Taking Up Space

 

Helleborus hybridus #103

Helleborus hybridus #106

Helleborus hybridus #108

There are far more species growing in my gardens and taking up space in the greenhouses that make us no money, more than the number of those that do. For example we have a choice collection of Helleborus, but we have none for sale and they are not – and probably never will be – in our propagation plans. Well, that's the nature of an arboretum: a plant collection that requires time, effort and resources with no return other than enjoyment. Many of the hellebores came from the breeding program of the O'Byrnes of Eugene, Oregon, and they are marketed as their “Winter Jewels.” In other words, seedlings that are all different, some of which have just so-so flowers, but others that bloom with fantastic color patterns. Office Manager Eric picked out the ones he liked (about 6 years ago); we just gave them numbers and then planted them in the original Display Garden. Perhaps the next owner of Buchholz Nursery will choose to propagate, but my conclusion is that we're already late to the hellebore party, and plenty of quality growers are now cranking them out by the thousands. Besides, there's nothing more ugly than hellebore foliage if the plant is not in flower. The genus name is derived from Greek helein meaning “to injure or destroy,” and bora for “food” as the leaves, stems and roots are toxic.

Rhododendron daphnoides

Rhododendron daphnoides

Rhododendron daphnoides

Every day I look out from my office window at an unusually large (over 10' tall and wide) Rhododendron x 'Daphnoides', a T. Methven & Sons creation (1868) that was named for its small, recurved daphne-like leaves. We have never propagated it because, well, we're not a “rhododendron” nursery and also because it's commonly available. It took my specimen 35 years to attain its size, and every few years we thin out the inner foliage to make it look more tree-like. Thomas Methven was an Edinburgh nurseryman who was also responsible for the very early-flowering R. x 'Christmas Cheer'. I find it interesting that argument still exists over 'Daphnoides', whether it is a hybrid or merely an unusual form of R. ponticum. I wonder where the largest exists in the world, while I suppose it towers well over my 10-footer.

Chamaedaphne calyculata 'Dew Drop'

My ne'er-do-well neihbor is chamaecranic, i.e. he has a chamaecranial skull, one that is characterized as being low and flat with a length-height index of less than 70. Concerning plants a chamaephyte is a “plant with buds near ground level.” We all know the Chamaecyparis genus – from Greek chamae (low) + kyparissos (cypress) – and chamai is ultimately from the Indo-European root dhghem for “earth.” A chamaeleon, then, is a “lion close to the ground.” Anyway, I have a Chamaedaphne calyculata 'Dew Drop' in the Display Garden, and I bought it sight-unseen from a mail order nursery specializing in unusual species. That was 20 years ago, but I doubt that I would have purchased the ericaceous “Leatherwood” if I could have seen it first. But sure enough, the heath-like flowers are borne on arching stems close to the ground. I have never propagated it because the whitish flowers are tiny, and there's no way that I could ever sell any of it. The monotypic genus has a circumboreal distribution, from northern Japan, to northern Europe to northeastern USA. Interestingly it is usually found in bogs where it forms clonal colonies, but it must receive full sun because the nutrients it requires come from only atmospheric sources. I've never seen it in the wild, but I guess my 'Dew Drop' is a dwarf as it is only 2' tall by 3' wide. It's not particularly showy, in fact I just wandered throughout the Display Garden for the past 15 minutes before I could find it. A BIO plant certainly – of botanical interest only.

Spider caught in a Dionaea muscipula

The setup

The attack

Fight to the death

Mid-day snack

All filled up

We grow a nice collection of carnivorous plants in bog tubs next to the office. I find them thoroughly fascinating but we've never sold any ever. They are easy to grow, in full sun no less, and the only requirement is that they are kept wet...just like they are in nature. Our Venus flytraps, butterworts and pitcher plants are usually a source of wonder for visitors, and we can easily pass ten minutes staring at them, watching the next fly or bug get consumed. Eric photographed an unfortunate daddy-long-legs spider as it foolishly ventured into a Dionaea muscipula (Venus flytrap). In another case a spider had learned to hang out on a Sarracenia blossom, knowing that the plant would attract his next meal. A fly landed and got snatched and overnight you can see its shrunken body with its inner guts sucked into the engorged spider. Children are amazed when you encourage them to look inside the Sarracenia's tube to see the mess of dead bugs, then Eric – really just an adult boy – likes to spook them from behind. I can highly recommend The Savage Garden by Peter D'Amato for its well-written text and excellent photos.

Acer palmatum 'Sango kaku'

Acer palmatum 'Sango kaku'

Pinus flexilis 'Vanderwolf Pyramid'

Sequoiadendron giganteum 'Glaucum'

Acer palmatum 'Tamuke yama'

When I lead visitors through the original Display Garden I will often stop in the middle and ask: “Which do you think is the oldest plant in the garden?” Immediately eyes sky upward and I get responses such as the enormous Acer palmatum 'Sango kaku' with its husky but “artistic” trunk. Another will say it's the forest-sized Pinus flexilis 'Vanderwolf Pyramid', or another will suggest the Sequoiadendron giganteum 'Glaucum' especially since it's the tallest tree in the garden. Nope, not 'Sango kaku', that tree is 47 years old to-the-year. The 'Vanderwolf Pyramid' – which no one would ever buy if they knew how large it can get – is about 42 years old. Even one visitor predicted it was the massive Acer palmatum 'Tamuke yama', the throbbing red dome that has reportedly been sighted from space by Russian Putinots. I led that Nostradamus back to the 'Ta-mu-ke mountain” and pointed out that if you look inside the foliage, it's actually a grouping of seven trees, all multiple-grafted at various heights. I cheated to attract extra-terrestrials maybe.

Pseudotsuga menziesii 'Compacta'

Nope – none of the above. We happen to be standing next to a single specimen of Pseudotsuga menziesii 'Compacta' which is only 6' tall by 8' wide in 62 years – give or take a couple. There is nothing remarkable about the dwarf, but it is pretty with bright green new growth in spring. A 'Compacta' is not listed in the literature, and though Krussmann lists 'Compacta Glauca' my specimen is completely green. In the Hillier Manual of Trees and Shrubs we encounter a 'Densa' cultivar and in Krussmann's Manual of Cultivated Conifers we do also; and honestly I think my specimen should be thusly relabeled.

Pseudotsuga menziesii 'Compacta'

It was acquired as P.m. 'Compacta' at a now defunct “Rare Plant” nursery in Washington state. I arrived unannounced as it was a retail operation, and wandered around alone but wondered why no one was present. I saw a number of items of interest and all without price tags. Finally a rustic young woman emerged wearing a thin blouse with lactation stains...and with a bawling baby still back in the trailer. I pointed out that I wanted to purchase three or four items and she quickly threw out prices, all unbelievably low because she needed to make some money and she also wanted me the hell off the property. I forget now all that I bought, but I can imagine old Gramps – the owner – scream at his granddaughter: “What! You sold my 28-year-old compact “Douglas fir” for only $30? Damn!” I never risked a return as I feared that the crotchety old coot would take after me. He's long gone, but anyway 'Compacta' still sits in the middle of the garden, taking up space, and I don't remember ever propagating it, or if we did it was only for a few early years.

Lilium wallichianum

Lilium wallichianum presents itself odiferously and lustfully in the advanced summer garden. The above photo was taken in late August for heaven's sake. I don't care what's the plant – even if it's poop on a stick – anything named “wallichianum” is of interest to me for it honors Nathaniel Wallich, the Danish surgeon and botanist who was involved in the early development of the Calcutta Botanic Garden, a destination wherein I sweated profusedly in the late 1970s, but still found strangely intoxicating. I remember a trio of alluring female Indian 20-year-olds all wearing crisp saris and thin, bejeweled sandals that revealed their exquisite subcontinental toes as they strolled past on the palm-lined walkway. They pointed at me and tittered like silly 13-year-olds so I didnt pursue my intial fantasy. Back at the nursery, Office Manager Eric lobbies that we should harvest and pot up the bulbs. I think not because we already take on so many projects that consume our time, and I don't want our quality to decline because we're having too much lily fun. For now the wallichianum tub sits in GH26 as part of the non-profit crowd.

Acer palmatum 'Umegae'

Acer palmatum 'Umegae'

Acer palmatum 'Umegae'

From my office window I see three mature Acer palmatums: 'Sherwood Flame', 'Nuresagi' and 'Umegae'. None of them have been propagated in the past dozen years, although I think I'll send David up the ladder for the latter. I won't bother with the former two because they have both been superceded by improved cultivars. 'Umegae', even though of dubious commercial demand, has unique plum-purple leaves with lime-green veins. The name is pronounced oo may guy and I suspected the ume portion referred to its plum color but I didn't know what the gae meant. And by the way, the pronunciation of the cultivar name is one of the very few instances where the Japanese language throws you a curve, like enough does in English. For my entire career I thought the name should sound like oo may gay, but my Japanese wife corrected me. Since I was saying it wrong, she said she needed to see the characters before she could tell me the meaning. Anticipating that requirement, I plopped Masayoshi Yano's Book for Maples on her lap, where cultivars are rendered in English as well as in Japanese. “Absolutely,” Haruko announced, “it means branch of the plum tree,” one of the few times when she has been so decisive. Anyway, 'Umegae' has been cultivated since at least 1882, and every year my 35-year-old specimen produces an abundance of beautiful seed.

Crataegus monogyna 'Flexuosa'

Crataegus monogyna 'Flexuosa'

25 years ago I snitched a scion of Crataegus monogyna 'Flexuosa' but I don't remember from where. Now I have one specimen in a container but we never have propagated it since. The Hillier Manual of Trees and Shrubs describes it as “A curious and striking form with twisted branches. C 1838,” which implies that it fares well in Olde England, but my specimen is ugly from July...on. I took the above photos this week and you can see that it has mostly defoliated, and never has it blessed me with any autumn color. That's why I don't propagate it: the last thing I want to see is a crop of ugly brush. I think I'll plant it in dirt at the back end at Flora Farm this fall – maybe it would do better in real soil. I'll report back next year at this time, except that I probably won't because I'll forget.

Saxifraga 'Peter Pan'

Silene davidii

I pride myself to some extent that I allow my employees to indulge themselves in their floral pursuits,

Eric

even if I doubt that it will lead to company profit. If a Hispanic worker wants to grow a couple of pots of chili peppers, for example, I'm happy to donate the pots, soil and greenhouse space to do so. I reason that no one makes enough money toiling for me, not even the mediocre workers, and that every employee deserves an extra benefit or two beyond their paycheck. As long as it is reasonable – which it usually is – go ahead and take home a couple of plants to put in front of your house, or to give to your friends or family, and that policy keeps them from stealing from me anyway. I'm simply promoting the culture that we're all in this together, and let's see if we can happily survive. Sometimes, as with Office Manager Eric, his personal whims actually lead to profit, as with his fascination with “alpine” plants. They have been incorporated into our general mix and that allows me to brag that “the most fun you can have in horticulture can be found at Buchholz Nursery.”

The Flora Wonder Arboretum

So, while I despise the chamaecranical “takers,” the welfare bums, I enthusiastically support those who

My Neighbor

contribute. Space and time...there's never enough of either. Money, or the lack of it, defines the battle between the Flora Wonder Arboretum and Buchholz Nursery. What I have created is my own fault, and I know my employees would prefer a pay raise instead of watching me squander resources on plants that make no money, plants that just take up space. But hey, if anyone in the readership wants to come run this operation please let me know.