Horticultural Gettysburg

Regular readers of this blog will recall my intention to refrain from mowing the prairie grasses that make up our outer lawn and may also recall Mrs. ProfessorRoush's not-so-subtle resistance to said intention. For new readers, you can catch up here and here.   

While the end to this horticultural civil conflict is nowhere in sight, I am happy to report that the first skirmish has been won by the ecologically-enlightened Native Faction and its allies, and that Mrs. ProfessorRoush has conceded that the particular unmown strip pictured below might possibly have some redeeming qualities. I believe it was the cheery faces of all the Black-Eyed Susans (Rudbeckia hirta) peeking above the grass that has temporarily quieted the dogs of war.

Please don't tell She Who Likes Manicured Lawns, but this area, about 15 feet wide by 50 feet long, laying between the driveway and the unbearing fruit trees that I euphemistically call my orchard, was always my secret weapon; my personal Manhattan Project to bring a swift and decisive end to the conflict. This spot was my best hope for a quick victory and it paid off.  I had previously mowed around a few volunteer R. hirta's in this area last year, preserving a couple of 1 foot by 3 foot strips for a few weeks,  and the cute little yellow buttons obviously procreated and self-sowed themselves above and beyond the call of duty for my benefit.  The lesson here, as always, is that overwhelming numbers are often a key component of victory, horticultural or otherwise. 

The tide of battle has also shifted because the Supreme Commander of the Mowing Faction has not yet encountered any snakes on her walks with the dog, nor has there been a noticeable increase in ticks and chiggers along the mown paths.  The Primary Rabbit-and-Snake Chaser has cooperated by keeping any information that reptiles and rodents are present in the demilitarized zones on the down-low.  

I won't try to pretend that all my unmown areas, now all approximately one foot in average height, have anywhere near this degree of accidental beauty, but I'm hoping other forbs seed themselves around by next year to enhance those areas which are currently less floriferous.  In the meantime, the growing grass itself may aid the General of the Native Faction and his allies as the prairie grass develops its usual red and buff coloration in September and October.  I am aware that Mrs. ProfessorRoush likes the autumn colors of the prairie grasses and, as always, accurate information about the weaknesses of your enemy often determines the outcome of the war.  God-willing, an Armistice will soon be signed and freedom to escape the tyranny of a carefully-manicured suburban utopia will belong to myself, the Primary Rabbit-and-Snake chaser, and the collective prairie flora.

Red Cascade

There has long been a rose out there in the world for all those rose folks who search for a groundcover rose or a rose to cover a hillside, and I'm happy to say that I have grown this marvelous rose for years.

In 1976, the great rose-breeder Ralph Moore introduced 'Red Cascade' as a miniature groundcover rose, and that same year the rose was also awarded the ARS Award of Excellence.  'Red Cascade' has since become one of the most versatile roses for the garden, with various rosarians recommending it be used as a groundcover, a climber, or pruned as a shrub.  It blooms, as pictured, in bright red (perhaps with a little touch of orange) sprays of cupped, very double flowers, but I have to admit that the individual one-inch diameter flowers leave me less than inspired when viewed by themselves. This is definitely a rose for the garden, not for the vase. The flowers form almost as hybrid-tea style buds, open cupped and flatten out as they age, but to their credit, the flowers hardly fade from their bright red beginnings.  There is, alas, no fragrance that I can detect, although various sources, most of whom I suspect never saw this rose in person, suggest that it has a light scent.  



'Red Cascade' first bloom 6/05/11



'Red Cascade' is a cross of a seedling (R. Wichurana X 'Floradora') and 'Magic Dragon' (a previous red climber by Moore).  In my Kansas climate, it produces some very long canes, usually running about 6 feet in a season, but occasionally reaching out twelve feet from base.  I grow 'Red Cascade' near the edge of an East-facing limestone landscaping wall, where, true to its name, it can cascade down the wall or spread under the shade of an adjacent red peach tree at will. In that spot, it remains about 8 foot by 5 foot wide and it lifts its blooms about a foot into the air.  Even there, with primarily morning sunshine, it is disease free and never sees any spray or extra water (and darned little fertilizer).  In fact, my 'Red Cascade' has performed as predicted by others and it has rooted twice more in the area where its long canes have arched back in contact with the ground.  I must remember to move one of the rooted starts out into the sun to let it really run free.

At least one forum thread had a participant asking about repeat bloom and you can see pictured at right, the second bloom of this rose starting up again less than three weeks after the picture taken above at full bloom.  It's early in the second bloom, so if I had waited a few days I'd better represent the almost ever-blooming nature of this rose, but I couldn't resist showing it off as it was this morning against the orange native prairie Asclepias.  The three clumps of Asclepias tuberosa all self-seeded around my 'Red Cascade', obviously proving that these plants can think and that they have the artistic sense to display their complimentary color next to a winner of a rose.

Leaves of Three, Should I Grow Thee?

Everyone, please be a little careful looking at the picture on this post;  I don't want to be responsible for anyone breaking out in a rash.  I'm aware that its not polite in open forum to brag, and I'm sure my karma will be affected for days by even posting this blog publicly, but I happen to be one of those lucky gardeners who seems immune to the evil oils of Poison Ivy (Toxicodendron radicans).  "Leaves of three, let it be" is not a mnemonic that I've had a lot of personal use for. 

Poison ivy immunity is a gift bestowed, in a genetic way, on about 15% of the human population.  My mother and, I think, my maternal grandparents were all immune, while my father breaks out at a rash at the mere thought of poison ivy, so in this instance, Thank You Mom.  In my garden, I prefer to weed bare-handed, and I pull up random stray poison ivy weedlings, like the one above, frequently with absolutely no ill effects. One summer, as a young boy, I spent a week building a wood fence for my father deep in a pure patch of poison ivy, and for my trouble received about 5-8 little spots of rash by the end of the week.  I'm not even sure if they were poison ivy-induced or were mosquito bites.  I was thus a dangerous friend to have as a child.  Being immune to ivy meant that I could romp at random in the woods and fields near my house without a care in the world about the particular patch of foliage in which I was playing. That also meant that I was accidentally prone to lead more susceptible and less horticulturally aware friends deep into thickets of poison ivy to their detriment.    

There are a number of interesting little factoids available out there about poison ivy along with some pretty bad advice for treating or avoiding the skin lesions. None other than Euell Gibbons, he of Stalking the Wild Asparagus fame, recommended eating poison ivy leaves daily for the month of May to build acquired immunity. Yes, that's right, eating three of the tiny leaves (one leaf with three leaflets) while they were still red in color "every day for the month of May." While snake handlers use mithridatism (the practice of inoculating onesself with small amounts of a poison to build up resistance to it) with some success, Euell was promoting a highly dangerous and unproven method for avoiding poison ivy.  Don't try it, please.

As a plant, poison ivy can be a vine, groundcover, or a shrub.   It is not a true ivy, any more than poison oak (Toxicodendron pubescens) is a true oak.  It is related to mango's and cashews, both of which can cause reactions in very susceptible people. The caustic substance produced by the plant is an oil, called urushiol, and there's a lot of information available about the chemistry of the oil if you want to look it up, but I don't see how it's useful to a susceptible gardener to know that the more unsaturated the urushiol molecules are, the greater the bodily reaction invoked.  We don't go around with chemistry sets measuring the number of double bonds to decide if we can safely touch a particular specimen.  
 
But, setting all that aside, I'm starting to wonder if a well-cared for specimen wouldn't be a nice horticultural accent to my garden.  Just think about it.  If poison ivy was a benign plant, the white berries would be coveted by gardeners, and poison ivy is a completely stunning plant in fall when its leaves turn the most wondrous shade of bright scarlet.  A large specimen would have the dual purpose of punishing burglars and keeping other interlopers out of my garden, providing privacy for me in my garden as effectively as surrounding the garden with a moat.  I think my children are immune, having tested both with a little rub of a leaf in their younger days, but I don't know about my wife.  I don't really want to keep her out of my garden, but I suppose it's an option if she gets too uppity about me not mowing the prairie grasses and forbs this year.   

And Then They Were Gone...

Followers will recall that I blogged about the Killdeer nesting in my yard, and about how I had to mow around the nest for several weeks.  Those four little camouflaged eggs, pictured on the right, sat in the Kansas sunshine for just about 4 weeks total, Mama or Papa Killdeer screaming every time I came near them until suddenly, as I discovered this morning.....gone. 

Rats, I had been hoping to catch the just-hatched babies, but I hadn't checked the nest since Monday and evidently that was enough time for them to disappear into the tall grass about 10 feet away.  I know they are still around somewhere because Mama and Papa both are still trying to lead me away from the edge of the grass.  But the little fluffballs, two of which are pictured below in a nest from a couple of years back, are now hiding in the weeds, trying to get past those awkward teen years and someday nest in my yard themselves.