Bee-Musings

ProfessorRoush doesn't have a nice, neat patriotic theme for you on this July 4th.  I suppose I could walk out the front door and grab a few pictures of the pure white phlox 'David', and the bright red 'Wave' petunias at the foot my of driveway, add a snapshot of a bit of Russian Sage or lavender from the other side of the house to approximate the blue, and then I could contrive a nice rousing image of a celebration of independence with those pictures, but my writer's muse just won't cooperate today.  The country's mood, and my mood, doesn't seem to be one of celebration this July Fourth, but of turmoil and division, uncertainty and strife.  Or maybe that's just me.

I'm thinking a lot about bees this year, and on this 4th day of July, for some subconscious reason that I can't yet name, I'm thinking of them again.  I"m photographing bees on flowers everywhere, I'm reveling in their presence in my garden, and I'm rejoicing in every little buzzing busy bee that I find, and I don't know why.  For whatever reason, bees are reaching my happy center this summer, spreading joy with wings and all their six legs.  Everywhere I look, there they are, crawling over the delicate petals and flying from each ripe blossom to the next. And every time I find a bee on a blossom, out comes my camera and a picture is born.

I'm always happy that there are bees in my garden, but this year their presence seems more special to me.  Have I somehow internalized my concern over their well-being, over the very-real threats to their survival?  Am I searching for saneness, for certainty and assurance that the world is not on the verge of collapse as it sometimes seems?  Does the world make more sense with bees in the picture?

Why, on the 4th of July, are bees my subject?  It's quite a stretch to connect bees to a patriotic holiday, notwithstanding the existence of the "Patriotic American Flag Honey Bee T-shirt" and its clever superimposition of a bee silhouette over an American flag.  And I must admit, I chuckled over another Amazon-sold T-shirt emblazoned with "All Hive Matters."  Bee-keepers are a society unto themselves, I guess.  But other than noting these shirts as possible surprise gifts for the beekeepers in my life, I can't consciously make a case for Patriotic bees. 

Perhaps, deep inside the quirky recesses of my id, bees DO represent normalcy.  Maybe I'm secretly craving this year a unified society where each has a role for the good of all.  The queen, the drone, and the worker, all working as one, in one direction, as one strong society.  Don't, I beg you, take that sentiment as any calling for communism or socialism.  ProfessorRoush tries to avoid political subjects on this blog and flowers only mix with politics when the flowers are in a politician's lapel hole.  Bees should matter, but I'm not going to say so, or wear a shirt that says so, because who knows who one might offend these days.  People aren't drones, and while many of us are worker bees and a few of us may be royalty, we have choice and we should exercise it and grow each to our greatest potentials.

Well, I'm far afield in my ramblings and rants on this day, Independence Day 2020.  You can just enjoy the bees, along with me, and forget all about the rest of this.  Or we can all gather a little pollen today, a little goodwill for all, and take it back to support our hives, working separately but together, all to survive from this year into the next.   God knows, if we don't learn to work together, we're going to get a little hungry this winter.          

Hope Lost and Found

Hemerocallis 'Blue Racer'

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

Hemerocallis 'Beautiful Edgings'

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

Hemerocallis 'Space Coast Color Scheme' 

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

Euonymus Scale

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

'Hope for Humanity'

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

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

Brazen Rabbit

All right, that's enough!   ProfessorRoush has let this go on far too long. 

I thought it was bad enough when I spied one little rabbit in my front landscaping.  Then a few weeks later, Bella was staring out the window, watching it  play right on the front porch.

But, wait, I'm seeing double now!  Two rabbits?  I shudder to think what they're nibbling on deep in my perennial beds. (this one might move if you click on it...I forgot and the camera was on "Live").

Bella, get to work! They're breeding like....bunnies!

Thistle Excite You

'Kaveri'

ProfessorRoush would have a more witty and winsome post this morning, but the evening stroll last night with Bella left him speechless at the beauty.  We had a brief rain this morning and, little as it was, the flowers were all the happier because of it.   We needed the rain; even the buffalograss was about ready to call it quits.  Besides, I'm tired from swinging steel (I'll explain at the bottom).  Now I'll shut up and let you enjoy:









This 'Kaveri' lily, an Oriental-Asiatic cross I've had in the garden for 5 years.  She's tough, about 3 foot tall, and blooms her head off.   I've got several clumps and comes back year after year.  She just started to bloom, a little later than the Asiatics, a little earlier than the Oriental and Orientpet lilies. 

'Spider Man' daylily

And here, the first bloom of a new daylily for me, Hemerocallis 'Spider Man'.  This Award of Merit winner has 7 inch blooms of the brightest, most soul-quenching red you would ever want in your garden.  I'm pleased this spider-type daylily has joined mine.













These perennial sweet peas have never climbed and covered this makeshift trellis as I envisioned for them, but they bloom a nice happy shade of pink in the down season between the first bloom of the roses and the blitzkrieg of the daylilies.












I didn't plan this combination of daylily and 'Tiger Eye's sumac, but the momma sumac seven feet away suckered over next to the daylily and embraced it.  This is one of those fortuitous moments in a gardener's life that won't ever repeat, because next year this baby sumac will be too big to allow it to stay here.











Another great combination provided by the wiles of fate, this grouping of orange Asclepias tuberosa, yellow-orange Black-Eyed Susan, and the young blood-red Hollyhock all self-seeded themselves to this spot; two natives and a cultivated garden escapee.  The only thing I planted in this picture was the low-growing yellow barberry, 'Gold Nugget' which has been there for years.

Wavy-Leaf thistle

So, why am I tired?  Well, that's the fault of Mrs. ProfessorRoush.  No stop it, that's not what I mean.  Yesterday, she photographed this Wavy-Leaf Thistle, Cirsium undulatum (at least that's what I think it is), and she posted it on Facebook.  I'd been eyeing the thistles in the surrounding pasture, knowing that they were close but hoping they would wait a week to start blooming.  But no, this one had to start early, and Mrs. ProfessorRoush had to post it on Facebook right away, thus providing photographic evidence for the county authorities that I was allowing a noxious weed to populate the prairie.  I discovered late in the day that she had literally forced my hand and so I spent an hour last night swinging a machete and chopping off thistles, in the wet grass no less.  Thistles are one flower I just can't tolerate proliferating in my prairie, any more than I can abide a wife serving as an unwitting spy for the county.

Deep Purple Passions

Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who's the purple-ist rose of all?  My rose garden was deliciously purple last week, plenty of purple pulchritude (I always wanted to use that word) to lure me down into the garden for a closer view of the sumptuous rich colors.     

'Basye's Purple'

I'll present each in turn, but how better to start than with 'Basye's Purple'?  I probably shouldn't play favorites right away, but this year, 'Basye's Purple Rose' is the best, in my opinion, of my purples.  'Cardinal de Richelieu' might have given it a run for it's money, but my 'Cardinal' is a year-old rooted cutting that only had two blooms this year, my former one perplexingly perishing several years ago.  Like-wise, 'Purple Pavement' didn't bloom well yet this year, though I have comeback hopes for that repeat-bloomer.  For now, however, it's 'Basye's Purple', a thorny mass of a bush with very thick and spiny stems that has captured center stage.  Those large, single blooms covered the bush this year, deeply velvet and brooding among the clean foliage.  Thankfully, unlike many of the other dark roses on this page, the petals of 'Basye's Purple Rose' seem impervious to the hot sun, only the golden stamens fading slowly as they age.

'Charles de Mills'

'Charles de Mills' is not really so purple in my garden, but this flat-formed, short, suckering Gallica has some purple tones and its color deepens with age.  My 'Charles de Mills' grows more as a thicket of blooms than a rose bush, but it persists and pushes forth blossoms even in the worst springs.  The heady fragrance can be sampled without bending down to the rose, and it is so packed full of petals that I'll give it a pass for being more red than purple.  I was most chagrined, writing this, to find that I've never featured 'Charles de Mills' in this blog so you'll see that my links here don't go back to Garden Musings.  I think I'm too late in it's bloom cycle to get some nice pictures of the "thicket" this year, but I'll keep it in mind for next year.

'La Reine'

Another purplish Hybrid Perpetual, 'La Reine' has been in my garden for almost a decade and it has been a trouble-free, if perhaps only mildly interesting, bush.  It requires little or no extra care and has been free of Rose Rosette disease despite it's placement next to my ailing and super-affected 'American Pillar'.  The violet blooms are fragile, almost dainty, but it's exposure is primarily to morning sun so it doesn't suffer from the hot afternoon sun.   

'Orpheline de Juliet'

I raved last year about my young deep purple Gallica 'Orpheline de Juliet', and this year's display was no different.  Those purple buttons are just jewels against the lighter green matte foliage of this rose and the fragrance is, yes, "to die for."   I simply don't understand yet why this rose isn't more widely grown because it was a fabulous addition to my garden. 

'Souvenir du Docteur Jamain'

'Souvenir du Docteur Jamain' has become one of my favorite old garden roses, and is one of the only Hybrid Perpetuals I've found to be healthy and unfailingly hardy in my garden. I can count on it for a nicely presented spring bloom, although I question how "perpetual" it is; followup blooms are rare in my garden.  It's deeply scented and has a nice vase-like form, and is completely sans thorns so that I can bring those blossoms inside with a risk of bloodshed.

'Tuscany Superb'

'Tuscany Superb' is a delicious deep purple in my garden, but I have yet to decide if this old Gallica is going to survive Kansas.  My original plant struggles, a bare couple of feet high and of straggly form.  It has provided only a handful of blooms each of the 8 years it has lived in my garden and always looks on the verge of perishing, although it has suckered about three feet away into another small struggling bush.  I love the color, but the blooms only last a day in the full Kansas sun before they shrivel into blackness.   

So, which is your favorite?  Do you agree, with me, that Dr. Robert Basye's creation is the winner?   Is 'Orpheline de Juliet' in the running?  The Gallicas and Hybrid Perpetuals have their fair share of mauve-purple hues, but most are vulnerable to the sun and lack stature.  In fact, writing this, I'm struck that helpmefind.com/roses lists several of those roses as 3'-5' while they struggle to reach even three feet tall here in Kansas.  'Orpheline' is pretty in the garden, in a squat sort of way.  Who does the mirror choose as the most scrumptiously purple?  Who might get a chance in your garden?

Survivor Again

I'll speak now of one of the most beautiful rose blossoms in my garden, not the bush itself, but oh my the flowers, perfection in red, a scarlet lady adorned with gold.  I've spoken of 'Survivor' before and told you of how she survived shaded by two large roses, neglected in my garden for a decade.  Today, she stands worshiped, worshiped for the pollen she carries by her 6-legged admirers and worshiped for her grace under fire by me.  This bee wouldn't leave her alone today, molesting bloom after bloom in search of sustenance for the family.  And little wonder, click on the photo to enlarge it and examine the gold dust sprinkled on those regal petals!


I have three 'Survivor's now, proliferating solely at my pleasure, an occasional division allowed to place throughout my garden.  What she lacks in form, in body, she makes up for in splendor.  The barely semidouble blooms start out tucked away but they open quickly to a very showy bloom.   Is she gorgeous?  Yes.  Is she tough, yes?  Is she red?  Red and then some.

She only produces one crop of these bejeweled flowers each year, but she blooms over such a long period that I simply don't care.  The blooms hang on and hang on, lust on display for weeks.  The first photo of this bush, taken on 5/24, was almost a week after the very first bloom on it; the second photo from a different angle mere days later, and the third, taken on 6/]7, still in full flower and under full sun and absolutely no fade of the scarlet in those velvet petals despite the 90ºF temperatures for most of last week.  It was only today that I noticed the petals were turning to fuchsia and beginning to drop, her peak at least over and out.

5/24/2020

5/26/2020

6/7/2020

As I said, not much form as a garden bush, but I'd put up the individual blooms over any other rose in the garden.  'Survivor', she is and survivor, she will be, sunup to sundown, spectacular and deliciously red.  As the garden pauses between roses and summer, she carries on, bridging one cycle of the garden to the next, carrying the fire in a relay until the flames reappear in the nearby budding daylilies, red forever into fall.

Moje Hammarberg

ProfessorRoush is proud to present to you, 'Moje Hammarberg', an astonishingly well-behaved Hybrid Rugosa born of Swedish origin in the same year as my father, 1931.  I planted Moje (pronounced "moyeh") two years ago as a mail order waif, wondered if he would survive the first winter here, and then fretted as he waited out the sodden swamp of solid clay where I planted my rose garden.  Despite my pessimistic expectations, however, in this instance his obvious Rugosa genes have come through and he looks like both a keeper and a survivor.  Well, a keeper so long as he continues his current healthy manner.

Moje may be a native Swede, but he fits none of the typical statuesque stereotype that a Midwest American expects from that far Northern country.  Moje is not a Viking warrior reincarnated in rose form, he is more representative of a squat little hobbit hiding behind the more heroic figures in the garden.  Of unknown parentage, the only thing for certain about Moje is that he must have some Rosa rugosa 'Rubra' in his immediate forebears, expressed in classic thick, wrinkled  and very dense foliage and a distinct tendency towards the mauve petals of the Rugosa genes.  There is, as expected, no blackspot or disease on this rose and he seems impervious to rose rosette virus as expected of that foliage.

Unlike many of the Rugosa's however, Moje is a complete gentleman and very diminutive in habit.  Rounded  and contained, at two years of age, he stands about two feet tall and two feet wide, healthy, but not overly vigorous.  His eventual size is reportedly only 3' X 4' from most sources (Peter Beales is alone in listing he could reach 6' tall), a tiny compact mass of restrained Rugosa hardy to Zone 3b.  In fact, he's shown absolutely no signs of suckering as yet, one of only two Rugosas in my garden to completely avoid that irritating tendency.  In that regard, he resembles my 'Purple Pavement', front and center in another bed only 20 feet away from Moje.  Perhaps those two polished specimens will have a good influence on the comely but aggressive 'Fru Dagmar Hastrup' in their vicinity and serve as an example to repress her wanton ways.  

The large blooms of Moje, however, are not nearly as tidy as the plant and are, in fact, a fairly unimpressive 17-25 petal mop head of mauve crepe similar in appearance to the larger and more vigorous 'Hanza'.  Suzy Verrier, writing of Moje in her Rosa Rugosa, charitably describes the 3-4" wide blooms as "lovely, large, and asymmetrical,"  which is a very nice way of saying that they have form, but no substance, color without sophistication.  Peter Beales, in "Roses" describes the blooms as "nodding," and I would agree that they seem to hang from the bush to some degree.  Moje does, however have a strong spicy Rugosa fragrance and reportedly forms large hips in the fall, which I have yet to see.  He repeats sporadically but always has a few blooms around to display, albeit the display is nothing to get especially excited about.

You can probably tell that I'm less than enthusiastic about Moje Hammarberg, disease-proof as he may be.  It's not that he's a bad rose, he's just...uninspiring, although the members of  helpmefind.com/rose disagrees and label him "excellent."  At this stage of my experience with him, I'd recommend him as a decent basis for a rugosa hedge, perhaps for those living in salt-prone regions, but I wouldn't expect him to be the centerpiece of a garden.  He's a workhorse, not a fancied up Dressage, prancing around in splendor.  

Can You See Me Now?

I took Bella out the front door last night for her nightly squat, flipped on the lights, opened the front door, and followed her slightly rolling butt to the end of the concrete steps, Looking out into the breezy night beyond the lights.  As I turned around to give her some privacy in her eliminations, I glanced at the 'Stained Glass' hosta that I just purchased and planted last week, every the watchful gardener.  And then I looked closer.  Can you see it?








Now can you see it?  Just the body and one ear of a little bunny, frozen under the hosta leaves and desperately hoping that no one would see it.  I got a little closer to make sure it wasn't a pack rat, thought about picking it up, but ultimately decided not to make its little heart pound any more than I'm sure it already was and I left it alone.  I called Bella back inside, making sure to stay between Bella and the rabbit as my chubby love bounded past me to the door, and then I walked back in, plunging the baby bunny back into darkness and safety.

That bunny was hiding much better than this Gallica rose, screaming "I'm Pink!" for all the world to see.  No photo editing here, this little bright spot in my landscape is exactly as you see it, the brightest, most perfect pink you could ever ask for. 

Now if I only knew what this rose was named.  On my notes, this is the 'York and Lancaster' rose, which I obtained as a sucker from the KSU rose garden during pruning one year.  Only it isn't because 'York and Lancaster' is a striped or variably colored Damask and this rose only blooms bright pink and I'm pretty sure it is a Gallica.  In fact, my bet is that it's the Apothecary's Rose, or Rosa gallica 'Officinalis', a rose I have no written record of, but seem to recall obtaining at one time or another and must have found somewhere.  It has the right size semidouble blooms, is low-growing, and suckers like crazy.  I do have Rosa mundi, which is a candidate for the original 'York and Lancaster' rose, in another bed for sure. 

Regardless of its identity and provenance, it is certainly PINK.  And easy to care for, if I pull up the suckers from where I don't want them.  And disease free, although if you look very closely you'll see that the rose slugs started on it before I found them and intervened.  Some years it doesn't have quite the overpowering pink that it does this year, and it seems more vigorous and floriferous this year, but I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth.  Pink is good, pink is happy, pink is pretty.   

Perfect White Roses

'Madame Hardy'

Finally, finally, finally.  At last, in this garden year of dry winters and late freezes and cool dampness, when so many spring flowers have failed to appear or, worse, were prematurely ended in full flower, something beautiful appears.  I thought it would be the peonies, full of buds and promise, to lift me at last but three days of rain have lowered their foliage, lowered my expectations, and left sodden mopheads of their blooms.

'Blanc Double de Coubert'

No, it's my roses, timidly opening one by one, who are exceeding expectations this spring.  Ravaged by rose rosette disease, unpruned and sawfly-stricken, they are nonetheless defiant to the elements and demanding of my worship. 

'Madame Plantier'

We are going to play a game my friends, you and I, a little voting game where you pick the most beautiful of the white roses blooming this evening in my garden.  I took all these photos as dusk fell, beneath brooding skies on the third day of intermittent rain that has totaled now over 5 inches.  White roses, white Old Garden and shrub roses, normally don't respond well to long periods of moisture, browning on the edges of their petals and balling up into mildew.  This year, however, their raiment is unblemished, their virginal purity perfect and perduring.

'Sir Thomas Lipton'

So which is it, your favorite of these unsoiled white maidens?  'Madame Hardy', divinely arrayed around her center pip and lemon-scented, just the slightest blush to her cheeks?  'Blanc Double de Coubert', proclaimed by Gertrude Jekyll, according to Michael Pollan, "the whitest rose known," but also a thorny and untidy jewel?  'Madame Plantier', button-eyed mimic of 'Mme. Hardy', a slightly less fragrant rose on a better-foliaged bush?  Does rugose 'Marie Bugnet' capture your soul, her ample double blooms drawing you across the garden with virtuous allure?  Or might one prefer the gentleman of the group, scandalous Sir Thomas Lipton, lanky and tall, adorned in alabaster?

'Marie Bugnet'

For me, today, the wiles of  'Marie Bugnet', a tough and suffering dame in my garden, have most captured my attentions.  What does the legendary Gertrude Jekyll know of my Marie anyway?  Jekyll was nearly blind in her gardening prime and herself planted 30 years before 'Marie Bugnet' was introduced.  'Blanc Double de Coubert' normally crumples into brown paper with extended moisture and has fewer and flatter petals.  'Madame Hardy', normally my favorite, is a close second tonight as the slight pink tone she carries when damp is unbecoming of a true lady.  'Madame Plantier', however gussied up, is still but a cheaper pretender to the throne of purity.  And 'Sir Thomas Lipton' may be a fitting companion to the likes of 'Madame Plantier', but he remains a rough scalawag, unrefined and rowdy in the garden.

It's 'Marie Bugnet', on this gloomy evening, that brightens the darkness, fans my fires and summons my smile.  I'm captured by her beauty, and enthralled by her immaculate peignoir.  Don't you agree?  Pray with me now, please, for her safety, for her glory, to shine forever in my garden.

Baptisia Musings

Baptisia australis

One of the most common and visible flowers on the spring and early summer Flint Hills prairie are the Baptisia sp, otherwise known as the wild indigos.  If you look at the picture of one of my hillsides at the bottom of this blog entry, taken just two days ago, you can get an idea how common they are.   I watch for them every year, heralds of spring on the prairie and my own personal seasonal time-clock for the onset of warmer temperatures.  I've noted the Blue Wild Indigo, Baptisia australis, as early as April 26 (in 2004) and as late as May 20 (2013) over the years.  This year, I saw my first on 5/10/2020.   As I've noted before, I'm not sure what all my "first sightings" mean in relationship to climate change. 

Baptisia bracteata

True indigos, from which indigo dye is derived, are a different genus (Indigofera tinctoria) and are not native to the prairie, but the Blue Wild Indigo is so named because it's sap turns purple on exposure to air.  Another very common false indigo is the Plains Wild Indigo, Baptisia bracteata, which is earlier to flower and lower to the ground than its blue cousin.  Where B. australis stands tall and stiffly resistant to the prairie winds, B. bracteata is seen hugging the ground, creamy and bright against the ground.

Baptisia var ProfessorRoush

My real Baptisia interest this year was in the color variations that I happen across on my prairie walks, and in particular, the return of this pretty pink Baptisia, which I first noticed in the same spot last year.  I marked the spot to see if it returned true to color this year and here it is again, pretty and pink on the prairie.  This year, I'm going to try to collect seeds from it and hope that I can grow them and propagate this color.  I doubt I can become rich off of introducing a pink Baptisia to the market, but B. australis var. ProfessorRoush doesn't sound half bad, does it?

Baptisia alba

Finding one unusual Baptisia, of course, initiated a quest for others.  This beautiful white Baptisia alba grows not far from the pink one in my backyard and I've also marked its location for seed collection.  There's just no substitute for pure white in the way it can stand out from the emerald green prairie, is there?

Unknown NOTBaptisia

I thought I'd hit the Baptisia jackpot with this pink and yellow flowering plant on a neighbor's acreage and I got all excited about its subtle shadings, but on a second look, I don't think this is a Baptisia.  A vetch, perhaps, or some other member of the Bean family, but there are so very many legumy-things on the prairie that I can't keep up.  Alas, I'll have to count on B. australis var ProfessorRoush to lend my name to gardening prosperity.  And I'll end here, wallowing in my delusions of Baptisia grandeur here in the Flint Hills on this blessed Memorial Day.  Stay healthy, everyone!

Catchweed Annihilation

Occasionally, mundane gardening chores, such as weeding, watering and spraying, impolitely intrude on the more interesting tasks of pruning, deadheading, and the really barn-raising "watching paint dry" feeling Professor gets while waiting on that new rose or peony to flower.  Such chores are easier if one imagines they are on search and destroy missions deeply behind the front lines, engaging and destroying the enemy wherever and whenever found.  While distasteful, the slaying of garden invaders cannot be long-delayed, else a gardener finds oneself overrun and demoralized, and subsequently retreats into the shadows of the house.

My enemy this year seems to be a world-beating crop of Galium aparine, commonly called bedstraw, catchweed or goosegrass, that is spreading like a wildfire on the prairie before a wind.  I tried to ignore it, then placed it on my list of "Things To Get To" rather than confronting the shiny horde, but there came a time when I could no longer turn my head from the onslaught.  I've always seen a little of it around, wisps here or there trying to hide beneath daylilies or consorting with cosmos, but this year it seems to be searching for its own Lebensraum, living space, poking up through every green perennial or shrub in a bid for world domination.

Like many gardeners of my era, when I want to fight back against Mama Nature's most recent attempt to return my garden to an evolutionary laboratory, I hear the wise words of Hannibal Lector to the fledgling Agent Starling in the movie Silence of the Lambs, Anthony Hopkin's voice in my head, quoting Marcus Aurelius, "First principles, Clarice, Simplicity...Of each particular thing, ask What is it in itself? What is its nature?"   With catchweed, its simple nature is to stick; to the plant it seeks to smother, to the gardener, to itself.   ProfessorRoush, ever the aspiring garden Ninja, recognized this year that the destruction of catchweed lies in its own innate velcro-ey nature.  

My weapons; a simple pair of cheap cotton garden gloves.  You'll notice the difference between the right faded and left, newer glove?  Not surprisingly, as a lefty, I wear out several left gloves before the rights, with the result that I have a surplus of decently intact rights and the surviving left gloves are usually full of holes and ready to disintegrate.  But they all still work as allies in catchweed obliteration.  I simply start pulling up a clump, the catchweed grabbing onto the soft glove, and then, keeping the catchweed in my hands, I let the catchweed pick up and tear out its fellow soldiers, massively clumping together in a lemming-like rush to removal. 

It's satisfying watching that stringy, clingy weed disappear from my garden.  I cleared it two weeks ago and I'm only just now seeing a few wisps from stragglers try to stealthily emerge from the shadows.  I find it much less daunting to reach down and pluck out a few stems here and there as I pass by a bed than it is to confront a vast multitude of creeping contagion.  Take it from me, attack your weeding head on, because Neville Chamberlain's policy of appeasement doesn't work any better in the garden than it did in history.  Better for us, now as before, to follow Churchill's advice, "....to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us...(our aim is) victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be."