DO YOU SMELL SOMETHING?

                                          … I’m glad

            I’m not that broken tree although

            it looks sublime. And glad I’m not

            taking a test and running out of time.

            What’s a tetrahedron anyway? What’s

            the sublime, 3,483 divided by 9,

            the tenth amendment, the ferryman’s name

            on the River Styx? We’re all missing

            more and more tricks, losing our grips,

            guilty of crimes we didn’t commit.

                                                from “Spring Reign” by Dean Young

            By nature, I am not a person keenly attuned to what’s going on around me. Although 15 years of living with hyper-aware Tim has increased my observational skills somewhat, the most incisive adjective describing my relationship to the outside world is “oblivious.” The opening poem snippet illustrates where I’m most comfortable, in the universe of printed words and ideas.  (If you read it aloud, you’ll hear the snazzy beat and internal rhymes and near-rhymes so dear to my word-play loving heart.)

Ol' four-eyes in 1964

            I suffer from some congenital sensual handicaps. I’ve been impressively myopic since third grade. (Remember that “Twilight Zone” episode where Burgess Meredith, sporting coke-bottle specs, plays the sole survivor of some kind of devastation? And he’s delighted because he’s in a library with all the time in the world to read without interruptions? But then he breaks his lenses, and the library becomes a hell full of books he can’t see. Even as a kid, I knew that was a bogus premise. Coke-bottle glasses are the lot of the seriously near-sighted: all he had to do was hold the books close to his nose. Rod Serling must have had 20/20 vision.) I also inherited my dad’s iffy hearing—iffy because, while I can hear the sound of voices, I can’t always distinguish individual words unless I’m looking at the speaker. The kindest thing you can say about my sense of taste is that it’s unrefined: never have been able to discern the difference between chicken and turkey. I’ll eat anything except rhubarb.
 

Fortunately, the nerve-endings in my skin still work, so I’m good in the touching department.

But smells… ah, smells. I smell well. Not as acutely as dogs, oenophiles, perfumiers or Tim, perhaps, but smells definitely ring bells in my brain. Olfactory scientists say smells trigger reliable memories more readily than any other sense. Lack of odor is a serious handicap, as the protagonist of Patrick Süskind’s Perfume: The Story of a Murderer can tell you. He is born without a smell of his own, precipitating a chain of events starting with his mother’s revulsion and rejection, to the realization that his odorlessness makes him de facto invisible, to a career as a master creator of perfumes (he could smell, he just didn’t have one of his own), to a life of crime manipulating others by wearing various scents he concocts, just to get even. (It doesn’t end well.) Absence of olfactory sensation is why I can’t warm up to electronic “books” and am completely averse to “socializing” by machine.

Amassing olfactory impressions counts as one of the greatest pleasures of gardening. I literally stick my nose into everything outside, or at least everything that holds still long enough. It doesn’t matter if it’s flower, foliage, fruit, seed, soil amendments, wood, roots or dirt, alive or dead; neither do I care what the season is. If it has a scent, I inhale it.

In order to demonstrate that I learned something from last time’s statistical workup (see the Jan. 30 post, “Tally-Ho”), what follows is a selection of pictures of plants that smell—or once smelled—in my garden.

Daphne odora ‘Marginata’—a powerful winter perfumer. Like Greta Garbo, this plant with a reputation for finickiness does best if you just leave it alone. I kept one in a pot on our deck for years just for the cold-weather orange-blossom fragrance, then passed it to our friend, Gen… who promptly set about drowning it. Tim rescued the poor defoliated thing and gave it to our part-time next-door neighbors, Tim and Carmen. They stuck it in the west-facing unirrigated ground between their front porch and driveway. With just rain and the occasional spilled soda, beer or sippy cup, it’s thriving. As you can see from the picture.

Osmanthus fragrans (tea olive)—this plant ekes out a living on the other side of Tim and Carmen’s front steps. The photo of the bush fairly represents how tea olive does in beachy environments.  But when its tiny, waxy, inconspicuous flowers open in late January, it doesn’t matter that the shrub is ugly. The potent aroma is reminiscent of gardenias.

Tea olive: what an ugly shrub

The tiny but powerful tea olive bloom

             Edgeworthia chysantha (paperbush)—although neither shrub nor flowers impress with their flamboyant beauty (my specimen’s blooms always look bit mildewed), starting in February, the fragrance does. On Brent and Becky Heath’s bulb farm in Gloucester, VA, there’s a venerable old plant that could be detected from almost anywhere on the property when we visited in mid-March. Ahhhh.

Wisteria sinensis—in the interval between late winter and it’s-really-spring, wisteria cranks up. The one in the picture doesn’t look like the one in the picture every year, flowering better if I whack it back in late summer. (Fertilizing wisteria is a no-no too: nitrogen just encourages foliage growth at the expense of bud-set.) And some years, the squirrels decide wisteria buds are their favorite food. But when it pops, the whole neighborhood knows it.

Narcissus ‘Sweetness’—like many other hybridized plants, daffs often sacrifice fragrance for size or vase-life. Not so much with the jonquils, tazettas and cyclamineus cultivars. You won’t “scense” them across the yard, but they reward up-close sniffing.

 

Rosa ‘Zéphrine Drouhin’—as with daffs, so also with roses. The old varieties (Zéphrine is a Bourbon) keep their rosy smells where newer, “improved” versions have them bred out. Knock Outs may be floriferous all season, but there’s no point in burying your nose in one, like there is with raspberry-scented Zéphrine.

              Trachelospermum jasminoides (Confederate jasmine)—the star-shaped flowers of this woody vine sited near the rear of our property sweeten our entire house as well as the near neighbors’ in May and June when the windows are open. When we pull in the driveway, its perfume greets us.

          
   

     Pittosporum tobira—this beach-hardy but deer-candy shrub offers a double scent-sation; not only do its May flowers spill the illusion of orange blossoms into the air, the woody branches and roots, when cut into, smell like apples. (F.Y.I.: mavens say the genus should be pronounced pih-TOSS-poor-um. I'm sticking with pit-oh-SPORE-um.)

   Ligustrum japonicum (Japanese privet)—Momma landscaped my childhood home with an overabundance of ligustrum. Those were the days before air-conditioning, so when the bushes started their month-long bloom in May, there was no escape from the overpowering smell. Consequently, my nose finds their fragrance sickly-sweet, although Tim—who grew up ligustrum-less—likes it. Folklore has it that they’re called privet because they were planted around privies, to mask the smell. Personally, I don’t know which odor is worse. 

Heliotropum arborescens (heliotrope)—this annual’s scent brings baby powder to my mind, although catalog-blurb writers describe it as vanilla. Either way, it’s memorable, in a good way. Heliotrope’s leaves will burn when exposed to strong sunlight, so plant it where it gets afternoon shade. The name, by the way, comes from the way the flowers turn their faces toward the sun, a phenomenon called, appropriately enough, “heliotropism.” (See “Let There Be Light,” from Mar. 20, 2011.)

Gardenia jasminoides—the fragrance of gardenias wafting over the garden following a heat-heavy afternoon says “summer” better than any other scent, except maybe new-mown grass. Or, if you grew up on graveled roads like I did, the sharp smell of hot tar.  

Lilium ‘Stargazer’—all of the mid-to-late-summer blooming Oriental-type lilies smell wonderfully sweet. Just remember to snip off the stamens if you’re bringing them in to put in a vase: the pollen permanently stains any fabric it comes in contact with.

            Elaeagnus pungens—“pungent” may be too pejorative an adjective for the unarguably potent citrusy, clean smell of the inconspicuous but abundant October flowers of eleagnus. When the gangly hedge at the back of our property blooms, the whole neighborhood benefits.

            
                

              Morella cerifera (wax myrtle)—I love working around wax myrtle at any time of the year. Its foliage smells crisply fresh, and so do the wood, and the roots. Planting it, pruning it, just ruffling past it is an olfactory treat.

          


             Rosmarinus officinalis (rosemary)—like with most herbs, crushing foliage between your fingers releases the scented oils that keep deer from grazing the plant. And your hands will smell nice for quite a while after. Don’t try this with garlic or other alliums, though: you’ll remind yourself of an Italian restaurant for hours.

            Viburnum suspensum (Sandankwa viburnum)—as a rule, Bambi avoids viburnums. Stick your nose close to a pale orange-ish flower cluster; crush a leathery, crinkled leaf; or prune a branch to get a whiff of creosote, and you’ll understand why. 

            Well, we’re up to 18 pictures and over 1,500 words, so I guess it’s about time to stop. Do try to get in the habit of mindfully engaging your nose in the garden. You won’t be sorry.

            Thanks for dropping by.

                                                                                    Kathy  

MASTERS OF VERTICALITY II

           Just a quick note about what makes a vine a vine. A vine is a plant that pulls itself up or through a support of some kind by one of three mechanisms.

It is scandent, having flexible stems that maneuver themselves over and around whatever it’s near; or…

It climbs using aerial roots, like ivy and Virginia creeper; or…

It twines, employing various anatomical parts for the purpose of gaining altitude. Some plants use their stems; some use their petioles (the technical name for “leaf stem”); some grow tendrils,  the corkscrew-like filaments you associate with grapevines, from their stems ; and some, like clematis, produce tendrils out of the tips of their leaves.

             Isn’t nature amazing?

Never one to hesitate when plants with exotic names whisper my name as I peruse catalogs, availability lists, nurseries and garden centers, I’ve trialed 15 perennial vine species and cultivars (not including climbing roses), mostly in my own yard, some for doting clients. Below is my alphabetized list:


Akebia quinata 'Shiro Bana'

 Akebia quinata (Chocolate vine) This one boasts bluish-green foliage composed of five rounded leaflets (hence quinata) and spicy-smelling brownish-purple flowers (hence chocolate) in April and May. Edible purple fruits may appear in late summer. Two cultivars are sometimes found in the trade: ‘Variegata,’ with cream-splashed foliage; and ‘Shiro Bana,’ Japan’s monastery vine, which produces fragrant white flowers. I’d call it “white-chocolate vine,” but then I have waggish tendencies.



Ampelopsis brevipendunculata
'Variegata'

Ampelopsis brevipedunculata (Porcelainberry) The foliage resembles that of hops, with which some of you may be familiar. (Tim, who grew up in the Mohawk Valley of New York, tells how his mom and her family would take hops-picking vacations for a couple of weeks in late summer. She said it was like getting paid for attending a camp-meeting, and remembered the occasions fondly.) The little white flowers are inconspicuous, but the plentiful berries mature from green to the most beautiful metallic blue. If you plant ‘Tricolor’ (a.k.a. ‘Variegata’ and ‘Elegans’), the green foliage is prettily splashed with pink (really!) and white. A Chinese native considered invasive in some places: mine died after three seasons in a pot.

Aster carolinianus

Aster carolinianus (Carolina aster) (F.Y.I.: Always offended by simplicity, taxonomists changed the genus name to Symphyotrichum. I urge you to resist.) This scandent late-season flower powerhouse produces multitudinous little lavender daisies with yellow centers from late September into November. Its drawbacks—a twiggy habit and semi-evergreen unremarkable foliage—fade into the background most of the time.  



Bignonia capreolata



  Bignonia capreolata (Crossvine) Pronounced “Big Nona,” local plantsman Bobbie Brock used to say it sounds like a lady truck-driver’s name. This vigorous evergreen puts out vaguely fragrant orange-red trumpet-shaped flowers in late May and June. A native of the southeast, it is extremely vigorous where it’s happy.



Campsis radicans 



Campsis radicans (Trumpet creeper) Grows wild around these parts. Its dark green, wisteria-like foliage is nice enough on its own, but the orange trumpet-shaped flowers it produces from mid-July into September give the plant its claim to fame. Trumpet vine has thuggish tendencies: I’ve seen specimens climb utility poles, cross the street on the wires and start down the other pole.

  

  

Gelsemium sempervirens

Gelsemium sempervirens (Carolina jessamine, not “jasmine”) A southeastern U.S. native. Evergreen leaves take on a red tint in cooler weather, showcasing small golden-yellow funnel-shaped flowers in late winter. G. rankinii foliage and flowers look the same as G. sempervirens, but bloom-time is September to November. Cultivar ‘Plena’ boasts lovely double flowers.


Gloriosa superba 'Rothschildiana'

Gloriosa superba ‘Rothschildiana’ (Glory lily) A scandent specimen, this tuberous beauty produces eye-catching yellow-and-red flowers with recurved petals in late summer to fall. In my yard, they continue to multiply in their mostly shady spot and are one plant I don’t mind staking. The straight species has orange flowers: at our house, they twine themselves into the eleagnus hedge for a special late-summer show.



Holboellia coriacea



Holboellia coriacea (hole-BELL-ee-uh) With no common name I know of, Holboellia has been a slow starter in my garden; nonetheless, I’m encouraged that it continues to live. Oblong evergreen glossy leaves on tough, wiry stems climb a little higher up its support each year. Eight years after mine went in the ground, it finally bloomed—tiny, inconspicuous muddy-lavender bells proving the axiom that anticipation often exceeds the actual event.



Hydrangea anomala spp. petiolaris

Hydrangea anomala subsp. petiolaris (Climbing hydrangea) Greenish-white, lace-cap-like flowers appear in late May to June. The dark green, heart-shaped foliage climbs by aerial roots. You can maintain this one as a shrub if you’d rather, but it would prefer to climb. Tim’s and my specimen, an orphan from a job that didn’t pan out, lives on the latticed screen surrounding our HVAC unit. We go out once or twice a year to rip errant stems from places—like the coils—they’re not supposed to be. It only sees the sun for an hour or so in the early morning and only rarely gets fed and watered, so it’s a hardy bugger.



Lonicera sempervirens



 Lonicera sempervirens (Trumpet or evergreen honeysuckle) Native to the southeastern U.S., this woody-stemmed twiner produces sparse but constant clusters of scarlet-orange tubular flowers from late spring through summer. The semi-evergreen L. x heckrottii ‘Gold Flame’ (a cross between L. sempervirens and L. americana) is common in the trade and boasts slightly fragrant, pinky-orange flowers. The honeysuckle you remember from your childhood is more than likely the intensely fragrant and delicious but thuggish Japanese honeysuckle, L. japonica. If you live in the south, you should probably avoid the latter, given its predilection for expansion.



Manettia luteorubra
'John Elsley'







Manettia luteorubra (Brazilian firecracker vine) Tubular, one-to-two-inch bright red flowers with yellow tips explode from the light to dark green foliage in mid- to late summer. The hybrid ‘John Elsley’ has slightly larger blooms. Underused and hard to find, this is another one I wouldn’t be without.

 Passiflora spp. (Passionflower) Many species hail from Brazil and are not reliably hardy for us, but three are: P. caerulea, P. incarnata and P. ‘Amethyst Lady.’ The first and third are cultivated; the second, native to scrub areas of the southeastern U.S., grows wild hereabouts; locals call it “Maypop.” I love my ‘Amethyst Lady.’ Her exotic purple and white flowers cover our outdoor shower every summer and play host to the caterpillars of the Gulf fritillary butterfly. The downside is that I spend about an hour every week from June to October pulling up volunteer seedlings from all over my yard and the neighbors’, but it’s a small price to pay for all that wow factor. ‘Lady Margaret’ is a red-blooming cultivar we tried one summer. Blooms are smaller but definitely red, her growth rate more restrained. She did not survive the winter. What else would you expect from somebody named Lady Margaret?



Solanum jasminiodes
'Album'



              Solanum jasminoides (Potato vine) Another of my beloved Solanum species. Delicate-looking stems with dainty leafleted light-green foliage produce characteristic pale blue potato-like flowers with yellow stamens. My specimen is the cultivar ‘Album,’ with white blooms. While never robust, it nonetheless comes back no matter what the winter throws at it or how heedlessly I whack it down.  



Trachelospermum
jasminiodes



Trachelospermum jasminoides (Star or Confederate jasmine) A Southern standard, powerfully fragrant white star-shaped flowers perfume our whole block in May and June. Two plants completely engulf my back arbor; Tim periodically goes out with a machete to restore the passageway. This evergreen vine suffers cold damage some winters, but usually manages to recover by bloom time. A cultivar with white variegation on the foliage has recently entered the marketplace. It looks leprous to me.



Wisteria sinensis



Wisteria spp. (Wisteria) Wisteria is practically synonymous with The South. Not for people craving ultra-low-maintenance plants, the rest of us can consider three main species: W. floribunda, or Japanese wisteria, has the longest and most intensely fragrant flower clusters. It bears 13 to 19 leaflets per leaf and twines clockwise. I mention these attributes because W. sinensis, Chinese wisteria, has 9 to 13 (usually 11) leaflets per leaf and twines counter-clockwise. Its flowers are only slightly less long and minutely less fragrant than the Japanese, so only by leaflet count and twining direction can anyone tell them apart. Even then, you have to remember which is which. (If anyone devises a workable mnemonic, please let me know. It’s like “Feed a cold, starve a fever. Or do you “Starve a cold…”?) Suffice it to say that both bloom in early spring and are equally thuggish. The better-behaved native American wisteria, W. frutescens, is far less showy: smaller flowers, late spring to summer bloom, hardly any scent to speak of. But it certainly has a less exuberant growth habit, if that’s what you want in a wisteria.



Aristolochia macrophylla

Oddly missing from the viney plant pantheon here on the coast is Aristolochia macrophylla (Dutchman’s pipe), the ubiquitous Southern porch-screening plant. Grow this one for the big, heart-shaped leaves that quickly cover any support you give it. Although I lived around it for all of my childhood in southeastern Virginia, I never knew it had flowers, which, in fact, it does: greenish tubular things with patterns of yellow, purple and brown hidden by the foliage. Somebody thought they resembled pipes the Dutch smoke, and the name stuck. I haven’t turned up a single local source of plants; if you want one here, you’ll have to start it from seed.



Actinidia deliciosa

 One vine I haven’t tried is kiwi. The cultivar listed most often in the trade is Actinidia kolomitka ‘Arctic Beauty.’ That icy cultivar name—plus the fact that one of its big selling points is its pink variegation: fat chance of that happening on the sultry coast—gives me pause. However, the January 2008 issue of The Avant Gardener mentions a species of kiwi grown in California, A. deliciosa ‘Elmwood,’ as a good plant for the South. As soon as I find one, I’m putting her in.

                   

           I know what you’re thinking. How did I ever manage to grow dozens of different vines—not including 20-odd clematis and several cultivars of climbing roses—on only four chicken-wire-covered posts in my back garden? Simple: I’m just a little ol’ master of verticality.

            Stay tuned for the sad story of my struggles with the genus Clematis, subtitled “The Importance of Failure.” Thanks for dropping by.

                                                                                    Kathy