"Pay attention to the world." -- Susan Sontag
 

Hellebore Hybrids (1 of 3)

From “Hellebore (Helleborus x hybridus)” in The Story of Flowers and How They Changed the Way We Live by Noel Kingsbury:

Hellebores are one of those flowers that, if performing in summer, would be largely ignored, since the flowers are generally dull versions of brighter colours. However, they flower very early in the year, which makes them as much appreciated by gardeners as by bees.

“The plants have long been used in herbal medicine and witchcraft, although they are quite toxic, so medical use must have been fraught with danger. The ancient Greeks ritually circled the plant with a sword before digging it up. Their early flowering made hellebores popular as garden plants from the sixteenth century onwards, especially the usually white-flowering
H. niger, which is often known as the Christmas rose….

H. orientalis was introduced from southeastern Europe in the nineteenth century; growers then began to make selections of superior forms, especially after its gene pool began to be added to by introductions from eastern Europe and the Caucasus. By the end of the century there were some fifty-odd varieties in Britain and Germany, most of which disappeared over the next century…. From the 1980s onwards, however, nurseries began seed production from carefully selected plants, and this has led to greatly increased popularity for the hellebore. The range of colours, including picotees, doubles and spotted forms, is now extensive….”

From “Helleborus” in The English Flower Garden by William Robinson

“One of the most valuable classes of hardy perennials we have, as they flower in the open air then there is little else in bloom. They appear in succession from October till April, beginning with the Christmas Rose (H. niger), and ending with the handsome crimson kinds. The old white Christmas Rose is well known and much admired, but the handsome kinds with coloured flowers have, hitherto, not been much known.

“The Hellebores, besides being excellent border flowers, are suited for naturalising. There are a few kinds — those with inconspicuous flowers, but handsome foliage — whose only place is the wild garden, such as the native
H. fotidus, H. Lividus, H. viridus, and H. bocconi, which have elegant foliage when well developed in a shady place in rich soil, like that usually found in woods.

“The Hellebores may be classed in three groups, according to the colour of the flowers — white, red, or green, which last will get little place in the garden. The white-flowered group is the most important, as it contains the beautiful old Christmas Rose.”


Hello!

In this and the next two posts, we’ll spend some time with a plant genus — Hellebores — that I’ve only photographed at Oakland Cemetery one other time, in 2024 (see Early Spring Hellebores (1 of 2) and Early Spring Hellebores (2 of 2)). Prior to 2024, I’d seen them on the property serving their prime directive as affable border plants, occupying spaces set back a few feet from sidewalks or surrounding taller and shrubbier plants like Azaleas and Lady Banks’ Rose. Most of the flowers back then were the pale green color that are common to woodland varieties like Helleborus viridis; and, as often as not, it was easy to miss the flowers hidden among the plants’ exuberant leaves. Since then, their presence at Oakland has expanded either by landscaping intention, propagation, or a little of both — so not only can I find them along the shaded areas of more pathways, but their colors and forms now appear in greater variety.

PlantNet identifies my photos as either Helleborus x hybridus or Helleborus orientalis in about equal measure, with a few of the pure white ones below identified as Helleborus niger, the admired and important Christmas Rose described by William Robinson above. This may or may not be true; I suspect from what I learned about Hellebores that these are all hybrids, possibly of each other, and we’ll progress through several of their colors and styles in the three posts. The name Helleborus orientalis, while historically in use, tends to be attributed to hybrids with flowers that are more exotic in appearance, but most are now botanically recognized as Helleborus x hybridus — or Hellebore Hybrids.

Here we’ll start with the visually more simple white color scheme flowers to some with limited veining, then to flowers that display varying pink and purple color combinations, then end with some (in the third post) with very distinctive veining and spotting — as described up top by Noel Kingsbury — that represent their intensive hybridization in the past few decades. I took the photos for this three-part series on February 25, about two-thirds of the way through their relatively long blooming period of October to April. Since I usually make plenty of visits to Oakland in late March and April because of all the spring bloomers awaiting my photoshoots, I’ll see if there are more to be found on those upcoming trips. If not, though, this series will still be quite representative of the Hellebore’s many styles and colors, and can stand on its own until next year.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!










Ambitious Spring Snowflakes (Leucojum vernum) (3 of 3)

From “Snowflakes and Snowdrops: Leucojum” in The Little Bulbs: A Tale of Two Gardens by Elizabeth Lawrence:

L. vernum is called St. Agnes’ flower in honor of the patron saint of young virgins. The modest, chaste, and solitary bells are wonderfully fragrant, but the fragrance is not of violets. It is of vanilla and of something else, something that eludes analysis….

“The buds swell when they are ready to open, but the lime-green tips of the petals remain tightly twisted into a point until they suddenly flare apart. The scapes continue to stretch up after the flowers open, and so, in a single clump, the nodding bells are hung on stems of varying heights, from one to six or more inches. The thin, polished leaves come with the flowers but develop more slowly. They are curved in a way that repeats the hooked flower pedicel in a delightful and characteristic rhythm.”

From “Harbingers of Spring” in When You Seek Me: Poems by Paula Marie Breiter:

Forerunners humble
Shy teardrops, tiny, demure
Snowbells welcome spring

From “Promise of Spring” in When You Seek Me: Poems by Paula Marie Breiter:

Invite me to stoop low
And examine
The poignant remnant of
fragile winter beauty
Bowing humbly graceful
before the dawn
A cluster of snowbells
Nestled amid brown bare
surroundings


Hello!

This is the third of three posts with photographs of Spring Snowflakes, Leucojum vernum, that I took at Oakland Cemetery in the middle of February. The first post is Ambitious Spring Snowflakes (Leucojum vernum) (1 of 3) and the second post is Ambitious Spring Snowflakes (Leucojum vernum) (2 of 3).

Spring Snowflakes (sometimes called Snowbells, as in the two poems above) happily occupy two locations at Oakland. The first location is just inside the main entrance to the property, where they are among the earliest flowering plants visitors will discover as they enter in February or March. At this location, the Snowflakes thrive at the base of some shrubs and smaller trees, where they’ll catch morning sun then get to bask in shade for the rest of the day. The population here has expanded over the years I’ve been photographing them, from a handful of sparsely arranged clumps to a crowd of plants filling spaces around the adjacent tree trunks, memorial stones, and architectural elements. As the season proceeds, the Snowflake buds will disappear but their leaves remain until well into the summer — creating a rich green and grassy palette that complements the flowering plants that bloom after them and around them: azaleas, irises, hydrangeas, lilies, daylilies, and occasional marigolds, among others, providing a broad range of textures and colors that greet returning visitors and introduce the variety of plants they’ll encounter further into the property.

The second location isn’t far from the first, but its composition is quite different. Imagine a large rectangle, where the right side of the rectangle is adjacent to the main entrance walkway I just described. The first section of the rectangle you encounter extends along a sidewalk — a sidewalk somewhat hidden by shrubs on both sides — and into the property at your left. If you keep walking, you’ll encounter stretches of Spring Snowflakes just inside the rectangle — a field that’s mostly open except for those plants landscapers have placed along its borders, with its center left empty and used as a staging area for events, or, at other times, as a picnic area by visitors. The Snowflakes appear here in separate clusters of three or four plants each, with spaces between them, extending across a span of about twenty feet. Like the Snowflakes in the first location, the number of plants has grown substantially over the years, and in the spring your eye is drawn to the many white bell-shaped flowers bobbing in the slightest breeze.

This field only gets filtered sun at its edges, because it’s covered by a leaf canopy from some of Oakland’s oldest oaks and maples, whose age is evident from the enormous size of their trunks. Flowering plants appear along the other borders of the field throughout March and April: daffodils first, followed by tulips, followed by bluebells and azaleas surrounding the trunks of its trees. The combination of a tree canopy, border plants only, and wide open center section gives the whole space a distinctive form, one that feels like you’ve entered a separate outdoor room as you walk from one side to the other — a physical experience similar to walking through a forest then suddenly encountering a clearing, where the visual characteristics of the transition are almost jarring in their differences.

The sense that you’ve entered a separate room that feels like a natural cathedral is not just compelling visually. Though the tree canopy, border plants, and open space are an obvious visual attraction, the auditory experience is the real showstopper. The entire property is surrounded by Oakland’s original brick walls (which are six to eight feet tall), which dampen sound from the city streets around it. When you first enter the property, though, that’s not immediately apparent, because the entrance is still close to the streets and there are always people milling about. But by the time you pass to this canopied section housing our Spring Snowflakes, all of that sound is significantly reduced as if someone turned the volume down, and it remains reduced as you proceed from there deeper into the property. It’s almost as if the landscape designers created not only a visual transition, but an auditory one where you move from noises of the surrounding streets until you are bathed in silence and completely detached from the outside world’s noise. This soundlessness repeats itself no matter how often you visit the property, sort of like you enter an airlock or don sound-cancelling headphones while walking from the entrance to the canopied area. And the ground in this area is frequently refreshed with new pine straw, which, intentionally or not, dampens sound further: even your feet barely make a noise as you traverse the area.

This is of course not something that can be captured with photographs (though I’m still gonna try!), but is still integral to the design of a garden cemetery like Oakland. Visual and memorial characteristics are combined with simulations of the natural world where we can experience a quiet departure from the sensory racket of urban life outside its walls.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!










Ambitious Spring Snowflakes (Leucojum vernum) (2 of 3)

From “Snowflakes and Snowdrops: Leucojum” in The Little Bulbs: A Tale of Two Gardens by Elizabeth Lawrence:

“Nearly everyone in the South calls a snowflake a snowdrop. No matter how often Southerners are told that Leucojum aestivum, found in every dooryard, is a snowflake, they go on calling it snowdrop…. For no good reason the snowdrops (Galanthus) are very uncommon in my part of the country — not that they will not grow, but because local gardeners think that in having leucojums they already have snowdrops….

“The generic name of the snowflake, leucojum, is from the Greek. It means white violet, and was given to the plant because of the fragrance of the flowers. I never knew that they were fragrant until I read it in a book. The perfume is so subtle that you must warm the flowers in your hand before you become aware of it….

“If you trust in names there is a snowflake for each season — winter, summer, autumn, spring — but, like so many ideas that are charming in the abstract, the naming does not work out so well. The winter snowflake,
Leucojum hyemale, blooms in spring; the summer snowflake, L. aestivum, often blooms in winter in these parts; and the autumn snowflake, L. autumnale, blooms in summer.

“The spring snowflake,
L. vernum, does bloom at that season — a month later than the Galanthus, according to the books, but at the same time according to my garden record. The tips of the buds, folded between the leaves, appear above ground early in January, but they wait until the end of February to bloom. I keep hoping that a mild season will bring them out much sooner….

“Although this species has been common in British gardens since it was brought to England from central Europe at the end of the sixteenth century, it is very rare in America. In fifteen years of ordering
L. vernumwhenever I saw the name in a catalogue, the bulbs invariably proved to be L. aestivumwhen they arrived….

From “Cultivation of Leucojum” in Snowdrops and Snowflakes: A Study of the Genera Galanthus and Leucojum by F. C. Stern:

“The species of Leucojum which are most often seen in gardens are L. vernum and L. aestivum and their varieties. They all grow easily in good garden soil and are all very attractive plants. In the garden none of them appears to have any preference for any particular soils. They grow in well-drained positions in loam with or without lime and are perfectly hardy…. L. vernum is particularly useful in the garden as it flowers in February and March. It does well planted either on the north side or in a sunny place….”


Hello!

This is the second of three posts with photographs of Spring Snowflakes, Leucojum vernum, that I took at Oakland Cemetery in the middle of February. The first post is Ambitious Spring Snowflakes (Leucojum vernum) (1 of 3).

In that previous post, I described some of the differences between the Spring Snowflake and its companion species in the Leucojum genus, the Summer Snowflake (Leucojum aestivum), as well as how often plants in the Galanthus genus — Snowdrops — were thought to be the same plant, because they (allegedly!) looked like they were. So just imagine my excitement when I found this seventeenth-century botanical drawing by Hans Simon Holtzbecker (from the sites plantillustrations.org and SMK.OPEN) that shows how different these three plants really are. By placing all three in the same illustration and rendering their botanical characteristics with precision, Holtzbecker makes it easy to distinguish among them. The top plant in the drawing is the Summer Snowflake, the bottom right plant is the Spring Snowflake now made famous by my posts, and the bottom left plant is a Snowdrop.

The Snowdrop shows the distinctive helicopter blade or propeller-shaped flower petals, as I previously described. The Spring and Summer Snowflakes have flowers of similar appearance to each other, but the Summer version tends to produce a handful of flowers on each stem, whereas the Spring Snowflake typically produces only two or three. With more flowers clustered together in staggered positions, the Summer Snowflake is more likely to display flowers whose center structures are exposed to many kinds of midyear pollinators. The Spring Snowflake, on the other hand, keeps them turned toward the ground, accessible to intrepid flying insects emerging from winter and attracted to the flower’s scents, but protected from the potentially damaging elements of very early spring severe weather.

You might think, then, that we’ve dispensed with any confusion over similar-looking plants. Yet we learn through the excerpt from The Little Bulbs: A Tale of Two Gardens above that Elizabeth Lawrence, writing in 1957, considered the possibility that there was “a snowflake for each season” — so four, not just one for spring and one for summer. In this writing, the Autumn Snowflake (Leucojum autumnale) and the Winter Snowflake (Leucojum hyemale) bloom in those two additional seasons (with some overlap) to give us year-round Snowflakes.

I’ve never seen either of those Snowflakes, but if I had, I would have subsequently learned that the two plants with those names — originally Leucojum autumnale and Leucojum hyemale — have since been determined through genetic analysis to belong to a separate plant genus entirely (Acis), and are now known as Acis autumnalis and Acis trichophylla, respectively. Click here and here if you’d like to see images of these two Acis family members, where their visual similarities to both Snowdrops and our legit-Snowflakes are apparent — that visual similarity likely accounting for how all four plants got lumped into the same genus historically. When Lawrence later published Beautiful at All Seasons: Southern Gardening and Beyond in 2007, she no longer included the Autumn and Winter Snowflakes, but still gave attention to the Spring and Summer Snowflakes — noting the remains of species confusion that continue to this day, especially since the Spring Snowflake is still the more rarely encountered garden gem.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!