florjus blog

Grass & Smoke

Watching grasses sway in the breeze backlit by the setting sun is... entrancing.  

I wanted to capture this scene on video.  But something happened.  

Wild fires spread in eastern Canada.  Carried on a southern wind, the smoke blew down to the mid Atlantic.  The sky was covered in an ominous haze ---- obscuring color, clouds and light.  Birds muted their singing.  Eerie.  

This spring, grasses dominate my favorite little meadow.  But grasses are always a part of the scene.

Photos below are from a previous spring with glorious morning and evening light.

Stalking Wild Asparagus (Asparagus Officinalis) and Allegheny Blackberry (Rubus Allegheniensis) Gone Wild 

I noticed the wispy asparagus foliage in the bizarre summer of 2020.  It was growing wild on an old homestead's edges.  In any other summer, a sight of asparagus growing in such an odd place would've suprised (maybe shocked) me.  But this was summer 2020; wild asparagus didn't have the same shock value as world events.

I revisited the area for two years to get a photo of spring's prized delicacy. 

Early May 2023: I spotted wild asparagus spears on the verge of sprouting.  Of course, I didn't have a camera.  Encroaching dusk stole the light anyway.  And I returned home praying that hungry deer wouldn't discover it before I got my photos, damn it.

As you can see, I got lucky.

Near the small asparagus crop, blackberry brambles are growing wild.

I thought I'd throw in a photo of blackberry blossoms looking pretty on an overcast evening.  Sadly, the photo can't capture how pretty the blossoms smell. 

Really, the blackberries are growing into an impenetrable thicket (see the video).  Hoverflies, bumble bees and honey bees swarm over the flowers.  Berries will cover the thorny, whip-like stems in June and July for the annual birds' feast.

Korean Dogwood (Cornus Kousa) Tree 

I haven't loved spring 2023.  The weather is wildly erratic.  One day feels like the end of June.  The next day is like the beginning of March.  

I look forward to lilac blooms but an unseasonably hot day fries the flowers to a crisp.  Delicate vetch flowers formed seed pods before I saw the flowers.

Instead of the season unfolding at its usual pace, some unseen remote control is fast forwarding it to the end.  And it's a little unsettling.

But it's not all doom.  The Asian dogwoods are doing just fine depite living on the edge of a concrete parking lot.  In full afternoon sun.

Why "Asian" and not Korean?  Because I haven't found a definitive way to distinguish Chinese, Korean and Japanese dogwoods.  We call them Korean but kousa is a Japanese word. 

 I won't try to untangle all that now.

Let's celebrate the triumpant blossoms of a volatile spring.

White Fringetree (Chionanthus Virginicus) 

Oh how I wish I could get a photo of this entire tree in full bloom.  Unfortunately, I've encountered white fringetree in unbeautiful places.  

It's a shame that highways, chain link fences, dumpsters and parking lots sully an American tree of such dainty beauty.  Maybe I'm not the photographer I think I am.  There's a thought.

Whether I get a good white fringetree photo or not, the tree deserves planting.  It's a small tree (perfect for shrinking 21st century gardens) that grows from 10-20 feet tall, hardy in zones 4-9 and tolerates some pollution.  I bet it could tolerate some shade in hotter zones as it prefers moist soils.

Did I mention that the delicate, feathery flowers emit a powerful fragrance?  You don't even need to get close to enjoy the perfume; it  drifts on the breeze to find you.

I rest my case.  Plant a white fringetree.

Spanish Bluebells (Hyacinthoides Hispanica)

Turns out bluebells don't have to be blue.  Spanish bluebells are sometimes white, sometimes pink.

Unlike English bluebells, they're not fragrant.  But they still have the power to enchant when grown in masses.

Don't talk up Spanish bluebells' charms in the UK; they threaten English bluebells' habitat and are unbeloved.

Tulips (Tulipa spp.)

I've declared that I'll take daffodils over tulips anytime, anywhere.  But I think of myself as open minded person.

I mean, look at these tulips in different stages of bloom.  Look at the subtle variation in color.  I don't even know how to describe those colors.  Shades of melon?

I considered why tulips turned me off in the past.  I didn't like their stiff formality in the garden; tulips clashed with the borderline chaos of cottage gardens.  

Yeah.  Tulips reminded me of my university's lavishly planted stifling tulip beds.  Tulips whose fate (like most tulips) was to never mingle with another plant or flower.

Contrasting those rigid plantings are these loose petalled, languid stemmed tulips.  The flowers are kin rather than clones.  They're all tulips but each one displays it own quirks.

Am I falling in love?  Kind of.  But without manifesting a greenhouse, squirrels and the vagaries of Mid Atlantic springs will leave my love unrequited.

Autumn Olive (Eleagnus Umbellata)

In the words of Penn State Extension's website, autumn olive is "an aggressive invader of roadsides, pastures, abandoned agricultural land, forest edges, and other disturbed habitats."   I'm a witness.

Like many of the "once loved, now hated plants," it's charms seduce.  And who'd have thought such a graceful beauty was once planted to heal soils denatured by mining and heavy industry.  So it's a soil doctor/healer of sorts.

A grove of autumn olive in flower scents the air with an enchanting perfume.  It's a pleasure to smell it on morning walks.

But don't plant it.

Dandelions (Taraxacum Officinal)

It's spring.  And bright yellow randomly dots lawns, fields and gardens.  Dandelions.

The sight of these cheerful flowers inspires chemical warfare.  They're the bane of home owner's associations.

I battled dandelions as a novice gardener; I lost.  I to find a way to live with them.  Because digging out dandelion's immortal and regenerating tap root is for masochists who love back pain.

I slowed the plants down instead.  The unopened flowers buds make delicious capers.  With fewer flowers, fewer fluffy seed heads formed.  I get capers for pasta, hungry insects get food in a time of scarcity and small birds feast on the seeds.  We all win.  Except for dandelion haters.

On a morning stroll,  I noticed dandelion flowers dotted across a freshly mown lawn like bright yellow buttons.  It looked as though the flowers were sending a botanical coded message to us foolish humans.