Happy Halloween!

Meet the Eastern Spadefoot Toad (Scaphiopus holbrookii). This little guy worked his way out of the sandy soil from underneath a Yucca filamentosa in my tiny "dry garden" early one April morning.

Revival Style

My camera cooperated late this afternoon (and so did the clouds), and I was able to get this shot of the Thomas Center, a beautiful building in the Mediterranean Revival style located in the heart of Gainesville's downtown historic district and Duckpond Neighborhood.

The building makes a fine backdrop for our state tree, the Sabal Palm (Sabal palmetto). The red tile roof and stucco exterior of the building against the bright blue sky make a good case for regional architectural style, too.

Roadside Attractions

Last night before bed I was reading about the adventures of several 18th century botanists who sailed the globe in search of botanical treasures, and I was reminded of a trip of my own (one far less perilous and malaria-free, of course).

I had the great fortune to visit Costa Rica during December of 2006. I spent most of my time in the cool, moist, mountainous highlands, in the company of a great friend and scientist. Costa Rica is a beautiful place, and I took many photos of the breathtaking mountain views and the amazing scenery.

I consider myself a good driver - driving in Costa Rica was out of the question. The roads are narrow and often without adequate shoulder, and posted speed limits are largely ignored (one afternoon my vacation and our lives were nearly cut short by a speeding tour bus). My friend - who spends a great deal of time working in Costa Rica and Panama - did all the driving, which allowed me to admire the astonishing plant life as it whizzed past my open car window at 60 miles per hour. It was also a pleasant distraction from the oncoming traffic.

Huge "forests" of pink and white tree dahlias covered the rocky red sides of the highway, and giant Gunnera plants (with leaves often four and five feet across) were bursting from the streams which were rushing down the mountainsides. Vines dangling huge clusters of fuchsia-colored trumpets hung from the outcrops above the road, and orange reed-like Epidendrum orchids grew along the shoulder like weeds.

Our progress through a tight mountain pass was abruptly halted one afternoon by a cycling event. Along with dozens of other motorists, we were forced to spend nearly two hours waiting by the roadside for what seemed like hundreds of cyclists to pass. For the first hour we watched hummingbirds visit the giant thistles that grew along the road cuts, and we ate the half-dozen passion fruits that had been given to us by my friend's generous landlord.

The rocky hillsides were covered in plant life, and it wasn't long before I had crossed the road, camera in hand, to explore. I was quickly rewarded by finding three species of tropical Lobelia, as well as a curious little plant with the oddest yellow flowers I had ever seen. About the size of an almond, they resembled inflated wooden shoes; the canary yellow flowers were held away from the plant by brown, wiry stems. They appeared to be a species of Calceolaria (or pocketbook flower), but I have yet to correctly identify them.

As the last cyclist passed and we were signaled by a police car that we could resume our drive, I wondered about all the plants I would miss as we drove down the other side of the mountain. Had the roads not been so dangerous I might have been tempted to walk.

All Natural Ingredients!

It is the gardener who makes the garden, and who thereby gives access to his own private idea of the natural world - Joe Eck (gardener, writer, and author of Elements of Garden Design)

I spent last year working in a public garden to earn my living, and my own garden suffered. Weeds and vines grew unchecked, and my potted plants languished from neglect. I was often too tired to care for my own plants at the end of the day. My garden managed fairly well on its own because of the careful selection of drought-tolerant native and exotic plants.

Last week I attended the annual fall plant sale of the Florida Native Plant Society. I am a strong supporter of the use of native plants, but their inclusion in highly disturbed, urban settings has limits. There were hundreds of beautiful, native Florida plants for sale, but not all of them will thrive in the shady (and often dry) confines of my own garden. Some may do too well - southern wax myrtle (Myrica cerifera) tends to sucker and spread, as does the beautiful stiff dogwood (Cornus foemina). Both plants do well in my garden, but they are not maintenance-free. If left to their own devices they would spread far beyond their allotted spot in the landscape.

Notably lacking from the currently available palette of native Florida plants are many broadleaved, bold shrubs. There is Florida Anise (Illicium floridanum), which I use to good effect at the back of a shady border, but it has limited drought tolerance and resents sunny, dry siting. For more open areas I turn to Japan, and the Camellia sasanqua hybrids - their bold, dark green leaves contrast nicely with their delicate flowers. They pair up well with the bold, dramatic foliage of our native saw palmetto (Serenoa repens). A silver form of this palm grows along Florida's east coast, and is available in nurseries. In my garden it makes a nice foil for the delicate pink Camellia, and the fern-like fronds of our only native cycad, Zamia pumila (or Z. floridana).

My wide but shallow backyard garden, bordered on one side by a high fence and on the other by a neighbor's dirt side yard, is not a replica of a natural Florida habitat. It is filled with native and non-native shrubs and plants that can tolerate extended periods of rainy weather, and extended periods of drought. It allows me to garden with minimal interference, irrigation, or fertilization, and that's natural enough for me. The birds seem to like it, too.

Harbinger of Fall

October - one of Florida's driest months - is a just a few weeks away. The daily thunderstorms of summer have already diminished, and it seems as if my garden needs a respite from the exuberance created by so much available moisture.

Fall officially begins next Tuesday, September 22, but there have been hints of her arrival for several weeks already. Acorns are falling on my roof (they make a pleasant sound as they roll into the gutters), and the Winged Sumac (Rhus copallinum) in my garden is beginning to turn red.

It is my habit to walk through my small garden in the afternoons when I get home from work. I look for new flowers, pick up fallen branches and twigs, and fill the birdbath. Yesterday I was quite surprised to find a very early Camellia flower.

The fall-blooming Japanese Camellia sasanqua is one of my favorite shrubs. The single pink variety pictured was the first shrub I planted in my garden nearly 12 years ago, and it has rewarded me every autumn with dozens of delicate, five-petaled pink flowers. It blooms over a period of several weeks, and usually reaches its peak around Halloween.

Fall is Florida's most subtle (and I think most pleasant) season. It's more of a pause then a season, a welcome relief from summer's oppressive heat and humidity, and a period of quiet inactivity before the winter cold fronts begin to arrive. Yesterday's early flower tells me that the Camellia is as eager for Fall to
begin as I am.

The Elephant Foot

As gardeners go, I would consider myself fairly typical. I try to grow too many plants in too small a space, and I am always eager to experiment with new or novel plants. Those that make the cut and end up in my garden are not always perennial favorites - a very good friend sometimes refers to my garden as a "weed patch."

Flowers such as roses are appreciated by most people - in addition to their beauty they possess an unmistakable signature scent. Their inclusion in gardens is rarely questioned. Many less showy plants (including some that are just plain ugly) often have a quiet charm, or one or more unusual attributes that make them garden-worthy.

I will try to make my case for an odd little plant with a very odd name. It lacks colorful flowers or foliage, and no society exists to praise it or favor it.

Elephantopus elatus (or Florida Elephant Foot) is a member of the large plant family Asteraceae, which also claims the cheerful sunflower and the daisy as members. Common in dry, upland forests in Florida, it seems to have an affinity for thin, sandy soils. Usually about six to ten inches across, the plant forms a small ground-hugging rosette of large and hairy flat leaves that resemble lettuce or salad greens. In the late summer and early fall it sends up a tall, wiry spike that branches multiple times at the top, and terminates in flattened, three-leaved bracts that enclose multiple tiny purple flowers. The tiny flowers open in succession over a period of several weeks and attract even tinier pollinating insects.

My original two plants were purchased about six years ago, and planted next to a small Sparkleberry tree (Vaccinium arboreum). They have been marching slowly eastward ever since, and now number around three dozen. The tall, wiry spikes of flowers and seed capsules tend to lean, dropping small gray seeds as they bend. The Florida Elephant Foot has found my garden much to its liking. The plants grow to the size of paving stones, and the flower spikes are nearly hip high. I have done nothing to tempt them to stay, but I am pleased they have found my garden refuge to their liking.

The Paynes Prairie Chapter of the Florida Native Plant Society will be holding their annual Fall Plant Sale on September 25-26, at Morningside Nature Center in Gainesville.

Milk and Wine

This particular Crinum, Crinum scabrum, is commonly called the Milk and Wine Lily. It's a tough plant, with unruly, rubbery foliage and underground bulbs the size of softballs. It is a semi-tropical species, and will grow quite nicely in USDA Zones 8b and southward.

It hails from Africa. Its history and provenance is lost - mired within the colonial histories of Great Britain, the United States, Africa, and the Caribbean.

My bulbs came from a neglected curbside planting in a Gainesville, Florida neighborhood that was established in the 1950's. The bulbs arrived here more than 100 years before that (the city was founded in 1853). I admire them for their longevity and tenacity.

They bloom under the most adverse conditions, and require little care. I would not trade one Crinum bulb for 1oo of the finest Dutch tulips (which won't grow here anyway).