For weeks now I’ve been admiring other people’s blooming magnolias. So pretty. And mine? Mine has been bare. True, it has that nice smooth silver gray bark. True, it has a lovely branching shape that even bare draws the eye to the end of the yard. But blossoms? Nuh-huh. Finally, however, it’s blooming. And it is absolutely worth the wait.
Magnolia soulangeana liliiflora ‘Nigra’
I love this shrub.
"Golden Girl," "Japanese Black Trifele," "Momotaro" and a smattering of the cherry tomato with the best name ever, "Honkin' Big Black Cherry."
But not all of the tomatoes are happy. I’ve seen more biotic diseases this season than in years past. I don’t know if it’s the varieties I chose or the fact that I have grown tomatoes in the same garden plot for five seasons now. Space is limited, unfortunately, and I don’t have the option of planting in a new area every season.
The least successful plant was “Pink Berkeley Tie-Dyed.” Its leaves began yellowing within a month of my planting it; I got about 10 ripe tomatoes from it before it died; they were very pretty but the flavor was not so special that I’ll repeat the experiment. I yanked the tattered remnants out of the ground at the beginning of July. “Missouri Love Apple” has never looked very healthy, and the crop it’s produced has been puny–but what delicious tomatoes!
“Big Mama”–what on earth is going on with “Big Mama”? The plant looks like it’s water-deprived and the fruit itself looks battered. Apparently the limp and curling leaves are fairly typical, judging by other growers’ comments. I thought the fruit wasn’t ripe but when I cut into it, the flesh was a deep red.
“Golden Girl” has become the new favorite of friends and neighbors. Mild in flavor, meaty, low acid–and so pretty! It’s a determinate but I’ve harvested a lot of fruit and it’s still producing.
I love “Japanese Black Trifele”. I actually put in two plants, I love it so much. I don’t know why it’s not officially a determinate–it produces a huge crop within a three-week span and then it essentially stops. For those three weeks, I am a happy, happy woman. I eat them for breakfast, for lunch and for dinner. I even share with certain discriminating friends.
Last and far from least, we have “Momotaro”. It’s a huge monster of a plant and it gives me a huge crop. It will continue to give me lovely medium-size pink fruit well into fall. When all else fails, “Momotaro” comes through.
Now the question is, will “Momotaro” be enough for fall? Or should I try a second crop? “Ace” perhaps? A greedy gardener’s decisions are never easy.
Roses get new names all the time. The same rose can have three or four names–and three or four different roses can have the same name.
Take a handsome climber I first saw clambering over a tall arbor at the Huntington years ago. It was identified as ‘Harlekin’, a Kordes hybrid. (Kordes is probably best known for ‘Iceberg’, the most widely planted rose in California.) I wanted a nice pink climber to replace one that wasn’t performing well on the front fence, so I went looking for it. I couldn’t find it–but I could find ‘Kiss of Desire’, which, it turns out, is the name it’s marketed under now. Kiss of Desire? Could a rose be afflicted with a more embarrassing name than that?
Then there’s ‘Valencia’, another Kordes rose. It’s a lovely apricot hybrid tea; I bought it five or six years ago from Arena Roses, and it’s done very well. But as I was researching it on Help Me Find–a wonderful resource for any rose gardener!–I ran across a bitter plaint from someone looking for ‘Valencia’ as it was 25 years ago, not as it is now. Evidently the ‘Valencia’ currently on the market is the third version–and in that rose fancier’s opinion, the current ‘Valencia’ is a pale copy of the original. I’d like to see that one sometime because the current ‘Valencia’ is gorgeous.
That’s the nature of hybridization. Varieties come and go, replaced on the market with something newer and possibly, though not necessarily, better. With vegetables it’s possible to save seed and grow varieties that are no longer commercially available. With roses you may be able to reproduce the one you desire vegetally, but first you have to find the variety you covet.
Sometimes, of course, you just have to find out what it’s being called now. Kiss of desire, indeed.
It's hard to imagine a prettier rose than the modern-day 'Valencia' but there are those who believe the version available 30 years ago is superior.
I suspect that every garden contains at least a few mystery plants, unless you start with a completely empty lot–and imported, sterilized soil. My garden came with a number of roses, many of which were unsalvageable, but nine of them survive to line the driveway. I’ve identified some; others remain nameless.
One is a handsome, fragrant bicolor, sometimes coral, sometimes orange. For a while I thought it was ‘Brigadoon’–but then I saw a properly identified ‘Brigadoon’ and realized just how wrong I was.
This is a common rose in my neighborhood, but none of the shrubs I see has an identifying tag. I suspect that mine came from Home Depot. It's a beautiful bud but as it ages, it becomes messy and unattractive. Still, it's fragrant and prolific, and so it remains in my garden. So far.
Another of my unidentified roses is tall, fragrant and prolific. It’s also lavender. I’m not partial to lavender roses, but friends love this one, so I cut handsome bouquets of it and give them away. What’s not to like about that?
A nameless lavender rose. Pretty if you like that sort of thing.
And then there’s this bright yellow tall bearded iris. This one is embarrassing. I have no idea what it is–but I bought it and I planted it. I know it came from Greenwood Daylilies and Irises. I’m pretty sure I have a record of all the irises I bought, but can I find that list? Nope. I put it in a safe place. Maybe someday I’ll find it. If I do, I’ll let you know what this iris is called. In the meantime, I’m cutting great stalks of it for a tall vase.
I have no excuse for not knowing the name of this iris. I chose it and planted it myself.
I wouldn’t want you to think I only grow Austin roses. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I grow Meilland roses too.
'Abbaye de Cluny' is a modern hybrid tea, meaning it's fragrant. 'Just Joey' is one of its parents and that shows in the lovely color and shape.
'Colette', in other climes a tall shrub, is a short climber here. I have it on an arch leading into the back garden. It gives me a fabulous first flush--and then it provides an occasional blossom during the rest of the season. I guess when your growing season is 12 weeks and you get flowers for six weeks, you feel okay with what is, in effect, a once-blooming rose. When your growing season is nine months, you wonder why you waste your garden space on something that only blooms for six weeks. But it's sure pretty right now.
'Jude the Obscure', introduced by David Austin in 1995, changed my life in the garden. Before 'Jude', I thought all roses were just those thorny, dull, scentless hybrid teas that proliferated in the 1960s and 1970s (and there are still plenty of them around). I had never seen an old garden rose, and I had no idea that Austin and others were determined to combine the old rose forms and fragrance with modern disease resistance and repeat blooming. One look at 'Jude' and I was a convert. It was like seeing a Redoute come to life.
Ravishing though 'Jude the Obscure' (yes, Austin does have a certain literary bent to his names!) is, it's a bit reticent when it comes to reblooming. 'Tamora,' which is right next to it in my backyard, has no such problem. What a generous rose this is. And unlike many Austins, it doesn't turn into a space hog.
Named for the legendary English garden designer, 'Gertrude Jekyll' has been around for more than 25 years. It's only been in my garden for nine years. I love it passionately at this time of year, when it is covered in blossoms and their fragrance drifts out to the street and sweeps into the house. Ask me how I feel about it in August, when its incredibly thorny canes snag passers-by and it hasn't given me a single flower for two months. Every August I swear I'm going to take it out. Every spring I relent. But what possessed me to plant such a thorny creature right next to the gate?
David Austin, in his book on his own roses, recommends planting 'Gertrude Jekyll' in groupings of two or three. Possibly if I had acres and acres in which to plant roses, that would be feasible. As it is, serious pruning (thank you, Nina Rumely!) keeps it to a somewhat manageable eight-foot spread.
More photos from the garden.
This exquisite semi-double is David Austin's 'Comte de Champagne'. It's only been in the ground for two years, where it's part of a grouping of peach- and apricot-colored roses.
I was the lucky recipient of a castoff. Some unfortunate person didn't have room for one of the most beautiful roses I've ever seen. 'Heaven on Earth'--well named!--is so laden with blooms right now that the young branches bend almost to the ground from the weight of them. A Kordes hybrid, it was introduced in 2003.
There’s nothing like the first flush. It’s glorious. I usually write about my garden problems–you know, the unending and losing battle with nut grass, that stuff. But I don’t garden because of the weeds. I garden because there are days like today.
So today I’m just going to post some photos.
Probably my favorite Austin rose, and that's saying something! It's supposed to be a tall shrub rose, but here in the San Fernando Valley, it grows to the top of my nine-foot patio cover and then spreads out for six feet in any direction. Peach Blossom blooms and blooms and blooms. The flowers don't last long, they're not much good in a vase--but the fragrance is heavenly and there are always more in bud.
A rare solo shot of Peach Blossom. Usually the blooms are crowded together.
I love delicate, semi-double cup-shaped blooms. Peach Blossom is only one of many such roses in my garden.
The day I plant tomatoes is a highlight of my personal calendar. I went to the first of the Tomatomania seedling sales, on March 25, and I was so good. So restrained. So disciplined. I only bought one more plant than I have room for.
Now they are in the ground, mulched with Bumper Crop for the moment (I think the bed as a whole will get a bale or so of alfalfa for mulch; I’ve never tried it before but a Nebraska farm boy of my acquaintance recommends it, and he should know) and protected from nocturnal nibblers with a misbegotten array of bags and burlap. It doesn’t seem to take much to dissuade the nibblers, but if I leave the plants unguarded, there won’t be a leaf left by dawn.
Pink Berkeley Tie-Dyed is supposed to be wonderful. Am I actually going to forgo Cherokee Purple in favor of it?
Then there’s Mr. Stripey. Mr. Stripey can be an extremely irritating tomato. The first time I grew it, it was wonderful, a delicious and beautiful bicolor that gave me tons of fruit. The next year it was…something else. Apparently at least half the time it’s labeled Mr. Stripey but it’s actually Tigerella. There are people who like Tigerella. I’m not one of them. Scott Daigre, Mr. Tomatomania himself, says he was promised that this is really Mr. Stripey and not Tigerella. We’ll know in about 80 days. It’s taken me five years to get over that last disappointment and risk the space on another try. (Okay, I’m not really over it. I’m still bitter.)
The one I don’t quite have a place for? Another bicolor, Gold Medal. According to the label, it bears one-pound yellow fruits with red streaks and grows well in cool nighttime temperatures. Um, yeah. Maybe I should find it a home with cool nighttime temperatures?
There is one tiny little hitch. My friend Nina is going to bring me at least three more seedlings. Seedlings of tomatoes I need.
