Iris Perfection

The longer I garden, the more I appreciate and propagate Iris pallida 'Variegata' throughout my garden.  I've got a clump or two in almost every bed already, and I'm thinking about trying its effect in a single massed area, a shrine to spiky leaves of gold and green.

I obtained this iris somewhat by accident in 1999, not knowing then the treasure that I had purchased, but thinking the variegated leaves would stand out nicely against a darker green background. I'm sure I purchased it by its alternate name 'Aurea Variegata'; a name more descriptive of the creamy golden stripes. If you grow this iris though, you know that the variegation is only the beginning of the possibilities it offers.  A gardener should never place this iris against an oppressing opaque background.  The real gift is hidden until one views it placed in an elevated circumstance, at eye level, where the sun can shine behind those gorgeous spring leaves.  The picture at left, taken yesterday evening as the sun was fading, is only a small sampling of the beauty of the backlit foliage.

I'm ashamed to admit that I've never taken a picture of the light blue flower with its lilac tones and yellow beard, but I'll make sure to correct that this year.  Then again, this is not some fabulous modern hybrid with striking colors screaming "look at me."  No, this iris hides behind its plain appearance during bloom, holding the unsuspecting gardener at arms length.  It belongs, as I said, at eye level though.  If you don't examine this flower closely, you may never realize that it is deliciously scented with what I would describe as a sweet licorice odor.  "Sweet Iris" is another name for Iris pallida that perhaps fits better to those who know it for its fragrance.  A classic triple gardening threat, Iris pallida variegata; wonderfully scented, beautiful form as an accent, and the ability to pop out and be a specimen plant if placed correctly.

The names given this species seem to be as endless as its origins.  While searching out the native range of this plant, I came across references to it as a Mediterranean native, a native of the Southern Alps, and yet another article that referred to it as the "Dalmation Iris", so named because it is native to the Dalmatia province of Croatia.  In truth, this Zone 4 hardy plant is so easy to grow and undemanding of soil and water, that it has probably naturalized most everywhere that man and beast have taken it.  It is cultivated as a source of orris root, the essential oils extracted from the rhizome by drying, grinding, rewetting the powder, and distilling.  Said to smell like violets, orris root extract is also described as having a flavor identical to raspberries.

As for me, I ain't eatin' it, but I'm happy to view it morning and evening and sample its perfume during the brief season of flowers.  And I'll grow Iris pallida 'Variegata' forever in my garden.

Redbud Ruminations

A native Spring stalwart, the Eastern Redbud (Cercis canadensis) began to bloom here in the Flint Hills just yesterday.  I was beginning to be afraid this day might not arrive this year, it felt so late, but I was fretting under a false assumption.

See, this is why you keep records.  As I've written before and as a general rule, I'm pretty terrible about keeping records, but redbud first bloom dates are perhaps my one exception to the rule.  And I thought this year was pretty late, now the second week of April, for the redbuds to start blooming.  But a check of my notes informs me that I'm not only wrong, I'm dead wrong.  In six of the past 8 years, the redbud outside our laundry window first bloomed from 4/10 to 4/24.  In the "unordinary" years 2007 and 2009, the weather was askew and things were obviously out of whack.  In 2007, my redbud bloomed early on 3/31/07 after a warm Spring, but then we got hit by the terrible black freeze of mid-April so the redbud was perhaps the only thing that did bloom that spring.  And in 2009, we had 3 inches of snow and sleet on March 28th, and according to my notes, my redbud didn't bloom at all that year, probably due to that late storm damage.  Of course, it's possible that I've slipped into this parallel Universe from one where my memory is correct and redbud trees do bloom earlier in Kansas, but since the written records correspond to this current Universe, how would I know?  How many redbuds can dance on the head of a pin?   

I'm always jumping the garden gun and starting Spring yard work a mite early, so the key lesson here is probably to learn some patience.  I should rejoice, I guess, that my redbud has waited till now to bloom, because it probably means we've had a normal pace of spring and the garden will be better for it.  But I should also confess that I'm not especially fond of redbud trees.  I've never been able to cozy up and embrace the fuchsia-pink color of the native redbuds, so I use them as an indicator of the beginning of the garden season and when to have put the crabgrass preventer on the lawn, but I don't crave their color as I do my red peach tree.  Perhaps I should have chosen one of the named cultivars such as 'Forest Pansy' or 'Pinkbud'?  

 After seeing a stunning example from another local gardener, I will admit that I started a redbud grove beneath a cottonwood tree using several volunteer redbuds to make an understory group at the back of my garden.  And I know some of you are asking why, if I'm not partial to redbud trees, I have one growing as a specimen tree right outside our laundry room window and back door, but the reason for that contradiction is simple.  Mrs. ProfessorRoush loves redbud trees.  And so I planted it, the first tree beside the new house, where she'll get the most pleasure out of it.  Take it from me, fellow husband-gardeners, redbud trees do not have a "manly" color, but planting that tree in your garden will pay dividends every year. 

Life Lessons

Yesterday was an absolutely great Spring gardening day in Kansas.  Well, almost, except for the sustained 20 mph winds with gusts to 40 that set in by mid-afternoon.  But otherwise it was everything a gardener could ask for, although some might argue that it would be nice to give plants, and the unacclimated gardener, a day in the 70F or 80F range before we go from the 60's to 92F, as it was yesterday.  Straight from winter to summer as usual.

I puttered in my garden doing a lot of the odd chores that need done this time of year.  A little transplanting, a little more trimming, a little early weeding, a little watering of new plants.  I edged some planned future beds with landscaping stone, laying out the shape of the beds in my usual haphazard arrangement.  I took note of the continued increase in the Magnolia stellata flowers and the opening of my first lilac to bloom, 'Annabel'.  And, checking that wondrous source, the Internet, I discovered that the leading edge of the Purple Martin migration had been sighted in this region two days previously and so I placed out my Purple Martin houses.  Twenty minutes later, five Martins and a bunch of sparrows were duking it out for the housing.  It is astonishing how quickly the Martins, which I had not yet this year seen in evidence, detected the house.  Where did they come from?

I also participated in a Faculty-Senior student softball game late in the afternoon.  I probably hadn't touched a softball for almost 40 years, but I was lucky and got on base my first time at bat with an anemic hit.  The next batter up hit a ground ball to shortstop and, sprinting slowly to second base, the buried instincts of my 12-year-old self assessed the situation and commanded the 51-year-old body to SLIDE.  And slide, I did: not the face-first slide of a manic Pete Rose, but still an impressive feet-first slide that brought me to second base before the ball.

At that instant I had, for me, an astonishing epiphany and I learned a couple of important life lessons right there on 2nd base.  First, that the instincts and training of a 12-year-old are still buried deep all these years later and that they will surface when called upon, albeit with a less supple and higher-body-fat frame to command.  Second, I learned that the instincts and training of a 12-year-old do not include the likelihood of the presence of car keys in one's back pocket when a slide is attempted, having had no experience at that time with driving anything more powerful than a bicycle or lawnmower.  I now have an egg-sized bruise on my gluteus maximus that hurts while I sit and type this blog.  It would have been nice if some 51-year-old wisdom would have given me the foresight to move the keys to the front pocket. At least it wasn't my cell phone.

It is the same in the garden.  The 12-year-old inside us knows instinctively which weeds to pull and how to grasp them to get them up roots and all.  The 51-year-old knows to wear gloves for the stickery ones and knows that the first sunny Spring day in the 90's is not the time to stay out in the sun all day in the garden.  Well, it should be that way most of the time.  Excuse me while I go find some aloe vera.