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The Elusive ‘Kintzley’s Ghost’ Honeysuckle

12 Nov

I am lucky in that I have a neighbor who loves plants and gardening as much (if not more) than I do. She has a number of unusual plants in her garden, but one of my favorites is a vine I have never seen anywhere else. Nor had I ever heard of it before, either: a “Kintzley’s Ghost” honeysuckle (Lonicera reticulata). And doubly lucky for me, it grows against the fence between our two houses, so I get to see it in all its glory.

This photo was taken at the end of May. Its tubular yellow flowers are quite pretty and though they are slightly fragrant, they don’t have that full honeysuckle aroma. What sets “Kintzley’s Ghost” apart, though, are the circular bracts surrounding those flowers. Bracts are modified leaves; in this case, the circular bracts are different from the plant’s other, more usual-looking leaves. Since bracts often help play a reproductive role, perhaps these round bracts serve as a sort of bullseye, drawing pollinators’ attention to the center of the circles, where the flowers are, and later, drawing birds’ attention to where the berries have developed. Butterflies and hummingbirds are among the “Kintzley’s Ghost” many admirers, as are humans.

Not only are the bracts eye catching because of their shape, but also because they taken on a silvery-white cast that reminds some people of a Silver Dollar eucalyptus. Because of this coloration, the vine has been described as being “a galaxy of full moons” when it is in its silvery phase later in the season. Unfortunately I don’t have a photo of the full galaxy, just a couple moons (first photo below, taken in October). Eventually, the silvery-white green color gives way to yellow as winter approaches (second photo below).

There is a bit of mystery to the history of this heirloom native honeysuckle, which adds to its allure. It was propagated in the 1880s by William Kintzley, who worked in the greenhouses at Iowa State University, but it was never released commercially. Instead, Mr. Kintzley gave cuttings of the vine to family members. Over time, the plant dropped out of other people’s sight and minds. It was rediscovered in 2001, when someone from a local nursery in Fort Collins, Colorado saw the masses of yellow flowers and round bracts down a side street. As the story goes, he walked up to the house to ask about this very unusual honeysuckle vine and found himself speaking with the elderly grandson of William Kintzley.

The vine is now offered for sale, but can be hard to find. My neighbor was visiting a nursery in Wisconsin about five years ago, when she, too, was mesmerized by her first sight of a mature “Kintzley’s Ghost” vine growing up a barn at the nursery; they can get up to 12 feet high. She bought a small 8-inch clipping and brought it home; it clearly likes the mini ecosystem between our two houses, because it is now more than 8 feet tall.

In general, this honeysuckle variety is pretty happy-go-lucky. It will grow in almost any soil as long as it is relatively moist. And it is very cold tolerant; “Kintzley’s Ghost” is hardy to Zone 4 in the United States, which means it can tolerate temperatures as low as -30°F (-34.4°C). Since it is a vine, it needs some structural support such as a trellis, fence, or wall.

Should you be lucky enough to find one and to be able to grow it in your region, you will be forever grateful–as I am to my neighbor who shares it with me.

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Crocosmia: Flower or Weed?

24 Sep

I came across this poem recently, by Ian Emberson:

A weed is a flower in the wrong place,
a flower is a weed in the right place,
if you were a weed in the right place
you would be a flower;
but seeing as you’re a weed in the wrong place
you’re only a weed –
it’s high time someone pulled you out.

I suspect some difficult interpersonal dynamics led to the last few lines, so I won’t dwell on those. But I quite like the first two lines. They summarize my feelings about a beautiful flower in my garden, which I love when it’s in the right place and frown over when it pops up (again and again) in the wrong place(s): Crocosmia.

Crocosmia in the wrong place

Crocosmia is a member of the Iris (Iridaceae) family, along with its gladiolus and crocus cousins. Plants in this family are perennial, and grow from bulbs, corms, or rhizomes. They have tall, upright foliage; Crocosmia leaves have been called “sword-like” and are easily spotted and admired in the garden.

The tubular, scarlet-red flowers are spectacular as well, and are wildly attractive to hummingbirds, who have been known to defend their Crocosmia patch against any and all interlopers. For hummingbirds, a Crocosmia is the proverbial Lady in Red.

So, what’s not to love? Crocosmia has great flowers, great leaves, and brings hummingbirds to the garden. How could it be a problem? Well, in the U.S. and other parts of the world, this Southern African native is considered an invasive species because of how well it grows, to the detriment of other plants. It really can grow almost anywhere; the ‘Lucifer’ cultivar (which has made itself a regular feature of my garden) is hardy to Zone 4. In the words of the California Invasive Plant Council:

“It prefers disturbed areas, including roadsides, coastal scrub, prairie and forests. Crocosmia is a superior competitor for water, light and nutrients, and it excludes native plants by growing in dense patches.”

I’ve seen mass plantings of Crocosmia, which can be stunning:

Intentional Crocosmia planting, Japanese Tea Garden, San Francisco

But where not controlled, Crocosmia could run riot. It is a determined grower whose corms multiply and multiply. You may think you’ve gotten them all, but you haven’t. In my own garden, no matter how often I have tried to transfer rogue Crocosmia from where I do not want it to grow, to where I do, it keeps cropping up in the old spots — and in new ones.

Crocosmia in yet another unplanned spot

The reason I am finding it in new spots in my garden, is that — in addition to propagation by corms — Crocosmia can also grow from seed. I did not realize how sneaky and able Crocosmia was until now, so I naively let the seed pods develop and scatter, mostly because I did not perceive them as a threat. In my skirmishes with this flower (or weed?), it has outwitted me each time. I’ve been focused on battling corm-spreading Crocosmia, without realizing my garden was also being strafed by airborne seeds. Now I know I should have been cutting Crocosmia off at the pass, literally; I should have been cutting the flower stems at their base as soon as the flowers were spent. Instead, I have allowed the (admittedly beautiful) seed pods to develop, along with the mini paratroopers housed therein, just waiting to spread further red cheer throughout my garden. Clearly, I am no military strategist.

But… lesson learned for next year. I vow to be ruthless. Really.

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Starting Over: The Joys of a New Garden

3 Sep

When we moved back to the U.S. three years ago, we bought a house with a big grassy backyard, sloping down to a wooden fence along the property line. It was a great backyard, but other than a small flower bed off the (old) deck, there wasn’t much active “gardening” space. There was a walkway border garden out front and a few roses scattered around there, too, but that was it. After living in apartments in Rome for five years, we wanted to enjoy the outside — and I really wanted to garden again. Luckily, the spaces around our new house had great potential to become places of joy not just for us, but also for the local bees, butterflies, and birds. I won’t dwell on the chipmunks, squirrels–and for a short while, rabbits–who have also found great joy here, too. Who knew squirrels could climb up giant sunflowers and take the heads right off? I didn’t. Lesson learned, though; no giant sunflowers next year.

But I digress. The hope we had for our outdoor spaces–which we thought about for a year before getting started–included flower beds, an herb garden, a vegetable garden, and a couple patios to provide more gathering space. As they say, beware what you wish for, because what followed took three years and a LOT of work. But it kept us busy during COVID and beyond, when we were glad to have something productive to do during the weekends.

Original sale photo of the backyard, taken Summer 2019, six months before we bought the house.

Today we have 12 separate garden beds, including a pollinator garden that looks like a wild English border garden, an herb garden, a vegetable garden, a rose garden, and new areas for all the plants we moved around, plus many new ones. This required completely redoing the backyard, rethinking a lot of the front yard, and lots of digging, weeding, transplanting/planting, weeding, seed starting, weeding, and finger crossing that everything we shifted around (often more than once) would survive.

We started Phase 1 by taking out most of the grass in the back and terracing the sloping plot, with help–as we could not move tons of soil on our own, nor could we install all the hardscaping alone. We toyed with the idea of laying down the patios ourselves (as we’ve done in the past), but knew we did not have the skills to build retaining walls, nor the necessary time, seeing as we both have actual other jobs requiring our daily attention. And this was not a weekend task.

Backyard, Summer 2021

Once all soil was out and the hardscaping was in, our work began: filling it all in. But it was early September (autumn) by then, so mostly we transplanted things from around the front, back, and side yards, and made a list of the new plants that would go in next spring. The top bed in the first photo below would be the future Pollinator Garden (I had saved plants from the old flower bed before we redid the yard, so got a head start by putting those back into the new bed). The second level would become the Herb Garden (ready to be planted with some perennial herbs I had grown in fabric bags during the summer), and the bottom level (barely visible) would be the Vegetable Garden. These were the first three of the 12 garden beds we would put in (or redo) around the house!

Backyard, Fall 2021

Note the missing deck section in the first photo above; we replaced the old deck entirely in Phase 2–with help from our children, family, and friends; but mostly done solo by my husband all through Fall 2021.

Finished deck and hardscaping, early Spring 2022

Backyard terrace beds: Top = Pollinator Garden, Middle = Herb Garden, Bottom = Vegetable Garden

In the two top beds above were the “skeleton plants” we had in Spring 2021. I added other plants to fill out the Pollinator and Herb Gardens, and grew some veggies from seed for the vegetable garden, though I also bought some more mature plants to jump start the process a bit. Here’s how the terraced garden beds evolved:

Pollinator Garden, Summer 2022 (left, middle); Herb Garden, Summer 2023 (right)
Vegetable garden as seen from the bottom of the yard, Spring & Summer 2023

And here are some photos of the front yard garden beds, which were part of Phase 3:

New front Walkway Garden, Summer 2022 & 2023
New, existing, and transplanted roses in the front Rose Garden

Below is what the front Walkway Garden looked like before (first photo taken while house was being painted). The bed was filled with yellow daylilies and magenta Campion Rose flowers, and I wanted to redo it from Day One. First, I am not fond of magenta and yellow as a color combination. As part of a riot of bold colors, yes, but not by themselves. Secondly, Campion Rose spreads everywhere. I needed to isolate it to a very small section of the yard. Thirdly, and most importantly, the Walkway Garden is in view of the Rose Garden, and I wanted to plant it with flowers that complemented the colors of the roses.

Here are some of the transplanted flowers that are happy in their new spots: 1) Spiky Giant Hyssop now along the southernmost part of the new deck, popping above the railings and attracting bees far and wide (though they are very friendly bees; I stick my head among the flowers to tie them up periodically, and the bees pay me no mind at all). 2) Panicle Hydrangea turning a dusty pink from its initial white, now in its third and final resting place, and 3) the yellow daylilies from the front yard, now in the back along with some Spiderwort ( a much more pleasing combination in my very biased opinion!).

Some of the many newcomers to the garden: Hollyhock, Allium Schubertii, Astilbe, Baptisia Australis, Black-Eyed Susans (Rudbeckia hirta), Aquilegia

And finally, a few things from the garden other than flowers:

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Echinacea or Rudbeckia hirta? The Clues I Failed to Notice

6 Aug

You may look at the beautiful potted flowers above and know right away what they are. When I look at them now, I also know. And forever more, I will know. But for the past couple of weeks, every time I walked by this part of the deck, I reveled in how beautiful these ‘echinacea’ were, and what an unusual color, too. I would then glance over to a different part of the garden and marvel at how many other beautiful varieties of echinacea existed:

But I was wrong about the potted flowers in the first photo, despite abundant evidence. My disregard for the facts started when I forgot what was written on the original plant tags and did not feel I needed to re-check; it spiraled from there and led me to overlook the obvious.

Mostly, it was hubris; I thought I knew, so I failed to observe properly, or fact check. What clues did I miss? Many. As this blogger stated, a gardener confusing a rudbeckia with an echinacea is like a farmer confusing a sheep with a goat. Ouch. In my defense, sheep and goats are very closely related genetically– as are rudbeckia and echinacea. And until a couple of weeks ago, I did not have this ‘Cherry Brandy’ rudbeckia in my garden. But I get the point, and now I can see the obvious differences between the “sheep” and “goats” in my garden.

Here’s how to tell them apart:

1. First, it’s not by how hairy one plant is, vs the other. I read that one way to tell them apart is that echinacea have hairier leaves. But both plants have hairy leaves; echinacea leaves feel rough like a cat’s tongue, while Rudbeckia hirta leaves are softer and more velvety (see photo below):

Since both plants have hairy leaves, it’s not the best test. There is a better one (in fact, the best and easiest one):

2. Examine the cones. Rudbeckia hirta cones (l) are relatively soft and usually look like black button tufts (hence the name Black-Eyed Susans), while echinacea cones (r) are harder and pricklier and more conical — and are not black, but orange or green or brown.

3. Look at the “petals” (though technically, they are ray florets, not petals): This can often help, but not always. According to this way of telling the difference between the two plants, echinacea petals tend to droop and point downward while rudbeckia petals tend to stick straight out. But in the photo below, some of the echinacea petals are drooping and some are sticking straight out. It depends on the variety and the plant’s stage of development. So use the “petal” test as a first form of evidence gathering if you like, but be sure to confirm with the cone test; it will give you the right answer.

In seeking the right answer today, I learned something new. Not just about the difference between Rudbeckia hirta and echinacea, but about assumptions and facts. And about taking the time to stop and smell the roses — and see the petals and leaves, and touch the cones.

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ROYGBIV: Orange

7 Apr

Depending on who you ask, the color orange brings to mind many things: amusement, danger, encouragement, energy, enjoyment, enthusiasm, extroversion, fascination, fire, happiness, heat, sunshine, and warmth.

It is one of my favorite colors, because it is so cheery (and because it goes so well with blue, its complementary color). I particularly like that it is associated with joy and creativity, and I love this description: “Orange oozes with delight.”

Interestingly, people did not have a good way to describe the color at first, sometimes calling it (in English) “yellow-red” or “saffron.” It wasn’t until oranges made their way around the world from their native Southeast Himalayan foothills that the color began to be associated with the ripe fruit. The first recorded use of orange as a color name in English was in 1512.

This week’s color, orange, appears on the six stamens of an Asiatic Lily ‘Tiny Sensation.’ The stamens are the male reproductive organs of flowers, consisting of anthers coated in pollen resting atop slim filaments. The female part of the flower, the pistil, can be seen rising blurrily in the back. Though not visible in the photo, the top part (the stigma) has three lobes and is sticky, to better catch the pollen.

Here is a better view of the pistil and its three-lobed stigma, surrounded by the six stamens. This photo is from a different lily, but luckily the pollen here is also orange, fitting in with this week’s theme.

Pollination occurs when bees, butterflies, and other pollinators carry the pollen from the lily’s anthers to the female parts of other lilies. Successful sexual reproduction leads to seeds that ripen in pods and are dispersed when the pods start to open in the fall. Unfortunately, I do not have any good photos of lily seed pods (though will now be on the lookout this fall), but did stumble upon iris seeds one autumn, as described here.

And of course, as lilies come from bulbs, another great way to get more lilies is via bulb division.

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Garden Green

24 Mar

Weekly Photo Challenge: It Is Easy Being Green!  Different shades, textures, and forms of green from the garden.

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A Trio of Tulips…and Some Tea

3 May

Last weekend, I was lucky enough to go on the White House’s Spring Garden Tour with a good friend. There were tulips everywhere, but these striking red ones caught my eye, probably because they were past the first flush of youth yet managed to look so elegant in their decay. I won’t dwell on the philosophical ramifications of that–but I will dub them ‘Norma Desmond’ tulips since I don’t know what type they actually are.

 

Aside from tulips , there are commemorative trees throughout the gardens, planted by various presidents and first ladies. The oldest are two huge Southern Magnolias that have been flanking the South Portico of the White House since 1830, when Andrew Jackson planted them (see glimpses of both trees, plus some wisteria, below):

WH4  WH3
The Rose Garden adjacent to the West Wing was in view, but was off limits–we were able to get a bit closer to Michelle Obama’s Kitchen Garden:

WH6

And of course, there is the spectacular view from the White House of the Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial.

WH2

Could the day get any better? Why yes, it could. Because the Willard Hotel, renown for its afternoon tea, is right around the corner, and they seated us despite our not having any reservations. The Willard’s ‘Peacock Alley’ afternoon tea venue is below:

Tea
And here is the sandwich part of our tea–a very small part of the overall meal, which also included two kinds of scones, four types of pastries, and chocolate mousse. And a pot of tea.

Willard
Flowers, tea, and friendship. A great day all around.

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Oh, Nuts: Chestnuts

19 Oct

My father was a New Jersey boy who went to elementary school in Manhattan in the 1940s. He loved the smell of chestnuts roasting over open fires on city street corners, a snack available almost year round when he was young. By the time I was a teenager, roasted chestnuts were primarily a holiday season treat, due to changing tastes and a perception that chestnuts were a poor man’s food. (Amazingly, lobster was once viewed the same way; today, the lines that form in front of the lobster roll truck by my office at lunchtime are a sight to behold). Here is a photo of chestnuts roasting in NYC, courtesy of a fellow Flickr user:

Photo credit: Adam Fagen, Flickr

Chestnuts–which are chewier and starchier than, say, walnuts–have been a staple food in southern Europe and parts of Asia for millennia. They can be boiled, candied, eaten raw, mashed, roasted, sautéed, steamed, or ground into flour–and have long been a favored ingredient in stuffing, vegetables dishes, casseroles, porridge, and desserts. They have less calories than other nuts and are the only nut to contain significant amounts of Vitamin C. So, as often happens when nutritious traditional foods are “rediscovered,” chestnuts and the naturally gluten-free chestnut flour are making a comeback, especially in upscale U.S. restaurants and specialty stores. Demand for chestnuts in the United States outstrips supply.

There are four main species of chestnuts: European, Chinese, Japanese, and American. The American chestnut (Castanea dentata)–known as the sequoia of the east because of its height–was almost completely wiped out by blight in the first half of the twentieth century, right around the time my father was enjoying the roasted (and probably Italian) versions near his school in New York City. Four billion trees died. Before tragedy struck, American chestnut trees were highly valued not just for their nuts, which fed both people and animals, but also for their wood. Nowadays, most of the chestnuts we eat in the United States are imported, but efforts are underway by organizations such as the American Chestnut Foundation and others to breed blight-resistant American chestnuts and reintroduce them into the forests of the American east.

In the meantime, the most commonly seen chestnut trees in the United States are Chinese Chestnut trees (Castanaea mollisisma), which are resistant to blight. On a recent visit to the Audubon Naturalist Society’s Woodend Nature Sanctuary, Castanea mollisima burs carpeted the ground. Here are two burs (and boy, are they prickly and sharp), one of which is beginning to open.

  
Chestnuts are harvested once the burs have fallen from the tree. Typically, there are up to three nuts inside each bur; here is a photo with one nut inside a more mature (and browner) bur. The nuts are covered by two “skins”: a dark brown, hard seed coat (or husk) and a papery under layer.

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Itsy Bitsy Spider

11 Oct

This is the story of a small spider in my garden. It being a cloudy and rainy morning, I grabbed my camera and headed for the yard. When it’s wet outside, colors pop and raindrops pearl on flowers and foliage—a gorgeous sight. But I only got as far as the sole remaining bloom on a Hybrid Tea Rose “Perfume Delight,” because I discovered that a small but industrious spider had established a new home there.


For perspective, see the lone bloom below (amid some Montauk Daisies), and a close-up of the spider on it.

Rose 1  
It’s hard to see, but for a good part of the morning, that spider was busy making silk threads; the first photo below shows a thread at top left, and the other is a not-very good photo of the spider spinning  (I managed to focus on the thread and a few rain drops, but alas, not on the spider…).

    spider4
That rose bloom wasn’t there a couple weeks ago. The spider could only have happened upon it recently, not knowing it had chosen an ever-evolving and ultimately doomed home. Even in the few hours between this morning and this afternoon, the rose bloom unfurled a bit more, breaking some of the spider’s newly spun threads. In a couple weeks, the bloom won’t be there at all. And yet, the spider remains, a Don Quixote in disguise.

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Black-Eyed Susan: Inspiration for a Horticultural Adventure

12 Jul

Not  far from a mailbox near our house is a cheery patch of yellow flowers commonly known as Black-Eyed Susans.  When I went to confirm their scientific name (Rudbeckia hirta), I discovered that–much to my chagrin–they are the state flower of Maryland, which has been our home for the past 12 years. I have no excuse. I really had no idea, despite having some Black-Eyed Susans in the garden of our old house (also in Maryland). My current garden does feature a close cousin: some tall and graceful Rudbeckia maximas. I’m hoping I get some bonus points for that family connection….

This bout of state-related ignorance has inspired me to go from having no idea to having a nice idea: in two weeks, we will drive across the United States (from the West Coast back home to the East Coast). So my admittedly joyful task will now be to make note of each state flower along the route and see if I can take a picture of it. In the meantime, here is the lovely state flower of Maryland:


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