Rain Lilies – Zephyranthes rosea

Rain Lilies

Rain Lilies

 

It rained here on Sunday. An inch or so. This morning I walked out in my front yard to find these blooming for the second time in a month. Rain Lilies, I had these in my garden in Atlanta and they bloomed maybe every five years. It was a real event. And actually a different kind of Rain Lily.

After a bit of research I find there are many kinds of Zephyranthes, 71 according to Wikipedia. I believe these are the rosea variety. Well, they are pink..I bought them at a garage sale nearby, so they could really be from anywhere. The native species in Florida is the Atamasco Lily; this lily has white flowers and occurs in low, swampy areas. As I live on a gigantic sand dune I don’t think I will be seeing any of those around here.

The latin for these plants is Zephyranthes, named after the Greek God of the West Wind. Interesting considering the rain is what makes them bloom.

These are about 12 inches tall and have grass like (really strap like) foliage my husband mistakenly weed whacked. After that it rained and they started blooming. This is my kind of a plant. Takes a licking and pops up with flowers. They will reseed in the garden but so far it has not been a problem but a nice surprise.

Male Dog Syndrome

The first person who coined the term, male dog syndrome, was, in fact a landscape architect, a guy! I worked with who  had a similar sense of humor; he had worked for big and famous firms in the 80’s and had, unfortunately, been laid off multiple times. During the course of all these so called design projects  as a junior staffer he experienced the marking behavior. Oddly enough, this guy has been really successful in his own right and is probably peeing on bushes in the Western United States as we speak.

As a dedicated Greyhound fan, I usually have a couple of dogs around. Dogs do some weird things that would not have occurred to me prior to having dogs. Many of these peculiarities are urinary based.

My first Greyhound, Butler, was a male dog and having worked with men primarily for years in design and construction I was aware of “male dog syndrome” In life and business the last male to pee on the bush is King. And all the princes must pee on it as well. After twenty or thirty years, this gets tiresome in all respects; perhaps not to the men. I feel that, for men this is probably a lifetime dilemma. Even  Gen X and Millenial men must do this. I will have to say this slays me as it is totally counterproductive.  And then there is the ‘measuring’..

At least dogs don’t do that. On the other hand, it could be related.

One cold winter night around 2 am, Butler came into the bedroom, whining a bit and woke me up. I thought “Oh, he will be OK for a while he just went out” He came back in a bit later and proceeded to pee all over the foot of the bed and carpet. Oops, of course, I should have gotten up and let him out, but it was Thanksgiving, my parent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary and we were having 15 or 20 people over for dinner shortly.  I had been trying to live up to my southern cooking heritage all day and was exhausted. Thank God for the enzymatic carpet cleaner.

In the garden Butler had issues with anything Juniper scented. I suppose it it fortunate I detest Gin. My favorite Landscape Contractor had been singing the praises of Hinoki Cypress shrubs for years, so I decided to buck up and buy a big one as they are sort of slow growing. I am usually frugal in the purchase of plant material because, well, sometimes I forget about water and stuff. And I must always cope with my cheap Scotch heritage. This time I paid $150.00 for a really nice shrub not considering Butler’s Juniper issues. It was, in fact, a Cypress.

I suppose I should mention Butler was inevitably so intent on marking everything he often ran out of pee. Which was very frustrating for him, but really comical to watch. He would stand there back leg raised looking down to see nothing coming out and then try again. My husband always found this particularly amusing. Sort of a man thing, I guess.

So, I put the Hinoki Cypress in a place of honor. By the gate into the back garden. Probably a locational error on my part. However, it looked great shimmering dark green in the sun and already 3 feet tall with ferny chartreuse new growth. First time the dog went by, pssst. Second time and most anytime he wasn’t emptied by having been on a long walk. Sigh. Eventually the Cypress began to turn rust instead of green.

The Hinoki was only rust colored on one side, I had hopes for its survival. Then the voles came. I am not really sure I ever saw one. But, boy Butler could smell them and they were under the $150.00 Cypress. Crap. Maybe on some level voles are offensive to dogs; perhaps the male voles are marking?? At this point digging under the Cypress became necessary and the top of the plant began to turn rust…

Bridal Bouquet Plumeria – Plumeria pudica

 

Bridal Bouquet ready for a lei

Bridal Bouquet ready for a lei

A near requirement for living in South Florida, especially as a year round resident, is a Plumeria or a Frangipani in the yard. This is not a good ‘Snowbird’ plant as most Plumeria is naked in the winter and reasonably unattractive.  Summer is a different story, the Plumeria have just burst forth with flowers here on the Treasure Coast and the fragrance and color make it worth having a deciduous tree in the garden.

This is the tree that provides flowers for leis in Hawaii. I was always under the impression the Plumerias were native to the South Pacific. Research tells me the variety Plumeria alba, which is the more common, fragrant, and deciduous Plumeria come from Central and South America.  Sources seem to agree that Plumeria pudica is from Central America. To add to the confusion there is a type of Plumeria called ‘Singapore’ that is native to Columbia. I will leave it to someone else to explain the Hawaiian lei concept.

Enter the Bridal Bouquet Plumeria, I discovered this plant in Stuart, Florida never having seen one before and was told it was evergreen. This particular variety of Plumeria has a columnar habit and I was looking for a plant to place between two windows in an unirrigated planter in front of my house. It is a perfect selection thus far it is about six feet tall and maybe 2 feet wide. There is some disagreement amongst the experts as to the evergreeness of this plant; apparently if it gets cold enough it will drop its foliage.  I can believe it even if Wikipedia doesn’t.

So far the Bridal Bouquet has performed admirably remaining evergreen and blooming profusely. The extension service states it blooms six months out of the year, mine is not quite there. The only complaint I have is the plant is a bit crunchy and high winds tend to blow parts off. It must be noted that the trade off for evergreen foliage is no fragrance. My husband is not a plant guy and he was in the front planter sniffing the plant to no avail. I decided the solution to the crunchies is to root the bits and plant them in front of my neighbors ugly decaying wood fence. Perfect recycle.

There are many, many varieties of Plumeria, and even a society devoted to the plant, inauspiciously called the PSA. I am hopeful this acronym was coined prior to the medical test.

Cat Training

I have a fluffy white cat, she is long haired; an heirloom cat. The cat is heirloom because I inherited her. This cat originally belonged to my parents and then to my older brother, all have passed on – yet the cat is still around. My parents got the cat the year before my father passed on and kitty was my mother’s best friend until she died; then my brother adopted the cat and he passed on. A friend suggested maybe I did not want this cat due to her track record with owners. Me being me, I just couldn’t give her away; she was a good friend to half of my family. I have two additional siblings; both have cats and refused to take her. I was very hopeful when I picked her up that my greyhounds wouldn’t eat her, as she bears a strong resemblance to a rabbit (they haven’t)

The cat had the unlikely moniker, Sweetie Pie. I can still hear my mother with her Southern accent  in a high pitched voice exclaiming “she’s my little Sweetie Pie”. My husband decided having a cat named Sweetie Pie would not enhance his masculine reputation and we began to call her Miss Kitty, which was fine with the cat as long as she was provided with ample treats.

The poor cat, after surviving the loss of two humans and a terrible case of fleas came to our house, half bald and weighing six pounds, and was presented with two very large dogs. I took her to the vet first thing and she was fine, but I wasn’t – she had put her claw through a tendon in my hand as I was (foolishly) trying to comb the dead fleas out and my hand was getting infected. So, I took the cat home and took myself to the human doctor. I was given antibiotics and told to immobilize my hand for three days. Of course it was my right hand and I use that one most.

Coincidentally, I had been wearing an Ace bandage on my foot for an ankle problem and I ended up with one on my hand as well. I saw the vet later and he said I looked like I had been to Afghanistan. No, I had not been to the Middle East. It was a minor skirmish in the kitty wars.

The cat took one look at the dogs and went under the nearest bed. The dogs didn’t seem to bear her any ill will – they just wanted to smell her to see what she was. I think. I was concerned because one of the dogs had tried to eat a couple of small animals (no house pets were ever harmed-a snake had an unfortunate demise being trampled to death by 70 plus pounds of Greyhounds at full speed). Eventually all was well and the dogs figured out it was OK and they shouldn’t bother the cat. The cat stayed under the bed for about six months until we went out of town for a couple of days.

We came back, opened the front door and the cat was there to greet us, yowling. She turns out to be quite vocal to the point I had to put a set of steps up to the bed so she could sleep by my head. She was waking me up 5 times a night yowling so I would put her on the bed. My husband sleeps right through it. I have actually trained the cat to use a step stool so she can come and go as she pleases without disturbing me. Or did Sweetie Pie (Miss Kitty) train me? Hmmm…

Here’s the kitty now, she is flea free and weighs over 9 pounds. The weight may just be the fur.

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10 Reasons why I am a Bad Southern Belle

A properly arranged bridal shower tea

A properly arranged bridal shower tea

I was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia, attended and graduated from Tucker High School followed by the University of Georgia and lived in Georgia for 50 years. I have a great deal of experience in being Southern.

That said, I am not a good Southern Belle.

For those of you who are uninformed about Southern ladies; there are a lot of rules. Things that must be remembered and feared, lest you provide fodder for gossip.

My mother was a Greatest Generation Southern Belle raised in South Georgia who believed in and followed the rules. She did her best to imbue me with the knowledge of how to be a proper Southern Belle. It worked better on my sister.

While many people have been impressed with my memory; these rules did not stay with me.

Here are the ten reasons I am not a good Southern Belle:

1. I like dark meat chicken salad.  Go figure, an old friend of mine (a gay man) from extreme southwestern Georgia told me the women in his hometown gossiped about ladies who use dark meat in chicken salad. I can believe it.

2. I have limited variety in my shoe wardrobe and I hate white shoes. To be properly southern you must follow shoe color restrictions during certain seasons. It is considered very bad form to wear white shoes or certain articles of white clothing before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. Winter white is an exception, but there are additional rules for that. Patent leather shoes are another big deal. In my opinion, if you are in high school you are too old for patent leather shoes.

3.  I detest Euphemisms: no Southern lady ever farted, pooped or sweated. They “make smells”, “have a BM”, and “glow”. I find Midwesterners very refreshing in this regard. They call it like they smell it, hear it or see it. I married one.

4.  I like wearing black to weddings, black is slimming. If you are truly a Belle there is no wearing of black to weddings,  with the exception of shoes and accessories, that is OK.  The inference (supposedly) is mourning of bride or groom’s mistake. Really, the little black dress should go everywhere.

5.  Vulgarity in many cases is amusing. Southern ladies say “Don’t be vulgar”…why not? It’s fun.

6.  I enjoyed swimming as a teenager, but was told “Women of your breeding don’t go to the swimming pool”  I was always flummoxed  by this; especially since there was no air conditioning?

7.  I believe health problems should be recognized for what they are. We have no alcoholics or addicts; there is “hardening of the liver” or “a little problem” I have heard someone say “his liver is like a hockey puck” Colon cancer is not considered a topic for polite conversation.

8.  I am pretty certain all women go through menopause. Southern ladies just don’t admit it. I can remember seeing my mother sweating profusely in the middle of winter and asking her about it. “Nothing was wrong, Daddy had the thermostat set too high”, she said.  Then she told me it only took her one day to go through menopause and it was no problem. I am still choking on that one.

9. Not freezing at Easter; I think this is a good idea. A proper Belle breaks out and wears their spring clothes at Easter regardless of the weather. You would think this is where winter white would be a good idea. I think you have to stop wearing winter white before Easter. But I really never got the whole winter white thing.

10.  The best reason is the last. My father was from Connecticut. My mother explained Southerners should always marry Yankees to assure the viability  of the gene pool. It gave me a good reason to wear white in October and go to the swimming pool. My Yankee genes must be dominant.

Indoctrination by Greyhound

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Here is our first Greyhound, Butler in his favored spot. As a new dog owner it had not occurred to me that the dog would even want to sit on the sofa. They were supposed to be floor creatures and sleep in dog beds. I soon found out this was not true. Butler liked to be on the sofa regardless of who else was sitting there. I did not realize the magnitude of my ignorance until it dawned on me that he slept with his mouth open and it was really time to buy a steam upholstery cleaner because it was way too late to get the dog off of the sofa.

I have become quite good at steam cleaning upholstery and recently cleaned the interior of my husband’s BMW. A proud moment for anyone.

Another thing about Butler was wherever I went he wanted to follow. One night it was raining and my husband was painting window trim. I went outside and hesitated, thinking I should take the dog with me because he had a tendency towards mischief. Unfortunately, I left him in the house while I went out to pick some Rosemary for dinner. Bad idea, I came back in the house to find him licking paint off the windowsill. It was late and my vet was closed for the night so I went to read the paint can…not good. Paint contains an antifreeze like component to help it dry and yes, it will poison dogs.

I bundled Butler into the car and took him to the Emergency Vet. He was undisturbed by the entire event and happy to go for a ride in the car. I sat and sat while they administered activated charcoal to the dog. I envisioned Butler funneling fish tank charcoal like he was attending a frat party.  I am not exactly sure how they got the charcoal in him, but they got enough in there soon enough that he would be fine. Somehow charcoal absorbs the poison so the dog doesn’t.

The Emergency Vet gave Butler back to me after I paid a good sized bill, but failed to mention the rate at which the charcoal would fly out of the dog. It was after midnight and raining, we were a mile or so from home when Butler started whining a bit. “Hold on guy, we are almost home.” I said. I pulled into the garage and looked into my (previously) tan Jeep interior. Finding it charcoal spotted. Oops. The good news is charcoal neutralizes odors.

I took the dog out of the car and into my neighbor’s front yard, not intentionally, just came out that side of the garage. I suddenly had a jet propelled dog fueled by fish tank charcoal. He was moving forward with the force of his own intestinal power as he pooped. I was pretty sure at that point the paint was gone; so I called the Emergency Vet to check. “Yep, that is what is supposed to happen, he should be fine tomorrow.”

Thanks for the heads up.

The next morning I looked outside (it was winter and the grass was brown and dormant) to see a 10 foot long black streak in my neighbor’s lawn. Then I looked in the back of my Jeep and was happy I had the steam cleaner.

Like I said, I am good at cleaning car upholstery, although charcoal is a bit of a challenge.

It’s Mother’s Day Week

 

Miss Betty and Mr. Tommy

Miss Betty and Mr. Tommy

This picture is of my mother and her  Grandfather, Mr. Tommy, of course. Being properly raised Southerners; my mother was always referred to as Miss Betty. The picture was taken in the family’s peach packing house in the late 1940’s. I believe gardening is in my genetic makeup; if you untwine any strand of my DNA a trowel, hoe or seedling is likely to fall out. Some of my earliest memories are of picking flowers in the garden with my mother. My grandfather followed in his father’s footsteps and was a peach farmer. As I became more interested in plants and gardening my mother would say “well, you got the farmer gene”.

This week always makes me think of my mother. She passed away 5 years ago this month. A great gardener and general fan of all things in nature; I take after her in that regard. One of my mother’s favorite things to do on Mother’s Day weekend was to go on the Tour of Gardens hosted by the Botanical Garden. The range of gardens was always interesting from the truly small but beloved gardens to the trophy ‘Parsley around the Pig’ gardens surrounding the ‘French Country’ style Marshmallow Mansions of the newly wealthy. For some reason the Parsley/Pig gardens usually included a fabulous French Country kitchen garden and often a tropical courtyard as well.

The kitchen gardens morphed into vegetable parterres featuring custom built wood treillage supporting plants and patterns delineated by rows of Dwarf Boxwood forming squares and triangles. Really beautiful, but often mixed with poisonous plants and vegetables most people won’t eat. I would love to know if anybody ever ate all of the ‘Bright Lights’ Swiss Chard that was planted for its color. I am not sure I have met anyone who will eat Chard. I quit sending my husband out for herbs when he confused the Larkspur (poisonous) with the Rosemary.

The tropical gardens challenged those of us living north (at the time, we lived in Atlanta) of the tropics to grow plants where they weren’t supposed to grow. Palms and lush tender plants were coddled by gardeners in Courtyards surrounded by warm stucco walls. My mother latched on to this idea and took the challenge. Blessed with a slightly enclosed Eastern exposure and high shade provided by pine trees, it was possible to grow Fatsia, Agave and Tibouchina in her garden; just not for very long. Sometimes the tropicals would last for a couple of years, many times they were annuals or a short lived Event – the Tibouchina bloomed every few years until it finally succumbed either to heavy clay soil or cold. We had lunch a couple of times for Tibouchina flower viewings. Every time the cold got another plant she would say ‘Oh, well – I am a gardener and I try things”  There may have been a funeral for the Phormium, we both loved that. Tall, grassy and a rusty plum color it just couldn’t take life in the Deep South.

In a stroke of brilliance, I decided to plant a mini vegetable parterre in my suburban side yard. I had maybe 7 feet of width and probably 12 in length. I hate the smell of boxwood and once I found out how much it cost I decided to go with clipped Germander hedges (this is actually done in France) French Country had arrived in the ‘burbs.

I planted the Germander in diamond shapes and clipped it. The Germander mini hedges looked great. Then I added two varieties of tomatoes  for color. The tomatoes were staked on 4 sided bamboo teepees, surrounded by Germander diamonds. In the leftover triangular spaces, green beans, zucchini, and herbs grew.

This all looked great until summer kicked in and the plants really started to grow. I had never seen squash borers before and was so grossed out by them I pulled the Zucchini out before I  ate the first one. The Germander turned out to be pretty uncooperative and grows more rapidly than boxwood. I soon realized that is was impossible to clip the Germander while there were vegetables in the garden. If you are a reader of gardening books it seems you can have a cool season vegetable garden. So I thought, after the tomatoes are finished, I will clip the Germander, plant my lettuces and it will look fabulous…Ha. Being blessed with heavy clay soil, however well amended I found it grows bitter, inedible lettuce and actual cold weather turns the bitter lettuce to brown mush.

My foray into European fashion vegetable gardening ended one day when I could not cope with the Germander clipping anymore. I got my pitchfork and unceremoniously recycled the bedraggled remains of the two Germander diamonds. The pea gravel paths got some stepping stones installed and my Rustic style of gardening returned to my vegetable garden. The vegetables were none the wiser.

I have a feeling the Polar Vortex claimed whatever remained of my mother’s Tropical Garden.

Here’s the definition of Rustic from the Google dictionary:

 

rus·tic

  1. of or relating to the countryside; rural..
  2. constructed or made in a plain and simple fashion, in particular..
  3. synonyms:
  4. plain
  5. ,
  6. simple
  7. ,
  8. homely
  9. ,
  10. unsophisticated

Here is my current vegetable garden (still under construction)

The Rustic Vegetable Garden

The Rustic Vegetable Garden

Martin the Bromeliad

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I am not prone to naming plants. However, I think this is kind of funny. I have had these little red Bromeliads for a while. The lady I bought them from did not know the name and said they would tolerate full sun. I have to admit I did not quite believe her, but I went ahead and planted them in the sun. Soon thereafter they started to reproduce, my stock has doubled and I think they have been out there for about six months. Well, they are flourishing and she was right.

Last week, I met the primo bromeliad gardener around here and she identified these as Martin Bromeliads.

No one is exactly sure who Martin is but I think he is living in my front yard.

Tropicality

If you are a Southern old lady then being coarse is comparable to being crude or, another favorite adjective, vulgar. I happen to like coarse plants, while I can say I have seen some plants I would consider vulgar, it is always fun to actually see one...the Sausage tree, anyone?  Click.  My husband and I saw a Sausage Tree in full fruit in Maui and couldn’t stop laughing. It is actually an interesting tree. Albeit, a bit vulgar.

A nurseryman I knew used to like to sell Dutchman’s Pipes Click and then he had to have some  Blue Pea Vine Click  to sell to counteract the Dutchman’s Pipes. These are all real plants, please follow the links and see what they are. I see Dutchman’s Pipe here and there in South Florida, but I have never seen a Blue Pea Vine around here. Too crude, I suppose.

The reason I came up with all of this is I was thinking the tropics must hold the lion’s share of the world’s coarsest textured plants.

Maybe I should back up, if you go to school and take a planting design class, one of the basic sources of creating interest in landscaping is contrasting different textures of plants. For example, if you are a South Floridian, you would plant Artillery Fern (small leaves/fine texture) to contrast with your Bromeliad (big leaves/coarse texture). If you are from further north, think Autumn Fern next to the Hosta. Contrast in texture and color of plants is what makes gardens interesting to look at.  The English call this contrasting ” plant combinations”; I have heard Americans use this term as well but I think the English coined it. 

Here in Florida there is a wealth of coarse textured plants. Not only coarse texture plants, but different colors of coarse as well.  It is difficult to find anything comparable to a Split Leaf Philodendron further north of well, here.

In South Florida we have our Bromeliads with orangey foliage and the Blue Agave and Burgundy Crinums as well. Then the uber coarse plant, the Heliconia with 4 foot long foliage. Can’t get much more tropical than that.

When I first started living here I noticed people combining different colors of these large leafed plants in shrub beds. And I thought it was weird. Where was the fine texture plant material for contrast.? My esoteric design sense was freaking out. I think I should say I have finally embraced this concept. I would love to know what the English gardeners think.

I have just recently planted a bed with Sun Bromeliads, a Screw Pine and a Blue Agave. There is also some Aloe used as groundcover. A fiesta of coarseness! I am finally getting into that South Florida landscape vibe. Maybe it is a little vulgar, but that is OK. People in South Florida have Pink Flamingos instead of Reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh at Christmas..

Sun Bromeliad

Sun Bromeliad

Blue Agave

Blue Agave

Heliconia

Heliconia

Crinum

Crinum

Split Leaf Philodendron

Our Conversion to Dog People

We were always cat people. I grew up amongst felines and had listened to my mother’s diatribes against dogs for my entire life. The diatribes usually involved cleanliness issues; dirty, smelly and they leave “dog stuff” in the yard. Cats, in comparison, cleaned themselves and buried their stuff. Cats going to the bathroom was referred to as “the kitty is going to dig a hole”; my mother coping with being Southern by euphemism. My husband had a cat when we married; Lauren, a chatty Siamese Calico mix, who vocalized happiness with a “Mow” and distaste with “Rhentt”.

One day my husband and I were at the pet store and met several retired racing Greyhounds and fell in love. We decided to get a dog.

We ended up with a red brindle male with the dubious racing name “Fonda Canyon” and promptly decided he needed a new name. We went round and round about the name until I finally talked my husband, the Trekkie, into Butler. Butler was named after Captain Kirk’s dog in the Star Trek movie “The Undiscovered Country”. Captain Kirk’s Butler was a Great Dane.

Adopt a Greyhound Atlanta “cat tests” their dogs to be sure new owners cats aren’t mistaken for the track rabbits. We eventually established Kitty Detente, after numerous “Rhenntts” from the cat and a few scratches on the muzzle the dog passed his cat test. They became friends and would sit on the furniture together. Butler lounging on his back with the cat beside him. Fortunately, we had a Chair and a half with a washable slipcover that would accommodate both of them. Of course they preferred the dry clean only sofa.

We began house training. Or, Butler began human training. I had this strange idea I could get up in the morning and let the dog out and he would do his business in the backyard.  Not this dog. He would hold it until somebody put a leash on him and walked him around the neighborhood to see who else had been around. Unless you left him in the house which was usually not a good idea. I eventually began to enjoy the walk around the neighborhood and met numerous fellow dog lovers that way.

Butler was a charming and handsome dog. Kids would stop to meet him and say he looked just like a tiger. A skinny canine tiger, I guess.  He was a dog who never met a stranger and wanted to meet everyone he encountered, especially those who had no interest in him at all. My mother, the dog hating Southern Belle, succumbed to his charms almost immediately and always called him “Rhett Butlah” and gave him treats (many treats)

Eventually I realized I was more of a dog person. My conversion is highly related to litter box issues and the feline need to achieve Kitty Superiority. Our cats all passed on and we ended up with two Greyhounds.  Twenty years have passed and we still have two Greyhounds, just not the same ones.

Here is Butler in his favorite spot.

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