye contact, nod or wave. Some even roll down the car window to offer compliments.

One of the positive side effects of working in the middle of the road is that it also makes drivers realize these island gardens are — for the most part — planted and maintained by citizens. They’re a variation on community gardens. And interestingly enough, neither pedestrians, bikers or drivers have so much as picked a flower from my island garden; not even the flashy lilies. The flowers are left for the community and the commuters to enjoy.

Look closely and you can see how narrow this island is with roadway on both sides of it. My own garden begins at the street curb and slopes upward. There are no sidewalks on this street.

Last week I stuffed 40 tulip bulbs into the crowded bed: ten each of Orange Princess, Orange Favorite,  Prinses Irene and Sensual Touch (from Old House Gardens and Brent and Becky's Bulbs). They’re all orangey reds so, come Spring, they’ll act as mini caution-lights while complementing the bright yellow traffic paint that edges the island. They’ll glow so brightly I won’t even notice the periodic beer can or fast food wrapper that winds up in the foliage. 

Alas they’ll only be visible in the daylight which won’t help the night-blind speeders. I need to find glow-in-the-dark tulips — something, anything — that will spare my island garden and my historic tree any more bumps in the night.   

Among other things, my island garden contains catmint (Nepeta), old varieties of German and Siberian irises, daylilies (Hemerocallis 'Stella de Oro' and 'Little Grapette'), Japanese forest grass (Hakonechloa aureola), Sedum hybrida 'Matrona' and a falling down Echinacea 'Sundown.' The yellow traffic paint on the lily stem gives you an idea of how hardy these island plants need to be. And the passing car shows how hardy the gardener needs to be!

For more about "traffic calming" island gardens, read my Artful Living column in The Capital Times.

Cataloging plants: Part I

My bulb order from Old House Gardens arrived at the end of last week just as OHG promised via their e-mail notification. And Brent and Becky’s shipment should arrive today. I’ve been ready for them for weeks. Oh, not the beds where I’m going to tuck in the bulbs; those are still full of fall-blooming plants in their glory. No, what’s ready are the id cards I make for each plant.

Stop laughing — it’s not as crazy as it sounds! I’ve given up on plant tags in the garden. They disappear, fade, break and disturb the natural look of things. Of course, if your garden is on lots of tours, then having plants marked with their name is a benefit to folks passing through. But for most of us, visitors are usually other gardening friends who will recognize most things. When a question comes up about one of the plants in my garden, if I can’t remember the name or requested information on the spot, I turn to my personal catalog. My card catalog, that is.

When my husband and I began out first garden almost twenty years ago, I began to make a 3x5-inch index card for each plant. I copied information from tags, catalogs or books onto the card, along with where and when I bought the plant, the cost and where I planted it (or planned to plant it) in the garden. I added photos cut from the catalogs if I was concerned about distinguishing between similar plants. While it took a few minutes to write everything out, it reminded me of the things I needed to consider as I did my planting — namely the ultimate size and cultural requirements of each item.

Now it’s become a habit. When I order online in the winter, I sit by the fire and make out my cards. In summer, I sit on the deck with a pile of blank index cards and a box of just-purchased plants on the table in front of me enjoying this stage of gardening as much as any other. My rule is nothing goes in the ground until there’s a card in the catalog.

The cards are literally stored in an old oak library cabinet that once held the cards for books — before libraries put their catalogs online. My cards are categorized and alphabetized making information easy to retrieve. At the moment, they fill one drawer while the remaining drawers have other treasures from the garden: feathers, birds’ nests and eggs, pods and seeds.

It’s a system ideally suited to anyone — like me — who makes lists and uses fountain pens. If that’s not your style but the computer isn’t either, I’ll have some suggestions that might suit you tomorrow.

Photos from top: bulbs from OHG; index cards with information on plants in my garden; my card files and card catalog.

Doughnuts and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

When I was young, the scariest part of Halloween was being out after dark with all the sounds of night magnified. Halloween was the rustle of leaves in the trees as they were caught by a sudden gust of wind, the clack of a screen door that wasn't latched, the bark of a dog in the distance.

Even as an adult I always feel like Ichabod Crane when I'm out after dark in October. Fearful the headless horseman may come galloping 'round the next corner, I strain to hear his hoofbeats behind the crunch of dry leaves.

Can you tell that I love Washington Irving's ``The Legend of Sleepy Hollow'' and own multiple copies? My favorite version is a tall narrow volume filled with evocative pastel drawings by Iowa native Gary Kelley. He's the first illustrator who's made Ichabod Crane look human instead of like a cartoon.

Kelley's images feel like home. His lush fields at harvest time could be located along the Mississippi just as easily as along the Hudson River. And the groaning tables full of hearty dishes could have been prepared by the German hausfraus of Wisconsin as easily as by the Dutch wives of New Amsterdam. This classic ghost story should be required October reading — not for the scary stuff but for the food.

In the midst of his tall tale, Irving stops the action with a scene that celebrates ``a genuine Dutch country tea-table in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives!"

``There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling crueller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy.''

Reading “Sleepy Hollow” always reminds me of when I was a kid and Halloween was a time for homemade treats as well as candy. I remember getting homemade popcorn balls at one house. At another we'd crowd inside the back hall by the kitchen door as fresh, hot doughnuts were handed round a la Irving’s Dutch wives.

The book is also a reminder that doughnuts are not a new invention, having come to this country with the Dutch in the 17th century. And in these days of economic and other uncertainties, it’s also worth remembering the motto that adorned the once ubiquitous Mayflower coffee and doughnut shops:

Parts of this post previously appeared under my byline in The Capital Times. Doughnut dunker from Gasoline Alley Antiques.