threatening clouds, but no rain: breezy: 76ºF

Start gushing over calendulas (Calendula officinalis) to another gardener and the conversation stops. Calendulas don’t smell very good. They have sticky foliage, and when they finish blooming they leave behind a sturdy brown seed pod that refuses to just politely drop off the plant. Add to all that, their foliage often yellows and they stop blooming altogether as the heat starts to get to them. Still because calendulas are the featured flower in this botanical garden’s Ottoman Garden, I thought I’d give them a closer look this morning.

The garden’s beds are all planted with a variety of calendula called ‘Art Shades.’ Thompson and Morgan, the British seed company that sells them, describes ‘Art Shades’ as a mix of “frilled flowers in unusual shades ranging through apricot, orange, primrose and cream.” They are that – more too. Scatted here and there among the other calendulas are these. Like the other calendulas, they have a single flower. Then as the flower dies and begins to form seeds, up pops 9 to 12 side stocks from all around the base. A miniature flower blooms on each stock. The display reminds me of those star burst fireworks that flash first and then send out a burst of spokes from the core. T&M doesn’t mention this starburst variant in its catalog nor could I find the name of the variety anywhere on the web. Too bad calendulas don’t have an association or society of their own that I could contact.

Ash trees are easy to spot in the botanical garden. Hanging from their upper limbs is one of these purple, plastic, prism-shaped boxes. I took a close-up of one of the boxes to try to read the label that was on one of its sides. After some bold print that said “DO NOT DISTURB,” the label went on: “Emerald Ash Borer Survey Tree. United States Department of Agriculture” Then there was this web address: www.purpleeabsurvey.info

I checked the website and talked with a couple of people at a nearby conservation center. The insect that is causing such concern is small – it could fit on a dime with room to spare. It’s a beetle with dark green metallic wings. It comes from China and parts of Eastern Asia and was first spotted in 2002 in the Detroit area. The female ash borer lays its eggs in the valleys between the rough ridges of ash barks in late summer. The eggs then hatch into worms that drill into the tree bark where they feed. and grow. It’s that feeding on the tree’s sap and the tunneling though the inner bark that weakens and eventually kills the tree. As of last month, the emerald ash borer spread from Michigan to 12 other states. The USDA says the beetle is responsible for the death or decline of tens of millions of ash trees.

In Missouri the EAB (as the USDA has come to call it) has been found in a county that’s about 140 miles south of this botanical garden. That county has been “quarantined.” I learned that a quarantine means that sawmills in that county are inspected regularly and that ash and other hardwood chips or logs can’t be taken outside the county. The people at the conservation center also said that law enforcement officials could stop and turn back trucks suspected carrying firewood out of the quarantined county.

As yet, nary an EAB has been spotted in this county. But the “purple traps” have been set up in this botanical garden and in some ash trees in two other city parks as an early warning system. The traps are purple because EAB’s are attracted to purple. The sides are covered with the beetle’s preferred scents mixed in a sticky adhesive. Once an EAB lands on the trap it’s stuck for good. The traps are checked periodically for remains.

The old-fashioned tan and black-stripped honey bees are hard to find anymore so I always look for plants and flowers that attract them. None better than the ground-hugging moss roses (Portulaca grandiflora). This morning there were hundreds of honeybees burrowing into the flowers.




The daylilies are way past their peak. The daylily plots were filled with many spent blooms that were brown, shriveled, and disheveled. In sharp contrast was this spent bloom of a blackberry lily (Belamcanda chinensis). When a blackberry lily finishes blooming, the flower neatly folds itself up into a spiral.







cloudy: breeze from the northwest: 63ºF

It’s the middle of July in the mid-West. It ought to be hot. But, it’s not. I’m glad I put on a long-sleeved shirt over my t-shirt this morning. One of the walkers we passed was even wearing a light jacket with the hood up.

While it’s still the height of summer the lushness of the botanical garden has begun to show some fading. Here and there some sun scorched leaves. A few of the early flowering shrubs have begun to yellow and their blooms now are burnished. Maybe it’s this September-like day in July that’s making me skip ahead to fall before its time.

I like the addition of a couple of large chalk drawings of flowers that have appeared on the walks around the entrance fountain. There’s a drawing of an African daisy on one side. On the other, there’s this one of a very purple Purple Coneflower.







The hollyhocks (Alcea rugosa) in the Ottoman Garden have finished flowering and are developing seed capsules along the stems of their tall stocks. As the capsules mature and just before they open wide enough to drop their disk-shaped seeds, this is what they look like.



I like finding new incarnations of flowers and plants that I’ve know since childhood. Usually the new varieties “correct” some perceived shortcomings of the old standards. This morning I happened to see this cleome named ‘Senorita Rosalita’ in the Baer Garden. ‘Senorita Roselita’ has an answer to every naysayer’s objection to cleomes: “They’re too tall, spindly, and top heavy” – ‘Rosalita’ is a bushy, three-to four-feet tall plant that works well as in a border instead of being stuck at the back of a flower bed. Then there’s: “The foliage stinks, it’s sticky, and so prickly that I don’t want to get near it” – ‘Rosalita’ doesn’t and isn’t. When I touched and rubbed the underside of a leaf it felt a bit like rubbing the eraser of a pencil. There still was a scent, but it was mild and not a bit skunky. And finally: “The damned things are covered with seed pods that constantly need cutting to keep the plants from reseeding like weeds next year. ” – ‘Rosalita’ is sterile – no seed pods to deal with and no volunteer Senorita’s next season. With all these improvements it makes me wonder when is a cleome not a cleome.

In an adjacent bed I spotted a kind of rudbeckia I’d never seen before – a red one. Like newer varieties of purple coneflowers that have strayed from the color purple, this relative of the Black-Eyed Susan called ‘Cherry Brandy’ has a chocolate-colored raised center and petals that make an orderly switch from burgundy to cherry-red. ‘Cherry Brandy’ was developed by the English seed company Thompson & Morgan. They say it’s “the world’s first rudbeckia from seed.” I don’t know whether the qualifier “first from seed means” there are other red rubeckias that don’t come from seeds, but anyway these are stunning – especially the younger ones with tiny phosphorescent yellow stamens circling their cones.

I’ve been buying caladium bulbs directly from Florida growers for at least ten years. I use them to edge a row of shrubs in my backyard. So I've seen and tried lots of different varieties over the years. Still every year I seem to find one at the botanical garden that I’ve never seen before. Last year it was ‘Thai Beauty’ – a bicolor with such pronounced tracery on the leaves that it was like looking at a stained glass window. This morning I saw this one aptly named ‘Galaxy.’ A web search identified ‘Galaxy’ as an exclusive of a Florida caladium grower named Happiness Farms near Lake Placid, Florida. ‘Galaxy’ was developed by Paul Phypers, a potato farmer from Michigan who when he moved to Florida turned to bananas, then to Easter lilies and Gerbera daisies, and finally to caladiums.

A pair of stone lions has appeared outside the Moon Gate of this botanical garden’s Chinese Garden. The lions are tethered to the ground with bolts and tan strapping. That likely means they’re here for a temporary stay or that their permanent moorings aren’t ready yet. Nothing was in place describing why the lions are here or exactly how they fit with the symbolism of the Chinese scholar’s garden. More will come, I hope.