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The beautiful flora of Vieques, Puerto Rico.  The ceiba tree at the bottom is 300 year sold. The colors of the bouganvilla are so vibrant there, and the orchids grow along parking lots and in cracks in the sidewalks. The fauna are coming soon. 

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A Tale of Two Rooftops

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Flora of Virginia

I could not be more excited about a new book out giving a comprehensive look at the diverse vegetation of Virginia. My mother is a proud Virginian so I grew up spending summers and vacations there, and still make regular pilgrimages to Monticello and elsewhere. This book replaces the 250-year-old Flora Virginica, the last comprehensive look at the area's plants. The project took over a decade, and seems to have been well worth the weight - the book weighs seven pounds and As for the cover image, Adrian Higgins explains in a column on the book:

"The authors had many emblematic Virginia plants to choose from: perhaps the state’s official bloom, the flowering dogwood, or the Virginia bluebell, or the twinleaf, a wildflower whose Latin name honors Thomas Jefferson. The winner was the delicate Eastern spring beauty, Claytonia virginica. It is named for John Clayton, an 18th-century Virginia botanist whose 1737 manuscript became the basis of 'Flora Virginica.'

The book also promises to include some great pen-and-ink botanical illustrations by Lara Call Gastinger, Michael Terry, and Roy Fuller. It's not exactly a coffee table book, but looks like a wonderful gift for anyone with a deep appreciation for Virginia's natural beauty. 

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I headed up to Stone Barns in Tarrytown, N.Y. for New Year's, and as always it was fascinating and beautiful. Their greenhouse is a marvel -- the moveable roof was firmly in place, of course, but the shoots just coming up in the propagation room were looking strong, and the heartier crops like chard and kale were going strong. They also told me they're working on designing a mid-sized tractor, appropriate for use on a small-ish farm that wouldn't need a full-sized model. I'd love to see that!

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The separation of art and science is a human construct that allows us to try to comprehend the complexity of our world. A big part of the joy of the garden, though, is the idea that these two disparate regimens join together.

Adrian Higgins, The Washington Post

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The Early American Gardens blog has a fascinating post on the garden journal of William Faris, an 18th century resident of Annapolis who kept a detailed account of his plants, garden design, and local gossip (the diary is owned by the Maryland Historical Society). The journal paints an incredibly detailed sense of the aesthetic and practical considerations of a craftsman's garden (as opposed to the more common accounts of aristocratic gardens from the era). As the post recounts, sometimes a tulip is not just a tulip:

Tulips were not the only bulb flower that caught his fancy; in 1798, he planted 4000 narcissus bulbs, bought from a neighbor. This tireless gardener’s greatest pleasure was creating new varieties of tulips in nursery beds at the back of his property, where he also hybridized roses. Faris saw his tulips as symbols of the new nation as well as reflections of classical republican ideals. On the eve on July 4, 1801, exactly 25 years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, Faris listed in his journal his tulip varieties by name. Namesakes included Presidents Washington and Madison and classical heroes such as Cincinnatus.

Apparently there are more diary entries to come - I definitely plan on reading more about Faris in the new year. 

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A visit to the beautiful Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Until the 20th century, botanic was more common than botanical, and the garden, which was founded in 1910, still goes by that name (as does the U.S. Botanic Garden in DC). 

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These pictures are from the gardens of the National Cathedral, where even on a recent chilly day a surprising number of blooms were still out and the fall colors were putting on quite the display. The intimate Bishop's Garden was designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr - his famous father designed Central and Prospect Parks, among others - and his winding paths and cozy sitting areas make the massive cathedral seem more human-scale.

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Seedpod Sightings

As the flowers recede, seedpods, some of them as lovely as the blooms, come forward. The moonflower vine puts out fat, purple pods. That means that soon you can begin harvesting seeds for the next year. 

Once the seedpod is dried on the vine -- it will look brown and desiccated, and you'll hear the seeds rattling inside -- you can gently pop them open with your fingers. 

Inside will be one or more little seeds that look like something between a chickpea and a yogurt-covered raisin. 

You can put the seeds in an envelope inside a plastic bag or jar in the bottom of your refrigerator and germinate them in the spring. 

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A visit to Claude Moore and Brookside gardens. 

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Under a Harvest Moon

Autumn is really, truly setting in, and the plants are making one last beautiful gasp for genetic posterity. It's a wonder to behold the comeback some of them are waging now that it's not scorching hot. The harvest moon is tonight, making me think of Michael Pollan writing in Second Nature:

With the harvest moon, which usually arrives toward the end of September, the garden steps over into that sweet, melancholy season when ripe abundance mingles with the auguries of the end anyone can read. Except, perhaps, some of the tropical annuals, which seem to bloom only more madly the closer frost comes... On those early autumn days when frost hangs in the air like a sword of Damocles, evident as sunlight to the lowest creature, is there anything more poignant than a dahlia's blithe, foolhardy bloom?

These foolish beauties certainly do wear their hearts on their sleeves.

The vegetables are taking turns coming out in force - the best of the tomatoes are gone, but now the peppers are stealing the show. I'm particularly taken with the tiny, intensely hot little peppers from this variegated plant, the name of which I've lost track of. The peppers turn a solid red when fully ripened, but are so lovely with their yellow and green stripes beforehand.

These larger hot peppers are an almost vulgar shade of crimson. Show-offs.

The herbs are also at their peak - lots of drying to do in my house. The sage, which I thought would like hot weather, limped through summer but now is covered in velvety leaves.

And while I know I shouldn't, the parsley is so desperate to bloom that I'm letting a few of its delicate flowers remain.

There are newcomers as well. Broccoli:

And Brussels sprouts:

And some Bells of Ireland that can't possibly make it this late in the season but came free with a seed order and were a bit of an impulse-plant. I'm feeling a little guilty about that.There's also a snail vine purchased at Monticello that I'll try to winter indoors which I'm remaining optimistic about.

I'm also suddenly awash in purple. The hyacinth beans are dazzling.

And this one, which is downright majestic.

Even the purple-veined chard is looking particularly lovely.

I know the end is soon, but it's an impressive way to go out. To return to Pollan:

The garden winter doesn't visit is a dull place, unacquainted with the extraordinary perfume that rises from the soil after it's had its rest.

After a summer of splendor, my garden has certainly earned an idle season.

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National Geographic has a wonderful article in the current issue called "The Glory of Leaves" that addresses the wonder of our photosynthesizing friends. Author Rob Dunn writes:

Leaves are large, small, thick, thin, compound, simple, curved, or lobed. And these terms just begin to describe the differences botanists have tried to catalog in their rich poetry of obscure adjectives—pinnate, ciliate, barbellate, bearded, canescent, glabrous, glandular, viscid, scurfy, floccose, arachnoid, and my favorite, tomentose (covered with woolly hairs). But putting the variety of structures aside, most leaves do essentially the same thing: They exist in the main to hold chloroplasts aloft. How can so many different geometries all perfectly capture the sun?

Highly recommended! The print version includes a series of excellent images like the one above. 

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A visit to: Monticello's Heritage harvest festival

I made it to Monticello's annual Heritage Harvest festival last weekend and was tremendously impressed by the quality of the speakers and the deep commitment to innovative farming techniques and local farm culture by those in attendance. As Thomas Jefferson said, "There is not a blade of grass that shoots uninteresting to me," a legacy that is being proudly upheld in the fourteenth year of the event.

Highlights included an interesting talk by Mark Jones of Sharondale Farm, who brought some samples with him.

Like these oyster mushrooms. He discussed mushrooms in human culture (ethnomycology) and discussed Robert Gordon Wasson, who I am very much looking forward to reading about, before moving on to the practical sides of mushroom farming. I will definitely be attempting a crop myself.

I also went on a tour of the trees and wildflowers surrounding the grounds.

There was a surprising amount of color -- wild asters, dogwoods, wild foxglove, and other beauties were in abundance. The larger trees -- tulip poplars, catalpas, and hickories, to name a few -- also put on quite a show.

I

My favorite presenter was Wesley Greene, a personal hero and author of Vegetable Growing the Colonial Williamsburg Way: 18th Century Methods for Today's Organic Gardeners. He makes growing healthy, prolific vegetables with natural methods seem perfectly simple, and the depth of his knowledge about historical farmways is really intimidating. He had great tips on growing through winter using traditional techniques like cold frames, bell jars, and paper frames. Especially after walking through Jefferson's vegetable terrace, it was very inspiring.

I was also reminded of how few heritage foods I've grown so far. I would like to try some different squash varieties next year, including the green-stripped Cushaw squash they're growing on the terrace, which I'm told tastes like pumpkin.

It should be noted, my baseball-sized watermelon isn't quite up to these standards. Apparently I have much to learn before the spring.

Ah well, next year.

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The beautiful, fragrant snail bean, found at Bartram's garden in Philadelphia.

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Interesting blurb on Wired about a new Brooklyn farm that uses "sensor-embedded planters" to transmit growing data and soil conditions to a laptop. The frm is called, appropriately, Feedback Farms.

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A farewell to Moonflowers in seven movements

Labor day is passed and summer is officially over, a sad time for any gardener. I for one, am looking forward to planting the last of my broccoli and possibly some cool weather lettuces, but nothing quite makes up for the loss of the moonflowers.

Moonflowers - Ipomoea (worm like) alba (white) - can open in under a minute. I love their evening spectacle and the deeply perfumed blooms that last for just a few hours before disappearing just after dawn. The vine will die off soon enough, so here's the opening of one of these beauties to remember it by, until next summer.