From “A Bulb I Can’t Resist” in One Man’s Garden by Henry Mitchell:
“I never met a crinum I didn’t like, though I know these handsome bulbous creatures with tall stems crowned by lilylike flowers are not hardy much north of Washington. Still, many of them will stand occasional freezes to zero. Once in Memphis the temperature dropped to twelve below zero and I feared for the crinums, just sitting out there unprotected, without even a mulch or a nearby wall for shelter, but they bloomed as well as ever the following summer….
“Crinum leaves tend to be long and floppy. The white ‘Carolina Beauty’, a free-blooming small white with clusters of fragrant trumpets on eighteen-inch stems, good for cutting, has neat leaves that stand up, and they are narrow. But most other crinums can soon occupy a circle five feet in diameter. The leaves may flop flat on the ground. If they are near a path, the gardener will trip over them twenty times a summer, and if well back in a garden border, the leaves will lounge happily over any plant within hollering distance, and the gardener will wonder what ever happened to those phlox or irises or whatever it was that used to be there….
“I often saw the white flowers, somewhat drooping, the central rib stained deep madder, in fat clumps in old parts of southern towns, and the sight of them (they bloom off and on from May to October when they feel like it) used to reassure me that winter was a long way off.
“Most crinums are fragrant, though I do not much like the smell. It suggests thin sugar syrup to me, though I notice specialist growers of crinums keep insisting that it is the headiest perfume in the world. It is nothing like the tuberose or night jasmine or gardenia, so don’t count on it too much. Still, it gives the nose something to do.”
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To wrap up October, here we have photographs of another member of the Amaryllis family: Crinum, one of the Amaryllis varieties that’s often called “Swamp Lily” (because in the wild, it often grows at the edges of wetlands), but may also get tagged with the names River Lily, Milk Lily, Cape Lily, or Cemetery Lily. That “lily” is in all these common names is a hoot, since they’re not lilies (I guess we’re getting used to that, aren’t we?). Cemetery Lily is a nice fit — since that’s where I photographed them — and you probably can imagine these growing near the edges of a spooky swamp.
I was hoping “Ghost Lily” was one of the common names, since tomorrow is Halloween and I found this one that actually does look like a ghost…
… but, alas, even with that costume, I can only pretend.
“The natural order, Amaryllidaceae, composed of about fifty genera, is a beautiful tribe of plants, and seems to be very generally and very deservedly admired…. Their brilliancy of colors combined with delightful fragrance have excited admiration from the days of Solomon, who called them the Lilies of the Field, to the present time.
“They are all bulbous-rooted, and with but few exceptions, they differ but little in figure and general outline; their flower-spikes are usually one to two feet in height, those of the Doryanthus, and some species of Crinum, however, far exceed that height. In foliage they possess a uniformity of figure which is very singular; in color they vary from white and yellow to deep scarlet and azure blue, some beautifully striped and marked; in fragrance some are delicious, others entirely free….
“Some of the species are natives of the cooler provinces of Europe and Asia; others are found deep-rooted in the burning shores of islands where scarcely a blade of grass interposes itself between them and the torrid rays of a tropical sun. Many are found in the damp and sultry woods of equinoctial America; others are found scattered throughout the states, while another group intermingle with the Ixias and the Gladiolus of Southern Africa….
“It is only to be expected that plants found so widely scattered, and growing under such varied conditions of temperature and soil, should require in many cases, special treatment. We shall notice each of the genera, as they are respectively entitled, estimating their value simply as flowering plants, and their adaptation to the open border, window garden, conservatory and green-house. Some of the genera we should not notice at all, if it were not that there is an earnest and increasing demand for all the information that can be obtained of any plant belonging to this noble family.”
For this post, we’ll take a close look at some of the flowers from a pair of tall Amaryllis — shown in the first three photos in the galleries below — by photographing them from different angles and then diving inside the blossoms.
The first time I photographed these flowers was in 2020, when I identified them as lilies because… well, they looked like lilies to me and I hadn’t yet discovered PlantNet. A couple of years later, I identified them correctly, and remained fascinated by the structures inside the flower.
Let’s, for example, zoom in on this one…
… where you can see that there are two pairs of three anthers each inside the flower. Those toward the front of the flower are lighter in color — almost white — while the three anthers deeper in the blossom’s throat are darker, the color of light brown sugar. In any of the photos where the anthers are visible, you can see the same pattern: three lighter-colored anthers toward the front and three darker-colored anthers toward the back.
These anthers are loosely attached to the ends of six filaments, where even the slightest breeze causes them to wiggle back and forth. That first time I saw them, the movement led me to believe I was looking at grubs or worms until I realized they were part of the flower’s structure. But they do look a little like grubs, don’t they?
Perhaps I spend too much time puzzling about the way flowers are constructed, but I couldn’t help asking my imaginary research assistant ClaudeAI a couple of questions about these (what I thought were incidental) observations: Why does an amaryllis have three light-colored anthers and three dark colored anthers? And: Why do the anthers wiggle like worms?
Claude’s answers were quite long, but here’s part of its answer to the first question about the anther colors:
This dimorphic (two-form) anther coloration in Amaryllis is a real and consistent feature. The three lower/front anthers are typically paler (often whitish or cream-colored) while the three upper/back anthers are usually darker (tan to light brown).
This feature combines with the slightly downward-pointing orientation of the flowers and the arrangement of the stamens to create an organized landing platform for pollinators. The color difference might help make the reproductive structures more visible to approaching pollinators, particularly in low light conditions when these flowers are often visited by moths.
And here’s part of its answer to my question about why the anthers wiggle like worms:
The wobbling movement of the anthers enhances pollen dispersal. When the anthers shake, they release pollen more effectively than if they were rigidly attached. This movement also helps ensure that visiting pollinators get dusted with pollen as the anthers brush against them. The loose attachment allows the anthers to make contact with different parts of a pollinator’s body as it moves around the flower.
Their resemblance to small worms or grubs is particularly interesting from an evolutionary perspective. This might serve as a form of visual attraction for certain pollinators, especially moths and other insects that are attracted to moving prey. The combination of the wiggling motion and grub-like appearance could create what’s called a “dummy pollinator reward” — a visual signal that tricks insects into investigating the flower, thereby facilitating pollination even though there isn’t actually a prey item present.
In other words, the Amaryllis has evolved this way as a pollination strategy — part of which optimizes pollinator attraction and part of which enhances seed dispersal. Plants are so much smarter than I ever imagined!
“The name of this medium-sized, horticulturally important family is derived from the South African genus Amaryllis (Belladonna Lily). The family is widely distributed, especially diverse in the Mediterranean, South Africa and South America (particularly the Andes). Three genera are native in Australia: Crinum (Murray Lily), Calostemma (Garland Lily) and Proiphys (Brisbane Lily)….
“Many members of the family are sold as cut flowers, and numerous genera are common in cultivation. These include Agapanthus, Clivia, Galanthus (Snowdrop), Hippeastrum, Ipheion, Nerine, Amaryllis, Leucojum (Snowflake), and Narcissus (Daffodil and Jonquil), and the last three are recorded as naturalised in Australia. The genus Allium includes cultivated onions, leeks and garlic as well as A. vineale (Wild Garlic) and A. triquetrum (Three-cornered Garlic), which are significant weeds. White-flowered Nothoscordum borbonicum (Onion Weed) is almost cosmopolitan, and commonly troublesome in gardens.
“Most members of the family grow from a perennial bulb, which produces a cluster of basal leaves each season. Others, such as the robust herbaceous perennial Agapanthus grow from a rhizome. Leaves are often linear, and often distichous. In some species, such as Amaryllis belladonna (Belladonna Lily) the flowering stem appears before the leaves.”
“Gardeners account the amaryllis, of which there are numerous varieties, a proud plant, because even after the greatest care it refuses to blossom…. The number of flowers is commonly from eight to twelve, and the circumference of each about seven inches. The corolla in its prime has the colour of a fine gold tissue wrought on a rose-coloured ground, and when it begins to fade it is pink….
“In full sunshine it seems to be studded with diamonds; but, by candle-light, the specks or spangles appear more like fine gold-dust: when the petals are somewhat withered, they assume a deep crimson colour. The name of these beautiful plants is derived from a Greek word signifying to shine, sparkle, flash.”
Waken, thou fair one! up, Amaryllis! Morning so still is; Cool is the gale; The rainbow of heaven, With its hues seven, Brightness hath given To wood and dale: Sweet Amaryllis, let me convey thee; In Neptune’s arms naught shall affray thee; Sleep’s god no longer power has to stay thee, Over thy eyes and speech to prevail.
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This is the first of three posts featuring a couple of Amaryllis variants, whose appearance during my hunts through the haunted gardens is typically a sign of late summer or early fall — though I found most of these a bit earlier this year, perhaps owing to a warm and very wet summer season. As you can see from some of the photos below, they’re all noteworthy for producing flowers at the top of tall, thick stems, with the flowers bending in a graceful curve — often turning toward the source of light, even when they’re growing in the shade.
“Swamp Lily” is a common name for these plants as they’re often found in the wild at the edges of wetlands, and they may also be called Belladona Lily, Jersey Lily, Barbados Lily, or even Easter Lily — which is fun because none of them are actually lilies. And today I learned that a similar looking plant often called Amaryllis — popular to buy or give as gifts as we approach the winter holidays because their forced bulbs will bloom indoors — is actually Hippeastrum, though both Amaryllis and Hippeastrum are in the same plant family, Amaryllidaceae. This may or may not seem confusing.
“On Christmas Eve, 1968, Apollo 8 astronaut William Anders took a photograph that was destined to become one of the most famous images in human history. As the tiny spacecraft that he shared with astronauts Frank Borman and Jim Lovell rounded the moon and revealed the blue globe of planet Earth, Anders raised a Hasselblad camera, exclaiming with all the enthusiasm one is likely to ever hear from a fighter pilot with the United States Air Force: ‘There’s the Earth coming up. Wow is that pretty.’
“Although very few of us have been lucky enough to travel into space and experience awe by looking at the Earth from a remote viewpoint, everyone has had experiences that they would categorize as ‘awesome’ (and not just in the recent banal sense of that word). When awe strikes us, we are certain of it. We can be overcome by awe when we encounter a dramatic natural phenomenon such as an inky starlit sky, a thunderstorm, or a majestic view of a mountain range or canyon, or even by simple reflection….
“[We] can also be overcome by awe in built settings…. Such experiences bring us outside the narrow confines of the body space, encouraging us to believe that our existence constitutes more than just a beating heart inside a fragile organic shell. We have a sense of boundlessness as the limitations of time and space that hold us aground are suddenly swept aside.”
As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away,– Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy.
A quietness distilled, As twilight long begun, Or Nature, spending with herself Sequestered afternoon.
The dusk drew earlier in, The morning foreign shone,– A courteous, yet harrowing grace, As guest who would be gone.
And thus, without a wing, Or service of a keel, Our summer made her light escape Into the beautiful.
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This is the fifth of five posts where I’ve taken this summer’s daylily, lily, and amaryllis photographs, and recreated them on black backgrounds. This post features a last batch of amaryllis.
The poem from Emily Dickinson above is thematically about the ending of summer — a bit of wishful thinking on my part since we’ve been subjected to more days with excessive heat warnings in July and August than I’ve experienced since moving to the southeast. It does make a guy long for the cooler, breezier days of autumn — and even though those are quite a few weeks off, the slightly shorter days with earlier sunsets are good reminders that the seasonal change will come, just not quite yet.
