Resilent and Resolute

03/18/2025

As a not-so-fortunate example of the highs and lows of gardening in Kansas, ProfessorRoush will live up to his blogging pseudonym and use the visual effects of this week's weather weirdness on his mature and long-suffering Magnolia stellata as an apt illustration for the enlightment of others.  The reader, likely safely within their own cocoon of warmth and shelter, can receive this blog entry as a message of hope, a cry for help, a non-silent protest of suffering, or as a combination of all three. 

Let's recap, shall we?   The photo above, taken on the evening of 3/18/2025, showed my beautiful Star Magnolia on its first day of full display in 2025, resplendent after a 76ºF day and several previous warm days.  The temperature that evening began to drop around 5 p.m., was still 68º at 10 p.m., and the drop continued overnight and through the next day, supplemented by a cold wind and snow flurries.   By 5:30 p.m. on 3/19/2025, it was 36ºF and my back yard looked like this (the Magnolia is behind the prominent tree on the left):

03/20/2025

By the evening of 3/20/2025, my lovely M. stellata had, indeed and as predicted, turned to brown mush, a muted tableau in the grand view, and a disastrous display of ruined blossoms in the closer view.  Oh, the despair!  Oh, the horror!

Stunning, isn't it, how quickly the fickle fingers of weather can crush the vision and hopes of a gardener, literally freezing out any designs and dreams of a glorious future?  One, indeed, could not blame a gardener who, after such a disappointment, hangs down their head and hangs up their shears.  Nor condemn one who chooses the extreme alternative of a graveled lawn and plastic plants for its low maintenance and absence of heartache.   It would be so easy to withdraw indoors away from such devastation and choose to gluttonously eat an entire chocolate cake or to drink oneself into an uncaring stupor in the aftermath.

The experienced Kansas gardener, and, lo, nearly all Midwestern gardeners, however, are made of sterner stuff, battle-worn and weary, tested but yet undefeated.  Even among the browned petals of lost flowers, one can find hope in the still-closed buds and demure cream-pink hints of beauty-to-come.

03/22/2025

And here it is, two days later, after a sunny day of a 62ºF high and in the midst of a 2nd sunny day at 66ºF, back to blooming like there was no yesterday and because it knows there may be, in fact, no tomorrow.  But there is, at the end of even the worst day, always hope that if a tomorrow comes, it will be filled with warmth and sunshine and calm, heaven descended to ground and peace on Earth for all creatures verdant or vital.

Brown Mush Incoming

 Our recent week-long warm spell of 60F-75F converted what I anticipated as a delayed Spring and a to-be-continued uniformly bland landscape into a bland landscape punctuated with exciting bits of color.  Pray ye heed, I plead, not to notice the Henbit at the base of the sunny daffodil and crocus here.  Although I've mowed off some ornamental grasses and peonies and irises, I'm far behind on my chores.

I saw, to my surprise, my first daffodil open on March 16th, in the back landscaping as glimpsed from my windows, and yet even several more on March 18th, the day I took all of the pictures here.   The last time I looked closely, just before our trip to Southern California, they had barely still broken ground and no flower buds were visible.  And after the sub-zero nights of mid-February, I didn't expect them yet.

I had an inkling, however, that my garden was beginning to stir from winter slumber on March 15th, Sunday, as I discovered and swooned over the first open bloom of my Star Magnolia, experiencing an unexpected moment of joy and nearly overdosing on its musky, heady scent.  I was entirely unprepared however to find that only 3 days later the shrub had exploded with a massive display of the purest white, matched with an intoxicating fragrant region anywhere downwind.  I took these last night, enticed to venture down to the garden by this surprising cloud of creamy goodness.

I wait, annually, for the Star Magnolia (Magnolia stellata) to announce the onset of Spring, dependent on it as my herald of the season, and this year it surely did not disappoint me, loudly proclaiming the new Spring to the Kansas heavens.   Unmatched in virginal purity, these blossoms live "rent-free" in my dreams, the very essence of garden beauty and the promise of another year.   I wrote previously about the grace of a fellow gardener suffering from terminal cancer, wishing only to live to plant in another Spring.  My recurring winter wish is similarly specific, to see again each year the daffodils and smell the Star Magnolia.

This year, the Star Magnolia iss accentuated by the nearby bushes of 'Meadowlark' Forsythia, blooming as never before.   You can see them as a backdrop to the magnolia on the photo at right, or alone, below, in all their golden glory.   My other forsythia are more shy at present, not willing to risk the fickle whims of Spring, but 'Meadowlark' has bravely chosen this moment to shine.

Of course, the minor bulbs are popping up everywhere, my beloved Scilla spreading naturally over broader areas of several beds.   Large Dutch crocus are dwindling survivors for me, and daffodils persist as clumps, multiplying and needing division, but Scilla have naturalized in my garden, spreading everywhere that offers any protection from the harsh Kansas sun, at the feet of peonies and daylilies and roses, or merely in the more welcoming eastern- and northern-exposed beds.

Alas, I write in the sure knowledge that all this beauty and bright color is but a transitory mirage, a shifting and soon-to-disappear vision that will recede under the onslaught of the Arctic wind outside my window at this moment.   Yesterday's high temperature was 79F and it was still 68F at midnight last night.  Temperatures fell steadily through the night however, and I woke to 36F at 6 a.m. and the gales of a blizzard bearing down on our area and promising snow today, a low of 29F tonight and a certain death to the fragile Star Magnolia blossoms. By tomorrow, each creamy petal will begin to brown and droop, just brown mush and death, lost opportunities for early bees and whining gardeners.   

My 'Ann' Magnolia, wiser and less daring than M. stellata, has opened but a single flower at present, and I can only hope she continues to delay her debut at the annual Spring Ball.  Patience, in Spring as much or even more than other seasons, is a virtue for both the garden and the gardener. 

San Diego Zoo Safari Park Bonsai Pavilion

Today, ProfessorRoush would like to apologize in advance for leading his captured audience on yet another set of vacation photos, but in the place of more brown Kansas landscapes, I wanted to share my recent admiration of a semi-ancient garden art form; Bonsai!

On my grandson's birthday last week, Mrs. ProfessorRoush and I found ourselves in sunny Southern California, trying to keep up as the family walked through the San Diego Zoo Safari Park.  At the limits of grandparent endurance, far from the park entrance and in the back reaches of the "Outback", I was delighted to come across the Bonsai Pavilion created and maintained by the San Diego Bonsai Club.  The Pavilion opened in 1987 and is touted as the first and largest Bonsai display in the Western United States.

The Bonsai Pavilion consists of a long gallery of individual Bonsai pieces, each labeled by the tree species and with the creator's name.  I didn't count them, but there were at least 50 and perhaps up to 100 individual specimens, each displayed at eye level on an individual stone table and contained in a solemn and quiet "room" with the occasional cough of a distant tiger to break up the sense of peace. 

I'm always astonished at the beauty of Bonsai, and always tempted to take up the art form, but as the basic requirements are some moderate degree of artistic sense and a PhD in patience, I'm simply destined to fail.  Still, appreciation and admiration for the messages in each piece could have kept me rooted at the site for hours.

I've added two "vistas" of the overall Bonsai display garden as the first two photos above, and followed it by photos here of several impressive specimens with different forms and techniques illustrated.

There was an equally impressive variety of species represented in the garden, with multiple representatives of both evergreen and deciduous forms, and each specimen making maximum use of the individual bark and leaf characteristics of the individual tree.

Here at left was one of my favorites of the day, this "grove" of trees mimicking and illustrating an entire forest in a small area.   

And, at right, I wanted to convey a small illustration of the technique of Bonsai, in this case the rock suspended on the tree, weighting down and slowly bending a branch into the artist's chosen position.

All in all, whenever you chance to visit the San Diego Zoo Safari Park, and you find yourself staring at the park map, wondering if the distance and climb to the botanical displays are worth it, my advice is to reach deep down inside to gather your energy and strength and to stumble, limp, or simply crawl, if you must, to reach it but I promise the reward is worth the pain!   My compliments to the San Diego Bonsai Club!

Hello March!

My, my.  Already beginning the third month of the year and ProfessorRoush has not, until today, touched a single finger to keyboard on behalf of this blog.  I've not been so absent from these pages since, well since before I began to blog, 14 years past, and yet, I feel only a minuscule degree of remorse or indolence.

It was a brutal winter here in Kansas, my friends; a monstrous, cruel, merciless season ruled by snow and ice and wind that drove, until this week, all thoughts of my garden and any plans for spring from my mind.  Central Kansas received several one-in-a-decade snows, with one early January beast dropping 15 inches here, the 4th deepest snowfall on record, shutting down transportation for days and burying the garden in drifts that took nearly a month to completely disappear.  Add on a week of continual below-zero Fahrenheit temperatures in mid-February and an absolute low of -15ºF one night, and I wonder if there will even be a garden this year.  

My garden today is nearly lifeless, and its focal points are now garden ornaments laid flat by blizzards (at top), still-red canes of roses that show no signs yet of revival (above), and the tight buds of dormant lilacs, however promising the latter may be (at right). I haven't begun my traditional garden-bed-clearing, at least two weeks later now than normal, but then, the garden itself is at least 3 weeks behind its normal patterns.  

Winter Jasmine

There are a couple bits of evident life out there, however.   I found a lonely, yet bright, spot of singular sunshine with two adjacent unabashedly bright yellow blooms at the base of a south-exposure-oriented clump of Winter Jasmine (Jasminum nudiflorum), as pictured at left.  Also, several daffodil clumps can be found timidly poking out of the still-frozen ground, brave, yet foolhardy, pioneers into the 2025 growing season (below).   That's it at present.  No Puschkinia, no White Forsythia, not even a single hint of Scilla (which bloomed last year, according to my notes, on February 24th!).

Daffodils!

weeds! (aarrggg!)

I'm currently choosing to overlook the weeds, as they do as weeds do, madly bursting forth everywhere in a fervid attempt to cover any bare ground and reproduce.  There is never rest for a gardener, and the endless wars of order versus chaos continue with renewed vigor each spring. 

As I wrote these few paragraphs, taking longer-than-normal because evidently I'm out-of-practice (and apparently subconsciously going for a hyphenation record here today), I can testify that, glancing to my left out the window, I was thrilled to see a bright blue male bluebird flitting about the front garden, likely fresh from his migration flight and ready to choose a nest and mate. 

Blest be ye, Bluebird, and blest be thy brood as the days begin to warm.