It is really a very simple step.  Just keep a 10% bleach solution or some isopropyl alcohol in a handy jar or spray bottle wherever the tools are stored.  Spray, dip or wipe the cutting surfaces to avoid contaminating a healthy plant with pruners that were used on an infected plant.

 How often should cutting tools be sterilized?  Ideally, after pruning every plant and before moving on to the next one.  Remember that sometimes a plant can be infected before showing any symptoms.  Even if you think it is healthy, it may be harboring bacteria or viruses that your pruners can pick up and spread.

 Really?  After every plant?  If that sounds like too much sterilizing, try adopting the following sanitation schedule.

• Sterilize the cutting tools that were used at the end of the day.
• Sterilize any cutting tool right after it is used on any plant you think might be infected
• Sterilize cutting tools between plants such as roses that are highly susceptible to various contagious diseases.
• Sterilize cutting tools before pruning any valuable plant in your landscape. 

We only have two hands and I know that carrying around a bottle of diluted bleach is a pain when you are out in the garden.  But consider the potential damage of transmitting a mosaic virus from one of your dahlias to all of your prized dahlias.  Or the ramifications of spreading a rose fungus from one shrub to the entire rose garden.  Here is a picture of wisteria infected with bacterial crown gall.  It likely had this disease long before showing any symptoms.  All of our wisteria vines are pruned in the late winter each year.  And you guessed it, they all now have crown gall and need to be removed along with their infected soils. 

 There are plenty of ways our plants can catch diseases.  Let’s do our best to make sure we’re not one of them.

But is pruning easier said than done?  Based on copious scene-of-the-crime evidence suffered by the hacked shrubs and whacked trees I see in our forest city, the answer must be “apparently so!”  True, true, but still a snob’s response.   Any of us can effectively prune well.  If we take the time to learn a few horticultural concepts, basic pruning becomes a pleasant exercise and beneficial service to our shrubs and trees, and easy enough to make a good job of it on the first try.

Certainly pruning has some subtleties, and every plant wants a unique, custom haircut. So, I simplify.  Every time I prune, I consider my four prescriptions: seasonal timing; specific plant habit; desired product; proper cutting technique.  These four prescriptions ensure that I think about all aspects of the job, and give the plant in front of me “its” cut.  Let’s go through the four prescriptions one-by-one.

One: seasonal timing.   A deciduous woody plant remains alive during the winter by slowing its metabolism to a near stop.  But in a few weeks, warmth and lengthening daylight will end dormancy and trigger fresh growth.   And this moment just before the end of dormancy is when we prune.  Why?  Wounds are open to disease and insects for only a short while before active growth begins healing them.  The plant has the entire growing season to respond to its haircut, set new wood, and look natural again by summer’s end.

Two: specific plant habit.  This prescription can usefully modify seasonal timing.  Some plants (maples, magnolias, birches) are “bleeders,” and will leak sap from pruning cuts for a couple of months in the spring.  This plant habit is the foundation of the maple syrup trade.  Bleeding reportedly does the plant no harm, but it doesn’t help (!), and it is also unsightly.  Instead, opt to prune these plants in late June.   They won’t bleed, and will still have enough of the growing season left to heal their wounds.

Other woody plants, especially our flowering shrubs, have the habit of blooming on “old” wood.  That’s wood that was grown as twigs the summer before.  If we prune these plants in late winter, we cut off all the year’s flower buds.  So, its best practice to prune old wood flowering shrubs just after spring’s bloom fades.  Then, they’ll grow new twigs, set abundant flower buds, and blossom vibrantly next spring.  A great example of this are the evergreen azaleas, which  can be sheared after blooming to within an inch of their lives, and flower like crazy again next spring.

Three: desired product. Why do we prune?  Are we growing a fruit tree or a topiary shrub?  Do we want a formal row of shrubbery, or do we just want to keep the lilacs off of the house?  So, we think about what we want the plant to be, but also think about what the plant will accept from us.  This prescription makes sure our pruning intentions don’t contradict seasonal timing and plant habit.  And taken together, the first three prescriptions build a f foundation for pruning with purpose rather than reckless abandon (as fun as that can be). 

Four: proper cutting technique.  This prescription is important because it recognizes how woody branches heal wounds, and guides us to make cuts that encourage quick recovery.  In brief,

• When removing a side branch, never remove any bark or wood that is part of the main branch or trunk
• Always cut at an angle that is “backwards-in-the-mirror” from the warty branch collar scar growing at the branch base
• And when cutting a twig, try to cut just above a side bud, and at the same slant as the bud
• Finally, use sharp tools, and make cuts that are clean, not ragged

These mechanics are also clearly depicted in the accompanying photos, and the technique can be kept as simple as that. 

I recommend a good pruning book to accompany the four prescriptions.  Find a book with numerous pictures, and a big species-by-species how-to list for the particular habits of our various woody plants.

Of course rules are made to be broken, and evergreens sometimes follow some slightly different protocols. More about pruning in the future, for sure. Otherwise, I think we’re ready to soak up some March sun, and give our yard its annual haircut.

And my own haircut?  Er, I can put that off until April, at least. 

P.S.: If you are interested in the biology behind proper cutting technique, find a book by Alex Shigo (he’s got a few, and they’re mostly interchangeable), or ask me, and I’ll blog about it.

Posted by Mark Bir

The upshot of this is that people are sometimes disappointed and even surprised by what does or doesn’t emanate from a gorgeous orchid blossom. "Catnip" and "socks" might be the verdict when someone gets a whiff of certain Oncidiums. "Nothing" might be the baffled response after a deep sniff at a stunning purple Phalaenopsis.

There is certainly no reason to stop sniffing, however. A vast number of orchids still exude the sweet, spicy fragrances that people can’t get enough of.

Cattleya, Rhyncostylis, Zygopetalum, many of the Oncidium genus, certain Cymbidiums and Miltassias - the names sound like something out of Roman military history, but the aromas are as fresh and delightful as a stroll through the Garden of Eden.

Funny footnote: If you look into the center of almost any orchid flower, you will see a small light-colored structure called the column. The column always looks to me like a human nose! It’s a silly coincidence, but it makes me laugh whenever I notice it.

I listen to all the gripes and assure my plants that no slight was intended. I couldn’t have survived the winter without the maiden grass seed heads waving at me each morning. Since November the redbud seedpods have been whispering words of encouragement to me when there is a breeze. I promise them all that I won’t get too excited over the witch hazel blooms and assure them that their persistence has helped me endure the winter months.

The truth is, I need each and every one of them. I take for granted that plants oxygenate, humidify and purify my air. But I’ll never underestimate their ability to inspire and engage me. Especially those that are so persistent in the winter. 

It is snowing again and winter drags on.  Yes, the days are growing longer, but –   Yes, the calendar promises spring soon, but—   —I am staring into the flat, gray panel of this day and see only dreary doubt.  More than warmth, more than sun rays, I am wanting for color.

Leafless and bright in contrast to grim sky, the Woodland Garden sycamore tree is wearing a Josephs’ coat for winter.  Its patchy bark is broken into individual flakes in satiny shades of olive, milky chartreuse, cinnamon, and pale ochre.  But the Garden specimen lacks the chalky white patches usual to our local sycamore (Platanus occidentalis) which suggests to me that it might be a plane tree, itself a hybrid of local sycamore and Asian sycamore (Platanus orientalis).  I will know more when it leafs out, and remember to post the answer here.

Extant since at least the 1800s, the plane tree is a salt- and soil-tolerant plant that thrives on the grit of city living, and proves it with a century of success beautifying the streets of Paris, London, and New York.  It is one of those trees that is ubiquitous in the image and experience of city life, and has been woven into the background cloth of our urban consciousness.  Severe and continual pruning is tolerated to the extent that the plane tree is widely trained into street-side topiary: witness the row of them flanking The Terrace; witness the double row reflecting in the Art Museum lagoon.

The native sycamore is a denizen of Ohio’s river bottoms, where life favors those who can outgrow the dangers of flood and ice.  Often clinging to collapsing mud banks, sycamores rocket up to the sliver of sky above the water, attain great height early, and save commensurate girth for later in life.   They are prolific seeders, and employ wind and water to spread their future.  Older survivors thicken and roughen and boast gashes like trophies in their trunks from annual warfare with river ice and the spring thaw.  And, if we don’t have one living on our ten acres, there are a few chalky-white native sycamores growing along M.L.K. Boulevard.

More color at the far end of the C.K. Patrick Walk.   An Asian spicebush (Lindera orientalis) there hangs bright, strappy leaves like feathers made of hammered copper.   The spicebush is dormant and deciduous, yet its leaves persist.  The leaves are dead but for the twig-end of their stems.  Their separation (due to abscission, a hormone-regulated, compartmentalized cell death and subsequent tissue separation) was halted last autumn and will be completed this spring, and there’s a 25-cent word for it: marcescence.  It is also common with many of our oaks (see them around Gateway) and young beech trees. If marcescence is considered a juvenile trait, I’ve met many mature oaks that would argue about that. With Asian spicebush it is complete and quite formal, for no leaves will drop until buds begin to swell.

More color.  Nearby, tucked in the Rose Garden border, grows a mass of evergreen azaleas.  The slender, hairy-like-a-fly leaves vary in color from earthy green to rust.  This variety, ‘Cascade,’  is necessarily a hybrid of Japanese azaleas, since all of North America’s are deciduous.  It has white flowers in spring, and golden leaves in autumn.  Curiously to me, white blooming evergreen azaleas have golden autumn foliage, and red-blooming have ruddy or bloody autumn foliage.  Evergreen azaleas are actually partially deciduous, and will lose less or more of their leaves from year to year, depending on each winter’s severity.

More color.   Still in the Rose Garden, the glossy evergreen leaves on a holly bush attract my attention.   In this light, they absolutely glow.   Holly is a tribe of (mostly) evergreen plants that inhabit North America, Europe and parts of Asia.   This one is an inkberry (Ilex glabra), and aptly bears black berries each autumn.  Like all hollies, plants are male or female, and both are needed to set fruit.  This Eastern U.S. native makes an interesting garden alternative in those places where you might usually plant a bay.   Prettiest in winter, inkberry is slow growing, soil tolerant and generally well-behaved.

The plant world exhibits a continuum of leaf habit from fully evergreen to fully deciduous.  Each variation is a particular tactic to a shared problem; water availability.    To plants it makes little matter if it is Cleveland’s winter drought, or Madagascar’s desert drought: to survive, they must lose leaves or waterproof leaves, or a little of both.

And to my delight, in battleship gray Cleveland, they do so in color.

Posted by Mark Bir
 
 

Ever since I got a digital camera I’ve been collecting and hoarding orchid images like a magpie, a packrat, a squirrel saving acorns. All through the year I can call them up on screen and revel in the colors, the textures, the marvelous variety of forms. And yes, sometimes even the memory of a luxurious scent will seem to float off the screen.

The anticipation of these things really does enliven the bleak February days. As if that weren’t enough, this year there is even more incentive to bring a camera along to see Orchid Mania 2010. Check out the Garden’s Orchid Mania Photography Contest, as well as the Cleveland Botanical Garden Photography Club, both new this year. And even after the show is over, look forward to a year’s worth of beautiful screensavers!

A Woman of Flowers

In the 19^th and early 20^th century, many female botanical artists devoted their creative talents to faithful and artistic reproductions of plants and flowers. One of the finest examples was Floral Belles From The Green-House And Garden, Painted From Nature by Clarissa Badger. This embossed parlor book (note from Renata: How cool is the inside cover of this book?!) was published in 1867 and features 16 exquisite hand-colored lithographed plates accompanied by poetry. As described by horticultural writer Jack Kramer in his book Women Of Flowers the plates are valued for their complex colors and exceptional shading. These hand-colored plates were executed in an era when chromolithography was fast replacing hand coloring, making these plates all the more valuable. Clarissa Badger’s work is considered a milestone in American botanical art of the period. The Eleanor Squire Library has two copies of Floral Belles in very good condition. The colors have maintained their richness and deep shading. Our Rare Book collection features nearly one thousand titles and can be accessed through the online catalog on the library page of the Garden website. Although the rare books cannot leave the library, appointments can be made for research and viewing by calling Librarian Gary Esmonde at 216-707-2812.

Some trees need very little help to grow tall, straight and well-balanced. Others benefit from a little shaping. This weeping redbud needs a lot of “untangling” each winter with the help of my recently sharpened pruners.

I enjoy a good gnarly tree. Especially this time of year when the naked branching structure is fully exposed. The sculpted twists and turns don’t necessarily happen by accident. Pruning trees is an art, especially when dealing with the gnarly, twisting and weeping tree varieties.

Late winter is a great time to prune trees. By removing the end growth of a branch, you are forcing the side buds to take over. Redirecting growth is that simple.

It certainly helps to start with a young tree. There is usually enough growth from the previous season that there is no need to bend, wire or force branches to grow in a certain direction. Instead, simply encourage the new growth that you like and remove the rest. With a little vision, you can determine which branches will grow to become the beefy arms of the sculpture. Selectively thin out competing branches and make cuts each year to flex those arms in a manner that you find appealing.

When dealing with a tree that just wants to weep, consider allowing a few new shoots to grow upwards so that you can fold these twigs back over the tree to create a layering effect to the branching. Art is subjective. But the nice thing about this art form is that it is also alive. You can revisit your artwork every winter and change or improve upon it as you see fit.

Posted by Bob Rensel

Twigs shimmer and glint like daggers flashing with flames. But it is really cold out this morning, somewhere around 10 F. With each of my steps, the snow squeaks underfoot. The air is dry as sandpaper and scrapes across my lips as I inhale.  Today is a contradiction in fire and ice.

“Crunch, crunch,” say my steps.  I pretend I’m not freezing, because the long dark is over and it’s a great day to prowl The Garden.

Our rhododendrons (Rhododendron cvs.) in The Japanese Garden look especially cold.  The leaves have pointed their tips toward the ground, and tightly curled themselves into green cigars. They’re huddling against the cold, in an effort to minimize evaporative water loss to the desiccated air.  When it warms up, the leaves will un-curl and stand up again.  They accomplish this directionless, or nastic, movement by draining and filling specialized elastic, temperature-sensitive motor cells, which pull the leaves along with them as they change shape.

Contrast nastic movement with tropic plant movements, where plants respond to stimuli by moving toward or away from their particular nudge.  Phototropism (light), gravitropism (gravity), thigmotropism (touch), and geotropism (earth) move leaves, stems and roots the directions they need to go. Their mechanisms are diverse, often complicated, and always fascinating; I’d like to promise more of this in a later blog. So, let’s not even mention animal and wind mediated movements, which make plants world travelers.

The little grove of hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) just across the brook seems more obviously content with the cold.  Like the rhododendrons they are evergreen plants, but they employ another winter survival strategy.  First, their leaves are very tiny to limit surface area, and thus evaporative loss.  Second, their leaves are coated with a thick, resinous cuticle, which waterproofs just like the paraffin painted on our grocery-store rutabagas lately. Third, hemlock leaves have no pores on their upper surfaces, and only two rows on their undersides, those being nestled up against the mid-veins.

Fifty paces away, in the shade of the Woodland Garden hillside, a non-woody evergreen hides in the snow, the Christmas fern (Polystichum acrostichoides).  I brush away some frost crystals, and there they are, clad in olive drab, waiting for April. They’re common in Ohio woods, and on days like this appear cheery and gay, climbing our ravines in little green armies.

With the frozen earth preventing water uptake, it is impossible for Christmas ferns to photosynthesize today.  So they wait, green and ready.  Plants that keep their leaves through the winter use a couple techniques to prevent living cells from freezing and bursting.  They move intracellular water just outside of their cells walls, where it safely freezes. This simultaneously concentrates the dissolved carbohydrate inside the cell, which then acts as antifreeze.  Green-in-winter plants also employ antifreeze proteins that bind water molecules and prevent them from crystallizing.

I make an about-face, toward the big tulip tree (Liriodendron tulipifera) growing in the Woodland Garden.  Seventy-five feet above me its top branches bend and angle and stay substantial out to their twig-tips.  They are bearing erect seed clusters that glow orange in the light, and look like hundreds of sky candles burning to warm the frozen sun.  The individual seeds are spindled around central pins, and are upright and clasping like folded umbrellas.  The seeds not eaten by fox squirrels will break free one-by-one and flutter away on little wings.  All will be down by spring, leaving just the pins on the branches.

Fighting by not fighting, the tulip threw its leaves to the ground and drained its sap to the roots last autumn.  It stands today, visibly dormant and indifferent to winter…but not quite.  The mitten-shaped buds hold some living cells, quiet but alive, that wait beneath the protection of woody scales.  Come spring, they will burn stored starches pumped from below, grow out of their cocoons, and become summer’s leaves.

Fire and ice in the Gardens.  So beautiful, but I’m goin’ inside now—“crunch, crunch”–man, its cold out here.

Posted by Mark Bir

When you visit, you’ll notice that our garden display is quite different for the other landscapers’ gardens. We chose to showcase orchids and tillandsias on one side to make visitors aware of our upcoming Orchid Mania show, Feb 27-Mar 28. The opposite side of our garden was created by Shoko Morton, an expert in the Sogetsu School of Ikebana Japanese flower arranging. Our exhibits are unlike any other you will see at the IX Center! We hope that you will visit and enjoy our floral artwork!