Showing posts with label Crocus chrysanthus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Crocus chrysanthus. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Crocus Clairvoyance

Clairvoyant.  Psychic.  Prescient.  Prophetic.  Absolutely none of those words ever pertain to the grounded, rational, and reasoned ProfessorRoush.  I am often so obtuse to hints by Mrs. ProfessorRoush that she has learned to slowly and carefully spell out her wishes and desires when she wants me to be aware of them.  If she wants to take a drive in the country, she hands me my keys and my coat and says "here, you're going to take me for a drive in the country."  If she wants to have scrambled eggs on Sunday morning, the poor neglected wife says "I'd like to have two scrambled eggs this morning.  Would you cook them for me please?  Not one, not three, just two."  You get the picture.  Some husbands would take offense at being ordered around in such fashion but I accept it as the only proven route for her to penetrate my thick skull short of a frying pan.

It was therefore with some surprise that a mere two days after my Winter Nadir post,  I found these glorious expressions of life on a walk across my otherwise brown and winter-worn landscape.  These brave new sproutlings are, of course, snow crocus (Crocus chrysanthus), otherwise hereafter known to my soul as the gentle gift of a benevolent God.  The perfect golden-yellow heads brushed on the reverse with a deep-purple brown have popped up even before the frost-bitten leaves that will sustain their beauty, but up they are, here, there, and increasingly everywhere.  Even more uplifting are the orange centers as they open, shining like a beacon of onrushing Spring. 

I was sibylline not once, but twice regarding the snow crocus this year.  In the past, I had just a few small clumps of these early yellow beauties, probably sown from a $2.00 bag of 5 at a big-box store at some unremembered time.  I've always enjoyed them when they appeared, but never felt they were extraordinary.  But last summer I somehow knew, 6 months before the onset of winter and then in the midst of scorching drought, I somehow knew that this year I would desperately need to see these foretellers of sunny days and soft rains, more desperately and deeper than previous years.  I ordered and planted over 100 of these cute little creatures, concentrating them on a spot where I'd know to look for them in Spring, and massed so that they wouldn't disappear into the sea of brown I currently refer to as a garden.  And up they have now come, each individual adding to a display that I hope by next week can be seen from more than a few feet away.

On the arid Kansas prairie, Siberian Squill and daffodils do return in dependable fashion, but they won't bloom for a few weeks yet.  Other early bulbs, such as Snowdrops, bloom as annuals or at best short-lived perennials, but fade away and disappear within several years unless carefully pampered.  Larger crocus, the Dutch crocus for example, return each year but usually are torn to bits by the winds before I can appreciate them.  It is only these little bold explorers that I can count on, that I did count on this year, to pull me from hibernation to life.  Although the view out my window still looks as bleak as the picture below, I know now that somewhere, amidst the brown grasses and mulch, life stirs again.  Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Snow Crocus.



Thursday, February 24, 2011

Golden Teases

Crocus chrysanthus 'Goldilocks'
Well, for a very short time, we almost had a glimpse of Spring here in the Flint Hills.  Every year, I carefully scrutinize my Witch Hazel (Hamamelis x intermedia 'Jelena'), and also the locations of previous snow crocus for their first blooms.  And this weekend, suddenly there it was; the snow crocus that was nowhere to be seen a week ago suddenly popped up and is showing a little flirtatious yellow to tempt me into premature excitement.  One glance and my spirit soars and my heart races at the sight of the brazen little wench.  Spring has sprung!

But alas, the coy little lass will have to gather her petticoats back around her and hold on for a later opportunity because we are under a Winter Storm Watch and have 3-6 inches of snow predicted this afternoon and evening.  As is common for the Great Plains, we went from the 70's when the picture above right was taken to a daytime high in the 30's in less than 24 hours this past weekend.  And four days later, here comes the snow.

I don't even remember how I came to have these few clumps of snow crocus, but they're planted beneath my forsythia and, true to their name, they often bloom during and through the late winter storms for me.  Yellow always blooms first, followed by the white and purple. I also don't know why I have not divided these clumps or purchased more, since they are so important to my spring mental health.  I don't recall seeing them frequently in fall stock at the "Big Box" stores and since I purchase most of my spring bulbs in bulk in those stores, it could be simply that I haven't had my memory jogged about them.  However, I should have ordered some last year when I mail-ordered a group of Lycoris squamigera if I'd had my wits about me.  I must redouble my efforts in this regard.  The Snow Crocus that I adore (Crocus chrysanthus) are actually just the earliest blooming of four common Crocus species (including Crocus vernus, the Dutch Crocus) which are all sometimes popularly called Snow Crocuses.  And to confuse the matter, there are a handful of obscure and more rare Crocus species that can be obtained by collectors.  The Dutch Crocus blooms well here, but the Kansas wind rapidly shreds the blossoms, so enjoyment of them is a fickle possiblity for me, while the smaller and shorter C. chrysanthus are much more reliable bloomers.
   
Daffodil stems
Of course, another first sign of spring that just appeared are the daffodil stems beginning their push towards the sunlight.  As a less-experienced gardener, I used to worry incessantly about these on colder nights and sometimes kicked more mulch over them or even covered them with blankets. Wisdom and laziness now prevail and I let Mother Nature take care of these in her own time.  They seem to survive the frosts and bloom just as well without me as they did with me.

As gardeners, we like to pretend we have an effect on our gardens, but at the final measure, perhaps our gardens just patiently tolerate our efforts and hope we don't cause them more harm than good.

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