Studiology

Fenestration

Architects know and use the word fenestrate; it stands for the arrangement of windows in a building. Everything from pointy or goth-like to typical rectangles or squares, and the imitations of nature with Antoni Gaudi's glorious architectural buildings in Spain (arching and irregular). The most famous Gaudi creation is Casa Batilo, which was considered an eye-sore when it was built, now a destination for anyone interested in architecture. 

In the plant world, the well-known Swiss cheese plant or Monstera adansonii has leaves that are perforated with tear-drop shaped holes. Popular in the '70's and possibly more so now, it is not overly expensive or rare, but a good example of fenestration in plants. A tropical vine, native to Central and South America, of the Araceae family, related to philodendron. 

A similar species is Monstera obliqua which has even larger leaf holes, often referred to as more holes than leaf, the connecting green parts can become thread thin. 

There is little doubt that the gardener will confuse the two since the latter species is neither readily available nor inexpensive. Searching online will bring up many sources for this coveted plant, the most popular is simply called Peru, I'm guessing a special selection with more fenestration. Not easy to grow, to keep this Swiss cheese plant happy it requires 80-90 degrees Fahrenheit and humidity levels above 90 percent (terrarium environment). With its limited leaf surface, the growth rate is barely a crawl, another reason for the hefty prices. The difference in value of M. obliqua to M. adansonii is easily one hundred dollars higher just for an unrooted leaf node. For a fully rooted cutting in a pot the price jumps to a thousand dollars for one small Monstera obliqua plant. Of the 45 or so species of monstera, there are others that produce windows in the leaves. Monstera deliciosa (named after its tasty fruit or breadfruit) is well known, a common houseplant but a very large vine when found growing in the wild. 

Curiosity got the best of me when it came to understanding what role the leaf holes play. There are a couple of reasons and if you really think about it, I'm sure you will come up with a few theories. Since these inhabit tropical rainforests, they compete with many large leafed plants, a lot of rain, and intense sunlight. As vines, the early stages might not show signs of fenestration, better to grow with a larger leaf surface to photosynthesize under the canopy of big leaves, fenestration becomes more pronounced as they grow and age (reach sunlight). The holes allow sunlight to reach their vining trunk and also to let rain in to soak the arial roots which anchor to any support they climb. Secondly the winds, particularly hurricanes, will be less likely to knock them off their perch, instead will blow through. Imagine the years of evolution it took for that brilliant que?! As a botanist searching for the most fenestration, I suspect that a high elevation (more wind) might be home to plants that are a bit holier, like places in Peru?

Add variegation and the price tag skyrockets to unimaginable heights. A Monstera adansonii (the common Swiss cheese plant) with variegated leaves can easily run over $1,000. A Monstera deliciosa 'Variegata' could set you back $6,000. to $10,000.! And I might add that people are buying them, it's the "in" thing. 

There is also fenestration in succulent plants and an entire genus known as Fenestraria. In this case the succulent parts have windows that are under the surface which open to let in more light, or close to do the opposite. Common house plants like baby toes and string of pearls do just that. In the string of pearls, the windows are elliptic or eye shaped, running down the side of each round pearl. 

In the world of odd horticultural terms, this is just another that ranks with guttation, allelopathy, and stratification, all worthy of exploration. 

Winter Color

There may be an adjustment or an approval of diminishing color during the winter months. With dormant perennials and bare trees, there is a starkness. Browns, blacks and scattered winter berries bring a glorious palette of muted colors which are especially nice on gray, murky days. When walking Birdie, my eye looks for and tries to match the colors I see with my various paint colors. Simple things like left over seed heads can be beautiful mixed in with the browns of surrounding grasses.

Even the simple turkey tail mushroom boasts its shades of brown and black; a mushroom that is used to treat depression, increase immunity and detoxify the system.

In this limited color range, I see sepia, raw umber, and raw sienna.

A scattering of rose hips and coralberry fruit, normally not considered bright and colorful, are now beautiful.

If I time it right, a bit of morning sun hits this magnificent American sycamore, a tree that is always best viewed in winter, a tree that rivals more northern white birch with its stark white branches. The idea of seeing the light hit it as the sun comes up is a motivator to get going, survey the browns and complementary colors, watch the birds eat from this natural field of bird food.

In a field close by there are many, some not nearly as white as this one. Is it age, genetics? 

Many years ago, I created a board of photographs from magazines, the images needed to speak to me emotionally before they were cut and pasted onto the board (an exercise to ferret out my base desire or direction). To my shock and dismay, it turned out to be a winter board. I concluded that isolation and muted colors might actually be my favorite subjects, and if there is any kind of a message here, it's go walk in a wild place on a gray day in winter, not once but often. It will probably grow on you.

Changes in Horticulture

Recently I pulled out some old books, gardening books by some of my favorite authors. Going as far back as Louise Beebe Wilder and her brilliant prose in the 1930's, to Pamela Harper's book "Designing with Perennials", published in 1991, Henry Mitchell in 1992, or "Elements of Garden Design" by Joe Eck in 1995. These are brilliant publications which grounded me. Even as I revisit the pages, I find the sources for references that built my knowledge. Some of Henry Mitchell's Washington Post articles bookmark a page and I laugh at his masterly use of personal stories and wordsmithing.

The trends were clear, gardening was for beauty. The model for much of this were the large garden borders of Great Britain, layered sweeps of color. It was also the source of most of our gardening books; American garden writers took a while to come into their own. Keeping with the trends I started my nursery. The public wanted colorful flowers, anything new, and long blooming.

That story began more than forty years ago, my nursery closed more than fifteen years ago, and things have changed. The book collection I have now is different. Titles like "A New Garden Ethic" (Benjamin Vogt), "Planting in a Post-Wild-World" (Thomas Rainer and Claudia West), or Doug Tallamy's smart books like "Nature's Best Hope" squeeze next to "Color for your Garden".

Full circle, my profession is still horticulture or grounds maintenance. There is the continuing aspect of beauty and surely the higher learning courses are still formulated around ornament. But something else is happening. Science is infiltrating every aspect of our horticultural world. From the relationship with mycorrhizal fungi, the need for erosion remediation, and research on the decline of birds and animals, one needs only watch the news to see how our climate has changed and believe these changes will and are affecting us.

To follow horticulture in today's world involves understanding how to improve sediment oxidation, or better filter water using plants. The new science is finding that the tiniest connectors are linked to the health of plants from a moss to a giant oak. Soil science is exploding with new research on how to use plants to clean soil of contaminants and understand the relationship between fungi and the insects that inhabit the ground.

The old questions "What will bloom all summer?" are slowly replaced with "how to feed the monarchs", "Which tree provides the most food for migrating birds?", and "How do I increase the health of my soil?". The geeky nerd in me is excited and we need this. The gardeners need to do more than plant pretty flowers because we are the closest link to nature's connections. We see and understand more than most and we can help.

Some simple ways to start;
only use organic fertilizers
look for "peat free" potting soils
plant native plants
let caterpillars eat your plants - they feed the birds
teach your children and grandchildren

So How are You?

It's June and it happened so fast. I was just admiring daffodils, but the veronicastrum is already blooming! Somewhere between wear a mask or don't, time sped up. The bug bites, and tropical heat just swaggered in joined by hose dragging and trying to work in the shade. I like summer, have big plans for my summer, but it does take some getting used to. 

In random news, I just finished a small class at Green Spring and couldn't help but notice the larkspur. It has clearly flung itself hither and yon and is spectacular right now.

A winter annual that has reached its peak, next it will produce seed and dribble them around, slowly dying as the task is done. For cutting, they are glorious in arrangements, also beautiful when paired with feverfew and clary sage (Salvia sclarea), both winter annuals or biennials that are more than happy to volunteer. 

I have not driven far from home and was happy to finally see the Brood X cicada swarms. In this corner of Loudoun County there are only a few, nothing like the numbers or noise of the full impact of Brood X. Like everyone else, I couldn't help but take a few photographs of these charismatic creatures. 

I'm happy for the supplementary help in the food supply chain for birds, squirrels, turtles, etc...  Maybe, not unlike the Covid weight gain for a different reason, we have the cicada bulge, the plump of Brood X, the periodical (17 year) swagger. Oh it's awesome!

Eastern Red Columbine

A desirable wildflower is about to bloom, timed to coincide with the arrival of hummingbirds. With its dainty bells of orange, red, and yellow, small balanced spurs hold the nectar, the enticement for the high energy of a hummingbird. One of many species of columbine, this one is Aquilegia canadensis, midsized when compared to the other species of which there are over sixty. My shade garden used to be overrun with the wild columbine until I began deadheading or removing the seed pods. For many years afterwards, some returned, replenished by previous seed deposits. In time they dwindled to nothing, my efforts to alter the balance backfired. Sometimes when things seem too easy, the gardener may doubt the value of what they have.

For the gardener, naturalist, and hummingbird enthusiast, our native columbine is undoubtedly worth growing and when left to seed it can occupy a lot of real estate. I would not call that a flaw since it's not a hinderance for other perennial companions. If Aquilegia canadensis has a flaw it would be the leaf damage from leaf minor, which probably all columbine suffer from (but it doesn't slow them down). Since they prefer open shade; open to the east or west, or sunlight from an opening above, leafy companions make good neighbors by hiding the damaged leaves. Some examples might be hardy begonia or hosta. Hayscented fern, Gillenia (Bowman's root), and actea (black cohosh) if you prefer native and deer resistant plantings. 

All but one species of columbine have spurs. Hummingbirds, hawkmoths, and bumblebees are the primary pollinators. The bullseye for diversity of species is found in our south west, extending into Mexico. Receptive to each others pollen, where different species cohabitate, there can be great variability in populations. Naturally this has led to their popularity with hybridizers and resulted in seed strains of multiple colors.

Possibly the most striking of all columbines is Aquilegia longissima or longspur columbine, a native of Texas, Arizona, and northern Mexico. So long are the spurs that only a hawkmoth's proboscis or the hummingbird's tongue can reach the nectar. The act of extracting the sugar puts pollen on their head or chest thereby fertilizing the flowers. 

European columbines are differently structured, lacking hummingbirds, spurs can be tightly curled, almost invisible. These have also played into the game of hybridization which is evident when looking at short spurred selections. 

All are perennial although fleeting in the scheme of things. Expect two or three years before they extinguish. Leave seed heads to ripen to ensure future generations. If you grow multiple varieties, be ready for some surprises.  

Killdeer

As February left I heard the calls of the killdeer as they arrive to plot out a territory and nest. These vocal birds are technically shore birds, although they are found far inland, breeding from Alaska to Newfoundland and south. Their call is a high pitched killdee(r), the reason for their common name. Scientifically known as Charadrius vociferus, which means "Talkative Plover", there are 62 species of plovers, split by lowland and upland. The killdeer is closely related to the American woodcock and the numerous sandpipers, wonderful birds to watch as they poke for food with their thin bills and long legs.

The killdeer is particularly entertaining as they feign a broken wing whenever an intruder comes too near the nest. This instinctive act is designed to draw attention to the hurt bird, assuming you have come to hunt and this compromised bird might make the perfect meal. The act will sometimes go a step further and pretend to sit on a nest that isn't there, all to lure you away from the actual spartan nest and eggs. As ground nesters they are under constant danger, and I have always wondered how they survive. Some of their survival actually depends on their lack of nesting material, literally just a few twigs to keep the eggs from rolling, and eggs that are speckled to match surrounding rocks. 

The job of raising the young is shared by both parents and a couple may raise 2 clutches a year. Each clutch will contain 3 to 6 eggs, and like other ground nesters, the eggs will not begin to develop until they feel the warmth of the parent killdeer, subsequently hatching at the same time which takes 24 to 28 days. The eggs are sizable which is typical for precocial birds, which translates to "ripened beforehand", the young hatch with their eyes open, ready to run.  Newly hatched killdeer are equivalent to a two week old altricial baby bird, those we may be more familiar with that hatch with eyes shut and no feathers. Altricial bird eggs are smaller and the nests are in trees and shrubs to help avoid capture.

Newly hatched killdeer are capable of standing and are ready to leave the nest immediately. Although they will wobble a bit on their long legs, they are marvels in design. The average territory per killdeer is one acre and they clearly benefit from man-made habitats, raising their young in ballfields, unpaved roads, and rooftops. In the days of my nursery we had them nest in 1 gallon potted plants!

Virginia is at the verge of the killdeers winter distribution which means they can be found here year-round. Many of the winter residents will move further north as summer populations return. I usually hear the males in early February as they reclaim a territory. Beneficial as their primary diet consists of weevils, grasshoppers, beetles, ticks, mosquitos, flies, and other noxious insects. Threats of habitat loss, predation, and loss of insects to feed their young are challenges and the killdeer is in decline but currently holding its own.

I love hearing them in the fields and keep my distance so they are not forced to undertake the ritual act of pity.

Blandy Experimental Farm

There is still isolation in our everyday lives despite the fact that we are a year into the pandemic. People are looking for ways to be outdoors, descending on parks, arboretums, and public gardens. One local wellspring for anyone that wants to hike and enjoy nature is the State Arboretum of Virginia or Blandy Experimental Farm. Located on Route 50, 10 miles east of Winchester, 60 miles west of Washington D.C., it's a trip worth taking. 

Wide trails meander through 172 acres, the core of a property that is over 700 acres large. Tree collections, a native plant trail, and the large ginkgo groove may be the most popular stops, but the meadow walk and conifer trial are ideal for winter excursions. 

The University of Virginia owns the arboretum and houses students that use the property for research on bird migration, wildlife, and wetland studies. Many of the signs along the trail explain various experiments that are carried out by seasonal students. 

While I still had my nursery and for a few years after, I was involved with design of some beds and gave lectures in their amazing library. On a recent trip it was good to see the new greenhouse and laboratory. My walk of 2 hours felt like a personal escape since I crossed paths with only 2 people.

The plant collections are spread out, with 13 different groupings, some by plant family such as olive, pea, and rose. My favorite tree collection are the beeches which are a good hike from the main parking lot but next to the drive loop. Parking is available along the loop and it's worth a walk (short or long) to admire the smooth barked, massive trunks of the beech tree collection. 

What a lot of people don't realize is that Blandy is home to 29 state champion trees and I strongly urge you to research them before you visit, they are worth consideration given that they are on one property. Pamphlets will guide the visitor through various sections, the conifer trail is another good winter destination. I used to send customers there to better understand how large something might grow or appear in different seasons. 

Various programs are held, some virtually, others are nature related walks on the property. Of 10 scheduled on-site walks, ranging from "Birding for Beginners" to a "Full Moon Walk", 5 are already sold out.  Not to be discouraged there are also self-guided tours which involve an app. and designated tour stops which let you listen to information clips of that location. Many of the trees also have QR codes that can be scanned to learn more about the cultural history and ecology of that species.

 Between the choices of walking for hours on end, driving the loop, or bringing a horse to ride (yes, that is an option), the State Arboretum of Virginia is the ideal escape, particularly for the naturalist and gardener. 

Cones

About 40 years ago there was a desperate attempt to create shade on my property, which was previously grazed by cattle and wide open. Seedling white pines were planted, 100 or more and they have grown to twenty-five and thirty feet, creating shade, often more than desired, and a slew of pine cones. As much as these are annoying (slow to break down and hard to walk on), I recently became fascinated by "pine cones" in general. The term itself  refers to a cone from a pine but in reality they are the receptacle for seeds from conifers. 

 

 

 

There are about 550 species of conifers which would indicate that there are as many types of "pine cones". Cone bearing is the definition of the word conifer which includes trees and shrubs with needles but also scales. Size can vary from the pea sized cones of chamaecyparis to the massive sugar cones of Pinus lambertiana, native to California. Pines are the largest family members, and maybe why the term pine cone stuck, but we also have fir, spruce, cedar, hemlock, redwood, and larch. As a group they are gymnosperms which translates to naked seed, the cones we find in winter are all female, carriers of the seed, which is located between the bracts or cones scales, resting against the core. Pollinated by wind, the male cone is much smaller, and has long since faded, lacking the design or structure of the female cone which is capable of hanging on a tree for up to ten years. Built to protect the seed, a cone will open with heat, close with cold and wet. Most are resinous to some degree, the resin functions as a fire igniter, most conifers live in areas of fire culture. The benefits of fire open the cones, lift and blow the seed, depositing them in areas where the underbrush is temporarily burnt back so they can land, sprout, and thrive. A few cones are so covered in resin that only fire will release the seed. 

 

Most seed have a wing which helps them fly with wind, some have adapted fleshy seeds like cypress to entice birds to feed and disperse. Squirrels will also feed on the seed, a task that requires the dismantling of many cones to gather a large enough cache to feed on for winter. Like oak trees and acorns, the conifers will randomly produce an abundance of cones, also called a mast year and also irregular in occurrence, so that an abundance of seed overwhelms the land to outnumber the grazers. I feel like this was a mast year for my white pines as I kicked cones into piles, wondering if deciduous trees may have made a better choice. All of that has changed as I find myself searching for different cones and adding to my collection with unique cones arriving in the mail from distant places. They really are beautiful gifts of nature.

The Aster Family

If points were given for enduring extreme climate fluctuations, continents splitting, and glacial cleansing, the aster family would earn more than any other plant family. This is really evident when a diagram of the tree of plant evolution shows the most advanced plant families in the uppermost branches. Once known as the compositae family, a nod to the many small parts that make up each flower, the name change of the mid-nineties recognized (in part) that our North American aster evolved independently, not similarly to European asters.

Close behind we find the orchid family, another highly evolved flowering plant group, sophisticated enough to trap insects for pollination, force them through tubes to soak in a fluid that leaves them drunk, or mimic female bees to such a degree that the male bees never catch on. The most intelligent plants end up as the simple sunflower and complex orchids. The numbers are staggering with the aster family alone, roughly 32,000 members which is equal to the entire grass, oak, and bean families put together.

If any season is more prevalent than another with members of the aster family in the mid-Atlantic, it's fall. Meadows are filled with native asters, goldenrod, and ironweed, a progression of bloom that goes from late summer to late fall. If I had to choose my favorites, picking just a few, I would go for the small flowering, arching stemmed asters. In the garden they flail over neighbors and the gardener must plan for these with timely combinations, ensuring our vertically challenged have something to lean on but not detract from the show. Aster such as A. cordifolius (now Sympyotrichum cordifolium) carry the sweetest little blue flowers and might arch to four feet, potentially five feet if straightened. Beautiful as they bend through oak leaf hydrangea with orange and red fall foliage, alternatively incredible with the powder blue leaves of Rudbeckia maxima or the dark, chocolate and filigree foliage of bronze fennel. Moreover, they are easily modified with a summer trim, which might result in a plant that is only two or three feet tall.

As lovely as all of this sounds, I must warn you of two things. Rabbits are fond of asters in general, although I see scores of flowering plants in the local landscape. Secondly, they are not pretty in pots or containers when purchased from a nursery. Buy them young, before they become too top heavy to stand up and look their best.

Lastly, I might add that observation of good forms in fields nearby might be worth seed collection, dropping a few here and there in your own garden. I have Aster lanceolatus (now Symphyotrichum lanceolatum) blooming where it arrived as a volunteer with its small white flowers and stems to five feet (with support), something the bees and the landowner are happy to find.

The Spider

After a couple of months of not checking my stealthcams, I ventured out to gather the SD cards and have a look. Of course I had to laugh when I found this, the entire lens had been covered with spider webbing. I'm sure it's the nest of a jumping spider, what a fitting (or not) place to put her babies, like a conspiracy against my efforts to spy on what's up on the farm. 

Never the less, I was able to see a lot of activity, prior to the "spider fog". In one case, a newborn fawn was left and others came to take a look. Are they aunts and uncles? Brothers and sisters?

The only reason I knew it was there came from the photographs afterwards of its first steps.

Most photographs are deer and turkeys (and of course rabbit, raccoon, skunk, and squirrel). The turkeys are some of my favorites.

The photograph prior showed a lone female walking along. Then come the puffed up Toms, inflated with masculinity. The black and white photographs are infrared which indicate it was still dark, but I love how they look.

The real surprise were the coyote pups, although they may be fox. I counted four.

And then the attack of the spider and complete obliteration, which took 4 hours.

The tiniest one gave the biggest impact.