Tulipo-Ex-Mania

Tulipa clusiana

I've read about tulips.  I've read extensively about tulips, from the excellent The Tulip by Anna Pavord to the enchanting Tulipomania of Mike Dash.  The former is a dry comprehensive history of the tulip, and the latter an engaging and very readable tale focusing on the boom and bust of the Dutch trade in tulips in the 1630's.  Neither of these books taught me very much, however, about actually growing tulips, nor have the multitude of texts available that focus on bulb gardening.  Writers that take up the topic of gardening with various bulbs all describe the same practices.  Prepare a nice bed.  Add a little bone meal to the base of the bed.  Toss the bulbs in the air so they'll land with random spacing and plant them where they lay, several bulb-lengths below the surface.  Water.  Let the foliage die back naturally to allow full nourishment of the growing bulb.  Oh, and if you're in an area where varmints like to remove them (squirrels, rodents, etc.) encase the bulbs in a wire cage during planting.

You either have to search deep or learn by experience to get the important information.  The most important tidbits to learn about tulips are first that  big, beautiful, Dutch tulips are annuals, not perennials, in most of the Continental US.  Accept it, face it, and just plan, if you must have tulips, for annual purchase of next year's flowers.   If you search for them, there are species tulips out there who actually return more reliably.  Oh, and most importantly, if you really add bone meal to the bottom of the planting bed, every dog in the neighborhood will think your bed has become the resting place for their last hidden bone and will then compete in a contest to see who can dig up the most bulbs.  I once planted 50 nice bright red Darwin tulips in a raised bed, only to see every one of them excavated overnight by a neighbor's hunting dogs.  The resident deer were very appreciative of the dogs' efforts and added to the carnage by partially consuming or damaging most of the bulbs before I could replant them.  It seems that deer can't eat a whole tulip bulb, but they like to taste each one before moving on.

I've tried to satisfy the desires of the loving Mrs. ProfessorRoush in this regard, She Who Adores Tulips, but, like many other critical spousal tasks, I've failed again and again.  Last year's patch of 75 tulips yielded but a single sad tulip this year, its singular beauty not quite the same as the previous mass effect.  Actually about 6 tulips put up some foliage, but 5 were plucked out of the ground or chewed off at ground level by deer before flowering.  Kansas itself conspires to defeat my tulipiflorious efforts as well, because the Spring winds often tear an unprotected tulip to shreds before it can open. The Wicked Witch of the West is still writing in the sky, but it's not "Surrender, Dorothy", it is "Surrender, Tulips."

After many years however, I can recommend a singular exception to the wanton, unsustainable annual tulip consumption.  I've tried a number of species type tulips, and I still have hopes for some surviving stragglers of Tulipa hageri 'Little Beauty', but Tulipa clusiana seems to be the survivor for Kansas.  About eight years back, I obtained Tulipa clusiana 'chrysantha' through a mail-order whim and the small clump has expanded and thrived unaided.  Tulipa clusiana, also known as the "Lady Tulip" or "Persian Tulip" or "Candlestick Tulip" is a low-growing species tulip native to areas of the Middle East, although some references suggest that it is really native to Spain.  Regardless of origin, it seems to be unique in enjoying the dry Kansas summers.  I essentially forget they even exist each year until they bloom again, but they manage quite well on their own. The creamy butter yellow centers of this variety are surrounded by soft red exteriors that form long narrow buds. Only 8-10 inches high, these beauties don't scream for attention, but I appreciate their quiet addition to the garden more every year. Other, brighter varieties are available, from bright yellow 'Tubergen's Gem' to red-striped 'Candy Cane', but I find the native species sufficient to keep the spousal demands for tulips within reason. 

 It helps to have a spouse who is willing to compromise and accept a daffodil-growing spouse as a poor substitute for a real (Tulip-capable) gardener. 

The Reader's Sting

I seem to have an inadvertent theme going this week on bumblebees, if indeed three postings that happen to use the word constitutes a theme.  I feel an obligation to post this third one, however, if only to do my part in preventing the dissemination of the particular flavor of Kool-Aid involved.  

For background, my post "Trophy Weeding" was cross-posted on GardenRant a couple of days ago, which I appreciate and enjoy because such cross-postings always bring more comments and help me to improve my writing.  Even if they do edit out some of the bawdier, and I dare say, funnier, comments before posting there.  A reader named "Marie", however, took issue with one of my ill-considered statements and commented as follows:

"For perpetuating the myth that bumblebees are agressive and sting,the writer loses 25 points from from a perfect humor score. BUMBLEBEES DO NOT STING! Yes, I'm shouting. They are docile pollinators and you can probably outrun them. Hornets, some which have ground nests, are reactive and aggressive. They will chase you across the yard and into your house, then sting you if they haven't already.  If you read this and still run away from bumbles, you lose 10 points for cowardice. Since not everyone reads the responses, I kindly ask you to consider writing a correction. Your amateur beekeeper, Marie"

Well, now, I must say that I was deeply stung by that comment, Marie, and especially by the deduction from my humor score.  And you haven't seen me in person, so you don't know that outrunning them is an iffy risk on my part.

I fully admit that I'm just a rambling blogger, not an expert on anything, except perhaps that I have a minor claim to expertise in small animal veterinary orthopedic surgery, a subject that I choose not to blog about however.  So it is entirely probable that I make a multitude of mistakes during my rambles and no one should take the credential "Master Gardener" as a real indicator of anything except the ability to spend a few hours in community service.  But since Marie prompted me to provide a retraction after due diligence, I've researched the question to the best of my ability and, in fact, find that BUMBLEBEES CAN SURELY STING!  Yes, I'm shouting now too.  Quoting such impeccable references as Wikipedia and http://www.bumblebee.org/, I agree that they are normally docile creatures and don't often sting, but according to everything I can find, the queens and workers can sting and will sting in defence of their nest or if harmed, and in fact they can sting repeatedly because their stinger lacks the barbs that cause a honeybee to surrender its weapon with each sting.  In fact, website pictures of the bumblebee's barb are quite fearsome.

So we're both partially right, and I'd like a refund please of 15 points back to my humor score and permission to keep running if bumblebees happen to make a beeline for my backside.  I'm willing to live and let live and I certainly don't propose that bumblebee nests should be eradicated with Navy SEAL squads ala Bin Laden.  And I am tempted to challenge Marie to post a video sitting bare-naked for a period of time on a bumblebee nest, but I'm afraid of the lengths to which a true-believer might take such a challenge and my conscience can't absorb the potential consequences to garden-gnomes and children.  So I'll just ask that if everyone can keep an open mind and limit the Kool-Aid to those WEE (wild-eyed environmentalists) wearing Birkenstocks and worshiping their AlGore dolls, we can hopefully just move on to another topic.     

 

First Rose; with Visitors

My much-anticipated first rose rose of the year (always 'Marie Bugnet') has begun to bloom.  If you can call this wind-beaten, misshapen white thing I've pictured a bloom.  No matter how unflattering I think the first bloom was, the pictured bumblebee was not put off by its lack of wholesomeness, finding and harvesting it right away.  Nor was the embedded spider trying to stay hidden at the bottom of the bloom, who obviously decided, agreeing with Shakespeare, that discretion was the better part of valor, and thus sav'd his life, leaving the bumblebee alone.  Who says that spiders aren't smart? 

I suppose, depending on your point of view, the first bloom of 'Marie Bugnet' this year on April 30, 2011 is right on time, or a little early, or even a little late this year.   She first bloomed on 4/21 in 2010 and on 4/23 in 2005  and 4/20 in 2004 so she could be considered a little late.   But she bloomed later yet than this year in 2008 and 2009 (5/16 and 5/10 respectively).  Just another indication that this year that I've felt is such a cold spring is probably just par for the course, and perhaps another indicator of how poorly we can predict global warming from a gardener's eye view.  

I declare the rose year in Kansas officially begun!

Gendered Plants

A few days back, editing the blog I posted about the irises in my garden here, it suddenly occurred to me that I think of, and refer to, most plants as having a gender.  "He" or "she" become my pronouns of choice when I'm not using the plant's real name.  Rarely, if ever, do I use "it" to refer to the plant under discussion.

So the big question is, WHY?  Why do I do that?  Am I just really that much of a great big gardening wierdo, or do other gardeners subconsciously apply a gender to most plants?


If I accept that I haven't ventured alone out into Spookyville, the next huge question becomes, HOW?  How do I decide on the gender of a particular specimen?  I've given it some thought over the past few hours and I can't find any sure pattern to my gender nomification.  (Now I'm really scared because I thought I just made up the word "nomification," but apparently it has roots in philosophic discussions of reason.  It means "the assumption that because it has a name, or that because you can give it one, it has actual existence."  So, because I consider a plant female, is it then female?).

'Heritage', male or female?

I don't believe that I'm responding just to flower color, but that is probably a big part of the picture. It is true that I consider most darker or brashly-colored flowers to be male and the pale yellows/pinks/pastels female.  Is the fact that I use "he" to describe the purple and white iris 'Rare Edition' and "she" to describe iris 'Lemon Pop' merely a byproduct of my cultural upbringing and biases, just as the nurseries for my daughter and son were painted pink and pale blue, respectively?  Rosa 'Madame Hardy,' who is white, refined, nicely scented, and delicate, is undoubtedly female in my mind, as is the more modern white hybrid tea rose 'Honor'.  Does that make 'John F. Kennedy', another white hybrid tea, a transvestite?  Maybe not, because grandiflora 'White Lighting' is certainly male in my mind.  Some of my color bias transmits to other species because purple clematis 'Jackmanii' is undoubtedly male, while white 'Guernsey Cream' is undoubtedly female.  Lilac 'Wonderblue' is male while 'Nadezhda' is female.  As I think of roses, I'm pretty sure that David Austin is guilty of my gender-assignment transgressions because most all of his dark roses have male names while the apricots and pastels have names like 'Lady Emma Hamilton' and 'Mary Rose'.  The one exception that comes to mind, 'The Dark Lady', just applies a smoking-hot Senorita persona to a dark red rose and that makes it okay.

What of non-flowering, or inconsequentially-flowering plants?  Boxwoods and junipers are mostly males to me, as are yews and hollies (whether it is Ilex 'Blue Girl' or 'China Boy').    Cornus stolinifera is male, while Cornus alba 'Ivory Halo' is female.  And what about trees?  Cottonwoods are female, I think, while Maples are primarily males.  Sycamore trees and Burr Oaks are very masculine, while Pecan trees are female.  Here's a good one; Purple Smoke Bush (Cotinus coggygria ‘Purple Fringe’) is male, while yellow Cotinus coggygria ‘Ancot’ is female to me.  I've lost my senses, haven't I?

It's certainly not just the name of the cultivar. Turning back to roses,  'Earth Song', a fuschia Buck rose, is a male to me (shouldn't it be female...i.e. Mother Earth?).  But I view 'Carefree Beauty', a softer pink Buck rose, as a female as you would expect.  'Prairie Star', a gender-neutral name of a soft-blush rose, is undoubtedly female.  Here's a test for you:  What is the Bourbon rose  'Variegata di Bologna'?  Male, right?   Am I okay with accepting magenta 'Mme. Issac Pierre' as a female or do I really, deeply, think of the Mme to be Mmmmmmm Issac Pierre" in my Midwestern drawl, and so she's a "he" deep in my mind, a deep magenta named as a man while I ignore the Mme. prefix?  Bright red 'Olympiad' is definitely male and in a like vein,  the same bright-red tones of 'Linda Campbell' make that stiff rugosa cross a male in my mind as well, despite the honor of being named after a prominent female rosarian.

I hate to bring Freud into the discussion, but how much of my bias is dictated by flower form?  I'm admittedly biased that obviously phallic daylilies, knipofia, and globe alliums are predominately male, although I think of many pink daylilies, such as 'Attribution' as female.  Purple daylilies like 'Night Embers'and even brash oranges like 'Kwansi' are just as surely male.   Mushrooms are male, and asparagus is male.  Pumpkins and watermelons and grapes are female.  Oriental lilies are female.  Period. Anybody surprised?

Well, now that I've exposed my floral-related gender biases, I'm sure that I'm going to find other gardeners whispering around behind my back at meetings.  But before you dismiss me as a Garden-variety Gender Offender, please take a moment and consider.  Did you disagree with my assigned genders for any of the plants named above?  Did you?