Roses and June go together. Some of our lovely roses begin to bloom in late May, and many linger through summer, teasing with a stray flower now and then. September offers a sweet echo when a number of them rouse themselves into a last chorus before frost. A few really hardy roses can be seen blooming into October and November.

 

One of the pleasures of a perennial garden is definitely the anticipation of seeing favorite blooms and vignettes re-appear year after year. The scene is the same, but always with a difference. Some plants thrive, getting fuller and more beautiful every year. Others are meant to dwindle away, to eventually be replaced by something new and just as lovely. The rather short blooming period of many perennials adds to the charm of a garden that is always in flux, always on the cusp of another transition.

This is the Garden’s CK Patrick perennial border, composed of herbaceous perennials and medium-sized shrubs. All combine to create harmonies of color and texture with foliage as well as flowers. This is one of my favorite moments in this garden, when the 7-foot foxtail lilies frame a cottage-pretty view of ‘Carefree Delight’ roses, pale yellow foxgloves, ‘Bee’s Ruby’ thrift and a dozen other pink, yellow and lavender beauties.

One thing that fascinates me about the human relationship with plants is our nearly universal love for flowers. From a strictly biological perspective, the attraction doesn’t make immediate sense. The love of flowers seems to speak of spirituality and creativity unrelated to any daily survival concerns. I’m definitely not prepared to dissect this, or veer into philosophy. But don’t you think it’s interesting that we are so compelled by something we don’t usually eat, wear or cure illness with? (Edible flowers are a special topic that I hope to feature in a later blog. Medicinal ones are important of course, but it’s often the bark, leaves and roots that concern us, not the flowers.)

Throughout history, people have assigned plants (flowers in particular) all sorts of symbolic meanings, which are often quite unrelated to their usefulness. In a recent installment of the Garden’s monthly “Twelve on Tuesdays” program for seniors, we offered drop-in visitors the chance to put together miniature bouquets of beauty and meaning.

Using a reprint of a charming little Victorian-era book called The Language of Flowers as our guide to the “secret code” of flower meanings, we used zinnias (thoughts of absent friends), balm (sympathy), chamomile (energy in adversity) and sweet basil (best wishes) to compose a nosegay to give to someone ill or convalescing. Another combination was: honeysuckle (sweet disposition), coreopsis (always cheerful), ivy (friendship, fidelity) and fern (sincerity) to express appreciation to a constant friend.

This was actually quite fun, and it was interesting to speculate on how particular flowers got their significance. I’ll be composing my bouquets with a whole new dimension from now on!

Posted by Ann McCulloh

Dianthus gratianopolitanus ‘Feuerhexe’ (Firewitch Cheddar Pink)

The German cultivar name of this long blooming perennial translates as “Firewitch.” I’m assuming the name is a tribute to its enchanting qualities and the blazing pink of its tiny frilled petals. The plants in the genus Dianthus are generally referred to as “pinks,” although they do bloom in many shades from ruby red to white. The name is actually derived from the old German word for Pentecost, which occurs about the same time the plants bloom in spring. "Cheddar" refers to the area in England where the plant (and the cheese) originated. As a group, they tend to be good plants for rock gardens and sandy well-drained sites in full sun. This particular variety keeps its fire under control with striking silvery blue foliage. Only 12 inches high, it can spread to form a tidy mound that may remain evergreen in mild winters. It was chosen as 2006 Perennial Plant of the Year by the Perennial Plant Association, which is also the source for much of my information about the plant. It is said to be resistant to browsing by deer as well. Although these are all stellar qualities in a garden flower, the thing that transports this plant to the realm of magic for me is its spicy, compelling scent of cloves. You’ll find it planted near the path as you walk through the Flower Show theme gardens at the northeast end of the the Garden.

Posted by Ann McCulloh

 “The best thing one can do when it’s raining is let it rain.”  

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, American poet, 1807-1882

Rain is one of the great blessings of the Northeast Ohio region. This May we have enjoyed almost 2” more of it than last year! While much of the country (and the world) experiences chronic droughts that cause dire economic consequences, this area is sitting pretty, with fresh water to spare. It may be hard to appreciate this when roads are flooded and homes are damaged and destroyed. It’s important to keep in mind that many of these problems are the result of human activities like levelling and paving for development. Fortunately, people can be just as ingenious in solving problems as in creating them! And as usual, good design solutions for environmental problems often result when they are modelled on and work with natural systems.

A small-scale but very effective way to reduce flooding from runoff and over-burdened storm sewers is to create a rain garden on your property. There are a number of great resources online for siting, designing and planting a rain garden. Here at the Garden, we are simply trying out some flood-tolerant plants in a chronically wet spot in the Island Garden. We hope that the Monarda, Comfrey, Irises and so on will help take up some of the excess moisture, increase it’s percolation into the ground, and look good doing it!

Posted by Ann McCulloh

Whew! The season is getting away from us. The first spring flowers were delayed by somewhat cooler than normal early spring weather. Everything has made up for lost time in the last two weeks. It was hard to know where to point the camera for a while. This year I think there was a lot of overlap of early- and mid-spring blooming species. The large-flowered white trillium were right on schedule, however. They are just past their peak, but still gleaming in many corners of the Woodland Garden ravine. They were named Ohio’s official state wildflower in 1988, because they are found in all 88 counties.

The Garden is participating in a nationwide study called Project Budburst, which collects information on flower and leaf emergence dates all around the country. It’s a “citizen science” project, which means all kinds of people, especially school biology classes, are encouraged to record and contribute data for the study. The data will be useful in studying the impact of climate change on plant life.

Pictured above: Large-flowered trillium (Trillium grandiflorum)

Posted by Ann McCulloh

Like most people, I look forward to warm weather for a thousand reasons. One of the many anticipated spring pleasures is sun-dried laundry, with its uniquely clean scent. It’s absolutely un-replicated by any fragrance or homecare product with “linen” in the name. And the thought that I’m sparing a few more grams of coal or natural gas gives me a clean, pure feeling on the inside, too.

Another occasion of springtime bliss is the ever-changing, often fleeting parade of woodland wildflower blooms. Referrred to as “spring ephemerals,” they mostly live up to their reputation. These flowers emerge from the leaf litter in deciduous woodlands, astonish us with their delicacy and variety of form, then wilt and subside within the space of a week or two. The trees leaf out, the forest darkens and the display is done untill next year. Fortunately, there’s a bit of succession, with (for instance) bloodroot and hepatica appearing earlier than others.

Dutchman’s breeches (Dicentra cucullaria) is one of those spring ephemerals, and rarer than some. There is only one place in the Garden where it seems to thrive, and that’s in the Woodland Garden near the giant Medusa’s head sculpture. Greek mythology and sparkling clean pantaloons – a funny but charming combination. The plant is native to North American woodlands, in the same family as the various bleeding-hearts. It’s blooming now and will probably continue until mid-May.

Some neighborhoods frown on homely displays of washing on the line, but we find it perfectly acceptable here in the Woodland ravine!

Posted by Ann McCulloh

This week has been heavenly. Everywhere you look, fragrant clouds of magnolia and cherry blossom are arranged against the bluest sky, with carpets of porcelain-cupped daffodils underneath. The Garden has a dozen different varieties of magnolia. We would plant even more, but around here, a perfect magnolia spring only comes along once every four or five years, if that. The blossoms of the Yulan magnolia (Magnolia denudata) pictured here are too often spoiled by frost.

Naturally, the contrarian in me seeks a counterpoint to all the prettiness. Call it a yearning for balance and moderation. Down in the streamside muck, literally, resides one of the strangest little plants around. The appearance alone is fascinating and a bit repellant to some. The unforgettable odor gives the plant its common name: Eastern Skunk Cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus). It’s a member of the Aroid family, which includes Jack-in-the Pulpit, Calla lily and the champion of all smelly plants, the Titan arum, or Corpse flower.

 

Skunk cabbage has been blooming (yes, there’s a flower under that hood), since March. It has the property of actually heating up enough to melt snow. The air around a blooming skunk cabbage can be 25 or 30 degrees warmer than the ambient temperature. This also helps to broadcast its pungent, animal scent to the insects which crowd in to pollinate it and warm themselves inside its shelter.

Another of this plant’s odd attributes is the ability to contract its roots, pulling it deeper into the mud. Over the years, the roots become extremely deep, protecting it from being washed out of its streamside habitat in flood season.

The plant causes painful burning of the mouth and throat when any part is chewed. Like many plants that are poisonous when consumed incautiously, it has been used medicinally and as a magic talisman. Like the rich mud where it grows, there’s more to Skunk Cabbage than meets the eye.

Posted by Ann McCulloh

The idea of a giant man-eating flytrap like "Audrey" in the Little Shop of Horrors is a hilarious joke, but the truth is, some plants are scarier than they look.  Garlic Mustard (Alliaria petiolata) isn’t poisonous to humans, and it doesn’t have thorns, but it has the power to seriously disrupt ecosystems and even to destroy other species of plants and animals.

Garlic mustard is an invasive alien plant. Invasive plants are those especially well-equipped to compete with and crowd out native plants. Like many other invasives, garlic mustard produces huge amounts of seed.  It leafs out earlier in the spring, shading out the fragile native wildflowers.  It also produces a chemical that retards the growth of other plants.

The destructive qualities of garlic mustard aren’t limited to the plant kingdom.  Garlic mustard is similar enough to some native wildflowers, the toothworts, that a rare butterfly is fooled into laying its eggs on the garlic mustard.

The West Virginia White butterfly is the unfortunate victim of garlic mustard.  When the caterpillars emerge, they feed on the garlic mustard leaves, which prevents them from thriving. Between crowding out the toothwort and poisoning the caterpillars, garlic mustard has significantly reduced the numbers of West Virginia White butterflies.

At the Garden, we no longer acquire known invasive plants for permanent planting.  We are gradually removing invasive plants and replacing them with less aggressive species. 

Posted by Ann McCulloh

It’s a pretty phrase, and it conveys the dreamy quality of 4,000 tiny crocus scattered over the turf in the Campsey-Stauffer Gateway Garden. Snow crocus (Crocus tommasinianus) are an extra-small, delicate and early species of this hardy little bulb. “Tommies” are a good choice for planting in large quantities for this effect, because they are less appealing to squirrels than some of the other crocus species. In the photo below, they accent “Sprouting Seeds” by sculptor Troy Corliss, a gift to the Garden from the late Lauretta M. Dennis, D.V. M.

These lawn crocus were planted in the fall right after the gardeners had used a core aerator to punch thousands of little holes in the turf. (Core aeration is one of the best things you can do to maintain the quality of a lawn). Several patient volunteers  dropped the bulbs in, usually one per hole, and covered them by replacing the little cylinder of sod punched out by the aerator. It was a very laborious process, but well worth it! 

It’s best to delay mowing for several weeks after the flowers fade to give the threadlike leaves a chance to feed the bulbs for next year. They blend in with the turf and can be mowed right along with it.

Posted by Ann McCulloh