One Man's Milkweed, Another's Poison

I understand that there are biologists, both amateur and professional, who curse Carl Linnaeus for his Latin-infested taxonomic classification system, and I am sometimes among them.  I personally am quite thankful that someone else spent a lifetime pulling apart flowers and describing floral sex organs, because I don't possess the most minute fraction of the patience required.  On the other hand, all the Latin is a bit off-putting.  Today, however, I guess if Linnaeus hadn't been such a stickler for reproductive organ detail, I'd never have been able to identify the new wildflower in my untamed prairie backyard.  Well, Mike Haddock, the genius behind www.kswildflower.org helped quite a bit as well.  Being able to look at a collection of native flowering plants grouped by bloom color and month of bloom is a big aide to those of us who can't count stamens.

This new find is Whorled Milkweed, or Asclepias verticillata L. as it was known to Linnaeus.  I'd never have guessed that this perennial was related to my ubiquitous Asclepias tuberosa because it is not my nature to stare lewdly at flower parts;  I look at leaves, and commonly fail at identification because leaf shapes are reborn again and again in different plant families.  Look, for example, at the leaves of Whorled Milkweed.  I would think those thin leaves resemble a coreopsis family member, but their whorled pattern around the stem is responsible for the species name. Surprise, surprise, the favorite habitat of this one to three foot tall plant is a place in dry prairies with chalky or limestone soils, so my yard is as much of an Eden for Whorled Milkweed as it is for me.  I'd just never seen it before.

Whorled Milkweed, also known as Horsetail Milkweed, grows in colonies just as depicted in the photograph to the left, and it is poisonous to livestock.  Luckily, it tastes so bad that it is rarely consumed from the pasture.  Whorled Milkweed, as other milkweeds, may contain cardiotoxins and neurotoxins, and dosages as low as 0.1% to 0.5% of body weight may cause death in hooved animal species.  The toxins are not inactivated by drying; thus the biggest danger to livestock is the feeding of hay containing the plant.  Clinical signs include profuse salivation, incoordination, seizures, and gastrointestinal upset and death may occur 1-3 days after ingestion.  So, all in all, the presence of this plant in my backyard may not be so exciting as it first seemed.  I need to remember not to cut my backyard for hay to feed to the donkeys, and I may have to watch that the dog doesn't take a bite of the plant, but otherwise I'm glad that Whorled Milkweed is back in my prairie.  

Glowing Amy Robsart

'Amy Robsart'

I was happy this Spring to see the first full bloom I've gotten from R. rubiginosa  hybrid 'Amy Robsart'.  I planted her in the Fall of 2012 and last year she went from a rooted start to about 2 feet tall and had only a few sporadic blooms.  This year, she's gone from 2 feet to about 5 feet tall and she looks to become a massive bush in time.

The blooms of 'Amy Robsart' have completely met my expectations and surpassed them.  The single blooms are larger than the species R. rubiginosa (eglanteria), and they are so bright pink that they glow with an internal light and pop out against the bright foliage.  I was absolutely smitten with the otherwordly contrast of the yellow stamens over the small white center of the flower, with that bright, almost translucent pink all around.  'Amy Robsart' gets mild to moderate blackspot in my garden depending on the time of year.  Her foliage has the same green apple fragrance of the species, but is a bit lighter.

'Amy Robsart' in front of lighter pink  'John Davis'

'Amy Robsart' was bred by Lord Penzance before 1894.  Her parentage is described as Rosa rubiginosa var. camadrae R. Keller X Rosa foetida Herrm.   Peter Beales, in his Roses text, described her as "dull for most of the year but spectacular in full bloom."  I agree.  The bush is very healthy, and already, as a youngster, she has the look of a monster that will sprawl over everything around her.  In my garden she looks to reach her advertised 10' X 8' stature and become a thug.  She is hardy to Zone 4 and had no dieback in my tough winter last year.   'Amy Robsart' does form sporadic hips which turn orange-red in Autumn.   

I've got 'Amy Robsart' planted next to my species R. rubiginosa so that I could directly compare them, and if I were only to grow one, it would be 'Amy Robsart' rather than the species.  She has a fabulous bright flower, and is more garden-worthy, even if the fragrance of the foliage is not quite as strong as the species.    

A Shade Of Relief

 At last, my shade house is complete.  I took advantage of a cool Sunday last week to finish attaching the baseboards, stretch the cover, and secure it in place.  A cool Sunday in the late June of Kansas means that by 2:00 p.m. I was still roasted and mildly dehydrated in the low 90's temps, but, hey, it was done.

It is astonishing what the presence of a mere high tunnel shade house does to the aura of a garden.  It immediately feels like the garden is composed less of a series of beds plopped into the middle of prairie grass, and instead it promotes a sense of a purposeful and planned garden.  Despite placement deep down into the vegetable garden and off to the side, its existence somehow balances the overall garden.  "Here," it says, "is a thoughtful and determined gardener."  Thank God, I was able to erect it well enough that it isn't askew and disclosing the gardeners complete desperation to fight the searing Kansas sun.   I should also be thankful that I didn't erect a real greenhouse else I'd have delusions that I might someday become a decent gardener instead of a serial plant killer.

If you ignore the weeds in front and behind the structure, the laughing masses of weeds that I swear weren't there two days ago, you'll see that I followed my original purpose and placed it around and over my very pampered strawberry bed.  I've done about everything I can now, mulching the strawberries in black plastic so that the natural rain is concentrated in the rows and the competition of weeds is lessened.  I've run drip hoses up and down the rows so that the mere turn of a faucet at the house can mitigate the July scorch of the prairies.  I'm carefully directing runners back into the rows, to fill in the bare spaces and increase the yield.  Now I must merely wait through Fall, Winter, and Spring to harvest the fruits of my labors, hoping all along that Winter doesn't get too cold and dry or that Spring doesn't recognize the humor of a late freeze.   A garden might not provide fruit or sustenance, but every day it provides the gardener a lesson about the virtues of tolerance and patience.

A Garden Love Story

Time stood still in my garden today.  Time stood still while I paused to absorb a lesson of love and tolerance from two very different creatures thrown together by the whim of chance and the necessities of other lives.  My garden is a witness every day to a love that should not be, a love that few dare to speak of,  a Romeo and Juliet joining of souls so vastly different that they trivialize the Shakespearean plot.  Moose, my skinny garden predator, and Bella, the puppy replacing a daughter, are the picture of bliss in the brief moments they share.  No seconds are wasted marveling over their friendship, they know only the rapture of each other's company.

Cat and dog, as differently matched as the sun and moon, are yet alike in their huge hearts, their simple joy from the touch of another warm body.  Bella is a lover, happy to see anyone and everyone crossing her path.  Moose is more restrained, but just as desperate for attention as Bella is to provide it.  Many are those who live only in search of that one perfect love, exciting and exuberant,  joyfully unrestrained in the celebration of another's presence.  Bella and Moose are content in their forbidden love.

 

Moose waits continually by the front door, pacing patiently for Bella to visit the garden.  Millie, his former close companion, has been missing for some time now and hes increasingly lonely.  Bella paces the floors indoors, watching through the front and back windows for a glimpse of the other, begging to go outside as often as she can convince her master that she could possibly require a visit into nature.  Outside, they fly together, the cat swooping in to tease the dog, the dog using weight and leverage to pin and muzzle the cat.  Never is a claw or fang unsheathed, the weapons of the predators set aside for a cuddled eternity, as playful and tender and caring of the other as any other loving pair.  Finally, the impatient owner pulls them apart to encourage attention to the business at hand. 

My sainted mother often says "There's a fool for every fool", an expression she normally reserves for human couples who she perceives as individually flawed, but perfectly matched.  It surely applies here as well, the match between the ebullient puppy and the lonely cat, each filling a need in the other.  It's a lesson that this gardener needs to assimilate, a willingness to seek peace in the midst of diversity, an acceptance of different to support the beginnings of love.