Instantaneous Shifts

 It seems to happen in an instant, these changeling days as I grow ever older.   Seasonal changes that used to take...well, a whole season...now seemingly occur in days, sometimes hours.  Just yesterday, (or on the 11th of November, to be honest and accurate) I was out and taking a picture of what I suspected was the last rose of the season, the English rose 'Heritage', seen here along with the very cold honeybee, the latter frantically gathering pollen to store away against a long winter.

And then, suddenly, instantaneously, this morning my southern view from the kitchen window turned from this colorful scene, which has been unchanged for several weeks:

To this, a Dicksonian still life created by a completely unpredicted and clandestine snow:

My front (northward) view this morning was no different in tone or despair, a world untouched yet by human or dog and bland and frigid, converted in an instantaneous, almost magical shift from autumn to winter, regardless of the date on my human-created calendar.

And now I'm relegated to joining my garden's Rip Van Winkle by awakening to a world changed, transformed both in appearance and liveliness, as cold and dead and hard and outright unwelcoming today as it was warm and sunny and vibrant yesterday.   I begin a winter inside, quiet weekends and periods of staring out the windows, sleeping under an opened book just as my cement friend outside.  It will be some time before I venture outside again to work and play, to smell and run my fingers through warm dirt, to plant life and nurture its growth.  I sleep and wait inside, hopefully not for the 20 years of Irving's tale, but at least fretfully waiting until the world changes back, awaiting a new year of life reborn.

Time Change, Seasons Change

 ProfessorRoush will spare you, this fine November morning, from his usual diatribe about the biannual time change (Fall Back, Everyone!) and the toll it takes on physical health, well-being, and our soul.  I maintain my offer, however, to not only vote for but to tirelessly campaign for any party or politician who abolishes it....not who promises to abolish it, but who actually makes it happen.  No promises trusted here, please; I don't trust anyone in a position to pander to the public.  One might ask, isn't pandering just another word for "begging," but Dictionary.com defines it as (Definition #1) " to cater to or profit from the weaknesses or vices of others."   Definition #2 is "to act as a pimp or procurer of clients for a prostitute."  I put it to you, is there a better explanation of politicians anywhere?

But enough of that.   Fall is a dozen days old now and with the change in seasons, after two months of drought, came rain, glorious and bountiful, cleansing and quenching rain.  I forgot that in my fall garden cleanup I had left out one rain gauge to chance freezes, but this morning it held 4 inches from either the rain Thursday night or the rain all day yesterday.   I celebrate so much rain because it is life itself for the prairie and the soil needed a good soaking before winter sets in.  Rain also washes the autumn dust away and makes the prairie come alive with color.  My back garden, if you don't look too closely at the disorder and unsheared shrubs, looks like a Norman Rockwell watercolor today from my kitchen window.   And that view will continue all week as, unusually for our area, we have rain forecast for 6 of the next 7 days.

As one perfect example of the native prairie response to rain, I give you this completely natural, native clump of Little Bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium) growing among the Switch Grass, Indian Grass and Side-Oats Grama common to this area.   This clump is right out front as I drive up to home each evening, one clump in a large "rain border" that edges my front yard, welcoming me home.   At least it did prior to today when it was still likely light as I came home.  From here on to spring, I come home from work in darkness, just one of many hated moments to our loss of daylight savings time.

And a few tough plants continue to bloom and provide fragrance.  I had some French lilacs rebloom unexpectantly a couple of weeks back, and today, the English rose 'Heritage' (at top) and some lavender (at left) are still trying to hold back winter.  I confess that I can't tell one lavender from another, but I treasure the soft gray foliage and scented blooms whenever they appear. 

My garden, my reading garden, is withdrawing its life beneath the soil now, waiting for spring.  Waiting along with this, one of my favorite statues, for warmer days and a return of shade.  It is aging too, my garden.  I noticed today the rain has nourished the green algae of this aging cement statue, softening it and helping it to join the garden as a full member.   Now not an ornament, but another beloved element in my garden, waiting, like me now, for Spring.  

Time to Stop and Appreciate the Finer Things

'Hope for Humanity'

In the back of my mind, ProfessorRoush has a little nagging voice that keeps saying "you should post, it has been awhile," but I would not have thought that I wouldn't post during the entire month of August.   My, how it flew by!

I blame the unusual weather, more rain than usual, and temperatures that kept weeds growing and me mowing weekend after weekend.  I blame my unfortunate needs for cash, which keep me working long hours during the week, ticking down the clock of my life, time I can't replace no matter how valuable I think it is in the moment.  And I blame me, for not making the blog a bigger priority over eating, sleeping, target-shooting, reading, watching TV, or the hundreds of other distractions that occupy my time.   

Liatris spicata

But then a fall morning comes, like this morning, and it's cool (53ºF) and sunny, and I'm walking with Bella down the road at 7:10 a.m., and I remember that a beautiful world awaits, every single morning, if I only take time to look.

Time to look and stop to take a quick photo of 'Hope for Humanity', pictured at the top.  There has to indeed be some hope for a species that breeds and distributes a rose this beautiful.

Time to pause on the walk and relish the beauty of this clump of Liatris spicata, returning year after year to the roadside northeast of the house.  A "blazing star" of the highest magnitude (see what I did there?).

Time to appreciate that the Kansas state flower is the native Sunflower, thriving where the ground is disturbed by hoof or man, a roadside beacon to reflect the morning sunshine.

'Morden Sunrise'

Time to fawn over the delicately hued petals of this 'Morden Sunrise', a Parkland Canadian rose bred by Lynn Collicutt and Campbell Davidson in 1991.  I have one in front, 3 feet tall and now overshadowed by a "dwarf" lilac, and this second two-year-old in back.

'Comte de Chambord'

Time to stop and "smell the roses", in this case the Portland rose 'Comte de Chambord', a reliable bloomer and cane hardy to the toughest Kansas winters.  She looks fragile and virginal and perfect, but she's touch as nails. 

And time to appreciate all the beautiful and more mobile creatures who share the morning walks with Bella and I.  For the city folk reading this blog, the behavior of the left hand male bovine at the rear of the longhorn cow may look strange, but to an old farm-boy and veterinarian, it's anything but.  That cow had just hunched up and passed urine and he's checking to see (the "Flehmen response") if this particular cow is available for some morning "go-time".   Truly, there's nothing more natural on the prairie than a little lovin' at the first rays of the sun.  

I think we'll just leave this blog entry right here, in a light and educational moment, and not veer off into the weeds of biology trying to extend it.

Sudden Lilies and other Surprises

Lycoris squamigera

ProfessorRoush was out early this morning, trying to beat the heat and spread some lawn weed-killer on a particularly rough-looking patch of buffalograss while there was a little dew on the grass to make it stick.   I then switched over to watering pots, and as I puttered around, I came across a little pink surprise that I wasn't expecting.  ProfessorRoush, as a general rule, doesn't like surprises, but this little gift I left for myself is always welcome.  

If there is one plant that I would tell every young gardener to start with, particularly children or young adult gardeners with children, it's a "Surprise Lily."  Uninspiring but also untroubling for 360 days of the year, it's the other 5 days that will make you thrilled to have planted it.   Whatever name you plant these bulbs under, be it "Magic Lily," "Resurrection Lily," "Surprise Lily," or even the titillating and misogynistic "Naked Ladies," Lycoris squamigera is a delightful, delicate treasure in bloom.

The large bulbs are not costly to purchase, and often they're a passalong plant, a gift from a friend or neighbor.  You just throw them into the ground about 5 inches down and then you forget about them.  No worries about insects or disease, or predators.  Each spring, their spot will be marked with a nice, trouble-free clump of grassy foliage, a useful reminder to not plant something else there, and then the foliage will die down and, in my area, blow away.   Then one fine morning in late July or August, you'll be puttering around and they'll catch your eye, suddenly (hey, let's start a new name, "Sudden Lilies"!) about 2 1/2 feet tall, translucent flowers of the most beautiful pink, perhaps tinged with a little orange if you catch them, as I did today, in the early morning sunlight.  The flowers will last 5-10 days and then the neighbor's dog or the wind will knock them down and that'll be it until next year, when you'll have forgotten them and suddenly they'll appear again, heathy, carefree, and joyful.

The only other surprises that ProfessorRoush might consider a close second to "Naked Ladies" is the appearance of new baby calves and that's been a part of my world recently too.   Just this week, one of the Longhorn mama's in the pasture brought this beautiful white-face-mark-on-brown calf into the world.   And last week I was tickled by the gorgeous black-and-white "mini-me" from the similarly-colored cow below.  All leading me to conclude that life is too short without Sudden Lilies and baby calves.  And shorter still, in a word of caution, if you get too close to this little calf because those big horns on Mama aren't just there for decoration!

Serendipity Failure

Well, this topic wasn't what ProfessorRoush had planned to blog about next, even if I'm due for a blog, but I'll take serendipity as a motivator for a blog entry.  Or at least I'll try to "take" serendipity, although sometimes the latter is often reticent to be captured in an optimal manner.

I was out at 6:27 a.m. this morning, watching Bella as she went about her morning bodily functions, when I saw the bumblebee above feasting on this newly-opening bloom of 'Beautiful Edgings'.   Immediately, I thought "wow that would make a great picture" and I quickly reached into my pocket and grabbed my iPhone, opening it to the camera app as I moved closer, focused, and...bingo!...got the picture above.

It was at that point that the perfectionist inside took over the agenda.   I knew I'd gotten the bee's best side in good focus, but I also knew instantly that I had clipped off a corner of the daylily in the frame and I so wanted the perfect photo.   So I tried again, waiting until the bee lit upon another nearby blossom, taking the photo at left. 

And, as you can see, just as I pushed the button to take it (is it still a "shutter" button when it's an iPhone?), the bee took off.  Drat, nice action and now I have the whole flower in the frame, but my "shutter speed" wasn't fast enough for a "sports-action" shot.   So I waited for it to settle again and went in for another shot.   

Once again, before I could snap a photo, it was taking off into blurred flight!  And with that, it was gone for good.  Those of you who take a lot of photos in your garden can, I'm sure, sympathize with the frustration of getting decent pictures of bees and other creatures, even if you can't sympathize with the "it could be better" attitude of the pathologic perfectionist.   As an orthopedic surgeon I practically live by the motto "the enemy of good is better," a self-reminder during fracture repairs that trying to make it perfect is often counterproductive to efficient surgery and good bone healing.   If only I could learn to apply that same sentiment to my photograph efforts!

But I can't.  I tried to redeem myself later while mowing later this morning when I spotted a gorgeous big swallowtail on a purple butterfly bush, but, despite 5 minutes of trying while the mower idled and contributed each second to my carbon footprint, I was unable to even get a poor shot of the swallowtail sitting still.  Such are the trials of an amateur trying to live up to a perfectionist's world-view.  

Hawk and I

ProfessorRoush set out this morning to face a dreaded chore;  bush-hogging the pastures nearest the house (on this side of the draw where it's semi-safe to drive a tractor).  I only do it once yearly for the primary purpose of mowing down noxious weeds on the prairie; foremost among which are the thistles, with the Wavy-Leaf Thistle, Cirsium undulatum, most common here (upper right).  I grew up mowing bull thistles on the home farm in Indiana and, as I've mentioned before, my maternal grandfather always said to mow them on June 21st to control them.   I'm a little late this year, but years of observation has convinced me that the purpose of the date is to mow them near bloom and before these biennials set seed and I'm still within that window.

I dread the annual pasture-mowing for a number of reasons.  First, I don't trust my inherited tractor on the Flint Hills; it's top-heavy and too powerful for its weight, with a tendency to want to jump as you let off the clutch.  I'm extra-darned careful with it and don't trust it for an instant.  Second, it's normally hot and miserable out there this time of year and mowing takes a full afternoon.  Third, I don't want to mow because it alters the prairie ecology, cutting down forbs before they bloom (particularly stealing milkweeds from the migrating monarchs).  But its a necessity to control the sumac and thistles.

This year, however, I had a close observer the whole time, watching the every move of the loud green machine and tired primate riding it.  Watching me, literally, like a hawk.  To be specific, watching me like a red-tailed hawk, hoping, I'm sure, that I would flush out dinner in the form of a nice prairie mouse or rabbit.

I first spotted it atop my barn gate about 1/2 hour after I started mowing.  Since I always have an iPhone handy, I stopped and opened the camera app, only to be immediately disappointed as I zoomed in and it began to fly away ( 2nd photo, left).

Thankfully, it came back, again and again, first on the same gate as seen in the 3rd paragraph (I'll leave you to decipher the meaning of the Greek language "Molon Labe" sign), then on a fence post (4th paragraph, on the left), and then on a native Mulberry tree (here, right), always nearby as I went round and round the pasture.  I apologize for the pictures; I wish they were clearer, but alas, the iPhone was all I had available, placed at full zoom, and held as still as I could on a vibrating, roaring tractor.  And the stark, full sunlight in a cloudless July prairie sky also isn't good "photo-quality" lighting.

I could only pray to see it catch something, and so Hawk and I were both excited as it swooped down on something in the tall grass next to a just mowed area (5th paragraph, right).  I hadn't seen anything bounding into the tall grass, so I was hoping to see Hawk rise up with a snake, but Hawk, clearly disgusted by a miss, looked back at me as if it was blaming me for its lack of success.  I'm sorry, Hawk.

While still on the ground, it did give me this last profile shot, however, the best glimpse yet of the red-tail feathers of its name.  And then it took off again, returning to its vigil, a sweeping shadow passing back and forth over me for the duration of my mowing, hunting prey, I surmise, in each pass.  Hawks will be hawks and I appreciate my moments spent with this one.

Daylily Delirum

'Raspberry Eclipse'

Okay, ProfessorRoush tried to be cute here, but the blogging program just wouldn't allow me to format the text below with the pictures.  I couldn't even get the font of "Wisteria" to show up right.  Sometimes, the correct formatting just isn't worth the time it takes.  I gave up after spending hours of wasted effort.

But I was trying to let you know I just can't stop taking pictures of daylilies this year!   Click on any picture to enlarge!

'Rocket Man'

'Timbercreek Ace'

'Redmon SDLG 08-25'

'Storm Shelter'

'Wisteria'

Unknown

'Laura Harwood'

'Sonic Analogue'

'Swallow Tail Kite'

'Bestseller'

'Beautiful Edging'

'Alabama Jubilee'

'Awfully Flashy'

(Raspberry Eclipse is my newest daylily.  I purchased it ready to bloom this week and it was the most pot-bound plant I've ever seen.)

 ('Rocket Man' was a dazzling red surprise to me and quickly became a favorite.  It's not large, but it has a striking presence, orange-red to a burnt red eye.)

('Timbercreek Ace' is a consistent performer for me, full of flowers and a treasured gift from a client.)

('Redmon SDLG 08-25' is the designation I think goes to this one, from a local breeder.  I have a weakness for spider daylilies.)

('Storm Shelter' has a fabulous coloration with the petal edges matching the darker eye.)

(Isn't 'Wisteria' just subtly gorgeous?

(I don't know what this one is but it's planted next to 'Laura Harwood' and makes a striking contrast of form and complimentary color palette with her. A happy accident.)

(It's easy to stop and stare at 'Laura Harwood'; fetching lass, she is.)

('Sonic Analogue' is uniquely marked, right?) 

('Swallow Tail Kite' takes my breath away with her lavender eye.)

('Bestseller' is a daylily I lost after planting and then found again when it bloomed because of its unique coloring.)

('Beautiful Edging' is, to me, the most beautiful of all on the right day in the right lighting.)

('Alabama Jubilee' is quite a striking bit of orange, eh?)

(A fitting end picture,'Awfully Flashy' is just that, isn't it?)

Yes, They're Here

'Prairie Dawn'

Those who know ProfessorRoush and his blog well have probably been wondering; why hasn't he said anything yet about Japanese Beetles?  Does he not have them? Are they late?  Has he given up the good fight and surrendered to inevitability?

Surrendered?  Never!  I will never surrender to
these shiny-helmeted alien invaders!   Vile creatures they are, ugly, immoral, bereft of a purpose in life, content only to defile and despoil that which is beautiful and pure.   Patrick Henry stirred a nation with the words "Give me Liberty or Give me Death".  To stir a nation of gardeners, ProfessorRoush loads up the poison bottles and cries "Give THEM the Death they deserve!"

The beetles came early this year.  I first noticed them on June 15th, a few stray males (males are smaller and emerge first) which I handpicked and dispatched under the heel of my boot, gleefully grinding them into the nearest landscape edger.  I then took the nuclear option and malathioned every rose in the garden, creating in essence a chemical border fence to repel friend and foe alike.  My apologies to the bees and ladybugs of my region, but war is ugly and accidental casualties are as unavoidable in the garden as they are on a human battlefield. 

'Marie Bugnet'

All was well for a few days, but a couple of nights ago, I noticed the beetles were beginning to return, right on schedule with the bottle instructions to spray every two weeks or, "in severe cases, weekly applications may be necessary."   I guess it was necessary, but I waited until today, mowing day, to reassess and reinitiate the wholesale carpet bombing of my garden.

'Prairie Dawn'

One of their usual victims, 'Fru Dagmar Hastrup', seemed free of beetles but Ms. Hastrup is not quite herself this year, recovering from a major surgery to remove a self-seeded clematis and rough dogwood from her interior. I first found beetles today on 'Prairie Dawn', a dependable, tall, pink Canadian rose bred by Harp in 1956. I've not written much about 'Prairie Dawn', but she's been there with me, all this time. You have to look closely, in the first picture above, to see the beetle in the flower above the pristine 'Prairie Dawn' bloom.

'Scabrosa'

I was more concerned when I found the loathsome creatures nibbling on 'Scabrosa'.   I've had trouble getting this rose going well and this specimen, at 2 years of age, is still barely knee-high, less than 2 feet in diameter, and she surely doesn't need the extra burden of beetles.

'Marie Bugnet'

It was finding beetles on 'Marie Bugnet' that strengthened my resolve and prompted me into immediate action.  My poor, innocent, virginal 'Marie Bugnet', now just a backdrop to a recreation of 'Caligula', beetles frolicking in mass orgy, 8 or 10 to a flower and in positions that are, frankly, not describable to civilized ears.    I can't fornicate in my garden, public nudity laws being what they are and lacking a good high solid fence, and I'm not about to allow the damned beetles to crap their frass on my beloved Marie while they madly make little beetles.  There are no doubts about what these beetles are doing, I'm just not sure if they know or care who's on top or underneath.

So, spray I did, wetting down the garden and beetles in a frenzy of rage.  The results are pictured at right, leaves dripping with insecticide and beetles glistening.  I can only hope I did some good, 3 gallons of toxic brew later, but it's hard to say.  I would feel better if the insecticides acted quickly and fatally, but soaking wet beetles continue to copulate with abandon right in my presence until I am forced through disgust and decency to look away.  It's only now, hours later, when I see fewer beetles and feel I've made some headway to keep Marie's flowers free of fornication and frass, that I feel better in my despair..