Or at least one of them.
It is in my nature to be come obsessed with a group of plants. Back in October I wrote about my obsession with rosemaries. Last March I wrote about my obsession with offsetting rosettes (agave, aloe, haworthia, jovibara, echeveria, sempervivum, orostachys). I’ve had fixations on Agapanthus, Ceanothus, Palms, Lavender, Salvia, native plants, strawberries, Cistus, Penstemon, Yucca, Olives, grasses, cacti, agave. Last February I mentioned an obsession with roses. The “orchid thing” began when I was about four. Orchids are a category of their own, with obsessions on Cattleyas, Cymbidiums, warm-growing Oncidiums, cool growing Oncidiums, Miltonia, Masdevallia, Dracula, Brassavola, Nobile Dendrobiums, Dendrobium phalenopsis (“den-phals”), hirsute dendrobiums, antelope dendrobiums, Phalaenopsis hybrids, mini-phals, species phals, Phragmepedium besseae hybrids, standard Phragmepediums, Ascocentrum.
Perhaps it starts with a pretty flower, or something I’ve seen in a magazine or catalog. Maybe it’s in someone’s yard, or I see a plant while traveling. The next thing I know, I’m buying every book that Amazon has on the subject. I’m doing an in-depth review of the books, making plant lists. I’m doing web searches for sources. I make lists of what companies have which varieties, how much they cost and the relative qualities of the selection. I’m figuring out where I can put one or two or a dozen in my miniscule yard. It’s a little like falling in love. Or lust. Only with plants, I can have a dozen lovers at once. They all know about each other, and rarely get jealous. When the lust fades, there’s no drama. No emotional meltdowns. It can be traumatic when I have to remove a plant or discard a plant.
But it’s never because I’ve lost interest. It’s only because that plant is miserable in my location, I’ve tried to push the hardiness zone too far, or it turns into an invasive menace. The plants where the obsession has faded don’t become like ex-spouses, which become hateful, or needy, or demand alimony. Well, actually they do demand alimony: supportive care. But it’s never with malicious intent. The plants become more like...family. Except that the obsessions return periodically. It’s a good thing. I break out the rose books, the agapanthus book, the orchid books, the grass books.
My most recent obsessions has included citrus - what can I grow? Should I try the so-called hardy citrus, those varieties bred for hardiness, usually from Poncirus trifoliata, and whose fruits are usually inedible or barely edible, or should I consider a plant that I need to bring in for the winter? (I settled on the standard Meyer lemon after making a fantastic limoncello from my sister’s lemons, but considered Yuzu, the fragrant Japanese citrus that may be hardy to 10 degrees F).
I’ve been fixated on Dianthus since I saw pictures of a garden of them in the book “Venzano, a scented garden in Tuscany”. What I’m talking about are not carnations, nor the annual dianthus (D. chinensis) that are sold by the bedding-pack at home warehouses, have garish color and no fragrance. I also don’t mean “Sweet Williams” which although I enjoyed growing them as a child, don’t hold a fascination for me now (no fragrance, plant form not appropriate for my garden). I’m talking about the various species and their hybrids that are called pinks. They usually form a tuft of gray to green spiky leaves, and spring flowers that can be deliciously fragrant of cloves. I’m not including the alpine pinks, which although charming, I’m suspicious of their tolerance to Albuquerque’s summer heat (Aqua Fria has a delightful variety of them). Pinks have been cultivated for hundreds of years, and have been mentioned by Shakespeare. They originate from Europe and Asia. According to the Wikipedia, “The name Dianthus is from the Greek words dios ("god") and anthos ("flower").” Supposedly, they were first grown in cottage gardens, not for their flowers, but as a purgative for preparing escargot for the table. They are said to be named “Pinks” not because the flowers are commonly in the color pink, but because their serrated petal edges look as if they might have been cut with pinking shears. Flowers range in color from white to pink to red, singles, semi-doubles, doubles, fringed, spotted, eyed, laced, picotee, striped and more. As befits a plant that has been grown for centuries, there is The International Dianthus Register which lists over 30,000 cultivars. With this variety and a small stature, they are an ideal collector’s plant (Danger, Will Robinson!).
Acantholimon hohenackeri (May 29, 2008)
I suppose that I could have chosen the genus Acantholimon instead of dianthus. Acantholimon, also known as prickly thrift, has similar stature and color as dianthus, both in leaf and flower. They have similar bloom times. Species come from southeastern Europe to central Asia. Acantholimon hoehenackeri and a number of other species comes from Turkey, whose climate is closely allied with that of Albuquerque. The prickly leaves are more likely to ward off the onslaught of rabbits. True, the acantholimon don’t have the history of hybridization, and the thousands of cultivars that dianthus has. But the obvious reason I chose dianthus is obvious: dianthus has fragrance. I do have a single acantholimon in my yard. It forms a nice compact rounded tuft, and requires no water whatsoever throughout the summer. It has been there for five years, and this year may be the first year for bloom.
About 5 years ago, when I first began looking into dianthus, I was mostly interested in fragrance. I purchased Dianthus hispanicus from Joy Creek Nursery, whose description included, “They will perfume an entire small garden if you like.” Having white flowers, they would fit into my “Fire and Smoke” garden, and with it’s name, I figured it must come from Spain, and probably be fairly tolerant of dryness. Perfect. Of course upon planting in my garden, it was ravaged by rabbits for the first couple of years. Perhaps it didn’t act as a purgative as it does with snails, or perhaps the rabbits didn’t mind, or were just desperate. The spring flowers were nicely fragrant, but there were not enough left by the rabbits to scent my smaller-than-small garden. I ignored the plant, but it continued to grow vigorously, despite rare waterings. It never looked parched. This was a tough plant, and even without the flowers, the foliage was an attractive mound of grey. Last year, the plant was taken out and divided, having reached more than two feet in diameter. For some reason the rabbits have left the divisions alone (perhaps the tularemia devastation of the rabbit population had something to do with it). Unfortunately, the divisions were planted in a location too shady for them, and have had to be relocated to a hotter, sunnier and drier location. Seeing this toughness recaptured my attention, and the dianthus obsession was reinvigorated.
Dianthus hispanicus (May 11, 2008)
This spring I bought a collection of dianthus from Goodwin Creek Gardens. A couple plants came from Agua Fria nursery in Santa Fe. The problem with purchasing plants locally is the limited selection. The dianthus seen locally are almost always ‘Bath’s Pink’, ‘Firewitch’ (the 2006 Perennial Plant Association plant of the year), and when Roland’s was in business, ‘Spotty’. Lowe’s has been carrying ‘Frostfire’ this season. That’s not to say that these are not good plants. I visited Judith Phillips’ nursery when ‘Bath’s Pink’ was in bloom and even though it was quite windy, the scent was wonderful (the reason why I purchased one). These locally sold plants are “tried and true” in this climate. What Goodwin Creek picked out for me are: ‘Tiny Rubies’, ‘Oakington’, ‘Firewitch’, ‘Laced Romeo’, ‘Queen of Sheba’ (in the photo above) and ‘Gloriosa’. Something I realized when planting them out today: despite my recent belly-aching about gravel mulch, I love the look of dianthus against the gravel.
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