I don't know about you, but I consider
it to be winter already. Leaves have fallen from most
deciduous trees and I am faced with a denuded garden, often in a
bone-chilling fog and with apprehension over the prospects for the
future. Did we store up enough nuts for winter? Will last summer's
propagation result in plants to sell for the upcoming season? Will
the greenhouses endure another record snow and withstand the howling
winds of an Arctic blast? Can old Buchholz continue to summon the
energy to orchestrate his troops so that they are not wandering in
futile chaotic circles?
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Chamaecyparis obtusa 'Aurora' |
Though it is tempting to go dormant, to
lie down and curl up until next spring, I venture into the Display
Garden this post-Thanksgiving morning to make a list of meaningful
work projects – like raking, pruning, staking, tree-removal etc. –
that will keep the crew occupied for the following week. Woah! For a
moment the sun breaks through the gray gloom to reveal a golden
scepter in the northeast section of the garden...which turns out to
be the dwarf conifer Chamaecyparis obtusa 'Aurora'. It is beautifully
named, as 'Aurora' is the Roman goddess of the dawn, and my plant
rises to 8' tall by only 2' wide. Foliage is a rich yellow – not
shining bright at all – and I had no idea when I collected my start
20 years ago...just what it would grow into. The cultivar originated
around 1940 as a mutant branch on C. obt. 'Nana Gracilis' at the
Koster & Sons Nursery in Boskoop, The Netherlands. No big deal,
as most of us have found golden sports in hinokies, but what I find
interesting is that my cutting-grown start assumed an obelisk form,
where as most nurseries and arboreta describe it as at least as broad
as tall. I haven't pruned my golden pillar and it just took off
skyward on its own. C. obt. 'Aurora' will not appear as deliciously
lemon-yellow as a rival cultivar, 'Nana Lutea', but then it won't sun
burn as easily as the latter. I have 'Aurora' in production from both
rooted cuttings and from grafts (onto Thuja occidentalis 'Smaragd'),
so it will be interesting to see how future generations will shape
up.
One of the rock paths through the
Display Garden reveals an interesting vignette where various leaves
have gathered. The leftward-pointing orb is a Cornus kousa which
probably came from a nearby row of the cultivar 'Ohkan'. To its right
is clearly Acer palmatum...which must certainly be a leaf from my
large specimen of 'Shojo nomura', a selection which I enjoy in the
garden but which I no longer produce. The brown elliptical leaf is
what remains of Corylopsis willmottiae 'Spring Purple', a
winter-hazel noted for its plum-purple new growth and showy yellow
flower racemes in March. This winter scene should garner some
respect, especially when we consider what the trees once were, but I
predict that the casual visitor would tromp upon them without any
notice or concern.
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Acer buergerianum 'Miyasama yatsubusa' |
Twenty steps later I encounter Acer
buergerianum 'Miyasama yatsubusa' in its golden glory, a dwarf
Japanese maple that has arisen to 12' tall at 30 years of age. It is
the largest specimen that I have ever seen, but I would bet that one
exists larger elsewhere. It is described by Vertrees in Japanese
Maples as a “delightful dwarf,” but “rather rare in
collections” because it is “slightly difficult to propagate.”
Hmm...I would consider it rare in collections because it is so
slow-growing that the poor nurseryman makes no profit from it, and it
annoys me when our customers stumble upon a group – which are not
for sale because they are so old and small – and expect that
they'll be priced similar as our other dwarves. In truth, I have my
one old specimen and nothing else larger than a few two-footers in
pots. “Slightly” difficult to propagate would not be my
experience, for I have previously considered it to be very
difficult to propagate. From rooted cuttings under mist in summer we
achieve anywhere from 0% to 30%, and approximately the same from
winter grafts. Then – surprisingly! – our last two
summer's-grafted propagants mostly connected successfully, so I sold
the majority of the little runts since I won't be around to see any
attain the size of my original. In Yano's Book for Maples he
indicates that the cultivar originated in 1975, presumably in Japan,
and wouldn't it be fun to see the original tree!
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Berberis x 'Red Jewel' |
Barberries are never considered
aristocrats in the garden, but then maybe the elites have never seen
my specimen of x 'Red Jewel', a cultivar encumbered with the
specific epithet of hybrido-gagnepain, and sometimes more
simply as x media. The former name honors French botanist
Francois Gagnepain (1866-1952), but I don't know if he performed the
cross or simply described it. Hillier in Manual of Trees and
Shrubs claims the B. x media originated as a hybrid of B.
x hybridogagnepainii 'Chenaultii' x B. thunbergii, and
that 'Red Jewel' originated as a sport of 'Parkjuwell' in The
Netherlands. Don't worry, because that is too much to remember, and
what's important is that the red globe – though prickly – is
moderately attractive in spring and summer, but in fall and winter it
wonderfully glitters with orange and red foliage.
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Acer palmatum 'Bloody Talons' |
I passed GH1 and just inside the
doorway the new cultivar, Acer palmatum 'Bloody Talons' was showing
off. It originated as a seedling but I have no idea what cultivar was
the seed parent. I tend to not keep track of parentage anymore
because of my employees. It is a compromise that I regret, but most
workers just don't get that a cultivar and a seedling
offspring from a cultivar are not the same. Now, plants like A.p.
'Bloody Talons', A.p. 'Frosted Purple' and A.p. 'Yellow Threads' are
orphans of no known parentage, but we have gathered them into our
fold and have bestowed them with names. We can't keep everything –
since we can't vet them all – and the outcasts, though very nice,
are designated as Acer palmatum 'Rising Stars' Series which are sold
at 1/3-1/2 the price as named cultivars.
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Rhododendron pocophorum 'Cecil Nice' |
It is easy to collect choice
Rhododendron species, especially if one frequents the Rhododendron
Species Botanic Garden as I do in Washington state. The problem is
that I have five or six plants to place in the garden, but I'm
stymied by trying to find the perfect site. They would all benefit
from PM shade, yet I need a spot where they will have enough room (at
least in my lifetime) to grow. R. pocophorum 'Cecil Nice' awaits its
place and I think that I'll ground it next Monday whether it's
raining or not. The Species Garden calls it “A fantastic foliage
plant – the deeply veined, dark glossy green leaves have a thick
orange-brown indumentum beneath. Deep red bell-shaped flowers in
early spring on this 1971 AM form. Very beautiful and very
slow-growing – one of the classic 'collector's plants.'” I've
never seen it in flower and I bought it for the foliage alone. It is
native to northwest Yunnan, China, where I have been, but I never saw
it in the wild.
Rhododendron thomsonii
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Cecil Nice |

Pinus contorta 'Chief Joseph'
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Chief Joseph |
What an incredible phenomena of nature
that certain drab-boring pines can evolve from green into brilliant
golden beacons in the winter landscape. The transformation began
about a month ago when various mugos, Scots, Japanese blacks etc.
assumed a slight golden glow...which increases daily from a hint to
the profound. The champion, absolutely, is Pinus contorta 'Chief
Joseph' which was discovered in the Wallowa Mountains of northeastern
Oregon by the late Doug Will of Sandy, Oregon. Eastern Oregon is
vastly different from my home climate, and in the arid winter of the
former 'Chief Joseph' shines brilliantly throughout fall, winter and
early spring, but in Western Oregon our soggy humid winters cause the
pine needles to crud up brownly in March. By April the cultivar can
look dreadful – usually when nurseries ship their plants – but
then by May the foliage changes to green and the tree is redeemed by
fresh new growth. Its color-cycle is frustrating certainly but for
the four months in its golden prime one can endure the brown needles
of April and May. 'Chief Joseph' has a reputation to be difficult to
propagate and so the value of young trees stays at a premium, but
lately our grafts onto Pinus contorta rootstock have resulted in over
50% success, so we are able to sell one-year-grafts as well as to
keep some to grow on as larger specimens. The pine was named for the
remarkable Indian Chief of the Nez Perce (pierced-nose) tribe of
eastern Oregon and Idaho.
Of course the pines change color, even
beyond the exceptional cultivars that were selected for winter gold,
because it is a normal process that they shed older needles. Often
times the needles turn to pale yellow, then brown, before falling to
the garden floor during winter. It is not bothersome to see this in
the forest wild, but it is unsightly for the pines growing in
containers and in a manicured landscape. I have even joked before, "I
hate nature." Nature means crooked trees, shedding needles and
death, and it's hard to make a living with that. To some degree
nurserymen are fraudsters since we prune, stake and water our crops
to make them more appealing. And that's the key word – crops
– because nature herself has too many flaws. At some point I think
that I'll go cold turkey and not be responsible for any plant. Record
heat, frosts, winds and snowstorms won't bother me at all, just like
when I was a child.

Iris species in the Display Garden
I like species Iris – I don't really
care for the gaudy hybrids that you mostly see. Our Display Garden
has a number of clumps that I've collected over the years, and they
give me great joy in the spring and summer. Unfortunately I can't
tell you the identity of any of them because their labels are gone –
they were thrown away when we clean the garden of leaves and dead
foliage every winter. The labels were made of metal and each one had
a bamboo stake next to it so we could easily find the name. So why
were they thrown out? My employees are hard workers and I think for
the most part they care about the company, so I'm thankful for them.
But it drives me mad when I see a plant – Iris, maples, conifers,
anything – without the label it once had. After all of the years
here, and the thousands of dollars that we've spent on labeling, why
is there still a disconnect about their importance? A worker can toil
in a nursery his entire life without really caring about a plant's
name. I find that sad, but maybe I'm the one who is unusual.
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