Snakes Ahoy!

One never knows, do we?  Last Friday started out as a normal day, but it certainly ended with a bang.  After my workday, Mrs. ProfessorRoush and I slipped away for a bite to eat, and then she went on home to walk our ancient Brittany Spaniel while I stopped back to check on a resident doing a surgery. 

I can testify that Mrs. ProfessorRoush was entirely normal when we parted, but twenty minutes later when I pulled into the garage, I was met at the door to my car with a disheveled, shouting caricature of my wife and a very excited Brittany.   At least I think it was my wife for she was moving so quickly her outline was blurry.  It seems that on their walk, they had encountered the first of this summer's snake denizens.  

Scotophis obsoletus, Western Rat Snake

As I listened and tried to calm Mrs. ProfessorRoush, all the while wondering if the garage and car windows were going to shatter from either decibel level or pitch, I understood clearly what detectives and FBI agents are up against when they discuss the unreliability of eyewitnesses.  If I had taken Mrs. ProfessorRoush's account as gospel, this particular snake had coiled up to a height approaching ten feet, threatened to strike at my Brittany with bared fangs, and then chased them out of the yard. 

I know that I've led many of the readers of this blog to believe that I'm also scared of snakes, but that is not entirely true.  Yes, I don't care to have them pop up at my feet or strike at my shovel from underneath a perennial I'm transplanting, but my panic episodes at such times are temporary and only rarely results these days in running clear past township or county borders.  I have been so desensitized by the number of reptiles on the Kansas Flint Hills that I certainly still jump, but then I calm down while I'm waiting for gravity to reacquaint the earth with my feet, and I rationally determine the type of snake and the relative danger to my garden visitors (pet or human).

This particular snake was (is) about a six foot long and 2 inch diameter Western Rat Snake, Scotophis obsoletus (or is it Elaphe obsoletus? Or Pantherophis obsoletus?), and it is a constrictor, not a biter.   I did not, as counseled by Mrs. ProfessorRoush, "get a shotgun and blow it to smithereens."  I have a strict species-ism hierarchy in my garden, hating rodents more than snakes, so I welcome any of the latter benign hunters.  Additionally, I have yet to see a poisonous snake in my garden and I have theorized that if a nice, big rat snake is clearing out the hunting grounds, I have less chance of hearing a rattle next to my feet as I trim the roses.  A snake this big will also occasionally catch and give a rabbit a love hug, so this guy may even help me to raise some lettuce this year.  Besides, according to my references, the Western Rat Snake has a home range of approximately 30 acres, so I'm not very likely to see him again soon.

All of the proceeding thoughts weave a nice rationalization, but it doesn't wash at all with Mrs. ProfessorRoush, who prefers all slithering insects and reptiles to be in the process of decay.  Not even the chance for fresh lettuce can dissuade her, and I now have some work to do to restore my gardening knight in shining armor image at home.  C'est la vie.   

Labeling; well, I tried

A recent post on Gardenweb.com reminded me to check up on an experiment I tried a summer back in my garden.  In 2009, when my garden was on the local annual Garden Tour, I put a little time into labeling most of the roses.  Knowing that the zinc/soft pencil labels are notorious for fading, I decided to spray some of the labels with Helmsman Spar Urethane, chosen because "it forms a protective barrier against rain and moisture" and "the enhanced ultraviolet absorbers found in Helmsman reduce the graying and fading effects of the sun."

Well, you can see the results below.  The three labels pictured were all created and put into the garden in Spring, 2009 and remained there, so they've been exposed to two Springs, two hot Kansas Summers and one very cold Kansas Winter. The urethane coating did decrease the fading, but there was a drawback, as you can see in the third picture;  at some point the urethane flaked off a number of the labels leaving them worse than before.  I'd say about 50% of the labels look like the first picture at this point and the other 50% look like the third; or worse.  We'll call this experiment a gigantic fail.

Coated Label at 1.5 years

Uncoated Label at 1.5 years

Oops;  flaking away...should say "Buck Rose" at the top

Back to the drawing board, eh?  Must make a note to redouble my efforts to keep plant locations listed on the computer....and backed up.

An American Pillar

For this Labor Day of the year of our Lord 2010, I'd like to highlight a now infrequently seen but delightful rambler, the rose 'American Pillar'.  'American Pillar' has been variously described as being a cross between  R. wichuraiana and the native prairie rose, or R. wichuraiana and an unknown hybrid perpetual, but regardless of its parentage, the result was a once-blooming cold-hardy and disease resistant rambler.  In bloom, it's covered with hundreds of small (1 inch) five-petaled carmine pink flowers with white center eyes and golden stamens. Although it's once-blooming and lacks discernible fragrance, it blooms for a long (3 week) period towards the end of blooming of the other roses, and then leaves behind a number of small orange-red hips for winter interest.  It was introduced by famous rose-breeder Dr. Walter Van Fleet in 1902, so this rose has its centennial well behind it. 

Here in the Flint Hills, 'American Pillar' is unfailingly healthy and makes a monster of a rose.  I've read stories of it rambling around to 30 feet and smothering everything in its path, but here in Kansas new canes reach about 12-16 feet by the end of a season and I seldom grow a cane into year two. In my garden, I train the rose by spiraling it on a ten-foot tall four-by-four post and it regularly threatens to pull the post over under its bulk.  Many new canes arise annually from the base, and since those canes are said to provide the best bloom, I trim out the two-year old canes in favor of the new canes in late winter.  This annual cleaning improves air flow to the otherwise clogged center and gives me an occasion to collect and tie up the new canes which have sprawled over several 'Rugelda' roses, a "White Profusion" buddleia, two rustled cemetery roses and a number of daylilies in the near vicinity.  It makes, as you can see at the right, a stunning display in my garden to highlight the end of the first summer bloom cycle of the roses.  

'American Pillar' is a long-lived rose as well.  Plants set in the ground almost a century ago at the Pierre du Pont estate (now Longwood Gardens) are still climbing over metal arches in a courtyard.  I've grown 'American Pillar' for 9 years now in its present position and it shows no signs of weakness and never needs spraying for fungal disease. 

In the interests of full disclosure, I might not mind it if the rose would weaken, at least a little.  Those vigorous 1/2 inch thick canes are armed with exceedingly vicious thorns and I try to do the annual pruning and lashing up of 'American Pillar' on a particularly cold day so my skin doesn't feel the pricks so much and so that all the blood stops flowing and freezes quickly.  I've had bouts with this rose that leave me looking like I'm one of the victims in a slasher movie, but I wouldn't have it any other way.  Those incredibly thick blooms are simply too gorgeous to turn away from.

Bring on the Storms

It seems like the weather across the U.S. has cooled a bit this week and the Flint Hills were no exception, with highs in the 80's and lows in the 60's the latter part of the week.  It isn't winter, but it's a darned sight better than the last month of daily 100's we had.

What we still need in Kansas though, is rain, and lots of it.  On August 20th, we got 1.7 inches of rain, the first significant moisture since early July, and I thought that would help quench the thirsty plants, but I divided a peony two days later and amongst the rock-hard clay clods I couldn't detect that a lick of moisture had been added.  I'm considering adding a motion-triggered camera facing my rain gauge to make sure Mrs. ProfessorRoush isn't adding water to the gauge just to help me feel better.  Even the areas I've mulched with 6 inch-thick prairie hay are dry underneath as far as I can dig with a mattock. 

This is want I want to see; Storm clouds rolling from my north and west.

It's bad enough that I'm seriously reconsidering the utility of ceremonial rain dances by the ancient prairie peoples. I've been googling "rain dance" and "Kansa" to see what worked best for those who survived on this land in the past, but to no avail.  My googles were in vain as so many of those traditions are sadly lost to history.  I learned only that the dancers moved in a zig-zag fashion and that the rain ceremonies were one of the few tribal ceremonies where women were also allowed to dance. I probably couldn't correctly do the steps anyway, but I wonder if my neighbors would mind if they saw me out chanting and wailing across the prairie?  Given my past actions, it's feasible that they wouldn't notice the difference from my usual gardening practices.

The current tradition of Flint Hill's gardeners is to pray loudly for the appearance of storm clouds such as those pictured above.  Now, yes, it's true, Kansas is a famous place for tornadoes, not because we have more than any other state (we're actually down a bit on that list, below both Texas and Oklahoma), but of course because of that darned Oz film that has so poorly stereotyped this state for centuries to come. The true case is that most of the native Kansans, or even the transplants, like myself, cheer up when they see those dark clouds coming over the horizon.  Yes, there's a small chance of destruction, but they also bring life-giving rain to soak the earth down deep into that solid sterile clay. It's a renewal of our souls. We, my neighbors and I, we watch the skies and welcome the building thunderheads.  My small wind vane warns me early as it swings first to the west to feed the storm for an hour or so, and then, in the seconds just before it hits, back to the east as the downdrafts swoop in.

It's time for Fall to come and wake me up some night with the wind howling through the storm doors or with a nice downpour on the skylights.  I promise, I'll just smile and turn right back over to sleep.  Come rain, Come life.

Surprising Beauty

Oh boy, was I ever surprised!  I knew that one of the common names for Lycoris squamigera was "Surprise Lily," but when one cropped up in my garden this year, I was stunned speechless by this clear pink beauty. Right in the midst of the recent month-long drought and heat cycle, this plant was developing right under my nose and then it exploded in color while everything else in the garden was looking tired and worn.

 I can't recall now that I have ever planted or purchased a Surprise Lily. I'll admit that I do recall considering the purchase of a Lycoris bulb last Fall, but I also recall rejecting the idea because I'd have had to take out a 2nd mortgage to pay for it since it seemed to be priced by its weight in gold. I even missed seeing the daffodil-like foliage that must have been right there in front of my eyes during the spring and early summer. Maybe I thought it was a clump of daffodils and overlooked the lack of bloom. Regardless, someone obviously has snuck into my garden in the dead of night and planted a delayed present for me. It vaguely worries me that this pink alien plant has been placed into my garden without my knowledge, and I guess I need either a louder dog or I need to install tripwires and claymores in my garden to prevent a recurrence of the vandalism. It certainly can't be that my memory might be showing its age. Nah, I must have had a surprise benefactor. 

For those who haven't grown one yet, there isn't a much easier plant for Kansas.  Buy a large bulb, plant it, forget about it, and up it will come to brighten a dreary August day.  Lycoris is supposed to be adapted to regions with wet springs and long summer droughts and if that doesn't describe the Flint Hills, I don't know what does. The Surprise Lily is also known by a number of other quite descriptive names, my favorites of which are "Resurrection Lily" and "Naked Ladies."  The first of those names seems very appropriate since the foliage of this member of the Amaryllis family sprouts and grows in the spring, dies in June, and then the tall stalk and 4 inch trumpet-shaped flowers appear in just a few days in August.  The second name, "Naked Ladies," obviously refers to the lack of leaves around the solo stems when the flowers appear. Gardeners aren't generally a group of hopeless reprobates, but we do have our little giggles, don't we?

I do have one bias about Surprise Lilies that may surprise you.  Recently, every day as I go to work I pass a yard with a couple of beds filled with nothing but Surprise Lilies (think how differently that sounds than if I said I passed a bed of Naked Ladies).  The in-mass effect of these lilies in the bed doesn't have the effect on me that clumps of Surprise Lilies spread out among other perennials and shrubs do, so I think I'm going to spread mine out in clumps over my beds.  Better to have a little less of a good thing than to overdo it.

I've got to go out this Fall to find more of these bulbs to spread around my garden.  But first, does anyone have any suggestions regarding what I should tell Mrs. ProfessorRoush when the credit card bill shows up in September with multiple entries for "naked ladies?"

For the Beauty of the Earth

North view from my house in December.

Subject to human failings like everyone else, I sometimes forget to look past the mildewed phlox and the blackspot on the roses and the burning August days and see the beauty that is everywhere around me on the prairie.  Thankfully, I am constantly reminded that one cannot live in the Kansas Flint Hills without eventually realizing that our gardens are but a minor fraction of the glory going on all around us. Whether it's the drying hay bales to feed winter stock that have been rolled up from the bountiful prairie, or whether its the fall russets that the prairie grasses take on, occasionally, just occasionally, the hues of the earth and sky come together to create a picture that one may capture in a few digital pixels, but can only dream of creating.  Fall rain washes the dust off  the grasses and the moisture makes the dull brown grasses turn red to meet the changing of seasons.  Eventually, the prairie tones itself to compliment the wide sky in autumn.

The heat will break.  Fall is coming.  Have a restful Sunday, one and all!     

Strutting Plants

Gardeners, in general, are a diverse mass of good people, but even the soul-building activities of toiling in soil and caring for living plants does not make us immune to the cardinal sin of vainglory (better known to modern sinners as vanity). Most every gardener I know, without exception, craves that occasional rare plant that will make a visitor exclaim "What is that beautiful plant?!"

During the city garden tour a couple of years back, the plant in my garden that made almost everyone swoon, and ask about, was a surprise even for it's gardener. I don't know where I came across Centaurea macrocephala, but sometime in the past my usual inclination to collecting plants had caused me to purchase and plant it, and by the time the Garden Tour rolled around, it was quite the conversation piece. Centaurea macrocephala, also known as Giant Knotweed, Yellow HardHat, Armenian Basketflower, Globe Centaurea or Lemon Fluff Knapweed (where do they get those names?), is a clump-forming perennial of the Aster family that has essentially two sequential periods of beauty; one when the golden flower buds form, and another when they open to large, yellow, thistle-like flowers. It is attractive to bees and makes a great cut flower, but most importantly it is a standout in the early summer border. At 4 years old, it is a 2 foot diameter by 3 foot tall plant that causes me absolutely no extra care beyond cutting it back to the ground each spring. Rumored to self-seed, I haven't seen any evidence yet that it'll become a pest in my garden, although it has been labeled a Class A Noxious Weed in Oregon and Washington. According to the Internet, it is deer-resistant, drought-tolerant, hardy to zone 3, and thrives in my limey Flint Hills soil. It's a perfect plant except for now, in August, when it's drying up and is a little bit of an eyesore. Luckily for me and my vanity, garden visitors never venture out in the sweltering Kansas heat of August to see that phase.

You should try it in your own prairie garden, if you can find it, but until it's more readily available, I'm keeping my swagger over having this plant.

Sentimental Plant Names

Rosa 'Prairie Star'

As a plant-collecting gardener, I often run across and purchase plants whose name has some connection with people or places in my life.  For instance, years ago we participated, with our neighbors, in naming the newly-created road we now live on.  Since we live in the Kansas prairie where yearly burning of pasture is a way of life, there was some sentiment for naming the road "Prairie Fire," but ultimately none of us wanted to be on the phone to the fire department shouting "there's a prairie fire out of control on Prairie Fire!" and so we chose to name it Prairie Star Drive.  Come to find out, Dr. Griffith Buck of Iowa State had bred and introduced in 1975 a rose named 'Prairie Star', so I, of course, purchased and planted the rose at home and it's become one of my favorites.  'Prairie Star', a fully-double light pink rose, is perfectly cane-hardy without winter protection and disease-resistant without spraying here in Kansas and it blooms continually through the warm seasons. 

Phlox paniculata 'David'

Another happy accident has been the 'David' phlox (Phlox paniculata ‘David’) that I purchased only for the reason that I have a son of that name.  'David' is a pure white phlox with light green foliage that grows well and blooms spectacularly for about 6 weeks in my climate.  It has the added benefit of being a little rampant in my garden, self-seeding true to form in a number of places it has found to its liking, and it is quite pleasantly fragrant. Most of the white blobs that appear in my landscape in July and August are, on close examination, either a cloned 'David' or self-seeded version. It has only a single drawback, a tendency to mildew in moist years as this year has been, but I use it as a mildew indicator plant and spray when the lower leaves turn a bit grey and the mildew is thus easily controlled.    

Of course, not all sentimental experiments turn out nearly so well.  I've had a couple of attempts to grow a namesake for my wife, the white hybrid musk rose 'Kathleen', but alas, either the rose is not hardy enough in my Zone 5 climate or perhaps it detects that its namesake won't tolerate any competition for affection in my garden and it commits horticultural self-suicide.

Given human nature, I suspect that other gardeners also have a weakness for familarly-named plants.  So what's in your garden?

Why'd it have to be snakes?

One thing about it for sure; there are certainly snakes on the Flint Hills prairie.  As a general rule, I don't mind snakes, but I don't appreciate it when they fail to calmly announce their presence in my vicinity.  In my garden, they have a tendency to appear suddenly near my ankles. During the next few seconds after these encounters, when I’ve spontaneously broken the Olympic and World Records for the high jump, with my legs churning frantically to gain traction from the air, and while the snake is making all haste to head in an opposite direction, I realize what I’ve seen and ascertain whether or not it was a real threat and start becoming curious about it instead of scared. At heart, I'm a collector and cataloguer and I like to know what species share my garden with me.

The snakes in my vicinity are a gregarious group, and luckily, although there are a number of poisonous snakes listed as possibly present in my area, in ten years of living here I've only seen (or heard) the non-poisonous ones.  I worry about rattlesnakes alot, though, particularly since a great local reference, Amphibians and Reptiles in Kansas by Joseph T. Collins, makes a point of saying that "No one should rely on any rattlesnake to warn them by rattling, since many rattlesnakes never rattle until stepped on or otherwise molested."  Thanks a whole lot, Joseph, I've slept well ever since hearing that information.

The beauty pictured at the right is a Common Garter Snake that I found when I was moving a rose bush.  This cheeky fellow was biting at my shovel as I attempted to get underneath the bush.  He later apologized and became a frequent bystander as I did other gardening chores, slithering up to give his unsolicited opinion as I watered, mulched, or weeded.  I finally learned not to jump in panic if I saw orange and movement in my peripheral vision and the snake did his part by never again biting at my shovel.   I believe the same snake lived in the garden for three years, although I don't know where he takes his winter vacations to, but this season I've only seen offspring, so the patriarch may have moved on where his opinions were more valued. 

August Doldrums

Here in the Flint Hills, my gardening efforts dwindle off in July and August as the sun and heat build and chase me inside. The garden doesn't die off during this period, it just carries on without the gardener for a period of time while the gardener swallows the bitter pill of survival instinct and chooses wisely to remain indoors. Somewhere out there, however, beyond the window panes, the garden blooms madly on without me. Daylilies are a popular plant here, and an excellent choice they are for Kansas. They start to bloom just as the gardener begins to wilt in early July and they remain at full force throughout July and into August in most years, carrying the garden through the long hot summer days. My gardening efforts for the past few weeks of 95+ degree temperatures have been confined to weekly mowing duties, quick darts out in the early morning hours to keep the crabgrass from becoming a groundcover in the garden beds, and an occasional watering expedition where I consume more water trying to keep myself hydrated than I ultimately sprinkle onto the young plants. I've watched from the windows as the daylilies have thrived and bloomed and sent their masses of yellow, orange and red hues across the yard. Some garden authors, such as the titillating Cassandra Danz, have noted that most daylilies described as peach, apricot, and cantaloupe still look mostly orange from a distance, but my garden has been saved from orange monotony because of my weakness for purple, white, and red daylilies. At the annual Flint Hills Daylily Society sale, I've made it a habit to avoid the "orange" tables and seek out the spiders, the reblooming pinks, large whites, and the true red self daylilies. Rather than an orange blend, I try to optimistically believe that my daylily beds are a tapestry of colors for a connoisseur’s palate.

Now, as August is closing in, the daylilies are starting to fade. Some will go on, but the continuing solo blossoms of 'Happy Returns' and 'Stella de Oros' just don't have the impact that the full choir of Hemerocallis in mass provides in July. The foliage will dry up, the scapes will become brittle, and the seed pods of some varieties will rupture and spill onto the ground. And I will miss their cheerfulness for another year.

To My Readers; The Beginning

I owe an explanation to readers who have found this blog and are wondering what on earth ever possessed me to begin it:

Once upon a time there was a poor, young (in spirit) veterinary surgeon who gardened and also had a hankering to write and so he wrote about the subject that fueled his passions and occupied his leisure time: Gardening. And lo, this gardening writer lived, gardened and wrote in the Flint Hills of Kansas and he was mightily tested and tried by the land, sun and sky, and he had many weather events and dead plants to write about such as the snow-covered lilacs on the picture to the right. So eventually there came a book, whimsically titled "Garden Musings: Essays on Gardening and Life from the Kansas Flint Hills." And the book was published by iUniverse.com and it was available on Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com and he believed that it was good. And the readers and friends of the writer laughed with him and laughed at him and for a time he found contentment in his trials. But the writing lacked pictures to go along with the text and the writer missed interacting with his readers and so, on the sixth day, he created THE BLOG so that he might illustrate his thoughts with his own photos and that he might gain feedback far and wide from the critics.

For those who enjoy this blog, the book that started it all can be sampled and ordered from http://www.kansasgardenmusings.com/, where you also may directly contact me for autographed copies if desired. I'm fast in the midst of a 2nd book, at present titled More Garden Musings, so watch for it to be published in early 2011.

Happy Gardening to all: ProfessorRoush 7/28/10