Natives Now

The prairie is full of native flowers blooming in early June.  Just a walk around the perimeter of my mowed area allowed me to capture all these.  ProfessorRoush is going to keep the gab to a minimum today, although I'll still identify each for you.  And while I do, be thinking....what characteristic do all these plants have in common?  There will be a quiz at the end.

This photo is of the low-growing Catclaw Sensitive Briar (Mimosa quadrivalvis), a member of the Fabaceae (or Bean family), so named because of the prickly pods that catch exposed ankles as you walk by, and for the delicate leaflets that fold when touched.  It has a long bloom period and can be seen blooming over most of May and June.

Of similar color, the Illinois Tickclover (Desmodium illinoense) is another Fabaceae, taller and more sparsely represented on my spot of prairie.  Late in the summer, the mature seedpods of this plant cling to my pants and hitchhike wherever I walk, often causing me to sit and pick at my pant-legs for a long time before they get washed. 

As I think about it, these native Black-Sampson Echinacea (Echinacea angustifolia) also display a similar muted pink-purple hue during their bloom.   The blooms quickly become bedraggled by wind and local insects.

These Echinacea are abundant in my area, and are favorites of local butterflies, bees, and finches.

I've posted a photo before of the Fringe-Leaf Ruellia (Ruellia humilis), but didn't write much about it.  It grows freely, low to the ground, in both the mowed areas of the yard and in the taller native prairie.  I have it stuck in my head that Ruellia is a violet of some type and I have to correct myself each time I see and identify it.

There are many forms of Asteraceae, composite flowers of the Sunflower family, that bloom and attract native insects and birds on the prairie. Daisy Fleabane (Erigeron strigosus) is one of those, 2-3 feet tall and easily visible among the grasses. It does not, contrary to myth, repel fleas from man nor from beast.

Another Asteraceae member presently blooming are the Black-Eyed Susan (Rudbeckia hirta).  This gray-green, hairy-leafed plant doesn't compete well with prairie grasses, but it sprouts willingly on disturbed ground.   If I showed you a picture of my vegetable garden right now, you'd think I was growing it preferentially there (which I do, since I don't weed it out unless it is adjacent to a tomato, zucchini, or other intentional planting.  

I could, and should, show you photos a few dozen clumps of Butterfly Weed (Asclepias tuberosa).  This unmatched bright-orange color uniquely stands out in the grasses and I encourage it to grow and seed wherever it chooses on the prairie or even in my garden beds.

One thing about Asclepias, it draws butterflies and bees from everywhere.  I really should start learning to identify bees and wasps so that I can recognize and encourage either of these visitors to my prairie.

Click on this picture to expand it and you'll see both a butterfly and a bee on the upper left of this single spray.  I'm not sure, but the butterfly here is perhaps a Pearl Crescent (Phyciodes tharos), common in my area.

The prairie is awash right now with clumps of Wild Alfalfa (Pediomelum tenuiflorum), providing some blue tones to contrast with the yellows and whites.  If you view the flowers up close, you can see why this plant is placed in the Bean family.

Last, but not least for a gardener who is always looking for roses, I'll show you a closeup of Rosa arkansana, the Prairie Wild Rose.  R. arkansana is a low-growing, once blooming, winter-hardy rose that has been used in the breeding programs of Ag Canada.  It is everywhere on the prairie, food for insects and animals alike.

And now, what characteristic do all these have in common?  Along with also-currently-blooming but unpictured Lead Plant (Amorpha canescens), Waxy-Leaf Thistle (Cirsium undulatum), White Prairie Clover (Dalea candida) and Purple Prairie Clover (Dalea purpurea) and Woolly Verbena (Verbena stricta)?   All of these are drought resistant natives, stoic in the face of the fickle prairie rains.   They hold a hidden message of hope for the gardener; "for best results, choose drought-resistant perennials and shrubs!!!!"

Paramount Protection

As if the continual struggle to maintain a socially respectable garden (or even a personally disappointing garden) wasn't enough, in addition to the obstacles of pounding rain, hail, late snows, early or late frosts, extreme temperature swings, tornadic winds, drought, insects, plant diseases, poor soil fertility, and just general calamity and misfortune, one must also consider the damages wrought by higher order creatures such as deer, rabbits, and the neighbor's occasionally-present dog.    

I've been oscillating all Spring on an action plan to limit the damage caused to my roses by a particularly prolific passel of rabbits in my garden.   At one point, a few weeks back, I recall looking out my back window and counting no fewer than 4 bunnies visible in my field of view (which likely doesn't even come close to the number that were hiding).  Bunnies, as many here are aware, don't eat daylilies or weeds or Wild Lettuce or native forbs, they preferentially eat, to my chagrin, roses, and go after the young tender ones first! When several young rose starts were pruned almost to the ground, I briefly contemplated ventilating their circulatory and respiratory systems with solid lead deterrents, but instead chose to spend $28 on a 25 foot spool of galvanized wire and made these protective cages, 11 of them so far.   I'll report back on how they work in the long run, but so far they seem to be keeping the rabbits away.

I was even more alarmed at finding this sight one morning; I've been watching this hollyhock patch daily, anticipating a fabulous bloom, but obviously another creature viewed it as an "all you can chomp" smorgasbord.  A creature measuring about 4 foot tall at the mouth and one that I suspect is hooved, with velvet lips and a fluffy white tail.   

The very sight panicked me, for this is just one "clump" in a large area of self-seeded hollyhocks, all otherwise healthy and forming some large delicate blooms.  I was counting on this patch to give me a luscious, even heavenly, hollyhock display, and now I was looking at the potential destruction of all of it, within a few nights, just bare stems and sadness left behind.  Should I stay awake all night with flashlights and a rifle at hand?  Keep pots and pans handy to startle them away? Hang soap and garlic from some stakes in the area?  Build a 10 foot tall peripheral fence topped with barbed wire and mined for 30 feet into the prairie?

Well, I won't keep you in suspense.   I ran quickly to the store to find a fresh supply of a repellent and chose this one.  Composed, among other things, of "putrid egg solids," I can attest, spraying it around the hollyhocks, that it indeed has an unpleasant odor, and I've found that Mrs. ProfessorRoush can detect it from more than 5 feet away, which is the closest she allowed me in her presence for quite some period of time after spraying the plants.  A week has gone by and the hollyhocks are blooming now and I can fully endorse it as a deterrent for close contact with deer and wives.  One takes a win where and when it occurs!

Oh, and the neighbor's dog?   Well, Liquid Fence doesn't work to keep that moron out of my flower beds.  In fact, evidently, rotten eggs are an aphrodisiac when you only have two neurons that synapse together.  At least the bumbling idiot hasn't trampled one of my wire cages yet!

Weeding Sounds

It's a difficult thing to put into words, but you've heard it too, haven't you?  The distinct noise, a screech really, made when one successfully tears a weed whole from the earth, intact roots sliding from soil in a grating exasperated sigh?  A gasp really, a scream of indignation at the gardener's audacity, our murderous intent; the shriek of defeat heard, yes, by the ear, but also transmitted through touch and sight and empathy. To a gardener, no sound is more satisfying to our souls, no human symphony can match the finality, or provide the sheer release of tension  as that resulting from the surrender of a weed to our will. 

A daylily overwhelmed by native Goldenrod 

The pleasurable wail of a weed is a quite different noise and feel and emotional outcome than the sharp snap of a weed as it breaks off, root still nestled in soil to grow another day, this sound a musical phrase ending in notes of laughter rather than lamentation.  The crack of a weed stem is a herald trumpeting the gardener's defeat, an abrupt notification that one has won a tactical victory but lost the strategic skirmish, desired ground still occupied by the enemy, sure to regroup and renew the assault, a Pyrrhic victory and an uncertain future.

  

Wild Lettuce removed with intact roots!

Weeding, to me, is an immersive act, a retreat from the greater garden into the smaller world and environs of the plants.  ProfessorRoush rarely stands above the foliage when I weed, bending to the earth like other gardeners; I crawl instead, a predator at ground level stalking the prey, the unwanted and unloved interlopers in the garden.  I also prefer to weed with bare hands, tactile senses on full alert as I search among familiar textures and shapes, identifying and removing the aliens in a subconscious dance of mind and limbs and fingers.

Barbs on Wild Lettuce

It's a rare Monday morning when I'm not removing barbs from my fingertips or nursing inflamed skin after a weekend of weeding.  Wild Lettuce (Lactuca canadensis), rampant this year, is a particular problem to bare hands, its stem studded with awl-like barbs that I've learned will yield to slow pressure and a brave hand without piercing skin.  Bare-handed weeding is an act of faith, a concession of a little extra pain in exchange for admission to the Weeding Plane, the spiritual space of gardening where hands do the work and the mind is free.    Occasionally jerked back to awareness by a thorn or unexpected nettle, I happily trade the risks of sore hands and splinters for the improved outcomes as my fingers follow the weed to its base, instincts finding the right grasp and angle to wrest the weed from the ground.    

I had a full afternoon of weeding last week, a chore too long-delayed for a garden bed verging on chaos.  I seem to have a bumper crop this year of both Goat's Beard (Tragopogon dubius) and the Wild Lettuce, both deep-rooted and determined to grow, solely intent on forming seed and world domination.  So I dove in among the daylilies and iris, steadily advancing as I grasped and pulled, placing the weed corpses back down among the daylilies as mulch or casting them to the beds edges.  I didn't take a "before" picture, but you can view the aftermath here, the bed rimmed in weeds torn from the soil.   I finished the day by running the lawn mower around these edges, chopping the full weeds into smaller pieces to prevent a dying weed from focusing its last energies on seeds.

I should feel guilt as the weed gasps, more sorrow at the weed's mournful admission of its demise, more regret at glimpsing intact roots exposed to air, but I am remorseless, a machine intent only on my own goals, my own control. The daylily at left, the same one as pictured above, looks much happier freed from the goldenrod and I'm sure if it could talk it would approve of my methods.  I slept soundly that night after weeding even while the music of the displaced weeds replayed in my dreams, content and relaxed in my momentary mastery of this garden bed.  But I also recognize that somewhere out there, on the prairie in the darkness, torn roots are plotting revenge and beginning regrowth., the never-ending dance of the garden and the forces of chaos starting anew. 

Lambert Closse

'Lambert Closse'

Along with 'John Cabot', another new rose to my garden that will have to "grow" to gain my full favor is the pink shrub rose 'Lambert Closse', another of the Explorer Series roses from Ag Canada.  'Lambert Closse' was introduced in 1995 (or 1994 depending on where you read about it) at l'Assomption in Quebec.  He has been in my garden only 2 years, but is already a gangly lad with sparse canes sprawling almost to 5 feet tall.

ProfessorRoush said "sparse canes", but I really should have said "cane", as in the singular form.   My specimen had an odd first growth year, putting up several weak spindly canes, and then a single long thick cane that had me worried it was a sucker from a nearby 'Dr. Huey' plant.  This year, however 2-3 other healthy canes are sprouting from the base and starting to catch up to last year's prodigy.  

'Lambert Closse' (formerly Ottawa 'U33') was a cross of bright yellow Floribunda 'Arthur  Bell' (McGredy, 1959) with pink and the vigorous Canadian semi-climber 'John Davis', an odd match if ever there was one.  The result, against all odds, is a very double flower of the clearest medium pink, borne in loose clusters and a bush reportedly hardy to Zone 3 (I saw the rose lose about 6 inches on its canes this winter here in Kansas).  'Lambert Closse' has glossy, healthy foliage and bears nonremarkable hips in Fall and Winter.

Bred by Dr. Ian S. Ogilvie and Dr. Felicitas Svejda in 1983, 'Lambert Closse' is named for a French merchant, Raphaël Lambert Closse (1618-1662), who made a name for himself fighting the Iroquois and first met his wife, Elisabeth Moyen, while rescuing her from them in 1657.  He was ultimately killed by the Iroquois only 5 years later, so we will leave judgement of the true quality of his tactical military skills to the historians.  

'Lambert Closse' open

So how do I really feel about 'Lambert Closse', the rose?   Well, he grew bigger than I expected (it is officially listed to be 0.85m tall, so much shorter than it grows for me), and the bush is more like an ugly Modern Rose than an attractive vase-form or rounded shrub.  The initially chaste tea-form buds open too quickly for my taste, in a day, to a flat form with yellow stamens.  And I probably won't like the "occasional repeat" that is reported for this rose, although some sources say it blooms continually from June through September when it is mature.  But I love the color, which doesn't "blue" on wetter, colder days, and the foliage has no blackspot or mildew here.  So, it stays.  For now.  

Quivera Roadtrip

ProfessorRoush took a vacation from work and gardening Friday and, with his beloved Mrs. ProfessorRoush, made a 2.5 hour daytrip west and south to explore the Quivera National Wildlife Refuge near Stafford, Kansas (population 925).  Quivera NWR is a 22135 acre sand prairie and inland salt marsh smack dab on the central migratory flyway, and it supports the vast migration of hundreds of thousands of Sandhill Cranes and the much more rare Whooping Crane, as well as 340 other species of migratory birds and the Monarch Butterfly. Established in 1955, it is a virtual oasis for these migrations and sits among ancient sand dunes covered by grasslands, rare geography, geology and ecology for any area, but especially for Kansas. 

Panorama of Little Salt Marsh, Quivera National Wildlife Refuge

ProfessorRoush was interested in exploring his newfound hobby of birding, adding a dozen species to his Life List, and the ever-tolerant Mrs. ProfessorRoush may have initially viewed it as an unavoidable hardship but also showed minor signs of excitement with binoculars in her hands.  It was a gorgeous, perfect weather day, but this is really the wrong season for birding and witnessing the mass migration.  However, my amateur naturalist came out and I made up for the current sparsity of  wildlife by exploring the abundant native Kansas flora you see pictured here in bloom. 

Some, like the Prickly Poppy (Argemone polyanthemos) pictured at the right, are old familiar friends.   I briefly considered that this might be the Hedge-Hog Prickly Poppy (Argemone squarrosa), but it doesn't have the more abundant stem and leaf prickles of the latter, so I believe I've got it right.  Other forbs, like the Butterfly Milkweed (Asclepias tuberosa) pictured at the top and above left, were recognizable, but displayed its yellow form rather than the orange flower I'm used to. 

Prairie Spiderwort (Tradescantia occidentalist) added abundant blue accents along the roadsides to the yellow native sunflowers that were just beginning to bloom.  At least I think it was Prairie Spiderwort.   It could also be Common Spiderwort or Long-Bracted Spiderwort, but unlike the former it has hair on its sepals, and it branches more than I would expect for the latter.   While I have plenty of sunflowers to view on my own prairie, Spiderwort is more rare here in the dryer climate of the Flint Hills.   

Of course, there was an abundance of other milkweed in bloom, in this case Showy Milkweed (Asclepias speciosa).

And the Showy Milkweed came complete with a Monarch butterfly (Danus plexippus)!

Leaving the park, driving along roads which were essentially just bulldozed out of the sand dunes, I was delighted to run into these roadside clumps of Buffalo Gourd (Cucurbita foetidissima) growing wild and displaying infrequent large orange squash-like flowers.  Based on my reading the mature gourds are not edible, and the crushed leaves give off a fetid odor that give the plant its species name.  

My botanical skills fail, however, in finding an identity for these clumps of pink-flowering shrubs near the water edge, however.   Anyone have any ideas?   Clump-like forms about 3 feet tall and wide, they seemed to be favored perches for the abundant Red-Winged Blackbirds of the area, but I couldn't get close enough for an other than wind-tossed-and-blurry-iPhone picture.  It does, however, with some oil-paint and blurring filters, make a nice photo suitable for framing (below)!

Grow Gallicas!

'The Apothecary's Rose'

While ProfessorRoush is illustrating neglected roses and exposing his failure as an attentive gardener, he must take a moment to bring attention to a pair of true Old Garden Roses, the venerable 'Officinalis' and 'Charles de Mills', both of the ancient Gallica class.  I feel like I repeatedly overlook the beauty and bounty of both these old friends and horribly undercare for them.  Even roses that grow carefree and never seem to need care surely deserve some.

'Officinalis'

I grow both of these Old Garden roses, or, more properly, both roses grow in my garden, despite my poor efforts to support them.   I obtained both as suckers from plants in the K-State garden and they continue to spread in my beds as suckers.  Unchecked, unbounded, I merely stay out of their way and give them room, occasionally intervening to remove grass or native nuisances or self-seeded shrubs from their beds.  For instance, in the vicinity of 'Charles de Mills', or actually growing among a clump of 'Charles de Mills', I recently removed a clump of Roughleaf dogwood, a single Hackberry, and a self-seeded Purple Smoke Tree.

'Officinalis'

The Apothecary's Rose, or Rosa Gallica Officinalis, is a true ancient rose, known prior to 1160.  The "hot pink" color of this rose, without any blue tints in the just opened buds, is one of my favorite "wildling" roses.   Like many Gallica roses, 'Officinalis' is a low-growing, spreading by suckers, rose, and I refer to her as a wildling because she grows wherever she wants to, needing no help from me to proliferate and sometimes hiding and then popping up in unexpected places.  

She only displays these sparsely-petaled semidouble blooms once a year, but this is one of the few roses I can smell from 10 feet away when she blooms.  She's very hardy here, and somewhat shade tolerant, but, like many Gallicas, I have to watch her matte foliage for powdery mildew in most weather and skeletonizing rose slugs in the late Spring.

'Officinalis'

I allow 'Officinalis' to spread as she will over a berm in one bed and beneath some viburnums in another area.  Right now, she's brightening both areas, taking over the stage from 'Harison's Yellow'.   Thankfully, those two roses bloom at different times, otherwise they would clash terribly on the berm site.

'Charles de Mills'

I have another similarly-spreading, low-growing Gallica in my beds, also fragrant and prone to mildew and rose slugs, but the similarity of 'Charles de Mills' to 'Officinalis' ends when they bloom.  The foliage is similar, 'CDM' perhaps having  slightly darker green leaves of a rougher texture, but it bears fully double blooms in a mauve-pink-purple-putrid color with petals that are lighter one the underside. Those unique blooms must be one reason for its nom de guerre 'Bizarre Triomphante', another ancient name for this rose.   Sometimes, those blooms appear like they were cut with a cleaver, they're so smooth and flat, and they darken with age rather than fade.    

'Bizarre Triomphante'

'Charles de Mills' is also an old rose, known prior to 1786, and it's 4 inch wide blooms are slightly larger than the 3-inch blooms of 'Officinalis' and larger than 'Cardinal de Richelieu' another Gallica in my garden.  'Charles de Mills' only reaches knee-high in my garden, but he is a stalwart lad, dependable even in wet weather.  He always looks a little rough to me in this bed, however, a gentleman and a scoundrel all at the same time. 

"Grow Gallicas!" should be a rallying cry of all rose-lovers who want to free themselves from the tyranny of tending to effete modern roses.  You heard it here, again, if not for the first time.