
Acer x 'Sugarflake'
I lament that I didn't have the brains to be a botanist, to
readily answer the question about the difference between petals, tepals and sepals,
for example – some plants seem to have them all – or why Pinus thunbergii
is now deemed to be Pinus thunbergiana. Nobody ever invites me to a
botanical congress, nor do botanists give credence to the possibility that Acer
griseum can hybridize with Acer saccharum, even though I grow such a cross
(Acer x 'Sugarflake').
![]() |
Watering nymphs? |
The Greek word botane is from bosko for “feed,
tend or nourish,” and was basically “pasturage” to the early Greeks, and later
it would mean “weed” or “herb.” The adjective botanikos was “of herbs,”
then eventually botanicus referred to the study of plants. Chloris,
from chloe – the first green shoot – was the Greek equivalent to the
Latin Flora. Chloris was the definition of spring and was the goddess of
flowers. The nymphs of the springs were in charge of the plants and made
sure that the landscape received adequate moisture from Oceanus, the
father of the rivers. So far I am unable to find toga-clad nymphs to tend to my plants, and I am afraid that most would
dry out and die if I didn't administer watering instructions daily.
In any case I feel fortunate that I can visit a world-class
botanic garden – the Rhododendron Species Foundation – which is located
relatively close to my home, about three and a half hours away. I have been
there twice already this spring, and I plan to visit every three weeks until
summer, and then at least once again in the fall. I've never encountered nymphs
tending to plants there either, rather hard-working men and women with dirty
jeans and sweat on their brows. The garden contains a world-class Rhododendron
collection, but even if that genus did not exist you would still have a
world-renowned collection of maples, magnolias, ferns, lilies and much more.
Meconopsis 'Lingholm'
So let's forget about their Rhododendrons then, and we'll
focus on all of the other stuff. The garden is famous for a large patch of
Meconopsis 'Lingholm', and though they are not in flower yet, the new foliage
is up and scattered over a large area. The “Blue Poppies” are considered rather
difficult to grow in most American landscapes, for they prefer cool summer
temperatures and mild winters, but this Federal Way, Washington botanic garden
seems to be the perfect location. 'Lingholm' is a hybrid perennial poppy that
was discovered in 1996 at Lingholm Gardens in northwestern England. Its parents
were M. betonicifolia (Tibetan blue poppy) and M. grandis (Himalayan blue
poppy). Meconopsis is not a true poppy – Papaver – but the generic word is
derived from Greek mekon for “poppy” and opsis for “appearance,”
due to their similarity.
![]() |
Cardiocrinum giganteum var. giganteum |
![]() |
Cardiocrininum giganteum var. giganteum |
![]() |
Nathaniel Wallich |
Mingled amongst the Meconopsis are a number of Cardiocrinum,
and two plants were already five feet tall with lush full-sized leaves. Species
giganteum is commonly known as the “Giant Himalayan Lily” and it can
produce numerous trumpets atop a stem up to twelve feet high. Blossoms of
giganteum variety giganteum are greenish white on the outside, and on
the inside they are streaked with purple. A color breakthrough has been
achieved by Far Reaches Farm in Washington state through wild collection, and
we now grow one of their pink seedlings. It might also flower pink, or perhaps
it will be the normal white, but then it could possibly flower red.
Cardiocrinum was originally introduced into Britain in the 1850's as Lilium
giganteum, and was first scientifically described by Nathaniel Wallich from
plants in Nepal. Wallich was a Danish surgeon and botanist who worked for the
East India Company, and who was involved in the development of the Calcutta
Botanical Garden. I visited said garden in the late 1970's where I sweated
gallons in the summer humidity and found none of the palms (etc.) to be of any
interest. What was of interest were the young upper-caste Indian girls
in their expensive saris, but they pointed at me and giggled...
Cercidiphyllum japonicum in Fall 2014
![]() |
Cercidiphyllum japonicum in April |
![]() |
Cercidiphyllum japonicum 'Pendula' |
![]() |
Cercidiphyllum magnificum |
The sun would come and go on this early April day, but at
one moment it lit up the garden's huge “Katsura,” Cercidiphyllum japonicum.
Today the foliage was twinkling lime-green in the sun, but I remembered last
fall when it was straw-yellow. It's great that they allow enough space to
accommodate this majestic specimen for I only grow smaller cultivars, but they
too grow pretty big. The photo of 'Pendula' above is a memory of a specimen in
my Display Garden, but the tree grew too large and was edited from the landscape.
Cercidiphyllum was so-named due to the resemblance of its leaves to genus
Cercis. There are two species: 1) japonicum from Japan and China – the
larger of the two – and 2) magnificum, the smaller, usually reaching no
more than 30' tall. If you hand me a leaf from each I would be unable to tell
you which species is which. But then, again, I am not smart enough to be a botanist.
![]() |
Sorbus sargentiana |
![]() |
Sorbus sargentiana |
![]() |
Charles Sargent |
Near to the Meconopsis/Cardiocrinum patch is a glorious tree
that I have seen nowhere else: Sorbus sargentiana, or “Sargent's Rowan Tree.”
Sargent, of course, was an American botanist and the first director of Harvard University's
Arnold Arboretum, and he held that post (for 54 years) until his death in 1927.
I have been to many English gardens – or I should say Gardens – where
the “rowans” are popular, but I have never encountered S. sargentiana before*,
except at the Rhododendron Species Foundation. In early spring the emerging
foliage is a delicious ruby-red-brown, and the spring sun can light it –
delight it – up beautifully. This species was introduced in 1908 from China by
plant collector E.H. Wilson who worked for Sargent at the Arnold.
*Here is where
I'll admit my ignorance, for while I have never seen Sorbus sargentiana in an
English Garden, I guess I was visiting at the wrong time or for some other
reason. Sargent's rowan was awarded the RHS Award of Garden Merit for its bold
foliage – with leaves the largest of any Sorbus – and for the bright
orange-red-to-red fruits in autumn. In Washington state I remember that the leaves
had turned to purple-red by the end of October, so we have a great small to
medium-size tree that I would love to acquire.
Adiantum venustum
Let's get to the ferns, for many species thrive in the
humus-rich soil under the tall native Pseudotsuga menziesii. I don't know much
about ferns, so I pulled Sue Olsen's Encyclopedia
of Garden Ferns off the shelf for assistance. One encounters Adiantum
venustum upon entering the Rhododendron garden, and as Sue writes, “the
maidenhairs are popular and beautifully irresistible.” She continues that “Adiantum
comes from the Greek adiantos, which means “to shed water” or
“unwettable” and refers to the water-repellent characteristic of maidenhair
foliage.” You should buy her book, for you'll be treated to accounts such as
“In flight the maiden tumbled over a precipice catching her black hair
in the bushes where the hair took root and sprouted into our familiar fern.”
God, I love the thought of tumbling maidens. Moreover, I learn from Sue
that venustum is an epithet meaning “graceful” or “beautiful,” which is
derived from Latin venustus for “charming” or “elegant.” A. venustum,
the Himalayan “maidenhair fern,” is hardy to USDA zone 5, or minus 20 degrees,
and has been referred to as a “gentle” groundcover.
![]() |
Dryopteris sieboldii |
![]() |
Philipp von Siebold |
Less “gentle” is Dryopteris sieboldii, or “Siebold's wood
fern,” and I can think of no other fern even close in resemblance. According to
Sue, this species is “found in the drier forests of Japan, China and Taiwan,”
but it seems to be very happy in the wet environment of Washington state. Dryopteris
is from Greek drys for “oak” or “forest,” and pteris for “fern,”
while the specific name honors the German Phillipp von Siebold (1796-1866) – no
stranger to the Flora Wonder Blog – who studied and collected plants in Japan.
![]() |
Osmunda cinnamomea |
![]() |
Blechnum chilense |
Matteuccia struthiopteris
Osmunda cinnamomea was at an interesting stage of
development, with its young silvery stems and heads arising. Blechnum chilense
– from Chile of course – was not yet displaying new reddish fronds, but was
entirely green. Sue explains that “Chileans call the unfurling fronds costilla
de la vaca, 'ribs of the cow.'” How I wish that I had a porter with me to
carry Sue's fern book and other plant books as I walk through this botanic
garden. I suppose the most impressive of the garden's ferns is a huge gathering
of Matteuccia struthiopteris, the “Ostrich fern.” The genus is named for the
Italian Carlo Matteucci (1811-1868) and the species is named from struthio
for “ostrich” and pteris for “fern.” Sue says that “plantings can become
quite invasive but if you do not want them, you can always eat them.” Also
“Ostrich fern is the state vegetable of Vermont and largest export crop of New
Brunswick, Canada.”
![]() |
Agapetes lacei |
![]() |
Agapetes lacei |

Agapetes 'Red Elf'
![]() |
Agapetes 'Red Elf' |
Moving away from the ferns – and hopefully without the
publisher suing me for plagiarism – I entered the fancy conservatory, home for
many tender Rhododendron species. But there are a lot of other gorgeous plants
as well. I was intrigued with a basket with a pretty Agapetes lacei, as
if growing as an epiphyte. The new growth was pink while the older leaves were
green. Further research reveals that the specific name could be lacie,
but obviously I don't know which spelling is correct. My limited experience
with Agapetes was from walking through the Himalayan foothills with it (A.
serpens) festooned on the branches along the trail. Small red flowers were
scattered on the trail – which I noticed first – and I wondered if nearby
children had beautified my path in anticipation of my visit. Years later I
ordered via mail Agapetes 'Red Elf' from a Tasmanian nursery, knowing full well
that it would not be hardy for me outside, but I visit it frequently in my GH20
hot-house. Besides, I like the fact that the Greek word agapetes means
“beloved,” and also that the plant reminds me of my youthful capers in the
Himalaya.
![]() |
Primula denticulata |
![]() |
Primula denticulata 'Ronsdorf' |
Also native to Himalayan foothills is Primula denticulata,
the “drumstick primula.” The “Ronsdorf” hybrids are a strain of seedlings that
can vary in color, but they're all pretty nice. Most Primula species occur in
Asia, from 5,000' to 14,000' in elevation, and all they require is an area that
retains moisture, and can even thrive in a boggy ground. The word primrose
is from Latin prima rosa meaning “first rose,” since most species bloom
in early spring. Georg Ronsdorf (1863-1952) was a German breeder from Ronsdorf,
Germany, and was considered one of the most important perennial breeders of the
20th century. Sadly for the flower man was that WWII
air-raids nearly destroyed his life's work.
![]() |
Styrax perkinsiae |
I encountered a scraggly Styrax perkinsiae in the garden,
but it was my first encounter with the species and I know very little about it.
I think it was discovered by E.H. Wilson in China in 1912, then left to Rehder
and Sargent of the Arnold Arboretum to cubby-hole further. One can easily
dismiss this shrub-to-small-tree as merely a BIO Plant – Botanical Interest
Only – but the real brains of the world recognize that Egonol gentriobioside
and Egonol gentriotrioside – look carefully at the different spellings – from
Styrax perkinsiae promotes the biosynthesis of estrogen by aromatase.
For real people – not scientists! – estrogen deficiency is associated with a
variety of diseases, such as osteoporosis, atherosclerosis and Alzheimer's
disease. Yikes! – that sounds horrible, and please tell me what to do: to chew
on this tree's bark, or to make a tea, or to just lie-down next to it? I am
certainly no match for science – just tell me what to do! Does my wife
need any? So what that Egonol gentriotrioside was also found to increase the
serum level in ovariectomized rats. Really, humans never want to be compared to
rats, or to acknowledge that the study of rats has anything at all to do with
us...people.

Dysosma pleinantha
Moving along I came to a luxurious patch of “May apples,”
the genus Podophyllum, but the label indicates that it is Dysosma
pleinantha. Great, once again the botanical world has shifted while I was
unaware. It turns out Dysosma is the Asian version while Podophyllum
peltatum is the eastern American wildflower, the latter a plant I think I've
never seen. Leaves of the American genus are dissected nearly to the center,
while the Asian genus has round leaves that look like old tractor seats.
Surprisingly, both genera are in the barberry family, Berberidaceae.
Everyone is impressed with our huge clump of the variegated 'Kaleidoscope',
which I guess is also a Dysosma. My start came from a company that has no
interest in botanical accuracy, and I am left to wonder if it is a hybrid or
not. The idea of using an x would be simple, and maybe let us know which
parents were involved.
I quit the Rhododendron Species Foundation in the early
afternoon, my body tired from battling the brush to find the labels, and my brain overwhelmed
with new plants as well as some old favorites. It's almost seven hours of
driving to make the round trip, while I spent only one and a half hours in the
garden. Call me crazy, but for me it was worth it.
![]() |
Rhododendron 'Alpine Glow' |
I promised no Rhododendrons in this blog but I can't resist to show it: I saw a plant glowing in the distance, but I had no idea what it was. Upon closer inspection I realized it was a Rhododendron, and the label said 'Alpine Glow'. That is a R. 'Loderi Group' - which is a R. grissithianum x R. fortunei ssp. fortunei - crossed by R. calophytum var. calophytum. I know: TMI. Anyway, stay tuned for Part 2 of this incredible garden.
No comments:
Post a Comment