Friday, February 14, 2020

...Another Winter's Grafting Summary

This past week we wrapped up (pun intended) our winter grafting season. One might wonder what keeps old Buchholz propelled with plant production, as if I don't realize and accept the fact that I'll be too old and feeble to care about – or take care of – the young starts that we created in the past few months. Is it just stupid habitual inertia, perhaps combined with a lack of viable exit plan, that keeps me propagating plants, or is it the only way that this old geezer can have fun? The answer is: yes to the above, at least somewhat, but understand that you'll never be invited to rest with me in my coffin because I plan on getting some work done there too.

Chamaecyparis obtusa 'Gitte'

Chamaecyparis obtusa 'Gitte'

I decide everything with our propagation department: what and how many to graft and/or root. Sometimes – like with the Chamaecyparis obtusas – we produce them both ways. The graft, with its two or three-year-old rootstock is a faster method to get a saleable plant, which is especially valuable for the miniatures. However, with some cultivars, such as the dwarf Chamaecyparis obtusa 'Gitte', the extra boost from its Thuja occidentalis 'Smaragd' rootstock, especially when grafted on a standard, can push undesirable wild growth on the graft. Last week a Dutch nurseryman (Mr. S.) saw a row here of 5-year-old 'Gitte' on standards, and he asked if the cultivar was indeed 'Gitte'. I replied that it was, but he observed that it “doesn't look that way at home.” He should know because the selection came from his nursery and was named for his granddaughter...if I understood him correctly. Since we are done with this season's propagation I will send someone with shears and instructions to prune mine into more-tight globes.

Chamaecyparis nootkatensis in the wild

I have produced Chamaecyparis nootkatensis – now named Xanthocyparis nootkatensis – by both grafting onto Thuja orientalis – now named Platycladus orientalis – and by rooted cuttings. Cultivars of the “Weeping Alaskan cedar” are easily rooted and graft “takes” are usually high. I estimate that my small nursery has produced about a quarter million nootkatensis grafts over the course of my career, because for about three decades we supplied lining-out plants for many of America's wholesale growers, some who would order as many as 800 per year. So, I've made a ton of profit with the species, but...a less-than-pleasant aside is that the scions – most of which I have personally cut, and also the thousands that I have personally grafted – smell like a high-schooler's gym socks soaked in cat piss.

Chamaecyparis nootkatensis 'Green Arrow' 

I was the nurseryman who introduced Chamaecyparis nootkatensis 'Green Arrow' into the trade, when the discoverer and namer Gordon Bentham of Victoria, B.C. told me about the fantastic tree a year before he died. The nursery where he worked had gone bankrupt and the few plants were being liquidated, so I'm certain that 'Green Arrow' would have been lost to horticulture if I hadn't lucked onto them in the early 1980's. I don't produce many anymore because everyone else does, and about ten years ago I saw about 100 for sale in a Seattle-area garden center that looked great – supplied by a grower I never heard of – and they were retailing for less than my wholesale price. The cultivar is even grown in Europe now, and in The Hillier Manual of Trees and Shrubs (2014) it is listed as “A very narrow, medium-sized tree with pendulous branches held close to the trunk. Foliage dark green.” Well, on a foggy Olde English day, and from a distance, you might consider the foliage to be dark green, but on close inspection it is actually gray-blue-green, as evidenced by the photo above.

Chamaecyparis nootkatensis 'Van den Akker'

A cultivar, more green and not listed by Hillier, is C. nootkatensis 'Van den Akker' which was introduced in Washington state. It might have been present before 'Green Arrow' but it really wasn't in the trade, as in nurseries producing it and shipping it around the country. 'Van den Akker' was found in the wild by someone who gave it to the Dutch landscaper who named it for himself. He produced enough to supply his landscape firm, and I have discovered them in various western Washington plantings where some probably exceed 50' tall. Its narrow habit is reminiscent of 'Green Arrow' except that 'Van den Akker' tends to form additional vertical shoots from the base, making an old specimen look like a small forest. All of the nootkatensis cultivars are compatible with Thuja orientalis, but for an unknown reason 'Van den Akker' does not perform uniformly as a graft, so all of our production is from rooted cuttings.

Taiwania cryptomerioides

We had a handful of Cryptomeria japonica 'Yoshino' in pots which we rooted two years ago and I instructed our grafter to put 'Dense Jade' on them. All Cryptomeria cultivars root fairly easily for us except for 'Dense Jade'. So the rootstocks were all used up and as I drove home that night I let out a groan, suddenly remembering that I wanted to try grafting Taiwania cryptomerioides onto the Cryptomeria. The two genera kind of look alike, don't they? The idea wasn't originally mine, rather I read about the combination in Brian Humphrey's new book The Bench Grafter's Handbook, in which he comments, “Relatively easy in temperatures of 10-15 C.” Humphrey's book features a chapter called Grafting Table List, where he offers the 1) preferred rootstock choice, 2) also possible, 3) least successful and 4) suggestion, not proven. I predict that The Bench Grafter's Handbook will become the standard text for propagation classes in horticultural institutions worldwide. I wish I had another 20-30 years to test his theories, but the book came to me only last year when I'm nearly ready to put my knife away for the final time. I won't reveal any more of Humphrey's secrets, such as what rootstock to use to graft Carpinus fangiana for example – you'll have to purchase the book yourself. CRC Press, IBN 13: 978-1-138-04622-1.

Ginkgo biloba 'Chi Chi'

We root Ginkgo biloba 'Chi Chi' under mist in the summer, and it makes an attractive, compact container or field plant. A word of warning, if you live in Oregon anyway, is that the Oregon pocket gopher loves to eat Ginkgo roots and can kill a tree. One year we even had scale on the Ginkgo trees in our greenhouse, and I found the best way to manage that pest was to burn the tops. So much for the old adage that the unknowing “experts” like to repeat, that “Ginkgo is free from disease and pests.” It reminds me of the TV insurance commercial where the wise old agent says, “At Farmers we know a thing or two because we've seen a thing or two.”

Ginkgo biloba 'Snow Cloud'

Anyway we also use the 'Chi Chi' as rootstock for our other dwarf cultivars such as 'Mariken', 'Spring Grove', 'Troll' and 'Gnome'. Even fast upright selections, such as the narrow pillar 'Grindstone', exhibits exuberant growth on the more dwarf rootstock, as if it makes no difference while sending up 30-36” shoots in the greenhouse. I was also pleased this winter to graft 70 Ginkgo 'Snow Cloud', a new variegated cultivar that does not revert. I ravaged my stock tree to get that many scions, but it was worth it because everyone who sees 'Snow Cloud' wants it.

Pinus contorta 'Chief Joseph'

Usually the first conifer we graft is Pinus contorta 'Chief Joseph'. In the past I would begin in mid October to mid November when the needles were still greenish, the idea being that it was best to graft before they turned to brilliant gold. Two winters ago we didn't get around to grafting until the first of December and we achieved about 60%, our best ever, and believe me, the needles were quite gold then. The first of December is when we grafted this past winter. J, my ace grafter, frets about the low percentage of success and seems to take it personally. She suggested that we use a different rootstock, like Pinus sylvestris instead of contorta, but I replied that we used to graft on sylvestris and our results were even worse back then. She continued to stew about it, so I emphatically quieted her by saying I'm very happy if we can get 50%; we'll sell them for more money, so don't worry about it. What she doesn't know is that all producers of 'Chief Joseph', that I know, say, “Wow – 50% – that's pretty good!”

Calocedrus decurrens 'Berrima Gold'

One more word about 'Chief Joseph' is that you probably do not want to grow them commercially in the field, and then harvest (dig) them in the winter. I only grow in containers now, after losing way too many in the past. If I was to dig one from the ground I would probably choose the end of August to do so. Another plant where most die from winter harvest is Calocedrus decurrens 'Berrima Gold', and since it is yellow all year long, I would have my doubts about August digging. One retail nursery owner sighed when she saw my large crop of 'Berrima Gold' in containers and said that she gave up on it “because they always die.” She related that XYZ wholesale nursery refused to give her credit for the dead trees he provided because they all “looked great” when shipped. I convinced her to never buy a B&B 'Berrima Gold', but that when they're grown in containers there should never be a problem. By the way, neither of us shed tears when XYZ Nursery went bankrupt a few years ago.

Cornus kousa 'Summer Fun'

Magnolia 'Manchu Fan'

Scions are already beginning to push on our December grafts of Cornus and Magnolia that were placed on the hot callus pipe. The temperature is kept at 70F and we keep the graft union just above the hot-water for three weeks. If kept on longer, one runs the risk of over callusing, though I've never experimented to see what kind of problem might result. The definition of a plant nursery is a place where you fool nature, or at least hurry her along, and that's what the hot pipe does. Without it the side grafts would wait until late April-May to produce new growth. For easy to grow hardwoods, such as Ginkgo, we don't bother with the time-consuming hot callus method because we achieve 98% success anyway.

How do I decide how many of a certain plant to graft? Well, it's been 40 years of making plenty of mistakes with too many or too few, and only occasionally the perfect amount. It's a moving target anyway where plant sales can be hot for ten years, then suddenly fall off. One key to success is to grow a lot of different things, but none of them in great numbers. Also, I think it's best to only propagate plants that do not have a short shelf life, i.e. only plants that you don't mind keeping and potting into larger sizes. The neighbor's nursery went under because the bulk of his crops were cheap, easy-to-produce products like Euonymus (by the many thousands), Alberta spruce, roses etc., where if they don't sell you wind up dumping the crop. I'll use tomatoes as an example: Most retail nurseries sell them in 4” pots for a dollar or two, and maybe a few in one-gallon cans for, say three dollars. If they don't sell you don't pot them into a 20” wood box which costs you over $20, because there's absolutely no market for an expensive tomato plant. If your Japanese maples don't sell at a relatively small size when you have a thousand, you move the remainder into larger pots, take good care of them and sell them the following year, or the following...and maybe after ten years you have only a few $200 trees left and your market is happy to find the few at a large size. Anyway, that system has worked for me, except that in good times the cheap Euonymus grower makes more money than I. I guess the grower should have faith in his crops, that they will eventually reward him.

Cedrus atlantica 'Glauca'
Cedrus atlantica 'Glauca Pendula'

Cedrus deodara

Most of the blog readership would assume that I'm about 39 years old, but in fact it was 44 years ago that I grafted my first trees, beginning at a nursery where I worked. My boss was always complaining that he couldn't get enough grafted plants from the Dutchman's nursery who was the only producer back then. I suggested that we skip the Dutchman and do our own. That winter my boss provided me with 12,000 Cedrus deodara in pots, and I (self-taught) grafted the bulk of them with Cedrus atlantica 'Glauca' and a few with 'Glauca Pendula'. Cedrus are pretty easy to do and the take (with beginner's luck) was over 90%. I noticed in a propagating book that one was advised to heel in the graft union with sawdust and keep the tops moist so the scion wouldn't dry out. Besides, the bench had bottom heat, and the whole environment was a tropical paradise in the Oregon winter. But oops! – the conditions were perfect for the gray mold to develop on the puffs of new growth. I was able to prune and spray my way out of trouble, plus I discontinued with the top mist, so the end result wasn't too bad. But ever since that first experience with grafting I find myself constantly worrying.

Friday, February 7, 2020

...Coming Out of the Closet

The Buchholz Nursery office closet contains various and sundry items such as flagging tape, old employee records, a customer card index – yes, by hand since I couldn't trust previous office workers to maintain it accurately on their computers. Also, a shelf of dictionaries of French/English, Spanish/English, three German/English, Latin/English and a Tibetan phrasebook which was useful for when I traveled frequently to the Himalaya.

There's also a box of maple scions in the closet from 2004 that were sent from France. Previously I quizzed the Oregon Department of Agriculture inspector, and he, after reading the rules, saw “no prohibition of importing maple scions from France.” Oh, except he was wrong. DH, the Administrator of the Department and JH, the lead Horticulturist drove all the way from 635 Capital Street, Salem, Oregon to tell me that “Acer is a Federal prohibited plant from Europe. The USDA [United States Dept. of Agriculture] will be in contact with you to let know [sic] what you are going to need to do next. Do not ship or sell these plants.” Well, that was 16 years ago and nobody ever did contact me about the affair. Now, some nurserymen would have been tempted to go ahead and graft the dormant scions, and simply replace them with other maple sticks, but I would never want to violate Federal Rules!

I also have a couple of banker's boxes in the closet filled with miscellaneous plant information, articles that I would copy or tear out of horticulture magazines, as well as plant lists from various arboreta. A 1990 list of conifers from the Morton Arboretum, for example, indicates that they grow a surprising number of Abies (true fir), among them two specimens of the “Min fir,” Abies recurvata which I also grow, the “Cilician fir,” Abies cilicica, the “Manchurian fir,” Abies nephrolepis etc. I don't remember how I ever got ahold of this plant list, and honestly I forgot that I even had it.

Acer japonicum 'Ao jutan' (top) and 'Green Cascade' (bottom)

I always assumed that whatever I put into the boxes might be referenced at a future date for some purpose, but in fact, now that I am nearly at the end of my career (40 years running Buchholz Nursery), I never delved into the boxes, not even once until today. One item surprised me: a single page which at first looked like a hand-drawn sketch of two Acer japonicum leaves, A.j. 'Green Cascade' and A.j. 'Ao jutan', but upon studying it further I guess they are photocopies. They were very faint – so tentative – that I had FWB (Flora Wonder Blog) co-producer, Seth, darken them so you can see the relative leaf-sizes and shapes. The tree captions are hand-written, as you can see, but they're not by my hand and I definitely don't remember who did it or why I have it. 'Green Cascade' was an Oregon cultivar introduction by the late Art Wright of Canby, Oregon. It was unique (at the time) – a weeping A. japonicum with dissected green leaves and fantastic autumn color – wow!, what a worthy introduction. However, you can see that, in comparison, 'Ao jutan' (meaning “green and spreading”) produces larger leaves with greater dissection. I named and introduced 'Ao jutan' but the original seedling, from the mother tree of A.j. 'Aconitifolium', was sowed and selected by the late, great plantsman, Edsal Wood of Oregon, and he gave me the start shortly before he died. Sadly, the very generous plantsman passed and never knew that now Buchholz gets credit for his wonderful discovery. In truth, I was never smart or lucky enough to begin and operate a successful nursery for 40 years without the assistance and generosity of many others such as Edsal Wood.

Puya raimondii

I don't remember the magazine where I saw the fantastic photo of Puya raimondii, the “Queen of the Andes” – titanka in the Quechua language – which is the largest member of the Bromeliaceae family. I was in the Andes a couple of times in the 1970's but never encountered this Puya, and my second daughter L. actually lived and attended a university in South America for a year and learned the native Quechua language, but she didn't see the Puya either. The situation for me was that I never knew the giant (up to 50 feet tall) existed, but I would love to go back and seek it out. The specific epithet used to be gigantea, but that name was discarded because it was used previously for a Chilean species, so the name was changed to raimondii to commemorate the Italian scientist Antonio Raimondi who undertook botanical explorations in Peru. The first scientific description was rendered by the French scientist Alcide d'Orbigny in 1830 when he found the Puya at 3,960m (12,990') in Bolivia. I should hurry to see it because it is considered an endangered species by the IUCN where its main threat is from human-caused fires. Imagine: a single plant can produce between 8,000 and 20,000 nectar-rich flowers in a three-month period.

Twenty years ago, before marriage, I asked my current wife Haruko if she would translate Japanese maple names. She came to work the following morning with six pages of translations, and I suspect she took all night to do it. I eventually rewarded her with myself. Though I appreciated her effort, nevertheless the six pages ended up in a bankers box, stuffed away for the past twenty years. If you check the Vertrees/Gregory Japanese Maples book, sometimes the name's meaning is provided, but for many of the cultivars the meaning will never be known. Where the names are translated, such as with 'Akegarasu', the publication says it means “the crows at dawn'. Haruko spells it as two words, 'Ake garasu', and her meaning is “daybreak crow.” V/G lists 'Aoyagi' and says the name is literally “green coral.” Haru went with 'Ao yagi' and for her it means “green willow.” V/G doesn't attempt to translate 'Beni fushigi' but Haru says it's “red mysterious.” V/G says the variegated Acer palmatum 'Kagero' is an “outstanding form,” but I disagree because it always reverted and I have discontinued it. To V/G the name means “gossamer,” but Haruko suggests “heat haze.” So, I don't know who is correct or more correct, but perhaps Haruko should be invited by Timber Press to sit on their editorial board. Anyway I didn't return Haruko's work to the white box, and instead I tucked it into the first page of Japanese Maples where it can rest comfortably next to Peter Gregory's name, for Haruko and the skinny Englishman instantly hit it off with each other.

Cathaya argyrophylla

I fished out of the closet box a folder that said “Cathaya info.” Cathaya argyrophylla is the Chinese evergreen conifer that, like its better-known (deciduous) cousin Metasequoia glyptostroboides, was previously only known to exist from the fossil record...until Chinese botanists discovered living plants in China in 1955. For years it was considered off limits to Western plantsmen and arboreta, and therefore it became the Holy Grail of plants that, for people like me, we were most desirous to acquire. The monotypic genus is most beautiful anyway – so photogenic – that the Sciadopitys/Pseudotsuga-like creature positively shimmers in the landscape. The specific epithet argyrophylla aptly describes the light green needles' silvery undersides, and it makes for an elegant presence in the landscape. The exotic name CathayaXitay in Uyghur, Khatay in Persian, Kitay in Russian, Kitaj in Polish, Catai in Italian, Catay in Spanish etc. – was used in a poetic sense for the denizens of China, while in Javanese the word Katai or Kate refers to “east Asian,” literally meaning “dwarf” or “short-legged.” Marco Polo wrote a story called The Road to Cathay, or Travels in the Land of Kublai Khan.

My banker's box contained a copy of the Arnold Arboretum News, Fall 1995 entitled “Cathaya Comes to the Arnold Arboretum” by Horticultural Taxonomist Stephen A. Spongberg which describes “a rare and endangered conifer endemic to China, which has not been grown or cultivated previously outside of the People's Republic.” Actually, I acquired seed of Cathaya before the Arnold's coup of 1995 but they did not germinate. I did not challenge the venerable Arnold's assertion of being the “first” because no one there would believe me or care, even though one-upmanship is a powerful force in the world of plant collecting. My seed source was...well, it doesn't matter now, since the seed didn't germinate, but by 1996 I had seed from another source that did germinate.

Cathaya argyrophylla

Collecting Cathaya seeds

Subsequently we propagated additional Cathaya either by seed or via rooted cuttings, but even to this day neither method is particularly successful. Sadly – ridiculously, really – I sold off the original propagules, and it was only about 15 years ago that I permanently planted one at Flora Farm and another in the Conifer Field at the nursery. Both are plump specimens, but they currently dwell in obscurity and are only known to me. In other words: no employee at Buchholz Nursery knows that the rare conifers – even now at 9' tall – exist on the properties. Perhaps that fact sums up the nature of Buchholz Nursery and the Flora Wonder Arboretum: that neither neighbors, visitors or employees give a damn about my rare, difficult-to-acquire Chinese conifer. In the spring and summer, every 12-to-14 days, a man mows the grass around both Cathaya specimens, but he toils without any knowledge or appreciation for the species, and would only grow furtive and apprehensive if I recounted its history and value. But, I invite any true plantsman to visit, and we'll walk out to pay our respects to the trees. Two years ago I had a wonderful time on Christmas eve, when my extended family went out at night to collect the cones...then we broke them apart to bag the tiny seeds while drinking Pinot Noir. Only a few germinated, but that is what has become normal for me.

Digging deeper into the box I brought to light a little booklet – New Pronouncing Dictionary of Plant Names – but what good did it do for me as it languished in the dark closet for the past 25 years? It was published by the Florists' Publishing Company of Chicago, Illinois, and the 62 page booklet begins with Abbreviatus meaning “shortened” and ends with Zygopetalum for “showy tropical orchids.” I have the 24th printing of 1980, and in the Foreword it is promoted as a “handy reference” where “several hundred thousand” copies have been produced. In the booklet's middle I learn that Ismene is the “Peruvian daffodil, spider lily (now Hymenocallis), that Ixia are “cormus plants like gladoli,” and that krigia are “plants like dandelions.” So apparently you don't spell dandelion as dandylion, such as with the golden Picea abies weeping cultivar. In any case the common name is from French dent-de-lion meaning “lion's tooth” – for whatever reason – and the genus in the Asteraceae family is also known botanically as Traraxacum. I have read that the definition of dandelion is “a yellow wild flower that often grows where people do not want it to,” such as with the hundreds that appear on my front lawn every spring. Actually I don't mind them, and I delight in their Japanese name of tampopo. All parts of the plant are edible, and my father used to make a fairly decent dandelion wine.

Cornus kousa 'Heart Throb'

Cornus kousa 'Heart Throb'

An advertising flyer describing the “recent introduction” of Cornus kousa 'Heart Throb' must be about twenty years old. The late Jim Schmidt of Boring, Oregon is credited with the introduction and I suppose the patent is still valid. Flowers are billed as “larger than the species, around 4” in diameter,” and they last well, “sometimes as much as two months in Oregon.” The flyer claims that “bract color is a deep red,” but I know from experience – one is planted along the long road to my home – that some years they are deep red and other years they are positively pink. In any case it is a heavy bloomer as advertised. I don't know the origin of 'Heart Throb', whether it was a random seedling, or a seedling from another red-flower cultivar such as 'Satomi', but 'Heart Throb' is a great name and a great plant anyway.

I discovered a July 1996 newsletter written by the late J.C. Raulston from the North Carolina State University Arboretum. He talks about 1995 being a burnout stressed year with he being out of the state for 43 weeks with “too much lecturing, too much fundraising, too much teaching and too much too much.” I remember him visiting my nursery where he allotted only a half hour, and he literally sprinted from plant to plant. Panting, with not much time between “hello” and “goodbye,” he sped off to visit yet another garden. Raulston was generous with his plants, though, not like the typical arboretum director, and thanks to him I received the variegated Pinus cembroides 'Pina Nevada' from a Mexican discovery. About 10-15 years ago I heard from one grump that the NCSU Arboretum was “not much of a destination.” I visited about five years ago and found it to be an amazing collection. Shortly after this newsletter was written J.C. died in a car accident, and what a shame he passed away and was not able to see the fruits of his energetic labor.

A further discovery in my miscellaneous plant box was another “newsletter,” this time from the International Conifer Preservation Society – “A non-profit organization to ensure species survival.” I knew that the prevailing botanist was John Silba and the reason he latched onto me was because I loved to collect rare species, and that I was also qualified to propagate them. Therefore, I was the recipient of dozens of obscure Asian conifers – obscure in the sense of their true botanical identity – and I had to somehow (magically) produce healthy, viable plants out of his crappy scionwood. One conifer, that I don't know if I should even have (legally) was Abies beshanzuensis, and it was sent to me by Prof. Silba about twenty five years ago. With only six trees left in the Chinese wild, how was old Silba able to obtain scions and send them to this simple Oregon nurseryman? I now have a beautiful specimen in my Upper Gardens, and maybe it is the largest in the world outside of China. I don't know, though, maybe storm-troopers from the Department of Righteousness will march onto my property to cut it down and to confiscate it. Perhaps my collection will eventually be bulldozed to make for a Walmart parking lot, but in the meantime I'm going to pretend that I'm doing something useful and important with these plants.

Another example of my relationship with J. Silba – who I never met personally – concerns the “Hsing spruce” or the “Flat-leaf Veitch spruce,” Picea neoveitchii Masters, that is “an endangered species from China and may not be in cultivation outside of China in its true form.” Silba continues: “One plant cultivated in Brooklyn (New York) may be of wild origin from Wilsons's [Ernest Henry] collection, though its exact origin seems uncertain. Scions from this plant were sent to Buchholz Nursery in Gaston (Oregon) recently for establishment and ex-situ preservation.” Yikes! – why was I selected to be Noah of the floral ark? Anyway the damn spruces flopped around in containers at the nursery for a few years, then perished in a record cold. I'll repeat the adage yet again: we can never own a tree, we can only borrow it for a short period of time, and we all want our plantings to out-live us.

My misc. plant-info boxes serve as a reminder, a measuring stick to my career, about what I thought was important at the time. I never could imagine that I would be (already) 55 years into a life with plants...but still as ignorant as ever. Thanks to all who supported me.

Friday, January 17, 2020


Picea abies 'Cupressina'

“Sure's pretty when it's white outside,” said J., a young woman who has been with my company since this past summer. I appreciate her positive outlook, but for me ice and snow are problematic, not pretty at all, and I face the challenge to task my employees with useful projects indoors. I wish it was Sunday with nobody here so this old grump could go home and sit on the couch and drink tea with my wife...and later imbibe pinot noir.

The truth is that some employees actually like me – or at least compare me favorably with their past employers – and they are satisfied with a career working with plants. Others view the experience like a trip to the dentist, but they need to make money and Buchholz Nursery pays a little more than other companies. I deal with and tolerate the latter group, but believe me: I receive no inspiration from them and I look forward to retirement. There are days when I just don't want to be in charge. There's actually plenty to do, and I wish it was easy as saying, “Just go make everything better: fix what needs to be fixed, prune and stake and pot up wht needs to be taken care of, but just spend the labor money wisely because we don't have anything extra.” But for some reason I am the Shepherd and the sheep are not able to find pasture on their own.

Ah, look! The snow has stopped and there's a patch of blue as I look out the office window. Well, maybe life is not so gloomy after all. Still it's cold, but I need to go out and cut scions to finish grafting our Abies (true fir) rootstocks. Cold or not, to survive I must crank out a product, but at least I am a promoter of a floral future, a booster of...plant/planet continuation. It is my intention that every tree that leaves Buchholz Nursery will outlive me, but then I've already killed my share. As we gear up for another shipping season, I appreciate our customers, some who have been buying for dozens of years. If you are a new customer I look forward to impressing you with our plants. Thanks to all.

Friday, January 10, 2020

Haruko's Trees

From time to time my wife Haruko pulls a rabbit out of the hat and amazes her friends, her children and/or me. Me, definitely the other day when she furtively handed over a plastic art-tube with who-knows-what inside. Haru then shied away in the Reverse-Oriental-Back-Step as if the content was of no certain value, where I could decide whether to keep or throw away.

What happened is that we were eliminating nearly 50% of our household stuff – kid's books, old clothes, furniture etc. since we had to empty out our three upstairs bedrooms because we wanted to dump the old carpets and replace them with wood floors. Once the old was gone and we were woodenized we were all filled with satisfaction and Haruko and I declared that even if we lived here only a few months further, the expense was worth it. So: out went this to the dumpster, out went that to Goodwill, and some of the other went to my older children. We are now much more happy, or maybe more accurately: relieved.

Ok, so what's about the mysterious old art-tube, one of the few things that she brought from Japan when we married? I unrolled the paper scrolls from inside and was overwhelmed to discover her landscape-architecture project from the Tokyo University of Agriculture where the students were charged with the task to find and to photograph a number of trees – all from the same distance away – so that they could compare and choose the best tree for each situation. Haruko dilligently presented photos of all of the trees in question – for the professors only accepted certain species as valid – but she went much further by also sketching each one in ink next to her photograph. Needless to say, the creepy, tired old professors were stunned by her accomplishment, energized by a student so committed to doing her best, so that they eventually elevated her to more complicated projects...such as documenting the weeds of Chiba Prefecture – which I tease her about to this day.

Anyway, there were a couple dozen trees that she drew which – to me anyway – reveal her special delightful perspective. Let's take a look at some of them, some of those species that are officially accepted for public use in Japanese landscapes.

First, to my surprise (and to some derision) was Cedrus deodara which I have seen aplenty in Tokyo. Haruko actually assumed that it was a Japanese native since it is so-often used. I said no! – the species is native to the Himalaya, not Japan. How interesting that with the large number of conifers native to Japan that deodara is what the establishment prefers. It grows well, at least in Tokyo and for me in Oregon, though both are far different environments from the drier western Himalaya where I have seen it in the wild.

Another surprise was the preference of the eastern USA species Cornus florida over the Japanese/Chinese native Cornus kousa. I saw a number of C. florida in Tokyo in late Novemeber used as street trees, and they were in their autumn glory and looked completely healthy. Just because Haruko attended the Tokyo University, I presume the school's other graduates practice their landscape trade in all parts of Japan, from northern Hokkaido all the way south to Kyushu. I have no clue, Haruko neither, if C. florida does well in the very northern or the southernmost extremes (3008 km, 1869 miles apart). Actually I know very little about the flora of Japan – in Japan – but I could prattle forever about how the flora fares in western Oregon, or at least at Buchholz Nursery.

Pinus thunbergii
Of course Pinus thunbergii was a required species, the Japanese native “black pine.” It is totally unremarkable if you look at the canopy only, but for me the tree's torso – the trunk – is what I admire the most. It plates fantastically whether you are encountering a 30-year-old tree or some of the hundreds' year old specimens. I'll say that in Japan the trunk is more dark – hence: “black pine” – than the trees you see in America, but I would advise you to not completely trust my observation. Somewhere in Japan is the oldest P. thunbergii but unfortunately I don't know of it; but I would board the next airplane if somebody promised to take me to it. The species is named for Karl Peter Thunberg, a Swedish botanist/physician and is native to coastal areas of Kyushu, Shikoku and Honshu, Japan and also South Korea. It is called gomsol in Korean, heisong in Chinese, and Kuro (dark) matsu (pine) in Japanese. P. thunbergii var. corticata is popular with bonsai aficionados, with corticata (from Latin corticatus) meaning “having a cortex” or “covered with bark or a barklike substance.” Ok – let me retract what I wrote earlier about the unremarkable canopy – it is actually fantastic in many natural or garden settings for its raw, wild form, and is especially provocative for white, newly-emerging candles in spring.

Cinnamomum camphora

Hmm...let's see, what about Haruko's Cinnamomum camphora, a tree I've never grown? It is native to “Tropical Asia and Malay peninsula to China and Japan,” according to The Hillier Manual of Trees and Shrubs (2014), but if from Japan one suspects that would be Kyushu. A mystery to me is what is the specific identity of the Cinnamomum in the watercolor and sketch above. These are the work of Yusuke Nagamine, my wife's father from Miyazaki Prefecture, Kyushu. He was a powerful Tokyo banker, and when he retired he took up painting – joining a club, going to museums etc., so it shows the family's talent from top to bottom. If not C. camphora, the tree would be C. japonicum Siebold ex Nees, but other than admiring the genus, I know little else about it. I presented the question to Haruko and she said C. camphora, definitely. It was her father's favorite tree in his city and I think it was growing next to a bus stop where the riders could wait in the shade. In Kyushu the evergreen is called kusunoki.

I've never seen nor heard of Quercus phillyreoides, but according to Wikipedia “It is evergreen, withstands frost and can be grown in hardiness zone 7.” Furthermore: “The Japanese use the Q.p. or “ubame oak” to produce binchotan, a variety of vegetal activated carbon.” The value of binchotan is that it is a white charcoal (bincho zumi) that's traditionally used in Japanese cooking, and dates back to the Edo period. I don't know – I don't see any ornamental merit to the species, and I rather suspect that perhaps Japanese botany professors develop certain biases concerning natives as if the species needs a championist, and that is why Haruko was required to portray it.

Haruko did a good job in her sketch rendering of Dendropanax trifidus, a species little used in the West and probably a plant you do not know, but that shouldn't be because of a hardiness issue. Dendro is from Greek for “tree” and panax, from Greek panakeia means “all healing” (hence panacea). It was named by Linnaeus because he was apparently aware of its use in Oriental medicine, and the ginseng relative is in the Araliaceae family. My interest in it is because we have the related Oplopanax horridus in the Pacific Northwest, a spiny beast known as the “Devil's club” or “Devil's walking stick, “ a shrub that you definitely don't want to scramble through. The Dendropanax is known as kakuremino in Japanese and is traditionally used in moss gardens (roji) which lead to a tea house (chasshitsu), because of its simple, unassuming nature. I guess that's why we don't see it much in America – our people want a more colorful bang for the buck, but the Dendropanax leaves are glossy and the green flowers are followed by black berries.

I don't know what to make of Haruko's Osmanthus asiaticus Nakai, what species that could be. You will find it listed on the internet, as when some Japanese scientists were scrutinizing chemicals in the bark, and you can even find photos of it with its dainty white flowers, but neither Hillier, Krussmann or Bean list it, so it must be an outdated name for one of the other Asian species, some of which I grow. Haruko got out her Japanese field guide which was her authoritative text in college which includes O. asiaticus, so she was totally playing by the rules when she drew her trees. The Japanese common name for Osmanthus with white or pale white flowers is gin mokusei, as gin means “silver;” kin mokusei would be the name for the species with yellow-orange flowers such as O. fragrans f. aurantiacus, and a large plant of the latter could be smelled all across her university campus. After all, the genus name Osmanthus is from Greek osme meaning “fragrant” and anthos meaning “flower.”

Haruko's landscape architecture department encouraged the use of Laurus nobilis, the “Bay laurel” from the Mediterranean region which The Hillier Manual of Trees and Shrubs (2014) describes, delightfully, as “the laurel of the ancients,* now grown for its aromatic foliage and for its usefulness as a dense, pyramidal, evergreen shrub or tree.” Wow! – “the ancients,” how exciting is that? The genus contains only two species – the one from mid-earth, nobilis – and the other, azorica, more tender, from the Canary Islands and Azores (Hillier, 2014). Supposedly, its best use is for, as Hillier says: “good hedges;” as it “stands clipping well.” The plant is commonly used in Mediterranean cuisines, both from the berries and from pressed leaf oil, and the wood gives off a nice smoke flavoring, but – you might want to know – it is a common addition to the Bloody Mary, one of the best all-time-drinks.

*Basically, Apollo had the hots for the river nymph Daphne. She begged Eros (Cupid) to be free of him so he changed her into a laurel tree. Apollo didn't completely give up for he was found resting on his laurels.

We grow Styphnolobium japonicum 'Pendula', but back in Haru's college days it was known as Sophora japonica. In fact early editions of Hillier list Sophora japonica and there was no mention of Styphnolobium at all. The weeping form 'Pendula' can be found in a number of European arboreta, and when I first encountered it at Wespelaar in Belgium labeled Styphnolobium I had an urge to race into their office and announce they had a label mistake. I buy, sell and collect plants as much as anyone, but I always seem to be absent when it comes to nomenclatural changes. Funny that they stuck with (almost) the same specific epithet when the “Chinese scholar tree,” or “Pagoda tree” is native to China, not Japan, and indeed it was once scientifically known as Sophora sinensis Forrest. Sophora is a more attractive name than Styphnolobium and comes from the Arabic sufayra, a tree in the Sophora genus. Styphnolobium was kicked out of the Sophora group because it doesn't produce nitrogen fixing bacteria.

Two plants I can't stand, Aucuba japonica and Fatsia japonica, are nevertheless popular in Japanese landscapes. For both genera there's an endless amount of variegated cultivars. I remember from 16 years ago in Japan visiting a plant collection of about an acre where everything – every damn plant – was variegated. That was the collector's thing I guess, and he even had a peony with variegated leaves. Eventually he sobered up because Haruko reported that he grew tired of it and sold off all the plants. The botanic name aucuba is a corruption of the Japanese word aokiba which means “blue tree”* while Fatsi it is yatsude, meaning “eight fingers” due to the eight leaf lobes.

*“Ao” means green today but in old times it was used for both blue and green. Ki means “tree” and ba means “leaf.”

I wished that I would have had a crystal ball to know that Haruko would eventually come into my life, probably I would have been more patient and less intense. We really have fun together, and she is famous in the community for her humor, besides being sweet and kind and helpful to all. She is a wonderful mother to our two children, plus a positive link to my older three children, and maybe most impressively, a cherished “second mother” to many of Forest Grove's young kids and teenagers. She is well-known and loved. When she announced to her Tokyo professor that she wanted to do a year's internship in America, he was uncertain and asked “why?” She answered, “to learn more about plants.” Again, he wondered why? – in other words: we have our landscapes, both potential and those already existing, and we have our prescribed list of why do you need to investigate further? Thankfully she came to America anyway.

So, why did a Tokyo banker's daughter develop such an interest in trees and landscapes? The answer is that she and her sister were sometimes caretakers for two young children who had down syndrome. Haruko observed that they were gleefully happy in a park setting running among the trees, and she could see that parks were no accident, that someone decided what to plant and where to plant them. Haruko's parents were supportive of her America aspirations but her father admonished her to not “go there and get married.” She insisted that it was the last thing she would ever do. Well, we're twenty years later...

Anyway, I'll definitely keep her sketches; in fact hopefully I can be buried with them.