Bloom Time...Again

Last week's Flora Wonder Blog discussed the sexual expression of conifers – their “flowers” – and that many plant references dismiss a tree's cones and pollen structures as not being flowers. If we define a “flower” – as Oxford English Dictionary does – as the “seed-bearing part of a plant, consisting of reproductive organs,” I think that conifers certainly do...flower. Both words flour, as in baking bread, and flower, as in a posey, are derived from Latin Flora, the Roman goddess of flowers. But anyway, I am not on a mission to convert botanical institutions and nursery factories into admitting that conifers flower, and last week's blog was only intended to celebrate the male and female appendages which develop so that conifers can reproduce.

Today I will discuss flowers in the more traditional sense, what every man, woman and child considers to be a plant's bloom*, or singularly, a blossom. I'll try not to boast to those living in the frigidly hellish portions of the world where nothing is flowering now, but to my delight all of the following are currently in bloom in the Flora Wonder Arboretum.

*Surprisingly the origin of the word “bloom” is derived from Middle English “blome,” or a “lump of metal.”

Mahonia x 'Arthur Menzies'

Mahonia x 'Arthur Menzies'

Archilochus colubris

Frequently I walk past a ten-foot-tall bush of Mahonia x “Arthur Menzies' which has been blooming since mid October, and though there is less “yellow” apparent now, it is still nectar headquarters for our ruby-throated hummingbirds (Archilochus colubris). On cloudy days a couple will squeak and dart from flower to flower, but on sunny days numerous darters become frenetically agitated as they feed, and it appears that the commotion is not altogether friendly. I find myself squinting my eyes in fear of being speared by the beaks of the little devils, and I wonder if that has ever happened. x 'Arthur Menzies' was selected at the Washington Park Arboretum in Seattle and is believed to be a hybrid between the tender M. lomariifolia and the more-hardy M. bealei. It was named by WPA's curator Brian Mulligan for colleague Arthur Menzies (1916-1973) who worked at the Strybing Arboretum in San Francisco, and who sent the seed to the WPA. Menzies was considered a “walking encyclopedia of flora and fauna,” and he was known internationally due to his correspondence and exchange of seed and plant material. The name Mahonia honors Bernard McMahon (1775-1816), an Irish-American who was Thomas Jefferson's gardening mentor, and in fact the President chose McMahon as one of two nurserymen to grow the seeds and roots collected by the Lewis and Clark Expedition.

Sassafras tsumu

Sassafras tsumu

Sassafras tsumu leaf underside

Sassafras albidum

A long 10' wide strip exists parallel along my shady creek, and it is planted with Rhododendrons, Tsuga, Acer etc. At least once a week I enter into one end of the nearby greenhouses and exit out the other end, making my rounds to check on plant quality and to make work lists. I was most surprised to be greeted by a flowering Sassafras tsumu in the strip, the Chinese species similar to the eastern American S. albidum; but no wonder when I consider that every year it is one of my first trees to bloom. As with S. albidum, leaves on S. tsumu can appear with three different shapes: with three lobes, or a mitten shape or with a broad single lobe. The genus is in the Lauraceae family, with S. albidum being dioecious (male and female flowers on separate trees) and S. tsumu monoecious (male and female flowers on the same tree). Both species are deciduous and I love the orange-red autumn color, and if you turn over a fallen leaf the color is pinkish shiny-blue. The east-Asian species, S. tsumu is called chu mu, while S. randaiense – which I have never seen – is called chu shu, and both are used to cure rheumatism and trauma. Besides a pleasant aroma, S. albidum was used as a toothpick by Native Americans, while Kenneth Klemow PhD. in Medical Attributes of Sassafras albidum (2003) claims that disorders ranging from toothaches to sexually transmitted diseases can be treated with the species.

Native Oregon hazelnut

Bordering the planted strip is my wild woods, and currently it is adorned with dangling golden catkins from the native Corylus (hazelnuts-filberts). These male flowers are fully extended now and eventually they will shed yellow pollen, while the female flowers will develop into edible nuts.* The European version is Corylus avelana, and excavated pits on the island of Colonsay, Scotland revealed hazelnut processing that is 9,000 years old. Later the Romans cultivated hazelnuts, including in Britain, but there is no evidence that they selected cultivars. Today it is used to produce Nutella – which Germans love – and it is a primary ingredient of the vodka-based liqueur, Frangelico, and the latter I have never tried, but I think I will seek it out. The name filbert is derived from a Frankish monk, Saint Philibert of Jumieges (608-684), an abbot and monastic founder. His feast day is August 20^th, and the filbert was named for him since it ripens at about that time.

*As a side note, Oregon produces 99% of the nation's filbert crop, and is only second in the world to Turkey. They are marketed – in Oregon – as “hazelnuts.”

Daphne odora 'Maejima'

Maejima, Japan

The Daphnes are blooming in GH20, our “French” house, and you can smell them from a long way's off on sunny days. D. odora received its specific name for an obvious reason, and the Chinese, Japanese and Korean native is commonly called the “winter Daphne.” In Japan the species is called jinchoge after the aromatic shrub Aquilaria agallocha, and in Korea it is known poetically as churihyang, or “a thousand mile scent.” I suppose the cultivar D.o. 'Maejima' was selected in Japan, for there is an island with the same name between Honshu and Shikoku in waters known as the “Inland Sea.” In any case 'Maejima' (jima means “island”) features deep-green evergreen leaves edged dramatically in cream-yellow, and the compact cultivar is far more impressive than the old C.o. 'Aureovariegata'. Also, flowers on 'Aureovariegata' are an insipid pale-pink while 'Maejima' can boast of blossoms carmine-pink, so if you grow the former in your garden toss it out and replant with the latter. The neighbors will notice your superior horticultural acumen and seek you for gardening advice while inviting you over for barbeques.

Daphne jezoensis

Also in flower is Daphne jezoensis, but I only have one plant in the garden and it is in a perpetual battle with a thuggish Ajuga which I should never have planted. My Daphne creeps out so very little new growth that I am unable to propagate it, but I pray that it will endure because I have never seen it for sale, neither wholesale nor retail. Junker Nursery in England – colleagues who have received starts of my new Acer cultivars – list only a “small handful” available so maybe the species is simply a scrubby shrub that will never become widely available. I like the Junker description, “This Daphne is like no other! For a start it is summer deciduous. This means it loses its leaves in summer, and starts into growth with fresh new foliage at a time when so much else is looking tatty.” Junker goes on to describe the “deep yellow trumpets [flowers] held in groups in typical Daphne fashion in January-March.” I knew very little about D. jezoensis when I first acquired it twenty years ago from a quirky gardener, and when it went deciduous for the first time in summer I assumed it had died, but I scraped the bark and it was still green. Concerning the damn Ajuga, short of a nuclear bomb, does anyone know how to get rid of the invasive “carpet bugleweed?”

Hamamelis x intermedia 'Arnold Promise'

Hamamelis x intermedia 'Arnold Promise'

Parrotia trunk

Hamamelis x intermedia 'Sunburst'

Hamamelis x intermedia 'Angelly'

An old specimen of Hamamelis x intermedia 'Arnold Promise' in the original Display Garden has been flowering for almost two weeks now. I never dreamed that one day it would outgrow its place, and in a year or two we will have to ladder-up to prune its spread. You wouldn't know it to be a Hamamelis at all if you looked only at its trunk, and that's because the rootstock is actually Parrotia persica, the “Persian ironwood.” I had two 8' Parrotias that weren't shaped particularly well, so I didn't ship them and instead I grafted about five 'Arnold Promise' onto the lateral branches of each. To my surprise all grafts “took” and 32 years later the unions still appear quite compatible, and only I can point out where the Parrotia ends and the 'Arnold Promise' begins. The best part is that there is no suckering from the “witch hazels” base. 'Arnold Promise' is no longer on our propagation list due to poor sales for the past 10-15 years, but it once was considered the standard for golden-flowered Hamamelis. Instead, customers now prefer the more bright and large flowers of H. 'Sunburst', which is also blooming today. When 'Sunburst' begins to fade, H. 'Angelly's' flowers develop and they are equally as nice.

Winter Jewels

Helleborus x hybridus #108

Helleborus x hybridus #106 February 2015

Helleborus x hybridus #106 February 2016

Helleborus x hybridus #109

Acer palmatum 'Strawberry Spring'

Acer palmatum 'Celebration'

The hellebores are in bloom, and we have them scattered throughout the gardens. We selected our favorites from the Winter Jewels strain developed by the O'byrnes of Northwest Garden Nursery near Eugene, Oregon. However we were second in line as they first cream out their favorites. I do the same with maples by raising seedlings from named varieties, and that has yielded some spectacular new cultivars such as Acer palmatum 'Celebration' and Acer palmatum 'Strawberry Spring'. One thing I have learned about the hellebores is that the first year they flower you will probably be unimpressed with a dull green blossom, but the following year – at least here in Oregon – the blooms will be far more fantastic. Nevertheless, every year they vary, depending I suppose upon the amount of light they receive. My appearance changes as well – as I age – every year growing ever more handsome. Ok, ok. We have simply given numbers to our Winter Jewels, and we may or may not ever get around to naming and selling them. When I say they can vary in appearance, consider Helleborus x hybrids #108 which was light yellow when the photo was taken, then the following year it presented a more apricot hue. I find #106 to be particularly attractive, although I can't begin to describe what color it is. #109 is the most vigorous of them all, and it features – at the same age – over twice the number of blooms as any of the others. The name Helleborus is derived from the Greek name for H. orientalis, from elein “to injure” and bora for “food,” as many species are poisonous. “Black hellebore” was used by Ancient Greeks to treat various diseases up to and including insanity. Helleborus niger is commonly called the “Christmas rose,” as legend has it that it originated from the tears of a young girl who had no gift for the Christ child in Bethlehem.

Kniphofia rooperi? Oregon form

Kniphofia rooperi at Sir Harold Hillier Arboretum

Please – would someone help me! I have seen Kniphofia rooperi in various English gardens, and they are always in full glory in October with the most plump flowers of any “red-hot poker.” The species masquerading as rooperi in the Pacific Northwest produces identical flowers, except they appear in spring, and in fact the flower heads are now rising and they will open soon. The foliage of our “rooperi” looks identical to what I have seen in England, by the way. It's almost like Oregon is in the Southern Hemisphere concerning this contradictory bloom time. An English gardener would naturally conclude: “You don't grow the true rooperi, you American idiot!” What species do I grow, then? Is mine a hybrid? K. rooperi, or whatever I have, is hardy in Oregon if you mulch the base of the plant, though after a particularly brutal winter you might not get flowers the following spring. I have never propagated and sold my “variety” because I'm not certain of what I have, but they look spectacular planted out in the garden. For what it's worth, Plant Delights Nursery in North Carolina does sell K. rooperi, and their website indicates that it blooms in fall.

Prunus 'Ume kyushu'

Umeshu

We have a weeping plum along our driveway which was given to me as a weeping cherry from Kyushu, Japan. Not certain of the species, I call it Prunus 'Ume kyushu', which of course is an invalid name, but who cares since I don't propagate and sell it anyway. Prunus mume – which I assume is what it is – is native to southern China in the area of the Yangtze River, and later it was introduced to other Asian countries including Japan. It is commonly called, then, “Chinese plum” or “Japanese apricot,” and the distinct species is related to both the plum and the apricot. I like my weeping specimen and it does produce fruits, and later my Japanese wife introduced me to Umeshu, an alcoholic beverage that we occasionally serve to friends and family. Last fall when the Maple Society visited we served it heated to the delight of many, and I noticed that a couple of people staggered back to the tour bus. It is made by steeping green plums in shochu (clear liquor), and it is sweet and smooth...the kind of drink that leads to a pleasant second helping...and then to the stagger back to the bus. Japanese tradition considers that the ume tree protects against evil, so one should plant it in the northeast portion of the garden, the direction whence evil is believed to come. Myself, I love Umeboshi – my wife does not – but it is a pickled and dried Japanese specialty. It is salty and sour, so you eat only a tiny bit, and it is used with rice in bento boxes or in rolled sushi, makizushi. One of the most interesting discoveries about marriage is the likes and dislikes of one's partner. At first you are lovey-dovey about everything, but eventually your true preferences emerge and your partner must deal with who you really are. I absolutely love Umeshu and Umeboshi, but yesterday my wife served me a breakfast sandwich that was dominated by super healthy kale, and I almost staggered to the courthouse...to seek a divorce.

Leptospermum scoparium 'Kiwi'

Leptospermum scoparium is the “manuka” or “tea-tree” of New Zealand and Australia; it was introduced to horticulture back in 1771, and two hundred years later it was honored with the Award of Garden Merit. Manuka is the Maori word for the plant, and the “tea-tree” name arose because Captain Cook used the leaves to make a tea drink. It is grown in New Zealand for manuka honey, and there are other oil-like products that are derived from it, but I'm not an “oil” kind of guy. We grow only one cultivar – 'Kiwi' – which is a dwarf evergreen shrub with tiny bronze-green leaves with maroon new growth. The main event, however, is the deep-pink five-petaled flowers that cover the entire bush. A few flowers are open today, but I see hundreds of more buds swelling, ready to shine in about a week. The good news about 'Kiwi' is that it is easy to root; the bad news is that it is only hardy to 10 degrees F, USDA zone 8, which is why my stock is housed in warm GH20.

Camellia x williamsii 'Water Lily'

Ah, wabi sabi

Camellia japonica 'Nuccio's Pearl'

I have sung the praises of my Camellia mini-collection in recent blogs, so I probably can't add anything new, other than to say that 'Water Lily' and 'Nuccio's Pearl' are loaded with open blossoms, and with dozens of swollen pinkish buds ready to follow. And yes, some blossoms are already finished and have fallen to the ground. “Ah, wabi-sabi,” as the Japanese would say...when something that was once beautiful transcends into the realm of the imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. Don't cry because it is gone, smile because it happened.

Flowering Conifers

Pinus jeffreyi and its male flowers

Conifer cones are hard scaly structures that contain seeds, and often they have a conical appearance as well. Greek konos originally meant “pine-cone,” and that evolved into Latin conus. Latin conifer literally means “cone-bearing” with the ifer part from Latin ferre, to “carry,” which is related to English bear. In German, Dutch and Danish a cone is known as kegle, in Czech it is kuzel and in Russian it is kohyc. Of course not all conifers feature cones, Taxus and Juniperus being two coniferous examples which replicate via berries.

I have read in Aljos Farjon's A Natural History of Conifers that “The 630 species of conifers cover a large proportion of the land surface of the Earth.” An accompanying map indicates that most occur in the Northern Hemisphere, but conifers can also be found in Australia, Africa and South America, and there is even an endemic to Madagascar (Podocarpus madagascariensis) which I have never seen.

Two giant redwoods at Buchholz's childhood home.

The tree is older than the house. I have been inside during a strong storm and the house literally moves.

Frequently websites for botanical gardens or commercial nurseries will provide a template for describing the features of a plant, such as size, shape, hardiness, flower etc. Often for “flower”* you will see NA or None when describing conifers, but come on – if the pollen structure and the cones are not “flowers” also, I don't know what is. I have long been fascinated with the sexual expression of conifers, and I suppose my first realization that cones existed was growing up in Forest Grove, Oregon under two massive Sequoiadendron giganteums, now almost 150 years old; they're amongst the largest in the world outside of their native range in California. I harvested the cones and my Grandmother ferried me about to florists who would purchase them for a dollar-a-dozen, I think it was. The flower shops couldn't resist my earnest efforts and I was rewarded with sales that frankly surprised me, and one time I made $8 in one day. That was my first venture into horticulture sales: by simply picking up cones and selling them to florists, and in hindsight you could say that my future nurseryman-vocation was established. Later, how fantastic it was to discover that a stuffy botanist from the University of Illinois, Professor J.D. Buchholz, was successful in the 1950's in persuading the botanical cognoscenti that Sequoiadendron giganteum and Sequoia sempervirens should be scientifically segregated, and so now all reference books describe Sequoiadendron giganteum BUCHHOLZ, and of course I'm proud of that.

Northern spotted owl

*For example, the Missouri Botanic Garden lists Sequoiadendron as “Non-flowering.” Furthermore they say that, “Giant sequoia [sic] was originally discovered in 1833 by Zenas Leonard.” That is probably correct, for he mentioned “big trees” in his expedition account, but they were never verified, and he might have been referring to huge oaks or to the monstrous “sugar pines,” Pinus lambertiana, that dominate the same area as Sequoiadendron. The first certain and widely-documented sighting of the Giant Sequoia was in 1852, as the hunter Agustus Dowd was chasing a bear in the Calaveras Grove in the western portion of the Sierra Nevada Mountains when he stumbled into the giants, and no one would believe him until they saw the monsters for themselves. Of course these redwood forests were known for centuries by the local Indian tribes, and they knew them as “Wawona,” a word that imitates the sound of the Northern Spotted Owl, which was believed by the Natives to be the “Guardian of the Forest.”

However, the damn redwood cones got me into some trouble. You see, they were perfectly-sized to fit into my hand with the forefinger loped over the base, and I could hurl the wicked projectiles into the thick and ranks of neighborhood rivals. Cone wars was on! Eventually I was called into the Principal's office where the old codger glared at me with beady lizard-eyes over his bifocals...demanding to know the cause of my aggressive anti-social behavior, and I could only mutter that I just didn't know.

Young Buchholz got into trouble.......................................................

Later, when I was eleven, Forest Grove received its greatest weather event, the 1962 Columbus Day Storm, where winds exceeded 110 miles per hour and much of the Grove's canopy lay horizontal. My family, ensconced in the basement corner, worried mostly because the family cat went berserk over the atmospheric change, and the power of nature was firmly impressed upon me. I spent the next year, then twelve, with a hand saw, cutting up and burning the fallen debris, but fortunately our two titans remained standing. To this day, I remain deeply afraid of nature, and it is bewildering that I continue to try to make a living from her. Of course I can now relate to the Ancient Greeks who felt that there were forces – Gods – much greater than us Feebles, and that they could toss and dash us in an instant.

Sequoiadendron giganteum cone (left) and Metasequoia glyptostroboides cone (right)

Metasequoia glyptostroboides

Metasequoia glyptostroboides female cones (left) and male and female cones (right)

Sequoiadendron giganteum

I love the cone of Metasequoia glyptostroboides for it is a smaller version of Sequoiadendron giganteum, and indeed the former grows to a much smaller size. Sadly, while I have visited virgin groves of Sequoiadendron giganteum and Sequoia sempervirens, I have never ventured into the Hubei province of China to witness the shortest of the redwoods – but still a large tree that can grow to over 200' in height – which is the 1946-discovered Metasequoia. No longer is the Sequoiaodeae subfamily included in the family Taxodiaceae, it is now considered to be a member of the family Cupressaceae based on DNA analysis. Pizhou, China boasts of the longest Metasequoia avenue in the world at 60 km long with over one million trees, while North Carolina offers the Crescent Ridge Dawn Redwoods Preserve where the trees have been planted in a natural state to be observed and recorded in the wild. It is possible that the most extensive collection of Sequoia, Sequoiadendron and Metasequoia cultivars in America exists at the Flora Wonder Arboretum, only short in number to the collection in Deurne, The Netherlands, on the grounds of Kools Nursery.

Abies koreana 'Gait'

Abies koreana 'Vengels'

Abies koreana

I love the perky cones of Abies koreana, though they aren't as large as with other Abies species. Look at the photo carefully as I find their spiraling pattern interesting, with some moving to the left and some to the right. The seed of Abies koreana is not difficult to germinate, and we fight with random seedlings that pop up all over the place from our mature specimens. It would be fun to dig them up to grow on, as I suspect some of them could be hybrids, but it would be an expensive and time consuming hobby. Abies koreana 'Gait' is a slow-growing – I won't say dwarf – cultivar selected because it cones so heavily, and in fact it is a burden on the overall vigor of the tree. Abies koreana 'Vengels' is a freaky selection with skinny cones that do not display the spiraling characteristic. Again, the Missouri Botanical Garden defines Bloom Description as “Non-flowering,” and again I repeat B.S. to that.

Pliny the Elder

The Abies koreana species is native to the mountains of South Korea, as you would suspect, hence koreana, while the genus name is an Ancient Latin name for a tree described by Pliny the Elder in about 77 A.D. Gaius Plinius Secundus (A.D. 23 - A.D. 79) was a Roman author, naturalist and natural philosopher who died too soon because he was afflicted by asthma and couldn't breathe when Mt. Vesuvius erupted. He was on a ship waiting to sail away but unfavorable winds would not allow, and when pumice stones began falling from the sky, Pliny and the crew – including slaves – tied pillows to their heads; his companions survived but Pliny succumbed to the toxic fumes due to his asthma.

Cathaya argyrophylla

Cathaya argyrophylla female flower (left) and male flower (right)

Last year we attempted to root Cathaya argyrophylla. The cuttings that we stuck in January looked perfect in June, and every one of them showed happy puffs of new growth. Repeatedly I would lift the flats, hoping to find roots poking through, but never did. The cuttings formed an enormous callus but never did they sprout roots. This year we doubled the hormone rate – the same as we use for Sciadopitys – and we'll see what happens. For such a beautiful genus it produces (monociously) very ugly flowers; the male catkins are worm-like and the female cones appear like ugly rodent turds. Nevertheless we sowed the seed this winter because they have germinated for us in the past. I also heard that one can graft Cathaya on Pseudotsuga menziesii, and so I grafted some two years ago. Initially the “take” looked great, but one by one they turned off-color, and now I only have three left out of the original 50 grafts. They look perfectly healthy but we'll see what happens. A month ago we grafted 50 again on Pseudotsuga because just one year's poor experience doesn't mean that I'm ready to give up. As Gary from Gee Farms in Michigan says, “I have to kill a plant three different times before I give up,” and of course our stubborn nature often comes with a cost.

Picea orientalis 'Aureospicata'

Picea orientalis 'Aureospicata'

Picea orientalis 'Aureospicata'

Picea orientalis 'Lemon Drop'

Picea orientalis produces narrow pendant cones about four-to-five inches long and near our two 44-year-old specimens of 'Aureospicata' we've had dozens of seedlings sprout. One in particular displayed the same yellow new-growth as the parent, and appeared to be more dwarf besides. We have propagated it and have coined it as 'Lemon Drop', but I haven't distributed any because I still don't know what I really have. In shade the new growth is light green and is not spectacular at all, and in full sun I don't yet know. Will it remain dwarf when grafted onto vigorous Picea abies rootstock, or will it shoot skyward like its parent? The last thing that horticulture needs is an 'Aureospicata'-look-alike, or even worse, an insipid version of the mother tree. The orientalis species features bright red pollen flowers that are ornamental as well, and they stand out nicely against the dark green, short needles.

The specific name of orientalis is due to its origin in the Caucasus and northeast Turkey, as “orient” is derived from Latin oriens meaning “east,” from orior meaning “rise,” referring to where the sun rises. “Everything is relative,” said my Uncle Einstein, as Constantinople is “east” of Rome, but then Kyoto, Japan is far more orior than Constantinople. In Japanese the word to means “east,” so, Tokyo, the eventual capital of Japan, means “east of Kyoto.” Even without its great cultivars, P. orientalis, as a species, is well-suited for medium-sized gardens.

Chamaecyparis obtusa 'Contorta'

Chamaecyparis obtusa 'Rezek'

In a nursery setting the grower does not really want to see his conifers flower, he would rather see all of the plant's energy go to producing lush foliage. The cones on the Chamaecyparis obtusa 'Contorta' (photo above) were from a lonely straggler in the field when all of its brethren had been dug and sold. Who knows what its problem was – perhaps a gopher had tunneled under it, or some other microscopic creature had fed on its roots? Though the cones were attractive in spring – shiny and brown – by fall they had matured into ugly brown pellets and eventually the plant was tossed. The late hobbyist-plantsman Ed Rezek liked to collect seed off of Chamaecyparis obtusa 'Nana Gracilis' because he enjoyed analyzing the offspring, and he would achieve quite a range of shapes and sizes. Since his garden had size limitations he naturally preferred the miniature, and he gave one such to me about twenty years ago. It was not named by him and I simply called it 'Rezek', even though I preach against naming plants after people. Actually I wasn't “naming” it, rather I was “calling” it, but in any case the narrow, compact dwarf was admired by garden visitors so I began to propagate it. A lot of horticulture is not evaluated and scheduled – you do not run anything through the banker or your accountant or survey your customer base – but you just do things when you feel like it, and since time flies you eventually grow old and die. Customers have requested to buy my original 'Rezek', but I value more my tree and memory of the wonderful plantsman than a couple hundred dollars, even though I suppose a future owner of my land will feel differently.

Cryptomeria japonica 'Yoshino'

Cryptomeria japonica

World War Two took a toll on Japan's Cryptomeria (sugi) and later development reduced the number of trees. The people (Nihonjin) and the Forest Agency were encouraged to plant Cryptomeria and they proudly did so. Now a sizeable portion of the population suffers from breathing disorders every spring due to the pollen, and some schedule vacations to get away from it. Known as kafunsho, or “pollen illness,” it is also caused by Chamaecyparis obtusa. Like the cherry blossom season, the pollen season moves from south to north and the Japanese media tracks and reports on it. March to April can be hell for an estimated 20% of the population. Japan's Forest Agency had plans to plant thousands of low pollen-producing Cryptomerias, but what do you do with the older, mature trees? One solution, I suppose, is to move to very southern Okinawa or to most northern Hokkaido which are low-pollen areas. As with Chamaecyparis obtusa (hinoki) the nurseryman does not want his crops “to go to seed,” although some old hags in my gardens certainly have, but at least I don't suffer from hay fever.

Wollemia nobilis female flower

Wollemia nobilis male flower

I have a sizeable Wollemia nobilis in a greenhouse and it has grown nearly to the top, and since it is probably too tender to plant outside I'll have to top it annually. People who are obsessed with plants – like me – find themselves collecting non-hardy species which require heat and space indoors, and you just want to issue an order to “stay alive but stop growing!” My tree has produced male flowers only, and the female cone (photo above) was taken at a different location. The “Wollemi pine” was recently discovered in Australia to the delight of botanists and conservationists, and especially by the people. I bought my small start from the National Geographic for $100, pretty expensive, but they promised that most of the money would go toward efforts to save the species. The location of the small grove, in a rugged canyon, is kept secret to help preserve the trees from disease or vandalism, and from thousands of foot steps tromping on the root zone. While I am happy to own one, I don't find Wollemia to be particularly attractive, as I generally don't care for Podocarpus-type trees, and I probably wouldn't grow it if not for the recent discovery. It doesn't appear that I'll make any money off of it either, as our one attempt to root cuttings resulted in 100% failure, and worst of all, when branch tips are severed they do not resprout.

Pinus torreyana

Harumi with Pinus lambertiana cone

I have seen most of the species of pines in the world, but I don't grow many due to hardiness issues or from lack of commercial appeal. All gardeners appreciate the foliage and bark of the pines, and who doesn't love a pine cone – especially children? A couple of years ago I visited the Torry State Park in southern California and I was able to photograph the trees and their cones. I lamented in a previous blog that I wished I could have a cone, and a kind reader sent me one, and the beauty resides on the fireplace mantle. I imagine to be independently wealthy, and I would spend my remaining days travelling the world collecting conifer cones and preserving them. I would house them in a museum – a conetum – and I would allow the public to visit for free. What a great idea! Who says that money doesn't buy happiness?