Dry County

The Aeonium's not thirsty, it's dormant:

 
Some areas of eastern England get about what parts of Southern California get for annual rainfall:  15 inches (38 cm).  But rainfall isn't everything--there is the number of sunny days, and there are winter temperatures, summer heat, and relative humidity to consider as well, along with the distribution of the rain over the year, pH, soil composition, drainage, prevailing wind, and on and on.

How dry is dry enough?  I found out with my tiny Echeveria plants.  I put them on a highly visible sloped spot by the stairway where I could dote upon them every time I went up and down the stairs.  Afternoon shade; perfect drainage, what could be better?

There are Echeverias in there somewhere. My doting opportunity became instead guilt-inducing every trip past this spot:


They didn't grow at all, remaining about 1 inch (2.5 cm) wide.  At first I thought it was my fault for having left them in a pot for too long, until one day I left a slightly leaky hose dripping slowly at the top of the slope,  The soil became thoroughly moist down to a depth of about 2" (~5 cm).  Within just a few days they were double the size.  Instant growth.  The poor long-suffering baby Echeverias had only been waiting for water--enough water. 


The light sprinkling they were getting from the irrigation system wasn't doing it.  I checked the average annual rainfall of Oaxaca State, Mexico.  Oaxaca, besides being fun to figure out how to pronounce, (Wa-ha'-ka) is pure paradise for Echeverias.  Oaxaca is home to more Echeveria species than just about anywhere else on earth (including the shelves on my patio).  It has an average annual rainfall of 750-800 mm (29.5"-31.5") or about double of what we get, and about triple of what I thought Echeverias get.

Now I know. 

A plant that wanted water:


As to tomatoes, this is still August, therefore they continue.  Another day, another round of picking.  This 'Mortgage Lifter' weighs 25 ounces (700 mg).


Crude (very crude) calculations lead me to believe that one tomato contains about a pint and a half of water.  I'm impressed.  Somehow or other the tomato plant managed to suck at least a pint and a half of water out of fairly dry ground to produced that fruit, and the plant had many fruits.  Where did all that water come from?   I'm giving six tomato plants combined a couple of gallons of water a week; not more than that.  Are they stealing it from the Echeverias or something?  Killing and sucking the blood of gophers?  (Now that's a good idea.  Tomato plants that did that would sell like crazy! ) 

Different day, different tomatoes:

 

The lovely thing about plants is that the more you learn about them, the more impressive and amazing they become.  Plant lovers are generally level-headed and modest people.  Must be the plants that make us so.  I know in my case, those are virtues I would have been unable to come up with on my own. 


The Plumeria don't get much water either.  Is that why it's stingy with flowers?  A new mystery to investigate.


Anyway, sorry about the crappy photos.  They just were not turning out yesterday.  It was too hot to take more than one quick shot of anything.  Is this any better?

Corn Star

I read an Emily Green post in the LA Times @home blog yesterday.  She hand-pollinated her corn, regretted growing it, "too much water, not enough enjoyment", and won't grow it again.



In contrast, I'm enjoying my corn.  It's been interesting, though I still don't know what I'll get as far as a crop.  Corn, I've found, is very like grass:  it needs lots of water and a significant amount of nitrogen, and it likes full (very full) sun.  No surprise there:  corn is merely an extremely hybridized grass.  I've had to water mine daily, although a gallon or two for all two dozen or so plants has been plenty, which doesn't seem that lavish.  (That's a gallon for all of them, not a gallon for each plant.)



The tassels emerged last weekend, and within a couple of days were oozing a golden and sneeze-inducing plethora of pollen.  I was taken aback as I saw no indication of ears anywhere--until the tassels were really broadcasting their pollen.  Then, magically, where seemingly the day before there was nothing, there were suddenly silks ready to gather the golden cloud.  Of course the corn stalks know what they are doing.  How could I doubt?

 I, like Ms. Green, did some hand pollinating, though I didn't see a need, since there was pollen everywhere, especially up my nose.  But because I really want some corn, I broke off pieces of tassel and thoroughly shook them over every patch of silk.

As soon as the silks brown, indicating pollination, I will have to dribble a little mineral oil on the silks to prevent an invasion of an ear-boring caterpillar.  Apparently this works, and is far less toxic than a chemical insecticide, which I saw being lavishly applied to the local corn field, which is why I got motivated to grow my own in the first place.   



I was hoping for really tall corn.  The tallest stalks are the ones that get an hour or so more sunlight than the stalks at the other end of the rows, which are shaded by 3:00pm and are only 4 feet tall.  The tallest are nearly seven feet tall. (2 M).  If I really knew what I was doing I would have 10 foot stalks.  I have to figure out if the seven-footers also got more lawn food, or if it was sun only that gave them the extra height.  I suppose that involves growing corn again next year, and I might, depending on how good the ears are.  



Unlike Emily Green, I've had fun.  She's sophisticated, I assume;  I'm still a wide-eyed innocent, I guess.  Apres corn, I know a little bit more than I used to about growing plants.  I enjoyed the sheer madcap speed of corn:  try watching a Yucca for six weeks and see if you can notice anything different.  The stalks are decorative planted on the front slope with the Aloes, Agaves, Tagetes lemonii and Calothamnus villosus.  They are...unexpected.  It's good, it's good.

Yucca seven weeks ago:


Yucca today:


Corn today:


Corn seven weeks ago:


How much longer before we eat?  A week?  Two?  The butter is getting impatient.

Detailed information on the fertilization of corn here and here. 

Today, it said "Thank You."

When we moved in I bought a dozen different tall bearded Iris from Schreiner's of the Beautiful Iris Catalogs.  Most of them did not survive, because my definition of "not-too-moist, well-drained soil" is most people's definition  of "the Mojave Desert".  The Iris died of thirst.  I killed an innocent Salvia greggii at the same time, as I remember.  This Salvia x 'Ultra Violet' has gotten better treatment, probably because I still feel guilty about that S. greggii.  The S. greggii label did say "don't over water", but again, I translated "don't over water" as Sahara-like conditions.



By chance, a couple of the doomed dozen Iris survived, a blue/purple one, and a very pale lavender/blue, and one yellow that survived underneath a Baccharis 'Twin Peaks' that overran it, but also shaded it.  Finally eleven years on, the yellow Iris has a decent spot in which to grow.  Today, as the sprinkler hit it, it said "Thank you."



Sometimes plants are as forgiving as dogs.  Not always, but sometimes. 

The Color Of Thursday

Black and white...
Aloe barbarae:


...white and black...
Cereus species:


...blue and yellow...
Clematis 'Rhapsody' and Hakonechloa macra 'All Gold':


...pink and orange...
Hemerocallis 'Strawberry Candy':


...orange and pink...
Rosa 'Distant Drums':


...and blue, like parachutes floating softly to earth.
Clematis 'Perle d'Azur'


The color of Thursday.

A Firewise Slope Of Native California Plants

Rockrose:


I had the very good luck to be able to visit a garden filled with trees and shrubs native to the immediate area.  The garden was intended to be as firewise as possible, and work to achieve this goal is ongoing. 

Most of the garden is a steep slope, and wildfires travels up slopes. 

The main trees on the slope are native oaks:  scrub, Engelmanii, and Kelloggii.  There is also a large Prunus illicifolia, which maintains a deep green color despite a lack of water.  The main shrubs on the slope are a variety of Ceonothus and Manzanita (Arctostaphylos).

A thriving Ceonothus:


Manzanita are especially beautiful planted so as to be backlit by the sun.  The contrast between the cool blue-green foliage and the deep burgundy bark makes for a lovely if restrained effect.  A native California plant garden is a subtle garden.


There is a patch of Mantijia Poppy (Romneya coulteri), cut back for the summer dormant season, along with Salvias and Rockrose. 


Some irrigation is performed, especially to establish new plants.  Periodic gopher attacks cause the occasional plant death. 
 

Space is allowed between plants, and the areas under the oaks are kept clear.  The more dense the vegetation, the worse the fire.  A careful balance must be struck between vegetation that holds the slope in place and the need for fire safety.


Succulent Aloes at the top of the slope will help to create a defensible barrier around the home.  Cereus and Opuntia are effortless plants here:  lay a piece on the ground, get new plants...


There is a lawn.  This lawn is regularly used as a play area by children, and it also increases the defensible space around the home.  Lawn has its place and use, even in California, and this is an example of sensible use.  The lawn is watered just enough to keep it alive.




Succulents add architectural interest and are a fine contrast with the shrubby native plants. 




Though not native, the Echium has proven valuable for erosion control.  Sometimes a pragmatic approach is wise.  Native birds and bees are attracted to the Echium, so they sustain native life in that respect. 


River stones from the Azusa area were collected (legally, by permit) and used as edging and texture.  This Echeveria is thriving in a site very like its native conditions. 


It was a wonderful visit.  I was very lucky to be offered an extra and totally gorgeous Echeveria.  

Wow!  I was thrilled to have it.  Is there a better thing to do than visit gardens?  I think not.

This Week On The Death Rack

When I walked past the Death Rack at Lowe's yesterday I heard a voice.  Something was calling.

The Death Rack at Lowe's has yielded a few good things at great prices.  If you are not familiar with it,  Lowe's Death Rack contains all the plants that could not handle the sales environment, plants that are either wilting, mostly dead, damaged, or otherwise close to worthless. Some of the plants are truly doomed--trying to sell a potted Tulip bulb in Southern California after the bloom is finished--well...maybe there was value in the bow on the pot.  


But the relatively experienced gardener can find value.  In the past, I've gotten a couple of Echeverias, a Pachyveria, and a Dendrobium Orchid for a dollar or two each, and a decent Flower Carpet rose for $1.62.   Yesterday the voice belonged to the shrub rose 'Belinda's Dream'.  $3.99.  

"Take me!"  It cried.  I could hear its voice distinctly.   "I'm thirsty!  Water.  Please!"

Normally plants on the Death Rack don't cry out to me--they know better.  The dried-up Snapdragons in June, the sun-scorched brown ferns, the soaking wet cacti, the floppy etiolated Jade plant bonsai, the yellowed "lucky bamboo" are easy to ignore.  

It may have been timing:  at home in the garden, 'Belinda's Dream' is putting on an astounding August show of flowers.  So I stopped at that cry.  The rose looked exactly as a two-gallon sized, healthy, own root 'Belinda's Dream' should look:  wimpy and nondescript.  


This variety looks undistinguished until it establishes itself, and then it looks fabulous.  

This 'Belinda's Dream' is established:
  
Nondescript as a baby, fabulous grown up.  The Death Rack assigner obviously didn't know that, and condemned it.  Being a 'Belinda's Dream' owner, I did.  It cried; I answered.  


The label was wacky.  Rosa arbustiva?  "arbustiva" is apparently "shrub or shrub like".   Okay.  I am completely in favor of botanical nomenclature, but that's a little silly.  Call it a shrub rose and be done with it. 


Mainly, August has been taken up with tomatoes.  That continues.  



I find I hardly blog about roses lately.  You would think by blog content that they are leafless, scraggly, and dying.  No.   I am out there daily sniffing, dead-heading, and gawking at them, and that all goes unblogged.  I'm fairly obsessed with 'Tamora' and 'Bishops Castle', 'Barcelona' and 'Bolero';  they are always blooming, I am always sniffing and deadheading, and I've got a blog full of Agaves and xeriscaped front yards.  Odd.

'Bolero':


I fret constantly over 'Gemini', which deserves a better location than it has, and nag daily at myself to get rid of 'Touch Of Class', which has had nine years to prove itself, but hasn't.  

'Barcelona':
 

But I haven't been blogging about them at all.  I guess I assume it would be repetitive.  Obsessions, real obsessions, are so tiny, scrunched down, and strange, that they cannot be of interest to anyone besides the obsessor.    

'Sombreuil' is falling down, falling down, falling down...

 
Or I am so in tune with roses that I don't think at all about them?  It is some portion of my unconscious mind that cares for them, just as my fingers can touch type without any involvement of my conscious mind.  What ever part of me that cares for roses without thinking at all heard the cry from the Death Rack. 

'Puregold':


The human brain is like the garden.  All kinds of things go on in there that you would never expect.