Adelaide HoodWho?

As an accomplished botanical serial killer, I would truthfully state that there are few roses of which I am able to say that I only purchased once and still have a surviving specimen to display.  One of those tough, against-all-odds roses however, is the bright red Canadian shrub rose 'Adelaide Hoodless'. 

'Adelaide Hoodless'

'Adelaide Hoodless' is a 1973 introduction from the Parkland Series of AgCanada, bred by Henry Marshall in the Morden Research Station of southern Manitoba (floribunda 'Fire King' X seedling of 'J.W.Fargo' and 'Assiniboine') . She was named to honor the esteemed 19th century founder of the Women's Institute, now an International Organization dedicated to providing women with educational opportunities.  I first purchased her way back in the early 1990 or 1991 as I first "got into" roses, and I placed her as the backdrop to some moisture-stealing junipers in an elevated front planter with a straight southern exposure at our first home.  There, in that arid, crowded, hot environment, with a brick wall as a backdrop and tended by a neophyte gardener, she defied the odds through summer after summer and winter after winter, blooming her little top right off for several weeks each summer.

When we moved to the prairie, I moved a rooted portion of my own-root 'Adelaide Hoodless' out to the site of my first rose experimental bed (now abandoned) where she continues to survive unaided amidst the taller prairie grass and ice storms and prairie fires, but I have also propagated other plants from that one and the original rose now has not one, but two cloned grandchildren in protected positions in my shrub rose beds.   This rose is a true survivor in Kansas, with no winter dieback seen in any winter of my 20 years here.

'Adelaide Hoodless' is a good rose, but I don't think I would say she has been a great rose for me.  She's listed on some websites as "deep pink," but while I can see the pink tints, I would list this rose closer to bright red, especially at a distance. She has a stupendous first display of  those red, semi-double, 3 inch blooms borne in large clusters, but despite her rumored continual bloom through summer and fall, I have found her to have a long first season, covered for over a month with flowers, but  then only sporadic repeat throughout the rest of the year.  Her semi-double form opens quickly and a little flat for my taste, but the open form allows her to display lots of yellow stamens, and the blooms then stay on the bush in good form for a long time.  She grows to about the 4-5 foot range, with a round form that is more reminiscent of a floribunda than a shrub, and I can confirm her complete hardiness in Zone 5, probably not surprising anyone who knows that this rose should be good to Zone 2.  'Adelaide Hoodless' is supposed to have a number of hips in winter, but I've found the hips small and uninspiring.  She has a mild fragrance, and is generally a healthy bush, although she's prone to a little blackspot in the summer, dropping her pantaloons a bit if I don't keep a close eye on her. I do spray this rose in an occasional bad summer, and I use her as an indicator that it is time to spray other black-spot susceptible varieties, but I don't want to mislead anyone into thinking she is a blackspot magnet to the degree of a Hybrid Tea. 

So why, you might ask, do I still grow this rose of minor fragrance, unspectacular bloom form and repeat, small hips, and occasional fungal disfigurement?  To put it most simply, I strongly admire any plant that I haven't been able to kill at least once.  The vigor of this rose is simply unsurpassable.  I saw it yesterday in bagged form at Home Depot and even there, I found myself admiring that in those prematurely-budding decrepit bags, 'Adelaide Hoodless' looked much healthier and had more new buds growing than any of the other varieties offered.  If you need a bright red rose of better shrub form than Knockout, but with most of the other drawbacks of Knockout, then this is a shrub rose for you.

Mowing Bedlam

If my regular readers suspect that they have begun to determine a pattern in the "Roush Gardening Method," today's blog will remove all doubt and expose me for the gardening charlatan I truly am.  I know that some might apply the words, "cynical," "skeptic," and perhaps "shameful" to many of these blogs as I discuss emotionally-charged subjects such as Global Warming, organic gardening dogma, and WEE (Wild-Eyed Environmentalists).  Yes, I fully admit that I am sometimes unable to resist poking the Birkenstock herd as they meander across the garden drinking the Kool-Aide.

But truthfully, for all the "low-maintenance" hype I spew about my garden endeavors, the core basis of the "Roush Gardening Method" is simple laziness.  I don't aim for low-maintenance, I aim for "low-work," however that result can be obtained.

As an example, I resolved a few years back to limit the annual maintenance of my two mixed daylily and iris beds to the simple technique of mowing them once in the Fall or late Winter.  As you can see from the picture at left, the resultant bed has a nice clean look that took about 10 minutes to create at the end of the last growing season.  Please go ahead and ignore the variably-sized limestone edging that keeps the prairie fires out of my beds. Doesn't it look like a knowledgeable and dedicated gardener has been hard at work clearing this bed of plant debris?  I did not, as recommended in numerous books, take some nice hand scissors out to carefully and individually trim the iris into angled fans, nor did I remove the previous foliage from the daylilies.  I simply mowed off both at a height of 3 inches with a mulching, riding lawnmower (gasp!).  This resulted in a nice 2-3 inch layer of chopped mulch that matted down nicely and didn't blow to the next county over the winter.      

As you can see from the 2nd picture, the result, pictured during early daylily season in the middle of a hot summer, leaves little room for complaint, at least by me.  I get two solid seasons of bloom, iris and daylily, out of this bed, plus a little third bloom season due to some daffodils that pop up and cycle before the daylily or iris foliage is evident.  Yes, it is not a varied shrub border, but I have those in other places and they bloom in their own time and space. No, I wouldn't do this to a formal rose garden.   My daylily and iris beds are intended only for full colorful climax at the height of summer.  It is also important to know that I have not yet seen any disease nor detriment to the practice.  In fact, the disaster of the late Flint Hills freeze of 2007, which reduced the majority of my irises to soggy and very dead plants, will likely not be repeated as there is not much green growth yet to freeze.  KSU's advice in 2007 to "not-cut-back" the irises after the freeze, which I now believe was a mistake, will be moot for me in the future;  I don't have any iris foliage at this time of year to freeze.

I'll tell you a secret;  I also did this mowing technique on my peony plantings last fall and I'll show you those pictures in a later post as the peonies bloom.  Yes, it's true that my garden design is in some danger of becoming a set of display beds of various plants without architecture or form, but I'll make sure to keep some mixed beds around and there is always the formal rose garden and the shrub rose borders.  Anyway, I prefer to think of my garden as a symphony, with a set of sax notes here, a refrain popping up over there from the violas, and later a flute taking up the melody from the background.  As opposed to creating a jam session of uninhibited jazz players, if you'll allow me to continue the metaphor...

The success of this quirky methodology is encouraging me to try a different type of bed this year.  I'm planning a large garden bed of self-sown annuals that I'm going to try to keep the prairie grass and weeds out by hand, but to just mow down each fall to re-spread the mature seed heads.  We'll see, we'll see. 

Thoughtful Author

I know that I haven't blogged about a new garden book for quite some time, but I have been slogging through Robin Lane Fox's 2011 collection of essays, Thoughtful Gardening.

Robin Lane Fox is an English historian, currently placed as the University of Oxford reader in Ancient History, and is the long-term gardening correspondent for the Financial Times.  Evident in the book are his wide and varied interests in history (particularly regarding Alexander the Great) and gardening. 

For an American reader, this was a bit of a tough read.  Mr. Fox's essays are widely varied and there is certainly evidence throughout the text of a deep and exhaustive knowledge base about many gardening subjects.  As one would expect from an Oxford Fellow, the grammar is exacting and the vocabulary stupendous as measured by this poor Midwestern professor/gardener. But if there is a real drawback to reading an English gardening author, it revolves around cultivar names which haven't made it across The Pond, or the use of different common terms and names for plants between the esteemed gardener-writer and my amateurish knowledge.  In one essay, for instance, Robin discussed "Buddleja" extensively.  It wasn't until he mentioned the cultivars "Nanho Blue" and 'Nanho Purple' that I was absolutely sure he was discussing Buddleia sp.  After some later research, I discovered that my bastardized Americanized Latin has been wrong for a number of years. The correct spelling is, in fact, "Buddleja," honoring Reverend Adam Buddle, a botanist of the 17th and early 18th centuries  Wikipedia informs me that modern botanical Latin usage would make the name "Buddleia," but Linnaeus spelled it "Buddleja" in 1753 and as of the 2006 International Code of Botanical Nomenclature, Linnaeus' spelling is the orthographic variant (priority by date of publication) that is the recognized correct term.  

It is obvious throughout the book that the author does not shrink from the use of herbicides and pesticides, so this book should be read by WEE (Wild-Eyed Environmentalists) and organic gardeners with a sense of trepidation and some smelling salts nearby. I did enjoy his skepticism of global warming as he discussed the similarities of the modern British climate to the descriptions in Gilbert White's The Garden Calendar, a book that serves as a record of  the climate from 1751 through 1773, long before the Industrial Revolution could be blamed for global warming.  Facts are so inconvenient at times, aren't they AlGore?

There are also some great observations about gardening.  Discussing "middle-age" gardens, which I understand he thinks is an awkward period in a garden's development, Fox says "The first sign of middle age (of the garden) is when owners talk about growing only the things that seem to suit them."  He also gives some practical advice to approach fixing the problem:  "The easiest way to treat middle-aged gardens is to leave them alone to become senile."

I nearly stopped reading the book early on, however.  I was reading along, deeply concentrating, when suddenly, a seemingly innocuous statement leapt out of the page and bit me.  In the chapter on climate change, lamenting the storms that touched England in the past decade, he had written, "What we need is to dig in with the full variety of the thousands of plants, still underexploited, that flourish in the British climate, as ever one of extremes."   One of extremes?  He thinks the British climate is one of extremes?  All I could do was shake my head in disbelief and mutter "You'd never make it in Kansas, Robin."

Spring Resolutions

Fellow Gardeners, let us forget about New Year's Resolutions, loud and irritating fireworks on New Year's Eve, and the whole false pretense of getting soused off of your feet for an excuse to neck with the neighbor's wife (not that I've ever practiced any of the above, particularly, the latter due to obvious inherent dangers to my appendages from the missus).  I propose a revolution or at least a re-evolution of our gardening lives based on a return to the natural cycles of our seasons.

Spring Equinox, March 20, 2011, Flint Hills

I feel it is evident that we should recognize that the new year does not begin for Midwestern gardeners on January 1st, it begins instead with the Spring Equinox on March 20 or 21st.  Humbug(!) on the forced celebrations and the bone-chilling cold of December 31st, and January 1st.  To a four-seasons gardener, those days and the three months following are merely the drabbest, grayest days of the year; the low of our gardening experiences when we are forced to force bulbs and branches into unnatural bloom to feebly claim that we've extended our gardening season.  Our real gardening year begins with the Vernal Equinox, the equality of night and day for the planet.  It continues as the flowering of our gardens peaks with the Summer Solstice, and then we wind down our year with only a few plants blooming after the Autumnal Equinox.  Winter is merely that interminable period between the last Fall flower and the first bloom of Spring.

I was struck, yesterday, at the Equinox, that here in this mid-continental Eden of the Kansas Flint Hills, the gardening season really does begin with the Spring Equinox.  Only a few different flowers have bloomed this year in my garden before March 20th; the over-achieving and uninspiring Witch Hazels a few weeks ago, a few stray snow crocus a couple of weeks back, and then finally my Dutch Crocus and Siberian Iris, jumping the gun by only a couple of days.  But yesterday, exactly on the Equinox, the first Forsythia and the first Daffodil opened in my garden, these true Spring flowers confirming that Spring has indeed arrived in the Flint Hills.    

The Ancients knew better about such things. Zoroastrianism, one of the world's oldest organized religions,  uses a calendar with the first day of the new year coinciding with the vernal equinox. The concept of Oestara (light and dark balanced with light gaining power) was named for Eostre, a Teutonic goddess of spring and new life (who also lent her name to the English word "Easter"). Many of the older Teutonic rituals for Eostre involved eggs, rabbits, and pastel colors, nature walks and the act of seed-planting, similar to our modern Easter rituals.   It is only right that the celebrations of a new year should be related with the stirrings of green life, and not emphasized by the clamor of fireworks, but by the quiet call of the Meadowlark.  Pagan rites of sowing seed and the symbolic sacrifice of a few virgins (always a decent addition to a drunken celebration) should be reinstituted and balanced by the Fall rites of Harvest and Thanksgiving.

The metamorphosis begins now!  I propose that our yearly resolutions, those annual statements of good intent and purposeful existence, be made at the Spring Equinox.  Last night, sitting in the gazebo after moving a few roses and trimming back the damaged boxwoods, I made the following promises for my gardening year:

1.  I resolve, this year, to spend at least as much time sitting and listening to the life of my garden as I do imposing my will on it.  The specific action plan will be to sit down at least at the end of each working chore to enjoy the quiet of a job well-done.
2.  I resolve to allow more self-seeding by annuals, letting their natural wisdom choose the sites where they can flourish best.  Action:  designate a bed of bare, disturbed ground without mulch or extra water and simply weed out the weeds.
3.  I resolve to spend less time pushing the envelopes of Hardiness Zone and individual plant water requirements with new introductions and to grow more of those plants that are "Zone-Worthy" by their obvious delight in this climate.
4.  I will make specific plantings to attract and support avian wildlife to my garden and I will replenish and clean the hummingbird feeders at least every 3rd day.  Nowhere are God's miracles more evident than in the flight of a hummingbird or the glimpse of a bluebird.

So join with me, my gardening friends, on this first day of the Northern Hemisphere New Gardening Year, and add your resolutions to mine.  Rejoice ye, sow some seed, and sacrifice a few virgins in a drunken orgy if any can be found (I live, remember, in a College town).  In absence of the latter, at least share a little grape juice with a Significant Other beneath the stars of a new Spring.