Syringa ‘Bluets’

Posted on May 29, 2011 by Tovah Martin

It’s coming into my office to find me again. Climbing in through the windows, pushing the curtains aside, floating over to the computer to lure me outside. Sometimes it throws its voice like a ventriloquist. Sometimes it spreads its sweetness so broadly that who can pinpoint exactly where the buzz first began? But eventually, I always follow the deep-throated redolence back to the lilac tree on the side of the house.

Tell me that other bushes of Syringa ‘Bluets’ exist out there. Tell me that I don’t harbor the sole remaining ‘Bluets’ blooming in my front yard. Surely other gardeners are inhaling that evocative aroma of musky wine tinged with the undertone of baby powder and just a touch of vanilla right now. I was photographing the Rochester Lilac Festival last year — home of the largest lilac collection around — and promised I’d propagate one for them. For years now, they’ve been searching for it. Mine made its way to my front yard from Blue Meadow Nursery just minutes before that incredible nursery resource closed its doors. I’m bringing cuttings to Broken Arrow Nursery (www.brokenarrownursery.com) to propagate next week. Hopefully, they’ll have plants ready next year.

‘Bluets’ isn’t the first lilac to open in May by a long shot. But it’s nearly June now and a few blossoms still linger. So it’s one of the last to fade until that signature scent is just a heady echo on the warming evening air. When its prime, ‘Bluets’ umbels are plump with blossoms so double and dense that they form an absolutely solid mass of bloom. And the color is the faded glory of bluets — the little wild groundcover we called Quaker ladies when I was a kid. So there it is, the synthesis of youth spun into a maelstrom of plump interwoven petals checkering the shrub loitering by my window.

'Bluette' snuggled against my cottage

For what seemed like forever, ‘Bluets’ was stalled in its ugly duckling stage. I honestly wondered whether I’d planted a lemon among lilacs. That’s how long I waited for my first cotton candy-like wads of blossoms. And now they dapple the bush by the dozens. And ‘Bluets’, I might add, DOESN’T GET MILDEW (so far) throughout the years with nothing but rain as well as the years with nothing but drought.

If I were going to stage a story about spring, ‘Bluets’ would be in the scenery. It’s redolence would be humming the harmony while the tulips sing along. And even when the tulips get winded and run out of voice; even when the alliums pick up the tune, ‘Bluets’ is still in the brew.

Do me a favor. Read this blog again next winter. Read about the power and performance of ‘Bluets’. Glance the description of the scent one more time. And tell me — can you smell the essence of lilac season floating beyond your curtains again? Close your eyes and inhale. That’s the pulse of spring.
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Lonicera periclymenum ‘Serotina Florida’

Posted on May 22, 2011 by Tovah Martin

Often, the garden is shrouded in darkness by the time I return from my evening walk in summer. I forgot my flashlight (again). I forgot to turn on the front door light (again). Street lamps are strictly budgeted in our town (for reasons that shall remain a mystery). But no matter. I can find my way home anyway. All I have to do is follow my nose when Lonicera periclymenum ‘Serotina Florida’ is in blossom.

Brew up an elixir of candy canes dipped in honey spun with a hint of molasses — that’s Lonicera ‘Serotina Florida’. Float it on the air, let it rise above the perfume of fermented salmon that I spray around for the deer. Send it wandering toward the road. Then follow it back to a vine that long ago mounted its arbor (hiding the well-pump head) and sends a few stray wispy squiggles into the sky. Smother that vine in a halo of whisper pink and darker rose-colored trumpets. That’s Lonicera ‘Serotina Florida’.

This isn’t one of those naughty loniceras. Even though this honeysuckle isn’t a native, L. periclymenum isn’t on any invasive plant lists (as far as I can trace) and it truly minds its manners for me. (If anyone knows otherwise, speak now — PLEASE.) In fact, it doesn’t even stretch with the elastic athletics of the native L. sempervirens (alias Spiderman). In this case, just toss the typical vine “first year it sleeps, next year it creeps, etc” dictum to the dogs. Ever since ‘Serotina Florida’ took up its post as a wee thing obtained from Brushwood Nursery (www.gardenvines.com), it has performed full strength. It never hesitated. Upwardly mobile. But that said, it’s more compact than the typical ‘Serotina’. Plus, deer don’t pester it. Zone 4. What’s not to love?

Wait. There’s more. Beyond that heavenly fragrance, there’s the truly endearing little fact that ‘Serotina Florida’ is the first vine in the garden to form leaves. In my garden, it starts action right along with the snowdrops. Just leaves until mid-May. But the leaves and stems are flushed red. Flowers come later and last until midsummer. Then berries, but the berries haven’t caused seedlings (I could make a governor joke, but I won’t).

Mine is happy on a 7 foot trellis. That said, its inter-braided woody stem has the trellis bound into a stranglehold. So maybe you shouldn’t give it your prize rose to hug. Every silver lining has a cloud, I suppose. But I tend to look at (and smell) the silver side.

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Magnolia ‘Goldfinch’

Posted on May 15, 2011 by Tovah Martin

There are no shirkers on my premises. At least, not of the woody kind. If you’re going to hang around in my yard, you darn well better perform. And I’m not just talking about a brief blooming gig, either. I want to be entertained 365. Doesn’t everyone?

So, flowers are a nice perk on a magnolia. They’re a thrill, to be sure. But they’re a titillation that is often nipped in the bud, quite literally. What really gets my cardiac kerthudding is the open-branched silhouette of a majestic magnolia.

“Flowers are gravy,” is what I tell friends the morning after a heavy frost when I rush out to find all my hopes of a sublime blossom display smitten. But the stiff upper lip is really just a cover-up. It’s just my way of justifying one of my many idiotic mistakes. That’s right, you guessed it = I planted a magnolia in a frost pocket. It’s clueless, but true. Hopefully, you won’t fall into the same duh moment. When it comes to magnolias, it’s location, location, location. Without a doubt, you want to put your tree where it will look ravishing. But even more important is finding a place where frost doesn’t settle early in spring.

So, my Magnolia ‘Goldfinch’ sometimes get’s zapped. Which is a pity. Because in a gentle year, its yellow, luminous blossoms are a delight to behold. I look forward to them like a child anticipates summer’s first ice cream cone. But when life delivers no desserts, I find solace in the fact that ‘Goldfinch’ has such a fine physique. A hybrid made by Phil Savage of Michigan (with ‘Miss Honeybee’ and M. denudata ‘Sawada’s Cream’ in its lineage and originally called ‘Mailman Yellow’, rumor has it), ‘Goldfinch’ has a broad, spreading habit that fills its space with open arms. And really, most years it manages to come in after the last of the killer frosts. On the other hand, it blooms early in its lifespan.

Speaking of lifespans, my advice to you is this = Don’t bother to purchase a large-sized magnolia from a nursery. They grow like green lightning. Most take a few years before they blossom (‘Goldfinch’ being an exception and getting right down to business), but they grow rapidly.

‘Goldfinch’ isn’t the only magnolia on my property. I also have a Magnolia stellata hybrid (probably mixed with a M. x soulangiana, but it’s parentage seems to have been a capricious moment rather than planned parenthood). It has white flowers and blossoms much earlier than ‘Goldfinch’. Even so, it usually manages to get a strong blossom stint in simply because it sits close to the road where hot air whizzes by on a regular basis. The flowers aren’t as graceful in form as ‘Goldfinch’, but the tree has a gorgeous profile. It’s especially spectacular when naked. Not everybody can boast similarly.

Oh, and speaking of naked limbs. Deer seem to like to bully the branches of magnolias on a regular basis, especially in autumn. They rub their antlers against magnolias (why me?) with a vendetta that has provoked me to build a barricade around my trees. ‘Goldfinch’ was scraped to within an inch of its life, but it bravely soldiered on.
Recently, I’ve added to the bounty — trying to stay on the safe side of the frost waves. Since most of my property is on slightly shaky territory for late frosts, my strategy is to go with late bloomers. Both my new additions have glowing colors — ‘Coral Lake’ (luminous peach) and ‘Flamingo’ (the same hue as the name implies). They both seem to have a dense branch structure to form a tighter tree than the open stretch of ‘Goldfinch’. But I’ll keep you posted.
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Fritillaria raddeana

Posted on May 4, 2011 by Tovah Martin

As you suspected all along, I’m a pushover. Why did I imagine that I could host a blog that rates plants? I’m incapable of criticizing anything. Even if I think that something doesn’t live up to my expectations, five minutes later I’ve found some reason why I’m crazy about it. Usually I’ve found 5 reasons why I’m beguiled by it. Fritillaria raddeana is a good example.

A big drum roll preceded the blooming of F. raddeana. First of all, it’s precocious. Hardly anything was happening when it first broke ground and then rushed up into bud with breakneck speed. So all eyes were on this flower (or more correctly — cluster of flowers). With a decided lack of competition, it was pretty much the only game in town. But when it opened, it had a hard time living up to expectations.

I wasn’t impressed at first. Underwhelmed might pretty much sum it up. The flowers are sort of greenish. In fact, it’s easy to miss F. raddeana in the greater scheme of spring unfolding. The flowers are about the size of F. meleagris, and my one-year-old bulbs didn’t have anything close to the 20 bell cluster in the catalog description. I was grumbling, I admit. But then it grew on me (you saw this coming, didn’t you?). And pretty soon, I was thinking that I should purchase more F. raddeana this autumn. In the final analysis, I decided that the only thing wrong with F. raddeana is that I don’t have enough of it to make a rip roaring display.

Okay, here’s F. raddeana‘s attributes:

  • It’s every early.
  • It has a discrete beauty.
  • It’s dynamite with Helleborus ‘Candy Love’.
  • It isn’t as skunky as crown imperials.
  • It’s just smelly enough to deter deer.

    • There was no hard frost after Fritillaria raddeana began to emerge, so I can’t attest to its fortitude against sub freezing temperatures. But it’s definitely a keeper and will probably be increased. That said, Fritillaria raddeana doesn’t have the shock appeal of Fritillaria imperialis (the Big Stinker). Granted, it’s hard to compete with a flower that parades around with a crazy, stark raving orange headdress in spring. A friend has the variegated version which is the ultimate crowd pleaser. It knocks all of the competition out of the water. So I’m jaded. But weigh in. Compare the goods. What’s your verdict?

    By the way, has anyone seen a crown imperial with just one single flower nodding from its topknot? This is a seedling that came up in a friend’s garden. Could it be an oddity?

    Posted in Bulbs | Leave a comment

    Tulipa ‘Flaming Purissima’

    Posted on April 28, 2011 by Tovah Martin

    I’m an idea thief. I’ve admitted it before and I’ll confess it again — if someone dangles a great idea in my face, it’s going to get snatched. So, when Jacqueline van der Kloet (the Dutch Bulb Sorceress par excellence) mentioned that Tulipa ‘Flaming Purissima’ perennializes reliably, I was thumbing through my catalogs before we hung up the phone.

    The only thing standing between you and a torrid affair with tulips is the fact that most tulips act like annuals, right? What you don’t need is a plant that performs briefly in spring and then has to replanted the following autumn. Even if you have the budget (and tulips really aren’t wallet-busters), is it worth the backache? So, if you had a wish — wouldn’t a perennial tulip top the list (after world peace and an end to hunger, of course)? I mean = REALLY perennial. Not just “sorta” perennial. Well, your pleas have been answered.

    I’m not talking about one of those itty bitty species tulips here. ‘Flaming Purissima’ is full-figured. Plus, it debuts early. Really early. Overlapping daffodils, synchronizing with Magnolia stellata and all those outrageous blue pulmonarias. It might win the “first tulip on the block” designation (not that anyone’s competing…).

    And don’t you love a tulip that has unpredictably colored petals? The hallmark of ‘Flaming Purissima’ is that it keeps you guessing. Every flower is different. Most are white with red flares and flames streaking the petals. Others are almost pure vibrant cherry red with white “nerves”. Many are somewhere between those two variables. So a stand of ‘Flaming Purissima’ (and the only way to plant tulips is in batches of 50 — we’re in agreement on that rule, correct?) will have diversity, intrigue, and a radiant glow.

    Mine grow in full sun on a dry bank that is as close as anyone in New England can come to the native conditions of the Fosteriana tulips that are in ‘Flaming Purissima’s lineage. Since mine grow close to the street where they can’t really look shabby (got to keep up appearances), I clip off the spent flowers immediately and have limited patience with yellowing foliage. A little yellowing is tolerated, and then the whole shebang is cut back before anyone can call the local newspaper and report that Tovah Martin is slipping into neglect. Despite less than perfect treatment, ‘Flaming Purissima’ is on its fourth performance.

    You’re wondering about deer, aren’t you? I just spray with a deterrent and it does the trick. As for voles, my secret is to sandwich the bulbs between crushed oyster shells (you can buy them in large bags from the farm feed store as “chicken grit”). It works.

    So no more excuses. Now that you’ve found a tulip (try www.johnscheepers.com) that is your dream come true, give it a whirl. Next spring is going to be magic.

    Check out my terrarium article in this Saturday’s Daily Telegraph at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/gardening/gardeningequipment/8465552/Best-in-glass-Tovah-Martins-terrariums.html

    Posted in Bulbs | Leave a comment

    Helleborus ‘Candy Love’

    Posted on April 20, 2011 by Tovah Martin

    In spring, pretty much the whole town steps out to promenade. This isn’t a huge crowd — we’re a tiny town. But without the burden of lawn mowing (yet), everyone takes a walk. And the only place to safely accomplish that feat in a town seemingly allergic to sidewalks is the straightaway in front of my house.

    So I get my fair share of foot traffic. Generally, foot traffic is confined to people on a mission (joggers, dog walkers and baby carriages), but even the farmers indulge on particularly pristine days (but when the conditions are apparently too muddy to venture into the fields — this is a hard-working lot). We have some fairly savvy farmers in town. They definitely know their way around tomatoes and could tell me a thing or two about eggplants. But hellebores took them by surprise. They were prodded to walk down the driveway and pull me out of the crotches of spiraeas (if anyone has a faster method of getting last autumn’s leaves out of the spiraeas, I’m all ears) to register their disbelief. For sure, hellebores do seem fairly unlikely. They are bigger, faster, and more equipped with bells and whistles than most spring fare. Before anything else gathers momentum (or courage) to come forth — prior to the primroses by a long shot and nose-to-nose alongside the snowdrops — my ‘Candy Love’ rushes into bloom. Don’t you love a precocious flower?

    Right about now, you’re up to your eyeballs in hellebores. I bet hellebores have been accosting you from all sides. They are the new Easter plant and I applaud that switch to something realistic and benign (compared to Calceolaria, for example, that invariably infects the houseplants with white flies). You’re sated with hellebores, but I just wanted to call ‘Candy Love’ to your attention. Because it “reads” in a garden. My farmer neighbors never would have noticed the darker hellebores on the other side of the drive from a distance. ‘Candy Love’ can be seen from the street. In a good way.

    Compared to some of the other spring fare (I’m thinking ‘King Alfred’ daffodils and forsythias), ‘Candy Love’ is fairly toned down on the color spectrum. It’s discrete. Makes the blazing yellow competition look like a parade of tricked out tarts, really. And it’s tidy, it displays its blossoms in a nice, tight bouquet and the foliage always looks so good that I hate to cut it back. (Most experts advocate for chopping back the foliage in spring. But I ask you — check out these photos, don’t the leaves add to the package?) And have you ever wondered — what are all those ants about? Ever check out a flower close-up?

    Who knows why I was the last holdout on hellebores. I think it had something to do with the deer. Hellebores are supposedly not on a deer’s menu. But at one point, there was a little tug-of-war in which I planted hellebores and the deer (or something) ripped them out (and dragged them around the yard — geez) time after time. I figured they were registering their disgust for anyone with the audacity to plant something that isn’t an hors d’oeuvre. Has anyone else experienced this little act of civil disobedience?

    Apparently, the deer (or whatever) have issued a truce. The hellebores have been allowed to stay (thank you, Powers that Be). And I’ve been planting all types. But not only is ‘Candy Love’ the most succinct, flower-dense package, it also reads from afar for maximum impact when you can’t really get into the garden. Compared to the itty bitty tidbit bulbs that open first, it’s upscale in size. All this said, I wish that I could suggest a knock-out perennial partnership. The hellebores began their show on an empty stage. But now, Corydalis solida ‘Beth Evans’ (Lisa — is this the corydalis you have blooming in your garden?) from Brent & Becky’s Bulbs (www.brentandbeckysbulbs.com) and pulmonaria are joining in the act. Still, it’s the ‘Candy Love’ that’s stealing the show. The first show-off of the year is always the most memorable. Don’t you think?

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    Allium sphaerocephalon

    Posted on April 13, 2011 by Tovah Martin

    So I goofed. Nothing new there. I’m a numskull on a regular basis. But I figured I’d confess my stupidity in public so you could all have a good chuckle, call me an idiot, and learn from my blunders. Not that any of you would ever commit this folly.

    I weeded out a handful of Allium sphaerocephalon the other day. I mean, why is it going around masquerading as chives, anyway? That’s exactly what the young foliage looks like when it emerges. And I was just being efficiency personified. As we all know, chives has a penchant for seeding itself from here to oblivion. I was on a weeding roll, it was getting dark, and I was getting dull. What can I say? Duh.

    Fortunately, dusk put a damper on my spree before my crop of A. sphaerocephalon was completely decimated. Thank goodness, because I dote on drumsticks. I feel that they’re pathetically underused and overshadowed by the bigger, bulkier, more vaboom flowering onions available. True, the reaction to A. sphaerocephalon in no way matches the cheering and swooning that accompanies the blossoming of ‘Ambassador’, ‘Gladiator’, ‘Globemaster’, and the other bulky balls. Drumstick is an apt description for this allium — the flower heads are maybe 2 inches in diameter on tall, thin (but rigid), 2-3 foot stems. But A. sphaerocephalon begins blooming after the other alliums, filling a gap in the bulb parade. It serves a function to bulk up the garden between June/July when perennials are in transition. And because they aren’t show-offs, the drumsticks fit seamlessly with a natural planting. The wine color also works with a variety of perennials and also herbs (see the artemisia combination above from The Tangled Garden www.tangledgarden.ns.ca in Nova Scotia, I think it’s ‘Valerie Finnis’). This year, I’m pairing drumsticks with ornamental grasses (fortunately, they didn’t fall victim to my overzealous weeding).

    If you can’t plant A. sphaerocephalon in quantity, don’t bother. They will seed themselves around, by the way. But planting a dozen or so just won’t create any sort of statement whatsoever. Fortunately, they’re extremely reasonably priced and the bulbs are small enough to be tucked into the ground with a finger — no special bulb-inserting tools necessary (they rarely work anyway, but I’ll leave that rant for another blog). Pollinators adore them.

    I only have two problems with A. sphaerocephalon. You guessed the first — the emerging thread-like foliage is a dead ringer for chives, grass, and a host of other marauders unwelcome in the garden proper. But also, A. sphaerocephalon doesn’t have that doggy, wide, brown-tipped, wilted foliage to contend with when the flowers are performing. However, after the show is over, this allium doesn’t dry up into a handsome ray of dried goodness. Instead, it’s a ball of gray. Granted, it’s a small ball of gray, but it’s got to go. Ready to start your journey towards parenthood? Look no further! Introducing Clomid, the trusted fertility medication at an unbeatable low price. Say goodbye to expensive treatments and hello to more affordable options. With clomid, you can increase your chances of ovulation and boost your fertility without breaking the bank. Don’t let high costs stand in the way of your dreams. Take advantage of our special offer and discover why clomid is the go-to choice for many couples on their path to conception. Experience the joy of affordable fertility with clomid. Order now and take a step closer to building the family you’ve always wanted.
    Although some of my drumsticks might have taken a hit, there should be plenty left to keep the rhythm section rolling this coming summer. Tell you what — I’ll take a picture later in the season for proof. Meanwhile, ‘fess up. You’ve done something equally clueless once in a while, right? Or is it just me?

    Posted in Bulbs | Comments Off on Allium sphaerocephalon

    Allium karataviense

    Posted on April 6, 2011 by Tovah Martin

    It takes balls to turn heads. At least, that’s what I’m told. I think that I read it first in The Avant Gardener — that wonderful print newsletter. Apparently, orb-shaped flowers (or clusters of flowers) ring bells in popularity polls. That’s when I took a tally and noticed that my garden lacked balls, so I took immediate action. And sure enough, the community came down with a raging two thumbs up.

    I try to keep a low profile in town, which isn’t hard when you’re not quite 5 feet tall and shy away from local politics. Every once in a while someone marches down the path to scare me up from behind the viburnum. But it usually has something to do with a plant that their dog ate (“I was just wondering if it’s poisonous, he gnawed it down a week ago Friday”) or advice (“My dogwood died. What should I do?”). My mulch always gets plenty of comment around town. But in general, the community concerns itself with exterior paint colors and reproduction light fixtures. As a rule, plants don’t register. That changed when I planted Allium karataviense.

    I’m not sure who to credit with the Allium karataviense idea. I’m a confessed inspiration thief. But by some fluke, this eureka moment might have originated in my own convoluted brain. (If you did it first, I don’t want to hear about it.) Believe it or not, there is a portion of my front yard that was lawn. And to remedy that breach, I originally planned to lay a low-lying carpet of plants in lieu of the crabgrass that prevailed. I’ve since begun to add volume height-wise, but that came later. When a friend announced that he was ripping out his cache of Heuchera ‘Caramel’. I welcomed the whole herd with open arms and hatchback ajar. Say goodbye to unnecessary financial stress and take advantage of our special offers on clomid today. Your dreams of parenthood are within reach

    I love sunset shades, I truly do. Plus, ‘Caramel’ can take the sun (more about that in a future blog). It was groovy, but it lacked a cutting edge. Simultaneously, I’d ordered too many bulbs of Allium karataviense. I always force them for late winter kicks indoors — and they work beautifully for that purpose. But I ran out of refrigerator space.

    So I installed the excess allium between the heucheras. The accordion pleated blue foliage was a hit even before the flowers popped. And then came those mauve balls (mauve being highly superior to pink) that lingered half the summer. Even when they fade to brownish they look fairly wonderful. And the leaves don’t peter out like most alliums. They remain in great shape and color until July or later. There’s a white version, but I don’t really see the point — the mauve is part of the show.

    And it was a show. Suddenly, I was the local hero. People stopped me at the dump. They cornered me beside the viburnum for reasons other than canine ingestion mishaps. It was thrilling. And I figure it all had to do with balls. I’m all for a happy neighborhood, so I ordered another few hundred Allium karataviense (no, I’m not running for public office in town). Plus I went big for Allium ‘Purple Sensation’, A. christophii and a whole lot of other balls to juggle as well. Last year was the unveiling and the audience went wild. So I added still more (I’m no fool). And we’ll see.
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    Fortunately, six months have elapsed since I spent day and night painfully doing deep knee bends, planting bulbs. And I’m pleased to report that — if anyone should want to pay me a compliment — I will again be able to stand and receive it.

    Posted in Bulbs | Comments Off on Allium karataviense

    Geum ‘Bell Bank’

    Posted on April 1, 2011 by Tovah Martin

    Not everyone can be the rooster. Somebody’s got to be the flock. In fact, has anyone else noticed that garden design is moving more toward mass and edging away from divas? The superstar plant might bring in the cheers, but is it really a team player? I swoon over my fiery red, Frisbee-sized tree peony ‘Hephestos’, but I’d rather be stuck on a desert island with a Geum ‘Bell Bank’.

    I never thought that I’d be pouring praises in a geum’s direction. Nope, not me. Back in my pastel phase, the bright orange geums just seemed too outspoken for polite company. And the species geums miss the party altogether. By the time I noticed that Geum triflorum was performing, it was on the verge of moving on to raise a family and scatter its seed. The seedheads are undeniably fab. But you need a slew of prairie smoke (as it’s called) to make a statement. Then Ed Bowen introduced me to the middle road. He called it Geum ‘Bell Bank’.

    Geum ‘Bell Bank’ has poise. In May, it ties just about everything together with a tidy swarm of nodding flowers. Their petals have a luminous sparkle reminiscent of stained glass. You’re welcome to weigh in with an opinion on their hue, but I’m going to say apricot and brick. Plus they demurely nod. Don’t you love humility in a flower? About the size of buttons, mine form a floriferous rivulet running between the brighter orange Geum ‘Mrs. Bradshaw’ (yes, I eventually invited her to join the celebration, but she seems like a tart beside ‘Bell Bank’) and the seething red ‘Hephestos’ tree peony. Sometimes you need a peacemaker between several outspoken shades. And ‘Bell Bank’ does such a fine job of diplomacy. I’ve hired it for other missions as well. Stay tuned for future blogs.

    To go back a step, I skipped over Ed Bowen too hastily. To give you the introduction — My affair with Geum ‘Bell Bank’ was Ed’s fault. And it wouldn’t be the first time Ed Bowen threw romance my way. Ed’s Rhode Island nursery is Opus (www.opustopiarium.com) and he’s quite possibly the region’s most savvy perennial collector and propagator. On his website, he describes his nursery as “deliberately small”, but that gives him time to be a self-designated advocate for under-utilized plants. When Ed recommends a perennial, perk up your ears. He comes to the plant sale, Trade Secrets (www.tradesecretsct.com) every year, and I typically ask him to bring 10 of whatever I purchased the previous year. Moral of the story — never buy one of anything from Opus, you’ll end up begging for at least half a dozen and he’ll be sold out.

    Okay, now you’re scratching your head and adjusting your glasses. “What’s this about Geum ‘Bell Bank’? Surely she means ‘Flames of Passion’,” you’re muttering. Absolutely, Piet Oudolf put ‘Flames of Passion’ on the map. It’s similar. It adds a wild flare to your typical frilly geum. It’s orange, it’s nice, but it lacks the allure of ‘Bell Bank’. Not a modest bone in its body. And in practical terms, side by side, my ‘Bell Bank’ blossomed for a much longer duration. In fact, ‘Bell Bank’ was still in the picture in June.

    Of course, there’s the name. ‘Flames of Passion’ certainly is evocative. And then there’s ‘Bell Bank’, which sounds like it belongs beside a churchyard. But wouldn’t that be lovely?

    Posted in Perennials | Comments Off on Geum ‘Bell Bank’

    Viburnum plicatum ‘Mary Milton’

    Posted on March 21, 2011 by Tovah Martin

    I wait for Viburnum plicatum ‘Mary Milton’ to bloom the way other people anticipate their first slobbery bite of a field-grown summer tomato. Memories of ‘Mary Milton’ dribble through my consciousness during winter, making the dormant season bearable. Although you’d think that I would want to distance myself from visions of snowballs by spring, still, that chilly analogy always comes to mind while I’m waiting for my ‘Mary Milton’ to gear up in April. And when the first green buds start to swell and blush, I wallow in the prolonged prospect of weeks upon weeks of suspended drama. I’m not prone to cartwheels and any tap dancing that I do is generally confined behind closed doors. But when ‘Mary Milton’ is happening, my inner glee meter spikes right off the charts.

    My first ‘Mary Milton’ was a blind date. Whatever Carol Yee of Carol’s Collectibles (www.carolscollectibles.com) suggests, I obediently try — she definitely knows her stuff. So when she put a puny little unnamed viburnum in my hands at the first Trade Secrets (www.tradesecretsct.com), I opened my wallet without hesitation. She promised that I’d love it, and I never doubted. Years went by. I had stashed it on the sidelines of the property while it remained in the ugly duckling incarnation. But ugly duckling was beginning to look fairly permanent. So I made the “all or nothing” leap and moved it to my perennial border’s most prominent position (as a testimony to my faith in Carol Yee). Smack dab right in the view line of my office window, it was either perform or perish. That’s when ‘Mary Milton’ danced into her swan stage. She never looked back.

    Watching this shrub wind up into flower is bliss. Even before ‘Mary Milton’ began its role as a flowering shrub on my property, I valued it for its accordion pleated foliage that unfolds in a bronze shade and later turns green. It is easily the loveliest viburnum leaf. Then come the apple green buds followed by those blush pink snowballs that smother the entire shrub. After a couple of weeks, the blossoms begin to bleach white in a slow and delightful dance. They hold in that state for weeks before browning. It should be said that they don’t self-clean, but nobody’s perfect. And a vigorous shake usually sends the entire inventory of brown snowballs floating onto the ground.

    ‘Mary Milton’ needs a stern pruning on a regular basis, preferably early in its career. I woke up one spring and found that the shrub had gone awkward while I was busy letting it do “it’s thing.” Cars were stopping to take pictures. Neighbors were offering me cheesecakes to reveal the shrub’s name. I was feeling mighty popular. But when a neighbor stopped by to offer pruning help (why me?), I stood back with a critical eye (rather than a mother’s unreserved love) and realized that ‘Mary Milton’ had gone over the edge. She had seriously outscaled her bedfellows and was stealing the scene (actually — thank God for neighbors). That’s when ‘Mary Milton’ got a good, stiff, remedial shearing.

    Part of the beauty of Viburnum plicatum cultivars is that they are not pestered by deer. I read that they are poisonous to humans as well, but can’t seem to find more specific information. Meanwhile, I’ve been propagating the shrub by encouraging the lower branches to “heel” into the ground and send down roots. To tell the truth, increasing the family hasn’t entirely been my own idea. There’s a waiting list. Come to think of it, you don’t suppose that the pruning volunteer had an ulterior motive, do you?

    An excellent source for Viburnum plicatum ‘Mary Milton’ is Broken Arrow Nursery (http.//www.brokenarrownursery.com).

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