Shakespeare's Rose

"That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet" (Romeo and Juliet II, ii, 1-2), doesn't even begin to cover the unusual wonder that is Rosa eglanteria, also known as R. rubiginosa, the Sweetbriar Rose of Shakespearean fame. For the unwashed rose devotees who have not yet run across this enormous, coarse, thorny monster, I feel I have to spend a blog entry to enlighten those who aren't aware that a rose doesn't need to flower to perfume the air. 

Native to Europe, Rosa eglanteria carries foliage perfumed with the scent of apples, more specifically with the scent of green apples.  The delicious odor can be elicited by crushing the leaves with clumsy fingers, and I almost never pass the bush without traumatizing a few leaves so that I can inhale those images of apple pie and home. Moisture-laden air also brings forth the wafts of scent without inflicting trauma on the bush, and during a warm steady rain, my Sweetbriar perfumes the garden for upwards of 10 yards. If you're thinking of building a gazebo, I'd recommend placing one within a few yards of a Rosa eglanteria, since it allows you to stand in the garden near the bush during a rain without inducing pitying stares from the neighbors. They'll still wonder, of course, if you've gone daft when you close your eyes and tilt your head back to keep your nose in the best breeze, but you won't care since you'll be comatose with olfactory overdose. It's said that serfs during the Middle Ages used to spread fragrant herbs over their hut floors to suppress the more unpleasant odors, but my bet is that they used dried leaves from the Sweetbriar instead of rosemary or thyme.

In Kansas, R. eglanteria grows eight to ten feet in height and becomes a tangle of brambles sufficient to serve as a livestock barrier or as an obstacle to the suitor of a teenage daughter (reading Romeo and Juliet is sometimes useful for gardening fathers). Otherwise it should be planted far away from garden paths and visitor areas lest it snag the unsuspecting and increase the garden's insurance premiums. It has undistinguished single light pink flowers, but the small blooms are quite numerous enough to make a display at the right moment in the spring.  Ovoid orange hips form to provide some fall and winter interest, but it’s the scent glands in the foliage that make this rose one to have and keep. While my annual attempts to trim and tame this rose leave me torn and bleeding, I still keep the Sweetbriar around for its moments of pleasure freely given by the tender caress of the summer rain.

Surprising Beauty

Oh boy, was I ever surprised!  I knew that one of the common names for Lycoris squamigera was "Surprise Lily," but when one cropped up in my garden this year, I was stunned speechless by this clear pink beauty. Right in the midst of the recent month-long drought and heat cycle, this plant was developing right under my nose and then it exploded in color while everything else in the garden was looking tired and worn.

 I can't recall now that I have ever planted or purchased a Surprise Lily. I'll admit that I do recall considering the purchase of a Lycoris bulb last Fall, but I also recall rejecting the idea because I'd have had to take out a 2nd mortgage to pay for it since it seemed to be priced by its weight in gold. I even missed seeing the daffodil-like foliage that must have been right there in front of my eyes during the spring and early summer. Maybe I thought it was a clump of daffodils and overlooked the lack of bloom. Regardless, someone obviously has snuck into my garden in the dead of night and planted a delayed present for me. It vaguely worries me that this pink alien plant has been placed into my garden without my knowledge, and I guess I need either a louder dog or I need to install tripwires and claymores in my garden to prevent a recurrence of the vandalism. It certainly can't be that my memory might be showing its age. Nah, I must have had a surprise benefactor. 

For those who haven't grown one yet, there isn't a much easier plant for Kansas.  Buy a large bulb, plant it, forget about it, and up it will come to brighten a dreary August day.  Lycoris is supposed to be adapted to regions with wet springs and long summer droughts and if that doesn't describe the Flint Hills, I don't know what does. The Surprise Lily is also known by a number of other quite descriptive names, my favorites of which are "Resurrection Lily" and "Naked Ladies."  The first of those names seems very appropriate since the foliage of this member of the Amaryllis family sprouts and grows in the spring, dies in June, and then the tall stalk and 4 inch trumpet-shaped flowers appear in just a few days in August.  The second name, "Naked Ladies," obviously refers to the lack of leaves around the solo stems when the flowers appear. Gardeners aren't generally a group of hopeless reprobates, but we do have our little giggles, don't we?

I do have one bias about Surprise Lilies that may surprise you.  Recently, every day as I go to work I pass a yard with a couple of beds filled with nothing but Surprise Lilies (think how differently that sounds than if I said I passed a bed of Naked Ladies).  The in-mass effect of these lilies in the bed doesn't have the effect on me that clumps of Surprise Lilies spread out among other perennials and shrubs do, so I think I'm going to spread mine out in clumps over my beds.  Better to have a little less of a good thing than to overdo it.

I've got to go out this Fall to find more of these bulbs to spread around my garden.  But first, does anyone have any suggestions regarding what I should tell Mrs. ProfessorRoush when the credit card bill shows up in September with multiple entries for "naked ladies?"

Treasured Copper

Occasionally the fickle gods smile on the beleaguered gardener and a little serendipity serves to brighten the new day.  For me, a moment of surprise that remains fresh in memory is of driving a street in a blighted Colorado neighborhood on a bright Spring day to behold a gorgeous 'Austrian Copper' rose (Rosa foetida bicolor) sitting all alone on a standard street corner, blooming its flaming head off. I'd never encountered 'Austrian Copper' before, but a quick picture was all it took to enable me to identify it later, and thus to search out a source to add it to my own garden.

'Austrian Copper', Greeley, CO 2008

Look carefully at the picture to the left. The scene is a stunning 'Austrian Copper' next to a concrete sidewalk and asphalt street.  The weather has been so dry that the grass around the rose is completely splotchy and mostly dead, and the rose sits at the feet of a tree that probably is soaking up any leftover moisture in the rock hard soil. It's obvious that with little water, with absolutely no care, this picturesque dream of a rose is making up for all the shortcomings of its environment by blooming like it doesn't have a care in the world.

'Austrian Copper' is a very old rose, described at least as early as 1590.  Its single petals, colored by the burnt-orange pigments bestowed by chance, outline the bright yellow stamens, and the petals have a yellow reverse.  It's a rose that wears its heritage on its sleeves, commonly reverting to the bright yellow 'Austrian Yellow' (Rosa foetida) as it does at the bottom of the rose above. At least two sources state that an alternate name is Rose Capucine, although I cannot determine the origin of this name. True to its mysterious and duplicitous nature, some Internet sources describe it as a climber while others describe it as a short shrub reaching only two to five feet tall.  One reference correctly states that it tolerates poor soil and resents close pruning, two very desired qualities of a rose in my worldview. And anyway, who would even want to prune this rose, chancing to lose even a single bloom of the copper perfection?

I now have two 'Austrian Copper' to keep my prairie rose garden brightened; the original, a carefully-searched out and expensive cutting, and the second specimen, which showed up the following year for a pittance at the local Home Depot.  The latter appearance, of a coveted and seemingly rare rose in quantity at the local box store, is, of course, a sign that the gods have gotten the last laugh again.

Thigmomorphogenesis; say what?

For a long time I've made a little fun of the trees in my Flint Hills yard. They're perfectly fine trees, they are just, well, they are just a little thick around the waist, like a middle-aged male, and they lean a little bit to the south like, well, never mind. I've attributed both of those characteristics to the ever-present Kansas wind howling in from the northwest, but little did I know that the endearingly odd changes in my trees were a recognized scientific phenomenonen. In reading the latest book by Linda Chalker-Scott, The Informed Gardener Blooms Again, I came across the term "thigmomorphogenesis,"  which refers to changes (morpho) in the appearance of a plant in response to repeated touching (thigmo).  And repeated touching includes "touching" by the wind coming across the prairie. Recognized changes of thigmomorphogenesis include decreased stem elongation, increased stem thickness, smaller leaves, fewer flowers and increased senescence. This results in more firmly anchored trees with increased root to crown ratio that are then naturally more resistant to uprooting, splitting, and other wind damage. The whole concept of thigmomorphogenesis makes a little sense when you think of the short, stunted nature of alpine forest trees.  It also gives me a really good, smart-sounding excuse for the occasional lapse in flower production in my garden.

So thanks, Ms. Chalker-Scott, I'm now a little bit more horticulturally-educated, and I've also been firmly exposed for being no better than the grade school bully who makes fun of the new kid with glasses.  I mean, my trees couldn't help being short and squat and here I was making jokes of them.  I hope they don't develop a complex and sulk.