Buyer Beware

While gazing at the gorgeous images displayed in seed catalogues, you might be wondering, have I seen that plant before, and is that a new colour? We always assumed catalogues had accurate representations of plants, and those of reputable suppliers always do. However, the world is changing and especially the online world where fact checkers, even for plants are lacking. 

In the early days gardeners relied on drawings and descriptions of the material in catalogues. Even Group of Seven artist J.E.H. MacDonald, designed many catalogue covers for Sheridan Nurseries. Photography eventually became the norm, first black and white then colour. These images depicted plants in an actual garden before it became easier to produce better ones under lighting in a studio.

There, images could be more easily adjusted to ensure the colours matched the real plant. I picture ex fashion photographers using their skills to show flowers in their best light where you might hear them cajoling poor plants with “Stretch that stem, unfold that petal, tint that pink, more stamen, more stamen. Work with me, work with me. Come on pansy — show me a pout.”

It’s hard to know what’s genuine now when nefarious vendors online have realized there’s a huge market of gardeners waiting to be tempted by new plants in never-before-seen colours. First it was editing software which made it easy to generate images, and strange new ones appeared. Now we’re dealing with artificial intelligence that can conjure up anything a creator desires.

We’ve long been awaiting a truly blue rose. With only a few clicks, it’s easy to produce an image of a blue rose with yellow polka dots or pink stripes, or any combination. And the same goes for vegetables that can be made to appear larger, taller, and produce amazing crops. Stick these images on social media with a thrilling description of a revolutionary new plant plus a link to where to send your money — click, click.

Seasoned gardeners might not be easily fooled, even though some probably are. I know I’ve been tempted. Beginners can’t be expected to recognise flowers as obviously fake when they’ve only recently discovered there are thousands of plants in a rainbow of colours to choose from. Of daylilies alone, there are over 80,000 registered varieties in vibrant colors and diverse shapes. So why not a rainbow rose?

It might not be easy to determine the legitimacy of a company, but all plants have, or should have, a genuine botanical name listed somewhere. But what copywriter wants to clog up advertising text with challenging words when a catchy new name attached to an AI image will produce instant clicks. It can give anyone a headache trying to remember the Latin names of all the plants in their garden but knowing that a plant should have a legitimate one will help avoid those budget breaking clicks.

That’s the plants. Don’t get me started on the products that claim to produce plants even more productive or floriferous. Buyer beware — everywhere. Buyer beware — click, click.

Art and Sculpture in the Garden

I only caught a glimpse of the couple as I entered the garden. I followed the path around the lawn, past the pergola that gave shade to the bench below. The pair were in a corner, almost hidden in foliage. As I approached, I felt I was intruding on an intense conversation between lovers that had fallen silent at that very moment. Had they declared their love? Had they quarrelled? What had she asked of him? Had he answered? I tried to interpret their expressions, to imagine their thoughts. I wanted to hear them speak, however, the silence continued. But then why would five feet of inanimate concrete have words for me?

They’d been lovingly placed there when the garden was young; so many years ago that bright yellow lichen now adorned his jacket. The quiet presence of this piece of statuary enhanced the garden, perhaps evoking pleasant memories in the one who tended it throughout the seasons. For me, a casual visitor to this garden near Portsmouth, England on a sunny day in 2005, it caused me to pause and to ponder, just one of the reasons artwork is created.

 It was a little disconcerting to see the face peering from the foliage at the foot of the garden, the late afternoon sun casting shadows, further obscuring the figure. It wasn’t that I was startled; I’d been forewarned on entering the garden to look out for Leila. She’d be waiting beyond the rose garden, near the stand of Japanese Silver Grass. I said hello Leila, not expecting a response. I mean, why would five feet of inanimate concrete graced by a soft patina of pale green lichen have words for me.

But then she didn’t need to speak. Her silent presence enhanced the peacefulness of the garden; she was a part of the garden, part of the family, at home where she stood. She’d been placed there some years previously, when the garden was young. At the time she stood alone in a corner of a lawn. As the garden grew, evolved, shrubs and trees took their place, and Leila, no longer standing alone in a bare expanse of manicured green became one with nature, as I discovered her.

Artworks in the form of statuary and sculptures have long been used to elevate the sometimes prosaic nature of gardens since the earliest times. The ancient Greeks and the Romans had their peristyle courts; enclosed gardens where classical sculptures would be displayed, typically reflecting philosophical or religious motifs and set on pedestals to be gazed at in awe.

It was during the Italian Renaissance in the fourteenth century when gardens became larger, symmetrical, and besides the grottos and fountains, there was always classical statuary. The Italianate style found its way to Britain, particularly during the nineteenth century when travelers returning from a
Grand Tour of Europe developed their own Renaissance gardens and filled them with statuary.

Travel the great gardens of Britain today, those built long ago by the aristocracy or early industrialists, and it’s soon apparent statuary was big business in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Materials were still the traditional marble, stone, or bronze, but in far greater numbers — every garden owner of note wanted to enhance their estate.

The need was filled by using composite materials, though often of inferior quality — a crumbling David would be unlikely to inspire or impress anyone. This was resolved around 1770, when enterprising Eleanor Coade invented Coade stone, an artificial material used for moulding neoclassical statues and garden ornaments. Of such high quality and virtually impervious to the eroding effect of weather, it outperformed natural stone. By the 1840s artificial stone produced using Portland cement came on the market and the more expensive Coade stone was largely phased out.

Lost over time, the original secret recipe, a form of ceramic using crushed flint, fine quartz, and crushed glass was rediscovered and further refined by sculptor and stone carver Stephen Pettifer. In 2000 he founded the Coade Company in London, England, which continues to produce all forms of statuary.

In those great gardens, even now, two centuries later, what may appear to be an original piece carved from stone could well be Coade stone.

By the start of the twentieth century the popularity of classical sculpture waned somewhat with the advent of modern sculpture, beginning with the work of Auguste Rodin, who exhibited at the Universal Exhibition held in Paris in 1900. Since then, every form of abstract artistic expression has made an appearance, in galleries and as public installations, in gardens as originals or more often replicas, and produced now in every possible medium.

Just as the Greeks and Romans created places to display their sculptures, today, parks are created specifically to display sculptural works, or they are exhibited in existing gardens. Somehow, the placing of sculptures in a natural setting enhances the moment, and is a way of introducing such works to the public. Cambridge has its delightful Sculpture Garden located on Grand avenue South alongside the Grand River. At the Homer Watson Gallery in Kitchener, there are whimsical works by local artist, Glen Smith on display in the small garden there.

The Seattle based revolutionary blown glass artist Dale Chilhuly exhibits his work in gardens around the world with multicolored pieces that can be mistaken for plants and trees of the natural world. At Kew Gardens in London, his work was once exhibited both in the gardens and inside the majestic palm house because, as he said, he always wanted to show his glasswork in a glasshouse. His pieces have also appeared at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix, Arizona. While visiting, I could easily have mistaken his spiky, chartreus cactus for a rare saguaro if it hadn’t been sparkling so in the bright desert light.

I’d much rather wander a park or garden than a gallery or museum, and it was first in those large stately gardens of Britain where classical statuary abounds that I first discovered my love of sculpture. Renishaw Hall in the north of England is typical of the nineteenth century style with its stunning Italianate gardens. Statuary there graces the pathways, at flights of steps, between garden rooms and within them, where they stand in the shade of topiary hedges five meters high. Sometimes the topiary works are sculptures in their own right.

Likewise in the south of England at Hever Castle, the childhood home of Anne Boleyn, the American millionaire and philanthropist William Waldorf Astor, beginning in 1906 added a magnificent Italian garden and filled it with his own collection of statuary retrieved during his European travels.

More a park than a garden, the Yorkshire Sculpture Park was developed specifically for the display of sculpture, including a number of Henry Moore pieces. Not sure how Henry would feel about sheep wandering around his work, although it honours his commitment to having his work placed in the open air.

It was in a more formal part of the park that I discovered the 'Moon’, a piece I’d perhaps unfairly describe asa large scale version of a Victorian gazing ball.  Hand-blown glass garden accents were first recorded as being produced in Venice 13th century. In the 16th century the English philosopher Francis Bacon commented that a proper garden would have round coloured balls for the sun to play upon, and by the Victorian era they became a popular garden feature, and are still. They are intriguing, the way they reflect and shimmer as the light changes, but I’m happy to gaze at them in someone else’s garden.

The ‘Moon’, however, by Swiss artist Not Vital (a confusing name in English) is something I’d covet if my garden were large enough to house it. ‘Moon’ is a highly polished sphere in stainless steel replete with tidy, random dimples representing, I suppose, the more ragged craters of the moon.

Three meters in diameter, it sits in an expanse of grass, and like the real moon’s gravitational field, it draws viewers to touch, to marvel, to observe the distorted reflections of the tree filled park. It now has its own Saturn like ring, formed by the circling footsteps of a captivated audience.

One of the finest, though fleeting, exhibitions of garden art is to be found at the Chelsea Flower Show held annually in London, England. It’s here where designers compete for gold medals in garden design. The gardens are imaginative wonders, works of art in their own right, and typical contain sculptural pieces to complement and enhance the experience.

At the 2016 show, a garden by Russian designer Tatyana Goltsova explored the complex relationships between Russia, Ukraine and the UK, though not in the current political sense. A work by Ukrainian sculptor Victoria Chichinadze that embodied the spirit of the traditional lace makers of Eastern Europe was allowed to beautifully dominate the garden. Crafted from 600kg of aluminum, the white, lace-like form, in sharp contrast with the surrounding green, swirled through the garden to skim the surface of a water feature called River of Time, culminating at a transcendent female figure.

Also at the 2016 show, a gold medal winning garden by Chris Beardshaw prominently featured a haunting, contemplative face. Named The Fallen Deodar, it was one of a limited edition of six in verdigris bronze. At 1.5 meters across, the original was carved from, and inspired by, a massive Deodar tree (Cedrus deodara) that had fallen on bleak Dartmoor, not far from the home in Devon of artist Jilly Sutton. The original work now resides in a garden somewhere in Tokyo, fittingly owned by one of the tree leaping Japanese actresses who appeared in the movie Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.

Given the long historic association of art and gardens, it would almost seem that a garden is not complete without a sculpture or piece of artwork. Ensuring each complements the other is the challenge. Those who design both sculptures and gardens understand the importance of scale, texture, and appropriate placement, and it’s no less important in a home garden.

I’ve always believed a garden is a personal space, accepting of anything the owner chooses to place
there. Garden gnomes, super heroes, well-dressed mannequins and even the many nefarious Lord of the Rings characters have all found a place in gardens. A monstrous orc, however, would be more suited to a huge gothic garden rather than lurching out of a flowerbed, unless, of course, it happens to frighten rabbits.

Besides these outliers an endless supply of decorative, often beautiful accoutrements awaits the browser at every garden show and gift store where there’s something to suit anyone’s taste. Smaller items are useful for punctuating an entrance or creating particular interest within a planting, but too many are . . . well, too many.

Plonk something in the middle of the front yard, though, and it’s on public display. That group of fake deer on a country property viewed through a morning mist can for a moment be delightful — or induce a moment of panic, but in the harsh light of midday . . . well, they’re still plastic deer. And massive concrete lions rampant at the foot of a suburban driveway somehow don’t capture the essence of the veldt — they’d be far more effective lurking in the shrubbery.

Many an expanse of green lawn does indeed cry out for a focal point, yet it is so worthwhile to reflect on those masters of design when choosing a sculpture and the way they considered theme, scale, location — and the garden. The appropriately placed classical statue awaiting discovery at a random turn in the garden will gently delight the unwary visitor.

A graceful Aphrodite, framed naturally in an arch of trees can be perfect. Position her at distance point to become a silhouette at sunset or sunrise and the effect is magical. When a piece such as this has attained an ancient, mossy patina, and is revealed only when a breeze stirs foliage, it becomes an enchanting dreamscape, and sometimes startling part of the garden.

Spring is for Daffodils

Winter truly ends with the appearance of the first bright, yellow daffodil. Daffodils evoke joy in spring, and maybe a tinge of regret that someone forgot to plant bulbs the previous fall. Oh sure, there were snow drops as early as January, followed by crocuses, even an eager tulip, but for me, it takes a daffodil; they’re much cheerier, nodding and waving a greeting. As Wordsworth described them in his classic poem, “tossing their heads in a sprightly dance, fluttering and dancing in the breeze”.

Wordsworth claimed he saw ten thousand at a glance. This may be so, but I doubt it rivals the numbers planted at the East Texas ranch of the late Mrs. Helen Lee. She used her Texas oil fortune to plant daffodils by the boxcar, millions of them, scattered over approximately 20 acres.

A few years ago a local man decided to become a guerrilla gardener and began planting daffodils on grassy banks along the Conestoga Parkway in KW. Since it was technically illegal to trespass, he did this under cover of darkness, and his name was never revealed — he called himself the Unknown Gardener. To further brighten the day of commuters, he planted the bulbs in the form of happy faces that may still be seen today.

Happy face or random clump, daffodils will always prompt a smile. In England as a child, I rode a bus to school that stopped each day beside a cottage with a hillside garden that merged at its upper end into woodland. Daffodils grew there in profusion. Each day I looked forward to seeing the springtime progression as they sprouted, flowered, and then vanished, overtaken by taller grass. Now, when the clump of yellow daffodils in my garden appears, I can’t help recalling an image that’s stayed in my head for half a lifetime.

Yet after a recent springtime visit, that image has been eased aside slightly by one that is suggesting maybe there can be too much of a good thing. At some point over the years (many years), someone decided it would be a good idea to plant daffodils along roadsides throughout the country. Some say it began in the dark days of postwar Britain to brighten up the place in the 1950s; however, I don’t recall any particular abundance in my youth. Regardless of when and where it began, the idea spread.

It became a pastime for many. Town councils large and small joined in, some with planting schemes of their own, others donating thousands of bulbs to charitable organisations. The daffodils grew and spread like dandelions, snaking mile upon mile across the country. The sight was amazing — at first. I soon began to picture them as yellow snowbanks, and I confess that after a couple of weeks driving the highways and byways of Northern England, even I was ready for a change of scene, or at least a change of colour.

Despite the popularity, so many were planted it’s feared they’re now becoming a problem for the country’s native species of daffodils, the ones that inspired Wordsworth's poem and the same ones that even Shakespeare mentioned in The Winter’s Tale — “When daffodils begin to peer”. They’re under threat now due to cross-pollination between the non-native species and the many hybrids, especially the larger, brightly coloured ones. The original, more delicate British species are becoming a rare sight in the wild. To counter this, heritage groups are undertaking mass planting campaigns using native species in historic gardens where they can be protected (the roadside battle is lost).

This over abundance isn’t likely to be an issue in Canada as we have no native daffodils. I feel I should point out that the daffodil is not native to Britain, either. Known since antiquity, it’s believed to have originated in North Africa and southwest Europe on the Iberian Peninsula. Somewhat isolated in Britain, the original introduction, perhaps brought by an early traveler or Roman invader, was able to naturalise undisturbed for centuries. At some point it became the national flower and a symbol of Wales where it’s worn on St David's Day each March 1st, potentially supplanting the leek, which has long been the national symbol of Wales. This may be due to some innocent confusion because in the Welsh language, the name, Cenhinen, is almost the same for both plants.

In English, we call them daffodils, but are they? Is it daffodil or is it narcissus, the other oft used term, or are they different plants? The simple answer is no; all daffodils are narcissus. Daffodil, or at one time daffadowndilly, has simply become the common, accepted name. The scientific name for the familiar, trumpet-like daffodil is Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Smaller daffodils, known as jonquils, are Narcissus jonquilla. Rather than a single bloom, jonquils tend to have clusters of fragrant flowers and dark green, tube-shaped leaves, like chives, unlike the seamed, sometimes triangular stems of daffodils.

The name, of course, is from the Greek myth of Narcissus who was turned into the flower of that name, and consequently, it’s perceived as a symbol of vanity. In the East however, it’s seen as a symbol of wealth and good fortune.

Another flower sometimes called a daffodil is the paperwhite, Narcissus papyraceus. It’s typically grown in wintertime as a houseplant — if you can stand the intense fragrance. Unlike regular daffodils, it can’t survive the winter outdoors.

Now that that’s sorted, I’ll continue to refer to the springtime garden plants as daffodils. Mention the name and predictably, most people will think of the familiar, bright yellow flower; however, daffodils are available in all shapes, sizes, and hues. They can be white or whitish, greenish, yellow of course, pink, and orange. Colours are then mixed and matched between the two parts of the flower head, the perianth (petals) and the corona (cup).

This is mainly thanks to the Netherlands, where daffodils have been cultivated as far back as the
sixteenth century. Today, along with tulips and other bulbs, they’ve become the country’s chief export. In addition, growers and hobbyists everywhere have been breeding new strains. Depending on who is counting, there are as many as 200 different daffodil species and subspecies and a further 25,000 registered cultivars (cultivated variety), including the more flamboyant strains that are causing the problem in Britain.

The best known and most popular variety is the King Alfred. He’s the one said to have burnt the cakes, but there’s no mention of him growing daffodils. The name was chosen by Englishman John Kendall, clearly a long time monarchist. It was first introduced in 1899 when it was immediately awarded a First-Class Certificate by The Royal Horticultural Society, which likely had a bias towards regal names (Kendall was no fool). Regardless, the society was impressed by the rich golden hue of its much larger blooms.

Sadly, Kendall died in 1890 and never saw the astonishing result of his humble breeding program. Successfully promoted and marketed by his sons, for the next fifty years King Alfred the daffodil ruled until production declined in the 1950s when newer, improved varieties were introduced.

Millions of King Alfreds are still being planted and remain available today. You may be watching them bloom in your garden right now, yet it’s unlikely they’re the original. I’m afraid the king is dead — though the name lives on.

So popular was the King Alfred, the name became synonymous with large yellow daffodils, much like Kleenex is commonly used as the name for any tissue. Growers retained the name, and although limited numbers of the original are still produced, it’s been gradually supplanted with superior varieties like Golden Harvest or Dutch Master. These and others are now sold as King Alfred “types”, what you might call floral Elvis impersonators.

They’re big and showy with a golden yellow trumpet — and thanks to Wordsworth and his host of golden daffodils, this is what most people will think of when they picture a daffodil. It represents a country, has Kingly connections, boosts the Dutch economy, was a poet’s muse, and in recent years has become a symbol of hope for all affected by cancer. April is Daffodil Month when the Canadian Cancer Society will be launching their annual fundraising campaign, another reason to appreciate daffodils.

Despite my misgivings after being overwhelmed by the abundance growing along British roadsides, I still love daffodils, even prefer them to tulips, their spring rivals. There’s something about the wild nature of them that’s appealing. Some varieties of tulips will naturalize, but daffs are masters at establishing communities that last for years, as seen by those yellow snow banks in I saw in England. 

And if there’s one major advantage over tulips, squirrels won’t dig up the bulbs and eat them, and nor should you. Despite having been used in traditional medicines since antiquity, and the bulbs do contain potentially useful compounds, they are poisonous if eaten, so don’t confuse them with onions, but do plant them.

Now is the time to admire the beauties that will be appearing this spring. And it’s the time to mark the calendar or set an alert as a reminder to plant lots come fall, hosts of them, but go easy on the snowbanks.

Gnomes on the Loam

Okay, hands up. Who owns one? I have one. I call him Gneville. He hangs out on the shady side of the garden and he’s only visible for a few weeks in spring after the snow melts, then he vanishes into the foliage for summer. If I didn’t point him out, or introduce him, you wouldn’t know he was there. Gneville is a gnome, of course, a solid concrete gnome standing just short of knee height. I do talk to him occasionally, but he never answers.

I’m not fond of items in the garden that don’t grow, and Gneville sure doesn’t. However, garden gnomes might be on a revival after the Lord of the Rings movies. I don’t think gnomes were featured, but there were dwarves — close enough, I say, as they’re often confused.

Nevertheless, garden gnomes have always been popular, and since this area has strong cultural association with Germany, it’s important to remember that the first garden gnome (der Gartenzwerg) was made in Graeferoda, Thuringia, Germany in the early 1800's.

Gnomes were first described by Swiss alchemist Paracelsus during the Renaissance period as magical creatures who didn’t like to mix with humans. Whatever the origin, each country has a name for these mythical beings. In England, they’ve been referred to as Nains or Hobs. Hobs? Wait a minute. What does that make me?

Mythical or not, latter day garden gnomes have been on the move. They quickly spread throughout Europe, arriving in England in 1840 at the estate of Sir Charles Isham, the 10th Baronet of Lamport Hall where they acquired the gnome moniker. Only one of the original batch has survived. Nicknamed Lampy, he’s on display and insured for £1 million.

They certainly became popular in the UK. In fact, Ann Atkin, of West Putford in Devon had a world record collection of 2,042 friendly garden gnomes. Then after forty years of gnome collecting, Anne decided in 2021 to close her reserve. After a winter in storage, they are now on display again entertaining summer visitors at Merry Harriers Garden Centre in the village of Woolsery. With a name and address that could have come out of Tolkien’s Middle Earth, they must feel right at home.

In European mythology, gnomes are described as hard working and responsible, but this bunch can be seen snoozing, aimlessly riding farm animals, and indulging in all manner of activities, as gnomes do. There’s even a section for sporty ones called the Gnome Run. Like Lampy, the value has risen for rare garden gnomes and collectors will pay plenty, especially if they’re the old iron or terra-cotta versions.

As part of the landscape in Britain and Germany, rare ones are seen by some as a status symbol, then there are others who go for quantity over quality. A few years ago, I was driving through a village in England when I simply had to stop the car when I spotted a donsy, the collective term for gnomes. Before me was a front yard filled with more gnomes than plants, an impressive sight. And yet they’re not popular everywhere. They were banned from the gardens at the Chelsea Flower Show until the Royal Horticultural Society relented and allowed them for one year only in 2013. Even a pair of royal gnomes made an appearance.

Whether you are a fan of garden gnomes or not (George Harrison welcomed them into his garden and even included them on an album cover), they’re certainly controversial characters, and if they bring the good luck that they’re reputed to, then I’d say every garden needs one.

Getting closer but not there yet

Imagine, lying in bed nice and cozy then suddenly the duvet is whipped off. That’s bad enough, but then the window is thrown wide open and an icy blast flash freezes your tender bits. If this is repeated enough times, those bits will fall off. This is exactly what happens to plants in the garden when the snow melts quickly, as it has this week.

Snow is an insulator, the deeper the better. It keeps plants in a comfortable state of dormancy. Even in winter, soil is giving off heat. Deep down, soil temperature is around 10 degrees or so, summer and winter. Where there’s a deep layer of snow acting as insulation, the surface temperature of the soil may be barely frozen. A study from the University of Delaware showed that for each centimetre of snow cover, the soil temperature will increase by roughly half a degree Celsius. 

Being suddenly exposed to icy blasts won’t bother tough plants, especially native ones, but any tender ones will suffer. And if the icy blasts don’t get them, the soggy soil will. The ground below may remain frozen, but nearer the surface it will be waterlogged. This happens in spring, but the ground soon thaws and normal drainage is resumed. When it happens in the middle of winter, that soggy ground refreezes. Repeat a few times and the expensive, borderline hardy perennial that you planted with care last spring will quietly succumb and no amount of coaxing will revive it. The same conditions can easily cause plants that aren’t well rooted to be heaved out of the ground, dead or alive.

I haven’t reached the point where I’m pushing wheelbarrows full of snow to the backyard to cover tender plants, but I have on occasion tossed a few extra shovelfuls over one or two. I usually mulch around the special ones in fall to help them resist the effect of winter thaws.

There are places in my backyard where the snow drifts deeper, and consequently, plants below are less prone to being prematurely exposed. The same occurs in sheltered areas, usually in shade and out of the wind. It’s worthwhile to note these places as they are in effect, micro-climates. A tender plant may require other specific considerations — soil type, sun or shade etc. — but it might just stand a better chance by being planted where it won’t be subjected to harsh conditions too early in the spring.

It’s also worth noting where the opposite occurs — areas in the garden where wind consistently whips snow away to expose the soil. This happens around the base of shrubs, posts, and against a fence, or building.

The snow is often scoured away along sides of buildings, depending on the prevailing wind, although the soil may be warmed by heat loss from the house, counteracting the effect of the wind. In fact, tender plants often survive well here. For instance, spring bulbs planted close to a sheltered, south facing wall will flower days or even weeks earlier than those in the middle of a garden.  Against a fence there’s no extra heat in the soil and though the fence may cause snow to drift deeply as you may see on a leeward flowerbed, the space closest to the fence is left exposed.

It may not be immediately obvious that a change in the weather is impacting the way a garden will look in summer, but it certainly does. Ahh, summer. Brrr — hang on to that the duvet. Winter isn’t over yet.

Poinsettias sure get around

It wouldn’t be Christmas without them, but I have a hard time deciding if they’re a plant or a Christmas decoration. It’s such a firmly entrenched tradition that I dare say most are purchased with the latter in mind. They’re available in colours and patterns to match any decor. That’s the poinsettia, of course, and the number produced is mind boggling. By Christmas, it’s unlikely anyone indoors in North America is more than a few steps from one.

It all began with a German immigrant to the U.S. in 1900. Although introduced to the country in 1828 by botanist and Ambassador to Mexico, Joel Roberts Poinsett, noted as the 'official discoverer’, it’s thanks to that German farmer, Albert Ecke and his descendants that you’re likely looking at one now.

Intrigued by the poinsettia, Albert began selling the plants at street stands in Los Angeles. His son Paul improved the plants giving them a bushier, more comely appearance, rather than the original weedy plant. It was then grandson Paul Ecke Junior’s turn to advance the association with Christmas.

He did this by sending free plants to television stations where they were displayed on air in the weeks from Thanksgiving to Christmas. He even appeared as a guest on the Tonight Show and on Bob Hope's Christmas specials to promote the plants. By the 1990s, the Ecke family held a virtual monopoly on production.

That changed when university researcher John Dole discovered the secret of how the family developed their unique poinsettias. After Dole published it, competitors began producing plants using low-cost labour in Latin America. The Ecke family business no longer grows poinsettias in the US, but still has a huge market share worldwide.

I don’t remember when I saw my first poinsettia, but it was here in Canada. As a Christmas plant they took off first in North America, but the rest of the world is catching up. Holly and mistletoe have been popular in Europe for centuries. Now, those traditional Christmas plants have been overtaken by the poinsettia. South Africa and Australia are catching up. In Australia, they’re also forced into bloom for Christmas. Given the climate there, they can be happily grown in the garden as well. Wouldn’t that be nice?

As a winter flower, it’s becoming popular in China, Japan, and South Korea where Christmas, at least the commercial aspect, has found a place. Despite different cultural traditions, it comes as a surprise to many travelers to cities in East Asian countries to discover Christmas trees on display in shopping malls, so it’s no wonder the poinsettia is appearing there as well.

In Turkey, much closer to the origin of Christmas, but with no connection, the poinsettia was being cultivated long before Europe was aware of it. It was simply an attractive winter plant that became popular because it was a favourite of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, first president of modern-day Turkey. Hence the poinsettia became known there as Atatürk's Flower, probably the only flower named after a politician, other than Joel Roberts Poinsett.

It can now be found growing wild in Turkey, where the climate, similar in places to Mexico, suits it. In fact, due to its proliferation as a houseplant around the world, where the climate does agree with it, there’s every chance poinsettia could become an invasive plant in the wild. Imagine a world in which there’s one in sight wherever you look — maybe not.

I confess I’m a reluctant admirer of the poinsettia, however, I was amazed the first time I ever saw one growing naturally outdoors. It was over two metres high, clambering up the side of a funeral parlour in Lahaina, Hawaii, and I thought it looked wonderful. Then again, it was January and the soft ocean breezes and ukulele music might have had some effect on my opinion.