Iris Pseudacorus

Saturday, April 9, 2010

Just in from a nice walk with Karl the Wonder Dog. The sky is clear, temperature 24.3° and windless. A tom turkey calls out this morning from the mountain towards RT 232 and doves and jays fight over the bird seed. One hairy and one downy woodpecker, possible friends, peck away on the remaining onion sack of suet. They seem to know I will not replace it when its gone.

Gail is in the kitchen making kitchen noise as she prepares to leave for a program at Vermont Technical College. The New England Wild Flower Society uses that site for an annual presentation and it always pleases. I say "always"but that's not quite true. Gail returned last year with flowery comments about lunch that included some concoction of pizza that was covered with scrambled eggs she was convinced were left over from the breakfast line. That was apparently one of the more interesting offerings to the point that she wrote a couple thoughts to the current college president. Gail's dad was a professor at VTC for many years and she maintains his integrity in always presenting a good product. The pizza was not that good.

As spring has already arrived in many parts of America, listservs begin to discuss plants still buried under snow here in Vermont. My favorite hellebores are receiving plenty of review now and the volume of comments and advertisements confirms the growing popularity of this flower. From Florida came a comment about Iris pseudacorus, the yellow flag iris. This is a bright yellow iris, with 3-4 foot sword-like leaves and vibrant yellow blooms. It's also a problem as it spreads quickly by rhizomes or seeds and its thick mass chokes out native flowers and has a tremendous impact on wetlands over time.

When gardeners post pictures, I try to recall when I first saw yellow flag in Vermont. It seems as if it's a more recent thing in the past 25 years but truly I cannot remember. Gail brought me home a couple wild flower books from the library giveaway last month so curiosity led me to the pages on pseudacorus. Old flower books with black line sketches and no color images have lost the popularity for many modern gardeners but Gail knows I like history and reference and I don't mind the drawings. The 1923 book mentions blue flag but not yellow flag and the 1948 book described the range from mid-south up the coast to Massachusetts. So now, +60 years later, (my lifetime, folks) yellow flag has made it to Canada.

We have a big plant of pseudacorus by the side of the house next to and half under a Thundercloud crab apple. That crab barely survived the ice storm of 1998 and still looks terrible despite a number of prunings. Gail bought the iris from a local nursery and planted it next to the artesian well casing, hoping it would cover it. Now I hope I don't need to get the well driller back for repairs as the plant has overtaken the area. It's a dry area and as such the iris is not as big a clump as it would be near water but just the same I'd hate to have the job of removing it.

Pseudacorus is a nice yellow iris but I cannot recommend it. Its invasive character should be a concern and factually there are many beautiful Siberian irises that are yellow. They are not as tall but they don't create problems. If you have other plants that serve as a replacement to yellow flag's height, color and abundance of bloom, drop me a line. I'm sure other's will be interested too!

Writing from the mountain above Peacham Pond where I notice neighbors and visitors to the pond are out for morning dog walks. The smells of spring and the sweetness of sugar shacks boiling sap for maple syrup today will bring on smiles too. Hope yours is one of them!

George Africa
The Vermont Gardener
Vermont Flower Farm
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Sunset Woodpeckers

Sunset in January often suggests a temporary unknown. Darkness comes quickly when the sun falls behind the mountain and with it the temperature drops quickly. There's often no hint of how fast things will change or whether the harsh winds will follow. Clear skies at days end is a guarantee that cold is coming.

I just came in from a real quick walk with Karl, the wonder dog. I wasn't in a rush but the temperature is already down to 11 degrees and Karl likes the wood stove more than snow and ice on his feet. He's one of those modern day dogs that doesn't have the spunk my old beagle Barney had. Barney could run rabbits, foxes or coyotes for hours from afternoon on into the night and then spend the rest of the night finding his way back home. Karl, in contrast, thinks a good distance from the back door is the mailbox at the end of the driveway. He only makes it that far if he feels certain there's a good chance of being carried back to the house. He's too big for carrying very far but house dogs are like that.

It's been quite an afternoon already and rest seems good. I went to the Vermont Farm Show this afternoon. It's a three day annual event held in Barre and it draws exhibitors and visitors from far and wide. I just about got home and a bird missed the feeder and bounced off the kitchen window. I got up and looked out and there in the snow, twitching a wing, was some type of woodpecker, Hairy or Downy, I couldn't quite tell. I don't know if you have ever watched the Dog Whisperer on the animal channel on TV but here at Vermont Flower Farm we have the Woodpecker Whisperer. That would be Gail, my loving, jack-of-all-trades wife. If she could find a reliable day stretcher that really worked she'd be more exceptional than she already is. With birds that are down for the count she is really something else.

One mention of what had occured and Gail went into action. She has a portable dog kennel we used when Karl was a pup. It's lined with a flannel sheet puffed up irregularly to accept a fallen body no matter what shape it's in. Out the door she flew with Alex, Karl and me all peering out the window hoping to see a wing flutter or maybe even see her get bit like the time she saved the baby pileated woodpecker from a cat. This bird showed little encouragement of making it. Alex and I could hear a very sad "Oh no, poor thing." even through the window. The bird didn't move as Gail gently slid it into the kennel and backtracked through the snow and into the house. Like spectators at a sporting event, Alex and I ran for a visual inspection.

The bird lay motionless on the sheet, one wing splayed out away from the body, its head at a strange angle. It made us wonder if it was finished, done for, expired, just plain dead. Gail placed the kennel on top of the dryer in the utility room and affirmatively told us to leave. The Woodpecker Whisperer made it clear that the bird was in precarious health and poking it with words or fingers wasn't going to be at all helpful. We both obeyed like good schoolkids, all the time hoping that she could revive yet another fallen flyer.

Half an hour went by. Forty five minutes went by. We knew that Gail's experience has taught her that it takes a good hour for dizzy, injured birds. The time approached and we slid on our boots and headed outside. These are not good moments because you just don't know what will happen when you open the kennel door. Gail held the kennel and I opened the door. As I reached in, there was an explosion like a fine Springer Spaniel putting up a woodcock in the swamp off Lanesboro Road. The bird flew almost parallel to a maple and then turned its wings, landed and began doing the typical woodpecker climb up the tree. Every foot or so it shook itself. Something was not quite right. Ten or twelve feet higher and it pecked at a bug, then it pecked again. Recovery is golden! The Woodpecker Whisperer had succeeded yet again. This was a Hairy Woodpecker, a fairly common bird that is one of the janitors of the forest. It eats bugs and in so doing slows down some infestations. This Hairy has another day to enjoy life.

From the moutain above Peacham Pond, where the temperature has dropped to 8.1 degrees and my description of the Vermont Farm Show will have to be put on ice until later.

With gardening thoughts,

George Africa
http://vermontflowerfarm.com
http://vermontgardens.blogspot.com