Originally published in EastBayRI newspapers July 6, 2016.
I had a friendly debate the other day (weeks ago now) with a fellow professional gardener that might have devolved into a heated argument if I hadn’t capitulated. We were talking about one of my favorite plants, African blue basil, which she described as an annual. I call it tender perennial. To-may-to, To-mah-to? It comes down to semantics.
What is an annual? The definition I use was written by botanists who base it on a plant’s life cycle. An annual is the sort of plant that grows, flowers, sets seed, and dies all in one growing season. My friend’s definition swings a bit wider to include anything that won’t survive winter in our gardens. I yielded the point because she’s not alone. You won’t find African blue basil in the perennial section at any nearby nursery.
But this is where it gets tricky and why I’m having trouble letting go: I bought mine a whole growing season or two ago. Life-cycle-wise, African blue basil (Ocimum kilimandscharicum ×basilicum) takes after its perennial parent. In its East African home climate, O. kilimandscharicum doesn’t die after flowering and setting seed. (Never mind that the hybrid child is sterile. That tiny detail is beside the point.) It grows on.
I use the term tender perennial where applicable because I rise to the challenge of keeping “annuals” alive inside over the winter and replanting them summer after summer.
Self-sowers add to the confusion. Plenty of botanically true annuals return year after year more reliably than some perfectly hardy perennials. Love-in-a-mist (Nigella damascena) falls into that category along with shiso (Perilla frutescens), and California poppies (Eschscholzia californica). I always think of Verbena bonariensis as an annual because in my garden it grows, flowers, sets seed, and dies. Or does it? In fact, it’s a marginally hardy perennial (to Zone 7) and sometimes only dies back to the ground after frost, coming up fresh as a … well, not a daisy exactly, but as itself all over again the following summer. And whenever winter kills them, seedlings will pop up in the same spots and everywhere else besides.
I know another gardener who would give perennials that aren’t great at spreading from the roots, such as coneflower (Echinacea sp.), sea holly (Eryngium sp.) and heuchera, the qualifier “short-lived.” We might think twice about purchasing a plant with only three or so years to live. Then again, in general, only the sterile hybrid cultivars will poop out completely and need to be replaced (or not); given the chance, straight species self-sow their own succession.
When it comes to buying plants, most of us gardeners simply want to know exactly what to expect. But a lot of factors are involved in ultimate plant happiness and longevity; a certain amount of unpredictability is part of the challenge. If we didn’t enjoy that we wouldn’t bother bothering. I will always be happy to shell out for one-summer wonders because my garden wouldn’t be half as lively without annuals. And with any luck some might just turn out to be perennial.
I’ve taken a lot of photos at work that I’m inordinately proud of but I’ve taken very few of my own garden that I like at all. The only reason I’ve saved any of them is to, optimistically, use as “before”s. There’s always some flaw in a wide angle shot that makes me cringe – things that can be overlooked except through a lens – a giant invasive weed, a plant in the wrong place, an expanse of lawn. But during the snow storm on New Year’s eve, I took some pictures of Zeke and Nino cavorting in a corner of the garden, and not only do I love the pictures for the subject (pure joy), but I think they’re the best pictures I’ve ever taken of the garden itself. (I admit to adjusting the exposure and levels slightly – ok, a lot.)
I like that the bright whiteness of the shed doesn’t make it stick out like a thumb. I like that the caryopteris is a graceful sculpture that doesn’t appear to be sitting on top of the lavenders or anything else in that bed. There’s a hint that I like of permanence, structure and summer shade in the tree branches. And I love that the lumpy, thistleful crab-grass lawn doesn’t exist at all.
kristin green | trench manicure 