Amaryllis -- or is it?

Here’s a little trivia to share, however, it might only elicit a few murmurs of huh, okay, or how about that — if you’re lucky. The only occasion when it might be worth repeating is when a conversation has stalled and is almost beyond recovery. It might help if there’s an amaryllis handy, preferably in bloom, or at least sprouting leaves.

It’s then you could pipe up and say, "Although we might call them amaryllis, the correct name is Hippeastrum, a genus of plants from South America.” Right, you needn’t have bothered because few give a hoot about the botanical nomenclature of plants. Botanists do, although they don’t always agree. They long debated whether the ones we know and love belong in the genus Hippeastrum, a group of plants native to South America, or should they be classed as Amaryllis belladonna, a plant from southern Africa?

The argument went on until 1987 when the 14th International Botanical Congress decided our seasonal houseplant was indeed from the genus Hippeastrum. Fortunately, they agreed amaryllis would be a “conserved name”, meaning it was okay to continue calling it what we always have done.

Regardless, these plants that brighten our homes as days shorten are all the result of hybridisation of Hippeastrum species from Central and South America. They’re selected and bred for flower size and ease of forcing in a gorgeous range of colours that continues to expand.

As for Amaryllis belladonna, the one that caused all the confusion, it’s a plant that you’d more likely see growing outdoors. In more temperate regions around the world, it’s become naturalized. One of the common names for it is naked ladies, so named, not after the band, but because the flowers bloom before the leaves appear, like the fall crocus. It could be grown in our gardens as a summer flowering bulb, that is if you can find it.

I’m afraid my suggestion of a garden plant that you can’t easily buy is about as useful as the bit of trivia, so back to our good old amaryllis. You might be unloading one with the groceries right now as they’re currently being sold everywhere. If you also bought a monster garlic or some kind of exotic root vegetable, make sure it’s the amaryllis that goes in a flowerpot, not the soup pot because it is somewhat toxic to humans, but only if you eat a lot. Dogs and cats, however, can become quite ill if they were to chew on a bulb or eat the leaves.

Now that I’ve sorted out the plant that no one was confused about until I brought it up, here’s how to care for it. Some come ready planted with complete instructions, but if you’re starting out with a bare (don’t mention naked) bulb, choose a pot that is slightly larger than the bulb, preferably a heavier one to avoid tipping.

Don't bury the bulb completely in the pot, just two thirds to three quarters deep leaving the shoulders exposed. A specific potting soil isn’t necessary. Place in a warm, sunny location and water sparingly at first as too much can cause rotting. Gradually water more as the leaves and flower bud appear and fertilize every couple of weeks. To prolong blooming, move it to a still bright but slightly cooler location.

Pinch off the blooms as they fade but keep the leaves growing for as long as possible to replenish the bulb. To get it to flower again next winter, sink the pot in the ground outdoors in spring. Cut off the foliage after it dies back, then leave it be until September.

Repot in fresh soil, bring it indoors, repeat the process as above and you can look forward to it blooming a second time — how about that, huh?

 

Lotsa leaves -- indoors and out.

Leaves are falling in abundance, and not just outdoors. Chances are they’re clogging up the vacuum cleaner in the living room, too. When plants arrive indoors after returning from summer vacation on the deck, we shouldn’t be too surprised if they begin to shed a few leaves.

As days get shorter and light levels fall, it’s a signal to plants to slow down, even stop growing for the winter. Outdoors it happens slowly, but when a plant that spent the summer outdoors is suddenly dragged indoors where light levels are considerably lower, the plant is thinking winter, already? What happened to fall?

Between the shock and the panic it shuts down, stops growing and the leaves begin to fall. Leaves that weren’t healthy in the first place soon turn yellow and drop off. After a week or two the plant adjusts and rests awhile until late winter when it will begin to produce new growth.

Sometimes the plant owner panics as well, immediately reaching for the fertilizer in the mistaken belief the plant is starving to death, except force feeding a plant has the opposite effect. Instead of producing healthy leaves, guess what — they turn yellow. Fertilize only when there is active growth.

Yellowing leaves may be due to disease — bacterial, viral, fungal — and without a thorough examination by a Doctor House houseplant doctor, it can be hard to determine the cause. More than likely, if the plant was reasonably healthy outdoors, it’s less likely disease is the cause. More likely insect pests have hitched a ride indoors.

If left outdoors, most insects quickly succumb to frost, but when transported indoors they think they’re wintering in Florida, and since there’s usually a bit more action happening on a winter vacation, it only takes one pair of amorous bugs to begin producing offspring and soon enough they’re swarming over the plant, sucking the green life out of the leaves.

It’s not always obvious there are bugs on the plant as (a), they are frequently green, making them hard to see, or (b), they’re too small, making them hard to see, or (c) they’re green and small . . .

The usual suspects are aphids or spider mites — or both. The aphids tend to cluster around the stems and at the tips of new growth, if there is any. They are easy to see when clustered together, but by then they’ve already been reproducing like crazy, and worse still, aphids don’t need a mate to start a family.

The other pest, almost invisible to any one over fifty, is the spider mite. They love warm, dry homes, so conditions are perfect for them to start a new family. They can be found mainly on the underside of leaves and look like tiny reddish specks. Here’s where a magnifying glass helps considerably. Look closely and you’ll see that these tiny specks are moving about. They’re not true spiders; in fact, a real spider might keep them in check, but if one also happened to hitch a ride indoors, chances are it was flattened on sight by a half-crazed arachnophobe.

 When bringing plants in for the winter, it’s essential to check thoroughly for hitch hikers. Even then, they can be missed, so give the plants a good soaking with a 40-parts water to one-part natural soap solution — not detergent. Best place to do this is outside or in the sink for small plants, otherwise into the shower with them. Spray every part of the plant — over and under stems, leaves, branches and even the soil surface.

After about fifteen minutes, rinse off the soap. Repeat a week later to be sure you got all the beasts. Oh, and if you have other plants indoors, quarantine the newcomers or you’ll be needing the garden rake indoors.

A tale for Halloween

 

Justicia Carnea

Grow pineapples in Scotland? I don’t know if they ever did but the possibility popped up when I read of Scottish horticulturalist Sir James Justice. He was a noted figure in Scottish gardening in the early eighteenth century. He authored successful books on the topic, and when explorers began returning with newly discovered plants, he had to have them. An obsessive gardener, he spent so much money on these new species, and on botanical experiments, that he almost went broke.

One of his experiments was rumoured to be a pineapple stove, a means of heating the soil to grow pineapples in a cold climate. His idea didn’t progress, but in the late nineteenth century pineapples were actually grown in cold frames on heated soil.

 Unfortunately, Sir James put his pastime and his profession before his family which contributed to the failure of his marriage. He was also expelled from the Fellowship of the Royal Society after sinking too much of their money into greenhouses and soil mixtures.

 And yet, though not a household name, he lives on in the world of botany. He was honoured when a complete genus of plants was named Justicia, and there are over seventy species in the Justicia genus, so well done, Jim.

 These plants are native to tropical and warm temperate zones around the world,including Brazil, where they grow in the Mata Atlântica, the Atlantic Forest ecoregion. Although termed an eco region, 90% of the original area has sadly been deforested.

 It’s where Justicia carnea, the plant now growing in the corner of my garden originated, except it came from a local garden centre. This plant is an evergreen shrub with large, dark green leaves and gorgeous plumed flowers. It’s unlikely to grow to its maximum height of five feet (1.5 metres) in my garden. It’s only a couple of feet high, and that’s because I’ve dug it out and stored it each fall. I guess I can say I’m endeavoring to save an endangered species. It is a perennial in Brazil, and must be a beautiful sight in the wild, or cultivated in someone’s front yard in Rio.

 This is the third summer in my garden and it’s near the top of my everchanging favourite plants list. The leaves drop when I store it in a dormant state, but it would retain them like other tropical plants if it were in a conservatory — Justicia carnea is sometimes sold as a decorative house plant.

 

It’s those distinctive blooms that make it a hit. They’re hand sized — okay, small hands. The petals are tubular and as the flower opens further, it shows why it has the common name Brazilian Plume, or flamingo flower. I’d call it rose pink, but then shades of pink can be subjective. I guess you don’t need me to point out that carnea, the species name is from Latin for flesh coloured.

There is a pure white variety named Alba, which I’ve also grown. It didn’t overwinter successfully, probably because it wasn’t quite mature enough. I have more success with shrubby plants when they’ve developed woody stems.

Regardless, my current Justicia is a beauty, and I’ve planted it in the perfect place because it’s grown so well this year. It’s in my Brazilian rainforest, that is, a corner of my shady side yard where the soil is rich with organic matter and moist like a damp sponge.

Although old Jim had this genus named after him, he never did travel to the rain forests of Brazil. I’m not sure he ever left Scotland, so perhaps he was honoured for his work on those mysterious pineapple stoves.

Tulip History

 It wouldn’t be spring without tulips. They pop up like targets in a shooting gallery, in perfectly coordinated clumps, and in great swaths of every colour of the rainbow. That’s largely thanks to The Netherlands where they’ve been growing and breeding more varieties for us to enjoy for the last four hundred years.

But that’s not the beginning of the tulip story. It began, oh, a thousand years ago when someone, wandering through a valley in the Mountains of Heaven, spotted a delightful little wildflower. It would have been familiar to local people but unknown to travelers from Europe. And so began a long journey west along the ancient silk road, the route traders had travelled for centuries carrying goods between East Asia with Southern Europe.

 The Mountains of Heaven, or the Tien Shan Mountains as they’re known, are in the border region between North west China and Kazakhstan. However, the tulips growing there would not have looked like the ones growing in the front garden. Though similar, these wild tulips would have been much smaller and wouldn’t have the unusual colours and forms we see today.

 Whoever that person was, they dug up a few bulbs thinking they’d be nice to take home to Constantinople – now Istanbul, Turkey. At least that’s where the tulip was first recorded as having been cultivated, as early as 1055.

 When the Ottoman Empire arose there in the fourteenth century, the fortunes of the tulip rose with it. As for the name, it’s possible it came from a Persian word for turban because it resembled the headwear, or it could be because the Ottomans wore the flower on their turbans like an elevated boutonnière. Regardless, the elite of society raved about the tulip and it became a symbol of the Empire, and a material possession that defined nobility. In Turkish culture where it became a symbol of paradise, it gained an almost divine status.

 The Ottomans weren’t the only ones to go crazy about this unusual flower with such deeply saturated petals. When Ogier de Busbecq, the ambassador of Ferdinand I, Holy Roman Emperor, dropped in on the Sultan of Turkey and spotted tulips, he had to have them. No doubt he stuffed a few bulbs in his diplomatic bag to take home to Vienna. This was in the sixteenth century and it wasn’t long before tulips appeared in Amsterdam around the beginning of the Dutch Golden Age. The country had become the leading maritime power of the day and the economy was booming. Of course, those who could afford it wanted the latest and greatest, and artists, like Instagram influencers of the day, were turning out countless paintings to grace the walls of the wealthy. As tulips were frequently depicted in art, this no doubt contributed to a demand for the real thing.

 Dutch breeders began producing ever more colours and forms. Then, in the early part of the seventeenth century what came to be known as the Rembrandt tulip appeared with its streaked, bicoloured flowers. Unlike earlier varieties with more simple hues, this tulip had been afflicted with a virus that had caused the tulip to mutate. It wasn’t called the Rembrandt tulip because the artist had painted them, although many still life paintings by other Dutch masters of the day featured these remarkable flowers in their work; it referred to the city of Leiden where Rembrandt was born, one of the earliest regions to begin serious tulip growing.

 As these unique tulips appeared, it set off a frenzy of trading and the price of rare bulbs rocketed faster than a speeding Bitcoin. The period became known as tulip mania, suggesting the whole country was involved in a huge economic bubble founded on these plants. Fortunes were certainly won and then lost when the market collapsed, however more recent studies have since revealed that it was hardly the market crash of 2008 and it was only a relatively small number of traders that were involved.

 Regardless, the Dutch began breeding and hybridising, producing an ever-wider range of colours and forms from almost black to one that resembles the top of a raspberry ice cream cone. The Rembrandts of today, meanwhile, are free of the virus and that colour shift is now fixed in a limited number of colours.

Other varieties have surpassed them the Rembrandt tulips, especially the fringed varieties with their finely incised petals and the even more flamboyant parrot tulips, with ruffled and ornate petals splashed with flame-like strips or feathery patterns. Why parrot? Possibly it was the feathery petals or the beak-like shape that some saw, although the name might have appeared after the famous seventeenth century French engraver Nicolas Robert referred to them as perroquet de trois couleurs.

 Regardless, this resulted in the Netherlands becoming the major tulip grower in the world, exporting three billion bulbs annually. Over 15,000 hectares of farmland there are now dedicated to producing these bulbs. In spring, when tulips are in full bloom, huge fields are striped blankets of colour, perhaps the inspiration for the paintings of American artist Gene Davis.

 During springtime in The Netherlands those painted fields are amazing, but not for long. Within days the colour vanishes. As though an edict from the Queen of hearts has been issued, it’s off with their heads, millions of them, left to fade away along the furrows. To the casual observer unaware of the process, it must be heartbreaking, and yet it’s an essential step in bulb production that takes place in late April.

 Like combine harvesters on a prairie wheat field, similar equipment criss-crosses the tulip fields, shearing off the flower heads. This stops the plant from producing seed, and instead, energy is directed into growing the bulb in the soil below. By July the foliage has died, and the real harvest begins. In much the same way as Prince Edward Island farmers harvest potatoes, specialized equipment traverses the fields, lifting the bulbs from the soil.

To aid the process in heavier soils the bulbs are planted between layers of net that are then simultaneously rolled up by the machine for reuse, just one stage in a highly automated mobile industrial operation. The netting isn’t needed in sandy areas as bulbs are more easily released from the soil.

 The bulbs are then conveyed along, any remaining foliage and leaf litter is removed, soil is shaken free, and the bulbs are washed before they’re loaded onto convoys of trucks. The next stage takes place in a processing facility where the bulbs are again washed and sorted, and smaller offshoots are separated from the main bulb.

 These small ones will be replanted to produce future crops. Further along the line, the flaking, papery layers similar to onion skin are removed. The bulbs continue along a conveyor belt where they’re scrutinized by teams of seasonal workers, the only part of the process that isn’t automated. This is where diseased or damaged bulbs are tossed aside, and any stray roots are removed by hand. After a final wash and dry the bulbs are sorted and stored until it’s time for export when they’ll arrive in stores here in September ready for fall planting.

 The sight of the tulip fields in the Netherlands is a magnificent, though short-lived sight, and there are several locations where they can be viewed. The most famous area is along the North Sea dunes, between the cities of Leiden and Den Helder, but there are other places in The Netherlands where tulips and other spring flowers can be seen in full bloom for weeks. The most famous of these is Keukenhof near the city of Lisse, an hour’s drive from Amsterdam.

 Keukenhof, formerly part of the nineteenth century estate of Baron and Baroness Van Pallandt, is a 32-hectare park that is only open for a couple of months each spring when it welcomes close to a million visitors who arrive to view the glorious displays. These are created each fall when four and a half million tulip bulbs in a hundred varieties, plus another three million or so other flowering bulbs are planted.

 And then there’s the fragrance. Fewer than 20 percent of tulip varieties are fragrant, mainly in shades of orange, but at Keukenhof there are plenty of other sweetly scented flowers. A half dozen hyacinths near the patio are always a delight, but when a breeze carries the output of a thousand, it’s incomparable.

 A trip to see and experience this is certainly worthwhile, however there is a comparable display much closer to home and that’s the Canadian Tulip Festival held annually in Ottawa. In 2021 it will run for ten days from May 14 to May 24.

The festival began when the Dutch royal family sent 100,000 tulip bulbs to Ottawa in 1945 after the second world war ended. This was in gratitude to Canada for providing refuge for the future Queen Juliana whilst The Netherlands was under Nazi occupation.

 The royal family continues to send 10,000 bulbs each year in addition to 10,000 more from the Dutch Bulb Growers Association. The Festival also commemorates the unforgettable role of Canadian troops in the liberation of the Netherlands. Although the Netherlands is the primary producer of tulip bulbs, Canada has a small share of the market.

Vanco Farms in Prince Edward Island is enhancing the red soil of the province by growing tulips instead of potatoes. Besides producing bulbs for gardeners, the farm also grows millions of tulips for the cut flower market. After harvesting, the best of the bulbs are stored in large coolers under winter temperatures. When introduced to a warm greenhouse and planted, the bulbs are tricked into believing spring has arrived early. By planting successive crops blooms are produced from January to May to fill bouquets for stores throughout the Maritimes and Quebec.

In the garden is the place to see them growing, bringing colour to our world as winter fades. That pretty wildflower from Asia, after a journey of a thousand years from the Mountains of Heaven, and enhanced through centuries of breeding, has found a home in Canada.  It just wouldn’t be spring without tulips.

A short walk into my garden

 

The secret super power of geraniums

The tiresome Japanese beetle has been busy doing its thing again, tormenting gardeners. The first time I encountered them in my garden I tried to look upon the Boston ivy as a greenish lace curtain draped over the fence. It didn’t work. There was no avoiding the realization that the leaves had been shredded by Japanese beetles.

Last year it was the hazel and by the time I noticed it was too late and the poor tree suffered the same
treatment. There were just too many to deal with, and besides, they were out of reach. Other times these shiny brown and green beetles with locust-like appetites have appeared on my roses where at least they’re easy to spot and it’s easy to shake them off into a pail of soapy water. That’s about the most effective way to dispatch them. Sadly, for some gardeners, so many show up to feast they’d need to set up a dishwasher in the back yard and herd them in. So far this year I’ve only seen two and used the quick and simple squishing technique — ugh.

Maybe the winter was hard on the grubs, or enough lovely starlings fed well when on lawn patrol. That’s where the beetles begin their life cycle. After they’ve done eating, they mate, then the female lays eggs in a handy lawn, especially one where the where soil is moist. The following spring, eggs develop into grubs that feed on grass roots, pupate, then emerge as hungry adults in July and take off to the nearest food source, but only when conditions are right. They prefer to take flight when the air is clear, calm, humidity is high, and the temperature between 29 C and 35 C.

It’s at the grub stage in lawns where some control can be achieved by an application of nematodes, but to be effective, correct time of application, weather, and specific soil temperature must all coincide. Even then, it’s of little help if yours is the only lawn in the area to be treated.

You might be wondering why these voracious pests haven’t defoliated their homeland by now. In Japan they’re seen only as a minor pest, simply because of a difference in gardening culture. The country isn’t blanketed with lawns the way North America is, and that means far fewer places accommodate the lifecycle of the grubs.

There are traps available to limit damage, and they work extremely well, or sort of. They attract the beetles with two types of baits or pheromones, a sex one to attract the males and a flowery one to tempt both male and female. The drawback is they can attract thousands of beetles and as they pass over your garden on their incoming flight path, enough of them will stop off for a quick feed and anything else they might have in mind. No harm in trying with traps. Better still, convince all your neighbours to install a few.

The most effective solution, though not the easiest, is to gradually replace any plants and trees that the beetles are attracted to, and there are over 300 species. There are even more that they’ll never bother, and if that’s the route you choose to take, a quick search online will provide lists of both.

One more possible way to limit the damage the beetles do, is to plant geraniums, lots of them. Research by a couple of scientists confirmed anecdotal reports that geraniums (pelargoniums) are toxic to these pests. After feeding on the flowers, the study showed the beetles became paralysed for up to 16 hours, however, it didn’t finish them off. When they recovered, they went back for more. Made them easier to pick off, I suppose, but it might take a lawn full of geraniums to provide any relief. Other anecdotal reports suggested the same effect occurred when beetles fed on flowers of bottlebrush buckeye (Aesculus parviflora), but when tested, no adverse effects were observed.

Nature does have a way of challenging us, so for now it looks like I’ll continue picking and squishing, at least until balance is restored.  

Patty, the Lucky Petunia

The garden centre that sucked me in to their clearance sale the other day had a sign out yesterday saying LAST CHANCE SALE. Last chance? Who are they fooling? These places will do anything to coax and con nutty gardeners into buying one more plant. Can’t fool me, I said to myself, but I stopped in anyway. Hey, I enjoy the atmosphere, even if it isn’t a real nursery — only a tent they stick up in the parking lot at the local plaza.

Of course, I did buy something; it doesn't seem right to hang around and not do so. And you can't beat the prices. I picked up perennials at four for a buck — amazing! They were seven dollars each a month ago.

There are no tags on them, so I'm not sure what they are, and I can't identify them by their foliage, either, because it's kinda shriveled, but there are some green bits sticking up which means there’s life still in them.

Hah! The price slashers at this particular garden centre don't seem to realize that in the hands of a mad gardener these tiny scraps of green will become huge luxurious plants by next season. What a challenge! And if they don't survive, I'll have lost nothing because I'll still own the pots (not that I need more pots when the shed is knee deep in them, but I can always use the premium potting soil).

As I was paying for my purchases, I asked the person at the cash register what they did with the leftovers when they finally do close for the season. She told me they toss them all in the garbage. Being a curious type, I naturally asked where. She just smiled and took my money.

I returned to the plaza the following day — I had to. I was determined to see what they would do with the leftover plants when they closed up and took the tent down. I couldn't believe they'd throw them in the garbage, but if they did I was going to be there to rescue them. It didn't look as though it was going to happen, though, because when I arrived the following day, they’d changed the sign again. It now read LAST CHANCE SALE EXTENDED!

I hung around anyway, just in case, browsing until they began to give me the subtle looks that told me it was time to leave, even though I'd bought a limp lupine from the bargain table. Too bad it's in rough shape, but if I can nurse it back to health, I'll keep it potted up and use it to intimidate some of the poor performers I planted a month ago.

After that, I spent an hour or two casually wandering around the parking lot, keeping one eye on the tent and the other on the mall security guard. Earlier, he'd asked me what I was doing and I'd told him I was an agent from the S.P.C.P. (Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Plants). I don't think he believed me, so I said I was only joking and was actually trying to find my car, which meant I had to keep moving to maintain the pretence of looking for it.

The parking lot is huge, and I walked an awful long way. At first it was fun trying to lose the security guard, but at four o'clock his shift ended and a fresh guy took over — he could run too. By then the garden place was closing for the day and it didn't look as though the tent would be coming down, so I figured I'd better get out of there before I was arrested. I went back to the garden centre this morning, but instead of being chased around the parking lot again, I sat in the car to watch — all day. Was it ever hot in there! I learned that I never want to be a greenhouse worker.

But my patience paid off; I had a perfect view of the garden tent. At four o'clock, they took all the benches and equipment out, including the trays of annuals that were still not sold. They set them off to one side where I was able to keep an eye on them. No way were they going into the dumpster if I could help it. Shortly afterwards a truck arrived with a bunch of guys who began to dismantle the tent. I felt awfully melancholy. It was like watching the circus leave town.

They crammed everything onto the truck except for the plants. My hopes shot up. I was ready. As soon as those plants went into the dumpster, I'd swoop to the rescue. But then, at the last moment, one of the guys picked up the trays and, instead of taking them to the dumpster, he shoved them into the back of the truck. Then they drove away. I was wild; a whole afternoon wasted getting a free sauna that I didn't need. I took off after that truck. If they were planning to dump the plants someplace else, I was going to be there.

I tailed that truck all the way across town. I never let them get more than half a block ahead of me. It wasn't easy; they were in a real hurry and I had to run red lights to keep up. I could barely stay with them.

It was crazy. We were tearing along the expressway when it happened. Disaster! It was terrible. As the truck swung onto the exit ramp, the rear door flew open and a tray of petunias flew out. I hit the brakes, but it was too late. I'll never forget the horrible sound and sickening crunch as I ran over that plastic tray.

I stopped the car, leapt out, and raced back to find soil and plants scattered across two lanes of heavy traffic. Botanical road kill! It was hopeless, every bit of vegetation crushed beyond recognition. I felt so sad, especially since I felt partially responsible. If I hadn't been chasing the truck, it might not have happened. But when I remembered the plants were probably headed for the garbage dump, I felt much better.

Regardless, I had tears in my eyes as I returned to my car thinking what an awful waste. That was when I spotted it — almost buried in the flotsam of the hard shoulder — one little petunia. My heart leapt! A miracle. Except for a little shredding around the edges it had survived the crash unharmed. I carefully picked it up and placed it in a discarded coffee cup and for once, I actually blessed someone for littering. I took the cup and reverently set it in the cup holder, then drove home slowly and safely — a little too slowly; I got a ticket for obstructing traffic, but it was worth it. I saved a life.

I have Patty here now (that's her name — Patty), beside me as I write. Today I'm going to find the perfect place in the garden where she'll grow and thrive. Patty the luckiest petunia in the city.