By Jim McCausland, Sunset Magazine

I once heard about a Japanese landscape architect who started every project by spending a day on site, just watching how sun and shadow changed from hour to hour. He was a smart man.

I personally study my garden three days every year: summer solstice (today), spring or fall equinox, and winter solstice. I'm not thinking just about day length, though that is significant; I'm noting the sun's rising and setting points, and its track across the sky. Those things have a profound effect on how plants grow: the direction of light determines which way daffodils and sunflowers face; it determines whether trees will lean toward light or grow straight; and has some influence on how I orient rows of corn and beans.

Consider the sun's rising point on solstices and equinoxes. The composite photograph below was taken on June 21 (far left sun), September 21 (center sun), and December 22 (right sun) a few years ago. Each of the shots was snapped from the same spot at Manchester, Washington, looking eastward toward Seattle and the Cascades Mountains beyond. The December sunrise is a whopping 73° south of the June sunrise—that's nearly a fifth the way around the horizon.

From a garden plant's perspective, a couple of things are going on here. On the longest day of the year—that happens to be today—a plant in Seattle is getting about 16 hours of sunlight. On the shortest day, the same plant is getting about 8 1/2 hours. Farther north, summer days and winter nights are even longer. As you move south, summer days are shorter, but there is still a huge difference in day length between summer and winter. At the equator, daylength remains unchanged throughout the year. The sun there rises at 6 AM and sets at 6 PM with monotonous regularity every day of the year. (That's one reason there are virtually no deciduous plants at low elevations on the equator.)

The other thing to notice is sun angle. In summer, the sun rides much higher in the noonday sky than it does at any other time of year. In Seattle today, for example, the sun's high point will be about 65°above the horizon. But six months from now, it will be only 19° above the horizon at noon. A higher sun is more intense and casts shorter shadows, giving plants more light even without factoring in day length. A low sun is weak and makes long shadows, giving plants little to work with as they try to photosynthesize. Deciduous plants don't even try: they just drop their leaves in autumn and wait for the lengthening days of spring.

Three ornamental rocks will help you figure out how this works in your own garden. At 1 PM today, put one rock at the tip of the shadow cast by the high point of your house's roof line (or take a picture of that shadow). At 1 PM September 21st (equinox), put rock number two at the tip of the same shadow. At noon (no daylight savings time) December 21st (winter solstice), put rock number three at the tip of the shadow. You will be astounded at how far the shadow moves from season to season. As days shorten, lengthening shadows seem to swallow every thing north of walls and trees.

And while you're looking around in your garden, think about light-related garden problems and how they're influenced by the seasons. Sometimes a bit of pruning can open up a window that lets in enough extra photons to help light-hungry plants do better.

By Jim McCausland, Sunset Magazine

You've heard it before: good gardeners take the trouble to learn botanical names so there won't be any confusion about what they're buying and growing. I'm quite sure I've given the lecture myself. "There are at least a half dozen plants representing several species with the common name 'loosestrife'," I say; "common names change from region to region, and in some cases from (human) family to family. You just can't trust them."

But in the years I've done this, nobody has had the presence of mind to ask me why the RHS Plant Finder, the last word on botanical names, has to be updated every year. Are botanical names as undependable as common names? The answer, I'm afraid, is "yes."

Consider this example. Because even an annual update of the RHS Plant Finder can't keep pace with botanical name changes, England's Royal Botanic Gardens (run by Royal Horticultural Society) and Missouri Botanical Garden created a wonderful web site called The Plant List. You can go there, key in the name of a genus and species, and learn whether the name is accepted, or a synonym, or unresolved. It turns out that of more than a million species names you might enter, about a quarter are unresolved, and nearly half are synonyms—that is, they were once, or were once thought to be, the correct name. But no more.

Further, when The Plant List gives you its judgment on the status of a name, it doesn't just say yay or nay; it supplies a confidence rating. For example, when I checked American elderberry, which was moved from S. nigra canadensis to S. canadensis, the confirming page tells me that they are mostly sure (two stars out of three) that this is right. There are even confidence ratings for synonyms and unresolved names—they are slightly certain (one star out of three), for example, that the nomenclatural status of Sambucus alba is unresolved. This reminds me of Winston Churchill's famous assessment of his prewar government: "they go on in strange paradox, decided only to be undecided, resolved to be irresolute, adamant for drift, solid for fluidity, all-powerful to be impotent."

The changes in genus names are shocking. Remember Chrysanthemum? Now it's been split into Ajania, Arctanthemum, Argyranthemum, Coleostephus, Glebionus, Leucanthemum, Nipponanthemum,  Rhodanthemum, and Tanacetum. And if you're a native plant lover, you get to move Alaska cedar (a Chamaecyparis) to Xanthocyparis. And Eucalyptus? I don't even want to talk about it.

But with all these moves, guess what hasn't changed? Well, Shasta daisy (which has worn the names Chrysanthemum X superbum, C. maximum, Leucanthemum X superbum, and L. maximum) is still Shasta daisy. Alaska cedar is still Alaska cedar, and ponytail palm (once Beaucarnea recurvata, then Nolina recurvata, then back to Beaucarnea recurvata again) is still ponytail palm. Of course, it isn't really a palm, but we won't go there just now.

Everyone's hope—my hope, anyway—is that present advances in DNA fingerprinting will help taxonomists determine actual relationships in a way that allows them to fix names, then go away. But that's a future we will never see. For now, I feel my confidence in common names rapidly climbing from one star toward three.

 

 

By Jim McCausland, Sunset Magazine

Photograph by Mike Mahoney

We all have our favorite sports. One that fascinates me is the hunt for big trees. Every state has its giants, and anybody can find them, measure them, and submit them to the National Register of Big Trees, which is maintained by American Forests. And lest you think that the biggest and best trees have all been found, remember that there's a biggest tree for every species, giants crash to earth in every big storm, and there's still lots of unexplored (for big trees) territory out there.

Consider the case of the world's tallest pine: a sugar pine in Yosemite, it was 269 feet high when it died in 2009. Enter two big-tree hunters, Michael Taylor of Trinity County, CA, and Mario Vaden of Beaverton, OR. Scouting Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest in southern Oregon last month, they found a ponderosa pine that's 268 ft. 4 in. tall, making it the new world champion pine.

Scouting the forest near Alpine, CA, Mike Mahoney found the 117-ft.-tall western white pine pictured above, nominated it, and came up with another new national champion. (Each species has its own champion.)

If you want to get into the hunt for big trees, check out American Forests' National Register of Big Trees to see existing champs and learn how to nominate one you think is bigger.

By Jim McCausland, Sunset Magazine

In September 2008, we published a list of memorable garden quotes. Well, people keep talking and writing, and I keep listening and reading, so here's a follow-up list. Most of these were contributed by David Cristiani, a quotable Albuquerque landscape designer and himself a quotation collector.

I'd love to hear your additions.

Being grown-up

Yes, it has thorns—get over it!
  —Arizona garden speaker

Climate

Don't obsess over microclimates if you don't even know your climate.
 —David Cristiani, 2007

Control

One of the worst mistakes you can make as a gardener is to think you're in charge.
  —Janet Gillespie

Etymology

The origin of the word "human" is the same as for "humus" or "dirt." (A interesting cognate, perhaps accidental, is from Moses: "For you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”)

The etymology of the word "husband" goes back to "tiller of the soil."

Fatal attraction

If you are not killing plants, you are not really stretching yourself as a gardener.
  —J. C. Raulston

Half-full cup

There is no need to grieve for the plants that cannot be grown; it’s better to rejoice in the abundance of those that can.
  —Janice Emily Bowers

We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.
  —Abraham Lincoln

Heavy equipment in the garden

Handing some guys the keys to a Bobcat or backhoe is like handing a group of teenagers the key to your liquor cabinet.
 —Andy Wasowski

Home

The gods made palms so man would know where to live.
  —Mediterranean saying

Landscape design

Less is more.
  —Mies Van de Roh

A doctor can bury his mistakes but an architect can only advise his clients to plant vines.
  —Frank Lloyd Wright (1868-1959)

Landscape design is like music: you take different notes and arrange those notes to make a beautiful song, using chords, rhythms, and melodies. Somehow, with native plants, so-called professionals are just throwing out notes randomly, calling it a natural landscape, and the public either buys it or they reject using native plants. Imagine Bach or the Beatles being popular doing that.
  —David Cristiani

Panayoti's mission

My mission: to make Americans more interested in plants than in spectator sports.
  —Panayoti Kelaidis (take THAT, Super Bowl)

Silliness

I'm afraid if we use native plants, rabbits will have a place to hide and jump out and scare our kids.
  —Upper Midwest parent’s concern about using native plants at a school

Water in the desert

Don't pray for rain if you can't take care of what you get.
 —R. E. Dixon, Superintendent, Texas Agriculture Experiment Station, Spur, TX, 1937

Water is an herbicide!
  —Dr. Curtis Smith

You have to get over the color green; you have to quit associating beauty with gardens and lawns.
  —Wallace Stegner

Weeds

Weeds are a symptom of bad land management, not bad plants.
  —Panayoti Kelaidis

Well-turned phrase

The earth laughs in flowers.
  —Emerson

By Sharon Cohoon, Sunset senior garden writer

Having trouble selling your home?  Maybe you need a St. Joseph statue.  Read why on this post on Cindy McNatt's blog, Dirt DuJour.

If you think Jim's resolution to learn the botanical name of every plant in his yard, including the weeds, is too ambitious, see what Tom at Tall Clover Farm has in mind.  He hopes to err on the side of kindness this year.  Here's what inspired his resolution.  Check out the photos of his bulldogs decked in bolts of tartan while you're there.  Might have to get one of those for Lucy.

The best way to improve your garden might be to get out of it, says Valerie Easton at Plant Talk.  Head for an art museum, she recommends.  And, if you live anywhere near Seattle head for the Seattle Art Museum to see the Picasso exhibit, she strongly urges.  150 works from the Musee Picasso are there on loan while the Paris museum is being renovated.  Show ends January 16th so don't delay.

Here's one painting from the show.  See Valerie's post for more.

By Jim McCausland, Sunset Magazine

I noticed that each comment on Tuesday's blog ("A great Chilean bamboo for the Pacific Northwest") mentioned my 2010 New Year's resolution, which was to learn the names of every plant in my garden. It got me thinking about good resolutions for this year. Here they are.

1) To spend as much time in the garden as I do reading and talking about it.

2) To plant a row of vegetables for the hungry.

3) To introduce at least one child to gardening (by helping them plant a row of peas, for example).

4) To keep my garden journal current.

5) To plant a few more flowers for bees and other beneficial insects.

6) To read at least one great new garden book each season.

7) To try at least one natural pest control that I've never used.

8) To grow something new from seed.

9) To polish garden techniques that I don't use enough, like grafting different apples on the same tree; starting roses, figs, grapes, or hydrangeas from cuttings; or propagating house plants by air layering. All are quite easy.

10) To make sure every plant's name is written down somewhere.

What are your resolutions?

By Julie Chai, Sunset associate garden editor

In case you haven't heard, this weekend is our big annual Celebration Weekend open house—among other things, it's two days packed with cooking demos and celebrity chefs, expert garden talks, and a display with the coolest new camping gear. Plus—of course—tons of food and wine to keep you happy all day.

And on top of that, if you're one of the first 25 guests to check in at Celebration Weekend on Foursquare, you'll win a copy of our brand new Western Garden Book of Edibles that's complete with all the info you need to start an edible garden and keep existing ones at their peak.

Hope to see you there—and be sure to check in early!

By Jim McCausland, Sunset Magazine

A plant’s power to grab you by the nose and lead you through the garden is remarkable, since in the end you don’t pollinate the plant, and the fragrances we love most (roses and lilies, for example) don’t feed us. So what’s the point? Pure delight, as far as I can tell—like rainbows, music, laughter.

What a gift, but how strange are the ways in which we perceive it.

Sometimes it’s counterintuitive.

Take the genus Euonymus (that's Euonymus fortunei 'Emerald 'n Gold' at right), which was named for the Greek goddess Euonyme, the mother of the Furies. She inspired such fear that the people gave her a moniker that means “she whose name is good,” hoping thereby to stay on her good side. The connection with Euonymus is that many of the plants in this group have evil-smelling leaves and poisonous fruits—bad things you hope to counterbalance by giving the plant a good name.

Other times it’s by association.

When my wife wears Prada’s Infusion of Iris fragrance (highly recommended, by the way), garden scents blend with romance in a most satisfying way. There are also other fascinating commercial connections, not all of them intended. My rosemary plant (left) smells like Noxema; the Coppertone suntan lotion I grew up with smells exactly like Gladiolus callianthus (Acidanthera tricolor); the crushed leaves of harlequin glorybower (Clerodendrum trichotomum) smell just like peanut butter; the leaves and flowers of western spice bush (Calycanthus occidentalis) are redolent of old wine barrels; ‘White Lady’ heliotrope smells like baby powder; Texas hummingbird mint (Agastache cana) mimics the scent of bubble gum; and Seven-Up plant (Stachys albotomentosa, also sold as S. ‘Hidalgo’) is a good knock-off of the soft drink.

Plants themselves frequently mimic other plants. We think of the cocoa tree for chocolate, but ‘Sharry Baby’ orchid, an Oncidium, also has the scent (see Kathy Brenzel's article about the best chocolates for your garden). Most of the fragrance impersonators are named for what they smell like: Golden apple mint, native wild ginger (Asarum caudatum), Peppermint tree (Agonis flexuosa), pineapple sage (Salvia elegans), honedew sage (S. elegans ‘Honey Melon Sage’), skunk cabbage, camphor tree, roast beef plant (Iris foetidissima), and anise hyssop.

Mostly the aroma is in the leaves or flowers, but not always. Prune a cherry or a fig tree, and you’ll smell cherries or figs. Put your nose into the deep furrows of Jeffrey pine bark and you’ll breathe in butterscotch, vanilla, or oranges; it varies from nose to nose.

Some of the best scents are ephemeral. Sweet violets (Viola odorata), for example, contain ionone, which draws you in for another whiff even as it deadens your sense of smell for a minute or so, making the scent vanish. You have to leave it for a few minutes, then return if you want to inhale more of its loveliness.

Sweet box (Sarcococca) has a different version of the same trick: it perfumes the cold February air around your front door, so you snip a bit and bring it indoors, whereupon it vanishes. Cold must be the trigger here. The same may be true for angel’s trumpet, whose fragrance is released only in the evening.

Sweet-after-death (Achlys triphylla, right) has no scent at all during the growing season, but as the leaves wither and die in fall, it smells like vanilla.

The new spring leaves and colored fall foliage of Katsura tree (Cercidiphyllum japonicum, bottom) smell like brown sugar, or so I’m told. Though my nose has been all over that tree at all seasons, I’ve never smelled a thing. Nor have I enjoyed the flowers of various carrion plants, whose fly-pollinated flowers smell like road kill. Clearly some scents are better left to the imagination.

 By Sharon Cohoon, Sunset senior garden writer.  Photograph by Thomas J. Story

1.  Its name means "dew of the sea."  A reference to the plant's native habitat on seaside cliffs in the Mediterranean.  How pretty is that?

2.  There is a variety called `Barbecue', which, as the name implies, is perfect for barbecue skewers.  It has nice stiff, straight stems.  It is 4-6 ft. tall and only half as wide, which also makes it a good candidate for small yards.  `Gorizia' and `Blue Spires' are also good candidates for skewers.

3.  Rosemary flowers are edible. I suppose I'm not surprised by that but I haven't thought to use them this way before.  Now I will, if only as garnish.

4. Not sure how to prune rosemary?  Here's the technique:  When plants are small, control growth by frequent tip-pinching.  Older plants need frequent, light pruning, too.  Cut to side branches or shear.  And, if plants become woody and bare in the center, cut back selected branches by half to encourage new growth.  (Be sure to cut into leafy wood; plants will not grow from bare wood.)

These tips all come from the new  Sunset Western Garden Book of Edibles, edited by my co-blogger, Jim McCausland.

Other things I learned from our Edibles book

What Jim learned in the process of editing the book

And a little preview of the book

By Jim McCausland, Sunset Magazine

Photo courtesy NASA Goddard Space Flight Center, with thanks to Visible Earth

The best place on the planet to celebrate this 41st annual Earth Day is in your own garden, where you get a closeup view of the cycle of life. Here are some things you can do.

Sow a few seeds. Whether it's a sunflower seed in a Dixie cup, seed scattered in the garden, or sweet peas for cutting later, this new-life process is fast and especially impressive to kids.

Create a creature-friendly garden. Every garden is habitat for something. Make it a better one by planting for bees and butterflies, wildlife, and birds.

Improve the earth. At Islandwood on Bainbridge Island, instructors have inner-city kids pick greens out of the garden, eat them for lunch, throw the leftovers onto the compost pile, then see finished compost go back onto the garden to nourish the next round of salad greens. For many of these kids, it's the first time they've ever seen the full cycle at work—and the compost pile is the link that connects gardens past with gardens future. You can make a simple compost bin with chicken wire, or use my favorite, a slatted wooden bin. The compost you make will improve the Earth's earth in ways you can see, smell, and touch.

Learn more. Two of my favorite books for inspiration are very different. Rare Earth: Why Complex Life Is Uncommon in the Universe by Peter Ward and Donald Brownlee (Copernicus Books, New York, 2004; $16.95) makes the powerful case that planet Earth may be unique in its ability to support life. By the time you're done, you'll be very glad you're here. The Man Who Planted Trees by Jean Giano (Chelsea Green Publishing Company, White River Junction, VT, 2005; $10) is an irresistible fictional account of a man who transformed a wasted landscape into a woodland filled with streams and wildlife, just by planting acorns. First published in Vogue in 1954, it has become one of the most inspirational environmental classics ever.