Storm of a Lifetime (Not)

Although all the national media is calling the recent storm "The Storm of a Lifetime" or "The Storm of the Century", it is, in ProfessorRoush's experience, not even close, not even perhaps in the top 10 for such platitudes.   Perhaps I'm just jaded and old and tired of the over-copied refrain of panic the media attempts to produce every morning.   NBC's Today Show seems to have "special editions" every day now, and I'm sick of hearing about the nonexistent "Tripledemic" and good Lord, how much I miss the eternally cheery Robin Meade on Headline News.

But, moving along my digression, I personally remember two storms that hit Purdue University my freshman and sophomore years, heavier snowstorms than this which were accompanied by -50ºF wind chills, massive drifts and the first class cancellations Purdue had seen in 50 years.  And snowstorms in Ohio in '83 and '84 when I was a large animal dairy practitioner that closed roads for days and made me worry I would not make it home from a call; or not recover feeling in my frozen toes after a long day of work.  And half-inch-thick ice storms that destroyed trees and hail storms that flattened my garden.  So, as you can see from these pictures yesterday, a pittance of snow, an icy glaze to the blacktop, and -30ºF wind chills aren't nearly enough to be classified as once-in-a-lifetime.   Yes, they're dangerous, but they're certainly not unprecedented in human history.

Not much happening in the garden, these days, of a plantsman's interest, although life still abounds through the winter.  Checking the game cameras, I was pleased to see this handsome fellow along with several does in other pictures.  They don't seem to be coming as frequently as other years, nor have they caused much in the way of damage.

I was less pleased to see this picture, but at least this skunk was out and about in its normal nocturnal pattern instead of rabidly running around in daylight.  That being said, I'm glad it only appeared once in a season's pictures, numbering in the thousands since the summer.

There also seem to be increased numbers of coyotes frequenting the yard recently, even taking a leisurely rest here and there within gaze of the camera.   These two demonstrate the fact that they are aware of the camera, however, their somewhat creepy eyes staring directly at it and retinas reflecting the infrared light.   I've seen them occasionally out in the daylight, most often at dusk, and I do worry about them because they look a little mangy and thin, even for coyotes.   My concern ends, however, each morning and evening as I let Bella out the door and look closely over the edges of the yard, ever vigilant for her safety.

Well, with that all said, I leave you, this year, with "Merry Christmas!" and wishes for a blessed coming new year for everyone!  I'll be back here in January, always hopeful for a perfect garden and gardening year.

Winter Haze

Winter.  Frost and fog outside.  Warmth and fire inside.  The calendar and the movement of the planets falsely claim the season is fall, but ProfessorRoush says it's winter.

Winter.   What is it good for? Pictures, perhaps, like the one above, the sun captured, weakened by distance and the inclination of this orb, unable to penetrate the haze of humid air the night has frozen into submission.   No breeze, not a creature stirring here, all waiting for the sun to penetrate and soften the icy knives of frost.  

Or pictures, perhaps of happier thoughts and colorful moments, the annual home Christmas tree shining glorious even in the morning light.   Mrs. ProfessorRoush and I decided this year to leave the tree unburdened by ornaments, the plain lights a symbol, perhaps, of our innate desire for simple quiet and peaceful stars, a holiday of joy and rest.  We've left off the hundred collected ornaments, some homemade, others a treasured gift or purchase.  It may be a fake tree of metal and plastic, but it serves the purpose, lit each night in the front window as a beacon to faraway children and friends; "Here is home."

Odd?  Or not, perhaps, for a gardener to prefer artificial trappings for Christmas rather than a collected and distantly transported tree.  This year I won the annual tug-of-war between Mrs. ProfessorRoush, who prefers the dying, pine-scented, needle-dropping "natural" tree, and myself, who prefers my negative environmental impact displayed through the manufacture of plastic and LED's.  This tree may be phony, it may be fabricated, but at least it isn't singing the song of death in the house as it slowly dries and dies, snatched from a forest of others to perish alone.

Ten o'clock, and the sun seems to be losing the battle against winter today, rather than gaining.  The predicted high for today has already been cut by 4ºF and I fear it will soon cede more to the fog.  My planned trek to clean out bluebird houses may have to wait, wait for a warmer day and a braver caretaker.   I feel the weight of responsibility for my bluebird trail, but not at the expense of stiff fingers and frostbit toes.  There is time enough to wait on the sun to lead me out, to beckon me from a clear horizon and warm the air.   Time enough for winter to come and be gone, away like the fog and the frost, if the sun gets its way.

Christmas Conspiracies

While ProfessorRoush is usually a reasoned and contemplative individual (please pay no attention to Mrs. ProfessorRoush's cackling in the background), I am not ashamed to admit that the occasional attractive conspiracy theory does obtain some small foothold of territory in my mental processes.  In contrast, however, to those crackpots who insist that there was never a moon landing or those who maintain that the earth is flat, despite all the growing evidence against either view, I feel compelled to reveal, here for the first time, a real, personally documented, grand conspiracy. 

I'm positive that all of you, all gardeners and shoppers, all homeowners and plantspeople, have been experiencing a great sense of unease as Thanksgiving approached and local store aisles filled with holiday decorations and unwanted unnecessities, yet you've all likely been unable to pinpoint the cause of your disquiet.  I'll admit that I shared that underlying apprehension with you, until suddenly a great revelation appeared to me last week and, to my eternal shock I became aware, you might say "woke", that one of the great mysteries of civilization had been developing right in front of my eyes; a mystery I shall now reveal.

WHERE THE HECK ARE ALL THE CHRISTMAS CACTUSES THIS YEAR?   Normally, by this time, every checkout aisle and every floral display area would be filled with wilting but blooming $6-$9 pots of colorful red and white and pink and fuchsia Christmas cacti raised especially to capture your whimsy and your excess cash during your vulnerable moments of holiday shopping.  This year, there are none available, not one anywhere near Manhattan Kansas, a fact which I confirmed by personally visiting every big box store, grocery store, and hardware store in the area this week.  

I started out on this conspiracy track innocently, merely wanting to see if a new color or variety was available to add to my collection and brighten Mrs. ProfessorRoush's windows, yet the absence of the cacti became more evident with every store I searched.  Querying the internet for an explanation has been similarly unsatisfactory.  There have been no media reports of mass destruction of Christmas Cactus nursery facilities, nor scientific papers on sudden mutations of fungal wilt that threaten the extinction of the cacti group.  Asking Google the simple question "Where have the Christmas cacti gone?" is rewarded only by 10,591,251 occurrences inanely explaining how to make a cactus bloom, and it undoubtedly results in one's name being added to some secret list somewhere as well as causing your mail and social media feed to fill up with hundreds of ads for plant sales and fertilizer.  

We will call it the Great Missing Christmas Cactus Conspiracy of 2022, or "CCC-22", and later generations will remember this blog entry as the initiation of the movement alerting the world to their loss.  It is a fact that Government officials are completely silent on the issue and appear to be taking no action to investigate the mystery.  This is surely an occasion for Congressional inquires and appointment of special prosecutors if ever there were, don't you agree?  The President, Dr. Fauci, or at least the Illuminati must be behind the disappearance.  No, wait, it's COVID-19, isn't it?   SARS-CoV-2 was not developed to destroy democratic societies, save Medicare, and unleash the New World Order, nay, the ultimate goal by some powerful fiendish billionaire Christmas-cactus-hater was for the virus to wipe out annual production and commerce in Christmas cacti, wasn't it?

If you don't hear from me again, you'll know I touched a nerve somewhere.   Wake up, everyone, before it's too late to save the cacti!  Write your Congresspersons, call your Senators, and let's make our Christmas-cactus-loving-voices heard!

Fine Firmament

 ProfessorRoush is going to make an unusual post this evening.   A post nearly without words.

On August 29th, I noticed the light change in the windows at sunset and sensed a special moment rushing into my life.   I'll let the firmament of my western and northern views speak entirely for itself through completely unedited pictures and time-lapse movies.  I took all these over a 10 minute span with my iPhone as the sun set in the west and the wind roiled the clouds.   Click on the movies (the last 4).   Make them full screen.  Don't forget to breath; I don't want anyone passing out from the sheer beauty.

My Blue Heaven

Gardening is, alas, a long series of regrets, hopes dashed, and dreams dimmed.   ProfessorRoush, for instance, remains Meconopsis-less, the Kansas climate rendering him completely unable to grow the Himalayan Blue Poppy (Meconopis betonicifolia) he has desired for so long.  My shriveled soul aching only for a blue flower to match the blue sky, of Kansas, I am forever blocked by 100ºF days and arid surroundings from Meconopsis.

There is, however, Morning Glory to partially fill the void, in this case what are possibly now-wild offspring of a 'Heavenly Blue' (Ipomoea tricolor) I once planted, or it may be the Kansas native Ipomoea hederacea who snuck in as a pretender among the seedlings. I kind of lean towards the native species as the actual imposter here, but perhaps solely because I've been watching too much 'Homeland' on Netflix and have spies on my brain.  It's a little garden intrigue that keeps my interest alive in the waning days of summer and I don't wish to spoil it by resorting to botanical identification.  And so I cultivate the mystery alongside the rest of the garden.

Whatever it's true identity, however, these blue blossoms are otherworldly in the early morning, shining from the shade (here at right) and much less audacious in the bright sunlight (below left).   The sky-blue color does match the Kansas sky and it evokes the calm id, the quiet soul of the poet.  All the while draping itself over every other living thing in sight.  At times, it seems tempting to stand still for a moment, and the gardener himself may disappear, finally part of the garden rather than its master.  Watching the hummingbirds visit these flowers, I wonder if I, just once, could become the visited, if only a prop for the interplay of bird and bloom.  

 I know I shouldn't let this vining villain proliferate freely among the daylilies and roses, but here and there, I stay my weeding, allowing small seedlings to become smothering carpets, to smooth the garden structure into an untextured vista of green and blue. The daylilies don't seem to mind, exhausted as they are from their July rush to bloom, and the roses regardless return each spring.  Morning Glory needs no water, it demands no care, it asks only to be allowed to grow wantonly without interference or intervention.   And each August I indulge that request, letting sun and earth bring forth blue, and harvest pleasure in the process.

Waiting for the Grass to Dry

Hemerocallis 'Blue Racer'

This morning, as often happens during the seasons of warm days and cool nights, I'm waiting for the dew to dry from the grass so that I can poorly attempt mowing.  Poorly attempt, I say, because the lawn has barely grown, only a few aggressive weeds sticking their heads above the carpet, and the border edges of the lawn forming seed heads, encouraged by the greater runoff of waste water from the driveway.  I intend only to swing the mower around the edges, leaving the weeds alone until the cooler and wetter days of fall reawakens more general growth. 

Hemerocallis 'Cosmic Struggle'

This day, a beautiful day is promised, coming from a low of 61ºF last night to a temperate high of 85º forecast.  I certainly find no fault with that, beckoned outside by sunlight and calm winds, chased from the indoor shadows by duty and commitment.  Lawn work for ProfessorRoush is a self-imposed obligation to be civil, to join in the continental-wide community of mown yards and tasteful homes.  My lawn is reluctantly mown, its owner a slave to convention and sometimes resentful of it.  The haphazard and naturally-grown flower beds of my garden are for me, a better representation of the inner self, the solitary and less-restrained id.

Hemerocallis 'Rocket Blast'

This week, the colors of the hills and grasses are changing fast; drier, yellower, heading towards their autumn tones and hinting of cooler days to come.   Vegetative growth slows while the frantic formation of fruits feverishly continues and accelerates.  The imperative to complete procreation, to ensure the passage of genes is upon every living thing, the products of sunlight and rain passed to the next generation as darkness falls.

This season, I enjoyed the days of daylilies, the hot colors of summer exploding into view, but as I've often found before, the season's favorites were defined by a certain hue, a new appreciation for some daylily palettes that I've overlooked before.   It seemed this year to be the "wines", the purple-reds, who replaced my previous fascinations with the oranges of last year, or the yellows of the year before, or the reds of three years past.   With some exceptions made, of course, for the occasional fiery orange or pastel perfect bloom whose beauty can't be so easily overlooked in any year.

This year, my garden and I have been easy friends, neither too demanding of the other, the garden accepting the little care I chose to provide and I happy with its parade of beauty, the sequence and progression of growth and species.  A balance and agreement made, I hope, for the future, of societal expectations ignored, and personal wishes granted.   My garden is not Eden, and far from perfect, but it returns the time I give it and I appreciate the gifts it gives me. 

This life, I'm content with, happy each morning and grateful each night for the day and daylilies that have graced me.  It's enough to welcome the rains as they come, to feel the warm sunlight on my skin, to accept love from outside, and to provide care in return. It's enough to see life flourish, from me, around me and within me, as the years go past.   It's enough to be part of it all, a cog in the wheel or a puppeteer of the play, it matters not, it's enough just to be here, present in the day.    

Eu-for-weed-ia?

ProfessorRoush woke up to a quandary this morning, a perplexing puzzle presented to him by the morning sunlight.  To wit, the question was whether he should pull the white-headed weed photographed to the right, or should he leave it be in its self-chosen spot, a fine display of green and white contrasts in the hot summer garden?  There is rarely enough color in a summer garden in Kansas and this single, debatably undesired plant (marked in the picture below by the arrow) is the most noticeable plant in the garden this morning, at least from my bedroom window.  Oh sure, there are a few spots of Russian sage around and a panicle hydrangea or three hanging out in the background, but nothing else so clean and white as this Euphorbia marginata, also known as Snow-On-The-Mountain, although I tend to refer to it as "Snow-In-Summer" before I think and correct myself.

What makes a plant a weed?   Some would say a weed is any plant that is in a place where we don't want it.   Others berate the character, the less-cultured characteristics of the plant or flower.  Always the gentleman, Emerson defined a weed as a plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.  Well, I've discovered the virtues of Euphorbia marginata.   It grows practically on every broken piece of ground in the area, and I've often pulled it before, especially when it was smothering or obscuring a plant that I wanted.   However, in certain places, like this spot where I have nothing else growing at present, I  practice tolerance and acceptance, as I've written before, and I will continue to do so in the future.   Snow-On-The Mountain has virtues, and virtues plenty.

Obviously adapted to my climate and thriving in the hottest and driest portions of summer, welcoming E. marginata into my garden is the very definition of minimal gardening.   It's large enough to make a vivid garden display even in a large garden (the books say 12"-40" tall but most here reach 4 feet and sometimes 5 feet).   It's compact, doesn't spread by sucker, well-mannered for its neighbors, flowers for months and it is beautiful in appearance.  Drought-tolerant, insect-free, disease-free and able to stand up to Kansas winds; exactly what else could I ask of it?   Snow-On-The-Mountain is also easy to pull where it's not wanted, the entire root coming up from any ground that isn't so dry as to actually form concrete.

Okay, I will admit that its milky latex-like sap can cause skin irritation in people with less thick hide than mine, but the only irritation I get is the agitation I experience trying to wipe it off my hands onto my jeans.  Cattle won't graze it because of its bitter taste, and it can be poisonous to them when dried as hay, but I have few cattle wandering my garden and, most importantly, deer won't eat this bitter plant either so it's one less plant I have to worry about when the furry rats raid my garden.   It's not edible, its sap may be carcinogenic, and its medicinal uses are few.   Historically it was crushed and made into a liniment and used as an astringent, and to treat leucorrhoea, which involves putting the liniment somewhere that would seem more likely to cause discomfort than healing wouldn't it?  

I'm not personally expecting a bout of leucorrhoea, but since I should always be prepared (even if I wasn't a Boy Scout), and the plant's presence and it's sap doesn't bother me and the deer won't bother it, I'm resolved to leave this clump right where it started, an affirmation of the value of native plants and a positive sign of my evolution as a gardener.   I'll still pull it from my strawberry patch, however!  

Please Don't Eat the Pretty Things

Sorry everyone, ProfessorRoush has been absent from the blog a couple of weeks.  I was deserted by Mrs. ProfessorRoush for the first week after she made some weak excuse about needing to hold grandchildren and then promptly left Bella and I to fend for ourselves.  Last week, missing both her cooking and mere presence, and tired of Bella moping around the house, I tracked Mrs. PR down in the wilds of Alaska, spent a few brief days myself holding the grandchildren while being sick alongside everyone else in the family, and then I dragged her back to Kansas.   

No, we didn't get COVID during 19 hours of travel getting there and another 23 hours returning (and yes, all of us tested negative for the virus), but we did catch what seemed to be a plain old common cold from our germ-growing grandchildren, the traditional route to pneumonia and demise for old folks.  Such is the cycle of life, but my little microbe-factory descendants didn't count on grandpa having a robust immune system bolstered by plenty of sunlight and clean living and I survived to garden again.  

'Scabrosa'

Unfortunately, we spent most of our time in the Alaskan territory either in airplanes or cuddling indoors, my journeys outside limited to one short hike, during which we came across the showy specimen of Amanita muscaria pictured at top, delicious in appearance and full of hallucinogens and toxins too numerous to name.   Potentially deadly but beautiful, the internet tells me that this species is likely safe to nibble on if I wanted a different type of trip, but I'm not tempted in the slightest.  Near the Amanita, I was able to capture the more typical Alaskan lakeshore scene above, just to prove to naysayers that I was certainly out of Kansas.   I was, in fact, hiking in the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge, on a short trail near the visitor's center. 

In another brief venture outside the plague house, I was quite happy to find a neglected Rugosa growing by the front steps, pictured above, here, and below, undoubtedly 'Scabrosa' and if it wasn't that variety, it's surely a Rugosa worthy of cultivation.  Those deep magenta single blooms are nearly the size of my hand and look at all the healthy deep-green foliage!  Here near a coastline, in cool temperatures, nearly daily rain, and partial shade and a USDA 4A climate, this rose is completely defiant to the elements.   Hardy is as hardy does, or so an Alaskan Forest Gump might say.

Not even the weird insects crawling all over this bloom seem to disturb it, merely, seemingly, just present to carry pollen from flower to flower.  Drawn here, certainly, by the heavy scent of this rugosa or by the enticing color, they are a bit disturbing at first encounter, somewhat revolting to find amid the golden stamens, but they are likely harmless sycophants of the glorious flower.   Heck, I don't blame them a bit for I'm a Rugosa syncophant as well and one that could, shrunk down to the right size, easily get lost in the majesty of a cluster of these blooms.

We returned yesterday, my reluctant empty-armed bride and I, transported from the 60's of Alaska to a 101ºF day of early August in Kansas and, arriving home, were immediately greeted by this spectacular clump of Naked Ladies Surprise Lilies right out front in their full bare-stemmed glory.   It was so hot that I was afraid that Mrs. ProfessorRoush might want to join in their carefree display so I ushered her into the house before she created any kind of neighborhood gossip.  Anyway, now you know what I've been doing these past two weeks, busy from sunup to sundown, from sneezes and sniffles to nose-wipes to naked ladies.   It's been a good two weeks here in my world.

Beatles Out, Bumbles In

'Snow Pavement'

As ProfessorRoush toured the garden this morning, in the cool beginning of another scorching day, his heart was lightened and his spirits were raised, for the Japanese Beetles were gone.  Gone entirely, without a remnant beetle or frass pile to be found.  I wish that I could claim victory was due to my spraying efforts two weeks back, but even one day post-spray the beetles were everywhere, bulbous and fornicating among the flowers.  I suspect that it's simply the cycle of seasons, the vile creatures have bred and laid eggs and are now gone until July of next year.  

'Foxi Pavement'

In their place, in seeming celebration of their lack of competitors, were bumblebees, healthy and fat and carrying loaded pollen sacks everywhere I looked.   Some of the rugosas, relieved of their beetle battles, were beginning to bloom again, scruffy, crinkled Rugosa blooms to be sure, but beetle-less blooms none-the-less.

'Foxi Pavement'

The bumblebees were on nearly every blossom of  'Snow Pavement' (above, right) and 'Foxi Pavement', above (left) and 'Dwarf Pavement' (below left).   Sometimes they frenetically fought over the blossoms, two or even three bumblebees colliding in their corybantic search for pollen (right).  

'Dwarf Pavement'

This moment, this smidgeon of summer, is why you need to grow the Pavement series rugosas.  Never mind that 'Dwarf Pavement' spreads like it is hellbent on world domination.   Never mind that the blooms of many Rugosa Hybrids wrinkle and fade quickly in the hot sun.   Pavement roses are here now, blooming now while little else dares, present in the moment, while even the daylilies are waning in their defiance of summer's peak.   They're providing food and color and fragrance as the rest of the world wilts without moisture.  Three bumblebee's in the photo at the left all give a "thumb's up" to Rugosas in summer!

'Snow Pavement'

Look at that healthy foliage around the delicate blooms of 'Snow Pavement' (right).  I don't spray for rust or blackspot or mildew, but those rough leaves are spotless and eternal.  They're not chewed to shreds, and the rose slugs and leaf cutters leave them alone.   They just sit out there in the garden, in the middle of 100ºF temps and without moisture for the past month, blooming away for the bees and for me.  They may not be fussy Hybrid Teas, shy and elusive in endless virginal glory, and they may not be Bourbons, spilling over with exquisite fragrance and grace, but they are perfect and beautiful and I welcome their languid lascivious display and their 2nd and 3rd and 4th bloom cycles each and every summer.  Don't you feel the same?

Pears Ahoy!

One secret of ProfessorRoush's garden is that there is an orchard, a decrepit excuse for an orchard anyway, that I'm not very proud of and don't discuss much.  I started it early after we built the house and placed it just below the crest of a south- and east-facing hillside, sloping down to a "draw" in hopes of sparing it from late freezes and the worst winds.   That plan would have worked pretty well, except that this is Kansas and I neglected to plan for the myriad of other threats they would face.  Since establishment, they've faced fire and freeze and drought and deer and what remains today is a pitiful remnant of the original dozen trees planted and a few replacements that followed.  My education in orchard farming has been "fruitless" and nonproductive, and today I have perhaps 3 healthy mature trees, one or two dwarf survivors, and a bunch of always-on-their-last-legs sticks that keep a leaf or two to tease me. 

It's not my fault, I promise.  My pyromaniac neighbors are responsible for the demise of several promising saplings. Despite protection within stone circles of bare earth, several near the boundary fence lines were regularly scorched by the annual prairie burns and simply gave up their efforts to survive.  Rutting deer have killed several by scarring the trunks during antler growth.  Of 4 apple trees, two were lost to fire and, although I have a love for 'Jonathan' apples in pies, the cedar rust here annually consumes my 'Jonathan', preventative spray or none.  The 4th apple tree, a 'Honeycrisp', has never borne fruit and I don't know why.  I've also learned that peaches of any kind are impossible here, the blooms destroyed by frosts every year, bearing any fruit at all only one year in five.  And that 5th year will be the one in which I neglected to spray them for peach leaf curl and worms.  Worst of all, perhaps, I completely underestimated the competition for water and nutrients from the prairie native grass, even when I kept it mowed beneath the trees.  Consequently, I gave up maintenance of the orchard and any spraying routine several years ago.

Imagine my surprise, then when I mowed around the remaining trees last week and found this 19-year-old 'Bartlett' pear (Pyrus communis) was loaded with fruit, the first time ever since it was planted in 2003.  I don't know why it's never had fruit, although I will admit I planted another pear in 2011 that, although it struggles, might have actually just bloomed and cross-pollinated with my 'Bartlett for the first time.   Here they are, regardless, healthy and growing, and completely organic since I haven't sprayed so much as dormant oil here for years. 

I'm going to monitor the heck out of these until harvest now, because I do like an occasional ripe pear, although I'm sure I'm setting myself up for frustration again.   If they survive the Japanese beetles which are munching nearby on the grape vines, and if the raccoons don't come in and eat them all before I realize they're ripe, and if the birds and worms don't ruin them, maybe, just maybe, I might have a tasty bite of pear this year before winter sets in.  Hope springs eternally from a gardener's heart.

Later. Let's Play Global Thermonuclear War...

Those who are of ProfessorRoush's era will recognize the quote represented by the title of this blog entry, and some may even hear it in the voice of Matthew Broderick, overriding the computer pleading, "How about a nice game of chess?"   Broderick, in 1983's War Games, ends up regretting his choice as the runaway computer tries to set WWIII into real motion.  The Japanese Beetles currently invading my garden are going to regret their attack as well.

'Marie Bugnet'

Despite my calm surrender of last year, I am not nearly so complacent this year as I confront the onslaught of the Japanese Beetle Hordes.   I first detected them on Monday, 7/4/2022, 4 small males, happily resting among 'Blanc Double de Coubert', my early warning detector.   Those first spies were tried and summarily executed by crushing, momentary satisfaction in a minor tactical skirmish.   Then, Wednesday night, there were more, a dozen enemy combatants on 'Blanc' and on 'Fru Dagmar Hastrup', a second front opened despite my earlier victory.

'Hope for Humanity'

I resolved, given the hot weather and my workload, to spray the first thing Saturday, a perceived opportunity to head off the main battle, but as I prepared my defenses yesterday these beasts stepped completely over the line.   They were on every rose when I went to reconnoiter.  They were on semi-doubles, doubles, and even singles like the Kordes hybrid of 'Rosalina'.  Past years, they've been attracted to 'Blanc', 'Fru Dagmar', maybe 'Martin Frobisher' or 'Morden Blush' in overflow, but they've left the reds alone.  This year they were on reds, pinks, and even my beloved 'Marie Bugnet.'  Is there 'Hope for Humanity' when they attack such a peacefully-named red rose?   Regardless, beetles fornicating on the virginal white blooms of  'Marie Bugnet' is a step beyond what I can abide.  Forget the calm internet recommendations for knocking them into a bucket of soapy water or for hand-picking them and crushing them.   Forget the controversary over the question of whether Beetle traps kill or simply attract more to your garden.   

'Blanc' with 10 beetles

All that changes when you look at this picture of 'Blanc Double de Coubert'.   How many beetles are visible in this small area.   I'll give you a hint...it's ten.   Ten individuals, with several in fornication mode.

'Rosalina'

If it is war they want, then war they shall have.  I'm going completely nuclear in my garden.  Yesterday I drenched everything in Ortho Rose Spray, labeled for beetles and all manner of creepy creatures.  You can see it in the pictures, all these beetles individually soaking in the insecticide.  Last night, they still squirmed and moved, leading me to doubt the efficacy of Ortho spray.   

'Linda Campbell'

During my afternoon reconnaissance, I expect the battle temporarily won, but I have little real hope of going out to find the beetles gone.  If yesterday's spray isn't effective, I'll be making the rounds of box stores today.   Perhaps something less-pyrethriny, my pretties?  Something less gentle, something more lethal?   You can't win a war by being nice.

Yes, there will be innocent casualties.  The bumbles in my back yard had better stay away from the roses, or they'll be swept up in friendly fire.   This fat bombardier on 'Raspberry Rugostar' was minding his own business, but less than 4 inches from this guy a beetle feasted on another bloom.  Must I chose a Silent Spring over a summer smothered in beetle frass?  It seems the answer is "yes."  Victory is by no means certain, but defeat and capitulation are no longer viable choices.

1004 Mortal Moments

'Cosmic Struggle' early morning

ProfessorRoush had grandiose plans, a year back, to celebrate the 1000th published entry of this blog as he recognized the landmark nearing.  I had such hopes of a deep, thought-provoking masterpiece, complete with photographs of unblemished and vividly-colored blooms and prose fit to stir awe and envy in all its readers.  I resolved carefully to watch, to remain vigilant as the day approached, to portend and celebrate its long-awaited moment.

'Space Coast Color Scheme'

This week, I realized that I had missed it, that 1000th entry, which actually occurred on May 22nd last, the milestone sneaking past in yet another banal description of yet another badly-needed rain brought by yet another terrifying summer storm front.  I not only overlooked the occasion once, nor twice, but 3 times, like Peter denying acquaintance of the Savior, the post today sneaking in as my 1004th, according to Blogger's count.  Caught up in life, caught up in the garden, I lost sight of the broader vision, missed the passage of time and the momentary significance of yet another blog entry.

'Marie Bugnet'

How do I now make up for it, that lost opportunity, the special occasion gone uncelebrated?   I thought long and hard on it since I realized the oversight.  Do I photograph the perfect rose for you, perhaps the virginally-perfect 'Marie Bugnet' to the right of these words?   She is, after all, one of my all-time favorites, the first to greet my hungry eyes most springs, tirelessly blooming the rest of the summer over perfect foliage.  

'Amethyst Art'

Should it instead be a new daylily addition to my garden, heavily-anticipated and fulfilling it's promise, such as the thick-petaled 'Cosmic Struggle' at the top of this entry, or the striking 'Space Coast Color Scheme' to the left of the second paragraph here?   Or the older, yet still splendid, 'Amethyst Art' shown to the right, chosen out of its many, many cousins for its timeless beauty and productivity?   'Cosmic Struggle' is newer to the world and simply striking, as shown above at the morning's call, but these same blooms at the end of the day lack the grandeur of the morning (below).  'Space Coast Color Scheme' has been tremendously prolific this year, a sight to behold, but no matter how bonny the mass, her individual blooms are orange and yellow, the most common of daylily colors.  

'Cardinal de Richelieu'

Should I overwhelm  your senses with the sumptuous purple tones of 'Cardinal de Richelieu', blooming at the time of the 1000th blog? Or should I instead tempt you with a rose new to my garden, yet undescribed here in these pages but healthy in my garden?  Decisions, decisions, so difficult to make and so impactful once made.

Bull Thistle

Wait, would another blog about a native prairie plant interest you?   I've been lately concerned with the Bull Thistles in my pasture, the aptly latin-named Cirsium vulgare.   Another member of the Sunflower Family, it's a noxious weed on the prairie, not, unfortunately a forb to celebrate but one to ruthlessly cut down and eliminate.  It is so hated that folklore has it that merely chopping it down at this stage is not enough as it will still develop viable seed in the pods.  I'm skeptical of that story after looking at the dry remains of mine after 3 days in the prairie heat.  My maternal grandfather always said to chop it down on June 23rd and over time it will disappear from the pasture.  I'll stand by that, having witnessed the effect of the procedure on an entire pasture full of Bull Thistles in my Indiana youth. 

Perhaps, as a 1000th entry should be, I should present here a grand summation of the garden, a broader picture of life here on the Kansas Flint Hills?   My current view from my bedroom window, greeting me cheerfully and colorfully each and every morning when I assess the weather (left)?   Or a vista of the rear garden, daylilies in the back patio bed in the fore, the blue mists of Russian Sage (Perovskia atriplicifolia ‘Filigran’) and white of Hydrangea paniculata ‘QuickFire’ in the midphoto, and the color of daylilies in the rear (below)?  Things bloom in the garden, and my attention follows the blooms as randomly as I weed or keep track of the number of blog posts.   But these photographs were taken as I began this blog, another captured moment in time.

'Cosmic Struggle' late-day

In reaching this paragraph, I have by now realized, of course, that the occasion is past, lost to time and inattention, never to be relived or revered.   The next milestones, at 5000 or 10000 entries, are so far into the future that I can only faintly hope to still be able to write and garden and reach them, the first 1000 taking nearly 12 years to form.  Even 5000 new thoughts are difficult to conceive of, and who would still be reading them if they weren't each new and interesting?  Perhaps I should think in terms of years, blog birthdays, and celebrate instead 15 years or 20 years or 25 years of thoughts and blogs.  July 28th, 2022 for instance, will mark 12 years of blogging.  And yet it seems such an evasion, an excuse, a compromise of virtue to accept  such an altered goalpost as won.  Like 'Cosmic Struggle' (right) losing its cosmic struggle at the day's end, I  give you here a mere shadow of what could have been.   We will all just have to be content with celebrating this, my 1004th blog entry, and each to follow.