Each spring, I look with admiration on my drifts of an Ontario native plant that asks so little of me, but gives so much in return: Polygonatum biflorum, smooth Solomon’s seal. Its tapered shoots emerge in April in my north-facing back garden, where the clumps under the black walnut tree that looms over my sideyard pathway are surrounded by the tiny flowers of the bulbous spring ephemeral Corydalis solida.
By mid-late May, looking back towards my garden gate, the corydalis has disappeared but the Solomon’s seals stand three feet tall.
It’s still early in the garden when they flower, the grasses in my deck pots still just inches high.
The colony in the back corner of the garden grows near a Tiger Eyes sumac and has as its neighbour fall monkshood (Aconitum carmichaelii ‘Arendsii’), not yet visible. Both enjoy the same shade-dappled, slightly moist, humus-rich soil.
It’s a testament to the travelling power of Solomon’s seals that they do sometimes subsume other plants. This ‘Ballade’ lily tulip – one of my favourites – is resisting.
But nothing keeps Allium hollandicum ‘Purple Sensation’ from rearing its pretty head.
My garden features a number of invasive plants – some native, like ostrich fern (Matteucia struthiopteris), others enthusiastic exotics, like my lily-of-the-valley, aka ‘guerilla of the valley’ (Convallaria majalis). (I’ve written about that pest before in my blog about making a perfumed garden party hat!) But Solomon’s seal is up to the challenge and can stand its ground.
One that didn’t fare so well in competition with the Solomon’s seals was wild geranium (G. maculatum), shown below in a photo from a previous spring.
At the Toronto Botanical Garden, blue Amsonia tabernaemontana, shown in the background below, makes a pretty companion for Solomon’s seal.
I love the way the pearl-drop flower buds of smooth Solomon’s seal open, curling up their green tips like dainty skirts.
In November, the leaves turn yellow-gold.
Solomon’s seal and other woodland lovers were featured in ‘Shady Lady’, one of #Janetsfairycrowns from 2021, which I blogged about last year.
My next-door neighbour grows smooth Solomon’s seal as well; it met with the approval of the resident male cardinal.
Finally, speaking of cardinals, here’s a tiny video made in my garden featuring smooth Solomon’s seal with my regular choristers, cardinals and robins.
This blog celebrates my final fairy crown – and winter on Lake Muskoka. I am wearing what I found on our property near Torrance, Ontario, a village between Gravenhurst and Bala on the lake’s south shore. There’s white pine (Pinus strobus), eastern hemlock (Tsuga canadensis), common juniper (Juniperus communis), winterberry (Ilex verticillata), red oak (Quercus rubra) and seedheads of showy goldenrod (Solidago speciosa) and wild beebalm (Monarda fistulosa).
To get to our cottage (when the snow isn’t as deep as it is this week), we leave the township roads and travel the last mile or so on a dirt road weaving its way through a snowy winter forest. Most of our neighbours have closed up for the season, but a few are winterized, i.e. keep some heat going so pipes don’t have to be emptied and liquids removed in autumn.
We chip in for a private plow guy and have a very kind neighbour who lets us park at their place after they’ve closed up and gone home. Everything we need for our stay must come from that point via the toboggans we drag behind us! Sometimes that involves snowshoes, too.
The reason for the walk is that our cottage, i.e. lakeside home, is considered “water access only”, being on a peninsula that juts out into a small bay of the very large Lake Muskoka. It’s actually an “isthmus”, as my husband always clarifies, because it’s a peninsula that curves around and continues as another peninsula across a narrow bay behind us. Bays and coves and islands are typical of the three big lakes up here: Muskoka, Rosseau and Joseph.
In early winter, the lake is usually in the process of trying to freeze, as you see here near our swim ladder. Since autumn was quite mild, it will take a while to cool the water enough to form a skim of ice that thickens….
…… and doesn’t break into shards with wind and currents. This is a fascinating and dynamic process, with lots of moans and groans and cracks as the ice forms, melts, re-forms and thickens.
Sometimes, clouds in the sky and trees at the shore are reflected in the calm lake surface while ice is forming around it – and that is always fun to capture with my camera.
With the lake half frozen, a winter sunrise finds steam fog emanating from the still unfrozen portion of the lake in our bay.
If there’s enough humidity in the winter air – or if there’s been a stretch of freezing rain – you might see the white pine needles coated in ice.
Speaking of white pines, I gathered those in my bag to make my final fairy crown, along with the seedheads and berries I found on the property. Those brown buttons are wild beebalm (Monarda fistulosa) and the fluffy seedheads are showy goldenrod (Solidago speciosa), without question the two best bumble bee forage plants in my meadows. They are also very good at spreading themselves around!
I like seeing the standing stems of summer perennials in the snow – or at least, I tell myself that in years like this one where I didn’t get the timing right to cut down my meadows in autumn.
After a fresh snow, the path running along the front of the cottage looks pristine.
‘Heavy Metal’ switch grass (Panicum virgatum) always looks festive near the rusty sign at the top of the stairs to the dock.
Showy goldenrod (Solidago speciosa) stays erect with its snowy cap for a long time in winter.
A glimpse past red oak boughs over my newest hillside meadow onto the slowly freezing lake.
The botanical trait that sees oak and beech leaves persist through much of winter is called “marcescence”. According to Wikipedia, “Marcescent leaves may be retained indefinitely and do not break off until mechanical forces (wind for instance) cause the dry and brittle petioles to snap The evolutionary reasons for marcescence are not clear, theories include: protection of leaf buds from winter desiccation, and as a delayed source of nutrients or moisture-conserving mulch when the leaves finally fall and decompose in spring.”
The view from inside the cottage is of my sundeck covered with snow. Those pots are where I grow the salvias and agastaches that attract the local ruby-throated hummingbirds in summer. But now, most of the birds have flown south, with the exception of the occasional raven or black-capped chickadee….
…. which relishes the fruit of staghorn sumac.
Depending on the kind of early winter we have, Lake Muskoka is usually frozen by late January or February. Deep snow might cover the surface, which actually serves as an insulator, making the ice thickness less reliable, so we wait until we hear the thickness from reliable sources before walking on it.
And sometime in the next few months, that’s what I’ll be doing!
This has been a fun year of creating and blogging about my fairy crowns, but all good things come to an end. Nevertheless, I decided to commemorate the project with a little something for my kitchen wall. Here it is!
A most Happy New Year to all my friends who travelled this far with me in the magical world of fairies!
**********
This is my final fairy crown blog: If you missed one – or just want to be reminded of flowery spring or summer – here are the rest in chronological order:
For me, autumn is a time of richness as the gardening season nears its end in an explosion of pigments and seedheads. Those pigments, in particular, have always fascinated me and I made a concerted effort to use brilliant fall foliage colours in my own garden design. So today’s fairy crown, the 26th, features the fall leaves and fruit of shrubs and trees in my Toronto garden in early November, including Japanese maple (Acer palmatum), Washington thorn (Crataegus phaenopyrum), burning bush (Euonymus alatus ‘Compactus’), barberry (Berberis thunbergii ‘Rose Glow’) and, draped down my front, a compound leaf of my black walnut (Juglans nigra).
Every year is a little different in terms of the parade of colour. Here you see my Japanese maple showing off its regular autumn leaf change as the burning bush hedge turns colour. In the pollinator garden, the ‘Autumn Joy’ sedum seedheads are ruby-red, but the fothergilla haven’t begun to change yet. The columnar red maple (upper left) that the city chose for my boulevard (I asked for one that turns red) has taken on its disappointing dishwater-yellow. Red maples, of course, don’t always turn red in fall.
In this photo taken a different year, the fothergilla in the pollinator garden is a rosy-apricot. That’s catmint in the front giving a nice glaucous contrast with Russian sage and echinacea seedheads adding structure.
From across the street, my neighbours see my garden through the fan-shaped yellow leaves of my second boulevard tree, a ginkgo (G. biloba).
The Japanese maple (Acer palmatum) I planted in front of my living room window decades ago is a great joy to me. It’s the straight species with green leaves – in Japan it would be a common forest tree. But in my garden, since there are no drapes on my front window, it forms a lacy curtain from spring (when bees buzz around the tiny May flowers) to fall. In very late October or the first week of November, the foliage turns a range of rich hues from yellow to apricot, scarlet and crimson.
The leaves are delicate, their branching exquisite. It’s no wonder they were the subject of the renowned Japanese woodblock artists like Hiroshige and Kuniyoshi.
As I’ve written before, my Japanese maple’s brilliant autumn colour lights up my living room in early November….
….. enhancing the glass witches’ balls I’ve suspended from the window frame.
And, of course, the leaves also provided me with an appropriate costume and landscape for my little geisha.
If there’s a saying that “good fences, good neighbours make”, it can also apply to hedges – which was how I ended up making this hedge in my front garden more than 30 years ago. (My current neighbours are lovely!) Today, environmentalists tend to shun burning bush, given its invasive tendency in milder regions, but my hedge produces very few seedlings, unlike the Norway maples in my neighbourhood which are a scourge. And this neon display in autumn is truly amazing.
My belly dancer’s costume was made from the leaves of my burning bush hedge.
Though there’s no fothergilla in my crown, it is definitely a big part of the fall colour in my front garden. In this photo made just before Halloween, you can see one of my shrubs has turned a rich burgundy-red beneath the Japanese maple.
The richer, more moisture-retentive soil in my pollinator island tends to produce orange and gold colours in the three fothergilla shrubs there.
Look at those colours! Who needs the spring flowers….
…. though they are lovely, if short-lived, in late May.
And, yes, I did harvest my flamenco dancer’s multi-colored skirt from my fothergillas.
Turning colour a little later in the front garden is my paperbark maple (Acer griseum) with its red trifoliate leaves.
Moving into the back garden, you see Boston ivy (Parthenocissus tricuspidata) cloaking the driveway gate. I didn’t plant this vine, nor did I plant all the Virginia creeper vines that pop up throughout the garden. That’s Mother Nature’s role and she’s very enthusiastic about it (!)
I confess that I wanted the Washington thorn tree (Crataegus phaenopyrum) in my garden long ago purely for its multi-hued fall leaves.
But it turned out to be a wonderful tree for bird life – IF the birds can out-compete the squirrels for the fruit. The robin, below, managed to do that, but so have cedar waxwings and cardinals.
Here you can see the range of autumn colour in the foliage of Washington thorn.
When we bought our house in 1983, the native black walnut tree (Juglans nigra) on the property line between us and our next-door neighbour was already mature. In the 39 years since then, it has hosted raccoon families in the crook of its trunk, carpenter ants in its bark and countless cardinals practising their song in its branches.
Our bedroom sits right under the tree, but we seemed to have missed the obvious ramifications of putting a skylight in our ceiling – particularly when windy nights in September roll around and the roof is pummelled with billiard-ball-sized nuts. Though the skylight has proven strong, we’ve replaced two car windshields since the tree’s branches — and nuts — extend far over the driveway.
The walnuts are enjoyed by the neighbourhood squirrels….
….. but the natural dye in the husks creates an unbelievable mess.
The arborist has told us the tree has rot in the trunk, but my neighbour and I have had it cabled and pruned away some of the branches over our houses to reduce the nut fusillade. It is our tree, after all, it gives us shade and we feel a duty to keep it – thus its inclusion in my 26th crown.
I don’t really notice the ‘Rose Glow’ barberry (Berberis thunbergii) in my back garden until it turns rich crimson-red in autumn – then it’s a show-stopper. It’s another one of those shrubs that environmentalists shun – especially in milder U.S. regions where it seeds around freely. I haven’t seen one seedling in my Toronto garden.
I have a fairly new addition to my back garden: a little sassafras tree (S. albidum). which I wanted especially for its fall colour. This autumn – admittedly one of the best for colour in many years – it has begun to display the reds, corals and yellows for which it is known.
Those colours, by the way, are on leaves that exhibit three distinct shapes: elliptical; mitten-like and three-lobed. This is what they look like on my light table.
Designing with and celebrating fall-colored plants and shrubs is my way of expressing my appreciation for nature’s yearly preparation for winter, as it cycles through the yellow/orange “accessory” carotene pigments in the leaves of certain species to harvest and synthesize as much sunshine as possible, once the ‘green’ pigment chlorophyll breaks down in cooler temperatures. Red colour is from anthocynanis. According to the USDA, “Anthocyanins absorb blue, blue-green, and green light. Therefore, the light reflected by leaves containing anthocyanins appears red. Unlike chlorophyll and carotene, anthocyanins are not attached to cell membranes, but are dissolved in the cell sap. The color produced by these pigments is sensitive to the pH of the cell sap. If the sap is quite acidic, the pigments impart a bright red color; if the sap is less acidic, its color is more purple. Anthocyanin pigments are responsible for the red skin of ripe apples and the purple of ripe grapes. A reaction between sugars and certain proteins in cell sap forms anthocyanins. This reaction does not occur until the sugar concentration in the sap is quite high.” Because the reaction requires light, you often see leaves (or apples) fully exposed to sun that are red while those parts that are shaded stay green or yellow, like these Boston ivy leaves on my fence.
I love making the leaf montages that celebrate these pigment changes, like the one below from leaves in my garden.
A few years ago I even held a photography show called “Autumn Harvest” featuring a number of my leaf montages.
Finally, this week as I walked out onto my front porch and gazed into my garden, this is what I saw– a multi-hued tapestry that shows that nature is the best designer of all. It’s my reward for a gardening season that began seven months ago with the first snowdrops and will soon come to an end with the first hard frost.
******
My year of fairy crowns is soon drawing to its wintry finale. If you missed a few, here they are:
For gardeners who lament the end of the flowering season in colder regions, my 25th fairy crown offers a reminder that there are perennials that offer bloom for the border – as well as the bees – well into October. But I will admit to a tiny bit of trepidation as I placed it ever so gently on my silvery locks. That’s because the indigo-purple flower is monkshood: one of the most toxic plants in gardening – and also one of my very favourite perennials. Meet Aconitum carmichaelii ‘Arendsii’, aka autumn monkshood. (More on the toxicity later.) The white flowers are autumn snakeroot or bugbane, Actaea simplex (formerly Cimicifuga). The violet-purple daisy flowers are ‘Hella Lacy’ New England asters (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae). And the leaves against my cheek are fall-coloured Tiger Eyes cutleaf staghorn sumac (Rhus typhina ‘Bailtiger’).
There’s a corner of my back garden where three of these plants grow together. I think they have done well there because it’s the lowest part of my garden – just by inches, but that means that table water goes there naturally. Also, it’s the right amount of light for them, being somewhat shaded by the cedar hedge and surrounding trees. But I do give the monkshood supplemental water when I’m around. And I realized that other monkshood stands in my garden have suffered in the summer months when I’m at the cottage since they’re not drought-proof by any means. They also like rich soil and (note to self) are overdue for a good feeding of compost in the spring.
I happen to be very fond of blue and white used together in the garden (and have a large photo library devoted dozens of excellent examples of the combination), so this particular autumn pairing pleases me very much.
In some light, autumn monkshood looks deep indigo-blue; in others, there’s a purplish sheen. Years ago, when I realized how much I loved this perennial, I got busy dividing my first plants and moving the clumps around in spring. Take care to use thick gloves if you do this, especially if you have open cuts or scratches, because the tabloid stories of “murder by monkshood” are a little startling, though actual living monkshood plants are not usually to blame. In Toronto this summer, twelve people were hospitalized after eating at a Chinese restaurant because a spice was accidentally contaminated with an aconite powder from a different species used in traditional Chinese medicine. Still, if you have dogs that like to eat garden plants or young children who might be tempted, you might want to skip my favourite perennial! (For everything you could possibly want to know about monkshood toxicity, read this article by the American Association for Clinical Chemistry.)
It’s obvious how Aconitum species got their common name, for the upper sepals of the flowers do resemble the hooded cloaks of medieval monks. I love those black stamens tipped with white pollen and often see honey bees and bumble bees foraging in them too. ‘Arendsii’ is a hybrid cultivar developed originally by German nurseryman Georg Arends (1863-1952) at his nursery near Cologne. Around 1945, he crossed A. carmichaelii and A. carmichaelii var. wilsonii to produce the plant. Owing to its variability, the cultivar is sometimes called the “Arendsii Group”.
Monkshood’s colour appeals to me, obviously!
Because autumn monkshood generally blooms between Canadian Thanksgiving (second Monday in October) and Remembrance Day in November, the plants can be hit by an occasional early snow…..
…. heavy enough to take the flower-laden stems to the ground.
Autumn snakeroot (Actaea simplex), by contrast, isn’t known to commit murder but the genus does have some toxic species, so don’t eat it! Related and similar-looking to the summer-blooming Ontario native snakeroot, Actaea racemosa, it hails from northern Russia, western China, Manchuria, Mongolia, Korea and Japan. It has a delightful fragrance that reminds me of incense. (I’ve written previously about this one in White Flowers for Sweet Perfume.) Oh, and that big, reddish shrub in the background is native alternate-leaved dogwood (Cornus alternifolia).
On a warm, sunny October day, the spike inflorescences are alive with all kinds of bees and flies, including bumble bees.
I do love Tiger Eyes® cutleaf staghorn sumac (Rhus typhina ‘Bailtiger’) in all seasons, though it is not without its drawbacks. Like the regular native species, parts of it seem to die off each summer. As well, its rhizomes travel a long distance – in my garden, right under a patio to pop up perkily beside my pond. I’ve dug up and re-planted some of these seedlings, being careful to cut the rhizome first and give the new plant time to heal and form feeder roots. But nowhere is the plant as happy as in its original corner, in rich, moisture-retentive soil. It has bright chartreuse foliage in spring and early summer and the fuzzy red fruits feed the resident cardinals and robins throughout winter. But it’s that brilliant apricot-orange foliage that is impressive right now.
Another fall favourite in my back garden is Molinia arundinacea ‘Skyracer’. When it flings those flowering stems out like a bouquet, then turns bright-gold, it’s a sight to see.
Here’s my autumn kitchen view into the back garden right now, over the lower-deck pots with their tough-as-nails sideoats grama (Bouteloua curtipendula). There’s a mellow quality about October that is such a relief, after the jungle growth and heat of summer.
In my front garden there’s a small stand of New England aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae). This one is the cultivar ‘Hella Lacy’—and I wish I could say it is as spectacular as Hella’s husband, the late garden writer Allen Lacy, described it in his 1990 book The Garden in Autumn. He found it growing in a few neighborhood gardens near his New Jersey home in 1972. “When I first clapped eyes on it in a front yard just down the block, I knew it was classy. This aster is very sturdy, requiring no staking, although it grows up to four feet high and the same distance across. It bears enormous numbers of large, single, purple flowers, each with a bright golden eye when it first opens. For the two weeks that it stays in bloom… it is the handsomest plant in town, not only for its intensity of color but also for the great number of Monarch butterflies hovering over it…” As you can see, there are bees enjoying my Hella Lacy flowers: a green Agapostemon virescens, a honey bee and the common Eastern bumble bee. In fact, by early October most Monarchs have departed Toronto for Mexico. Also, my Hella Lacy is unirrigated, i.e. watered in summer only when it rains, and since all New England asters thrive in rich, moist soil (you often see wild plants flanking roadside ditches), it is likely not as beautiful as those Allen saw and named for his wife. Nevertheless, it is a highlight of my garden in mid-late October.
Native Virginia creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) is colouring in my garden now as well. Though it’s not as uniformly red as some vines I’ve seen growing in full sun, it does form fruit which the birds love.
Last autumn, I looked out my kitchen window and saw a pair of Northern flickers snacking on the fruit. It was such fun to see the yellow on the male’s tail feathers – before it was chased away by a red squirrel.
Finally, here’s a little bouquet to mark Fairy Crown #25 and the last flowers in my garden. But it’s not the end of the crowns, not quite yet. Stay tuned…
******
Want to catch up with my blogs on the earlier fairy crowns? Here they are:
My 24th fairy crown is a celebration of early autumn in my meadows on Lake Muskoka. I have purposefully worked to create late season habitat for all the bumble bees that enjoy my summer flowers, primarily with the two native plants I’m wearing. The purple is New England aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae); the yellow is showy goldenrod (Solidago speciosa). Also tucked in are a few sprigs of the winterberry shrubs (Ilex verticillata) that grow naturally along the lake’s rocky shore.
I had some fun with this crown when I sat on the bench on my hillside above the lake. In late September and early October, the bumble bees and assorted other bees and wasps are almost frantically active, sensing, no doubt, that the days are getting cooler and their time is coming to an end. You can see a bumble bee enjoying the crown flowers after I took it off my head.
But I also experienced the useful life of a pollinator plant when I sat on the bench wearing my crown and let the bees come to me. Here’s a little video I made.
Most recent findings for showy goldenrod (Solidago speciosa) indicate that the species is native in Ontario to two regions, the “Great Lakes Plains” population is on Walpole Island First Nation at the mouth of the St. Clair River on Lake St. Clair; the other “Boreal” population is near Kenora in northwest Ontario. These distant (1200 km) ecological areas present different morphologies for the species, possibly indicating different varieties. In the U.S., the Department of Natural Resources is reportedly elevating the three known S. speciosa varieties to species rank; at present they are S. speciosa var. speciosa, S. speciosa var. rigidiscula and S. speciosa var. jejunifolia.
My plants were seed-sown from a Minnesota source more than 15 years ago and are very hardy; while spreading somewhat aggressively, they do not colonize via rhizomes like Canada goldenrod so are fairly easy to pull out if they become too happy. I have praised this plant in my blog before – see Sparing the ‘Rod, Spoiling the Bees.
Most important for me is their late flowering season and their large inflorescence, a boon for the butterflies…
…. and, especially, my bumble bees after most of the other meadow perennials have gone to seed.
Two native aster species flower in succession in early autumn. Below is smooth aster (Symphyotrichum laeve) flowering alongside showy goldenrod in my west meadow. It’s a little willowy and fragile-looking compared to….
….. New England aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae) with showy goldenrod, Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans) and big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii) in the west meadow. That’s the seedhead of Culver’s root (Veronicastrum virginicum) at lower right.
New England aster has a common rich-purple form, shown below being foraged by a tri-coloured bumble bee (Bombus ternarius).
It also has a distinct mauve-pink form, below, the one below featuring the common Eastern bumble bee (Bombus impatiens).
Winterberry (Ilex verticillata) is widespread in damp and boggy settings in Muskoka. It grows at the shore of the cottage and the fruits last into winter, until they’re eaten by hungry birds.
I made a second video for this time at the cottage, featuring some of the plants above:
By early October, the leaves of the red maples (Acer rubrum), so plentiful in Muskoka, have started transforming to shades of orange and red – and some yellow. This is one on our property which I selected to ‘keep’ (since I could have hundreds, given the number of seedlings that arise.)
It is visible framed through a cottage window beyond my “nature lamp”.
This weekend, of course, is Thanksgiving in Canada. It more accurately represents our harvest time in our northern latitude than the late November date south of the border. And Thanksgiving means PIES! My grandchildren take an active role in pie-making, including cutting slices for the apple pie….
….. and making sour cream cobwebs on the pumpkin pie.
The table is set for Thanksgiving dinner, usually with extended family from our bay…
…. and a centrepiece bouquet with flowers cut from the meadows. A few Helianthus ‘Lemon Queen’ and Rudbeckia subtomentosa are usually still in bloom to add to the goldenrod and asters.
Turkey, mashed potatoes, dressing, green beans and sweet potatoes, with the relatives sharing vegetable offerings at our casual buffet.
Those pies appear for dessert, and though you’re really much too full… somehow “a tiny slice of each” is a familiar refrain.
The next day sometimes features turkey noodle soup for the freezer. Then it’s out for an autumn hike …..
…. through the forest behind our cottages.
There are many diversions for the grandkids….
…. and lots of eye-catching mushrooms to photograph. Sadly, this is a downed American beech tree (Fagus grandifolia), a species currently under attack from beech bark disease.
It’s important to know the exact species of mushroom before gathering for cooking. You would not want to eat Amanita muscaria var. guessowii or American yellow fly agaric, for example, since it is toxic (and dangerously psychoactive, though not a psilocybin ‘magic mushroom’).
I was fascinated with the pale purple colour of this wood blewit (Clitocybe nuda) growing under white pines and paper birches on our shore – though mushrooms can be any colour.
But it is the spectacular colours of the autumn canopy of our northern mixed forests that thrills us – the visual reward before our long, white winter on the Muskoka section of the Precambrian Shield.
********
This fairy crown is the 24th in a long line of Tinker Bell crowns. Here are links to the previous ones.
