A Plea for Peas

I don't know how many other gardeners have tried the old-fashioned fragrant sweet peas in their gardens, but if you haven't, consider this a plea for trying these lost lovelies.  To experience the fragrance of one of the hundred-year-old varieties like 'Painted Lady', is to experience Shangri-La, Nirvana (not the band), Vahalla, Eden, and Heaven, all wrapped into one.

'Royal Family Crimson' Sweet Pea

This year I'm growing 'Royal Family Crimson', a lipstick-red variety with a bit less fragrance than some of the older types, but with more "wow" power in the garden.  I chose them from the Select Seeds website after reading that they were bred for heat-resistance and were perfect for cutting, so they seemed to be worth a shot in my hot Kansas garden.  Indeed, they are living up to that reputation because the picture at the right was taken this morning, after a number of days of plus-100 heat in the past two weeks.  My previously grown sweet peas would have given up on blooming and started drying on the vine by now.  I have grown a number of different varieties over the years, from the old-fashioned 'Cupani's Original' to pure white 'Royal Wedding', to pink and red-striped 'American Crimson'.  'Painted Lady' is one of the oldest cultivars, very fragrant, and is widely available and she is one of my favorites.

Mixed varieties of Sweet Peas.

For the uninitiated, fragrant sweet peas, or Lathyrus odoratus, are a different species than  perennial garden sweet peas (Lathyrus latifolius; similar in form but not fragrant), and are a different genus altogether then the sweet peas we grow to eat (Pisum sativum) .  In fact, Lathyrus odoratus are considered poisonous.  For that reason, even though I know intellectually that they won't cross-pollinate, I don't grow them near consumable sweet peas from which I save seed.  I simply don't want to chance finding out I'm wrong when Mrs. ProfessorRoush whips up a nice batch of creamed peas for me.

The ancestors to the modern fragrant sweet pea varieties arrived in England in 1699, sent with or sent by a Sicilian monk named Cupani.  Directed breeding started in the 1880's by a Scotsman named Eckford. They became very successful commercially, especially with the discovery of the large-flowered Spencer types, so named because they occurred as a natural mutation in the gardens of the Earl of Spencer. They were all the rage in the early 20th century when whole flower shows were commonly devoted exclusively to sweet peas, but in the past few decades the number of gardeners who grow them seems to have faded away.   As soon as I discovered them, however, they became one of Mrs. ProfessorRoush's favorite flowers (and mine as well).

Here in Kansas, sweet peas are simple to grow and are planted in the early spring, just a little earlier then eating peas are planted.  I'm told that gardeners in milder climates should plant them in October for spring bloom, but I can testify that the seed and seedlings won't survive a Kansas winter.  I've found that mine germinate better if they are soaked for a full day before planting.  They love a spot in the sun that drains well but is constantly moist, and appreciate a little compost and extra fertilizer.  Most varieties grow as vines about 6 feet tall (although dwarf bush types are available), and so they must be provided with a trellis or fence to climb.  Mine do well with a steel cattle panel placed next to the seed line as they emerge, and I grow them in the vegetable garden currently, although in times past I have planted them beneath the shrub roses and let them climb among the branches.  If you want to keep the fragrant flowers blooming longer, dead-heading has to be done as each bloom fades.  The heirloom varieties all come true to seed if planted separately, and I keep the best varieties from year to year whenever I remember to save the seed.

I'm fairly sensitive to the strong fragrances of some plants.  I don't like, for instance, to eat in a room with even a single cloying blossom of an Oriental Lily.  But fragrant sweet peas, just as strong but not as intrusive, slip slowly into your awareness like a warm wife coming to bed late on a cold winter night.  And they are every bit as enjoyable as the latter.  Well almost, anyway.  Try a few sweet peas, wherever you can obtain them, and I promise that your sweetie will make you grow them evermore.

New Buck Roses

One of my greatest pleasures in gardening is when I get to view the first bloom of a new rose or another plant; some prize that I've never viewed before even if the plant itself has grown in gardens since Cro Magnum  man first came back tired from a hunt and asked his frumpy cave-spouse if the wild blackberries were ripe yet. 

'Iobelle'

This summer, my pleasure has been enhanced by the first blooms of a set of Griffith Buck roses from Heirloom that I planted in the early Spring.  In the running for "most beautiful rose of the year," I'm going to have to place 'IoBelle' front and center.  This beautiful bi-colored rose is a hybrid tea, released by Dr. Buck in 1962, and this picture is one of the first full-sized blooms I've gotten from the still-tiny plant.  There seems to be a little confusion on the Internet over the name.  The Iowa State University websites list the plant as 'Iobelle', I purchased it as 'Iowa Belle' from Heirloom Roses, and HelpMeFind lists it as 'Iowa Belle', with the registration name of 'Iobelle'. Since Dr. Buck worked for Iowa State, I'm going to have to go with 'Iobelle' as my official reference. 

  

'Folksinger'

The most surprising of the new roses to me has been 'Folksinger', a 1985 yellow-blend shrub rose. I wasn't sure I would like the color of this rose when I decided to purchase it, but I've really been awestruck by the beauty of the bloom and by the quick-repeating nature of the bush.

'Queen Bee'

 I added a pair of red roses to my order this Spring, and both have performed to my expectations and beyond.  'Queen Bee' is a nice darkish-red 1984 release from Dr. Buck with high-centered and very full blooms that age a bit lighter. I'm more impressed, though, by 'Bright Melody', another 1984 shrub that blooms in bright red clusters and holds its blooms amazingly well in my summer heat.  The two pictures here are of the same flowers (well, two of them at least) taken a week apart, hardly faded despite the harsh sun.  One of the few reservations I have about many of the Buck roses are that they tend to open quickly and disappear soon, but 'Bright Melody' retains its form well over time. 

'Bright Melody' 07/10/11



'Bright Melody' 07/03/11



So there you have it, the latest rose acquisitions to bloom in my garden.  What, I wonder, will be next?  There are still several once-blooming roses out there yet to bloom for me as well as a couple of (new-to-me) Old Garden Roses.  The anticipation has me all a-prickle.

Peaceful Polliwog Placement

Those readers who have followed my blog for some time will recognize the whimsical Totally Zen Frog that I purchased covertly last January and snuck into the garden without the prior approval of Mrs. ProfessorRoush.  

Mr. Frog spent the winter perched on the cement bench in my rose garden, as I had originally placed him, but he has always looked slightly out of place there; perhaps  he was a little chagrined to be in such a raucous floral setting.  That placement also made him a bit stealthy since it was easy for the observers eye to view him a part of the cement bench and focus instead on the roses around him, hiding him in plain sight, as it were.  In that fashion, it took Mrs. ProfessorRoush several weeks to notice that he hadn't previously been part of the scenery, so it accomplished my purpose.

But I've always felt that he deserved a more center stage spot, so recently I made him a prominent spot especially in the center of a long border, slightly elevated above ground level and sitting on his own stone throne.  Here, in a central position at the "front" of the garden, he is at once more noticeable and also seems to set the quiet tone I desire for the rest of the garden.  Here, I can almost visualize him humming a quiet meditative tune or opening his eyes in slight anger that my garden activites are disturbing him. I had thoughts of creating a larger, similar natural seat for myself, facing him, from which I could sit and enjoy the garden and commune with him.  Alas, however, I'm afraid to brave the ridicule and questioning that will follow the creation of another stone throne, so I decided to leave the frog alone in his meditation time for now. 

If Mr. Frog has anything profound to pass on about gardening or life, I'll be sure to let you know.