Our 55-gallon rain barrel is my gauge for how long it has been since it rained. A good thunderstorm or two fills it. I dip out watering cans full as needed, when the container garden gets droopy, and to water my various recent transplants. It seems like lots of water for the first few days I use it, but after a week of dry weather, I start handling the watering can with care, trying not to spill too much. Nine or ten days and I am scrapping the bottom of the barrel.
This is a bit of a game, since we have city water and I could easily use that. I am no farmer, and, when the barrel runs dry, we are not in danger of starving or dying of thirst. Still, it is satisfying to get full use of our roof water, and it is good for us to remind ourselves how precious water is. My grandparents, and my wife’s grandparents, just a few generations back, experienced dry wells and needed cisterns, and prayed for rain to save crops. All over the world people live with extreme water anxiety, living where you can’t go down to the corner and buy a Slurpee when you get hot and thirsty.
When my son was in college, a couple decades back, he volunteered at a national monument in Arizona, where I visited him. We walked into the ruins of the Anasazi villages near Flagstaff. I remember an archaeologist telling me about their farming methods. Instead of one big field, they had little fields here and there, scattered over a wide area, so that some might catch one of the fickle scattered showers. This is a region where you can go a whole season without a drop while your neighbor gets flooded. The Anasazi also built tanks: rock cisterns in little mountain gullies to catch the rain off a hillside the way my rain barrel catches the water from our roof. It is easy to romanticize the past, but when you see the abandoned rock shelter and cornfields, like the played out farms of 1930’s American dust bowl, you get a sense of how marginal life can be, how much we humans, like all living things, are subject to chance variation and shifting long-term patterns of rainfall, snow, and temperature.
Ohio, where I am writing this, is blessed with plenty of rain, but it does not always fall when you want it to. In July, with the late spring soaking rains over, the thunderstorms can be fickle too. It clouds up for a few days, and you even hear thunder, then it rains just north of you, or just south. THis can be annoying at first, when you are hauling buckets of water to thirsty plants beyond the reach of the hose. But, when this goes on for days, you start to wish and gesture and pray and WILL the clouds to let loose above you.
The rain dance is, perhaps, part of that overly romanticized past, or worse, a racist trope, something done by primitive natives, ignorant of science and ruled by superstition. I think we hang on to the notion of dancing for rain because we all secretly believe it deep below our rational minds. We see clouds gather and pass us by and we try to bargain with them, pull them and influence them like ball players waving at a long foul ball, trying to make it fair, to wrap inside the foul pole for a home run. We may be lucky to have clean water piped into our homes, but we still feel that need to influence the heavens. If butterflies can start earthquakes, why can’t we bring home the rain?
A few years ago, my buddy Karl and I were sitting in on a college class called “Local Flora”—Ohio lets senior citizens audit university classes. The teacher asked, “Which plant family do you think is the biggest, by number of species?” My buddy, who is hard of hearing, asked me, in a loud whisper, to repeat the question. I am hard of hearing too, so you can imagine how that worked out. Our answer was “Asteraceae,” the daisy family. Here in the temperate zone, they are everywhere you look. “Good guess,” said the teacher, “but the answer is Orchidaceae, the orchids.”
We don’t have a lot of species of wild orchids here in Ohio. What has me thinking about this question now, as I watch various daisy family members bloom, is that I am currently working on a book of pollination poems by Ohio poets. These two plant families have such different approaches to pollination. Pollination, as you probably know, is how plants have sex. Some just hope the wind blows some pollen in the right direction. While simple and effective, this method takes a lot of pollen. I remember parking under some pine trees in Georgia for a couple weeks, and when I came back my windshield had a pollen layer about an inch deep. Wind pollinating plants waste an awful lot of pollen, and pollen takes energy to produce. Orchids and daisies use a much more efficient (and kinky) process. They rely on a third party, an animal, to carry a little pollen from one flower to another. All the pretty colors and intoxicating odors we associate with flowers are devoted, not to us, but to these little animal partners in the plant’s three-way sex party.
Orchids, which mostly live in the tropics, have some notoriously secret assignations. Many species of orchid rely on a single species of insect or bird for pollination. They hide their precious nectar for the one true partner who will carry the pollen to, and only to, another orchid of that species. In South America, there are hummingbirds with long curiously shaped beaks that coevolved with orchids who have long curiously shaped blossoms. Lesser birds and insects need not apply. Only the blessed one will do. Wow! If humans needed hummingbirds to have sex, what a strange world it would be. I blush. I wonder. Maybe, in a spiritual sense, really good sex does involve some cosmic hummingbird, but I digress.
The daisies, on the other hand, have a “come one, come all” approach to their insect pollinators. Sometimes our purple coneflowers (echinacea) look like Hopkins Airport, with various bees, flies, and butterflies jostling each other as they land or take off. Instead of hiding one pot of nectar like an orchid, the daisy family splits the nectar between many florets. Take the giant sunflower. What looks like a single big flower is actually a complicated arrangement of small florets. Around the outside are the “ray florets”, spreading out like flower petals, like the rays in a drawing of the sun. inside the circle of ray florets is a large convex disc, covered with disc florets. Each of these disc florets has its own nectary, its own ovary, waiting for pollen from the leg of a visitor. Each disc floret has the potential to produce a seed for us to roast. And oh, how the bugs love these things, from the smallest aster to the biggest sunflower, they stop and visit floret after floret on the big nectar vending machine.
This Zinnia is one of 23600 species in the family Asteraceae. Zinnias are native to Mexico, so this monarch may feel right at home on this flower. We won’t see these guys much until later this summer.
So, who has the better strategy, the orchids or the asters? It depends. Rainforests are ancient and complex ecosystems, with many thousands of plant, animal, fungi, and microbial components, constantly cycling nutrients, passing the love from one level of the system to another, and hardly spilling a drop. One of the ironies of burning the Amazon to make farms or grazing land, is that the resulting soil is disappointing. All the nutrients were in the system, and little makes it down to build topsoil. In a rainforest there are many specialists like the orchid and its hummingbird. The orchid approach to pollination has served it well for ages, but this kind of specialization may be less useful when the forests are burned down.
Here in Ohio, where we burned the forests down a couple centuries ago, the asters seem to have a good plan. Lay out row after row of nectar bearing florets, turn on the landing lights and invite anything with wings, and even a few crawlers, to come join the party. “Let the orgy begin,” says Elsa Johnson, one of the poets in the aforementioned book. Yes, plants are doing it, day and night, right out in the open, the dance of life.
Text by Lois Rose, photos by Lois Rose unless otherwise noted
The Cleveland Botanical Garden is welcoming visitors again at last. Making a reservation is easy, strolling the grounds is a reassuring pleasure. Think of this photo montage as a scavenger hunt: name that plant. Better still, catch the next moment in time as summer unfolds at CBG.
Ironclad refers to a durable group of Rhododendrons that have proven reliably hardy in Northeastern Ohio. My favorite among the ironclads is R. Nova Zembla. I have my reasons. First, the color in medium shade is a deep passionate remarkable red. No orange tones. Not overly purple or pink. Personally, I think it would make a great lipstick color for women of distinction. Within the broad blossoms are dark subtle speckled throats and long lashes that beg closer inspection. I like to enjoy the blossoms in a bowl of water on the kitchen table. Second, this is a tough performer with deep evergreen foliage that remained unmolested even through our recent -30 degree winters. Finally, it blooms at the perfect time for me to enjoy!
Rhododendron Nova Zembla
You may have noticed that nursery folks escape to their own self-enforced witness protection program each year from late-March through mid-May. We resurface for a breath of air and an afternoon off around Memorial Day. The great thing about Nova Zembla is that it is always waiting for me when I arrive! We enjoy such an engaging and amicable community of landscape plants here in Northeast Ohio that it’s easy to flit about from flower to flower, overcome with this bounty and the buyer’s paradox of so much beauty, without forming long-lasting relationships with a single performer. Nova Zembla has been my BFF in a neglected yard for over thirty-five years. Each Memorial Day we reconnect and rekindle our friendship.
I started with a lanky, one-sided leftover from our garden center and planted it in dry sandy shade beneath a limbed-up spruce. All these years later it remains awkward, lanky, rising to a six foot ridge line with color and healthy foliage on all sides. Meantime, the spruce is dying a slow death as the brown bottom limbs ascend toward the apex. I never water (at home). I might have thrown a handful of Osmocote under the Rhody in some years. My wife calls the yard a killing zone. And yet my Nova Zembla prospers and dominates the space.
The variety was developed by Koster & Sons in Boskoop, Holland, and introduced in 1902. They crossed R. ‘Parsons Grandiflorum’ with an unnamed red, which sounds intriguing and vaguely scandalous to me.
Rhododendron Nova Zembla
The name translates as ‘new land’ in some languages. There is a series of islands high up in the Northern Seas, between Russia and Finland, known as Novaya Zemlya. The islands are mostly glacier and tundra. I doubt there are any Rhododendrons there. The Soviet Union used the islands for nuclear testing for almost fifty years, including the Tsar Bomba in 1961, largest weapon ever detonated. In February, 2019, herds of polar bears left the ice and invaded what was left of the islands. Some blame global warming. I suspect the bears were out for Tsar Bomba retribution.
Rhododendron Haaga; reliably hardy in North Perry, Ohio; Blooms with R. ‘Nova Zembla; developed in Helsinki.
I had a nursery friend who told me years ago that they only achieved about 10% successful rooting on their R. Nova Zemblas. The fact that they kept sticking them year after year offers a keen insight into the nursery thought process. I toured Roemer Nursery, Madison, Ohio, back in 2009 when the founder, Gied Stroombeek, was still around. His propagator was sticking Rhody cuttings that day. She gathered tip cuttings from the stock plants, trimmed each leaf judiciously to reduce transpiration and save space in the rooting bench, then dipped the moistened cuttings in rooting powder. I imagine it was a strong formulation of IBA with about 98% talc. She let them air-dry on the worktable until the powder adhered like dried toothpaste. Then she stuck them in the raised bench of an ancient greenhouse using a long indexed board to keep the rows straight. The rooting mix was mostly fresh pine bark, similar to a modern container mix. They looked like orderly soldiers arrayed row on row. With all this labor required of a highly trained professional from the ever-diminishing ranks of the local propagator ‘guild’, perhaps it is not surprising that many Rhododendrons are produced via tissue culture these days.
My wife’s favorite Rhododendron is ‘Edith Bosley’, a classy deep purple, the best purple Rhody in our estimation. For Mother’s day last year I purchased one for her from Klyn Nurseries. Through no fault of theirs, it perished within a month. (Did I mention I never water the yard?) Knowing her affinity for ‘Edith’, someone purchased for her a small ‘Edith Bosley’at a Big Box store in Mentor (located on land previously cultivated by Paul Bosley, Sr. and his wife, Edith!). But the promising bud yielded not purple, but deep majestic red! I was overjoyed! Let the buyer beware of horticultural serendipity.
(There is an entertaining article by Paul Bosley, Sr., regarding how he met his wife, Edith, and how they selected the nursery property on Mentor Avenue: The Bicentennial Edition Lake County History, Lake County Historical Society, 1976, pages 296-300, ‘Stop 68’.)
brought no solace One of the ancient mighty ones came down — a huge oak three hundred years old sundered overnight Fierce winds ripped him bare rooted out of the over-saturated soil He lies now broken hollow
It has been a long cold spring troublingly abnormal Even in the fairest times I walk these woods trying not to see distressing things like these ruined young sugar maples the squirrels have stripped of bark thereby killing them It seems a whole generation will be lost ( but when does the world not live in existential threat? ) It is not possible for me to not notice not feel some measured grief
My love who often walks beside me walks with purpose — he looks ahead and does not see such things unless I show him how deep in the woods last fall’s pale gold leaves like small hands cupped ( like prayers ) still cling hang down and grace slim branches Young beech trees delicate silvery somehow hopeful
My friend the naturalist says Perhaps they are trying to become evergreen I think I understand what he means — old beech trees do not do this
Our eyes notice must focus on change and error beauty and wreck as with these exponential invasive tangles rose barberry briar — thorny plants that do not belong in these woods and there is no longer enough of me left to rip them out the way I used to although I try and
still wage war for sake of the old natural order — cut-leaf toothwort blooming : the ephemeral white butterflies it hosts : first blooms of cherry by the lake white washed across a grey fused sky You know — or should — nature on her own is never scanting Gaps will be filled just not always with what you wish
There are thorns embedded in my flesh knobbing my fingers They are part of me You must take me as I am today open and touched by these young buds of shadblow serviceberry mother — each small bud cloaked in softest grey silk fur that aches for stroke
While we welcome your visits, we’d like to suggest that you consider some factors before setting up residence. First, we use the areas directly below the spaces you want to inhabit, so you’ll need to be comfortable with our proximity. Second, you should be aware that other visitors sometimes access that space, and they’re not always friendly to your kind and may pose a danger to you and your potential offspring. While we don’t encourage intolerant behavior or actions that harm others, the aggressors usually visit at night when we’re not awake to chase them away. Finally, and most importantly, we have a cat. She isn’t allowed outdoors unless she’s on a harness or in her stroller, but please know that if you move in, you will be a superstar on kitty television. When the weather is better, we’ll open windows and the cat will be enthralled with your presence. She’ll stare at you all day, every day, and make adorable little chattering noises at you in an attempt to lure you through the screen and into her mouth.
If you are content with these circumstances, we look forward to your time with us. We understand if you may prefer to live elsewhere.
Best,
The Humans
Postscript: This was written towards the beginning of April. The prospective tenants included robins, eastern phoebes, and mourning doves. As of this posting, they have all decided to set up housekeeping elsewhere.
One prospective tenantOne of the robins’ nest attemptsThe resident predator
This small, aromatic, slow growing tree has distinctive fruit with wafer-like winged seeds. It is one of the northernmost American species in the Citrus family and is not a true Ash. Host plant for the giant swallowtail butterfly.
A suckering shrub that is tolerant of a wide range of conditions. The large, fragrant blooms attract pollinators, while the fruit is sought by wildlife. Maple-like, dark leaves become pale yellow in fall.
This perennial herb has tubular, two-lipped, bright scarlet flowers resembling messy-mop heads. It tolerates a wide range of conditions. Toothed, aromatic leaves have a minty aroma.
