aroma therapy

top: "Jasmoides" type Gardenia

lower left and right: "Thunbergia" type Gardenias

From a horticultural perspective, perhaps the finest thing about Gulf Rim gardening is the vast array of fragrance plants that we have at our disposal – most of them exotic, and most of them limited in hardiness to horticulture zones 8b-9.  That's why the further south you go, the better the gardens smell . . .


For example, everyone living along the Gulf Rim – be ye gardeners, or not – must have sweet olive (Osmanthus fragrans aka “tea olive”) and night-blooming jessamine (Cestrum nocturnum). I mean, just for the general sake of sanity, ya'll. If you live in an apartment, that's no real excuse. Grow 'em in big-ass tubs. Grow them you must.

And the fragrance plant list for our region stretches on and on from these two storied selections: true jasmines (Jasminum sp.), banana shrub (Michelia figo, aka “banana magnolia”), sweet-bay magnolia (Magnolia virginina), citrus, hundreds of varieties of roses (especially the antiques), winter honeysuckle (Lonicera fragrantissima), and on and on.

And then there are the gardenias....ah, what a group....and is it even possible to accurately describe their scent? Best I could come up with would be something like, “heady, heavy, near-sickly-sweet-musk, with (on some evenings) a hint of citrus.” Whatever, gardenias surely belong right up there with sweet olive and night-blooming jessamine. All are so easy to grow down here, and all have drawn out bloom seasons. On average, gardenias bloom 4-6 weeks; sweet olive and night-blooming jessamine, more like 8-16 weeks, if not more(!).

In researching gardenias for this article, I quickly ran into substantial taxonomical confusion – which is not at all a common thing in researching most plant and animal groups. Of course nowadays with the internet and all, such a problem should be handled with relative ease. Not so with gardenias. The more I searched, the more confusing things got. So what “facts” you might read here represent the best that I could come up with. If anyone out there can help straighten me out on this matter, please contact me at natrldlite@cox.net.

Gardenias are native mostly to the Old World tropics: southern Asia and Africa; and a few species apparently native to northern Australia and Polynesia. According to sources, 140-200+ species within the genus Gardenia exist – mostly shrubs, but some trees as well. Here within the southern Atlantic and Gulf coasts of the U.S., the gardenias that we know and love are spring/summer blooming evergreen shrubs featuring very attractive deep-green, glossy foliage.

Here in southern Louisiana, the gardenia that I pretty much grew up with is 6' X 6' large-leaved shrub which produces double “rumpled”looking blooms around late-May and June. This is the selection that Neil Odenwald (Southern Plants for Landscape Design, 1987) calls Gardenia jasmoides, with a (maybe so, maybe not) cultivar name of 'Mystery'.

Above photo is pretty much what my 'Mystery' gardenia looks like. Note especially the rumpled look to its flowers. This photo, however, is actually of the dwarf gardenia, Gardenia jasmoides 'Prostrata' also known in some sources as Gardenia radicans. The point is, both this dwarf cultivar and the larger 'Mystery' gardenia of my youth share those rumpled-looking blooms.

Then there's this cultivar (above), of which I've yet to dig up a cultivar name, but which multiple sources list as Gardenia jasmoides or Gardenia augusta. Note how the bloom begins in a nodding position (so I just call it “the nodding type”). This gardenia features the largest leaves and the largest blooms of any species/cultivar with which I am familiar.

Once “the nodding type” opens up, the bloom occasionally rares up into a horizontal position. Blooms age into a fine tawny-cream color, and become even more fragrant before dropping.

7' "hip gardenia" at our place

And then there are the smaller-leaved, single-flowered gardenias – referred to by Odenwald as Gardenia thunbergia – which form telltale, red-orange “hips” after bloom drop. Common names for this class of gardenia include “star gardenia,” “daisy gardenia,” and “hip gardenia.” I've seen other sources refer to these as Gardenia scabrella. Some sources list this species group as native to northern Australia; others to south Africa. Up until only recently in Louisiana, this species group was seen only around the old plantation homes along the Mississippi River. Today, you can find them in many south Louisiana nurseries. I suspect that Neil Odenwald played a major role in getting them back into commercial production around these parts.

da hip

Beyond their very cool flowers, hip gardenias feature relatively tiny leaves, providing an outstanding fine-textured habit in the landscape. The “standard” hip gardenia grows to 8' X 6' and it's a wonderful thing to see such tiny, densely-arrayed, leaves on such a large shrub.

There's also a more dwarfish form of hip gardenia called 'Daisy' which grows only to 4-5' in height.

bloom comparison: l-r 'Daisy' (note wide petals), "Hip" (narrow petals),

and "Jasmoides" (double-flowered)

foliage comparison: top, "Jasmoides" (4" long);

middle, "Hip"; bottom 'Daisy' (thinner/longer, similar to G. jasmoides 'Prostrata')

on all, note fine venation and glossy finish....very fancy.....

There are several more types that I don't have space (or photos) to mention. All I can say is the three types that I've featured above have all done beautifully here -- even in my mucky black clay.

Tell ya what, regardless of which cultivar you choose (I suggest making room for all of them), that heavy, musky-sweet gardenia fragrance wafting up your nose faithfully each morning and evening for weeks on end will do wonders for the “harried-mind-syndrome” that most of us seem to carry around these days.

she's like a rainbow . . .

Iris fulva x brevicaulis 'God's Gift'

A natural hybrid that came up in our ditch some years ago...

“She comes in colors everywhere

She combs her hair

She's like a rainbow.

Combing colors in the air

Oh everywhere

She comes in colors.”

– Jagger/Richard

Iris: Greek goddess of the rainbow, and a messenger of the gods . . . and/or . . . a Northern Hemisphere plant genus containing over 200 species, five of which are native to Louisiana.

Never has a plant genus been more aptly named, for not only is there a massive variety of flower color amongst the different species of Iris, but also a dizzying color array within each species.

Thanks in no small part to the Mighty Muddy Mississippi River and its brown, sticky unending supply of alluvium, Louisiana was proclaimed the “Iris Center of the Universe” by Dr. J. K. Small, Curator of the New York Botanical Gardens back in the 1920s. Small first glimpsed Louisiana irises from the window of a train, igniting a love affair which brought him back here on many occasions, collecting, researching, and naming some 77 color forms and natural hybrids – most of which placidly grew in the general vicinity of New Orleans alone! Back then, irises grew in wild profusion throughout the marshes and swamps of St. Bernard, Plaquemines, and Orleans parishes, literally surrounding the city of New Orleans. There are even early 20th century references regarding color forms being collected off Frenchman Street. Small's main “honey hole,” though, was the Bayou Sauvage area, off Gentilly Ridge – presently encompassed by the Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge. Sadly, few if any iris colonies have survived the saltwater brought in there by Katrina.

Given to us by Rosemary Simms some years ago as, 'Briar Queen'

this one looks very similar to Small's Iris miraculosa, found (probably)

somewhere in lower Plaquemines parish in March 1927 by Ruth & Arthur Svihla

Back in those days, incredible color variation could be found within a single Iris species, and within a single “iris field.” Collectors were few back then, for most folks associated irises with black stinky mucky mud, and snakes and alligators.

By the mid-1930s, the Louisiana iris craze quickly migrated from New Orleans to Lafayette, where Mary Swords DeBaillon had already amassed the world's “most complete” color form collection in her North Lafayette yard. And even more importantly, the discovery of the “Super Fulvas,” aka “the Abbeville Reds” and/or “the Abbeville Yellows” from the Bayou Vermilion floodplain just south of Abbeville in 1938 by W. B. “Mac” MacMillan. More than any other “Louisiana iris” it was the “Abbevilles” that launched Louisiana iris hybridization into a global obsession, eventually amassing horticultural converts from New York to California and Japan to Australia. Yep,the Louisiana iris saga is one of the most fascinating stories in horticultural history.

One of the legendary 'Abbeville Reds' said to have come from MacMillan's own yard!

Given to us by the intrepid Tyrone Foreman

Mary DeBaillon's amazing collection, coupled with the discovery of the “Abbevilles,” led to the formation of the Mary Swords DeBaillon Iris Society in 1941, soon known as the Society for Louisiana Irises, reserving Mary DeBaillon's name for the Mary Swords DeBaillon Medal, award for best-in-show at the Society's annual gatherings.

Iris 'Dixie Deb' an outstanding landscape iris

developed by Frank Chowning, Little Rock, Arkansas

Of Louisiana's five native iris species, the four which have contributed to the fantastic hybrid complex known today as “Louisiana irises” are the copper iris (Iris fulva), the short-stemmed iris (Iris brevicaulis), the anglepod blue-flag (Iris hexagona), and the large blue-flag (Iris giganicaerulea), the latter of which is truly endemic (found nowhere else in the wild) to coastal Louisiana. Around the same time that Dr. Small was making his discoveries around New Orleans, Tulane herpetologist/naturalist Percy Viosca became interested in the ecological underpinnings of these irises. Which species were growing where? Which were not? Why? In fact, prior to MacMillan's discovery of the Abbevilles (believed today to be natural hybrids between I. fulva and I. giganticaerulea), Viosca had predicted that such a find awaited in at least two geographical locales within coastal Louisana, where swamps (traditional home of I. fulva) and marshes (traditional home of I. giganicaerulea) possessing specific hydrological regimes intersected. Indeed, one of the places he described was within the Bayou Vermilion watershed just north of its outfall into Vermilion Bay – precisely where MacMillan found it.

Those of you who are not from Louisiana should understand that New Orleans and Lafayette/Abbeville are by no means the only places where Louisiana irises grow wild. They grow wild throughout much of our state, but nowhere more prolific than in our coastal zone: 3 million acres' worth of marshes & swamps; beat up badly by storms and industry, but still standing...
I could go on and on. Like so many Louisiana gardeners, I was smitten by Louisiana irises early on, and moreso from Viosca's ecological perspective. My interest still is in natural color variants and natural hybrids as opposed to human-made hybrids. Still, I'll readily gawk at any Louisiana iris I encounter, regardless of heritage.

an un-named blackish-purple dwarf  I. brevicaulis

given to me (as a bribe...) by Dormon Hayden

From a conservation standpoint, it is the natural hybrids and color forms – those found in the wild by the first collectors – which are in most need of preservation. For the most part, the natural homes from which they were collected have been destroyed by development and/or salt-water intrusion by now. Secondly, from a horticultural landscaping perspective, the natural hybrids and color forms, along with the “straight species” themselves far out-perform the human-made hybrids in garden settings. Not only do the “naturals” self-propagate more easily, but they also live longer – almost indefinitely, in fact. These plants need to be ressurected by knowledgeable Louisiana iris folks and made available for plantings in parks, wildlife refuges, arboretums, botanical gardens, and private gardens everywhere -- but especially those in their original "homes" within the Louisiana coastal zone.

Iris 'Van Gough Blue' (my [definitely unregistered] name...)

a mysterious thing...can't remember who gave it to me....like a

"Super Brevicaulis'....very vigorous....long bloom season....evergreen foliage!

Any student of Louisiana irises would do well to read The Louisiana Iris a 1988 book by Marie Caillet and Joe Mertzweiller. Another publication, quite rare by now I'm sure, is the 1991 fiftieth anniversary publication of the Society for Louisiana Irises, simply entitled, Society for Louisiana Irises 1941-1991, edited by Joe Mertzweiller and published by Franklin Press, Baton Rouge. In it are reprints of J.K. Small's Louisiana iris articles published 1925-29 in the New York Botanical Gardens journal, Addisonia, along with very-cool watercolor plates (done by the Botanical Gardens' Mary Eaton) of some of Small's favorite “finds.”

And be sure to check out the Society's website (http://www.louisianas.org/). This year's annual meeting will be held April 19-22 in Shreveport.

post-mortem of a flood

pot's on fiyah! the beginnings of a celebratory gumbo...a tad premature?

perhaps so, but that never stopped us from celebrating before.....

It's nearly 9:00am, and steadily raining – well, more like something between a drizzle and a rain. It's coolish (62F) and breezyish (5mph from the west) . . . perfect weather and a perfect time to put a pot of celebratory gumbo on the stove.

Some of you will remember the previous post on this blog (13 March), along with the facebook message I put out yesterday (20 March) detailing the ongoing saga of 12 March 2012's 10-15" Big Rain here just north of Lafayette. One week into the wake of the flood, and a number of us living just east of Bayou Vermilion are still boating to the blacktop (North Wilderness Trail, running atop Bayou Vermilion's east bank).

Yesterday, we were growing mighty anxious about the weather forecast calling for more deluge-type storms today. Presently, even though it's still raining, it appears we've dodged a cannonball, as the main squall line blew through 6:30-7:30 this morning, dropping only 1.25” more water up this way.

"crazy lil' thing, crazy lil' thing, how'd you get a name like crazy lil' thing?

prob'ly the name that drove you crazy, all along..." 

(quote by Captain Beefheart, photo by Russ Norwood http://www.perceptivist.com/)

As previously mentioned, even though it's still raining, we're partying. And we're not alone. Outside, the local chickadees didn't even wait for the deluge to end before breaking out into courtship songs. No mere calls, vaguely uttered, but fancy show-off courtship songs (a quasi-strident, “See-see See-Saw” repeated at frequent intervals. . . you know a chickadee's feelin' happy when he's singing this song). Presently, Carolina wrens and cardinals have joined in, piercing the cool drizzly air with songs of love.

So I'm like, “What the hey! There's no time like the present . . .Gumbo Party!”

Living most of my life down here along the Gulf Rim, I've noticed that most Gulf Rimmers pass time by generally just sitting around waiting for a reason to celebrate; and that down here in Cajunland our celebrations often turn out to be just a tad premature. Oh well. Better to have celebrated in vain than not to have celebrated at all, vous connais?

Anyway, it looks like 1-3" or so inches this go round is not going to seriously hamper the progress of our Big Drain. In fact, I'm hopeful that we'll be driving to our homes by Sunday (25 March). If that's the case, then we'll have boated for 13 straight days – one day shy of our record of 14 boat days, set during the May 2004 Mega Flood.

I asked for prayers in yesterday's facebook update. The responses from my friends were interesting. Some seemed taken aback that I'd even suggest that “God” would/could push the forecast rains elsewhere. After all, isn't that “childish at best and selfish at worst” type thinking? Well, no. Not to a believer. And yes, after decades of studying every spiritual belief system proposed by humankind, I remain an old-school Jesus-believer. By the same token, I certainly don't expect anyone else to believe like I believe.

(photo by Larry Amy or Kevin Courville . . . or possibly, both)

Sometimes it seems the real childishness and selfishness of it all lies in the notion that we can actually find human words to satisfactorily describe What's Going On. Truly, It's beyond all that, else it wouldn't be “God.” I mean, if we humans could actually define “God,” that ain't saying much for “God,” you know?

On David Byrne & Brian Ferry's mid-70s record album, “My Life in the Bush of Ghosts” the preacher man said, “....He's so HIGH, you can't get over Him; He's so LOW, you can't get under Him; He's so BIG, you can't get around Him....”

(photo by Edward Watson)

Pardon me if this seems personal, but How big is your God? Does God fill your Universe? Might God go beyond the Universe as well? Can God fill you? To the point where it becomes your heart, and not your mind, that speaks and acts and runs your show? These are good questions to ponder. . .

So, grateful thanks to all those who prayed for us, all those who thought about us, and all those who directed dry vibes our way. . . and as always, to God.

Now on to the Celebratory Gumbo. Like my spiritual beliefs, it's an old school recipe. Old school southern Evangeline parish chicken & sausage gumbo. With a twist. Unlike the gumbos of Lafayette & New Orleans, “cajun prairie gumbo” is thinner – closer to carmel-brown than chocolate-brown. This is accomplished by simply adding a little more water. Emphasis on “a little.”

A thinner gumbo reveals way more complexity of flavor than a thick one. That's because roux is so powerful that it easily masks the more delicate flavors of the meat and vegetables. So you dilute it, and whoa! The taste.

So I start with about 2 cups of dark roux mixed with about a quart of water and a quart of chicken stock. Heat only to a simmer while stirring (to keep the roux from sticking to the bottom of the pot) in order to dissolve all the roux. Once fairly well dissolved (a half-hour) turn fire lower, and add 2 chopped onions, 1 chopped bell pepper, a couple of tablespoons of minced garlic, and 3-4 ribs of fine-chopped celery.

Initially, I season with about 1 rounded teaspoon of black pepper, 1 rounded tablespoon of cayenne pepper, and 2 rounded tablespoons of salt. Toward the end, I recheck seasoning, adding more if necessary. Be careful with the salt, however, as chicken stock can have a lot; and you really want to use chicken stock in this thing.

Add another quart of chicken stock and another quart of water (now you've got a total of 1 gallon of water/stock invested) and turn up the fire to a slow, rolling boil.

After about 45-60 minutes, add 1lb. sliced smoked sausage (I use turkey, but southern Evangeline parish tradition calls for pure pork) and 1 hen, cut-up. Then 1-2 cups each of chopped onion tops & flat parsley. Keep it on a slow roll for another 2-3 hours, adding water to replace that which has steamed off (that keeps it thin!), and you're almost done.

Turn off the fire and let cool for an hour, allowing the oil from the roux & chicken & sausage to float/pool up to the surface. Skim as much of this oil off as you can, using either a big spoon or soup ladle. Then check seasoning, adding if necessary, and add another cup each of chopped onion top and parsley. Now you're done!

So “my twist” I guess is in adding celery and in “double-adding” onion top and parsley. The result is a super-fine, hearty-yet-very-digestible, veggie-tainted gumbo. It's health food I tell you.

anatomy of a flood

"....and i wonder; still i wonder....."

Blame it on youth, I guess; but when Lydia and I moved back here in northern Lafayette parish on the Bayou Vermilion floodplain 30 years ago, flooding was the last thing on our minds. We'd been living out in the woods in various places since 1978, and by 1982 we were looking to put down roots for good. The joys of living in quasi-wild places apparently outweighed any concerns we might have had regarding flooding. Blissful ignorance.

We moved out here for good in August 1982. We experienced our first flood in January 1983. On that occasion we didn't even know enough to move our vehicles up to the blacktop, and ended up relatively stranded back here with one other intrepid couple for 11 days. We all worked 8 to 5 jobs. Fortunately, one of us was out working when it flooded, so we had one (tiny) vehicle with which to carpool. We scored a small aluminum boat to ferry us from our homes to the blacktop, and there you have it.


Fast-forward 30 years, and the big flood of March 12 represents the 19th flood we've endured back here. The other couple's long gone; and numerous other couples/families have come and gone as well. But we're still here – as Robbie Robertson put it, “...for the crime of having no where to go...” and I guess we've grown used to it by now.


For the record, this past flood was not the worst. Our home itself has only flooded on a couple of occasions: Hurricane Andrew in 1992, and The Great Prairie Basse Flood of May 2004, when we had 14” of water in our living room for 8 miserable days. This time around, the living room caught a little water during the peak of the deluge; but only for an hour or so.


Over the years, I've never had the time to “journal” a flood event back here. But since retiring from the 9 to 5 grind 4 years ago, I did have the time to do so for this flood. Below, then, is “Anatomy of a Flood.” Hope ya'll enjoy.

11 March 2012, 10:00 a.m. – Perusing the weather channel, I saw where one of the Hawaiian Islands had experienced 48” of rain over the past week. This caused a very brief flashback to May 2004 when we received 20-30” here in one week's time.

12 March 2012, 7:00 a.m. – Awakened to heavy rain and near-constant window-rattling thunder. Whoa. This got me to flashing back to May 2004 all over again. Outside our bedroom window, the rain gauge had 1.5” in it, and rising fast.

8:00 a.m. – Nervously drinking coffee with Lydia on the front porch. The back porch is our preferred coffee spot, but the roof overhang is only 4' there – not near enough to keep us dry. Here on the front porch we've got 8' of roof. As the rain poured, neither of us brought up any talk about floods. After coffee I flicked on the weather channel, only to be greeted by a “FLOOD WARNING FOR PARTS OF ACADIA, LAFAYETTE, and ST. LANDRY PARISHES.” Checking the rain gauge, I note that in one hour we've gained 1.25” for a total of 2.75” Now I'm thinking quite a bit about our flood history.

9:50 a.m. – We've got a 5” max on our rain gauge, so I had to go out and empty it, as it has now reached 4.0” and the rain's coming down harder than ever. Praying now.

10:02 a.m. – Taking this picture through the back door, I happen to glance at the rain gauge. It says 1.0” . . . what? In 12 MINUTES?!!?? So it's 5” in 4 hours. Oh my. At this point I realize that our road's going to go under pretty quickly.

going under...

10:20 a.m. – With our total now approaching 7” I know it's time to move our vehicles up to the blacktop. It's a half-mile trip and we'll have to walk back in this deluge. Lydia balks, lobbying to wait until the near-constant lightning/thunder eases up. Sorry. The water ain't waiting on us.

handy-dandy Megalo-mart mesh flood shoes

10:40 a.m. – Returning from the blacktop we were wading through about 6-10” of water on the road. I take a look at the rain gauge 7.75”

10:50 a.m. – As the rain gauge hits 8.25” weather channel radar shows an angry thunderstorm complex sort of disorganizing right over us. It doesn't seem to be moving away, but instead is just growing eastward toward Breaux Bridge and Henderson.

11:05 a.m. – I dejectedly go out to empty the rain gauge again. We've just gotten our first break in the rain in nearly 5 hours. Local weather reports I-49 shut down between Opelousas and Carencro, so it's no uber-surprise when I note water creeping into our living room. Fortunately, the break in the deluge came at just the right time. A few towels and a mop soak up the living room water, and I note that the water in our garage has gone down to almost nothing.

front garden going under....note 7' foot bridge on the move behind the bird bath

2:00 p.m. – After an unsuccessful attempt at a nap (constant window-shaking thunder is back), I hurry out and reposition/stake-down our foot bridge, which has floated off its base. Several floods ago I learned to do this, rather than attempt to yank a few hundred pounds of foot bridge back where it belongs, post-flood. Yes! I am capable of learning, water-logged brain and all . . .

Flashback: January 1983. It must have been like Day 8 of our first flood. Lydia and I are in the boat, and we're enjoying our first “light moment” in, like, 8 days. At this point, she tactfully reminds me that we don't want to look back on this episode with nothing but bad memories, because as time goes on, all you really have that's worth anything is memories. Wow. Oh yeah, Give her a chance, and Lydia can spout some wise stuff . . .

Roseate Spoonbill & friend

And thinking more on it, I realize that some of our most wonderful “nature” moments have come during the floods. Even during the evil May '04 episode, we recorded our first-ever Roseate Spoonbill and Black-bellied Whistling Duck back here.

6:30 p.m. – After a 3-hour break (from deluge to hard drizzle), here comes another gully-washer. Constant window-rattlin' thunder now to our south ('twas from the north all day). Local news showed pandemonium-level flooding in Carencro (5 mi. due west of us). Rain total presently stands at 9.5”

water attempting to sneak into living room via carport

7:30 p.m. – This last deluge just ended. 1.9” in 1 hr. bringing our total to 11.4” for the day. Thank God it ended when it did, for water was threatening the living room just as it ended. I'm thinking of friends up the road (behind the original Don's Specialty Meats) who caught 2' of water throughout their house by around noon. They only recently moved there, and the original owner had told them that the house never once flooded in the 40 years that he lived there. Wait a minute. We're the ones (idiots) living right on the floodplain. It is amazing to look back over 19 floods here and realize that we've lost only two living room floors (we've got ceramic tile now....duh....) and had to gut the living room only once. Other than that, it's been a downright charming existence.

our gravel road...Wilderness Trail Rd. is about a quarter-mile off in the distance...water depth ca. 4.5'

on 13 March 9:30 a.m.

Just heard that water from Bayou Vermilion is now over-topping Wilderness Trail Rd (the blacktop) and flowing back toward us. Not a good thing. A record crest is expected sometime tonight. During the May '04 flood, water gushed over Wilderness Trail for 5+ days, raising the level back here to within one skinny inch of our main floor. With the bayou crest from this event coming so quickly (tonight), I doubt that we'll get that kind of backwater. Time will tell.

spring done sprang...

fresh this morning...brand-new strawberry bush (Euonymus americanus) foliage

"Behold: all things are become new..."

                                                                                      

                                                                                        -- 2 Corinthians 5:17

softly..........slowly...........

Spring came creeping in over the Mardi Gras weekend, meek, mild, and inspirational as ever. Living back in the Bayou Vermilion floodplain, I couldn't help but note the contrast between our garish celebration – round numbah 12,032 [or thereabouts] in our own perpetual search for self-validation – versus Spring's brand of celebration, which by its mere presence, becomes validation for all things, including us po' humans.

back porch view:  wild geranium, oxalis, rain lily, , spiderwort, bedstraw carpet

below; freshly-expanding leaves of deciduous holly, rough-leaf dogwood, and elderberry above.

you can't see the seed feeders very well (against the smaller of Lydia's old rehab pens), but an older male Chipping Sparrow stubbornly remained there -- refusing to abandon his breakfast buffet -- hotly "chipping" his protest as i approached to within 15' to take this picture.

Here in the low woodlands, the arrival of Spring 2012 has brought its usual sachel of pleasantly-lukewarm temperatures, days-in-a-row of rains or threats of rains, along with the resultant clouds of mosquitoes, the evil carpenter bee, the fantastically-fresh flowers of the early-spring bloomers, and today, the promising apprearance of the first new leaves of our deciduous plants. Soon, the hollow-echoing sound of winter will be replaced with the gently-muffled softness of spring. Heck, cardinals, chickadees, titmice, wrens, mockingbirds – even hawks – are hollering their lungs out for hours a day.

rain lily blooms sneak thru a chubby clump of spiderwort garlanded with bedstraw

the venerable old Cherrylaurel (almond-scented leaves!), fronted by

'Old Blush' the first antique rose variety brought in to the U.S. (ca. 1750)

The blooms of local early-spring plants, yes, we wait for those; but it is the unfurling of the first leaves of the year that really raise the hairs on the back of my neck, you know? The sudden near-wall-to-wall appearance of vibrant yet somehow soft hues of green, along with their accompanying textures, is almost startling. As of this morning, numerous local trees are now leafing out: pawpaw, red buckeye, sweetgum, black willow, deciduous holly, rough-leaf dogwood, and strawberry bush. 
 
The sounds of the birds and the long lost buzzing of flying insects echo through the warmish moisture-laden air. It's all almost too much to take in. Almost.
 
The pictured rain lily species is Zephranthes candida (aka "zephyrlily"), a South American native which has naturalized around Louisiana a good bit. Other natives currently in bloom include mayhaw (Crataegus opaca/aestivalis), blue phlox (Phlox divarcata), dewberry (Rubus trivialis), and little-leaf viburnum (V. obovatum).
 

little-leaf viburnum is a wetland species; this one is some sort of

dwarf cultivar (can't remember its name)

 
 
Spring down here along the Gulf Rim is hard to beat. Within a couple of weeks, you'll have to almost get out of the way as the bird, bug, and bloom/foliage parade picks up steam. As we say here in Cajunland, "Get out and get you some!"

mardi gras maple

Samaras of Acer rubrum var. drummondii

Genetic variation...some plants got it, some don't. Here in the southeastern U.S. for example, white oaks look pretty much the same wherever they are found. Ditto for southern red oaks. On the other hand, water oaks show lots of genetic variation in leaf margin/shape. Ditto for delta post oak (Quercus similis).

American Robins feasting on "standard" Yaupon Holly fruits

(photo by Stephen Pagans)

And then there are species such as yaupon holly (Ilex vomitoria), which exhibits big-time differences in leaf size, branching patterns, growth habit, fruit color, etc., often within single locales!

By the way, the UL-Lafayette campus and nearby Ira Nelson Horticulture Center on Johnston Street in Lafayette, may still host a substantial number of holly variants; for back in the golden age of horticultural research (1950-80) there, a number of UL horticulture professors were collecting, hybridizing, and test-planting all sorts of hollies, native and exotic. Dr. James Foret, for example, found a female yaupon out in the wild with pendulant branch growth which he named 'Folsom's Weeping' Yaupon, a plant which is still in the nursery trade today.

"Swamp Red Maple" (Acer rubrum var. drummondii)

Red maple (Acer rubrum ssp.) is another native species exhibiting tons of variation, mainly in leaf shape and pubescence, fruit size and color, and winter foliage color as well – so much so that it has been subdivided into three distinct botanical varieties: red maple (A. rubrum var. rubrum ), Drummond's red maple (A. rubrum var. drummondii), and (no common name) A. rubrum var. trilobum; each of these varieties occurring in discreet populations throughout the species' eastern U.S. range. Moreover, even within each varietal population, substantial variation is regularly observed in the wild.

Drummond's red maple (Acer rubrum var. drummondii), locally known as “swamp red maple,”  is heavily distributed throughout Louisiana's “brown water” swamps and bottomland hardwood habitats. Able to thrive alongside bald cypress and tupelo gum in even permanently-inundated swamps, swamp red maple is one of the most common trees within south-central Louisiana's Atchafalaya Basin – said to be the largest remaining river swamp in North America. Compared to the leaves of the “standard” red maple (Acer rubrum var. rubrum), swamp red maple leaves feature densely pubescent undersurfaces – so much so that the undersurfaces appear silvery-white – whereas the undersurfaces of the former almost completely lack pubescence and appear nearly the same hue of green as the upper surfaces. Too, swamp red maple leaves are mostly three-lobed (as opposed to mostly five-lobed in red maple), with lobes featuring very shallow “toothing”(as opposed to deep/irregular toothing in red maple).

Acer rubrum var. drummondii

loaded with samaras

Coming into bloom each January, swamp red maples are soon adorned with clusters of large, long-stemmed, two-winged fruit capsules known as samaras. By February samara production reaches its peak, resulting in tree branches heavily-hung with samara clusters in colors ranging from paper-bag-brown to flesh pink to pink-mauve to ruby-red to ox-blood-red.

Note Samara Color Variations Among These Four

Randomly Selected/Randomly Planted Specimens

Many years ago, it was none other than Dr. James Foret who suggested that we capitalize on this local February spectacle, and advertise a “Mardi Gras Maple Tour” across the Atchafalaya Basin during the Mardi Gras season, when so many tourists are hanging around in south Louisiana. Dr. Foret reasoned that since we do not have the annual “in-your-face” fall foliage color show celebrated in northern states, why not focus on the nearly-as-spectacular “sort-of-in-your-face” early-spring samara color show – focused particularly in the Atchafalaya Basin where 1) swamp red maples are abundant, and 2) many tourists are traveling between New Orleans and Lafayette in order to catch both “city” and “country” cultural flavors of our Fat Tuesday celebrations.

In essence, Dr. James Foret was suggesting one of Louisiana's first eco-tourism events.

Alas, the idea never did gain traction in any official capacity. But then again, hooray(!); as swamp red maples care not whether their fruiting season is celebrated by humans or not . . . they just go on fruiting February after February.

Suggestion: Take a drive on I-10 across the basin this month. Stop off at the fine tourist center at Butte LaRose. Celebrate our Mardi Gras Maple season for yourselves.

And hey, never underestimate the visual power of our swamp red maple winter foliage color season. It comes late – usually not beginning in earnest until mid-December, and peaking somewhere around Christmas give-or-take a week. Regarding winter foliage color, we have a patch of swamp red maple living in the understory of a smallish grove of green ash trees directly across from our house. Over the years I've noticed that winter foliage color varies not only from tree to tree, but also from winter to winter within individual trees! Below are winter foliage pictures that I've accumulated from this small colony over a period of several winters. 

19 December 2005

05 December 2011

05 December 2011

10 December 2009

queen sugarberry

Sunrise on Hackberry Row

Upper Lafayette Parish, Louisiana

13 January 2012

What a symphony out back this morning! It was still below-freezing when I brought my coffee out onto the back porch. The sun had just risen, and new rays were bouncing like mad off of the ashy-gray trunks of the hackberry trees. Dozens upon dozens of robins and cedar waxwings were feasting up at the tops of the hackberries, with dozens and dozens of hackberry seeds pinging off of the tin roofs of Lydia's old mammal enclosures (she functioned as a wild mammal rehabber for many years). The steady seed-pinging laid down the rhythm, upon which many robins overlaid with their joyful spring courtship songs. The cedar waxwings and house finches provided background vocals.

ping! ping! ptweet! ptweet! ping! ping! ptweet! etc.

I mean, what could I do? I had to report this to you, gentle readers.

Called “sugarberry” by foresters and some botanists, the hackberry is an amazingly adaptive tree, possessing a U.S. range spanning the entire continent from Atlantic to Pacific to Gulf Coasts (see http://plants.usda.gov/java/profile?symbol=CELA). Right here in the south-central U.S. hackberry occupies habitats disparate as the mucky bottomland hardwood forests of Louisiana's Atchafalaya Basin to the water-starved clay hills around Dallas.

Earlier this winter – back in early November, when leaves were still on most of the trees – I predicted that due to the drought of 2011, this winter's hackberry crop would probably hover somewhere between sub-par and awful. Turned out I was wrong. Thankfully so. Beginning sometime around the first week of December, robins began descending into the large hackberry grove that borders the northern and eastern edges of our homesite. This went on for weeks. By Christmas, flocks of cedar waxwings and eastern bluebirds had joined the massive robin flocks. Today (13 January) they're still working it like mad. Upon closer inspection of the now leafless trees, I noticed (through binoculars) that the hackberry crop is, if anything, heavier than normal, but that the berries are noticeably smaller. Smaller but, to the great delight of the robins, sweeter. Alrighty then!

American Robin: munchin' & ptweetin'

Within the ecosystems in which they occur, hackberries are major players in providing winter calories for wild birds and mammals. Here in Louisiana, for example, we conducted a 5-year statewide bird frugivory survey in the latter half of the 1990s. Regarding diversity of bird species utilizing the fruits, hackberry ranked numero uno of the 50 species of berry-producing plants observed, serving 27 different bird species.

Hackberry (Celtis laevigata, aka "sugarberry")

As previously mentioned, the hackberry has been nicknamed “sugarberry” due to the sweetness of its berries. Actually, the berries hold very little pulp. Each berry is enclosed in a rather thick, sweet-tasting husk, underlain by a thin, orange-colored, insipidly-sweet, slimy layer of pulp surrounding a large seed. Given the miniscule amount of pulp involved in each berry, it follows that birds need to eat lots of hackberries in order to obtain nutritional benefit – mammals, even more. And eat them they do, in vast quantities. Lydia and I have seen both raccoons and fox squirrels as well as birds such as yellow-breasted chats eating unripened hackberries as early as August.

sugarberries: shucked, unshucked, half-shucked

In Edible Plants of the Gulf (see http://www.nativeventures.net/books.php) Louisiana botanist Charles Allen wrote that native Americans used hackberries for sustenance as well, grounding the entire berries to use as a flavoring. In Trees, Shrubs, and Woody Vines of Louisiana Allen reports that Indians used the bark of hackberry to treat sore throat and venereal diseases.

Hackberry is an elm family (Ulmaceae) member; and like its close cousins, the elms, its wood is not much good for anything – not even for firewood. Yep. Somewhat useless to contemporary white folks; priceless to wildlife. . . that's sort of the way it goes.