Zone 6 zone denial tip: standard hybrid gladioli are reliably hardy only to zone 9 - or 8b, maybe - but if you have well drained soil, plant them 5 or 6 inches deep and mulch heavily in fall (in this case before the ground freezes), there’s a good chance they’ll come back.

By now you’ve probably gotten the word: the long awaited, massively updated USDA Climate Zone map, the first revision since 1990, has finally arrived. And  – insert giant snarky “this is news?” – it shows large swaths of the country have moved up at least a half zone.

In 1991, when I got together with Bill and began gardening in the Hudson Valley, I could joke that my new life didn’t net me a single climate zone, even though the NY garden is about 300 miles southwest of the one in Maine. Until a couple of weeks ago, they were both in zone 5b. Now, while New York remains 5b – by the skin of its teeth, from the looks of things – Maine has been promoted to 6a.

Of course the difference between the two may well be less than the full 5 degrees between half zones. Same with the big chunk of Nebraska that’s now 5a instead of 4b. It’s also possible that Chicago, a heat island, may have remained exactly the same while getting a higher zone assignment because of better measurement.

But whatever the physical changes, most of the numbers did go up. The USDA, however, refuses to draw what appear to be obvious conclusions.

Perhaps not surprisingly, there has been a lot of flapdoodle* about how the zone changes are strong proof of global warming and the USDA is simply stonewalling. There has also been a fair amount of wishful thinking along the lines of “I thought it wouldn’t be hardy here, but now I know I can grow it. Yay!”

Well, yes and no. USDA representative Kim Kaplan doth perhaps protest too much when insisting that the new map differs so fundamentally from the old that the two cannot be compared. Given the unanimity of projections of increasing warmth in future, it could be quibbling to maintain that the 30 years of data behind the new map is weather, not climate, because climate measures brackets of at least 50 years. And when it comes to wishful thinking, no one with any gardening knowledge would deny that plant hardiness is indeed an increasingly mobile target.

But all that said, I don’t think it would hurt to calm down a little and stop making the poor map carry far more weight than it should. On the first count, there are a lot more robust proofs of global warming (check out this government sanctioned analysis of trends in the Southeast, for instance, if you really want to have your pants scared off.) On the second count, it pays to remember that average winter lows – the only thing measured on the map – are by no means the single factor influencing plant survival; and when it comes to climate change the challenges far outweigh the benefits, even at the home garden level.

Some Factors Other Than the Thermometer That Influence Winter Survival of Plants

Time to harden off. When cold comes gradually, plants have a chance to toughen up in preparation for winter. When cold comes suddenly, plants may be killed by temperatures they could otherwise sail through unscathed.

Duration of the coldest temperatures. A plant rated hardy to -10 is more likely to survive a few hours of -15 than ten straight days of -5.

Winter soil moisture. Dry climate plants from lavender to cactus care a lot more about drainage than they do about air temperature.

Yearly rainfall. Seattle and Tucson have the same zone number but are not otherwise similar. Moisture needers and drought needers alike will go into winter deeply stressed if grown in the wrong place, and that weakness can finish them off when deep cold is added.

Late summer and fall care. Nitrogen fertilizer spurs tender growth that’s vulnerable to winter kill. Late pruning does the same thing.

Snow cover. A deep fluffy blanket of snow that lasts all winter will protect plants (especially perennials) from cold that would kill them if the ground were bare.

Some Gardeners’ Problems Headed This Way As a Result of Climate Change

Rapid temperature swings. A long mild fall followed by a plunge into the deep freeze, and/or a very early spring, followed by a plunge into the deep freeze.

Extreme weather events. Extended droughts, torrential rains, hurricane force winds.

Shorter winters. Plants like apples, peonies and lilacs that must have a long winter sleep can languish with too little rest. Insects and diseases once kept in check by extended cold will have higher rates of survival.

Less reliable snow cover, more frequent ice storms. Snow protects; ice kills.

Hotter summers. Northerners will have better luck with heat-loving annuals from tomatoes to moonflowers. Southerners may well have less; too much heat prevents fruit set and pushes annual flowers into early graves. The region of happiness for plants that must have cool nights even in summer (peas, delphiniums, rhododendrons, sugar maples) is headed toward Canada.

A Few Coping Strategies may be found here.

* Some back story on the flap.

Whatever its limitations, the USDA hardiness zone map has long been a widely recognized metric. Breeders and nurseries use it to rate and label plants. Scientists use it (along with a lot else) when investigating things like the spread of invasive weeds. The USDA itself uses the map to set some crop insurance standards.

Not chopped liver; and by the time the century turned, it was clear to all that the 1990 map was both insufficient and inaccurate. The USDA commissioned a new one from the American Horticultural Society, which had produced zone maps before. Projected appearance date was 2003.

But then the map didn’t show up – or rather it didn’t show up for long. As I remember it, there was a new version on the AHS website, but only very briefly. The curious were told it went away because it was just a draft; the USDA was not satisfied, and revisions were under way.

This was the party line for quite a while. During this while, we were enjoying the G.W. Bush administration, increasingly notorious for its disinclination to confront man made climate change. People began to think dark thoughts.

These thoughts were not brightened when, in 2006,  the Arbor Day Foundation published an updated zone map of its own, using some (but not all) of the same data as the rejected AHS draft. The ADF website provides an animation of the old map morphing into the (ADF) new one. It is not reassuring.

More grumbling. More Bush administration. More delays, now routinely attributed to the difficulty of producing a sufficiently sophisticated, web friendly interactive map.

Not so fast forward to January 25th, 2012. The new map is introduced at the National Arboretum. Distant journalists are invited to attend via webinar. I attend.

Neato! The thing is terrific. It really IS a great leap forward – for doing what it’s supposed to do, anyway. One need only enter a zip code to get the corresponding zone assignment, and there is a lot of other information there for the drilling down.

The introduction ceremony concludes with a question period. Various reporters ask questions. The most vocal questioners do not appear to be gardeners and what they really, really want to know is why the long suffering Ms. Kaplan, who has been fielding these enquiries ever since the flap began, will not knuckle under and admit that the map proves global warming is undoubtedly here. She won’t do it. (Her reasons are detailed on the map site, under “what’s new?”)

So, official word is still that the map was not delayed  - perhaps by underfunding? –  during the previous administration, which may or may not be true. But in fairness, nobody’s trumpeting its appearance as the return of sanity, either. So at the very least the USDA is an equal opportunity sphinx.

Our holiday tree, 2011, aka the top of the former arborvitae. There’s a bucket of water inside the pedestal.

Putting it up was extremely easy; taking it down wasn’t much  harder and now we have the same pile of long branches anyone with a regular tree will have as soon as they saw them from the trunk, first step in successful home recycling.

Some will argue deconstruction is unnecessary; you can simply recycle the tree by setting it up outdoors, replacing the human-centric ornaments with items of interest to birds: cut oranges, a feeder or two, that cute bell made from suet and encrusted with seeds you got from the office gift-swap.

Well, yes, but myself I’d rather use cut boughs to mulch the perennial beds, evergreen boughs being just about ideal for this purpose: They hold in the cold without matting down and they’re quick and easy to remove in spring without harming tender emerging shoots.

That’s right, hold in the cold. There are some instances where the object is to hold in warmth – such as when you’re trying to protect the fig tree.

Wrapped fig tree surrounded by bagged leaves, further insulated by a large pile of hemlock boughs

But most of the time what the mulch is doing is keeping the surface frozen, so you don’t get repeated thaws and freezes between January and April. “Frost heave” doesn’t just happen to roadbeds. Even when plants stay put, delicate feeder roots right near the surface are often damaged by soil that expands and contracts like an accordion.

The beds in Maine take a lot of boughs, so each year Kristi goes scavenging right about now, looking for raw material. Being well out in the country, she has to work at it. But in towns that offer municipal pick up there’s a bounty of useful material conveniently located right next to the curb.

Alternate use for evergreen branches: back door decor. Former “tree” makes a good anchor; saved up shrub and hedge prunings add variety.

Beds already all cozy – or non-existent? Consider the outdoor arrangement. In cold climates cut evergreens will stay fresh looking right through the entire Carnival season (Epiphany to Mardi Gras).

Added benefit of tree-in-tall pot: this is actually the first tree we’ve had in several years, feline depredations having finally discouraged me from even trying. But it looks like a combination of cat maturity and – comparative – tree inaccessibility is a winning one.

It's not that he COULDN'T jump; even fat as he is that's an easy distance. But as long as nothing moves he's not that interested.

And almost everything deciduous is down to the bare branches, many of them in need of shaping. What all this is reminding me is that I definitely need some snazzy new material for the string of garden beds that will (next spring) finally be unified into a single sweep of Things That Look Good From Inside The House When Inside Is Where We Are Most Of The Time.

Enter Eric’s excellent suggestion:

Corylopsis pauciflora – earlier than forsythia, far more delicate and FAR more fragrant, to say nothing of better behaved.

Buttercup winter hazel (Corylopsis pauciflora)

By Eric Larson

The winterhazels (Corylopsis species) are in the witchhazel family (Hamamelidaceae) and have many of the witchhazels’ virtues: fragrant flowers on bare branches, wide adaptability and ease of care. But unlike most of its siblings and cousins, Buttercup winter hazel is on the short side. It tops out at six or seven feet, ideal for the home landscape where space is at a premium. And it grows at a modest rate to its eventual manageable size, leaving little need for corrective or size pruning

In mid- to late April, this dainty shrub pops into bloom with a display of buttercup yellow flower clusters. The fragrance is delicate yet quite noticeable, making it perfect for end of the shrub border nearest the breakfast terrace (if you are lucky enough to have such an architectural element). New leaves show red edges before darkening to rich green, then (with luck) turn a rich gold-bronze before falling to reveal the slender but sturdy branches.

Witchhazels (Hamamelis species) bloom at different times: North American mostly in fall, the Chinese and other Asian species and many of their crosses generally in the late winter to early spring, much earlier than our Corylopsis. If you plant as many of the Hamamelidaceae as you can find – and fit in – you can enjoy their flowers for a good part of the year, but if you only have room for one this may be the one for you.

Like most of the Hamamelidaceae, C. pauciflora has very few insect or disease problems to worry about. This combines with its modest pruning needs to make it especially suitable as part of the ‘sustainable’ (was there ever a word so overused?) home landscape. Plant either in spring or fall, in good humus-rich acid soil, being sure to choose a nice partly shady spot.

Our winter hazel here at the garden gets lots of reflected light but no direct sunlight, and it seems to provide plenty of bloom and plenty of fall color, too.

If you can avoid windy exposed locations, you will have better luck with keeping this plant from flagging during the hotter months. In fact, if sited properly, it will need supplemental water only during severe summer drought. Mulch it well, and then let nature take its course.

This is a good addition to the shrub border, but it can also be used as a specimen and as forest underplanting. Planted in front of evergreens, the flowers, spring foliage and fall colors will show up with more contrast. A famous combination at Winterthur Gardens in Delaware includes C. pauciflora and Rhododendron mucronulatum, the soft buttery yellow of the Winterhazel providing perfect counterpoint to the rich almost electric purple of the Azalea, and of course they flower at the exact same time.  I would also look for good combinations with bulbs and other spring flowering perennials.

C. pauciflora can be hard to find, but well stocked independent nurseries sometimes carry it, usually in pots, occasionally  balled-and-burlapped. Spring bloom is fairly consistent and your best chance of finding the plant is in spring. But fall color is highly variable, so if you’re willing to shop around it pays to check out your purchase in fall.

In general, witchhazels have better fall color than winterhazels, but our winterhazel here at the garden has a rich gold color. In addition, the darker coloration along the leaf edges in the close up shows a nice reddish tint in spring after the flowers have dropped and the leaves emerge. Eventually turning green as the leaves mature, that nice touch of color in May and early June is a good foil for other colors provided by bulbs or herbaceous plants. For instance, there are several Tulips that have the same red tints and tones, so that repeating elements from ground to mid-level can be achieved.

This is recent experience talking,

We got 22 inches of snow in the infamous October storm. Note that the maple not only has leaves; they haven’t even started to turn.

The loss list keeps expanding as falling leaves expose broken branches we missed earlier, but the general shape of the disaster has been clear for long enough to prompt a bit of family discussion on the subject of remedial pruning.

Casualties:

Somewhere between a third and a half of the magnolia, seen here in happier days.

It’s not too clear through the snow, but you can see it’s the middle that went.

Barely visible in back on the left: a bird's eye view of the top of one of the ancient plum trees. You don’t have to be a bird because the tree has snapped at the base and is now horizontal.

Also a 15 foot arbor vitae and most of the treasured oak leaf hydrangea it fell on

Arbor vitae and oak leaf hydrangea are a lovely combination – until they’re not.

and a great deal more.

A lot of the clean up was pretty much cut and dried – or cut, anyway  (saturated ground left by repeated heavy rains is one reason so many things went over)

But after we cleared away the broken branches, cut the stubs clean to prevent disease and removed unsafe imbalances, we were left with several trees that had – still have, actually – severe aesthetic problems, primarily in the form of  major branches that cry out for shortening or outright removal.

In spite of being perfectly healthy and unlikely to cause any trouble, they’re visual offenses: out of proportion, badly spaced, no longer harmonious with their surroundings.

Bill, who prunes the fruit trees and does all of the chain saw work, kept occupied at first

The other plum tree was also recumbent, but not otherwise damaged, so he borrowed a neighbor’s come-along, pulled it back up

and braced it for the winter with a chunk of the recently-deceased arbor vitae.

But after that, having done a lot of pruning that was pure maintenance, he’s quite eager to keep going and address the art part. I, on the other hand, feel strongly that we should hide and wait at least until late winter. Two reasons:

1. Unless you’re cutting something to the ground for total regeneration, the standard rule for shrub and tree pruning is to remove no more than a third of the healthy wood each year. The storm has already done that and more.

2. I’m afraid to do anything that might further stimulate new growth. In theory, it’s so late in the season plants are already going dormant and won’t start trying to make fresh leaves until next spring. In practice, this here is being one warm November, no matter how inexorably the nights are getting longer. I see what looks a lot like swelling buds and would rather be safe than sorry.

Fortunately for the trees and for domestic harmony, just when he was about out of tasks the fishing started picking up. With luck he’ll be well occupied until it’s almost time to prune the trees that weren’t damaged.

snow photos by Bill Bakaitis

I first saw this thing around Easter time, took a photograph (finding it almost uniquely eekworthy), then realized I couldn’t excoriate it here because I’d forgotten to take a closeup of the label.

And when I went back it had disappeared.

Or so I thought. No such luck. It has returned. The greenhouse/nursery at Adams is a reputable outfit and has therefore posted a warning

But the distributors of this abomination

are less conscientious

At least as far as the label on the plant itself is concerned. Pretty expensive for a cheap trick. Especially when for the same money you could buy a tree peony like

'Ezra Pound'

I almost like it better closed

Ezra in the rain

One bit of advice: Do not plant a tree peony – or anything else with fragile branches – at the corner of the drive and the walkway to the gas tanks. Persons dragging heavy hoses must be warned, which rather spoils the effect.

Tree peony prices vary, but as it happens Klehm’s, where I bought our plant, is truly selling E.P. for 39.95.

But there’s one branch of the spring flower shower that doesn’t get as much notice as it deserves, the one that doesn’t have any petals (At least not petals the way forsythia has petals, and certainly not the way daffodils have petals).

So right here I want to put in a good word for catkins, the fuzzy flowering parts of birches, beeches, mulberries, hazels and of course pussy willows.

In a moment, our friend Eric will be extolling the Black Pussy Willows he grows over at Yale, but first a glimpse of our own backyard thrill, the contorted hazel, in full chandelier mode:

Corylus avellana 'Contorta' in flower

The stems look a lot like the curly branches offered at some high end florists, but those are usually the faster growing curly willow, which brings us back to Eric and his fashionably

Black Pussy Willow (Salix gracilistylus ‘Melanostachys’)

By Eric Larson

My oldest friend, or a better term would be the friend I have known the longest, sent me an e-mail at the end of March with the following as his last line: “I would tell you that the color of green produced by plants waking up from winter never ceases to lift me.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself. If every day is a gift – and if we don’t remember that at least once in a while, we need to check our own pulse for life – then every spring is a stupendous totally encompassing miracle…

not all of which is green. The waking Black Pussy Willow, for instance, is anything but. Yet it too is miraculous, and it puts on its big spring show just as the season begins.

The black catkins last for up to four weeks depending on the weather. Most catkins are wind-pollinated, but willows tend to be associated with early spring insect activity.

Flowers form along the stems of the plant, the procession of dusky catkins resembling little black caterpillars – very closely, if you have a good imagination. There is an anecdote that a customer called a garden hot line with a complaint that there were scores of wooly worms on her willow bush. Egad, hand pick them or you are doomed!

The catkins can range from a half-inch to two inches in length, starting small early in the season, then lengthening and changing color as they mature. Females stay flat black until well-expanded; males will add a fine-textured, silky red to orange staminate haze to the display. (Willows are dioecious, which means that like humans, holly and marijuana, each individual has one gender and it takes two to make progeny.)

Like many of its genus, Black Pussy Willow is a quick growing shrub. It ends up six to ten feet tall, but can be more than ten feet wide because it will spread aggressively by underground adventitious roots and above ground ‘suckers.’

Don’t fret too much; if necessary you can prune this plant pretty severely to keep it in check.  I prefer to let it attain its natural size, and then lightly prune it back. The stems tend to be somewhat brittle so can be damaged in windy locations, or by heavy snow load.  To avoid broken branches and distorted shapes, it is best to prune it proactively, keeping it relatively compact, no matter what shape and size you prefer.

Although it won’t grow in standing water, this plant, like most willows, loves to have water very nearby. Unfortunately (once more, like most willows) it is subject to rust, leaf spot, canker and other pathogens. Planting in full sun will help keep some of the fungal problems in check.

There is also a list of insects that seem to enjoy feeding on it, but ours doesn’t seem to be too badly munched upon.  I think if you have a lot of willows, you are more likely to encounter problems, while with only one or two, you might sneak under the pest radar.

Average garden soil in the slightly acid range is great for this plant, but it’s quite tolerant of other soil types as well as moderate road salt and pollution exposure. I have seen it used in a median strip situation in Delaware to good effect.

Its natural propensity to sucker out into a fairly large clump makes it ideal for holding stream banks, protecting hillside soil and reclaiming wetlands.  It could also be used to good effect in the shrub border, as I have here at Marsh Botanical Garden.

The silver-catkined  S. caprea is better known, but S. gracilistylus ‘Melanostachys’ is fully its equal for providing great cut flower material and late winter/early spring interest in the garden.

I haven’t seen this plant offered locally – at least not yet. We got ours from Forest Farm.

Our plant does its best to ease the industrial view of electrical transformer and chain link fence. During the summer the gray-green to silver foliage does a pretty good job, while providing a counter-point to the predominantly green landscape around it.

Iced viburnum

On the other hand, that’s “best” in a strictly visual sense. Unless you count being covered with ice while still in leaf, there’s no greater stress for a tree’s crown than having to bear great weight on frozen, unbendable branches.

Unless you count ice plus wind.

Our friend Eric over at Yale isn’t mentioning any woes that may have befallen Marsh Gardens, but he does have a lot of good advice in the “how to save your trees” department.

Ice Storm Damage to Trees

By Eric Larson

One of nature’s severest tests for man, beast and plant is an ice storm. We can of course stay indoors, salt the walks and roads, and put on our ice-gripping slip-ons to fight the effects. For birds and animals, shelter is also the order of the day. But for plants there is no refuge, save in their structural ability to withstand the weight.

Ice build-up can increase the branch weight of a tree by up to 30 times the normal.  When ice builds up to a half-inch, small branches, dead limbs and weak structural members are at risk. One-half to one-inch accumulations will result in the loss of larger branches, sound wood and other severe damage to the tree.  Strong winds add to the stress on the structure of branch and limb.  An additional cause of injury to trees due to ice is from vehicles skidding into them.

We in New England live in an area of the country that is susceptible to ice storms, along with a large band that extends across the central and northern midsection.  As recent Weather Channel reports show, ice storms can happen almost anywhere, including the South. I will leave it to those august prognosticators to describe the climatological conditions that result in an ice storm. We can discuss what it does to trees and shrubs.

The factors that influence a tree’s susceptibility to ice damage include: inherently weak wood, dead and decaying branches, broken branches, a broad or imbalanced crown, large horizontal structural wood, fine branching habit and ‘included’ bark.

This last is a feature that you most often see on Bradford Pear.  When a crotch angle is too tight, the bark between the two structural members becomes ingrown, as in a fingernail. This weakens the structure of the branch junction, making the Bradford Pear one of the worst trees for ice damage.

Examples of species with a broad crown and fine branching habits include the Siberian Elm, Honey Locust, Green Ash, Hackberry and American Elm.

Factors affecting a tree’s resistance to ice damage include its general shape, with pyramidal being the best. This prototypical evergreen architecture is also found in some young deciduous trees, like the Sweet Gum.  Later in its life span, the Sweet Gum crown will broaden and become more susceptible to ice damage.  It should be said that there are some varieties within a species generally known for broad crowns that exhibit tighter more pyramidal structure, so if you are set on, say, an English Oak, look for the ‘fastigiate’ or narrow pyramidal form.

Another factor in resistance to ice damage is the propensity of a species for coarse branching habit, or fewer thicker branches.  These tend to have less horizontal surface area, which means less ice load.  Under story trees and trees that mature at smaller heights also have more resistance to ice damage.

The other factor in my experience involved with major tree failure during ice events is the root depth of different species. For instance, Red Oaks have shallower root systems, which makes them easier to transplant, but it also makes them more susceptible to blow-down than their cousin the White Oak, which has a deep tap root.

So what can we do to lessen the devastating affect of ice damage on trees?

First –  in areas where ice storms are likely, plant resistant species and varieties. (See table below).

Second – plant the tree or shrub in the correct place. Those with preference for good drainage should not be planted in wet lowland areas for instance.  Pay attention to the tolerance or preference of trees and shrubs for sun or shade.  Trees that are grown too close together or in deeper shade than preferred tend to have imbalanced crowns and long horizontal branches.

Third - Train and prune young trees for good structural integrity: remove crossing branches and branches with poor angles of connection to the trunk, and maintain good spacing of branches as the tree grows. Remove dead wood periodically, and have an arborist check for disease and insect problems.  Trees near the home, sidewalk, road or other sensitive area should be monitored more closely.

An additional note about prevention of ice damage concerns the common practice of allowing English Ivy to grow up the trunks of large deciduous trees. There is no data to support the fact that this harms trees, except for one important point: the increased surface area of this evergreen plant adds to the ice load for the entire tree to an extent that may spell dire consequences. So in areas with frequent ice storms it may be wise to periodically remove the ivy from all but the main trunk of the tree.

After ice damage has occurred, it is probably best to contact an arborist for help in assessing the damage and deciding what action to take. In some cases, correct pruning will suffice in minimizing the long-term effects of the injury. In a few cases, the injuries are devastating enough to warrant removal of the tree. It is always best to seek the advice and estimates from at least two tree services.  Also make sure they are licensed, insured and bonded before starting work.

(If your place looks anything like our place, heaps of snow are giving the ice layers a real run for their money. Tips on snow removal are here. LL)

• Susceptible ……………..Moderately Resistant …………..Resistant
• American Elm                      Bur Oak                                          American Sweetgum
• White Oak                             Eastern White Pine
• American Linden                                                                                   Arborvitae
• Black Cherry                         Northern Red Oak                                Bald Cypress
• Black Locust                         Red Maple                                               Black Walnut
• Bradford Pear                       Sugar Maple                                            Blue Beech
• Common Hackberry           Sycamore                                                  Catalpa
• Green Ash                             Eastern Hemlock                                    Ginkgo
• Tulip Tree                              White Ash                                                 Ironwood
• Honey Locust                                                                                             Kentucky Coffee Tree
• Pin Oak                                                                                                        Littleleaf Linden
• Siberian Elm
• Silver Maple
• Norway Maple
• Silver Linden

Adapted from Hauer, R.J., Wl Wang, and J.O. Dawson. 1993.Ice Storm Damage to Urban Trees, Journal of Arboriculture

19:187-193.

The catkins on the corkscrew hazel ( Corylus 'Contorta) would seem to be an invitation to disaster, but we've never had so much as a broken twig.

Photos by Bill Bakaitis

For starters, I’m cutting way back on the bearded iris. Not ripping it out root and branch

The fragrant, impervious-to-snails-so-their-leaves-look-lovely-all-summer blue ones in the blue border are staying, but

the not-fragrant purple ones, whose moment of glory is even briefer than that of the hesperis in the background, after which their snail ravaged leaves look worse and worse until put out of their misery, are destined for removal.

I have never purchased a bearded iris. The blue and the purple were, like the yellow and paler blue ones I don’t happen to have photos of, gifts from other gardeners with rhizomes to spare. Thus the paradox of bearded iris: they’re finicky – insistent on proper placement, acid soil and good drainage, frequently beset by borers – and yet they multiply almost as aggressively as cannas and dahlias.

If you have any success at all, you find yourself having to divide them what seems like every other minute. Once every three years is the standard advice, although I confess once every four has been closer to my reality.

But once every four still leaves us with only two of full gratification; the flower show is less spectacular the first spring after division and by the fourth it’s starting to fall off. Even when the show is great, it doesn’t go on for long. And if I remember to change the water and keep it out of the sun, a well-budded stem lives as long in the vase as it does on the plant, looking all the more beautiful for being viewed close up.

So what with this and what with that, I’m thinking bearded iris belong in the cutting garden, not the perennial border (a useful thought, now that perennial borders are on their way out of our garden design).

Or maybe where these plants mostly belong is in fantasyland, along with China roses, fabulously expensive rare narcissi and a conservatory full of lemon trees. I’ve whiled away many happy hours browsing in Iris catalogs , knowing there are thousands of flowers I have yet to see. (The American Iris society conducts a yearly poll of members’ favorite tall bearded iris and still can’t get it down farther than the top 100.) I want them all while wanting no more…

At least no more tall bearded ones. The Japanese (ensata) types have me firmly in their grasp and only the fact that we have no place damp enough to grow them well keeps me from going on an acquisitional bender, even though their bloom season is almost obscenely short and they are, like tree peonies, flowers of about an hour in hot weather or heavy rain.

I don’t have photos of my one clump and I can’t find any in Flicker’s vast holdings that really convey their charm – the wide flat flowers on tall narrow plants defy the camera. Fortunately, art comes to the rescue, in this case via the Floral Calendar of Japan, by Shodo Kawarazaki (1889-1973), courtesy Dr. Ross Walker’s extensive (and wonderful!) Ohmi Gallery.

While this is going on above ground, extension is transpiring underneath.

In the space of a single summer, one wizened little dahlia tuber can become a clutch of potatolike lumps the size of a basketball and the cannas are even worse – or better, if you’ve got a spot that could use a mass of something. Just because they got overused in the days of carpet bedding shouldn’t consign using cannas as hedging to the dustbin of horticultural history.

A section of the side yard hedge (as seen from the driveway) at the Hudson Valley house. The canna is 'Tropicana;' the neat black grass is millet 'Purple Majesty.'

This is by way of saying that – assuming you’ve got room in the cellar or garage –  too much of a good thing may be just enough. And of course a bit more of an expensive thing is its own kind of gratification.

To Save Cannas and Dahlias Over Winter In Cold Climates.

Cannas

1. Wait for the frost to kill down the tops. Expert opinion is divided on the necessity for this, but in my experience the unpleasant shock does seem to encourage the rhizome to think good thoughts about dormancy.

2. Choose a dry day to dig them up. Do so. Allow the dirt to fall off, and let the surface dry if it’s wet. (Some people wash and dry them, then dust with fungicide. I don’t.)

3. Clip off the dead stems, leaving a stub about  2 inches tall; there can be incipient buds underneath. Cut off any chunks of rhizome that are obviously diseased, but other than that leave them alone.

Again, the experts are divided. Some say this is the time to cut off dead sections and divide the good parts, but by me the fewer wounds there are, the fewer chances there are for needed moisture to leave or unneeded rot to enter.

4. Line a thick black plastic garbage bag or plastic storage box with a layer of light, air-holding insulation – peat moss, coir, pine needles, or packing peanuts – just deep enough to cradle the rhizomes and cover them thinly. Nestle the rhizomes into it, right side up and not touching.

5. Store in a cool but not cold place, 45 -50 degrees is ideal, five more degrees either way won’t make much difference. Leave the top partially open or partially cover, as the case may be, so moisture is held in but not trapped.

Check every month or so, opening the bag/cover a bit more if the rhizomes look sweaty, sprinkling very lightly with water if they appear to be drying out. Some of the buds may show signs of growth. No worries; they usually proceed very slowly; just try to avoid breaking them off.

Dahlias

Same routine as the cannas, except:

1. Cut the dead stems off short, about ½ inch long. The incipient buds are nestled at the neck of each tuber where it meets the stem and any extra stem will simply rot if it doesn’t dry out.

2.  If the clump is at all sizable, there will be dirt trapped between the tubers. I ( or as often as not Kristi) turn the clumps upside down and let them dry off  before removing any rotten tubers and proceeding toward storage.

Sometimes the clumps fall apart into smaller clumps or an individual tuber may separate from its fellows. No problem. Unless you count

Labeling, the curse of dahlia storers everywhere.

Over the years I have tried:

1. Putting each variety in a labeled brown paper bag before nestling in the insulation. Works pretty well if the bags don’t disintegrate.

2. Writing with sharpie right on one or more of the tubers in each clump. Works fine if the writing doesn’t fade and the tubers stay clumped.

3. Writing on a plant label and pushing the point between a couple of close tubers or stabbing it into a stem. Again, works fine “if “– in this case if the label doesn’t fall out into the general mass.

4. Writing on a strip of flat plastic plant tape and tying it to one of the stems. This is Kristi’s preferred method and therefore the one in current use. Works pretty well, in part because at this point we have so many tubers each variety can have a private section of the storage box.

The good thing about planting something pink close by is that it brings out the pink leaf edge as well as the pink stem. This is canna x 'Pretoria,' aka 'Bengal Tiger.'

Weeping Pear, Pyrus salicifolia ‘Pendula’

“Our little tree is four years old, planted at a foot tall and doing nicely,” he said about this specimen at Yale’s Marsh Gardens.

“Weeping pear will eventually round out to 20 or so feet high with an equal or even larger width,” he went on. “The informal round shape is a great component to soften the edges of, say, a large expanse of concrete.”

All that came with the picture of the little tree.  Here’s the rest:

Weeping Pear,  Pyrus salicifolia ‘Pendula’

by Eric Larson

When I was traipsing through the gardens of Devon and Somerset some years back, one plant that struck me – partly because its inherent beauty but also because of the setting – was the Weeping Pear at Knightshayes Court, I think, near Tivorton.

The tree was planted in the middle of an arc of yew bushes (Taxus species), which provided a backdrop of dark green highlighting the silver gray foliage of the Pear. This relationship was in addition to the upright but yet informal shape of the Yew bushes contrasting with the weeping mound-shaped Pear tree. This knockout combination struck me as a perfectly English garden statement, understated but just so choice.

Perhaps I generalize too easily on this one, but the British do have a way with gardening. Everyone in England seems to garden, or at least appreciates gardening and gardeners. Even in the cities, where paving and centuries-long development have left little room for what we think of as a garden, people utilize window boxes, pots and other inventive areas for gardening. And they seem to all do it well.  I begin to understand the Colonel’s crustaceous attitude towards my own gardening efforts.

Devon and Cornwall, the two most southwesterly counties in England, have distinctive climate and geologic conditions that make them interesting for gardeners and visitors to gardens.  For one thing, they are full in the path of the Gulf Stream, which moderates the cold temperatures, to such an extent that palm trees are grown quite handily in a setting whose latitude puts it north of Nova Scotia.

This is an example of a sort of macro-micro climate. My favorite garden in England, though it is extremely hard to choose just one, had to be Hestercombe Gardens in Somerset County, which when I first visited there was maintained by the local volunteer fire department in a land where the National Trust had bought up and preserved many of the country’s estate gardens.

Since 1996, Hestercombe has been run by its own trust and has changed quite a bit, but what remains is still one of the most charming garden visit experiences you can imagine. Covering three centuries of garden design and engagement, the totality is an education in itself, but also one very beautifully kept garden. The Lutyens-Jekyll Plat itself is worth the day, let alone the older gardens and grounds.

Concerning Pears

Pear trees are thought to have originated in the foothills of the Tian Shan mountain range in Central Asia, in what is today western China.  They have been cultivated in China for over three thousand years, and have also spread through trade routes to the north and west.

Traces of pear have been found in the Neolithic and Bronze Age Swiss lake-dwellings, and the linguistic evidence points to very ancient cultivation of pear from the Caspian Sea to the Atlantic. The word ‘pear’ is a derivation of the Vulgar Latin ‘pira,’ which came from the Greek ‘api[r]os,’ which is of Semitic origin.  The genus name is also from Latin, being derived from the same roots.

There are around twenty-five or thirty species within the genus, but  gastronomically speaking there are only three that provide the bulk of edible pears: the European Pear (Pyrus communis ssp. communis), the Chinese White Pear (P. x bretshcneider) and the Nashi Pear (P. pyrifolia).

These and their crosses make up the huge majority of edible pears. In general, pears have fewer problems than other members of the rose family (Rosaceae) such as apricots and plums. But they are subject to a couple of afflictions worth noting. Besides leaf rollers, some scab on susceptible varieties and deer browse on all of them, the main bad guy in the Pear filmography is Fire Blight, a bacterial disease that affects all rose family members, but especially Pears.

‘Plant pears for your heirs,’ is a saying that gives you some idea of how slowly they grow, and how long it takes for the fruiting varieties to produce. Poor soils slow them down even further, but overly fertile soils cause lush green growth that tends to be more susceptible to the disease problems. This goes for all Rose family fruit trees: they don’t need fertilization unless you are trying to grow them in EXTREMELY poor soil: think parking lot.

P. salicifolia, aka willow-leafed pear, is native to the Middle East. It does well in the infertile soils most pears prefer, and is at its best in full sun. The weeping form, P. salicifolia ‘Pendula’ seems not to be too troubled by the usual pear problems, so it’s an outstanding ornamental.

The white perfect flowers, which have a musky fragrance, appear in mid- to late April; the silver-gray foliage is interesting by way of contrast to the surrounding green all growing season and the weeping form is a four-season accent.

The flowers of weeping pear are showy but not very attractive aromatically. I had an impartial observer confirm that they are indeed somewhat "musky" in scent.

Although I have had fruit appear on the one I planted in Westville when we lived there, it was small and not much by way of taste. No matter. The weeping willow leaf pear is well worth planting for its beauty alone. It is not widely available at garden centers but can be found on-line or at specialty nurseries.

Note: Many independent garden centers will special order trees they do not keep in stock. This is the best time of year to ask. LL.

Disclaimer: The opinions and thoughts expressed within these columns are not those of Yale University, Marsh Botanical Gardens, or Leslie Land. They are personal reflections on life, plants, humankind and the daily miracles that come my way.