Heavenly Shadeberries

Friends, I generally strive to not be a braggart bore.  That is usually an easily-reached goal, because gardening in the Flint Hills doesn't allow me many opportunities for successful outcomes to brag about.  But I must, I simply must, take this opportunity to show you my $1000 strawberry patch.

 

Frequent readers are fully aware of my belief that on the seventh day, just before resting, God created strawberries to be the evolutionary apex of fruity perfection.  You also know that this past Spring, tired of my inability to oversummer and overwinter a decent stand of mature strawberry plants, I purchased and installed a 14'X24' shade house, as previously blogged, to protect my delicate young plants from the searing rays of the July and August Kansas sun.  I placed black plastic between rows at planting and laid down soaker hoses for watering.  Over the summer, I watered it about once a week, implanted the runners back into the rows, weeded incessantly and protected my pretties from man, insect, and beast.

 

The result of all that money and labor is shown here.  Even in the grower's Eden of my boyhood Indiana, I've never seen a patch of strawberries with so much promise.  I recently removed the shade cloth and put it up for the winter, both to protect the cloth and to allow the strawberries a little more October sunshine.   There are four varieties planted here, early and late, all June-bearers, laid out in rows that are two feet wide and two feet apart.  I would note that 'Earliglo' was the most vigorous, followed by 'Surecrop', 'Jewel', and 'Sparkle'. Now I get to spend all winter salivating over the promise of the red sweetness that will be mine next spring. 

 

I will, of course, also be worried all winter that I've jinxed myself by merely writing this bragging blog.  I'll cover them with straw in a month and pray to the Winter God that he doesn't make it too cold in January.  I'm going to leave the cover off until near harvest next year, and then I will place it on at the last moment so that I can savor the ripe strawberries in the shade (and perhaps keep the birds scared away).   If you need me next June, either day or night, look for me lounging peacefully amidst the colors and scents of heaven, stuffed to the gills with bursting red fruit.  I hope.

Wee Bit O' Wind

A week or so back, I was awakened at 2:00 a.m. by the rising wind outside my window and, seconds later, the patter of rain against the pane.  Knowing that we desperately needed the rain, I smiled, relaxed, and went promptly back to sleep.  

Okay, okay, that's an understatement at best, if not a complete misrepresentation of the incident.    If I am fully disclosing what happened, the wind suddenly began to howl, there was a thunderclap that sounded simultaneously with a lightning flash that seemed to strike right above the bedroom ceiling, and I instantaneously levitated two feet off the bed and vertically onto the floor.   The rain began to pour like the Second Flood, and the nearby lightning and thunder continued for two hours while I lay awake and fretted that the house would explode into flame at the next bolt.  We haven't seen a lightning storm like that in years.

There were no  storm warnings on the TV or radio or Internet for our area, and so I didn't think much more about it (except to be happy about the 1.9" rain) until I got into the garden this weekend.  There, I saw the true nature of what must have been a straight line gale or downburst during the storm.  My Purple Martin houses were leaning and the bird feeders were askew (picture above, left).  I also lost a portion of a trunk off the Smoke Tree as illustrated (at the top, right).  Worst of all, the wooden post that held up my 'American Pillar' rose snapped off at the base (photo at right).  Replacing it will be a difficult and painful task due to the nature of the prickles on this rose, so keep me in your prayers.

 On the bright side, I recently salvaged a piece of Baltic Brown granite from our kitchen island during a remodeling of the kitchen and I made it into a wind-proof garden bench which, despite its unprotected placement to the north side of the house, stood up well to the worst the storm threw at it.  I think it provides a really nice formal touch to this area.  The new bench also proves once again that gardening in Kansas is often a simple matter of over-engineering and weighty solutions.  So now all I have to do is apply that knowledge and create a cement post for the 'American Pillar' rose, anchored down about forty feet into the bedrock.   That shouldn't be too hard, should it? 

Yowsa Yard

I'm not the owner of the pictured house, nor am I the designer of the pictured front yard, but I'm fairly envious of the knowledge and commitment and creativity of owner.

I came across this house on a random trip around town while driving down a street that I may not ever have seen before.  Finding it is a testament to a friend's practice of purposely driving unusual routes from point A to point B on occasions when you're not in a hurry.  I was with the aforementioned friend and we took a detour for him to show me a small hidden park in Manhattan.   This house was a WBC (wow!-brake!-camera!) event; defined by a moment when you are stunned by a garden while driving, suddenly slam on the brakes, and take a photo out the window to document the vision of the gardener.

Here is everything we've been talking about in natural landscape;  a smaller, less-carbon-footprint house, a front yard of ornamental grass that needs mowing only once a year (composed primarily of what I think is Calamagrostis 'Karl Foerster'), and a few native perennials to brighten up the edges (notice the remnants of the Black-eyed Susans to the lower right).  It seems to be right out of the recommendations of influential texts such as Sara Stein's Noah's Garden.   I didn't go creeping around the house, but there is likely only a very small back yard surrounded by some woody areas.  I took this photo knowing I'd blog about it, all the while hoping that the owner wasn't calling the police about the stalkers taking pictures from the road.  I disguised the location by eliminating the house number from the picture, so I hope the owner doesn't mind the anonymous publicity.  They'll get a visit soon enough, however, from the Garden Tour group with an eye towards being a host site of a future Tour.

I love this landscaping and this house (particularly since our empty-nest home seems suddenly too large), but I also know that I can't do this on the Flint Hills prairie that I live on.  This house is relatively safe in town, surrounded by miles of paved crossing roads, but imagine this yard and house out on the Kansas prairie (or in Southern California) with a grass fire moving towards it.  Yikes!

Gayfeather Guilt

Days later, the guilt of my actions still haunt me.

Last weekend, I was preparing to put up the bush-hog for the winter, having recently mowed down an invading army of sumac and volunteer cedars and other noxious weeds of the Kansas prairie.  Every winter I switch the bush-hog for the road grading blade (in preparation for the occasional rare snow), and every spring I switch it back in preparation for the fall pasture mowing, which I time after the milkweeds and other desirable wildflowers have dispersed seed.

This year, I was contemplating my nicely mowed pasture in contrast to the overgrown roadside of my neighbor across from it and I offered to mow his roadside before putting the mower away.  I mowed up, and down, concentrating carefully on the slanted sides to avoid tipping the tractor.  On the repeat center run, however, I stopped cold at the sight of this clump of gayfeather brightly accenting the White Sage around it.  I believe it  to be Dotted Gayfeather (Liatris punctata) due to its short stature and location on the dry prairie.  What a beautiful sight!

It was, as you can easily see, a magnet for yellow sulphur butterflies, probably Clouded Sulphur (Colias philodice) butterflies to be exact, although I could easily be mistaken given my poor butterfly identification skills.   Immediately, I faced a dilemma.  Proceed ahead a few more feet and this perennial clump wouldn't be setting seed this year nor would other butterflies be able to stock up on energy from its nectar.  Mow around it, as I would do and have done in my own pasture, and risk having my neighbor think I was nuts.

I mowed on, a flippant choice at the time forced by self-image and social norms.  As the Knight of the Crusades said in the third Indiana Jones movie, however, I "chose poorly".  I've now faced a week of guilt over it, a sure sign from my conscience that I chose the wrong path.  I really hope these butterflies made it across the fence line to another fertile clump, another precious waystation on their winged journey.  My karma has taken a hit that will need some careful and conscious effort over the next few months to mend.  Excuse me while I go collect some gayfeather seed to start several other clumps in my pasture.

Daylily Confusion

I know that this non-posting spell has been my longest in quite some time, but I didn't know that I had disappeared long enough for it to be daylily season again.  What, it's merely 18 days since my last post?  Then this daylily, Hemerocallis 'String Music', is deeply confused, because it is blooming nicely here in late September, over a month since the last daylily ('Final Touch') of my season.

'Final Touch' bloomed at a normal time for that cultivar.  'String Music' is a bi-tone diploid hybridized in 1996 by Niswonger, and according to every source I can find, it is supposed to be an early midseason bloomer.   Translation:  'String Music' should have bloomed in early July here.  It's parents, 'Cisty' and 'Southern Charmer', are midseason-late and midseason bloomers respectively.  Ma and Pa Daylily are likely quite disappointed at their tardy offspring.

I, however, am not disappointed at all.  I'm pleased at the unexpected but stunning gift of a daylily blooming this late in the season (I'm purposely not considering, of course, the ugly and ubiquitous 'Stella de Oro' as worthy of notice, even though it still occasionally blooms).  I'm also impressed by the vibrant colors of 'String Music' on these almost-Fall days.  In her normal cycle, in July, the scorching temps and blazing sun bleach her out to a boring light pink.  Now, blessed by the cooler mornings, her perky colors drew my attention from across the garden, a "what the heck is that?" moment of excitement bestowed on a fading garden.

To be completely truthful, I should add that I did experience one disappointment on the same trip outside that presented 'String Music' to my heartstrings.  Our now not-quite-so-small dog Bella failed to alert me to the presence of this adolescent Great Plains Rat Snake (Pantherophis emoryi) laying in the crease of the 1st and second steps out the front door.   What use is a dog, if not to alert one to such imminent disaster.   I stepped right over this foot-long snake on my way to take Bella out to play, and only saw it upon turning around to see if the door had shut properly.  All in all, it seemed much to late to scream and jump up in the air, so I calmly recorded the incident on my phone to show Mrs. ProfessorRoush how badly her little precious had erred.

 

Sweet Smelling Surprise

I was mowing in the lower garden on Labor Day (a fitting activity for the day, but hardly a "holiday" from work for me), and as I rounded a corner I received a momentary sensation of being immersed in honey.  I didn't stop immediately, but on the second round, when I was struck again at the same corner with a sweet scent, I hit the brakes and looked around.   There, draping over ‘Double Red’ Rose of Sharon (Hibiscus syriacus), were these little white flowers that were not supposed to be there.  

These are, of course, a Sweet Autumn Clematis (Clematis paniculata or C. ternifolia, whatever it is now), which self-seeded itself somewhere next to this trellis and grew unnoticed until now.  This trellis is flanked on either end by two Wisteria vines, which provide both color and a great fragrance each Spring, but in September they're a bit less noticeable, merely serving as a green window to view farther parts of my garden.  The growth of the Wisteria on that end is so thick that I couldn't easily find the Clematis vine source.

The dilemma now, of course, is whether to leave the Clematis there or to move or destroy it.  C. paniculata seems to grow very well here in this climate, and if I leave it here, it may eventually strangle the Wisteria ('Amethyst Falls’) on that end, and the adjacent Rose of Sharon.  I have two other C. paniculata, so one could argue that I've got plenty of it in my garden, but on the other hand, I'm not sure you can ever have too much of that vanilla-scented vine in an otherwise dreary August garden.  'Amethyst Falls' is not nearly as scented in the Spring as the Wisteria sinensis on the other end of the trellis, but it does rebloom for me and it is more dependable in late freezes than the W. sinensis.   

Decisions, decisions.  Are there ever any end to them in the garden? Can I hope that the Wisteria will keep the Clematis in check, allowing each year only these few delightful sprigs of scent to pull me into the shade on a hot day?

Mossy Alfred

After my experience his summer with him, gardeners who worship the Old Garden Roses absolutely must give the old Moss rose 'Alfred de Dalmas' a place in their garden.  I purchased him on a whim this Spring and he's been the most pleasant surprise of my entire rose year.

'Alfred de Dalmas' is a Moss bred by Jean Laffay (Paul Barden says it was Portemer) in 1855.  The rose is a nice light pink in the way of the demure OGR's, a perfect shell pink in favorable weather.  The very double flower opens to a cupped form with a mildly disorganized center and it stays there for several days, often grouped in clusters.  Open flowers are a medium size, about 3.25 inches diameter, and I believe the rose has a pretty good, if moderate fragrance.  Like most of the Mosses, the sticky glandular organs coat the bud and stem, providing a little variety in the garden.  The foliage is incredibly healthy, even now, late in the season.  He should be a rose of short stature, staying under 4 feet tall at maturity.



The surprise for me though, was the frequent repeat of flowers on my young bush. 'Alfred de Dalmas' is supposed to have an "occasional repeat" in the season, but my bush has not been without at least a few flowers all summer.  Even in the heat, it bloomed on and was one of the few roses, modern or otherwise to keep going for me.  It's been a great pleasure to have that sweet old rose scent extended into August. and on to September, instead of my usual pattern of saying goodbye to those memory-evokers by the end of June.

Helpmefind/rose.com notes that most 'Alfred de Dalmas' in commerce are actually 'Mousseline' (an 1881 Moss by Moreau and Robert).   The two roses look almost identical and authorities disagree whether they are different or the same rose.  Regardless, 'Autumn Damask' has to be lurking somewhere in the ancestry of this rose as the source for all that blooming.  'Alfred de Dalmas' has my vote as the best of the reblooming Moss roses, even outproducing pretty 'Salet' this year.

GardenWorn

'Podaras #2'

August, at least here in Kansas, should be renamed.  "Dog Month" might be a good choice.  Or "Browning Month".  Or just plain"The Garden is Tired" month.  Right now, as a heat spell lingers and everything green is in a life struggle to grow just a little more, my garden is certainly winding down, tired and old, unkempt and straggly.

Take, as an example, the Falso Indigo (Baptisia australis) 'Purple Smoke' below at the left.  Ignoring the fact that I've consciously tried to move or kill this particular clump three years running because it gets too large for the plants around it, I have to admit that it's a fabulous plant in May and early June, blue flowers towering above perfect blue-green foliage.  Now, it's a blackened, dried-up caricature of itself, seed pods blackened and brittle.  A good gardener would remove it now, condemned straight to a burning pile.  A bad gardener grumbles about it as he walks the dog, but puts off his seasonal cleaning and weeding until the temperature drops below 100ºF.

And the iris and daylilies all look terrible, suffering from heat and drought together, long past flowered youth.  The center of each clump tries to survive by stealing water and nutrients from their peripheral limbs, leaving the more visible outsides to dry and break. There are no signs of rebloom from the reblooming irises this year, no energy to spare for creating petal or ovary.

There are, to be sure, some bright spots in the garden.  My 'Sweet Marmalade Nectar Bush' Buddleia (otherwise known as 'Podaras #2') has decided to survive.  That's the picture at the top of this blog entry (surely I couldn't lead off with the decrepit Buddleia, could I?)  It was planted late in 2013 and the harsh winter almost did it in.  I didn't see a living sprout until late June and as some sparse gray-white foliage appeared, I've been pampering it with extra water and protection in the hope that it will gain strength and come back again in 2015.  I love the perfect foliage and bright orange flowers of this one and this morning I saw the only Monarch butterfly I've seen all year, feeding from this one bloom.

The sedums are also doing well of course, impervious to the drought and coming into their own season in the spotlight.  Autumn in the Flint Hills is a "Sedum Spectacular", in the words of auto salespeople.   Sedum 'Black Jack', backed up by Sedum 'Matrona', makes a quiet and gentle statement of survival here at the left, flower heads ready to bloom and feed the autumn insects.  I grow so many sedums here on the Flint Hills that I often forget there are roses in my garden, hidden and dormant as they are between the sedums and ornamental grasses.

I pray, this Sunday morning, that Fall comes soon to relieve the garden and gardener from our shared misery.  We're tired and both need to be put to bed for Winter.

How Could It Not?

How could a storm like this one, only a few miles from Manhattan, with enough wind and lightning to wake me up at 1:00 a.m., still not drop any rain on us?  I was sound asleep, but startled wide awake to howling wind and rattling screens.  Our bedroom was lit up by almost continuous lightning flashes. The entire line of storms was
coming straight at us, west to east, bearing down quickly.  Oh, Joy!

But I knew something was wrong.  There were no watches or warnings on the local TV channels; a bad omen because these days the weather people seem to panic at every drizzle. The lightning was abundant, but was what we oldtimers call "heat" lightning; flashes of lightning high in the atmosphere without any accompanying thunder to scare the children.  All this fury and force, probably creating rain that was evaporating before it could reach the ground.  Curses.

We've seen no rain from mid-June through August 9th, almost two entire months during our hottest time of year.  On the positive side, I hadn't mowed my yard since July 1st.  On the negative side, the roses are not very prolific right now and things are drying up before their time.  We did have a brief respite on the weekend of August 10th, with a total of 1.9 inches of rain over three days.  That momentarily filled in the cracks and resulted in me having to mow down the weeds in the grass on August 17th.  But we're already dry again and the next few days are forecast to hit the 100's.

Please be warned.  I promise you that the next time I see something like this on radar, day or night, I'm going to do everything possible to see that it rains.  I'll rush out to water the hopeless lawn, I'll spray the weeds with weedkiller, and I'll quickly have the car washed and then leave it out to be rained on.  Heck, if the clouds form nearby but I see them start to move, I'm going to run out naked and do a rain dance.  Surely it won't come to that, but desperate times call for drastic measures.  You might want to drive by my house with blinders on for a bit, just in case.

Buck Rose Tease

 

 

Allamand Ho

There are a number of Griffith Buck-bred roses that are less than a season old in my garden and  I don't have enough experience with them to post full descriptions yet.  I thought, however, here in the August doldrums, that I could introduce them to you as "coming attractions" for next year.

'Allamand Ho' is going to be an interesting rose.  Although I planted this rose in May, this is the first bloom I've seen and I never expected the mix of pink and pale yellow that it is showing me.  Later blooms have also been as pink-rimmed and pale as this one.   I could only find one previous picture of this rose on the web, which was a much brighter yellow with less pink than mine seems to have.  One fact I can already tell you about it is that flowers are very slow to open up.  The buds seemed to take forever to reveal themselves, similar to .Paloma Blanca'.  Dr. Buck named 'Allamand Ho' from a square dance term given him by a friend.  

Sevilliana

'Sevilliana' is a 1976 introduction with some nice stippling on the petals.  It starts out with an a pink bud so bright it is almost red, and it opens very quickly with lots of golden stamens.  She seems similar to several other stippled Buck roses and I'm biding time to see what may separate her from the pack.  'Sevilliana' was named to commemorate the music and dancing of Seville, Spain.

The Magician

'The Magician' has been quite varied in the coloring of its semi-double flowers and I had high hopes for it as a unique specimen.   Unfortunately, it started showing some rose rosette symptoms early after planting and I cut it back to the ground a couple of weeks ago in an attempt to prevent losing the bush.  Sadly, I suspect I'm going to lose this bush and will have to start over.



Countryman

'Countryman', although  a small bush, is loaded with flowers, prolific to the point of forgetting to grow in stature.  The flowers are a very bright pink and she is showing signs of being more fully double as later blooms have opened.  If you prefer your roses in bright pink, I believe 'Countryman' has the potential to be a show horse in the garden.

Hermina

'Hermina' has a pretty bright pink blossom with edges tending towards a lighter, almost white rim.  The rose also has a white reverse and white center.  The flowers are on the small size for a Buck rose, however, about 2.5 inches diameter at present.  They seem to be borne in solitary form but there are many flowers on the bush right now.  I like the white centers but I wish the blooms were larger.











Bob White and the Bobettes

Northern Bobwhite male

The following is a special program brought to you uninterrupted by the grace of the Kansas Flint HIlls, rated "F" for "Fantastic".  Fair warning: Prepare yourself to fall in love.

I've had the great honor this past week to be allowed to watch a nightly reunion of a large brood of quail.  They have chosen, repeatedly, to mingle in my back bed less than 10 feet from the house as they settle for the night, right where I can enjoy and photograph them at my leisure through the windows.  I first noticed them last Friday evening as a large group pecking around the ground, and now to find them all that I have to do is look for Papa Quail, shown here to the right, who keeps a vigil on my trellis (the pink rose is 'Zephirine Drouhin') while his teenagers are running around nearby.

As you may know, the Northern Bobwhite (Colinus virginianus) is a New World quail (Odontophoridae) which is pretty common, but secretive, in my neck of the world.  I often hear the familiar call "Bob-White" in the early mornings, but I seldom see the birds.  This game bird is usually monogamous and a breeding pair normally has 12-16 eggs per clutch, parents leading the young birds to food for a couple of weeks after hatching until they can fly.  I have a hunch that this group (11 birds are visible in the picture to the left) came from a nest right in the clump of bushes behind them, and they are just about large enough to take off on their own.  I feel very privileged to witness this stage of their life cycle so close and personal.

As a short sample of what I've been seeing, I'll attempt to post the two movies below to share with you.  The first shows the same group as seen above, with their stilted random movements.  The second shows the group moving out in exploration.  If you can stop the movie at the very beginning of movie #2, there are 20 quail visible in the frame, not including Dad who was still sitting on the trellis above.  This was a very large brood!

Or, the better quality YouTube link to video #1 is here

 

 

Or, the better quality YouTube link to the 2nd video is here

Just as quickly as they appear, the adolescent quail just as rapidly disappear into the shrubs and camouflage of the mulch, leaving only Papa Quail to continue to watch for danger until all are safely hidden.  I haven't picked out Mama Quail yet, but I assume she's somewhere with the brood on the ground, clucking with displeasure if the babies stray.   If all human parents were this responsible, there would be a lot less teen mischief and gang violence in our world.

Sometimes, I feel so lucky to live on the prairie that I could just melt into a puddle of happiness.

Happy Surprises

Gardening is full of surprises.  Although I've just said it, I think most gardeners already know that.  I've been both pleasantly surprised and unpleasantly surprised,  however, by the notion that the longer I garden, the more surprises I get.

This "Surprise Lily", hidden behind a dwarf Alberta Spruce and in front of a struggling clematis, is an example of the mixed benefits of garden serendipity.  I love Surprise Lilies because they pop up and glow at a time of summer here when everything else looks tired and worn out.  I also enjoy the slightly naughty feeling that this old man gets from having "Naked Ladies," as they are sometimes called, randomly showing up in my garden.  I didn't get any titillating joy out of finding this clump, however, because I'm pretty sure that I never planted any bulbs here.  And I've never heard that they can self-seed and spread themselves around a garden, other than by lateral bulb-lets.  So that leaves me the choice of either accepting another bit of evidence that my memory is fading, or that I've witnessed a garden miracle of reproduction.  Because neither of these are likely explanations, I think I'm going to settle the mystery and tell others that a squirrel dug up some bulbs and transplanted them here, even though the nearest tree large enough to support a squirrel is over 1/2 mile away.   

I've also been surprised this summer by the performance of a pair of $5 misnamed roses purchased at Home Depot.  As I mentioned previously, I saw this striped rose mislabeled as 'Love' back in May on a "two for $10" sale, took a chance, and bought two.  Both bushes have settled in, are repeat blooming their heads off, and have no blackspot at all.  I don't know what they really are.  I initially thought they were two different striped cultivars, but now I think they are the same variety.  Their rebloom cycle is too rapid for any of the remonant old garden striped roses I've grown.  They're fragrant but not as tall nor as fragrant as 'Honorine de Brabant' and they are also shorter and more Floribunda-bush-form than my 'Ferdinand Pichard'.  Regardless, if they make it through winter unprotected, for $10, I've got two great garden roses that I will always enjoy.  Now there is a surprise without any reservations to spoil it.

Fifty Tools

Somewhere in my busy summer, I found time to read this recent tome, A History of the Garden in Fifty Tools, by Bill Laws.  I actually paid full price for this recent release (February, 2014), rather than my usual modus operandi of browsing the used book shops for garden reads.  I tend to like to read about gardening tools and their variations, and I was pretty excited to get hold of it.  

In A History of the Garden in Fifty Tools, Bill Laws covers the history of just about every garden tool you can imagine and some that you probably didn't know about. The history and information presented about each tool was interesting, and Laws covered the development of most of his chosen tools from the Stone Age to modern times. The tools are organized into 5 chapters, the flower garden, kitchen garden, orchard, lawn, and ornamental garden, which sometimes made me feel that some tools were a bit misplaced in order because I use some differently than Laws placed them.  I also have to admit that I was disappointed by the time I finished Fifty Tools.  I think my biggest issue is that the info was dryly presented and began to drag a bit for me a bit as I got used to the format.   I'll tell you this, I didn't count them, but by the time you finish the book, you'll think you've read about more than 50 tools.

I confess that I had built up a lot of anticipation for this book, and to give the author the benefit of doubt, perhaps the problem lies with me, rather than the reading material.   I just never got into it; reading page after page like it was material from a textbook, rather than a summer novel.  It's one of those books I finished, but I struggled to maintain interest, somewhat like I've done  in the past with long Stephan King novels.  By the time I'm too far in to quit, I'm thinking, "God, just let me get it over."  If you're just nuts on garden tools, you may like this book, but my suggestion first would be to read Tools of the Earth by Jeff Taylor and Rich Iwasaki.  I read the latter years ago and it is so good that I will probably read it again soon.

Conrad Ferdinand Meyer

If there were a rose that I would describe as a "mixed blessing", it would have to be  'Conrad Ferdinand Meyer', a 1897 cross by Dr. Franz Hermann Müller between seed parent 'Germanica' and a seeding from a cross of 'Gloire de Dijon' and 'Duc de Rohan'.  Classified as a Hybrid Rugosa because of the 'Germanica' parent, the popular 'CFM' is mentioned in almost every magazine article that lists Rugosas.  Still, having grown it myself for a number of years, I sometimes wonder at the sanity of those who grow it.  Perhaps the mental instability of its namesake, Swedish poet and historical novelist Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, has rubbed off on the rosarians who grow the rose.

'CFM' does have many positive attributes to separate it from other Hybrid Rugosas.  The double blooms and soft silvery pink color are more similar to a "modern" rose than other Rugosa hybrids; the latter often flattened, semi-double mauve-ish flowers in form.  The blooms are large (more than 4 inches in diameter in my garden), borne in small clusters, and repeat sporadically over the season.  'Conrad Ferdinand Meyer' is also very, very fragrant, even for a Rugosa.  The bush is cane-hardy in my garden, with only minimal tip dieback in the worst winters.  All of these, but especially the fragrance, are reasons why I grow this rose.  No one who sees this bush questions my sanity. 



But it has a number of negative attributes as well.  Blooms tend to ball up like the picture at the right, especially in cold weather.   The matte foliage is not as blackspot resistant as more "rugose"cultivars such as 'Blanc Double de Coubert' or 'Purple Pavement', and my 'CFM' will drop about 75% of its leaves in mid-summer if I don't monitor it.  In areas where rust is common in roses, 'CFM' is notoriously susceptible.  I also wouldn't call it a vigorous rose;  for years I grew it in the middle of native prairie and the nearby grass competed for enough moisture and nutrients to keep it spindly and on the constant verge of death. The thorns are sharp, flat out dangerous and guaranteed to draw blood if you are not careful (I suppose that's a positive if you plant it in front of the window of a teen-age daughter).  The bush is tall, stiff, and ungainly.  The 'CFM' in the Reinsch Rose Garden of Topeka grows over 8 feet tall and wide, magnifying the ugliness of the bush.  My specimen, even after I moved it to a more cultivated bed where it has less competition, has stayed around 5 feet tall and not as wide.   

I do have one final personal observation in favor of this rose.  We don't often see roses included in a list of "deer resistant" plants, but I'm here to testify that 'Conrad Ferdinand Meyer' can take a deer licking and keep on ticking.   You'll recall that Conrad Ferdinand Meyer seems to be the choice of deer that graze in my winter garden.  In the winters of 2012 and 2013, I lost count of the number of pictures my game camera took of deer sampling directly from the bush pictured above and at the left.  And yet they didn't seem to cause much damage on the rose that I could find.  Maybe deer are drawn to it, but the thorns ultimately fend off those velvety deer lips.  All I know is that year after year it looks and performs the same regardless of its dietary contributions to the browsing deer.  The first picture of the overall bush was from May of 2013 and the second from May, 2014, still standing tall after a really tough winter from both deer and weather.

Foggy Fancies

These ARE the prairie mornings I live for.  Cool summer mornings after warm summer days equal fog.  Fog equals serenity and quiet, protection from searing sun, and slow contemplative moments stolen from hectic days.  The sounds of the far off highway are stilled and construction on a nearby house has yet to recommence.  Bird still rest, happy to remain grounded rather than fly against the moist and heavy air.   I wander happily on mornings like this, isolated from the greater concerns of the world and listening to the smaller joys within, happy to live for a second in the moment.  On workdays a relentless clock stays tied to my mind, holding me back from complete release. These foggy starts are even better on weekends, when nothing is waiting or undone that can't be started later.

Mornings such as these, the prairie waits.  There is no sense of foreboding in the dense humid air, no haste to act.  There is only calm and peace, dew condensing on thirsty grass, upright purple Verbena matching the somber mood of the moment.  There is no hurry here, no rush to meet the end of summer.   The grasses will change slowly, alerted to Fall by onset of these cool nights, chameleons forming the rusty colors that will be September's prairie.  The forbs will form seed and droop to deposit future life into waiting earth.  Prairie fauna withdraw, each in their own way, hibernation or migration, death and rebirth, cocoon or burrow. 

Ding and Dong, the donkeys, did not violate the calm this morning with greeting brays, but walked over quietly to accept apple slices.   They are kind morning companions, solid and steadfast, content amidst the grasses and wind.  Dong was sleeping as I approached, stretched out on a bed of matted prairie grass, while Ding kept watch.  I wished for a moment that I were Donkey, surrounded by plenty and living in the sunshine and fresh air, no plans, needs met, worries unborn.  But the fog lifts, the demanding clock calls, and I cannot be Donkey for more than a moment, a fine stolen moment of ease.

Slithering Surprise

"Take out the garbage."  "Water the hydrangea." "Refill the bird feeders."  My mind was busy running down a list of things to get done as I walked out the garage door and down the steps at sunrise.  As I turned back around to fill the pail with birdseed, I noticed that I had walked right by this little guy, who was waiting in ambush just inside the door for his morning rodent.

 I'm proud to say that my self-restraint at sudden snake appearances has evidently reached a new level of control. This time, for perhaps the first time, I did not spontaneously levitate, shout, or run.  I merely said "Hi, little guy," took the iPhone photograph above, and walked back past him to get the good camera.



Seeing that Mrs. ProfessorRoush was awake and taking care of Bella, I told her to come out the garage door to see something "neat."  She followed me back outside, took one quick glance, and pivoted back inside so fast she left a scorch mark on the concrete, all while fixing me with a cold stare over her shoulder and telling me never to do that again.  It was an impressive bit of ballet.  Lesson learned; Mrs. ProfessorRoush requires morning coffee before she is ready to deal with snakes.

I took another few pictures, ignored the snake's impertinent and rude tongue gestures, and then gently swept this cute little Common Garter Snake (Thamnophis sirtalis) off the edge of the driveway into the lilacs.   I hope he's learned his lesson and catches his rodents outside in the rocks in the future, saving me from further marital discord or spousal displeasure.

Pretty Prairie Lass

One of last year's additions to my garden was this pretty pink-toned shrub rose named 'Prairie Lass'.  I have two bushes of this rarely grown Griffith Buck rose and I've been waiting for them to get tall enough and old enough for me to form some opinion.

'Prairie Lass' is a 1978 introduction that I obtained from Heirloom Roses in 2013.  This double (25-30 petals) rose blooms in clusters that open bright pink with darker stipples and then fade to very light pink.  Flowers open fully to form a flat to slightly cupped final form and they stay on the bush a long time as they age. 'Prairie Lass' doesn't seem to be a continuous bloomer, but rather reblooms in moderately profuse flushes over the summer.  The picture at the left, taken July 27th, is the third full bloom of this summer and it is nearly as full as the first on these two young bushes.  There are other times these bushes have been without a single bloom.  The individual blooms are small, about 2.5 to 3 inches in diameter here.

I would rate the fragrance of 'Prairie Lass' as slight to moderate.  The bush is quite healthy, with no yellowing or leaf drop from fungus now in the fourth month of warm weather.  I found 'Prairie Lass' to have few thorns.  Internet sources say that it may reach 5 feet tall in time.  Unlike many of my roses, there was no dieback at all of 'Prairie Lass' last year in our harsh winter.


So, should you grow 'Prairie Lass'?   It seems to be a nice rose and bush and is healthy enough to keep a place for it in a collection of Buck roses.  But I don't think it is a rose that will ever make a garden visitor gasp in surprise.  Nor will anyone likely become ecstatic over the fragrance or the individual blooms of this rose.  In the end, my recommendation would be to seek it out if you're a Buck rose nut (like me), but otherwise don't put extra time into a search for this rose.   And, as Mrs. ProfessorRoush would point out, it is just one more pink rose among thousands.

The Earth Laughs in...Milkweeds?

Almost every gardener has surely read or heard the famous quote of Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Earth laughs in flowers," lifted from his 1847 poem Hamatreya.   Most of us equate this line with a calm and loving Mother Earth, gently expressing her warmth and love.  Within the context of the poem, however, the Earth is laughing at the silliness of man, who believes he is master and owner of the Earth, but who will nonetheless end up beneath the earth, pushing up daisies.  Whatever his good qualities were, Emerson was also a cynical old fart.

The tallgrass prairie laughs at me, I suppose, also in flowers, but they are the flowers of milkweeds.  This area of my pasture (see, there I go, believing I'm the owner instead of a temporary part of the scenery) is the area we used in construction of the barn, first to pile all the dirt from the excavation, and later scraped clean again as the dirt was used to fill in around the foundation.  Somewhere, deep in the soil of the prairie, an infinite number of milkweed seeds must be waiting, biding time until the stubborn grasses give ground.  

This milkweed is Common Milkweed, Asclepias syriaca, a member of the Dogbane family and poisonous and inedible as forage.  I've always viewed it as a two-foot-tall weed in my pasture, tolerated by me because of its usefulness to monarch butterflies, but it does have some other positives.  A couple of years back I found it was growing in the K-State Native Plant Garden and didn't recognize the magnificent five foot tall, very fragrant plants.  I was embarrassed when the director told me what it was.  Seriously, a mass of Common Milkweed has the same affect as an Oriental lily on the air in its vicinity, but the milkweed fragrance is far sweeter and somehow less smothering.  I've also learned to my surprise that Asclepias syriaca is a perennial.  If I'm going to be laughed at anyway, I need to allow a few of them to grow in MY garden.  I might as well make them feel welcome if they're going to be lurking around anyway.

I hope Ralph Waldo Emerson (why do we always use his middle name...how many other famous Ralph Emerson's are there anyway?) doesn't mind me calling the garden, "MY garden."  I may be borrowing the soil and sunlight and rainfall and the air, but I maintain nonetheless that the garden is mine.  I arranged it, I defend it against all marauders floral or faunal, and when I go beneath it, it will soon also cease to exist.  For a while, I suppose, to become a milkweed patch, but eventually the milkweed will lose too.  This is the prairie, and on the prairie, the grasses always win.   

Fifty-Two Loaves

Okay, okay, this blog entry is not about flowers or birds or the Kansas prairie.  Mea culpa.  It's not even about gardening, in a strict sense.  But it is about a book whose author, William Alexander, previously wrote about gardening in the form of a bestseller that many of you will know;  The $64 Tomato.   When I saw 52 Loaves on display two weeks ago at a Half-Price Books store, I recognized the author and snatched it for my garden book collection.

52 Loaves is an engaging story about a year spent in search of the "perfect loaf" of bread.  Alexander becomes intrigued by the process of making bread and he resolves to make one loaf every week until he achieves a perfect loaf.  The book is three parallel tales woven into one wonderful read.  First, he weaves a lively tale of the history of bread-making, the connection of particular breads to their cultures, and his travels and efforts to improve his doughy attempts.  Second, there is a shining lesson here of the development of an obsession, an all-engaging search that sets aside (at times) marriage, family, work, and play in the pursuit of goal.  Last, there is a humorous story through the book of life and family living under an obsession.  The choice of attention to bread over a chance of marital intimacy, for example.  The celebrated escape from Sunday church for the excuse of needing to be present for the bread-making process.  The family's weekly critical assessments of the loaves.

The tale concludes with Williams's short experience in a 1300 year old French monastery, where he brings his expertise, his levain (a bread starter) and the on site process of bread-making back to the monks.  Just his priceless description of trying to bring levain through the TSA from America to Europe is worth the price of the book.  I've leave you to discover what hair conditioner has to do with the story.

ProfessorRoush is no stranger to obsession, and, as a lifelong bread aficionado, 52 Loaves started my own.  I spent the last four days making my own local levain from the yeast clinging to grape skins in my garden.  And right now, while I write, I am waiting for my first loaf of peasant bread (page 328) to rise.  Nirvana awaits me, a few short hours hence.

(Update:  My boule was flat.  But delicious.  Must make stiffer dough next time or at least knead it more.)

White Dove

If you have been searching for a white rose that will stand the heat of summer, cold winters, and wet springs, 'Paloma Blanca', a 1984 Griffith Buck introduction, is a rose that you need to consider.  Her name translates to "White Dove" in English, an apt metaphor for this beautiful white rose.

In my estimate, the factor that places 'Paloma Blanca' above other white roses is its staying power.  I've always been impressed by how long a bloom of 'Paloma Blanca' will last indoors or out.  I've seen garden clusters last for weeks in reasonable weather without fading or dropping.  Other touted white roses such as 'Blanc Double de Coubert', or 'Frau Karl Druschi' may have better form, but they won't last as long on the bush and they'll be brown ugly sacks by the time 'Paloma Blanca' starts to fade.  And the famous 'Iceberg' is a dud here in my climate, while 'Paloma Blanca' just keeps plugging along.  Other positives in her favor are that she blooms her head off from the time she is a very small bush (see the photo below of a few months old bush) and that she never seems to fade to brown as most white roses do;  petals seem to fall before they turn ugly.

'Paloma Blanca' is officially a white or near white Shrub Rose that has very double blooms (35-40 petals) but only a light rose scent.  Those double blooms are large and presented in clusters, but I wouldn't try to claim that they have a classic Hybrid Tea form.  They seem to start as fat buds and then "half open", displaying a little of the center for a long time without opening completely flat.    The blooms are a very pure white for the majority of their time on earth, although at colder temperatures I detect a little blush in their petals and in some lighting the center can have a slight yellow tone.  'Paloma Blanca' blooms continuously.

My 'Paloma Blanca' is only one complete season old, but I used to grow her at my previous home and I can attest to both her winter hardiness and her foliage health.  This is a very disease resistant rose.  I don't have to spray 'Paloma Blanca' for fungus here.  The picture at the left, taken just last week, is a bush that froze back to the ground last winter and has not been sprayed all summer.  At full growth, she reached 4 feet tall in my old garden, a columnar rose who doesn't get very wide.  Her breeding was a very complex mix of 'Vera Dalton' crossed with a seedling whose heredity included 'Lillian Gibson', 'Pink Princess', 'Florence Mary Morse', Rosa laxa, and 'Joseph Rothmand'.

In your search for a white rose, I hope I've convinced you to consider 'Paloma Blanca'.  A White Dove in the garden is always a welcome sight.