A Note for a Friend
I would like to take up a paragraph here to acknowledge a great friend of the Coker Arboretum, a personal friend to me and to so many in this town and elsewhere, an unapologetic, intelligent and irascible soul who moved on past us all just three years past. David Lawrence Robert, DR to those who knew him, spent a great deal of time in the Arboretum, walking the paths, engaging with all of us as we worked. Importantly, he noticed things. He was a writer and observer of his world, marking many of his days with footprints through our little patch and making notes (including the hand-drawn map, below). We hope to include some of DR’s observations in future articles as we read through the hundreds of pages of notes he left us. For now, here’s one Margot, who’s also his cousin, found the other day. He closed his entry for February 9, 2008, with this gentle reminder:
‘In winter, notice not just open sky, but the mottled papery patchwork of American Sycamore or the Chinese Elm, checkered in coffee and lighter tones.’
In his memory, we invite you to look more closely at nature this time of year, for there is much to see when the overstory is wearing its winter costume.
(all images courtesy of Geoffrey Neal)
Seems right somehow, in that “Let’s let the weather dictate how we’re supposed to be feeling” sort of way, that this month is one for saying goodbye. I realize most folks have already done that with the turning over of a new calendar and lunar year, or with the coming and going of the winter solstice before that — totally legit and reasonably appropriate. I do have to give the side-eye to the celebratory gunfire out in the county, though. Never understood why that’s a thing. Personally, I like a good fire. Burning seems right when it’s time to let go of some slice of yesterday and it’s cold outside (y’all know I really do not like being cold, though I do love the jagged lines of winter, late sunrises and unexpected ice, just not the energy-sapping suck of warmthless days – this bit of grousing may repeat). There are hints of the spring explosions that will surround us in our gardens, daffodil noses, magnolia buds, the last oak leaves gone to ground. For the most part, I take a long inhale in February, find a spot out of the wind where the best part of the midday sun will do what it can, thermodynamically, and let the reset come. January has enough on her plate, don’t ya think? The best spot to be on a sunny February midday is right alongside this clever anole.
So why am I leading this off with a note of farewell? What’s so special about February? Surely we say goodbye all year long? Surely this past January (Crickety Jones it was cold, wasn’t it?) would have seen its kinetically challenged days gainfully spent in the brooding contemplation of things passing, things past. Natch, I save it up for 2/1. In spite of the fact that much of what you will read later on in this dispatch toots the pre-Spring tin whistle, there’s still all that collapsing architecture out there, all the creaking and cracking of limbs and stems drained of vitality. All the crackly and crunchy skeletal remnants that need one more wave, one more nod, before they join the infinity of ghosts of seasons past.
In the Arboretum, we move through the spaces noting the remnants of the previous year. I’ve read, and said, ‘A messy garden is a happy garden’ many times. Every tour, every talk. It’s a handy shorthand for a tidy untidy principle. Letting one’s garden or landscape simply be may seem reckless, sloppy, covenant-breaking. In fact, it serves the higher ecological function of partially reinserting the artificial space we’ve made (the garden) into the natural (environment) surrounds. You’ve seen the “Leave Your Leaves” signs poking up out of so-called messy yards? That’s it. Plus, I’m kinda lazy. Lump that in with my avowed dislike for cold weather and the result is a great way to feel very good about doing very little.
Take a breath, let go of that centuries-old, totally made-up mindset that lauds the pristine monoculture of turf bounding a cropped and scalped assemblage of foundation hedgery. Not trying to box anyone about the ears with this, let’s just let our gardens subside through winter. Let the stems list and tumble, let the flowers become soil again, develop our appreciation for the shades of brown and black that populate the palette of a well-tended, untended winter garden.
Sometimes it’s not only OK to ‘just’ absorb, it’s downright essential. Let’s put down the tools and take a walk…
What’s happening the Arboretum now
February is always a surprise in the Arboretum. The so-called early bloomers will sneak up on you, certainly following a period of mild. Others are wired for winter show, and that’s super. Most years we are welcoming the Asian magnolias that corner one side of the central lawn. In January, their leaves have gone below decks and one can appreciate the showy, downy buds along their jaggedy boughs. When the temperatures stay above 25 F, the flowers will start fireworking across their canopies. We are fortunate to host several specimens: cultivars of star magnolia (Magnolia stellata), willow-leaved magnolia (M. salicifolia) and saucer magnolia (M. x soulangiana). As long as it’s not too cold when those buds are ripening, we can look forward to an excellent show of color this month, a welcome contrast to that winter gloom.
Across the pasture to the northeast stands a cathedral-like gathering of trees, all planted at Dr. Coker’s direction sometime between 1910 and 1920. I’ll come back to this area we call the Walter’s Pine Lawn from time to time as it is one of my favorite spots in the Arboretum. For today, it’s the red maple (Acer rubrum) that anchors one end of the mostly mossy lawn, marmishly providing canopy to a disparate group of understory woodies. One of our native maples, easily recognizable this time of year for its emerging flowers, one of the earliest trees to bloom hereabouts. The brick-red flower buds contrast most excellently with a cold Carolina blue February sky. Later in winter the winged fruits, or samaras, will mature and helicopter their way to ground or lodging here and there in the American holly (Ilex opaca), fringetrees (Chionanthus virginiana and C. retusus), bottlebrush buckeye (Aesculus parviflora) and flame azaleas (Rhododendron austrinum cv.) that hold the middle spaces. And then it will be warm again. Sigh.
Lower down, below the collapsing herbaceous architecture of fall 2024, a discerning eye will pick up on a couple spots of bright golden yellow flowers, slightly translucent, a couple of inches above less interesting, but no less important non-flowering neighbors. These little gems are winter aconites (Eranthis hyemalis) a reliable, if slow to spread, European native in the buttercup family.
Oh, yeah, we have a few crocus as well. Even shorter bloom time and closer to the ground. More little fireworks over a cold brown. There really is no good reason that I can come up with for not having a few of these easy-to-grow little bulbs in a small pocket of garden somewhere nearby. Pow!
As the aconite flowers begin their translucent transition and the crocus finish their eye-blink flash of flower, other mini pops of color start to present themselves all over the place. The Arboretum has hosted as many as 600 named cultivars of daffodils (Narcissus cv.) over the years, with recent major plantings in 1984 and 2002. Currently, there are some six dozen “flavors” in nearly every garden bed. These survivors have proven challenging to positively identify. The similarities often overwhelm the differences and their frustratingly short bloom times fuel the occasional fits of frustration. Nonetheless, I pull out all the notes and stretch the squinting muscles, hoping to correctly identify another patch of bulbs this season. We do our best to announce them with a correct label as they show up in their finest party attire for winter ball.
We’re going to have an avalanche of flowers shortly. From the later ephemerals and the reliable early spring stalwarts, it’s gonna be a trick to choose which ones to highlight. No matter, that’s so many days away. We’ll come to all that next month. If the weather does what it sometimes does, if a few of those deceptively mild afternoons begin to stack up and the ground takes a fresh gulp of the good air we’ll have a few early native flowers popping up. Here are a couple that are distinctive in their form and habit. The so-called spring beauty (Claytonia virginica) quite timidly, gracefully slides through the nourishing, mulchy remains of winter to send out these stunning little dime-sized flowers, cream white with pink flush and bright green eyes. The stems are delicate, the leaves slender. Many of our beauties come from former Arboretum Curator Margo McIntyre’s late father’s garden, just down the road about a mile or so. A most welcome gift of a marvelous ephemeral perennial!
The other super-early perennial that sometimes surprises us in February is bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis). I love the curiously shaped leaves and the silver dollar-sized (2″ or so, for those of you unfamiliar with what was a deeply satisfying piece of pocket change) ultra-white flowers that hang out just a few inches above the fray and frass. These excellent native perennials are must-haves for home gardens.
Funny, this month’s dispatch started out around the theme of “farewells” and loss. Thinking about those friends that have passed on, thinking about the inwardly turning cycles of a garden in winter. And then I throw out a bunch of flowers that are making their annual returns. Certainly one of the reasons this vocation stuck to me is the opportunity for renewal that emerges from a circular calendar. (How boring it would be if they only flowered once!) I know we’re all ultimately straight-lining towards some end, but I suspect there are loops everywhere to be enjoyed.
Updates on projects
One more loop back to some topics we covered last month:
Our hellebore removal project proceeds in bite-sized bits. Each little bit of time spent in the onerous digging and shaking (we try to recover as much of the excellent soil as we can from the roots before we summarily toss the gnarly clumps into the truck) is another step towards that magic fiefdom where invasive plants hold no sway. We’ve been favored with excellent assistance over the last year and I will report back to you all on our progress as we continue. For now, here’s a flower back from when I used to like this plant:
The Arbor that has run the southern end of the Arboretum since 1918 is about to be rebuilt. The last one was taken down after a respectably generous 25-year run. It was the fourth such structure along the path that parallels Cameron Avenue and once was the east entrance to the (then much smaller) UNC-Chapel Hill campus. We demolished the previous structure two years back and have been patiently attending the navigations that are a necessity in today’s modern world. I’m pleased to say that construction has begun. As I write this last paragraph, a shiny red porta-potty was deposited on site. Let the good work begin!
One last thing…
We’re doing a winter tree identification walk at Bluestem Conservation Cemetery just north of Hillsborough from 1-3 on February 22. I’ll introduce you to about 24 trees and the traits that help you identify them. Margot will share information on Bluestem and its conservation mission. Space is limited and registration is required. Sign up at bit.ly/BTreeID!
Geoffrey Neal is the curator of the Coker Arboretum and director of the Cullowhee Native Plant Conference. You can see more of his photography at @soapyair and @gffry. Margot Lester is a certified interpretive naturalist, writer and editor at The Word Factory. Keep up with what’s going on at the Arboretum between columns at @cokerarboretum and @ncbotanicalgarden.
About the name: A refugium (ri-fyü-jē-em) is a safe space, a place to shelter, and – more formally – an area in which a population of organisms can survive through a period of unfavorable conditions or crisis. We intend this column to inspire you to seek inspiration and refuge in nature, particularly at the Arboretum!
Refugium: February Is for Farewells (And Fireworks) Chapelboro.com.
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