Summer's End, Spring's Promise

I was mowing yesterday, wilting on the John Deere seat in the summer-like high 90's temperatures and seared by the blazing sun, but the garden was whispering to me a different story, a story of nearby endings and further beginnings.  Hot though it was, the lightened foliage of the garden hinted everywhere at change, lush deep greens of spring and summer yielding to the lighter yellow-greens of fall at a frantic pace.  These warm days will doubtless soon end, the summer of 2020 passing away at the speed of dying light. 








Clues of change are evident everywhere I look now; roses on their last legs, like 'Snow Pavement' pictured at the left, blushing deeper pink with the onset of cooler night air and hastening her hip formation, seeds and stored life created to bridge past the long cold days to come.  Other rose hips turn red and vibrant, tempting animals to consume and spread the seed, enticement enhanced with color, sugars, and vitamins as rewards for service.  Who cultivates whom?  The plant enticing the birds and mice to distribute its genes, or the fauna that benefits from consuming the fruit? 




We are perhaps biased by Linnaeus, captive to his branching diagrams of phylogeny.  Is the intelligence really in our higher branches or is the higher intelligence in the roots predating our arrival?  Or maybe my thoughts are just influenced today by a recent read of 'Semiosis', philosophy and ecology disguised in the veil of science fiction.




This is the time of goldenrod and grasses, seedpods and tassels everywhere in the landscape of the deciduous climates, each grain a bid to the future.  Even as I mow, this red Rose of Sharon fades in the foreground, blistering under the sun while the goldenrod behind it gathers and reflects the yellow sun, relishing its highest moment.  I despair at the loss of these delicate August flowers, unrelieved by the few that struggle to blossom, false idols of beauty in the midst of a dying landscape.  The goldenrod, too, will brown and pass on, leaving behind its brittle stems and summer's growth.


I couldn't ask for a richer tableau than these last clusters of 'Basye's Purple', and yet with their glory comes sadness at their hopeless future.  A few more fleeting weeks of moderate temperatures and one night all the new pointed buds will inevitably be silenced in a freeze, the annual slaughter of innocence by ice.  I grow tired and discouraged, the gardener reflecting the weary garden, a summer of toil behind and colder days ahead.






And yet, mowing further, I'm encouraged by hope, buds of tomorrow hidden deep in the shrubbery.  The fuzzy promise of Magnolia stellata tells me a different story, that spring is just around the corner and life is waiting, ready to bloom with vigor and fragrance, seeds of another spring hidden from the eyes of winter.  I rested well last night, tired by the sun and work and quieted by the Star Magnolia, dreaming of her heavy musk and waxy petals, calmed by the sure knowledge that the Magnolia believes there will yet be another Spring.

Let There Be Columbines

Last night, letting the vivacious Bella out the front door for her evening attempt to apply liquid fertilizer to the buffalograss, I was taken by surprise to see a previously-barren corner turned green.  This particular corner of my front border is almost entirely shaded with the house and garage on the south and west sides, and it was previously occupied by a boxwood, whose massive overgrowth and cat pee stink every spring right outside the dining room finally induced me to eliminate it in April.  You can see the stump of the boxwood at the upper center of the picture below.

Earlier this summer, I had tried to replace the boxwood with a rather expensive willow, one which promptly got eaten by rabbits or pack rats or some other such ravenous rodent and then, encased in chicken wire (too little, too late) its fragile regrowth shriveled in the late June heat.  Resigned, I decided to wait until fall to try it again, and I promptly put this space out of sight and mind for the summer that has past.

But here, last night, I found that the dry sterile mulch had brought forth baby columbines!  "Behold," the Lord said "Let there be columbines, and there were and it was good."  Well, columbines and a couple of thistles, which might not be so good, but I can take care of that bristly interloper. And a common dayflower or two which will take a little more effort to eliminate.  I'm still grateful for the gift, however.  All that time that the boxwood grew and dominated the area, these seeds collected and hid in the mulch and waited until the day they could grab enough sunlight and nutrients to grow.   A miracle of three-lobed glory.

I'm thrilled to see the columbines.  You know that I'm partial to the self-sown blue and purple columbines that dot my front landscaping, and I can't wait to see what these bring next year. There is no chance whatsoever that I'm going to scratch these out.  Next year, I'm going to have a sea of columbines and the joy of a wave of blue to ride into a new gardening year.

Unsettled Skies

This morning, as I was walking from the bedroom to let Bella out, I glanced out the southern windows of the house, seeing dawn slowly bringing the landscape to life, and noticed that the tree branches were swaying.  Pleased that a predicted cool morning would also bring some cool air into the house, I opened the garage door, stepped out, and was greeted with this odd sight of a column of pink blessing the hills to my west amidst a gray sky.

I turned around to look at the rising sun and, of course, it was there shining as always, ready to wake the earth and all its inhabitants in Manhattan, Kansas.  The breeze, however, was still shifting and I could only conclude that a either completely unpredicted but likely gentle rainstorm was upon us from the northwest or that aliens were beaming up my neighbors in a pink column of happiness.




The answer of course, was available on my phone radar app, and just as I downloaded this image, the sky began to growl as well.  Not thunder, not visible lightning, but an audible low growl.  I sedately followed Bella as she bolted for the house from her morning mid-squat stance.  Bella is afraid of thunder, but rain is always welcome to me and I am ever pleased when I don't have to defend against an alien horde before I've had breakfast.

Unsettled skies have been the norm all summer, likely a metaphor for society's woes this year if I were only bright enough to connect it.  Unpredicted showers, winds that sweep across without a storm behind them, clouds come and gone without warning.  I really shouldn't complain because, thankfully, there has been enough rain to keep the grass growing all summer, it has never reached 100ºF in Manhattan yet this year, we haven't had a single tornado warning in the area all season, and fall is clearly on its way.


It unnerves me, however, after years of watching the local radar and weather patterns, to see the skies tossing about in disorder.  The other night, I watched two rainstorms as they split around us from about an hour to the north-west, one gentle moving to the east and south, the other, a nasty little blob of purple, moving forcefully south-west.  I commented to Mrs. ProfessorRoush that, in all these years, I had never seen that happen.  Storms don't move to the south and west here and I watched it with some trepidation until it was obvious it wasn't going to change direction.








I'm not unhappy, however, about the beautiful skies of this summer and I'm thankful for every morning to wake with the sunrise.  The panorama above is my view to the south three mornings ago, sun rising in the east, storm moving in from the west.  The panorama below is my north view just moments later, unsettled skies from the west moving back to the gentle protective light from the east.  Who couldn't feel comforted by skies like these?  Well....me.

Color Echoes and Garden Dramas

Basye's Purple Rose

While mowing yesterday, ProfessorRoush yesterday that he had accidentally and serendipitously planted a "color echo" side by side in the same bed, unrecognized until both bloomed at the same time.  Everyone who has spent time on my blog knows that I am a fan of trouble-free Basye's Purple Rose (top, right).  It's blooming sparsely but steadily right now, preparing, I hope, for a big fall show.

Buzz™ Velvet

Basye's Purple is in the foreground of the picture to the left.  Just across the bed, in the background of the photo, is its color twin, a dwarf butterfly bush that I planted in 2014.  This one is Buddleia davidii 'Buzz™ Velvet', a rich copy of Basye's deep magenta color if ever there was one.  'Velvet' is one of the series of Buzz™ buddleias hybridized by Planthaven Int’l, and he survives well in my garden, one of only two that have returned for more than 5 years running ('White Perfusion' is the other one).



Buzz™ Velvet may be a "butterfly bush," but it wasn't drawing any butterflies yesterday in my garden.  No, the butterflies were all running to the Joe Pye Weed (Eutrochium purpureum) that sits near the feet of my 'Jane' magnolia.  I have a single specimen of Joe, and he's as coarse and weedy as his name suggests, but at least he's fragrant, and fragrant in a good way.  Dull pink is a charitable description of his complexion, but in contrast the fragrance is to die for.







Joe Pye Weed does, however, beckon insects from all over the garden, just as it did the Painted Lady butterfly I photographed on it, and it has a delicious, sweet and light fragrance for ProfessorRoush to enjoy as well.  Sometimes even a weedy plant has a few positive attributes.

Wheel Bug 

Like many gardening stories, however, this happy meeting of a fragrant plant and a beautiful butterfly is not without cautionary notes.  Just two feet in front of the butterfly, another of life's little dramas, was playing out on the Joe Pye Weed.  This Wheel Bug, Arilus cristatus, has grabbed itself a bumblebee for it's evening meal.  I've also written about Wheel Bugs, and this largest of the assassian bugs (Hemiptera) is a common predator in my garden, if a nonselective one.  Mr. Wheel Bug, can you please, in the future, leave the bumblebees alone and concentrate on Japanese Beetles and June bugs?  Or are they just too tough for you, you coward?

Storm A-Comin

The oncoming week of temperate weather conditions is wasting no time in arriving, with the temperature dropping from a 93ºF high two hours ago to a pleasant and breezy 85º at present.  And the sky to the west is providing that uneasy feeling best defined as "ominous."






It's Kansas in summertime, and I, for one, welcome the relief that this "cold front" is going to provide, as well as the rain to keep the prairie thriving down to those long roots deep down in the soil. 

Behold the panoramic majestic prairie in the calm before a storm:

Be Shameless, Bee Red

'Midnight Marvel'

It's a red week here on Garden Musings, with several of ProfessorRoush's favorite bright red plants in full bloom at once.  I began the week stunned by the dinner plate size and brightness of Hibicus 'Midnight Marvel' as she came into full bloom.  This rose mallow is a toddler for me, the entire plant only two years old, but it reached three feet tall and wide for me this summer and it blooms every day with dozens of the most beautiful scarlet-red flowers I can imagine.

'Midnight Marvel'

Bloom, bloom, bloom, across the garden she's a beacon, a "come up and see me sometime" kind of gal.  All that red even spills over into the foliage, more burgundy than green, as if the red in this plant's veins couldn't be contained in the enormous flowers.  She is almost too red for a simple man to witness.

'Honeymoon Deep Red' foreground,
 'Midnight Marvel' background

'Honeymoon Deep Red'

'Midnight Marvel' has a similar but less attractive neighbor sharing her bed, one with equally-large blossoms on a more diminutive form, the frumpy Hibiscus moscheutos 'Ambizu', also known as 'Honeymoon Deep Red'.   These blossoms creep over the crimson line to slightly mauve and, because of that, I find her less attractive.  Alone, her lipstick mauve against the bright green foliage would be satisfactory, but, as you can see in the photo at the right, 'Honeymoon Deep Red' looks a little dumpy next to 'Midnight Marvel', just another poor sister to Cinderella at the Annual Ball.

'Centennial Spirit'

Simultaneous with 'Midnight Marvel', my favorite crape myrtle, Lagerstroemia indica ‘Centennial Spirit’, awakened in a nearby bed.   This morning, looking out my bedroom window, I was momentarily confused by its brightness and thought something new was blooming in the rose garden beyond it.  My sense of unease over something in the garden that didn't fit was compounded by the aftereffects of sleep and it took me a minute of staring to realize the "red" was nearer than the rose garden and, in fact, blazing forth in its expected space.







You don't need to listen to me spout the marvels of  ‘Centennial Spirit’, you need merely to follow the bees to see which red plant they prefer.  'Midnight Marvel', as bright and beautiful as she is, is a sterile wasteland for other life, while 'Centennial Spirit' buzzes with activity.  Bumblebees, smaller bees, and other insects are all over 'Centennial Spirit' in a frenzy, moving quickly from crinkled blossom to blossom, fighting each other to see who gets to the pollen first.  To the eye of Mother Nature, there is no contest for which is the better garden plant.  Look closely to the photograph at the right; see the "sweat bee" hovering nearby, waiting for the gluttonous bumblebee to move over?

I was caught up for a few minutes this morning, trying to capture some decent "bee on crape myrtle" still life photos.  Believe me, these weren't nearly so easy to get as my earlier pictures of bees on my roses.  On roses, bumblebees loiter, crawling over and over the pistils, collecting pollen from a wide area.  On this crape myrtle, it was almost like the plant was too "hot," the bees dropping onto a blossom briefly, but off again often before I could zoom in and focus.  At times like these, I'm thankful most of my photos these days are spontaneous and taken on a nimble iPhone; quick-to-focus and with a fast  "shutter" speed, almost, but not quite, able to freeze the motion of even a bee's wing.  But sometimes, just occasionally, and with lots of luck and patience, there comes a photograph worthy of framing.  Don't you agree?  I think I'll title this one Chub-bee in Red Lace.  Get it?

Squealworthy Coneflower

You should have heard Mrs. ProfessorRoush squeal yesterday evening when she saw this picture!  We were watching those last few minutes of nightly news in bed, both browsing through our phones, when it became a contest of "who took the better picture of my hibicus" (I'll post those in an upcoming blog entry).   "Can I have it?" were the first words out of her mouth.  Mrs. ProfessorRoush is always wanting to steal pictures from Garden Musings to post on her Instagram account, even before I've posted them here in the blog.  Normally, I tell her she has to wait until I post then on the blog, trying to reserve that first glimpse for Garden Musings readers.  But it occurs to me now, far too late, that I should barter favors for pictures while her photo envy is aroused.


This very tall perennial stands about 6 feet tall for me and will bloom now to the end of August.  And I don't know what it is.  I suspect it is Rudbeckia laciniata, because it's the right size (about 6 feet tall and columnar) and the leaves look perfect and of course it appears to be a coneflower.  It is perhaps even the 'Autumn Sun' cultivar since that name stirs a few brain cells.  But I will never know, of course, since it doesn't show up on any of my maps.  How is it that I make a point to mark down every plant I bring into the garden beds and ten years later I have not a single clue of the real identity of this plant?  There is no Rudbeckia anywhere on the map of this garden bed and the only Rudbeckia sp. anywhere in the garden is R. hirta.  Frustration, thy name is plant identification.


Showy, dependable, insect-free, disease-free, drought-tolerant, non-invasive (in my garden), who really cares about its identify, the real question is "why haven't I ever divided it?"  I guess "Stupid is as stupid does," according to Forrest Gump.  I've had it in the garden at least 10 years, maybe 15.  I should have a hundred of these things by now, a complete landscape of 6 foot tall bright yellow towers.  Okay, maybe that would be overreacting a bit, but I could at least have a half-dozen around, given the scale of my back garden.  I will note that some internet sources say that this plant can spread through rhizomes but it has shown no sign of doing that in my dry clay soil.   Well, I vow to correct my failure to propagate it this year, no more waiting.  Monarchbutterflygarden.net says to divide it in the fall, so divide it, I shall.  Before it fades away and I forget about it again.  No reason to write a note to remind myself because I'd just lose it anyway.

Yuck! That's Enough!!!

As a veterinarian, ProfessorRoush tries mightily to love "all creatures great and small," taking his cues from James Herriot's classic memoir of that title, the latter borrowing his title from the lyrics of Charles Francis Alexander in the Anglican hymn All Things Bright and Beautiful.  And he (ProfessorRoush) usually does love all creatures great and small, even the serpents that hang around my landscaping.  Except Japanese Beetles.  And rose slugs.  And spider mites.  I don't see God's purpose for any of these creatures except to provide a plague to test the resolve of gardeners.  Maybe rose slugs were put on earth to feed birds, but Japanese Beetles aren't eaten by anything.  They just exist to eat flowers, and waddle in beetle poop while they fornicate and make more Japanese Beetles.   And spider mites are so small you can barely see them; what purpose is a plant-sucking mite?  Other mites, of the Phytoseiidae family, prey on spider mites, but why create a mite to just to feed another mite?  Oh, the theological cavern that I've just fallen into! 

But, ProfessorRoush digresses.  The Japanese Beetles came back right to central Kansas right on time in late June this year and I've been strolling around and smashing a few every evening for several weeks.  I even went so far as to spray insecticide on a few of their favorite roses while the roses were between bloom cycles just to see if it would quell their numbers, but as these roses, 'Blanc Double de Coubert' and 'Fru Dagmar Hastrup' among others, came back into bloom, they had just as many beetles lounging around in their blossoms as before.  So I've hand-picked and hand-picked, gleefully smashing a few beetles each night under my feet and feeling like Alexander the Great rolling over Asia.  Right up until I came across the disgusting spectacle in the photo above.  The rose is pink and delicate 'Foxi Pavement'.  Look closely and you'll see beetles fornicating on top of beetles that are fornicating.  Disgusting.

Hemerocallis 'Wisteria'

Please try not to let the scene you just witnessed cause any nightmares to disturb your slumber.  Or at least join ProfessorRoush in his efforts to avoid crawling into a corner and catatonically sucking his thumb to avoid the trauma of memory.  Here, maybe a picture of beautiful 'Wisteria' taken on the same evening will help.  Japanese Beetles don't seem to bother daylilies.  Or, perhaps you can take comfort from this morning's sky, a panorama I took at 6:00 a.m.  of the sky to the west and north of my front yard.  All things bright and beautiful, indeed.

Drooling over Daylilies

'Mulberry Frosted Edge'

ProfessorRoush was writing a clever post this morning, but, halfway through the piece, just stopped.  How can I wax philosophical when there are so many beautiful daylilies out there to post?

'Joan Derifield'

So, the other blog post can wait.  You'all just sit back and enjoy the modern daylilies.  Especially the full, deep red ones.

'Awfully Flashy'

 And when I say "modern," I mean at least not the plain old yellows and oranges and apricots.  Something with color.  Something 'Awfully Flashy'

'Vintage Wine'

I mean, of course, "within the last 25 years or so."  Vintage daylilies, like 'Vintage Wine'.

'Daring Dilemma'

Because I'm way too cheap and pretty is pretty.  I don't know how daring it is to buy local daylilies which are often mislabeled, but it was no dilemma to buy this one.

'Sonic Analogue'

I don't need to buy the newest and fanciest, even if they seem to be named after video game characters.

'BubbleGum Delicious'

At $100 (or more), some one else can be the first one to have them.  'Bubblegum Delicious' is quite delicious when in flower, isn't it?

'Juliana Lynn'

No, I"m happy to buy them from local enthusiasts, at $3.00 apiece.  'Julianna Lynn', nice to make your acquaintance.

'Tuscanilla Tiger'

Still, they're beautiful, don't you think?  Even the basic orange daylilies.  'Tuscanilla Tiger' is an old one in my garden.

'Big Rex'

Or the plain old, butter-yellows; Big Rex is 5" across each bloom.  And pure and beautiful, eye-catching across the garden.

'Timbercreek Ace'

And 'Timbercreek Ace' makes a great display, whether you're looking at the whole plant covered with potential, or each individual bloom.  Deep, dark and brooding, I'm always thankful to the client who gave him to me.

'Popcorn Pete'

But, really, how can one resist 'Popcorn Pete'?   This one is my favorite of the newest in my garden.  That royal purple front and the white/yellow edges are to die for.

'Slender Lady'

And the ladies, slender or not, are always beautiful.   I've had a thing going for spider daylilies recently.

I'll leave you drooling over daylilies while the Kansas sun sets behind a small storm front.  Which, of course, unfortunately didn't bring any rain to create more daylilies.