Happy New Year greetings to all, including the Comcast trucks that continue to garishly prune my street trees with their bucket operations.
It seems early this year, but the snowdrops, Galanthus (Amaryllidaceae), are already throwing out their delicately sturdy blooms. I checked my yearly diaries, and actually it is not early for them to be strutting their stuff. The difference this year must be that I planted a lot of them in one of my garden beds by the front door.
In previous years, they had been located way down the hill and under some dripping wet conifers. Not a site often visited during these low-lit days.
Snowdrops create fine fat clumps or drifts after a few years in the ground. To expand your drifts of this early bloomer, you can lift and replant the bulblets elsewhere just as their foliage is about to wither later in the spring.
Some experts feel that you need to lift and divide these clumps every three years. This non-expert finds that not to be the case - the blooms here continue to be exuberant in volume and height. And they seem to thrive in sun and shade conditions. However, they do not do well with summer drought, unlike the Iris unguicularis, another early winter bloomer, which only does well in dry summer conditions.
Woodland gardens in the British Isles are famous for their fine drifts of snowdrops. However, in our more modest gardens, if we drifted the snowdrops to that scale, we would have no room for our beloved daffodils, tulips, early spring iris and crocus. In addition, snowdrops do not look well as single specimens. So a compromise is in order here with a bit of clumping and drifting that celebrates their sweet demureness.
Since the 1990s there has been an incredible resurgence of snowdrop breeding (the name comes from the greek gala (milk) combined with anthos (flower)).
There are only 18 species, but from that stock it is now possible to have more than 150 varieties. Their differences mostly allude my sensibilities.
I have seen the doubles, and I have studied some varieties with incredibly beautiful markings, but when seen out in the chilly winter garden, the unique characteristics do not bring me to my knees in celebration. I do offer my sincerest apologies to the snowdrop collectors and hybridizers. Their work is fascinating, their patience is inspiring, I love to see their enthusiasm and perhaps in some other year, one of their stunning new varieties will stop me in my tracks. I wouldn't be surprised. I look forward to the delight.
Trees, shrubs, perennials and annuals go through fashion periods. Much of this change can be related to media experts singing the praises of a long forgotten favorite and also different horticultural practices.
On the West Coast, when our gardens were irrigated with abandon, with no thought to the fact that on the coast we live in a dry Mediterranean climate, many fine plants from the Mediterranean region simply rotted in place. One of my favorites, Iris unguicularis, the Algerian Iris, completely fell from favor because it often turned to mush or did not flower due to the excessive irrigation. Now that gardeners have a better understanding regarding water needs and sustainability, this Iris is starting to be hybridized and the deep purple of the Mary Barnard variety is a welcomed addition to our winter gardens.
Finally, as we move into the 'teen' decade of the 21st century we are seeing yet another huge change in fashion. For many people the exquisitely planned and carefully tended perennial border, such an avant-garde fashion statement at the turn of the century, has become much less interesting. The thrill is gone, and the labor-intensive aspects no longer hold much appeal.
The semi-hardy tropical look has also lost its compelling allure after the 2008 deep freezing devastation. Also, there is the boredom of these plants, which arises due to the fact that they just offer a one, or at most, two dimensional and short seasonal interest to the overall garden scheme.
Fashion has now moved on to make us beholden to creating the ultimate vegetable garden. Sounds yummy to me, and I dream about that smell from the leaves of the tomato plants, not to mention the dreams of fresh pesto - summer incarnate, along with our towering sunflowers.
But as we move into this New Year, let us not forget to sing the praises of the first snowdrop, the cheerful neon brightness of a daffodil on a Northwest grey, grey, blustery day - and then of course that first rose of summer.[[In-content Ad]]
