Huns at the Gate

History doesn't report what the reigning Roman Emperor said when the Huns first reached the gates of the Eastern Empire, but I do know what ProfessorRoush said today when he saw this metallic green creature munching away on a rose.  Unfortunately, my verbal outburst cannot be repeated in print, nor orally in the presence of good Christians or children, so my response will also be lost to future generations.

As I fearfully predicted last year, the frontier of expansion for Japanese Beetles has shifted west and they have reached Manhattan, Kansas.  I was walking my garden this morning, taking pictures, when, from twenty feet away, I saw a dark spot at the center of a bloom of 'Topaz Jewel'.  On closer examination, there he was, a solo advance scout for the Japanese Beetle horde.  A few seconds after I took this picture, he wasn't nearly so complacent because he found himself between a rock and a hard place, the latter represented by the sole of my shoe.  It was barbaric, I know, not to offer him a last meal or a chance to redeem his soul, but spies are not subject to the niceties of the Geneva Convention, at least as I understand it.  At least this particular spy won't be reporting the location of my personal paradise back to his buddies.

I know, I know, where there is one Japanese Beetle there must be more, but this scout wasn't fornicating with a fellow member of his species as they normally are found, and so I conclude that he was alone.  I immediately inspected every rose in my garden and found no others present this morning, and you can bet that every morning and evening for the next few weeks I'm going to become close friends with every blossom in my garden. 

My second proactive move of the day was to go to the K-State Rose Garden to inspect the roses there and I hadn't gotten ten feet along the garden before finding another Japanese Beetle in 'Jen's Monk', pictured at the left.  Again, I could find no camp followers for this scout so I concluded he was alone, although I did find two specimens of an unknown beetle, shown below, elsewhere in the roses.  I don't know the identity of these latter interlopers, but both flew away when disturbed, rather than dropping moronically to the round as Japanese Beetles do.  The confirmed Japanese Beetle I found, however, was summarily executed on the spot.   


By eliminating the beetles as they are found, I hope to delay my eventual defeat and keep their numbers down until their natural enemies, such as Tiphia wasps, can aid in the war effort. According to this USDA pamphlet, peonies and knotweed, both of which I already grow, are good nectar sources for the wasps and fly predators of Japanese Beetles. I know the first years of invasion in a new area are the worst for destruction and then an equilibrium is reached.  Perhaps my Purple Martin allies will help me keep the beetle numbers under local control for a few years while the rest of the environment catches up.  I'm a little concerned about the blooms on the top of my seven foot tall 'Sir Thomas Lipton' being an unguarded back door for invasion, so some help from the avian equivalent of a stealth drone would be most welcome.  To my Purple Martins, I say "Good Luck, and Good Hunting!"


Addendum 070713:  Found one Japanese Beetle, a female this time, on 'Folksinger'.  Hopefully, there are no children to mourn her loss.  I also found one of the "different beetles" on a rose.  I'm going to have to catch the next one and send it to K-State entomology.

Addendum 070813:  Found another male last night on 'Morden Sunrise'.  Then found two beetles this morning 'Folksinger' (one male and one female, the male escaped). 

Addendum 071113:  Found another male on Therese Bugnet.  Collected this one and preserved to show the Master Gardener's group and to prove I'm identifying them right!

Addendum 071313:  Found another Beetle on 'Sir Thomas Lipton' where I could see it (I still can't see the top).  They've resorted to trying a stealth entry into the garden.

Addendum 071613:  One beetle on 'Martin Frobisher'

New Purple Roses

ProfessorRoush must have been in a purple mood when he ordered roses this year because at least two of my new roses are deeply and darkly purple and others also have some murky red tones.  The large velvety single at the left is 'Basye's Purple Rose', a rose that I had grown before for a couple of years and then inexplicably lost in the first year of the recent drought.  I simply couldn't continue without 'Basye's Purple' in my garden, so I quickly replaced it.


'Basye's Purple Rose' is a Hybrid Rugosa shrub rose bred by Dr. Basye in 1968 as a cross between R. rugosa and R. foliolosa    As the photo illustrates, this is a large (2.5 inch diameter) single rose with a deep velvety texture and large orangish-yellow stamens.  I detect little or no fragrance in the rose and it doesn't seem to form hips in any appreciable number.  It is supposed to be a 5 foot shrub, but my former specimen only made it to three feet and the current one is about the same size at 2 years of age.  'Basye's Purple Rose' does bloom in flushes, but it seems to cycle slowly for me; 3-4 flushes per year seem to be the maximum.  Except for the death of my previous shrub, it seems to be a very healthy bush, with no blackspot or mildew on the mildly rugose leaves and few, if any, insect problems.  It is fully cane-hardy here in Zone 6A. This year it was the last rose to bloom during the "first flush" in my garden.

One nice surprise is that 'Basye's Purple' has new canes that are strikingly red and strikingly thorny compared to the old canes (see the photo above right).  No, folks, that's not Rose Rosette disease, it's just the way they're supposed to look.  Somewhere in development, those prickles must drop off because the overall bush is not that thorny.

My second new purple rose, pictured to the right, is the old Hybrid Gallica rose 'Tuscany Superb'.  I've lusted for this rose for years and finally found a source.  In its second year in my garden, it stands around 2 feet tall and a foot wide and these were its first blooms here at home.  This rose is a hard rose to photograph for me because I can't seem to get the color right.  In real life, this rose is darker and has more blue tones than this picture shows.  'Tuscany Superb' was bred by Rivers prior to 1837 and is said to be a seedling of the ancient Gallica named 'Tuscany', although several sources say the bushes and roses of this "father-son" pair are hard to tell apart.  Tuscany Superb' is fully double (around 60 petals) with a deep dark purple/red color and a moderate Gallica fragrance.  Once-blooming, and hardy, it is completely disease-free for me, without even the hint of powdery mildew that many Gallica's have in my garden.   'Tuscany Superb' has already ended its bloom and  receded into the green background as other roses begin their second flush, but I'll look forward to its bloom as a larger shrub next year. 

I'll have another dark red/purple rose to show you soon, a Buck rose, but I just got the first bloom from it today and I'm waiting for a good picture of subsequent blooms.  Stay tuned for a little known jewel that I hope is going to become a star in my garden.

Native Rain Garden

Cobaea Penstemon

ProfessorRoush is feeling a little vindicated this summer at the prairie revival occurring in his back yard.  As faithful readers know, three years ago I stopped mowing most of the gentle slope between my back patio and the main garden beds, an area I had mowed for 10 straight summers.  I began to let the prairie heal itself, only mowing once a year in late winter. This action has caused no small amount of angst in the household, since Mrs. ProfessorRoush envisions the house and garden as surrounded by a carefully manicured lawn, and she protests loudly and regularly that she wishes that I would just mow those areas.  Unfortunately for her, Mrs. ProfessorRoush married me, a gardener whose urges towards order and socially-acceptable gardening practices are always willing to play second fiddle to my innate laziness and personal distaste of any work that can't be also be classified as fun.  In defense of Mrs. ProfessorRoush, she has offered to mow the lawn for me, a nice gesture that I declined for fear that she'd scalp the entire horizon.

 

Black-Sampson Echinacea

Mowing the lawn has never, ever been my idea of fun, although NOT mowing has provided me no end of merriment.  For instance, there was the day when the local Prairie Garden club came to view my roses.  These pro-natural-gardening women were horrified at the mere idea that Mrs. ProfessorRoush felt that the Penstemon cobaea pictured above should be mowed along with the grass.  In fact, their reactions were similar to those of another strong Kansas woman, Carrie Nation, when she was presented with the opening of a new brewery.  I was worried for a minute that they would storm the house and stone Mrs. ProfessorRoush.  One after another, visitors to my garden support my decision to allow the garden to grow au natural.   I recognize that asking other gardeners for their opinions on the value of native plantings is a bit like asking Republicans if they favor tax cuts, but perhaps Mrs. ProfessorRoush won't make the connection and then import a group of rampant suburban Stepford Wives to outvote my supporters.

In the droughts of the last two years, I often wondered if I'd have grass, let alone flowers, in this area, but this year a wave of penstemon developed in one area and, several weeks later, the Black-Sampson Echinacea (Echinacea angustifolia) were blooming hither and yon over another area at the same time as the Catclaw Sensitive Briar (Mimosa quadrivalvis) was blooming.  Not a bad succession of flowers, if I do say so myself.  Most recently, the Purple Prairie Clover (Dalea purpurea) has begun to decorate the prairie from horizon to horizon.  I can't wait to see what comes after that.  Obviously, I'm hoping that these native flowers spread over the years and provide me with a free garden full of entertainment.

Purple Prairie Clover

The prairie grasses themselves go on forever here, happily growing with any water that falls with intermittent storms or hoarding the water they capture more regularly from the morning dews.  Entire urban landscape departments are focused on creating and maintaining "rain gardens" to help decrease runoff and conserve natural rainfall, but all I have to do is stop mowing the grass on my slopes to see the ground begin to soak up every drop.  I've got the rain garden to end all rain gardens here. This year the grass is already twice as tall as in either of the past two years, and it threatens to hide the main garden from my sight for the month of August, a good month to ignore the weeds in the rose beds and stay indoors anyway.  By September, I'll be somewhere off admiring my late blooming Sumac, but will someone please send out a backyard search party for Mrs. ProfessorRoush if she disappears?  She's afraid the grass will grow so tall, she might get lost in it, or worse, find a snake.  Either occurrence would be unfortunate for my health.  

In Glory, the Sky

There are moments here on the prairie, exhilarating and yet satiating, when the Kansas sky flows deep down into my soul to quench the fires that often rage within.  Summer scorch, drought, floods, grasshoppers, late Spring freezes, winter ice, and tornadoes, all merely are prices we choose to pay in exchange for sunsets like this, golden and tranquil along the western horizon.  This blessing from a particularly merciful Deity came last Friday night after the passing of the storm cell pictured below, a knot of winds and rain rolling first from southwest to northeast as I was lamenting that it was going to slide past us to the north, but then suddenly shifting south under the influence of prayer and anguish and proceeding to drown my sorrows from a thundering heaven.  Before anyone asks, these pictures were taken without a filter, the world presented here as it appeared in, as they say, "living color," the sun and sky conspiring to beauty despite their amateur photographer.

A strange sequence filled the heavens after the storm.  First, an emerald haze formed to the south and east, lightning and thunder chasing the rain and roiling clouds into the darkness of the night.  Then, on its heels, a low bank of clouds appeared in the north and west as in the photograph below, fluffy and solid, a line of marshmallows aglow against the setting sun.  If the Rapture had come at that moment, sweeping across the earth with this silent wall of softness, I would have surely accepted the juncture as a fit beginning to the End of Time, perfectly executed and consummated.

 

The world didn't end, but the evening did as the sun sank into the westward clouds, leaving me not behind after The Rapture, but still in a state of rapture, thankful for the soaked earth and the colorful firmament glowing with glory, a tapestry of oranges and golds and pinks and yellows reflected off the wet ground to bid me a peaceful and restful night, the gardener's soul refreshed and satisfied.