Today GardenRant welcomes back garden ecologist Nathan Lambstrom, in Part I of a three-part series discussing invasive species rhetoric, and the negative effects powerful war metaphors have had on the perception and management of exotic and invasive plant species in our gardens and greater ecoregions.  The series will explore the roots of this language; the tangible harm it can cause; and the future of invasive management. We hope you’ll follow along and offer your thoughts in comments as he begins with the origin story of terms that have become internationally commonplace. – MW

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English ivy was the first plant I learned to hate.

As an undergrad, my first environmental studies class included a field excursion to a local woodland as part of our unit on invasive species. The forest was small, fragmented, and surrounded by centuries of development in the form of agriculture, and subsequent suburban housing. It was also home to a thriving population of English ivy, Hedera helix.

We were taught that this plant, like many other ‘exotic’ plant species, was rampant and destructive, killing native plants and dragging down trees. Fired up by this new way of categorizing the world, my classmates and I volunteered to remove English ivy on weekends. We ripped it out with abandon, filling garbage bags with piles of it and its distinctive goose-foot leaves.

We took a perverse pleasure in pointing out invasive plants to friends, chastising local shop owners for selling them, and making sure everyone saw this plant as a villain. There was never any plan to restore native plants after the English ivy removal, and no discussion of the conditions that led to its thriving in the first place. We just knew we had found an enemy to blame for our degraded forests.

From that point on, I spent many years seeing and attempting to heal wounds in the landscape – horrible invaders like tree of heaven dominating post-industrial streambanks (Ailanthus altissima), purple loosestrife destroying post-agricultural wetlands (Lythrum salicaria), and garlic mustard killing natives in fragmented woodlands (Alliaria petiolata).

But the more time I spent working with these plants, studying them, and ‘battling’ them, the more I also started to question the simplistic narrative of marauding monsters destroying our native landscapes. There was a more nuanced story than ‘good vs. evil’ unfolding around me, and after graduation in the summer of 2008, I started to pay attention to it.

A Weedy – But Successful — Life Strategy

That summer, I monitored the spread of garlic mustard for a land trust. My job was to walk mile-long transects and record each occurrence so we knew where to send fresh volunteers to yank it and stuff it into plastic garbage bags.

But to my surprise, I began to notice that the seemingly ubiquitous, destructive patches of garlic mustard began to fade the farther I got from areas of human influence.

Roadsides and trailhead parking lots? Plenty of garlic mustard. Farm fields that had been abandoned in the last few decades? You bet. But deeper in the woods where there was less foot traffic, vehicle traffic, or consistent human influence, I found less and less garlic mustard – and instead found myself crawling through impenetrable tangles of rhododendron and mountain laurel.

Garlic mustard growing at the base of a stone wall (photo credit: Nathan Lambstrom).

At first it seemed like the plant might be starting its invasion from those roadside patches; but the more I learned about plant ecology it became more difficult to see this plant simply as a malicious invader.

Ruderals – The Opportunists

Garlic mustard is a biennial: it forms leaves and taproot in year one, then draws on stored energy to form a tall flowering shoot in year two (the same strategy employed by carrots, foxgloves, and hollyhocks). After flowering in the second year, all energy in the taproot is spent and the plant dies.

Short-lived plants like this – mostly biennials and annuals – are called ‘ruderals.’ Ruderals guarantee the survival of their species by employing the ‘live fast, die young’ principle. Though the parent will live for a relatively short time of one to three years, it will produce abundant seeds that germinate easily when the conditions are right.

Anyone growing vegetables is familiar with ruderals. Ruderals want a low stress environment (ample sunlight, water, & nutrition), and plenty of disturbance, usually in the form of soil agitation and removal of other plants.

When we farm or grow vegetables, we create the perfect low stress environment to favor ruderals, which comprise many of our agricultural weeds. Plants like chickweed and lamb’s quarters will germinate, grow, flower, and set seed rapidly, leaving plenty of seeds in the soil for the next generation.

What I was observing in garlic mustard populations was effectively the same strategy employed in a different environment. As a short-lived plant, it was simply taking advantage of openings created by us.

When we make roads or farms or trailhead parking lots, we create large disturbances which take several decades to recover. As long as resources are adequate, garlic mustard, and other ruderal plants (whether native or not), grow and reproduce quickly following these disturbances. This means those plants are dependent on disturbance for their continued presence in the landscape. As time without disturbance increases, long-lived plants more tolerant of stress will increase as conditions become less favorable for ruderals.

And what is an excellent form of disturbance? Pulling garlic mustard. Every plant we pulled disturbed the soil and created perfect conditions for germination of hundreds of garlic mustard seeds. By pulling it without planting something in its place, we were perpetuating its spread.

Language Matters

This simple observation piqued my curiosity. And the more I worked with invasive plants as an ecological restoration technician, and studied them as a graduate student, the more it seemed that the way we were discussing them was not reflecting ecological reality.

I had been taught to think of these plants as “exotic invaders” and “ecological monsters” that were destroying native plants and killing our ecosystems. Today in top media outlets they are described as “thugs” and “monsters” that can engage in “chemical warfare” and “do battle” with native plants. These may seem like harmless terms, but it’s worth noting that plants are not capable of acts of war.

We have spent so much time steeped in this language that we’ve lost sight of the fact that is a metaphor, and a very effective one, that shapes our perception of plant ecology and affects the way we respond to these plants in our landscapes.

This is language that leaves no room for nuance and is used to justify harmful actions in favor of eradication at all costs. It feels scientific and objective because it’s the language that has long been used by scientists studying these species, myself included, to communicate a complicated concept, but at its core is a subjective war metaphor intentionally crafted to grab attention.

Invasive species rhetoric is inherently war-like.

Origins of a War Metaphor

How did we get these words if they’re not an accurate reflection of our observations?

The answer is Charles Elton, an English zoologist working during and after WWII who studied fluctuations in animal populations. During the war his work became of national importance in securing a fragile food supply and was used to manage agricultural pests like rats, mice, voles, and moles.

Following the war (and undoubtedly shaped by his own traumatic experiences under threat of German invasion) Elton published The Ecology of Invasions by Plants and Animals. Knowing that the world was still reeling, Elton used war metaphors to communicate what he considered the threat posed by species spreading rapidly outside their historically native ranges.

He laid out many of the foundational underpinnings of invasion biology and shaped much of our understanding of these occurrences. According to Elton (and this is the definition most commonly used by any entity determining invasiveness today) an invasive species is one that:

1) is introduced outside its native range;

2) is spreading rapidly; and,

3) is causing measurable harm.

This feels very tidy, but if you spend time considering plant behavior, you quickly see the edges are blurry.

How Do We Measure Invasiveness?

The question “what is the definition of an invasive species?” is similar to “what is the definition of a weed?” The short answer is, there isn’t a simple answer.

‘Weedy’ and ‘invasive,’ like ‘native’ and ‘non-native,’ are not biological categories, they are cultural-historical ones that reflect our attempts to categorize a chaotic and incredibly complex ecosystem. It may seem like we should be able to measure, in a scientific way, whether a plant is invasive or not, but it requires a great deal of subjective judgment, based on evidence, to determine invasiveness.

In other words, if you found yourself in an ecosystem you’d never seen before, there would be no way for you to determine which plants were invasive, because there would be no way to determine origins or harm. You could measure rate of spread, but you wouldn’t know whether it was a native plant behaving the way it evolved to behave in its ancestral home or an introduced plant running wild.

Similarly, harm is surprisingly difficult to quantify. You could observe that one plant replaces another over time by being more competitive, but you would still be left with the question of whether what you were seeing was ‘harmful,’ or simply the transition of an ecosystem to a further stage of succession.  Is the transition of an abandoned farm field to a closed forest a form of ‘harm’?

Pinus radiata, Monterey Pine, is endangered in its home range and invasive elsewhere, shown here in both its home and invaded ranges (photos: Kelly Cookson, Kim Starr, Dave Richardson, Arnim Littek CC BY 4.0)

Defining Harm

Because these edges can be blurry, the definition of harm is often simplified as ‘economic harm’ – like agricultural losses or structural damage, or, increasingly, the cost to simply remove the species itself.

Quantifying the last of these can become troublingly circular. If we define ‘harm’ as merely the presence of an invasive species in an ecosystem where we don’t want it, then we’re relying only on its presence to justify its removal without documenting any causally linked damage. In other words, we’ve already made up our minds that it has to go just by virtue of its existing there.

Even within the contours of that three-part definition, we can see that certain things often called invasive should be excluded by the harm metric. It has become a popular assumption that anything ‘exotic’ (more accurately ‘introduced’) and thriving here without human assistance is invasive, but it is difficult to make a compelling case for the harm caused by plants such as dandelions or Queen Anne’s lace.

Conversely, it’s often assumed that invasive plants grow and behave differently than native plants; but many of us have seen Canada goldenrod spread rapidly to the detriment of other plants in a meadow. In many cases, the only thing distinguishing a competitive native plant from an evil invasive one is that the invasive one has evolutionary origins elsewhere.

That should not be enough to sustain it as a meaningful category.

A Shift in Perspective

After two decades working in field conservation, restoration ecology, and ecological horticulture, I’ve come to believe that using war metaphors to discuss invasive species has outlived its usefulness. From toxic chemicals sprayed to curiosity stifled, this unscientific and militaristic language has caused real harm in the way we talk about, think about, and deal with invasive species.  

Does rethinking how I talk about invasive plants mean that I don’t care about native plants? Absolutely not. Recognizing the more nuanced ecological reality of invasive plants in no way diminishes the importance of native plants, and has not stopped me from loving, promoting, and planting thousands of them every year.

Wild native plants form the backbone of our terrestrial food webs, and they have intrinsic value in their own right – as do all living creatures. Some of them are crucial for supporting the rare but important cases where insects have extremely restricted diets, like Karner blue butterfly larvae needing Lupinus perennis, or Andrena erigenae, a small native bee, needing Claytonia pollen to feed their larvae. However, caring deeply about native plants doesn’t require believing that non-native or even invasive plants are ecologically useless and evil.

When we approach our interactions with these species as if we were at war, we are likely to incur war-like consequences: collateral damage in the form of harm to our ecosystems and to ourselves.

Creating a more nuanced language around invasive plants does not negate the value of native plants, like Claytonia virginica providing pollen for a specialist bee (photo credit: Judy Gallagher CC BY 2.0).

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In Part II Lambstrom will discuss some of the real ecological and cultural harm that can be incurred by the most extreme forms of invasive rhetoric. Stay tuned!

Why Do We Use War Metaphors to Discuss ‘Invasive’ Plants? Part I originally appeared on GardenRant on June 5, 2026.

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Over time, human beings become blind to the clutter that surrounds us – particularly the clutter that masks an awkward space.  It’s the reason that right now, on a corner of my bathroom countertop that I’ve never used effectively, there is a semi-permanent pile of ugly vitamin bottles and two houseplants on the critical list. 

If I was walking through my house for the first time as a bright-eyed homebuyer I’d spot them. But many years in, they are probably there until I finally give a precious day or two to ‘solving’ that space (or costly renovate the whole damn area).

Instead I’ve invisibled it. 

And subconsciously, it still bugs me.

The same sort of awkwardness can be masked/ignored/left to fester in the garden, and it probably happens far more often; because most people are more concerned with the inside of their houses than the outside.

But for those who aren’t…and for those who have reluctantly thrown up their hands at the impossibility of ‘solving’ a certain landscape issue – and have begun steadfastly ignoring it instead – I sympathize. 

It’s not that we want it to remain unattractive and unsolved, we just don’t know where to start; and detaching oneself from that semi-comfortable blindness – and the biases, fears, desires and annoyances that feed it – is extremely difficult.

After all, it is far easier to blame difficult terrain and greedy shade trees for the haphazard placement of some struggling and mismatched containers, than to finally clear them away and realize that the space is still ugly. And now it’s boring too.  

Sometimes you just give up.

POV: You’re staring at the impossible

One of the best ways I know of breaking out of this difficult cycle is by harnessing the power of someone else’s point of view.

When you are starting to contemplate asphalt over ambiance and the budget doesn’t include a personal consultation by a top landscape designer, a friend that gardens well might be all you need.

Their fresh perspective on the garden that surrounds and confounds you is incredibly valuable – even if it’s painful. Though it’s hard to hear a friend admit that, yes, that ugly corner is in bad shape, and your landscape band-aids aren’t fooling anyone – hearing what this gardener might do in your place can prod you to think differently about it.  

When I moved into my last [serious fixer-upper] home, I despaired over three levels of honeysuckle vines, poison ivy, weedy grass, and groundhog holes – with a few shovelfuls of broken glass and detritus thrown in for giggles.  A small adjoining woods was reclaiming the property; but even in this pseudo-wild space, privacy was non-existent owing to the sheer amount of surrounding houses that stared at us, exposed at the top of a hill. I had no idea where to start.   

Eventually we hid all those neighbors.

POV: Your friend informs you that you’re lucky

A gardening friend had just taken a relatively level lot in her own small town and turned it into a space where traditional formality paired with gentle wilding and created…magic.  I invited her over, desperate for ideas, but our properties were so different I didn’t hold out much hope. Faced with my hilly topography, carnivorous vines and greedy trees, I was fairly certain that she’d tell me to buy some iris and a swing set.

Surprisingly, my friend did not shudder or smirk.  Instead, she said something that has stuck with me ever since. “I envy you your levels,” she said.  “You can create so many different rooms in your garden.”

I probably laughed out loud. I was frustrated by my multi-leveled lot, awkwardly bisected by an old and ugly cinder block wall.  But after she’d gone home to her garden and I was left with mine, I pulled out a folding chair and sat for a while with the idea of separate spaces running through my head.

POV: Your wreck becomes rooms

Rooms. I hadn’t thought about that.  Instead, I had focused on the truncated spaces, the lack of traditional flat lawns and general obstacles to what I considered a ‘standard’ garden.  My friend was challenging me to look beyond the obvious use of the space and create something a little different.

And by the time we left that beloved garden, that’s exactly what I did.

Those levels allowed me to create ‘rooms’ for the vegetables and the compost pile, a ‘room’ for the bees and soft fruit; winding paths and secret steps – and even a ‘room’ with playhouse and lawn for two children who had much more fun on winding paths and secret steps.  A long slender stretch of grass in the front became a sunny perennial border, and a large maple provided enough cover to play with a different plant palette in a shady ‘room’ on the north side of the house.

All because someone else’s POV helped me see it a little differently.   

A room for bees.

POV: Imagine it naked

These days I try to keep my perspective fresh by playing a little game with myself when I visit someone else’s garden – especially when it’s really good.  I squint my eyes and try to imagine the space as it once was – probably plain, possibly difficult. 

Then I open them wide again and suddenly I can see the paint separated from the canvas.  It’s just a little exercise in reclaiming perspective – but it’s always wise to keep these skills fresh for the next time I come across a rocky outcropping or an inconvenient tree and need to brainstorm the possibilities. Every garden starts somewhere.

First two months at Oldmeadow — Shade!?!?!?! What on earth do I do with that?!?!?!!?!??!

Human beings are highly skilled at being critical of one another, but we also have the ability to harness this power for good.  Invite a friend over and give them carte blanche to talk about your garden till they’re blue in the face…then go get your hands dirty.  All you need is some fresh POV.­

Revel in the challenge. Every garden starts naked and ugly.

Garden Building with Fresh POV originally appeared on GardenRant on June 4, 2026.

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Coralie Thomas sprang up from Great Dixter’s famous long border like an Olympic gymnast who had stuck the landing. The assistant head gardener had crossed the finish line of a backbreaking seasonal changeover at the end of a sweltering summer day. She received a polite round of applause from the gallery of nearby gardeners, and then she trotted off to lug hoses.

For all of Coralie’s wind-blown charm, what I see in this triumphant photo is not just a happy gardener with dirt under her nails, but the face of an athlete. Merriam-Webster says an athlete is “a person who is trained or skilled in exercises, sports, or games requiring physical strength, agility, or stamina.”  

Serious gardeners must be athletes, because gardening is a real workout.

Even the experts know that. The American Heart Association recommends at least 150 minutes of physical activity each week and lists gardening as a moderate-intensity aerobic activity. Heavy yardwork (a.k.a. serious gardening) made their list of vigorous aerobic activities. That shouldn’t be a surprise to most gardeners. What may surprise you are the results of a 2011 South Korean study, which suggested that building and looking after a vegetable garden qualifies as moderate-intensity exercise for 20-year-olds. 

Gardeners are not couch potatoes! We have proof!

So why does the doctor roll their eyes when you tell them gardening is your exercise? If you’re like me, your step count quadruples on gardening days. Sometimes it seems that gardening is the Rodney Dangerfield of athletic activities, but if gardeners don’t give themselves enough credit for all the physical effort they put into their gardens, why should physicians or anyone else?

As Dr. Sue Stuart-Smith notes in her book The Well-Gardened Mind, people keep track of the minutes they spend at the gym, but no one keeps track of garden time. Where’s the line in that beautiful garden journal that asks how long you worked out in the garden that day? You ought to jot it down unprompted, if only so you can pat yourself on the back when you blow past the AHA’s activity goal in a single morning. 

Let’s talk about garden-variety strength training. 

This is the next big thing fitness gurus want us to do more of as we age. Do you give yourself credit for hitting that twice-weekly training goal? If you don’t, you should.

Gardeners carry a lot of weight, and not all of it is around our waistlines. A bag of mulch, depending on moisture levels, may weigh more than 20 pounds. The heaping mound of compost you haul around in your trusty rusty wheelbarrow can weigh upwards of 100 pounds.

Heck, watering the patio plants should count. The water in a two-gallon can weighs nearly 17 pounds, not counting the can. And, while you’re carrying that sloshy monster hither and yon, you’re working your core and practicing dynamic balance skills. 

Should’ve bought a smaller can.

If gardening is so good for us, why do we garden less as the years go by?

Gardeners are rarely forced into full retirement. We do that to ourselves, or a misguided doctor does it to us. Don’t surrender without a fight. Instead, think of yourself as an athlete in recovery. Adjust the intensity level, but don’t stop playing with your plants. Regular gardening can decrease the risk of becoming frail. It can reduce osteoarthritic knee pain for seniors in their sixties. It can also be good therapy for people who suffer from chronic lower back pain, despite what your back is telling you.

How we do things in the garden can either help us or hinder us. Sadly, we lack guidance on the finer points of our sport. There’s no coach or team trainer around to blow the whistle. I’ve never heard of a gardener counting “reps.” Who among us would dream of shooting video to assess the biomechanical soundness of how we swing an axe or wield a hula hoe?  We’re gardeners, not golfers. All that fancy falderal is reserved for the real athletes, the ones with the multi-year contracts.

Comfy chairs & ice packs are the gardener’s best friends.

Too many gardeners play hurt.

There’s nothing virtuous or good about weeding while your sciatic nerve is on fire. What is it that makes us keep going when we should hit the showers?

Sheer stupidity, at least on my part.

“Suck it up, buttercup” is what I told myself before the reckoning arrived. The MRIs were bad, all three of them. I was benched, totally benched. Quitting cold turkey was tough. By day, I moped. By night, I tossed and turned. I was lost without a Hori Hori in my hand.

Cue the world’s tiniest violins. Tune them to the tenor of the tears that sprang to my eyes when a long-awaited box of bulbs arrived on my doorstep. I feared condemning those costly geophytes to certain death when I left them, sad and unopened, sitting on the dusty shelf on my husband’s side of the garage because I couldn’t bring myself to look at them even a moment longer.

Then, fortune smiled. I had a bulb-sparing epiphany.

I remembered a PBS show called GardenFit, produced by Madeline Hooper, a real-deal gardener. I remembered Madeline’s thoughtful posts on Instagram.

Instagram @GetGardenFit

Perhaps GardenFit could be helpful?

I hoped it would. I adjusted my pillows, clicked the link I found on the GardenFit website, and I settled in for a twenty-six-episode binge. I took notes. And then, I went out and planted 200 bulbs. Not all at once, but all without pain.

Tip/Trick: Don’t sit on this. Ride it like a horse.

GardenFit got me back in the game.

If not for Madeline Hooper, I would never have questioned the wisdom of the doctor who told me to quit gardening and try walking with a cane. Nor would I have found the new doc who wrote the physical therapy prescriptions I needed for my back, hips, knees, shoulders, and Achilles. And, if not for Madeline, I never would have shown my physical therapist exactly the kinds of moves I needed to master as a gardener athlete. Never underestimate the mood-lifting value of a well-executed chair squat.

Thanks to Madeline, I have ‘Minnow’

Fired up with newfound hope, I called Madeline to thank her for GardenFit.

She shared that she had once been like me, an enthusiastic gardener in pain.

“I gardened hunched, and I really suffered from that. I’d get up with a headache. And it got worse and worse, because I wanted to garden more and more, and I just couldn’t.”

On the advice of a friend, Madeline began working with Jeff Hughes, a professional trainer who tailored a program to support her functional needs as a gardener. Within a month, she felt much better.

“The more I worked with Jeff, the more I realized that nobody has taught gardeners that gardening is like a sport. It’s like if you want to play golf, somebody has to teach you how to swing the club.” 

Madeline wanted all her gardening friends to get the help they needed, so when Jeff Hughes suggested she produce a TV show, the retired P.R. pro did exactly that. She pitched her GardenFit concept to PBS. They snapped it up. The program ran for two seasons, and you can still find it online at GardenFit. 

Artist and author Frances Palmer gets advice from Adam and Madeline. (Photo courtesy M. Hooper)

Each GardenFit episode features Madeline and her fitness trainer co-hosts (Jeff Hughes-Season One/Adam Schersten-Season Two), as they tour idyllic green spaces and meet interesting gardeners. The programs are a pleasant mélange of imagery and plant talk, seasoned with practical demonstrations of how gardeners can move through garden tasks with greater comfort and ease. Madeline, as a retired professional ballroom dancer, demonstrates each helpful movement with cheerful grace.

Farm-to-table chef Alice Waters gets good advice from Madeline and Adam

The program gently leads you to believe that becoming more garden fit is possible for everyone. Madeline sees GardenFit as “a passport to gardening slightly differently, understanding a little bit more how to use your body with simple things.” She assured me, “This is not hard. These are not exercises. We recommend some stretches, but that’s really to do in between chores.”

Madeline’s approach is not just a bunch of hooey.

Research done in 2022 at the University of Utah demonstrated that teaching gardeners about proper posture and tool use can help them garden with less pain and strain. After working my way through somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 intensive physical therapy appointments in the past 6 months, I can vouch for many of the strategies recommended on GardenFit. The hip hinge you see on GardenFit is the same one I practiced in P.T. If you learn it with GardenFit, you can skip the insurance co-pay.

If you’re in pain for any reason, get it checked out, so you can do something about it.

Start with a trusted medical professional who can evaluate your symptoms. If you run across a doctor who doesn’t listen, push back. If you lack the courage to push back, borrow some moxy from The Impatient Gardener Erin Schanen. She posted this gold nugget on her social media.

I had a doctor laugh out loud at me when he asked me what I do that I might need my knees for (a discussion of whether I should have surgery to fix my two torn ACLs). I wanted to pick his ass up like a 50-pound bag of soil, toss him over my shoulder and carry him to the compost pile, where I’d toss him in like I was rotating the pile for the first time of the year and then ask him what he thought I meant when I said gardening. 

Don’t suffer alone.

Get help building the skills and strength you need to garden in the way you want to garden.

Madeline encouraged me to be patient. “You can do this. You’ll get there.”

No matter your age or fitness level, just watching GardenFit will make you feel better. It is never too late to become the kind of garden athlete you were meant to be. Madeline told me that if she could, she would love to be in your garden with you to encourage you and show you that gardening doesn’t have to hurt. She was delighted to tell me that a GardenFit book may be coming soon. “It really will put the whole idea of how to be GardenFit in people’s hands, and they can take it as far as they want to go.” For now, you can find Madeline through her website and social media. She also enjoys delivering both in-person and virtual presentations for all kinds of gardening groups.

I hope you’ll find something helpful from GardenFit, as I did, and then share it forward. As Madeline says, “All gardeners should know they don’t have to accept the aches and pains associated with gardening.” 

Meanwhile, stay off the sidelines!

Enjoy your garden workouts!

Put Me in, Coach! I’m Ready to Play! originally appeared on GardenRant on June 3, 2026.

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Back in our innocent pre-ChatGBT days, we were excited about how emerging technologies could help gardeners. We were on the watch for new phone apps that could help with identification of weeds, design, watering systems and more.

Those days are over. Now many gardeners simply assume that their phones have the answers to most gardening questions and problems. 

First, let it be said that there are a lot of great apps out there. There are also a lot of really bad ones. The problem is that many people just grab any old app, without bothering to research first. Plant ID apps really have been tested, as Susan reported about a year and a half ago. But too many simply don’t look at that information and use the first one they find, with iffy results.

The same thing is happening with mail order, though we can’t blame a bad app for that. The research step is being skipped and the results to a google query are chosen by the sole criterion of  lowest price. There really are bad mail order houses and don’t get me started on Etsy and eBay, where seeds for bright red and blue hostas are among some of the more flagrant offerings. 

Mail order houses for plants – especially houseplants – have been investigated and rated. I am a big fan of New York Times Wirecutter, which is like a much cooler Consumer Reports and very, very thorough. They did houseplants recently.

For outdoor plants, Garden Watchdog on Dave’s Garden is still around and seems up to date. 

There are also apps that claim to diagnose and recommend treatment for plant problems, from photos. I only know these exist because a few gardeners in my area seem to be using them. One person posted pictures of 4 different plants with obvious frost damage and said her app diagnosed this as fungus (the same fungus for 4 different species) and advised treatment with baking soda. (Of course, as we all know, baking soda, vinegar and Dawn dish soap are the three powerhouses of gardening supremacy. According to their acolytes, any problem can be overcome if you’re armed with these.)

Whatever app was used analyzed pictures without context. It should come as no surprise that May saw more than a few hard frosts and even a sprinkling of snow in Western New York. We’re used to it. I fix it by simply removing the damaged foliage if it’s too terrible looking, though my standards are pretty lax. But that’s really all you can do. 

Apps don’t know this about Western New York. Maybe someday they will – in fact, I’m sure of it. But if it means discarding all our hard-won gardening knowledge, our powers of observation and our familiarity with our local microclimates, I am not at all eager for that day.

(No pictures of bad gardening apps, just a scene from my May garden.)

Gardening AI is still not there originally appeared on GardenRant on June 2, 2026.

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We finally got rain in Central Kentucky after a dry April and early May. Five inches! It may turn dry again. There is no telling. Feast or famine?

There was, for one weekend at least (May 22^nd-24^th), a feast of music and blooms not hindered by rain. The Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center came to nearby Shaker Village. Nine world-class musicians, led by Wu Han and her husband David Finckel returned to Meadowview Barn for the 19th year for a classical range of Duets to Octets. These cats are pros.

Wu Han made a point of telling the audience how much the musicians love coming to Shaker Village, surrounded by nearly 3000 acres in the rolling Bluegrass. Nowhere else in the world do they play in an old tobacco barn with a uniquely appreciative crowd.

(L-R): Benjamin Beilman, Sean Lee, Jonathan Swensen, Milena Pajaro-van de Stadt and Paul Neubauer following Mozart’s Quintet in B-flat major for Two Violins, Two Violas and Cello, K. 174 (1773)

Birdsong and rain drumming on a metal roof

Zoltan Kodaly’s Duo for Violin and Cello, Op. 7  was inspired by Hungarian folk songs that “employed a scale of five pitches that includes two large gaps between notes in the sequence and no tight half steps…”

I have no idea what this means. I can barely tune a guitar, but the Saturday piece was emotionally intense, and Sean Lee (Violin) and Jonathan Swensen (Cello) were magnificent.

A sliver of blue sky came out behind the Meadowview Barn before the Sunday finale

Mendelssohn’s Octet in E-Flat major for Strings, Op. 20, took the cake, for the late Sunday afternoon finale. Three hundred music fans and friends stood up and cheered.

Meanwhile, back in Salvisa, twenty-five minutes away, the foliage of clary sage, with flowering Sputnik Allium, prickly pear cactus, Asclepias purpurea and bear’s breeches had been soaked but looked inspired.

Mendelssohn, birdsong and rain drumming on a metal roof originally appeared on GardenRant on June 1, 2026.

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“Flower Still-Life” by Rachel Ruysch

Ever hear of the Dutch Golden Age painter Rachel Ruysch? (1664–1750) I sure hadn’t, until my U. Maryland art history professor showed us why she’s a fan.  She explained that it was quite rare for women in that time and place to achieve great success, and the few who did paint stuck to the lower prestige subjects at the time – still life.  And most still life was pretty dull.  (Source.)

But Ruysch painted floral works that avoided the usual perfection, featuring not just perfect flowers but dirt and bugs and plant detritus of all types.  The painting above, Flower Still Life (1726) is full of examples.

Against a dark background, in the style of flower painting from the second half of the seventeenth century, Rachel Ruysch composed a lush floral arrangement, including many flowers that would never actually bloom at the same time. Among this array of blossoming and wilting plants, a closer look reveals caterpillars crawling along the stem of a flower and browning leaves riddled with holes made by hungry insects. Such vivid details suggest the fragility of the arrangement, even alluding to the fact that beauty fades and all living things must die.  Source.

Drawing inspiration from the tradition of Dutch 17th-century “forest floor” still lifes—characterized by meticulous depictions of insects, plants, and other natural elements—Ruysch developed a distinctive style that subtly evolved over her career. “The independent still life genre is ultimately where she found her niche as an artist, and she continues to paint this for the rest of her life,” shares Haboldt.  Source.

Over the course of her career, Ruysch became celebrated for her remarkably detailed flower still lifes. Vase of Flowers with an Ear of Corn (1742), a striking composition created when the artist was nearly 80 years old, features a remarkable bouquet of roses, tulips, carnations, forget-me-nots, and a double hyacinth, accompanied by an ear of corn resting on the ledge.  Source.

Another cool painting features even more insects: 

“Posy of Flowers with a Beetle on a Stone Ledge” (1741)

Who was Rachel Ruysch 

Ruysch’s father, a renowned anatomy and botany professor in Amsterdam, built a personal collection of natural specimens and shared it with the public. Through her father, Ruysch had access to Amsterdam’s botanical gardens, where she encountered both native and newly introduced plant species—many brought to Europe through exploration, trade, and colonization. Her paintings are masterpieces of artistic skill and scientific inquiry and reveal the profound ways in which art and science intertwined during the Scientific Revolution…

The most famous female painter in the Golden Age of Dutch Art, Ruysch enjoyed an international reputation over a career that lasted almost seven decades. Source: Toledo museum. 

 Oh, and she had 10 children! Still…

Other women at this time were expected to participate in art forms more traditionally practiced by women, such as sewing and spinning. Ruysch continued to work as a painter throughout her marriage, supported by the strong demand for her flower pieces and the high prices they commanded. Her paintings often earned more than the portrait work her husband undertook, and her established reputation enabled her to maintain a professional career alongside raising a family. Wiki.

My professor shared her love of Northern European painting of that era, with subjects from everyday life and landscapes, too. Examples are “View of Delft” and “Woman with a Pearl” by Johannes Vermeer. Buyers of art were prosperous merchants.

What a Contrast with Southern European Art!

We were shown this portrait of Louis XIV by Rigaud (1701) to show how different the Dutch art we’d been studying was from art of Italy and France, where works were commissioned by royalty and the Catholic  Church.  The professor turned her back to this painting and said if she never saw this painting again it would be too soon. 

I love a professor who’s not shy with her opinions!

The best lecturer I’ve ever had in my 14 years taking undergraduate classes is this brilliant woman with a big personality, seen from my typical seat in the lecture hall. I’m so sad the class is over.

Flower Still Life Paintings by Rachel Ruysch were Teaming with Life – and Death originally appeared on GardenRant on May 17, 2026.

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For several years I have admired one tree whenever I drive down Logan Street in Louisville’s East Smoketown neighborhood. The lonely sycamore is growing on the rooftop of a vacant 13-story building known as the Merchants Ice & Cold Storage. The tree, perched on the edge of the rooftop, has survived hot and dry summers and the extraordinary flash freeze on Christmas Eve, 2022, when temperatures fell 50 degrees in 12 hours, to -5 F.

The sycamore fills me with wonder.

Tracey Williams, proprietress of  Greensleeves Design, was just the person I needed to talk to. I had mentioned the remarkable rooftop sycamore to others who did not rise to the idea of the 13^th floor with the same excitement I had. Tracey is a Kentucky professional gardener and designer with a fertile imagination.

Rooftop sycamore last fall

Tracey Williams rose to the occasion

She has had years of experience designing and installing gardens, green roofs, vertical walls, and rooftop gardens.

We met one sunny Friday morning in the parking lot of the abandoned Merchants Ice Tower, besides the adjacent brewery complex that once produced 75,000 barrels of beer a year, in the late 19^th century. The National Prohibition Act put the skids on alcohol in early 1920. The focus shifted to cold storage. The 13-story, two million-square-foot, reinforced concrete colossus, promoted as the largest ice-storage building in the south, was opened in early 1921 and closed in 1998.

Tracey and I looked up toward the tiny speck of a tree on the rooftop.

Rooftop sycamore this spring

The sycamore is close to ten years old, I am guessing. Trespassing graffiti taggers and their friends once walked up the stairs for rooftop parties. Gusty winds may have blown fluffy sycamore seed to the rooftop. Or it’s possible a goldfinch, chickadee, or sparrow fed on the disintegrating buttonball seed pods in late winter and defecated a few seeds on the rooftop.

Merchants Ice & Cold Storage is now fenced and surveilled.

It is impossible to see from the parking lot, or from drone photos, whether there is a roof-top depression that holds a small reservoir of water for the tree’s survival. There is precious little nutrition beyond the tree absorbing the decay of its own leaf litter. Yet the sycamore defiantly expresses a will to live.

My nephew, Robbie Cooper, was flying out of Louisville two days ago and caught a phone photo of the Ice Tower, and the sycamore.  Can you see a little green speck on the rooftop?

I think of the remarkable sycamore as acknowledgement of a local renaissance. Smoketown and the nearby neighborhood around Shelby Park—one of Louisville’s 17 Olmsted-designed parks—have blossomed in the last ten years.

Artists make good gardeners

While I was focused on the rooftop sycamore, Tracey Williams pointed to other spontaneous trees growing on brick buildings of the complex. Perhaps kissing cousins— the catalpa or the princess tree.

She soon began colorfully reframing the Ice Tower. The artist was riffing with ideas. She saw birds nesting in pockets along the side of the building. Tracey imagined a drone dispersing seeds, coated with a hydrogel, that would stick to the walls. She embellished her fantasy with sedums, portulacas, and mosses. The dreamy possibilities seemed endless. Tracey imagined Kentucky natives like crossvine (Bignonia capreolata)—a hummingbird favorite—and the Kentucky Wisteria macrostachya cascading down the brick walls from the roof top. I suggested Forsythia suspensa. And if a sycamore can grow on a roof, Japanese roof iris (Iris tectorum) and native prickly pear cactus (Opuntia humilis) might stand a chance. Our excitement was growing.

Forsythia suspensa near Big Rock in Louisville’s Cherokee Park

Iris tectorum, Sun Jiao/Wikimedia Commons photo.

Prickly pear with Hyacinth ‘Blue Pearl’. Salvisa, Kentucky.

Tracey and I talked again a few weeks later. She had decided there was a simpler way. “Let the birds and bees pollinate the building’s habitat.”

During the U.S. perennial boom that launched in the late 1980s, Ed Snodgrass  and I broke free from weedless lawns and a boring suburban plan palate. We kept growing. Ed was always a furlong ahead of me. He emailed recently and said, “Will we see the oak leaf full of holes as the potential beauty of the butterfly even if we never see the butterfly?”

I like a clean border, and am skilled with a Dutch hoe.

But I am bordering now on a ragged edge with appreciation for the spontaneity, beauty and benefit of dandelions and butterweeds Packera (Senecio) glabella.

Butterweed and abandoned house in Salvisa, Kentucky last month

John Little has been an influence on this notion of layering aesthetics with biodiversity. He and Ed like to share thoughts. They are seasoned green roof consultants and, more important, they share a vision of ecological optimization.

How do you optimize the Ice Tower into a unit of local ecology on land and roof?

Nature will take its course with or without human interference.

A little help doesn’t hurt

Take the example of Canvey Wick in Essex, England. The 93-hectare (230 acre) property was originally a grazing marshland along the Thames that was prepared as a site for an oil refinery in the 1970s. Pockets of soil were raised with dredged sediment from the river. Today the “brownfield oasis is a mosaic of flower rich grassland” with 3,200 species of invertebrates, birds, and plants.

Ed explained how the popular High Line in New York City was only reimagined after decision makers realized they could not afford to tear down the 90-year-old built-to-last trestle.

“The Merchants Ice Tower is a beautifully imposing building, so proportionally solid somehow,” Tracey Williams said.

Iconic also

Love Jones spoofed their image on the side of the Ice Tower. Other local icons, Muhammad Ali and Jennifer Lawrence, have banners hanging in Louisville. Love Jones was tired of waiting for theirs. It did not go well.

Photos courtesy of Love Jones

Rewilding the Merchants Ice Tower as a monolithic birdhouse appeals to me. It’s fun to envision walls speckled with lichen, moss, and ebony spleenwort on the east and north sides; and Sedum pulchellum poking out of sunny wall pockets nourished by bird droppings.

The annual widows-cross, Sedum pulchellum, Salvisa, Kentucky.

Crevice gardens have become popular among rock gardeners. Graffiti is old school. Guerilla gardeners might mix soil into a do-it-yourself, semi-shaded pile of brick or concrete rubble. Then sow seeds of the native annual, Miami mist (Phacelia purshii). Don’t miss the commotion of small bees drawn to sweet nectar.

Miami mist in early May in Salvisa, Kentucky.

Trellis Brewing, next door, was a surprise as well. While pioneering on a forsaken urban site, they have revitalized Smoketown’s brewing past with respect to the historic integrity of the complex and have allowed a few beautiful weeds to sneak in along the edges.

Sweet clover at Trellis Brewing

Cow thistle at Trellis Brewing

As I was leaving, it was hard to miss a honking male Canadian goose standing guard on the rooftop of Trellis Brewing.

I hope wind and the gander seed bomb the Ice Tower and barren grounds with serendipity.

A Rooftop Sycamore That Could Not Be Iced originally appeared on GardenRant on May 13, 2026.

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Here in the Mid-Atlantic Azalea Belt, our big spring show is fading fast.  Even my beloved crossvine blooms are pretty much gone. But the chartreuse leaves of my ‘Ogon’ Spireas? They’re large statement plants already! The leaves emerge in late February/early March, will turn orange in the fall, and won’t drop until Christmas week, reliably. The shrubs are also reliably full, like this one.

It’s seen here with blooms of crossvine, two varieties of clematis, and a coral honeysuckle, all illustrating my contention that everything goes with chartreuse. Just like purple.

A few feet away, another ‘Ogon’ easily hides my HVAC system – and an old white azalea. On the right is another foliage plant I adore, this one evergreen – ‘Goshiki’ Osmanthus.  Its mix of colors includes some chartreuse. 

Four smaller examples, clockwise from upper let: ‘Lucky Devil’ ninebark shrub, Sedum ‘Angelina’ in a bird bath, Sedum sarmentosum surrounding a newly planted Profusion series zinnia, and a sweet potato vine that’ll quickly wrap around Persian Shields in both pots.In my back garden, a “Rising Sun’ redbud is a season-long focal point, and the young ‘Little Honey’ hydrangea (lower left) is already brightening up the whole border. By mid-summer the black-eyed susans will dominate.

Creeping Jenny fills in between pavers and anywhere there’s bare ground. Since it’s on some invasive plant lists, I’ll be researching and blogging about whether or not it should be removed in this case.

One last example of the impact of chartreuse foliage is from my co-op’s office building, where I adopted the landscape. I hear lots of comments when I’m gardening there and the ‘Ogon’ Spireas get more compliments than any other plant. And to repeat – the color will last until Christmas!  

Chartreuse foliage – apparently I can’t get enough of it. originally appeared on GardenRant on May 10, 2026.

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Click to watch the trailer.

Have you checked out Netflix’s new ” gardening show” called “This is a Gardening Show” and starring comedian Zach Galifianakis?  Well, I have and I have a report.

First, clear your minds of those beloved gardening shows back on HGTV (when there was a G), like “Gardener’s Diary” and “Gardening by the Yard.” Because this sure isn’t that.

But the comedian IS apparently a “hobbyist gardener of 25 years,” with not one but two farms – 60 acres in North Carolina and another of undisclosed acreage off Vancouver Island, where this six-part show was filmed. Each episode – covering apples, tomatoes, foraging, root vegetables, corn or compost – is just 15 to 20 minutes. 

Thoughts.

 And kids are his co-stars.

Who’s the Audience?

Certainly not US, adults who already garden. As one commenter on Reddit explained, “Finally, a gardening show for people who don’t garden…Part lesson, part lark, these 15-minute episodes are a total joy. They have such a deliriously light touch they will make you want to run outside and plunge your hands into the soil.”

That’s the point – getting people, especially kids, interested in growing something. Preferably something to eat. Who knows whether that will result but the reviews make me think the show may at least be seen. 

• “Zach Galifianakis talking about gardening, dumb cute jokes with kids, AND discussing the horrors of end stage capitalism? I will watch this.”
• “An absolute joy to watch” and “comfort television in its purest form.”
• “A decompressing palate cleanser.”
• An “oddball celebration of the food we eat.”
• On Rotten Tomatoes there are eight reviews, all 100%.

And where do I stand? With this reviewer, probably an actual gardener: “The name sets a high bar – it should be called ‘Growing stuff is easier than you think.’ But I like that it’s aimed at encouraging the next generation to take an interest. It’s also pretty funny.”

IS this a “gardening show”? I’d call it “Growing Stuff with Zach Galifinakis and Some Kids” originally appeared on GardenRant on May 3, 2026.

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I attend every one of the U.S. Botanic  Garden’s media previews of new exhibits, like their latest – America’s State Flowers. Here you see Senior Communications Specialist Devin Dotson talking to the press and notice the guy in the center? He’s motioning for me to move out of view! Oops. 

Devin explained that the USBG has collected all 56 state and territory flowers, and created this map of their locations on the grounds.  The plants will all be on display through October 12 of this year.  

Find your flower here:

Yes, this exhibit is the USBG’s contribution to the America250 celebration and I appreciate the focus on plants rather than anything politically triggering.  

The weirdest selection process – actually, 56 different processes

Bottom line – we can’t assume anything about these plants based on their having been selected. As the handout says, one “might have been selected because of its connection to major industries, relevance to state history, or prominence in the local landscape.” Devin told us one state has school children pick the winner! So maybe we should rethink the whole concept of state/territory flowers. If they serve a purpose, what is it? 

Here are examples of territory flowers and the information on display about each.  Washington, DC, not a territory but a lone “district,” is also included.

Where “natives-only” makes total sense 

Also from the handout: “Most selected flowers are native to North America, and many have been used for centuries as food, raw materials, or medicine.”

Well! I’ll just go out on a limb and say I think honorific titles like “state flower” should be granted to plants native to the state. Duh, right? 

Like Maryland, with black-eyed susans as the state flower.  Every year I spread my extra susans around town and would love to see it used in our city landscapes instead of bedding annuals and irrigation tubing.

About Georgia
Also shown above is the new state flower chosen just this year for Georgia – the sweetbay magnolia, replacing the Cherokee rose.  The Georgia Native Plant Society can take credit for getting that change passed.

About Ohio

As I toured the exhibit with garden writer Kathy Jentz, we came upon a magnificent Buckeye and agreed that it would be a more worthy state flower than the sad little carnation that currently represents the state. Not only is the carnation nonnative; its selection was purely political. The sign says “Presidential William McKinley considered the scarlet carnation a lucky charm. It was chosen as the state flower after his assassination to represent ‘a token of love and reverence’ for the Ohioan president.”

About America

Speaking of plant origins, how about America’s Flower being, you know, from the U.S.? Unlike the rose. I kinda like Senator Everett Dirksen’s proposal back in 1965 that it be the marigold, using these selling points:

• The marigold is a native of North America and can in truth and in fact be called an American flower.
• It is national in character, for it grows and thrives in every one of the fifty states of this nation. It conquers the extremes of temperature. It well withstands the summer sun and the evening chill.
• Its robustness reflects the hardihood and character of the generations who pioneered and built this land into a great nation. It is not temperamental about fertility. It resists its natural enemies, the insects. It is self-reliant and requires little attention. Its spectacular colors – lemon and orange, rich brown and deep mahogany – befit the imaginative qualities of this nation.
• It is as sprightly as the daffodil, as colorful as the rose, as resolute as the zinnia, as delicate as the carnation, as haughty as the chrysanthemum, as aggressive as the petunia, as ubiquitous as the violet, and as stately as the snapdragon.
• It beguiles the senses and ennobles the spirit of man. It is the delight of the amateur gardener and a constant challenge to the professional.
• Since it is native to America and nowhere else in the world, and common to every state in the Union, I present the American marigold for designation as the national floral emblem of our country.

Source. And you can explore all “state symbols” here.

One more photo from America’s State Flowers:

And my favorite shots taken at the USBG that day:

In the Regional Garden, one of my favorite plants – the ‘Rising Sun’ redbud, showing a mix of faded flowers and emerging chartreuse foliage. I have one of these but it’s not nearly as grand.Across the street I took this money shot in the Bartholdi Garden – of herbs in the kitchen garden, with a nice view of the Capitol Building. (Sorry if the sight of it triggers anyone reading this. Ya never know these days.)

State Flowers Exhibit at the U.S. Botanic Garden Reveals an Odd Assortment originally appeared on GardenRant on April 26, 2026.

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I am recently returned from almost six weeks away from my garden punctuated by a short week of illness at home, where I impatiently laid in bed, sipped broth, and tragically looked out of the window at the skeletal remains of last year’s garden needing attention.

That needed some seeing to. 

In that time, spring has begun to tickle the ribs of the woodland that surrounds me.  The joy of coming back from warmer climates (California and Texas) to see that I haven’t missed the full awakening is profoundly gratifying.

Love that early spring feeling — everything is waking up. Including me & Mungo.

I just have to keep myself away from everyone else’s profundities so I can enjoy it for what it is.

Very very pretty. But how #real is it?

Each year, the entire world is justifiably excited by the still-harnessed potential of a fresh, new, growing season. You only need to read a handful of the 165 million #spring posts on Instagram or flowery, navel-gazing essays on Substack to realize that we are all:

A) Totally in love with our gardens;

B) Convinced that we are first people/generations to ever love gardening this deeply, anywhere, anytime, and forevermore, so there; and,

C) Anxious to share that joy (set to trending music) with anyone who made the mistake of “just checking” their phone, and who groggily emerged two hours later swimming in pansies and politics.

For the most part, the photos we’re scrolling through with the hand not holding the coffee mug are highly curated. Polished soft-fades, and professional angles are the order of the day.  #Spring is no time for subtlety – or sad looking seedlings that needed to be transplanted two weeks ago and are seriously bringing down the vibe. 

Bringing down the vibe. There’s a bed edge in there somewhere.

Our gardens on the other hand – the ones outside the back door that started sticking last week, past the pet bowls and discarded shoes — are not curated.  They have their spectacular moments – just like we do, but most of the time, they’re running around bare-faced in a ripped tee-shirt sorely in need of a haircut. (And not as a sexy twenty-five-year-old either.)

I’ve been stepping over my weed piles for three days — but I NEEDED to get the Corydalis incisa out when I had the chance.

They are messy, and real, and authentic; which is not to say, #messy and #real, and #authentic – an entirely different thing altogether. Beware the #honesty which itself is carefully curated these days. From breakdowns to breakups (14.1M are #authentic) we’re rarely getting the whole picture of what things really look like between takes unless a filter slips or a news organization gets hold of the dirt. 

I am about 3 weeks behind getting these poor plants out of the garage.

But our gardens are nevertheless deeply loved. And we do forgive them much when the specter of other people’s spectacular is not playing havoc in our brains. For instance, I can honestly say that I have now fully trained myself to instantly look past present moments of disappointment to the promise of ‘same time next year.’ Within seconds I’m imagining what will be instead of what is.

This sucks. But I’m already thinking about next year.

And when I say ‘trained,’ I’m not sure I ever consciously thought about it. Whether that’s a function of denial or age-related wisdom I do not know, but it brings me great peace when a freeze blitzes the wisteria blossoms again.   I may whine about it on The Garden Mixer for sympathy, but inside, I’m good. 

Not up to usual standards….

That is, right up until I pull up Instagram to look at what others are doing and an Influencer like katy_at_the_manor scrolls past with a wall full of blousy, beautiful blooms and posts a perfectly nonchalant “I’m often asked how I get my wisteria to flower so profusely.”

And then offers her top tips.

From, apparently, her manor.

That (not-so-surprisingly) doesn’t include how to get her wisteria past a Mid-Atlantic freeze in April. 

Because she has two homes in Zone 9 England.

Did I mention she makes beautiful lemon tarts too?  

And the table is set for friends. I really need to finish pressure washing the algae off the chairs….

So we’ve got to protect our brains from Curation Comparison Syndrome.  All of us. With less screentime and much more time fully experiencing the many faces of our gardens — a great deal of which only a parent could love.

With any luck I hope I’ve helped your case of CCS with this slew of the ugliest photos of my garden today after the resident gardener was MIA for six weeks.  Because in places it is ugly, and overwhelming, and ambitious, and disorganized.

But it’s also the garden that at the same time, from a different angle is capable of this:

And this:

And this:

And the resident gardener can often turn this:

Into this:

Be kind to yourself. And your beloved garden. And I’ll try to do the same. Social media is not #reallife. – MW

Social media gardens got you down? Here’s some of my ugly to keep you sane. originally appeared on GardenRant on April 16, 2026.

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Yard waste – what I think of when I hear the term “plant material.”

Have you ever noticed that people in the plant business refer to plants as “plant material”? I’ve heard the term used by growers, landscapers, landscape architects, and horticulturists, and it makes no sense to me.

Why use five syllables when one works perfectly?  I’ve even heard someone refer to “pieces of plant material,” when he could have said – again – “plants.” This is me wanting to be other people’s editor.

There’s also me wincing when I hear plants made fungible, like mulch or soil. Regular gardeners naturally say “plants,” never that longer term that forces us to see all plants as the same. Or am I over-reacting here?

Alternative title: “Selecting the Best Trees and Shrubs”?

Dictionaries on “plant material”

Science Direct: “Plant material refers to any organic matter derived from plants, including living, dead, or processed components such as leaves, stems, roots, flowers, seeds, bark, and wood. It is widely used in gardening, science, and industry, encompassing materials ranging from plant debris and soil amendments to botanical medicine components.”

A definition site called Reverso offers two usages. In gardening  it means “parts of plants used for specific purposes.” And in biology  it means “substance originating from plants, s in “The compost is rich in plant material.” 

I DID notice the U.S. Forest Service writing about “the use of native plant material (seeds, cuttings, plants)”… and the USDA using “plant material” to refer to “plants,  plant products and other items that could, introduce pests.” In these cases, when referring to a variety of plant parts, “plant material” makes sense. But too often, I hear it used to refer just to plants – like Illinois’s Extension did in the screen shot above.  And it bugs me.  Am I the only one?

THESE are Plants

If you’re talking just about plants –  but not seeds – call them “plants”!  (An old photo of plants at Behnkes Nurseries.)

THIS is plant material. And THESE are plants. originally appeared on GardenRant on April 12, 2026.

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The Callery (Bradford) pear may be one of horticulture’s best example of a good idea gone very wrong. Could it happen again? Of course. Are there no other examples of plants that seemed perfect at the time, but couldn’t live up to the billing? I always had difficulty keeping our highly publicized, box-store-special Knock Out roses happy at home. What’s been your favorite, over-advertised, damn good bad example in the garden? Was it not that great plantsman George  Santayana who warned “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  There might even be a good political lesson there.

Crescent Hill neighborhood of Louisville, Kentucky. John Nation photo.

I got into the subject of Bradford pears  because I am a diligent member of the world-famous Jeffersonville Indiana Tree Board. One of our members mentioned the city parks  department was taking chain saw to a marauding band of Bradfords. Curiosity led me to that site – and others – where Bradfords were popping up just a few feet apart like an angry herd of fat, green popsicles. I had  missed the show, the frothy white flowers of early spring, albeit their fishy-smell, and then vibrant red purple, orange and yellow leaves of autumn. All which made it a great sales pitch.

Bradford pear runs wild in Jeffersonville, Indiana. Bob Hill photo.

What could possibly go wrong?

My history of the Bradford pear was propagated from a Feb. 18, 2017,  Arnold Arboretum article written by Theresa M. Culley entitled, almost regally, “The Rise and Fall of the Ornamental Callery Pear Tree.”

It leads off pointing out that the Bradford selection of  Callery pear became one of the most popular trees in  North America, only to become the scourge of landscape managers across North America. Her  story asks, “What led to its fall from grace? To understand this fascinating story , we need to start at the beginning.”

That would be the end of the nineteenth century as farming was beginning to replace ranching in the United States, and with it a growing demand for improved crops that could survive the western climate. Thus, our government created the Foreign Seed and Plant Introduction Office. Promise. Which led to a guy named  Frank N. Meyer spending 10 years  walking across Asia, and China in the early 1900s looking for tough, useful plants, and sending back home hundreds of shipments of cuttings, and thousands of pounds of seeds. Not quite a precursor to 120 years later when China is now shipping us thousands of tons of laptops, computers, electrical components, lithium-ion batteries, video games and furniture.

Fred Meyer, USDA photo.

About the time Meyer was hot footing across Asia, our edible French  pear (Pyrus communis) crops in the Pacific Northwest  were being decimated by fire blight. The call went out for resistant pear cultivars, which sent explorers back across Asia to locate new species.

E.H. Wilson sent back seeds of the Pyrus calleryana to the Arnold Arboretum

Those trees grew protective spikes, were incredibly tough in almost any site or climate, and seemed an answer. So, another 100 pounds of  seeds were collected. With 5,000 pounds of pear fruit required to get 25 pounds of cleaned seeds. No easy pursuit, this.

OK, moving along, these seeds were planted by the thousands in USDA plant stations in Oregon and Maryland, evaluating the trees overall vigor and resistance to fire blight. Finally, in 1952, one tree growing in Glenn Dale, Maryland with thick, glossy leaves, an attractive globular form and without thick spikes was selected as the winner. One tree 40 years after a search had begun. It was named in honor of Frederick Charles Bradford, former head of the Glenn Dale  station who had initiated the tree work.

So far. So good.

The Bradford pear cultivar was grown and finally commercially released in 1961 to almost universal appeal. Medium size, rapid growth, frothy white spring color, shiny green leaves, fabulous fall colors and reasonably priced. Yes, what could go wrong?

The “wrong “part began noticeably showing up in the early 1980s. Sure, the Bradford’s seasonable beauty was apparent, but older trees began breaking apart during windstorms and heavy snow loads, crashing down in yards. Horticulture legend Michael Dirr blamed that on the Bradford’s branching structure, tight crotches that would literally split in half, too many limbs around a common length of trunk.

In response, the horticulture industry quickly came up with hardier calleryana cultivars, ‘Whitehouse,’ ‘Redspire,’ ‘Autumn Blaze,’ and ‘Avery Par’ among them. Which led to a still existing national epidemic of calleryana pears growing by the thousands in open fields, along roads and railroad tracks, and worse, in back yards. Invasive trees masquerading as weeds. You’ve seen them, too.

What was that all about?

Answer here. As with most pears, the Bradford could not self-pollinate. But it could heartily cross-pollinate  with many of the new calleryana introductions. Love at first sight. The bees at work on flowers, or birds carrying fruit for miles, roosting in trees or on power lines. Defecation and millions of seedlings to follow, crowding out native trees. Parks department employees with chain saws. The Bradford pear now banned in three states, Ohio, Pennsylvania and South Carolina, with more to come. Virgina has even offered a free replacement tree in exchange for cutting down a Bradford.

And yet, drive down streets in your neighborhood in early spring and you’ll see many Bradfords still singing their song, including many downtown streets. They just haven’t fallen apart yet. Worse, Bradfords are still being sold by the thousands in some nurseries and online.

It’s a tree that still even has its defenders, as pointed out in a recent article by Jeremy Cox in the Bay Journal, a surprise  offering from the Chesapeake Bay Watershed community. One person quoted  made the debatable case that better to have a crowded field of Callery pears than a parking lot. The article  pointed out the invasive trees can help stem soil erosion, while its hard, tiny pears to provide winter food for birds and wildlife – not counting defecation spread. Its proponents  argued Bradfords do create shade, help lower urban air temperatures, and will thrive where other species will not.

Sure, just like all those damn humans.

How the Callery (Bradford) pear became  a damn good bad example originally appeared on GardenRant on April 8, 2026.

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Scott Beuerlein on air, hosting “In the Garden with Scott Beuerlein” on WKRC out of Cincinnati.

Naturally I follow fellow GardenRanter Scott Beuerlein on Facebook, where I was pleased to read his announcement in late February of a new gig – rather, yet ANOTHER gig:

Big news here. For 24 years Ron Wilson has hosted “In the Garden with Ron Wilson.” Rode through all kinds of changes in the media world and continued to build an audience. Now, the show is in something like 28 markets, 55 stations, has its own website and social media, and the show is streamed as a podcast. Today, Ron retired and next week I start hosting a new show. Same time, same stations.”

Next came generous praise for Ron, and then:

I will try to limit being bad to the bare minimum. And I hope people will bear with me as I figure things out. It will be a different show. I have to be me. I have no other choice. It’s not possible for me to be Ron Wilson and, to be honest, Ron, more than anyone else, would hate it if I tried. From day one he has insisted that this new show should have a fresh start with a new name and that I should make it my own…Tune in and enjoy my struggles until I find my groove. I’ll have lots of great guests and conversations as well. 

Where to watch/listen

So the new show, airing on Saturdays from 6 to 9 a.m., is “Let’s Garden with Scott Beuerlein,” and I’m happy to report that it’s quickly posted as a podcast with iHeart Radio, now available everywhere people get their podcasts.

 

So far, Scott has interviewed a slew of lively experts that includes Brie Arthur, Jared Barnes, Diane Blazek, Marianne Willburn, Sam Hoadley, Ed Lyon, Kris Bachtell, Teresa Woodard, Mark Wessel, and Dr. Bill Fountain. Upcoming guests include Joseph Tykonoviech, Kelly Norris, Jeff Epping and lots more.

The show has its own Facebook group – “In the Garden” –  where I found some really fun illustrations, presumably by AI.  (I love how the AI prompts gave him a fresh haircut and facelift and am eager to a try myself!) 

Btw, in searching for the program I found this comment on Reddit: “Scott is a pretty awesome conversationalist and knows a thing or two.” Indeed!

How’s it going?

I asked Scott for an update after six episodes, requiring getting up at 3:30 to be ready to go on the air at 6. (!!) He responded that he’s “playing to my strengths, which is having a lot of connections in the Hort World, so I can bring in wonderful guests.

Another strength is that I’m second career. I can empathize with people who haven’t been around horticulture all their lives, so I know what questions to ask. And I know when the question has been adequately answered and I’m willing to jump in and get back to information that both experts and newbies will find accurate and helpful. I’m always trying to hear the show as if I were a regular—but smart—homeowner out there in radioland.  

What else is Scott up to?

Then I found Scott’s announcement of his most recent columns – in PRINT!  

The Spring issue of Horticulture Magazine is out and includes, as always, my two columns. The interview column is an excerpt from a longer video conversation with Brent Horvath and Lisa Hilgenberg from Intrinsic Perennials. You can link to that video using the bar code. Well worth doing! Very interesting peek into the world of New plant introductions. The article also includes nice write ups on some of Brent’s plants

And as Scott was tackling his new radio gig, he was also organizing the latest in-person Urban Landscape Symposium at the Cincinnati Botanic Garden (and Zoo). Together with his posts to GardenRant, he certainly has the garden media landscape covered! 

Who’s that guy in the center, with brown hair and other unScott-like traits I won’t mention?

Congratulations to Scott on his exciting new assignment!! We just hope he doesn’t get too busy for his Rant readers!

Listen Up! It’s the “In the Garden with Scott Beuerlein” Radio Show! originally appeared on GardenRant on April 5, 2026.

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Guest post by Ciaran De Buitlear

It sounds right: let things grow, help pollinators, step back, work with nature. But a real garden is not an idea. It is a place where things have to work.

You are trying to grow food, keep paths open, stop things taking over completely, and deal with weather, time, and whatever your body will allow you to do that week. That is where a lot of what is called sustainable gardening begins to fall apart.

I tried to do this.

During lockdown, I was given access to a walled garden. It was an incredible piece of generosity. It gave us an outlet, a way to do something useful, something real. I thought if I approached it the right way — gently, sustainably, with good intentions — it would respond in kind.

It didn’t.

The garden pushed back, harder than I expected. Weeds didn’t stay in their place, crops didn’t behave, and things always took more time than I had. Then my back went, properly went. Work stopped whether I liked it or not. When I got back to it, I overdid it and injured my wrist as well. The greenhouse roof came off in a storm and left everything in a total mess.

At one point, I stood in the middle of it and said out loud, “feck this, I’m done.” I meant it, because this is the part that doesn’t make it into most advice: the point where the work stops working. Where the idea of it no longer matches the reality in front of you. Where everything feels like it is slipping backwards faster than you can hold it.

But I went back, not because I had a plan, or because I knew what I was doing. I went back because there was something in the place that held me there. Something that made it worth trying again, even when it wasn’t going well.

Slowly, by doing the work, something shifted — not the garden, not at first. Me.

I stopped trying to get it “right.” I stopped expecting it to behave. I stopped thinking in terms of control or abandonment.

Instead, I started paying attention to what grew easily and what didn’t, to what came back on its own, to where the soil held water and where it didn’t, and to which parts needed work and which parts were better left alone. I pulled some nettles and left others. I grew food where I could and left space where I couldn’t. I worked parts of the garden hard and let other parts stay rough.

I listened to the garden, the soil, the plants, the earth. They told me what to do.

One year I learned this the hard way with onions. They looked fine above ground: upright, green, healthy enough. But when I lifted them, they were rotten underneath. The bulbs had failed completely. Later I was told that onions had been grown in that same patch for too many years and the soil had built up disease. That was a real lesson in the difference between theory and practice. You can read all you like, but sometimes the ground tells you something only failure can teach.

It was not neat. It was not efficient. It did not look like the kind of thing you see in advice columns, but it worked — not perfectly, not consistently, but enough to keep going.

There is a version of sustainable gardening that exists in theory, and there is the version that exists in a place where you actually have to live with the results. They are not the same.

Most people are trying to find a way somewhere between controlling everything and letting it all go, but there is very little honest discussion about what that actually involves. It involves failure. It involves limits. It involves doing work that doesn’t always pay off. It involves making mistakes, learning from them, and starting again more than once.

It also involves something else. If you stay with it, if you keep going back, if you pay attention, you begin to build something that is not regimented and not completely abandoned, but somewhere in between.

It’s not that you found the right answer. There are many answers, and maybe none are completely right. But some of them are better than others. You find something that works for you and your land because you kept working at it.

That is what most advice leaves out, and that is where the real work is.

Ciaran De Buitlear has a walled garden in Stamullen, County Meath, Ireland. He is the author of Nature’s Acre.

Most sustainable gardening advice doesn’t survive a real garden originally appeared on GardenRant on April 2, 2026.

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After our recent winter, everyone with at least a shrub or two is belly-aching about winter burn on their evergreens. Count me in. 

What IS winter burn?

Wisconsin Extension’s answer as the first shown on Google (after the AI junk):

Winter burn is a common problem of evergreens including those with broad leaves (e.g., boxwood, holly, rhododendron), needles (e.g., fir, hemlock, pine, spruce, yew) and scale-like leaves (e.g., arborvitae, false cypress, juniper) grown in open, unprotected locations and exposed to severe winter conditions.  Evergreen plants that are marginally hardy in a location (i.e., not well-adapted to local winter conditions) are at increased risk for winter burn.  Winter burn can be so severe that affected plants may die and/or require replacement.

Why so MUCH winter damage? It’s not just the cold

Seeing winter burn everywhere around me, I wondered how bad WAS our recent winter, really? And to my surprise, my county’s coldest temperature during December and January was a mere 10 degree F.  That’s well within the normal range for the average low here in Zone 7B of 5 to 10 F.  (If I’m reading the map right.)

So if our winter wasn’t unusually COLD, what was it that did so much apparent damage to plants around here? Could be that our low temperatures, in the teens, lasted so damn long – weeks on end. Some plants were also harmed by the heavy load of ice on top of a heavy load of snow, neither of which melted for those long weeks in the teens. I call it the Icemaggeddon, a two-punch that also meant it wasn’t safe to take walks outdoors for weeks!  It was a shocking bummer of a winter for us spoiled mild-winter types! 

But as Wisconsin Extension goes on to explain, there are lots of contributing factors:

• Warm fall temperatures that delay the onset of plant dormancy can also contribute to winter burn.
• Cold injury can occur mid-winter when temperatures drop sharply at sunset causing foliage that has warmed during the day to rapidly cool and freeze. 
• In addition, on sunny winter days, foliage (particularly foliage facing the sun) can begin to transpire (i.e., naturally lose water through the foliage). 
• Strong winter winds can lead to additional water loss making winter burn more severe. 
• Colder than normal winter temperatures and longer than normal winters can also be factors in the development of winter burn, especially if below normal temperatures occur into April.

 Plants that took the hit

Clockwise from upper left in the top photo:

In the top photo, upper left is a Nandina domestica that looks only slightly worse than all the ones in my neighborhood.  Its hardiness zone is 6A, so why all the leaf drop? 

At Dave’s Garden I found a list of “Plants that experience winter damage in the mid-Atlantic region, writing that ” Nandina domestica – is the most common plant to exhibit foliage damage when temperatures go below 10 degrees Fahrenheit. This variety is a semi-evergreen, meaning that it will drop leaves in a cold Winter, and stay mostly evergreen in warmer conditions. New growth begins about the same time that our native dogwoods begin to leaf after flowering around mid-April, but it can be two weeks later in a cool Spring. Within several weeks new growth opens fully and there will be little or no evidence of the problem. In most cases no pruning is needed to rejuvenate the plant since only leaves are damaged and branches and stems are not affected. ”  

The plants I’m most worried about are the 11 crossvines (Bignonia capreolata) I’m growing to provide screening.  In this case the extensive leaf burn – over half the leaves are dead – is even more curious to me because it’s hardy to zone 5.  That link adds this detail: “Above ground stems are not reliably winter hardy throughout USDA Zone 5 where they may die to the ground in severe winters (roots are usually hardy therein and will sprout new growth the following spring).”

Boxwoods seem to exhibit a lot of winter burn but it’s actually bronzing. “Boxwood bronzing is not harmful to the plant it is just lacking chlorophyll. The chlorophyll will come back once the spring warms up more so you do not need to prune this away.” Garden coach Amy Powers agrees, saying can trim away the bronzed bits or not – boxwoods will be fine either way.  These boxwoods, in a common co-op area I’ve adopted, are probably Japanese, hardy to Zone 6a.  

My Acuba’Picturata‘ always gets some burn, and I trim away those parts.  It’s hardy to zone 6b but they “do best in protected locations or warm micro-climates.  Also they’re best in part or full shade and will develop burns like this in hot afternoon sun, too.

On the left, a neighbor’s Cherry laurel (hardy to Zone 6a) shows lots of burn.  If they were mine I’d trim away the burned bits.

Dave’s  Garden cites cherry laurel in the Mid-Atlantic for  having winter damage: “Many Otto luykens and Schip laurels show damage to foliage in the first year after transplant. The cherry laurels are relatively slow to establish after planting, and may have problems with late Fall planting followed by persistent cold. After the initial Winter an established plant will rarely have problems with cold weather. In most cases a light pruning will remove dead leaves and stem tips, but more severe damage can mean a much longer period for the plant to revive, and possibly determine that the plant needs replacement.”

On the right is ‘Ice Dance’ carex (hardy to Zone 5a), which looks like this near sidewalks where it gets salt. In some spots it looks fine. 

Loropetalum victim of winter kill?

Loropetalum on the left, planted last summer, has a similar foliage color to the Ninebark on the other side of the bird bath.  Dead Loropetalum shown on the right.

For years I’d admired Loropetalum shrubs, so popular in the South, and finally decided to give one a try – to replace a Ninebark that had slowly died, which ruined the nice symmetry in the nook garden seen here. I replaced it with a ‘Ruby’ Loropetalum, which is hardy only to Zone 7a, but I hoped it would thrive in this protected spot.  Nope!

So now I’m contemplating what WILL live in that spot and screen the ugly utility wires. I’m thinking maybe an Osmanthus ‘Goshiki,’ hardy to zone 6 and evergreen. 

Seeing winter burn in your garden? How about winter kill? originally appeared on GardenRant on March 29, 2026.

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Karaj—a town west of Tehran—was heavily bombed one week into “Operation Epic Fury.” Few readers would know Karaj for any gardening significance or for the presence of Iranian Revolutionary Guard outposts—targets of the bombing. Yet an epic rock garden was begun near Karaj in the mid-1970s. Will Ingwersen, an English nurseryman, had been a consultant.

I was privileged to prick out seedlings and pot up alpines for three months in the summer of 1979 at the Ingwersen’s Birch Farm Nursery, located on the back of William Robinson’s Gravetye Estate in West Sussex. The Iranian Revolution coincided that year with the 50^th anniversary of the nursery and the publication of Will Ingwersen’s Manual of Alpine Plants.

Will Ingwersen on the far right, his brother Paul is 2nd from left, 28-year-old Allen Bush is 5th from left, and the Birch Farm Nursery staff in 1979.

Ground-hugging alpine dionysias and saxifragas had been a brief obsession when I lived and gardened in England. I was introduced to a wide world of rock garden and alpine plants through the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, as well as from extraordinary displays from nurseries and enthusiasts at the Royal Horticultural Society (RHS) flower shows at Vincent Square, 1978-1979.

Dionysia aretoides is an Iranian species of the Primulaceae family and a recipient of the Royal Horticultural Society’s Award of Garden Merit. Kew Science photo.

There to behold was a level of horticultural expertise I could never have imagined. Names like the Ingwersens, Joe Elliott, Jack Drake, Kate Dryden, and Tony Hall were glittering stars of my new galaxy. They grew littler plants, native to alpine mountains, plucked from cold frames and glass houses, and grown to perfection in shallow terra cotta bulb pans for RHS shows. They brought familiar woodland ephemerals like trilliums and lady slippers, too. I was pleased that the hot and humid Ohio Valley and southern Appalachians—my neck of the woods—were well represented.

Alpine plants were in a different class altogether 

I had never set foot anywhere close to these cute buns. (You won’t find buns like these in the bakery.) My world view expanded. These “high” enthusiasts got around. They loved their little plants. I enjoyed, hearing tales of adventurous explorers harvesting a few seeds from alpine plants growing on the rocky crevices of high peaks around the world. I was hooked.

Mr. Ingwersen invited me to his home one evening in late August before I returned to the U.S. in the late summer of 1979. He showed slides of a fantasy garden cut short.  I was mesmerized. Nothing had been mentioned of this for the three months prior, not even among the staff.

Pearl Palace. Wikimedia Commons photo.

The award-winning plantsman, and pipe-smoking raconteur, was asked in the mid-1970s, by the Shah’s half-sister, Fatemeh Pahlavi, to come to Iran and lay out a rock garden. (The Shah’s sister, Shams Pahlavi, owned an estate in Mehrshahr near Karaj that included the modernist Shams Palace, known as the Pearl Palace, designed in part by architects associated with the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation.)

A price was agreed upon 

Princess Fatemeh Pahlavi sent a private jet to London Gatwick to pick up Ingwersen.

The odd couple met at her royal retreat in the foothills of the Alborz (Elburz) mountains at the edge of the Tehran plain. Ingwersen asked what she had in mind. Princess Fatemeh said she was thinking about a 50-acre (20 hectare) rock garden. Ingwersen, whose modest jewel-box nursery consisted of less than an acre, was stunned. Such an enormous project would exceed – by far – the total acreage of the world’s largest and best rock gardens at Wisley, Kew, and Edinburgh in the United Kingdom, Nymphenburg in Munich, or the Denver Botanic Gardens in Colorado. (Ingwersen’s father, Walter, built the rock garden at Wisley while he was under house arrest during  the First World War—on the suspicion, because of Danish ancestry, that he might be sympathetic to the Germans.)

Princess Fatemeh Pahlavi in the 1970s

Ingwersen questioned the Shah’s half-sister to see if she had any idea what was required of her fantasy besides imperial hubris. He mentioned rocks: she pointed to the Alborz mountains. He said they would need to build roads: she assured him it would be done. He said he needed huge road building trucks to haul the rocks: she asked, how many? Money was no object. The garden was begun and might have been completed except for the Iranian revolution in 1979. The Shah’s family went into exile, and garden making took a back seat to Allah and authoritarian rule.

Years passed, and I occasionally wondered about the rock garden.

Harry Jans tipped me off at a 2014 plant conference in Grünberg, Germany. A friend had seen the rock garden.  John Mitchell clued me in. He is the Alpine Supervisor at the Edinburgh Botanic Garden in charge of their Rock Garden, Woodland Garden, and Alpine Area. I wondered how big the unfinished garden was. Mitchell responded “The garden was quite large, not sure about hectares,” and sent a photo

The rock garden in 2005. John Mitchell photo.

I vividly remember my August 1979 dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Ingwersen, and the slide show that followed. I was seduced by Will Ingweren’s twinkling eyes and photos. The crazy notion of a massive rock garden paradise of beautiful alpine, herbaceous, and woody plants from Iran and around the word didn’t seem so farfetched at the time. And apparently it was.

I could find no evidence of Princess Fatemeh Pahlavi’s rock garden online. I have only John Mitchell’s photo from 2005.

The future of the epic Iranian rock garden remains unclear as bombs fall nearby. But the citizenry is not giving up. Today (March 20, 2026) is the Persian New Year and Tehran’s gardens are being decorated with flowers.

I received an email a few days after this updated story was published

I had hoped there was someone  who could fill in historic gaps since the  March 20th publication. William Bessler stumbled across my recent Garden Rant story. The rock garden was far less than the 20 hectare/ 50 acre size that Mr. Ingwersen had mentioned. but still quite substantial. Perhaps Princess Fatemeh had bigger dreams. We may never know. I have edited my exchange with William Bessler for clarity and conciseness.

Bessler: By sheer coincidence I came across your website today while trying to gather information about the Ariamehr Botanical Garden near Karaj now known as the National Botanical Garden of Iran. There seems to be some confusion about Will Ingwersen’s involvement with any garden work at the Pearl Palace at Karaj.I was the landscape architect appointed in 1975 to prepare a new master plan for the Botanic garden. Will ingwersen had already started building the vast rock garden six months before my arrival under the auspices of our patroness Princess Fetemeh and Eskandar Firouz, minister of environment. I was able to work on site with Will Ingwersen for the remaining few weeks of his stay who taught me how to put rocks together. I was able to complete the project in his style and to plant the many alpine plants that were shipped from his nursery in the UK. The total area of the rock project with a waterfall was no more than 11,000 square meters (1.1 hectares/2.7 acres). I believe it was Princess Fatemeh who recommended Will Ingwersen and I’m sure if he had any involvement with Princess Shams, he would have mentioned it.

Bush: The patroness Princess Fetemeh and Eskandar Firouz, minister of environment—were behind the rock garden. Mr. Ingwersen mentioned that his nursery supplied plants for the rock garden, but his very small Birch Farm Nursery could not have supplied enough alpine plants for 11,000 sq. metres.

Who was behind the National Botanical Garden? How many hectares? What has happened to it?

Bessler: Let me put you further into the picture. First, there was no connection of Shams’s palace (Pearl Palace) at Karaj which is located near the centre of town. The National Botanic Garden (formally the Ariamehr Botanic Garden) consisting of 141.84 hectares (350 acres) is located on the north side of the Tehran/Karaj highway approximately 8 kms further west from the Mehr Abad airport. You can find it on Google. 

The project was inspired by the then minister for the Department of environment, Eskandar Firouz who persuaded the government to establish a botanical garden and herbarium for scientific research and to include horticultural education. The existing site was acquired and a prolific British writer by the name of Edward Hyams was invited in 1974 to come to propose a master plan. Hymes wrote about everything but notably a book on Botanical Gardens of the world and I assume this is why he was invited. Unfortunately, he was no designer and proposed a circle in the middle of the site with radiating paths to the outer edges rather like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. Firouz decided to employ a landscape architect and contacted Kew, and I was lucky to be recommended. I arrived in May 1975 and worked on the project until the last moment in December 1978 after the revolution began when we had to flee. In mid 1975, my first task was to prepare a new master plan for the garden and after many days of discussion with the botanist Per Wendelbo and others, I developed a sketch proposal which was approved at a meeting with Firouz and Princess Fatemeh in early 1976. Ingwersen’s rock garden and lake I included in the horticultural display section. 

Eskandar Firouz was a brilliant, far-sighted man but was fired by the shah in 1977 for criticizing his brother for hunting an endangered species of animal.  As you may know many of the shahs’ top men were executed by Khomeini, including the Prime Minister Amir-Abbas Hoveydah. Firouz’s life was spared simply for opposing the shah’s brother but was imprisoned for about 7 years, I think. During this time, he wrote several books on the wildlife of Iran and his autobiography. He died in 2020 aged 93.  

I have recently been helping someone connected to Kew with information who has written Firouz’s biography to be launched this July. 

On leaving Iran at the time of the revolution, I was unable to gather up much of my drawings and reports, but I do have a few somewhat faded drawings and sketches which I will try to copy you with this email. Unfortunately, I do not have a copy of the completed master plan but only the original sketch proposal which was approved. If you Google the National Botanical Garden of Iran you will see that the existing layout, in principle, almost follows my original design. 

William Bessler’s landscape design of National Botanical Garden of Iran. The rock garden and pond are in the middle left section.

…To follow up on my last email yesterday and to answer your questions which I failed to comment on. The rock garden is in the NBG of Iran and consists of Ingwersen’s initial input for the intended purposes of displaying alpine plants and ground cover shrubs. Over the course of the following years, I was able to supervise more rock work and water features to display marginal aquatic plants and herbaceous plants. All our original plant material came from Ingwersen’s nursery and  the woody plants came from Hilliers in Hampshire. As soon as plant material was shipped, it was potted up and tended in the temporary nursery where propagation began as soon as suitable material was mature enough. This was supervised by our horticulturist, George Cobham who had a huge task on his hands. Of course, one shipment from Will Ingwersen’s nursery was not enough to fill the entire rock area. It took several years to propagate enough, while the rock garden was continuing to expand. This work continued right up to the time of the revolution in Nov/Dec 1978. If you look at some of the recent photos posted on Google, the entire rock garden and waterfall is overgrown with massive trees and shrubs, and I doubt if many of Will’s precious and delicate alpine plants have survived. 

I hope Will Ingwersen’s rock garden and National Botanical Gardens of Iran survive the current war.

This is an update from the original 2012 Human Flower Project.

The Lost Garden of Karaj and Iran’s Forgotten Dream originally appeared on GardenRant on March 20, 2026.

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“Science, including the study of ecology is based not only on individual research…Informed debate and even controversy are fundamental to the advancement of scientific thinking.”   –Thomas Christopher, Growing Greener Podcast

A huge hooray from me to Ranter Emeritus and Growing Greener podcast host Thomas Christopher, who recently interviewed garden designer and Professor Emeritus of Horticultural Ecology at Sheffield University, James Hitchmough, after finding himself personally challenged by the native/non-native ideas Hitchmough discussed in a recent lecture Christopher attended.

I not only wanted to direct GardenRant readers to this podcast episode, but highlight the greater example that both Christopher and Hitchmough set – that of civil and enjoyable debate.

There’s Nothing Like Informed Debate

I make no bones about the fact that I am weary of the absolutism displayed over the last 10 years in many native plant circles in the United States (particularly on social media), and its effect on inexperienced gardeners.

I am also irritated by [clever but incorrect] reframing that terms any pushback on rigid orthodoxy as hostile and confrontational, and does not recognize the rampant hostility directed at everyday gardeners that don’t subscribe to that orthodoxy.

But well beyond my frustration with data interpretation, directed research, and lack of an openminded, nuanced, and scientific approach to the study of BOTH non-native and native flora in this country, is my sadness that we are losing the ability to discuss important topics and disagree with one another without contemptuously characterizing our opponents as anti-science, morally wrong, elitists or attacking them ad hominem.   Robust and fruitful discussion cannot exist within that environment.

Debate clubs in schools used to teach us to argue logically and cleverly, and there is great value in this; but a truly informed debate seeks more than winning for winning’s sake. It seeks a greater understanding of the opposing position (and ultimately greater truth) through directed questions and careful listening. And it requires a much deeper understanding of your own position that goes beyond shouting parroted words and research paper abstracts at one’s opponent. 

Let’s Have More of This, Not Less

That is why I wanted to take a few words to say thank you to Thomas Christopher. Not only for taking the time to interview Hitchmough on Growing Greener, but for illustrating what we all should be doing in every aspect of our lives – engaging with different opinions in the pursuit of greater understanding.

Hitchmough’s observations and cited research were equally impressive, as was his good-natured approach that puts everyone at ease. There were too many topics to do justice to here with any brevity; but I can’t help but point out one: Hitchmough calls modern intensive agricultural practices and their effect on biodiversity and species decline as the elephant in the room.  In effect he feels we are “polishing the silver as the Titanic sinks.” I couldn’t agree more. Brilliant.

So, huge kudos all round and let’s have more of this – a return to RESPECTFUL open discussion.  I urge Rant readers to take 30 minutes and listen to this excellent episode.  -MW

Cultivating Informed Debate on Growing Greener Podcast originally appeared on GardenRant on March 13, 2026.

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Exhausted by a particularly bad winter? News-addicted and over-the-top anxious? Me, too! But I actually had a few moments of real bliss last week, and they cost me nothing but some time.

It started with not remembering what the hell the pink-blooming shrubs are in the photo above. I planted them in the fall and right now they’re just sticks. So I started browsing my photo archives, found a shot of the shrubs in leaf and flower, and got my answer – ‘Wine and Roses’ Weigelas.

But I couldn’t stop there because browsing for that one photo got me HOOKED on photos that show me WHAT’S COMING SOON! And HOW F’ING EXCITING THESE PLANTS ARE! Including the tableau of shrubs, groundcover, and vine in the scene above from last spring.

(In between the Weigelas, in all her chartreuse party-girl glory, is a ‘Lucky Devil’ Ninebark – a stunning contrast. The groundcover comfrey is in bloom, and attached to the wires above is some crossvine (Bignonia capreolata).  There are yellow blooms of ‘John Clayton’ coral honeysuckle on the left.  Through the wires you see my neighbor’s garden furniture, painted to match the poles that hold the vines. She’s an artist.)

Another photo that I stopped to enjoy shows lots more crossvine blooms, plus the similarly colored blooms of ‘Major Wheeler’ coral honeysuckle in the center. I uploaded this photo as my new Facebook profile image, explaining to followers that it’s COMING SOON in real life.  (Sorry, I’m in an all-caps mood.) 

After a good hour of this kind of browsing I realized that it’s these intensely colored images that lift my mood, that make me stop and just look and remember.  Nothing muted and approved by today’s design elite did the trick.  (More proof that I’m a maximalist in the garden?)

Apparently lushness makes me happy, too. This photo of the same tiny front yard thrilled me to see because it’s SO FULL, SO ALIVE, at several levels.  Its fullness also provides privacy from the passersby and a cozy feeling of enclosure. 

The image also reminded me of the sounds of pollinators on the flowers in this border.  SO many of them.  It’s a happy place for them, and me, too. 

Oh and can you feel the heat from that mid-day sun on a cloudless August day?

(This year I’m not using Lantana in these pots, switching to the ‘Profusion’ zinnias I’ve heard such good things about.  I adore trying some new annuals every year for their critter-enticing powers. Back when I bought only trendy perennials and turned up my nose at annuals, I was missing out on a lot of fun.  And blooms!)

Garden photos, especially colorful ones, seem to work better than gummies   

And I’ve learned that garden photos don’t even have to be good ones. Even uninspiring closes-ups, mediums and wide shots and panoramas are helpful in lots of ways, beyond their mood-altering effects – in plant choices and design decisions especially.  I try to remember to just RECORD THE GARDEN throughout the season. 

But my photo failures were revealed: I don’t have photos of every part of the garden every year.  And because I change plants here so much, there may be no evidence of that plant I tried last year and quickly killed. 

So why am I neglecting to take photos I may need later?  It’s not that my camera isn’t nearby – my phone is always on me – but because only beautiful subjects prompt me to photograph them, not the boring or even ugly sights that might be helpful to remember.  So it takes free will to snap unflattering photos of my own (or any?) garden. 

The worst photo omissions I’ve ever made fall into the category of “Before” photos, which are SO much more impressive than sad descriptions of what a space used to look like. Thankfully, I have early photos of this garden, taken in October 2011 when I first saw it.  (The facade of house has gotten a make-over, too.) In the back, construction began right away on my porch and I missed my chance to take proper “Before” shots. 

Could winter here be OVER?

A week has passed since I went photo-browsing and thanks to warming weather and the chance to do some GARDENING, I’m feeling markedly less desperate.  It’s no surprise that being IN the garden is more uplifting than looking at it on my 24-inch monitor.

Garden photos for winter blues and general hysteria originally appeared on GardenRant on March 8, 2026.

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Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” asked the poet, Mary Oliver in her 1990 poem “The Summer Day”

“Catastrophizing.” Says the Modern, looking up from desk or device, oblivious to the tangible, observable, intoxicating natural world that Oliver inhabited for 83 years as a student.  How could it be possible to consume just as voraciously as she did, and remain ever-hungry? Yet we do. And we are.

Each year, the fascinating, in-between month of March offers us hundreds of opportunities to stake claim to that precious life by first recognizing its worth – and this is only possible if we intentionally choose to be curious each time we are faced with both miracle, and misfortune.

Gardeners Have a Front Row Seat

While gardeners are positioned more advantageously than others to recognize and rejoice in the subtle signs of change that remind us of the cyclical nature of all things; we are not immune to the technological forces in other parts of our lives (social media, weather apps, 24-hour news, hyper-novel systems) that keep us in a heightened state of anxiety and imperceptibly separate us from each other and from the natural world. All for the purposes of commodifying our attention.

Dogs know how to immerse in the natural world.

We are also not immune to those forces making a profound impact on our capacity to be curious by cleverly providing a false sense of same.

We can believe ourselves to be curious even as we absorb and are satiated by performatively asked questions in echo chambers of algorithm. That isn’t the curiosity we must cultivate to move into a changing climate with positivity and resilience. 

Without curiosity we cannot contemplate adaptation.  We cannot view our challenges creatively. Or see beyond the boundaries of what we already know.  Not only is this not healthy, it’s not a happy way to live, and it certainly does not support the discovery of that one wild and precious life Mary Oliver entreats us to find before it is over.

One Flower, Two Journeys

This month for instance, the gardener may see a late-season daffodil like ‘Thalia’ emerge and bloom earlier than normal.  This is worth noting.  How to react?

Happy times with Thalia. But each year is different.

The non-curious gardener, however unintentionally, might smother the instinctive joy felt in that emergence, by focusing instead on the much larger and less resolvable issue of climate change.

Perhaps he snaps a picture and posts it online with a concerned caption “Beautiful, but…” Commenters seeking communion or approval are quick to reiterate the angst, and may invoke anger and divisiveness by adding a political slant, or questioning the moral implications of planting a non-native daffodil in the first place.   

There is no learning here. It is merely a space to reinforce one’s opinions, cultivate anxiety and bring everyone along for the ride.  

Meanwhile, the curious gardener next door recognizes the new timing even as he recognizes the miracle and beauty of a daffodil breaking through the frozen earth, unfurling its flower, and offering itself to the elements.  Perhaps it has altered a historically sound pairing in his garden which will mean a new bedfellow. Inconvenient, but not insurmountable. What else is blooming in tandem? Has it happened before?

Other factors will have contributed to this emergence. Can he mitigate for them in future springs?  He must ask himself questions, answer honestly, and take notes.  Memory is notoriously unreliable.

Is the daffodil newly planted?

How long has he gardened here?

Is this a wetter or a drier space? In winter? In summer?

How does the sun lie on this stretch of soil?

How is the same daffodil progressing in another area of the yard?

He may also see an insect responding in some way to this early flower he previously thought of little ecological value. Is the interaction significant or trivial? Finding the answer to that question may prompt him to look around at other similar species over the next few years.

To be curious in what one is seeing, and evaluate it in the pursuit of greater understanding, is the most logical step if the aim is to move forward, not backward.  It is not merely the observation of the emerging plant, but the why of it.  Why is it emerging in this spot, not that one?  Why is it stronger here, not there? Curiosity precedes action and experimentation, not inaction and immobilization.

Choosing to move forward

This March, it may be very warm, but it may also be very cold. Temperatures may fluctuate drastically. Again, that is inconvenient, but it is not insurmountable. What is consistently struggling in that new environment and what appears to take it on the chin?

March may bring ice. Where is it melting first in your garden?  Is that a place where early ephemerals like Erythronium and Sanguinaria might find an easier foothold?

March may bring heavy snow. Which early flowers spring back after a smothering blanket? Which bend and don’t get up again?

March may bring heavy rains. Where is your drainage plan weak?  Where is it effective?

Choosing light

Activating curiosity in ourselves switches on the light in a darkened maze. Certainly we can choose to sit uncomfortably in darkness, or decide that there is no way out; but reaching for that switch signals our intention to explore and to solve – even if we’re not quite sure which way to go.

“I do know how to pay attention…” says Oliver. “…Tell me, what else should I have done?”

March is full of miracles. I’m looking forward to finding them. – MW

Choosing To Be Curious in The Garden originally appeared on GardenRant on March 5, 2026.

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