Showing posts with label Garden Philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Garden Philosophy. Show all posts

Sunday, June 4, 2023

Purple Poppy Pain?

The little devilish side of ProfessorRoush sometimes enjoys asking the uncomfortable questions, just to watch the answer-maker squirm a little, to make them question themselves.   I'm not at all above playing devil's advocate either, espousing opinions with which I don't agree, just, once more, to draw out that philosophical moment of realization.

So I ask today, how many of you would give up the beauty of a nice stand of Purple Poppy Mallow (Callirhoe involucrata) in order to attain that perfect thick sheen of uninterrupted blue-grass of fescue that seems to be the suburban ideal?  Purple Poppy Mallow is a sprawling wildflower in my lawn, a smothering thug which makes it hard for the buffalograss to truly compete with it for light and water, but one which blooms in drought and in rain, reliably opening to sunshine and shutting down at night.   Yes, many, myself included, weed out the dandelions and thistles from our lawns, and some even fight a continual battle against clover, and many readers here would be horrified at the stand of Goat's Beard (Tragopogon dubius) that I'm letting grow in the "rain gardens" of taller grass in the side yards, but I believe we should and would all draw the line at purple mallow.  

One of the benefits of simply mowing the prairie grass and not starting a "lawn" when we built our house is that I've always had a long section of Purple Poppy Mallow (left) near the driveway, which is slowly expanding across the cut lawn and has jumped this year into adjacent areas.  I suppose I'm selecting for it by mowing high, and this year I'm mowing higher than ever with my new lawnmower.   Right or wrong, my old lawnmower, set at 4 inches, mowed a lot lower than the new one at 4 inches, and I'm taking advantage of the high cut to conserve moisture and to try to help the buffalograss to spread.   The mallow seems to like being mowed high as well, the sprawling or "reclining" stems surviving each mowing.

Despite the almost-complete perfection of Mrs. ProfessorRoush as a spouse, she does lack in her environmental awareness and has in the past complained about the mallow as a weed in her vision of lawn perfection.   We'll see this year if she notices as the Purple Poppy Mallow achieves June dominance in my blooming landscape.   Although she doesn't or rarely gardens, she's not above lodging complaints with the Gardener-In-Residence if she believes something doesn't measure up to her standards.

Are you squirming at the site of the mallow stand, pictured above?  Feeling a contentment that the world is still okay, or having a little discomfort or pain?   To Purple Poppy Mallow or not, that is the question!

Saturday, August 21, 2021

Flawed Beauty

ProfessorRoush is polling today (or is it trolling?) with a troubling question for my blog readers.  

Gardeners, do you prefer the captured images of beauty in your garden au naturel, or touched up to hide the blemishes and traumas of living?  Should the photographs we bloggers take of our gardens be posted unaltered, or should they be released onto the internet as posed and filtered and airbrushed as Cindy Crawford on the cover of Vogue?  Are we ready for the naked truth of our gardens, for the blatant blemishes of foliage or flower, for the ravages of wind and sun and rain?  Is the Venus de Milo an ageless perfection in marble or merely one more damaged chunk of rock?

Nearly all of the photos that ProfessorRoush posts here are unaltered except for some cropping and for a few taken after I pulled the surrounding forest of weeds  and only then "snapped" the photo (do we still "snap" photos or do we just focus and tap?).   Is pre-pulling the weeds a mortal sin of nondisclosure of the truth of my garden or merely a permissible act of vanity and understandable attempt to avoid embarrassment for my gardening sloth?   I'm facing the question today as I post the nearly perfect combination of white 'David' phlox and the 'Alaska' Shasta daisies displayed in the top photo and the unaltered reality here of the vista at the left.   I took the left photograph before removing the dead and brown spent flowers from the area and posing the top photograph.   Yes, I could have done even better if I had cut the unobtrusive bare stems away, but which is really the better photograph?  Nature in all its raw glory at left or the gussied up and primped "Still Life of White Flowers" at the top?

The broad question vexing me today is so simple in essence but has so many permutations in practice.   The aforementioned Cindy Crawford is a beautiful woman, but famous as well for the flaw in her beauty, the melanocytic nevus we commonly refer to as a beauty mark.   In fact, google "beauty mark" and a picture of Cindy will pop up alongside the listings, an icon for that concept of a minor flaw perfecting the person.   Does that same concept extend to our gardens?   Is the picture at the right of this Knautia macedonica blossom struggling up through the phlox somehow more beautiful than that of the simple and pure virginal white phlox in the photo below?   As garden photographers, do we need to add mouches to our perfect photos to make them yet more perfect?

ProfessorRoush is so full of questions today, eh?  So deeply troubled about photographic nuance and so immersed in disturbing philosophical discourse unbecoming of a cool and sun-lit Saturday morning here in the Flint Hills. I know that many come to this blog for entertainment and answers and yet here I am, the snake bound to ruin Eden and cast you out into uncertainty and unease.  I leave you today only with my questions, a complete dearth of assuring answers, and my hope that this photo of the clean and white 'David' phlox will soothe the disturbance of your soul.     

Sunday, June 6, 2021

Plant Pets and Plant Zoos

'Hope for Humanity'
I was stunned speechless, stopped instantly in my tracks last week, by a random statement in a GardenRant.com column by Ann Wareham.  In the column, Ann, a British garden writer, was pushing back against the societal pressure to change our gardens into more ecologically-sound, "pollinator friendly," "sustainable," "drought resistant" or "rain" gardens.   Ann threw the following statement in an early paragraph as one of the many reasons why it is difficult to start a new garden:  "Given that most people treat plants like pets and are reluctant to kill any apart from those rather arbitrarily defined as ‘weeds’, it is truly hard to imagine how any of these clean slate, ethically sound gardens are supposed to emerge."

People treat plants like pets!  Of course!  ProfessorRoush treats plants like pets!   I nurture them, I feed them, and I water them; I'm thrilled when they grow and perform well and I'm disappointed when they crap in their beds.  An epiphany, like so many others, right before my eyes the entire time.   Here I am, veterinarian and gardener for a lifetime, and I've never realized that so, so many of my plants are pets.  The rose, 'Hope for Humanity', pictured above and at left, blooming so perfectly red and bountiful, is a favorite of my treasured plant pets.   So is the 'Blizzard' mockorange below, covered in white and perfuming the garden.  And the fringed and crazy 'Pink Spritzer' peony, a wild Klehm creation, seen at the feet of the mockorange and in the closeup at the bottom of this blog.  Inside the house, a collection of different Schlumbergera and a few pet orchids make up the indoor garden.

'Blizzard' Mockorange
In fact, as I take my new pet-colored vision further, I now realize that I don't have a garden, I have a zoo.  ProfessorRoush's garden isn't about having just a few treasured and well-cared for companions, it's about collecting the uncommon or unusually beautiful, a thousand individual specimens to draw my attention and time.  There are few repeating plants in my garden; repeating families or genus's perhaps, but few cultivars that I divide and spread in repeating waves.   A few daylilies perhaps, particularly vigorous and worthy, and the rampantly suckering 'Dwarf Pavement' rose have multiple locations in my garden, but where some have a single viburnum, I have 6 or 8, all different species and versions.   How many different peonies or daylilies or roses do I really have?   I've lost count. 



'Pink Spritzer'
ProfessorRoush's Garden Menagerie.   Come take a horticultural safari with me, my friends, as we stroll in the evening around the garden.  Knautia macedonia has made the front bed a burgundy pincushion, soon ready to pass the torch on to Orientpet (notice the group name?) lilies.   Roses are fading from their first flush of flowers and peonies are dropping petals everywhere in the back garden, while the daylily buds stretch towards the sky, soon to dominate the scene.  Three different Mockorange's are in bloom now, in three different beds, and the Russian sage and the Persicaria polymorpha are demanding attention from viewers.  Grasses and sedges aim for fall, biding time and withholding flowers until the heat of August forces them out.

Plants as pets.   Gardens as menageries.  Maybe not so socially-conscious, but satisfying and educational at every turn.   That's my style.

Saturday, June 27, 2020

Hope Lost and Found

Hemerocallis 'Blue Racer'
Life, as gardening, is a constant struggle, a process of waning and waxing hopes, heart-breaking failures and all-too-infrequent successes in a never-ending circle.  Without warning, we occasionally slam headfirst into low points, spiritual nadirs that test the strengths of our soul.  A pandemic disrupts our daily routines, throwing the world into chaos with our very lives perhaps dependent on the potential danger of a trip for groceries.  A senseless killing rips apart the fabric of a nation, leaving looted cities and downed monuments in its wake.  In my own world, yesterday, a cousin, a grown man struggling and in turmoil, committed suicide on an impulse, leaving his family devastated and lost.  Hope, at such times, seems a distant mirage, far off and never closer.

Hemerocallis 'Beautiful Edgings'
Gardening mirrors life in its roller-coaster of summits and valleys.   We fight daily against drought and heat and ice and flood, relentlessly watching for enemies, ceaselessly searching for beauty.  ProfessorRoush has been wanting for rain from cloudless skies for weeks, carrying water to quench the thirst of the weakest, ripping weedy competition from the ground, watching for leaves wilting and rolling.  Hope leaks away as the buffalograss browns.








Hemerocallis 'Space Coast Color Scheme' 
In gardening and in life, we must hold faith that the storms pass and calm mornings, like this one, will come.  A heavy rain filled the emptiness of the night during my sleepless tossings, and I rose to find the ground full and soft, and this year's first 'Beautiful Edgings' covered in jewels.  New daylilies, 'Space Coast Color Scheme' (Kinnebrew, 2008) and 'Blue Racer' (Stamile-Pierce, 2011), also greeted Bella and I on our rounds of the rain gauges, rejoicing with us at the modest 1.5 inches of heaven-gifted moisture and the cooler air.






Euonymus Scale
Three peaks and a valley this morning, the latter the finding of my 'Emerald Gaiety' euonymus suddenly covered in Euonymus Scale (Unaspis euonymi) and near death.  Twenty years of euonymus without scale ended in an instant, joy replaced by worry again to begin another cycle.












'Hope for Humanity'
This year, amidst despair, I cling to the thought and the survival of 'Hope for Humanity', the wishfully named Parkland series shrub rose with a prominent position in my backyard.  She has outdone herself this season, blooming with blood-red abandon, responding to my attentions and my efforts to give her more space and sunlight this spring.  I cling to the hope that, if we care for each other and for our world as I ministered to this rose, we can all keep a little 'Hope for Humanity'.  Just a little bright hope to grow with sunlight and push through hard times.  Shaun, I know you liked roses, I wish you'd known hope better, and I pray you find peace.


'Hope for Humanity' (the purple faded rose below and to the right is a nearby 'Dr. Hugo')

Friday, June 15, 2018

Elm Excogitation

I took a walk today, a "noon constitutional" as it might have been termed in another more gracious age.  I took a walk and strode in a single instant from complacency to sorrow, contentment to loss.  From sunlight into the shade of a massive American elm was only a few steps for a man, but a mile for my mindset.

As gardeners we all, I'm sure, know of the previously ubiquitous American Elm and the disastrous impact of Dutch Elm disease on the species.  Intellectually, we understand that the American Elm (Elmus americana) was a valued tree in the landscapes of the 19th and early 20th centuries, so-called "tabernacles of the air."  Viscerally, however, gardeners of my age have no memories of a cool picnic under the elms or the spreading chestnuts of history.  Our blood does not stir from loss of such things as we've never experienced.

On this 96ºF sunny day, however, I ambled to the K-State Gardens and, passing under the massive canopy of its surviving and much-pampered American Elm, was instantly struck by the stark drop in temperature and stress I experienced.  If it wasn't 20 degrees cooler under the tree than in the sun, then I'm a mange-ridden gopher.  I understand now, acutely and intimately, what civilization lost when DED was "accidentally" introduced through the hubris of man.  The K-State Gardens elm was planted in 1930, is currently 60' tall, and requires $1000 injections to prevent Dutch Elm every 2.5 years.  While it seems presently healthy, I'm not encouraged for its long-term survival, knowing that administrators and politicians inevitably appropriate every possible dollar for their own pet projects and needs. 

In our callous daily existences, we don't often emotionally feel the tragic loss of a unique species of rainforest frog, or the potential extinction of a subspecies of rhinoceros, but you CAN come to K-State and experience with me the last years of the American Elm.  Echoing and borrowing the sentiment from an excellent essay by astrophysist Dr. Adam Frank that I read this week, I would say that the Earth will survive, but the Elm may not.  The Anthropocene HAS arrived and we should perhaps better start to contemplate that our time is measured, just as the elm's.   

Friday, May 18, 2018

Bee-careful Out There

Such oblivious creatures, we Homo sapiens, we naked apes of tools and dreams.  We trod through millennia, intent on food, shelter, and water, occasionally motivated to art or to walk on the Sea of Tranquility, yet unknowing of the intricacies of the surrounding world, incapable of recognizing life on different scales than our own.  Civilized human-kind conveniently forgets the constant struggle of life at large.

ProfessorRoush has spent the past few days capturing flower photos, digitally preserving the blooms of 2018, as happy to welcome summer as an otter discovering a brisk stream.  I was seemingly, in fact, entranced this week by honey bees, happy to see them out and about, thrilled to know they haven't all disappeared into extinction.   A noon walk to the K-State Gardens on Thursday brought me green tranquility and the simplicity of the bee above, ensconced on a single bloom of Rosa eglanteria.  Later, I was drawn into the massive bounty of a full-grown and trellised 'William Baffin' and enticed further into the blooming mass (at left)  to capture another industrious worker strutting around its food source.



At home that night, however, I was starkly reminded of the dark side of bee life.  I had just noticed this motionless and soundless bee on 'Polareis' and began to look closer when it suddenly moved beneath the flower, all without wiggling a wing or leg.  Perplexed, I changed my perspective and exposed the true tableau, the bee expired and in the grasp of a victorious crab spider.   It is tempting at such times, to judge the spider as evil, but more correct to recognize merely life as it is, sometimes brutish and quick, unaffected by how we wish it to be.  I suppose the spider has its own reason to exist, just as the bee.  It's just that I like to root for the bee.




This is the real life of my garden.  I think only of flowers and prunings, mulch and plant combinations. To the bee, each flower could be nectar or death, each flight from the hive success or oblivion.  For the spider, each day may bring feast or hunger, no guarantees beneath the sunniest skies.  I've forgotten again the drama beneath, the life of a garden in constant flux, predator after prey, ultimately death for all.

Now reminded, I still am rooting for the bees.


Sunday, March 4, 2018

Spring Insanity

ProfessorRoush is on a fool's errand, a foolhardy full court press, plunging beneath the alternating waves of winter and spring to create emerald legumes from ecru.  I never plant peas before March 15th, long habit acquired in the climate of my youth, strictly followed and enforced by the wisdom of generations of my ancestors.  Peas and potatoes on the Ides of March.  A day reserved for celebration of the full moon, settlement of past debts, and slaying Emperors in the Senate. 

This year however, I'm listening to the experts and I planted peas on March 3rd.  According to the Kansas State Extension, garden peas are best planted just after the soil turns 40º, and I'd seen bulletins indicating the soil was already that warm.  Knowing that my main pea problem for years has been poor germination and weather that turns hot far too rapidly in Kansas, I resolved to follow science and cast aside superstition just this once.  I whipped out my trusty, long-suffering soil thermometer and plodded to the garden in the midst of a brisk wind yesterday, to find the soil already 45º and rising.  I'm pretty sure it was still frozen solid just last week, but I nonetheless planted both 'Little Marvel' and 'Early Perfection'.  Besides, this year the full moon was on March 1st, a so-labeled worm moon welcoming earthworms back from their deep underground slumber, and although science may lead me astray from my hallowed farming roots, as long as the moon cycle follows along, I might as well take a chance, right?

So, into the cold ground went the peas.  If science is wrong, I've wasted $2.88 and I'll have to replant in late March.  But I can hardly do worse than my usual pea harvest.  It is a bit strange to be planting peas early this year, particularly because every other indicator I have says that spring will be late.  There are no peonies pushing through the crust at all yet, no snow crocus blooming, and the forsythia buds are still tight in contrast to years that I've seen them bloom as early as March 6th.

In other news, despite the northbound gale sweeping across the prairies, I welcomed the 70º temps that accompanied it and I cleared the debris out of the landscape beds in the north-facing front of the house, able to pile dead perennials and leaves and load them up as long as I stayed in the wind shadow of the house.   In the process, in a change of temperament, I blessed, just this once, the rabbit that has plagued my garden all winter, The entire front landscaping, under the perennial debris, is covered with rabbit feces, an unexpected beneficial repayment for non-intentionally feeding the long-eared rodent with twigs and bark all winter.   The mementos this rabbit left behind are almost worth the bare stems and damaged shrubs.



Last of all, I trimmed my first rose of the season yesterday, this 'Heritage' that so brightens my day with continual bloom and pink elegance.  With each careful cut of the pruners, I felt younger, brighter, and more hopeful, winter melting to warm spring in my veins.  What a wonderful feeling to feel the dirt and do some good honest labor for a few hours, awakening old muscles and senses to earthy joy.     


Sunday, August 13, 2017

Northeast Downtime

ProfessorRoush was away this week, visiting the Birthplace of Freedom;  Boston, Massachusetts.  Yes, I walked the Freedom Trail and I saw Plymouth Rock, and I crossed the John Fitzgerald Kennedy Presidential Library off my bucket list.  For those who care, I've now visited 5 presidential libraries in my lifetime and JFK's is the best, although I think the image of JFK they chose for the 100th anniversary of his birth, showing him with fat jaws and in sunglasses, is unflattering and jowl-ey.  But I guess they didn't ask my opinion.

I didn't do any personal physical gardening this week, nor, I must confess, did I visit a single public garden.  But since the NorthEast has been well-supplied with rain, I did spend some time admiring the health and vitality of a number of gardens, including the perfectly-maintained alleyway garden I saw in Salem, MA that is pictured above. As moist as things were, I was interested that the phlox here showed no signs of mildew at all.

Private lots are small in all the cities there, so, in fact, alleyways and hidden gardens were the main attractions in the area.  Otherwise, I rarely saw more than a windowbox or container in most of the city.  This shady courtyard near Bunker Hill, however, was well sited for the hosta grown there as focal points.  

One of the reasons for the visit was to expose a precocious nephew to the possibilities of Harvard and MIT, so I spent time on both campuses.  I was, frankly, not that impressed by the tour of Harvard, which never bothered to verify if my nephew even showed up for his scheduled tour and never took us into a single building.  I am limited in my admiration of expensive architecture if I'm not allowed inside the buildings.  I did find, however, Harvard's use of boulders as a student gathering and sitting area quite innovative, however uncomfortable it might be in cold weather or for long sitting periods.


I was much more impressed by MIT, which seemed to actually care if we kept our tour date.  A wonderful admissions director, Mr. Chris Peterson, gave a lively and informative presentation on MIT and its programs, and then we were led on a tour by a complete nerd, an astrophysics student who hailed from Oklahoma, that included a look INSIDE the labs and buildings and provided a broad look at student life on campus.  Kudos to the MIT admissions team for putting together a great program and to the entire university for a unique atmosphere.  And further congratulations to the landscape designer who included these columnar Sweet Gum outside the student activities building at MIT.  They are fabulously healthy and the first ones I'd ever seen.  I was salivating about the fall coloring they must exhibit.  Where do I get one?



On Friday, I bid farewell to the Northeast and its strange set of quirks, which included labeling each "roundabout" as a "rotary."  I've heard of rotary as a noun referring to an old telephone, but the first time I saw one of these signs, I though I was lost and being directed to the local Rotary club.  To further confuse the issue, some areas were labeled as rotaries when I never really saw a complete circle emerge from the traffic pattern.  And what happened to the strong Bostonian accents I was wanting to emulate?  The entire area is so cosmopolitian and diverse these days that I only talked to one individual with a classic Bostonian accent in five days in the area.

Now, I'm back to the prairie, staring out the window at a dew-covered overgrown lawn bordered with weedy flower beds that both need attention.  And where else can I watch a pack rat playing blatently on my front steps at 8:00 a.m. in the morning.  Just another thing one my to-do list;  bait the pack-rat traps!

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Bombus-ed BeeBalm

ProfessorRoush was "beeing" busy in search of bees this weekend.  After my last post, when I included a photograph showing a bumblebee on an 'Applejack' blossom, it occurred to me that although I have seen plenty of "bumblebees" around the yard this year, I haven't seen a single honeybee.  Nor could I find one this past Sunday as I specifically searched for them, albeit on a cloudy day with occasional sprinkles in the air.

Honeybees should surely be visiting nearby, because Monarda fistulosa, otherwise known as Wild Bergamot, is blooming all over the prairie.  I've written before of my garden Monardas, and the native prairie species lives up to its common name, "Beebalm," but the balm exuded by Monarda only seems to be attracting the American Bumblebee (Bombus pensylvanicus) this year.

Monarda fistulosa with Bombus pensylvanicus
Bombus pensylvanicus (Bombus, what a neat name for the ungainly genus comprising bumblebees!) was once the most prevalent bumblebee in the United States, but Wikipedia notes that it is recently declining in population.  Nationally, that may be true, but they seem to be as prevalent as ever in Kansas.  I'm not an insect expert by any means, but there are two species of bumblebees found in Kansas and I believe they're different enough that I've got this one correct.  Mostly black abdomen.  Check.  Black stripe behind wings.  Check, Check.  Certainly they were everywhere on my patch of native prairie today, feasting on the Wild Bergamot and the Asclepias tuberosa that is blooming everywhere.  The Monarda is such an ungainly, unkempt flower, that I think it matches the non-aerodynamic bumblebee.

'Jacob Cline' Monarda and Knautia macedonia
I haven't jumped onto the "glyphosate will destroy the world" train since the science says otherwise, and those of you who read this blog regularly know that I do believe in climate change but that I remain unconvinced that Man is primarily responsible for it (given the sure and certain evidence that it really was a lot warmer in 10000 B.C. than it is now and we just weren't around in enough numbers then to get the blame for it).   That all being said, I do worry a lot about the declining bee populations and I think Man probably has a lot to do with that one.  Whether it is disease or pesticide or habitat destruction, I have no idea, but on my little patch of prairie, I can tell you that the native Monarda clumps usually have a visiting bee, while the 'Jacob Cline' Monarda in my front landscaping hasn't a bee, bumble- or honey- in sight, everytime I've checked.  It seems that my preference for bright red flowers, and my happiness with the tough nature of the nearby Knautia macedonia, isn't shared by the bumblebees in my environment.  Perhaps I should turn over a new leaf...er...uh...flower, and encourage the Wild Bergamot to spread from the prairie to my landscaping.  When visitors complain about the insipid colors, I'll tell them simply that it looks delicious when viewed through a bee's eyes instead of those in a falsely-discriminating human.          

Monday, June 19, 2017

Decluttered Deliverance

paeonia 'Buckeye Belle' 
On a whim, in a bookstore last winter and presumably with a Christmas gift card to burn, one of the books I purchased was Marie Kondo's The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.  I've read several such books by several different authors because ProfessorRoush occasionally goes on a "declutter" spree, casting away debris like a sinking hot air balloon that is trying to stay aloft.

It occurred to me, reading Ms. Kondo and in my winter mood of being angry at the garden's performance and its Rose Rosette Disease epidemic, that "tidying up" could be applied to my garden.  Take, for example, the primary question Ms. Kondo wants all of us to ask ourselves for every possession; Does it bring you joy?  "Lift or touch each thing," she asks of us, "and ask if it sparks joy."

'Buckeye Belle' at upper right, did bring me joy this spring, more than I could imagine, its smoldering dark red blossoms luring me again and again to that corner of the garden.  She's a keeper in my garden and I would make sure she is in my next garden.  Not so much, for instance, 'Folksinger', RRD-infected, and never among my favorite roses.  So, this spring, I really didn't mind at all when I shovel-pruned 'Folksinger' during a massacre of RRD-infected plants.  Magnolia 'Yellow Bird' brings me joy.  Overgrown 'Rosenstadt Zweibrucken' does not.

The "KonMarie Method" also recommends that we declutter by category, not by area.  I followed this advice to the best of my ability, but I've also strayed
at times.  Early on this year, I did  "tidy" by category, removing first the roses that were infected with RRD, and then other plants that were simply in the wrong place, or that I simply didn't like.   My most recent efforts, at pruning roses, weeding, and general gardening chores, have all been by area, however.  This week the large daylily bed was weeded again, and the strawberry patch was tidied.  Next week, I've got my sights set on my "viburnum bed."


"Let go of the what if's and somedays."  This admonition  by Ms. Kondo is both easy and hard.  Plants that require a constant effort or struggle to keep alive, the "what ifs," are relatively easy to eliminate because they remove themselves from the garden. But  I'm tired and frustrated with plants that don't perform in my garden and I'm now quicker to remove those that don't.  And I've wacked back a number of overgrown plants this year. I had already started this practice last fall long before Ms, Kondo arrived in my psyche, removing some large overgrown junipers from my front landscaping.  I've felt better, more joyful, looking at that spot every day this spring.  In broader terms, though, I have trouble removing "somedays."  I don't often throw out old tools, boxes, and other paraphernalia because I've learned, as a husband and father, that life recycles our needs for many things and I don't like buying things twice, or worse, three times over.

"Respect my remaining stuff."  As it applies to plants, I need to spend more time embracing plants that do well here in Kansas.  Daylilies, hollyhocks, irises, viburnum, peonies, all are valuable and they should be divided and spread around my garden.  I've resolved to mark my favorite daylilies and divide them every year, until they're everywhere in my garden.  I vow to allow every native Asclepias tuberosa and Black-eyed Susan that volunteers in my garden to remain.  Who could possibly not respect a Black-eyed Susan that seeds itself in random areas, never needs water, and brightens up the summer border?

But if it's a thug, I promise, out it goes.  This spring, I've removed every clump I have of Helianthus maximilliana.  Some of you may remember a previous post I wrote that extolled their virtues, but time has taught me better.  'Lemon Yellow' and 'Santa Fe' turned out to be monsters, towering over and shading out everything around them, and self-seeding everywhere in the garden.   They're beautiful and they bloom like crazy in late fall, but if I let them go for 5 years, they would completely take over my garden and head for the horizon.  I've been pulling up seedlings everywhere last year and this year. far from the original two clumps I planted.  They will even self-seed in the native prairie grass and survive there, with all the potential of becoming noxious weeds.  So I will smite them down with great vengeance and furious anger, and declutter and deliver my garden from their zealous growth.  And truthfully, all the smiting about this spring brings me satisfaction, circling me back to Ms. Kondo's prime directive.  Yes, Ms. Kondo, it brings me joy.  

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Gone to Pot

Cannabis sativa.  Weed. Pot. Indian Hemp.  Mary Jane, buds, hippie lettuce, skunk weed, wacky tobaccy, combustible herbage.  Marijuana.  Completely to my surprise, as I was leaving work last week and noticed, in the parking lot island in front of my Jeep, this foot-tall, suspicious specimen with 7-fingered leaves and a weedy disposition.  On the grounds of Kansas State University and in full view.  I looked furtively around for federal or local surveillance and, finding none, snapped a quick blurry picture as proof.

Hey, I'm a gardener.  I notice plants.  I've been known to pull over on major highways and come to a full stop just to identify or photograph a particular flowering plant on the roadside.  You're looking at the far off scenery?  At the sunset or architecture or road signs?  I'm looking for unusual plant form or flashes of color, or interesting foliage.  I'm surveying habitat, speculating on species, and scrutinizing clumps that catch my eye.  The only hobbyists in the running for Voted Most Eccentric have to be gardeners or birders.  And I'm a little of both.

So I could hardly miss this plant, as it waved its lanceolate and toothed leaves and begged for attention.   Given its height, I might have noticed it sooner if I had parked in the nearby spot in the past week.  But there it was now, in plain view.  Not that I should have been surprised.  Hemp is, after all, naturalized in Kansas.  This Asian native was brought to the Great Plains in the 1880's.    Assuming the best intentions of our ancestors, it was presumably introduced for hemp fiber and used in production of rope, nets, and paper.  All that dancing around campfires was probably just coincidental.    

 I've never seen it in my own garden, likely because the disturbed areas of ground here were native prairie only a few relative years ago and doesn't contain seed.  Its presence in the Vet School parking lot could be due to avian-aided spread from wilder environments, or because some unburned herbage containing seeds was dropped nearby, or because it was intentionally planted in anticipation of a fall break period between classes.   The local police sit  next to this island frequently during the day, but I assume their motivation must be to utilize the afternoon shade of the tree in this island, not to protect their growing stash.

Anyway, there it is.  Or was.  You needn't find a sudden excuse to visit the Vet School.   The K-State groundskeepers had pulled it up by the next morning when I came back for a better picture.  All I found was a single partial leaf trampled to shreds near where bounty had been.  All that's left is the mystery of whether it was wild or a cultivated, fast-growning strain.   And who has the remnants of the plant and what they've done with it.

Friday, June 2, 2017

Peace Lily

I almost passed by, on a gentle evening or so past, this small vignette but I paused, paused to look further and experience the quiet grace of my garden.  Struck by the beauty, captured by the color, entranced by the play of light on textured leaf, I seized the moment, and in doing ceased purpose and goals, carpe diem.

"Enjoy the moment," the ancients advised.  Pluck the day and live it.  I do little enough of that in my garden, forgetting in the bustle and work of gardening to find the purpose of the garden, its raison d'être.  Does the garden exist for my pleasure or as my master?

Through the work week, I plan for the weekend.  "When can I mow the lawn again?"  "That daylily bed needs weeding."  "I should start the squash indoors on Saturday." "I need to find something to plant in that empty spot." "I need to water the tomatoes."  As if the function of the garden was to fill the empty space of Saturday and Sunday, to keep boredom at bay, to parry purposelessness.  So I speed into Saturday, scurry and scuttle through Sunday, yet secretly yearning for calm.

If I were asked, "What single experience or desire is shared among all gardeners?" the answer would lie in this photo, this first Asiatic lily of the year, this day shining from the darkness.  It is not the pure white peace lily of lore, but it is peaceful nonetheless.  Shaded by a large viburnum and tall Rugosa, struggling for light and moisture, yet protected from the glaring sun, its dark red, regal presence stands scribe to life's glories, testament to Earth's treasures.  I paused to its purpose, a reminder to seek the silence and solace in the quiet places of the garden.   I listened to its lesson, to recharge from the energy found in dark bower, in dappled shade, and green shelter.  I came away refreshed with new purpose, to remember always that the garden exists to pleasure the gardener, not to enslave him, To free him and feed his spirit, not to fatigue him.  To nourish the soul that yearns only for beauty and peace.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Hidey-Holes and Fairy Gardens

Unlike some of my fellow human-kind, ProfessorRoush has never quite bitten on the lure of the supernatural.  Sure, I have always liked a good scary movie, particularly in the company of a younger Mrs. ProfessorRoush.  In those days, she reacted to fright by clinging all the more avidly to my brawny gardening arms.  Scare the current Mrs. ProfessorRoush and she's just as likely to take a swing at you.

The whole gobbledygook of ghosts and goblins and garden gnomes, fairies or elves is not part of my fantasy world, and as much as I liked Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy, or even Brendan Fraser as the hero in the modern "Mummy" films, I seldom worry about encountering such creatures in real life.  I normally agree with Rod Serling, host of The Twilight Zone, who said, "There is nothing in the dark that isn't there when the lights are on."  At least that's what I tell myself on dark nights on the Kansas prairie when the wind is howling outside.  And when I'm trying to decide at twilight if the dark lump in my landscape is a known bush or a browsing deer or a Sasquatch.

I briefly reconsidered my thoughts on the other dimensions last weekend, however, when I noticed the little tunnel as pictured above, heading darkly under the roots of a Purple Smoke Tree.  Just for an instant, one can believe that this Hole would be a perfect little entry to Alice's Wonderland, the motivation for any number of fantastic tales.  Shrink me down, and how far would I tumble here before I encountered the Red Queen?  What sort of creatures, do you think, have made this Hole a haven?  Mundane little prairie frogs or mice?  An intrepid little pixie or goblin?  If a leprechaun had popped out of The Hole right as I discovered it, I wouldn't have batted an eye.  Surely, on this prairie, I'm not about to poke The Hole with a stick.  With my luck, it wouldn't be a grouchy gnome that would answer, it would be an unreasonably angry copperhead snake with vengeance on its mind.  

I won't do anything as rash as creating a fairy garden to lure something out of the Hole (the picture at the left is from a friend's garden), but I will watch this Hole for activity, perhaps spreading a few grass clippings on the bare ground so I can detect movement in and out of it.  In the process, I may discover new things about my prairie ecosystem, or I might be permanently perplexed at this prairie perforation, or I might yet discover that I'm just another part of the Matrix and learn something of the unknown worlds beneath our feet.  The mere discovery of this Hole has convinced me that I should at least be more open to the viewpoint of Woody Allen, who stated, "There is no question that there is an unseen world.  The problem is, how far is it from midtown and how late is it open?"

Saturday, April 8, 2017

Who Wore It Better?

'PrairiFire' Crabapple
ProfessorRoush has a guilty little secret to confess.  Come a little closer, please, I don't want to shout this to the world (looks left, looks right, swivels to look behind, lowers voice).

When I'm waiting somewhere, doctor's office or haircut or oil change, and when I rummage through the  magazines while waiting (I have to read, I can't just sit there), my favorite magazine to read is....People.   As much as I grumble about the cultural devastation wrought by Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and the Kardashians, I still prefer to bide my down time in the tabloid company of the stars.  To my further discredit, I think one of the best recurring themes in People are the "Who wore it better?" pictorials.  In full disclosure, I generally prefer Salma Hayek over Lindsay Lohan in that red evening gown.


'Royalty' Crabapple
Today, working all day in the garden, I was honored to be in the presence of three finely jeweled leading figures, my trio of crabapples, all decked out at once at the peak of their bloom.  Obviously vying for my affections, all three were posing the "Which of us is wearing it better?" question straight up.  So I thought I'd bring them here, to ask your help.  What do you think, who wore it better?

Was it 'PrairiFire', pictured at the upper right, with her prolific blooms destined to form oodles of 1/2 inch fruits for winter?  This 'PrairiFire' was planted in back in 2009 near the vegetable garden in one of the most continually moist spots in my garden and seems to be doing well here.   She is relatively fast-growing and the bees were very busy today tending to all her lady parts.  She has been a fickle lass for me, however.  I dallied with several other 'PrairiFire' in the past before this one and lost them all to drought or cold or prairie fire or  pure gardening incompetence.  'PrairiFire' is a little too high maintenance here in Kansas where the prairie fires can snuff her out in an instant.

'Red Baron' Crabapple
Or perhaps is it 'Royalty', adjacent to my front driveway, who shows off the best?  'Royalty', pictured at left above, is a 2001 planting, has a somewhat rotund overall form, and I often complain that she hides her purple-red blossoms within the wine-cast foliage; a pretty maid in purple sackcloth.  She has been a slow grower, but is stalwart and dependable in her own way, sort of a Carrie Amelia Moore Nation of crabapples.

And then there is Monsieur 'Red Baron', displayed at the bottom right, a suave gentleman, but yet another of the poor choices of burgundy foliage that I planted during my "wine foliage" period.  He is a 2002 vintage and is planted out near the road.  Tall and slender, 'Red Baron' seems as embarrassed to have his deeply dark red flowers as I am in admitting that I read People.  

Oh forget it, my introductions to each have probably swayed you towards my personal choice, 'PrairiFire', so I'm just tallying another biased poll like all the pollsters in the last Presidential election.  I, myself, undoubtedly prefer 'PrairiFire', even if she is a little high-maintenance, for her brighter blossoms and for the fact that she never produces suckers, chaste in contrast to the other two older crabapples who are prolific sucker-makers (sucker-ers?).  'PrairiFire', in my garden, is the strawberry-blond Julia Roberts of Pretty Woman, wearing it best, year after year.

Friday, March 24, 2017

Concrete Leporidae

How many of you, Garden Fanatics, Part-Time Dirt Grubbers or Cutting Garden Aficionados all, would voluntarily choose to host a rabbit in your gardens?  No?  ProfessorRoush suspects that any decent comprehensive poll of gardeners would overwhelmingly demonstrate their lack of  interest in a resident rabbit or two, even accounting for the usual 80% of contacts that either slam the phone down or ask never to be called again, and for the  5-10% who answer in the affirmative in a misbegotten attempt to throw the poll numbers off.  I don't know about you, but my response to any pollster who calls me at mealtimes or during my Sunday afternoon naps (which seems to be the only time these demons call), is to give them the most contrary answers I can think of.  And then to place a curse on all their descendents.

Here's a news flash:  I LOVE RABBITS IN MY GARDEN!  Concrete rabbits, only, to be fair and accurate.  I have a weakness for fairly visible rabbit statues, here, there, and everywhere.  There is hardly a bed in my garden without it's resident rabbit, from the "Gentleman Rabbit" above, who greets visitors at an entrance point to the lower garden, to the "Begging Rabbit" at the left.








One of my favorites, and most recent addition, is the "Long-Eared Rabbit", that I added last year.  He stands in a refurbished bed of peonies and daylilies just off the back deck.  I enjoy him there, but the tall ears make his center of gravity higher and he tends to topple over on really windy days.












I have several "inquisitive" rabbits, sitting on their hind haunches and curious about their surroundings.  The tallest, at the left, is nearly two feet tall and hard to miss.  I inherited that one from my father's garden about 5 years ago.  Nearly as tall is the rabbit who peeks out from under a holly near the front door, always ready to thump out an alarm at the first site of intruders.








There are also a few more basic rabbits hidden here and there.  If I ever host a large garden party again, I might just make finding each rabbit a scavenger hunt for any children at the event.  On second thought, however, encouraging children to run madly around the garden is perhaps not a good plan.


You can even sit on the rabbits in my garden. This rabbit-themed bench sold itself at a single glance, providing a spot to rest and screening the pipe from a buried propane taken as it enters into the house.  The two "legs" of the bench, are crouching rabbits, better seen from the sides than from the front.




Subconsciously and consciously, I hope that my collection of concrete rabbits is viewed by any LIVING representatives of the clan as either a cautionary tale (stay around this garden and the gardener will turn you into stone!) or as a sign that the neighborhood is overcrowded and they should move on.  I'm about done collecting rabbits, however.  I've been able to successfully resist the impulse to purchase several recent rabbit sightings.  Any more hares in my garden and I'm afraid I might start having nightmares.  Even now, sometimes, late at night, I wonder and worry that they'll start breeding and producing more little concrete bunnies in my garden.  I'm not crazy; one can never be too careful around a bunch of rabbits.

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