bRRRR...

I realize this post will carry little weight with those New Englanders who get the predicted 8-16 inches of snow today (Buffalo'ers, you know who you are!), but this iPhone screenshot, taken at 6:00 a.m., will suffice to tell you how the weather fairs in Kansas today.  Luckily, no frost in my high nest above Manhattan, but there's a light frost down here in the bottoms, sufficient to stunt any tomatoes out there at this early date. 

For your daily dose of absurdity, notice the notation for the high on Wednesday; 91F....a swing of 59 degrees in two days.

They All Grow Up

Many years ago, when my daughter was perhaps six or so years of age, she returned from a late spring Manhattan Zoo outing and presented me, her hazel eyes sparkling with excitement, with a few maple seeds that she and her friend had collected from the sidewalk at the zoo.  Assuring me that these were special seeds from a marvelous and special tree, she demanded that I plant them immediately.  And I, acknowledging that they were magic seeds (made so merely by her efforts to please a gardening father), did indeed plant them with her help and direction, all the while thinking it unlikely that they would ever germinate and grow from the immature little samara that they were.

One blasted little seed did grow however, to my daughter's delight, and after finding a one-foot tall Silver Maple (Acer saccharinum) seedling in a very poor place to allow further growth of a tree, I subsequently transplanted the sapling not once, but twice, all the while secretly hoping that the tree wouldn't survive the move(s).  It sounds terrible now, but this very common North American species with brittle wood and shallow roots was not high on the list of trees I wished to add to my landscape.

Evidently, however, God ignores pretentious gardening fathers and protects the dreams of stringy-blond-haired little girls because that maple has grown and thrived to become the largest tree of my yard, surpassing even the volunteer Cottonwoods that I have also allowed to mature.  At around 12 years of age, it is perhaps twenty feet tall with a trunk 6 or so inches in diameter, otherwise unremarkable except for its health and the mass of light yellow leaves that it drops for my lawnmower to pick up each Fall.

My daughter's maple surprised me this spring by setting seed for the first time, just as my little girl prepares to graduate High School, leave our nest and go off to college this summer.  ProfessorRoush, for all his deficiencies, is not so spiritually obtuse that he has missed this not-so-subtle cosmic hint about the nature of time.  Little gangly girls do grow up, despite the desires of their fathers, to become beautiful independent women, just as the tallest maple can grow from the smallest seed.  I get it, okay?




This tree will always be a part of my garden, serving forever to remind me of my young daughter and the seeds we planted, growing steadfastly and strong despite all the obstacles faced.  It has been with us through the Spring of young family life, the storms of adolescence, and it will soon serve to provide shelter and relief from the hot Kansas sun for an aging and reminiscing gardener.  Someday I hope that, long beyond my time, when this tree's time on Earth is over and being gauged in the number of growth rings, someone remembers to count the first dozen rings as I would, in the terms of memory.  This was the year she lost and regained her front teeth, this ring for the year the braces were removed, this one the first time she drove a car, this the year of her first teen love, this the year of her graduation....

It Galls Me

Something always spoils the applesauce, doesn't it?  You're anticipating a good rose year, checking the roses daily and closely to catch a glimpse of that first bud on a new cultivar in your garden.  And then you see that first leaf affected with blackspot.  Or the fine new rose cane broken off at the base by recent winds.  Or the cute little spiky balls hanging on one of your roses.

Cute little spiky balls?  Wait a minute, I think those are rose galls!

I've seen similar structures on oak trees, but never on my roses.  A quick bit of Internet research tells me that my assumption is probably correct.  These galls are likely formed by a gall wasp, perhaps a Diplolepis sp. wasp, who lay eggs on the roses in spring and whose larvae then become encapsulated within a chemically-induced distortion of the plant material.  Cut a gall ball open, as I did, and you are met with a moist cavity containing a very squirmy, disgusting, tiny white larva who is quite perturbed at the disturbance. After a more careful search, I did find some smooth balls on another rose ('Banshee') which contain similar larvae, but that seems to be the extent of my infestation.   As I am not an entomologist, I'm at a loss to determine exactly which species has chosen my rose (in this case 'Marianne') to invade, but it is probably not the Rose bedeguar gall, Diplolepis rosae, as it isn't "mossy" enough in appearance. One source, a University of California Extension publication by ML Flint and JF Karlik, suggests that there are perhaps 40 different types of rose gall.  Even worse, according to Wikipedia, there are some 800 species of gall wasps in North America. 

For the life of me, I can't find a decent "reason" for the existence of gall wasps.  Okay, they form galls, but what else do they do?  Don't laugh, it's an important question.  I need to know if I should crush these galls under my heel or let them mature on the contingency that gall wasps are a beneficial predator of a far worse disease agent.  A rose blooms to please the rosarian and its pollinator and make new little rose seeds.  An oak tree forms acorns to make little oak trees and provide squirrels an incentive to plant the acorns.  Is being a plant parasite the sole purpose of a gall wasp?  To make more galls and thus more little gall wasps?

I may be waxing a little too metaphysical today.  If I carry my thought a little further, I must also acknowledge that the gall wasp may be by turn wondering what my existence means.  Does the large bipedal mammal exist solely to protect his roses and make more little bipedal mammals?  Or merely to write about his fleeting thoughts and send them out into the ether?  Exactly how many angels can dance on a rose bud?

Blanc or Philemon?

There are near white roses and there are almost completely white roses, and there are really, really white roses.  And then, according to most renowned rose experts, there is the white of Rugosa hybrid 'Blanc Double de Coubert'.    In the Rugosa family, I grow three white roses; 'Blanc', an offspring or sport of 'Blanc' named 'Souvenir de Philemon Cochet', and 'Sir Thomas Lipton', the latter of which I've written about before.  All are periodically remonant here ('Philemon' may be the most frequent bloomer) and are reliably cold-hardy in my former Zone 5B climate.

'Blanc Double de Coubert'

'Blanc Double de Coubert' is an 1893 hybrid Rugosa shrub bred by Charles Pierre Marie Cochet-Cochet (what a mouthful of a name!).   The semi-double, 3-inch blooms are indeed very white, she's very thorny, and the foliage is indeed rugose and healthy, but agreement about this shrub rose seems to end there.  Some sources say she has strong fragrance while others describe a moderate fragrance, like "Pond's Cold Cream".  Some sources say it produces fabulous red hips each fall, while a few state that it rarely produces hips.  Cochet-Cochet introduced it as a breeding of 'Sombreil' and Rugosa alba, but many experts suspect it is simply a sport of the Rugosa species. 

I can only say that, in Kansas, the tallest I've seen 'Blanc' is about 3 foot tall, and I wouldn't have labeled her as very vigorous. I'll flat out state that I'm not very fond of her at all. She seems to do better in full sunlight and without neighbors than she does in a hedge of other roses.  She has a pleasing and moderately strong fragrance, but I rarely see her set hips, and to me, a rose without hips is like a woman without....curves.  I've never seen blackspot on the leaves, but the shrub has an unfortunate tendency to shrivel up and die suddenly on me, probably indicating some dissatisfaction with my placements of her.  Oh, and I agree that she's white, but I don't believe that the white of 'Blanc' is any more pure than many other roses or other plants.  Gertrude Jekyll, herself, labeled 'Blanc' the "whitest white rose of all," and this statement gets repeated often since no one dares to argue with the blind Ms. Jekyll even long after her death, but if one accepts her statement, we have to also accept that breeders never did as well or better in the 119 years since 'Blanc' was introduced.  I, for one, think Sir Thomas Lipton is just as white and is a much more vigorous rose than 'Blanc', although 'Lipton' admittedly lacks the fragrance of 'Blanc'. 
 

'Souvenir de Philemon Cochet'

The controversy seems to continue with 'Souvenir de Philemon Cochet', which is simultaneously described  as either a sport or a seedling of 'Blanc'.  I'm personally a believer in the latter provenance, because my 'Philemon' has a distinct pink blush in cooler weather, which you can see in the picture at the left, that I have never seen in 'Blanc'.  Regardless of parentage, I firmly believe 'Philemon' is a better rose for Kansas than 'Blanc'.   It reaches about the same height, 3 foot, but is a bit more vigorous and spreads into a broader bush than 'Blanc'.  I love the very double and larger (4 1/2 inch)  blooms and the fragrance is equal, if not better than 'Blanc'.  Bred by Philemon Cochet and introduced in 1899 by Charles Pierre Marie Cochet-Cochet, it has never set a hip for me, but it does retain the thorny nature of its parent.  According to Paul Barden's website, although I think the article was written by rosarian Suzy Verrier, Souvenir de Philemon Cochet may be particularly shade tolerant, growing slightly taller in the shade, and I believe I would agree with that assessment.

So, how does one choose between these roses? If you must  grow a classic, and have the time to baby it, then I suppose 'Blanc Double de Coubert' is your woman.  If you want a more trouble-free, waist-high, almost white rose, then take Mr. 'Souvenir de Philemon Cochet' as your new rose.  And if you want an impenetrable 7 foot high hedge that repels dogs and teenagers alike, than 'Sir Thomas Lipton' would get my recommendation.   All three are starting to bloom today here in my Kansas garden.