Fall Foliage: The Reds

I adore October.  It seems that the chaos and physical demands of summer in the garden have finally subsided to a manageable few, and there’s time to enjoy what John Keats praised in his lovely ode To Autumn:  “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun”  Best of all, for us here in the northeast – provided there’s been ample summer sunshine coupled with sufficient rainfall and a smattering of cool fall nights – blazing colour then decorates the forests and gardens like jewel-toned filigree, a brilliant swan song to summer.

Autumn leaf canopy

I’ve been photographing autumn-coloured trees, shrubs and perennials for a long time, both in botanical gardens and in Mount Pleasant Cemetery, a fabulous 200-acre arboretum just a 5-minute drive from my house. So I’ve amassed a large inventory of the very best plants and have filed them by their specific pigment change, whether red, orange or yellow. (More on that below). In fact, I’ve even made up some small cards that group many of these fall lovelies by very narrow gradations.  Here is today’s blog colour.

Red-Fall-Colour-card

Leaves, of course, are made up of tissues, tissues are made up of cells, and the cells responsible for leaf colour are those which contain the chloroplasts. These contain the chlorophyll pigment necessary to power the complicated harvesting of solar energy, groundwater and atmospheric carbon dioxide during photosynthesis, which produces the sugars necessary for the tree’s survival. Chlorophyll absorbs energy in the form of sunlight, but only in specific portions of the spectrum; the parts it doesn’t utilize contain the green light waves, and it is these that are reflected back at us, giving the apparent green colour to leaves. Once the days shorten and temperatures cool in fall, photosynthesis ceases and the chlorophyll breaks down. But leaves also contain secondary pigments which absorb some of the other spectral light waves during photosynthesis, and take longer to break down. It is these pigments, the yellow and orange carotenoids that appear in sugar maples (shown in the aerial photo below near my own cottage garden on Lake Muskoka, Ontario), silver maples, beeches,elms, birches,tamaracks, hickories and countless other fall-turning trees, shrubs, and even perennials like Solomon’s seal. (I’ll be dealing with orange and yellow fall colours in two upcoming blogs).

Maples-in-fall-Lake-Muskoka

Notice I haven’t said anything about red colours yet. Botanists have come to a different conclusion on why leaves turn a brilliant red, since anthocynanin pigments – which are water-soluble and absorb all spectral light except red, therefore reflect that hue back at our eyes – are not present in the leaf until late in the season, when they synthesize in the tissues as photosynthesis comes to an end.  It is theorized that, in certain species, anthocyanins act as a kind of sunscreen for leaves (see the explanation in the second paragraph of this report), shielding the chloroplasts from damaging UV rays as they prepare to senesce (wither and drop) during late season photosynthesis. The salient conclusion from the report: “Because anthocyanins strongly absorb blue-green, the accumulation of anthocyanins in red autumn leaves may attenuate the quality and quantity of light captured by chlorophylls and carotenoids as leaves senesce. The major activity during leaf senescence is nutrient resorption for leaf production during the next growing season. Thus, protection from excess irradiance may play a role in limiting oxidative damage that may interfere with the retrieval of inorganic nutrients from senescing autumn leaves.”

Enough of the science. Now, I’d like to have you join me as I paint the town (and garden) a rich, ruby-red with some of my favourite trees, shrubs and perennials.  Let’s start with a genus that most of us enjoy, whether it’s in our own gardens or in the woods around us: tbe maple (Acer).  Perhaps the most iconic – and earliest to turn colour – is the red maple (Acer rubrum), beloved by Henry David Thoreau (1817-62), who wrote in his famous journals: “How beautiful, when a whole tree is like some great scarlet fruit full of ripe juices, every leaf, from lowest limb to topmost spire, all aglow, especially if you look towards the sun! What more remarkable object can there be in the landscape? Visible for miles, too fair to be believed. If such a phenomenon occurred but once, it would be handed down by tradition to posterity, and get into the mythology at last.”  How lucky, then, for Thoreau and for us that most red maples turn colour each fall – though not all turn red. On my lakeshore in central Ontario, neighbouring red maples turn bright red and bright yellow – reflecting the sex of the trees, since Acer rubrum employs a variety of reproductive strategies, including male, female and hermaphrodite trees. Here are three leaves I collected beneath various red maples in Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

Acer-rubrum-colours

And here is my favourite red maple in Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

Acer rubrum-Red maple tree

And let me add that standing under the boughs (below) of that red maple in October inspires a flush of romance in me not dissimilar to Thoreau’s effusive praise for the tree.

Acer rubrum-Red maple

When red maple is crossed with silver maple (Acer saccharinum), you get a hybrid called Freeman maple (Acer x freemanii), some of which turn a copper apricot, or lemon yellow streaked with red, or pure red, when a good selection such as ‘Autumn Blaze’ is cloned.  Freeman maples are fast-growing like silver maples but do not break as easily, and have the advantage (usually) of excellent autumn foliage, like the one below in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Notice the silver maple influence on the leaf shape.

Acer x freemanii

Japan has give us a number of lovely ornamental maples. The best pure-red autumn color tends to come from the wine-leaved forms of Acer palmatum such as ‘Bloodgood’, or any in the Atropurpureum group. This is what I found one November as I visited the cemetery. You can understand what it looked like the previous day before frost hit the tree and caused it to drop its leaves (abscission is the scientific term) in this perfect red carpet.

Acer palmatum Atropurpureum group

Many of the threadleaf Japanese maples (Acer palmatum Dissectum Group) will turn red, though more often a salmon-orange. This is the cultivar ‘Waterfall’ in a good autumn at the Toronto Botanical Garden.

Acer palmatum Dissectum Group 'Waterfall'

And I love the lacy leaves of the fullmoon maple (Acer japonicum) cultivar ‘Aconitifolium’ as they turn red in fall. This one was at Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

Acer japonicum 'Aconitifolium'-Fullmoon maple

Ultra-hardy Amur maple (Acer ginnala) will often turn bright red, especially the selected forms. Here it is at Toronto Botanical Garden, showing variation in side-by-side shrubs.

Acer ginnala-Amur maple

Sweet gum trees (Liquidambar styraciflua) often turned mottled shades of red, orange and yellow – and those are my favourite. But some, like the one below at the Toronto Botanical Garden, turn clear red.

Liquidambar styraciflua-Sweet Gum

Sour gum or tupelo trees (Nyssa sylvatica) are at the northern edge of their hardiness zone in my part of the world, so aren’t often seen. But there are two in Mount Pleasant that I adore in autumn.

Nyssa sylvatica-Sour Gum

Oak trees are variable in colour (and the leaves contain tannins, which causes them to persist as brown leaves through winter) but good red-russet fall hues are often seen in white oaks (Quercus alba), like the majestic old specimen below, at Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

Quercus alba-white oak

And the Shumard oak (Quercus shumardii) will usual colour deep cherry-red in autumn, like this young tree at the Toronto Botanical Garden.

Quercus-shumardii

Serviceberry trees and shrubs (Amelanchier sp.) also turned a mottled scarlet-orange in early autumn – a delightful sayonara from such useful native species, with their lovely edible fruits.  These are the changing leaves of Allegheny serviceberry (Amelanchier laevis).

Amelanchier laevis-Allegheny serviceberry
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Moving on to the dogwoods, here is the Kousa dogwood from Asia (Cornus kousa) with its rich red colour and next year’s buds clearly visible.

Cornus kousa-Kousa dogwood

Our native alternate-leafed or pagoda dogwood (Cornus alternifolia) takes on a wine-red color in fall. This one at the Toronto Botanical Garden gets a nice contrast boost from its background of a redbud (Cercis canadensis) turning yellow for fall.

Cornus alternifolia-Alternate-leaved dogwood

And let’s not forget the common shrub we often love to hate for its wandering ways, staghorn sumac (Rhus typhina). Here it is during a brilliant October sunset on the granite ridge behind my Lake Muskoka cottage.

Rhus typhina-Staghorn sumac

Burning bush (Euonymus alatus) with its neon pinkish-red tones is probably the most spectacular of the fall-coloured shrubs. Below are two views of the dwarf burning bush (E. alatus ‘Compactus’) hedge in my own front garden. Here it is from the east…

Euonymus alatus 'Compactus'-Burning bush

…and from the west, in another year with more red than pink in the mix.

Euonymus alatus 'Compactus'2-burning bush

Oak-leaf hydrangea (Hydrangea quercifolia) usually turns a lovely, deep plum-red in autumn.

Hydrangea quercifolia - Oak-leaf hydrangea

Many of the Asian witch hazels take on good red-russet tones in autumn. (Eastern witch hazel, on the other hand, turns a luminous gold.)  This is Hamamelis x intermedia ‘Diane’.

Hamamelis x intermedia`Diane'-Witch hazel

Barberries – love ‘em or hate ‘em – take on a variety of rich autumn tones, from scarlet to orange. This is the Berberis thunbergii ‘Rosy Glow’ in my own garden, consorting nicely with fall monkshood (Aconitum carmichaelii ‘Arendsii’).

Berberis thunbergii 'Rosy Glow'-Barberry

Forthergilla is another native northeastern shrub that takes on amazingly beautiful, mottled fall colours. Here is dwarf fothergilla (F. gardenii) in my own garden, showing more red than the oranges and golds that often combine with it.

Fothergilla gardenii

And what about vines? Probably the best-colouring is our native Virginia creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia). In a site with lots of sun, like the building wall below at the Toronto Botanical Garden, you can expect a stunning red show in October. Where there’s a little more shade, this vine takes on beautiful, mellow tones of burgundy and soft pink.

Parthenocissus quinquefolia-Virginia creeper

Let me finish with a few perennials whose leaves do their own autumn thing. Here is one of the better cranesbills, Geranium wlassovianum, with its leaves just beginning to turn red. (This is also a fabulous pollinator plant; the bees adore it.)

Geranium wlassovianum

Some ornamental grasses undergo colour change in fall. One of the finest is ‘Shenandoah’ switch grass (Panicum virgatum), which colors a deep red-burgundy.

Panicum virgatum 'Shenandoah'-Switch grass

And my final red star is bergenia (Bergenia cordifolia), whose evergreen leaves often turn a rich red or russset in fall…..

Bergenia

that lasts right through the snows of winter until spring, when they can do double-duty as partners to some of the tiny spring bulbs, like the glory-of-the-snow (Scilla forbesii) here at the Toronto Botanical Garden.

Bergenia cordifolia & Scilla forbesii

 

 

 

 

Mad About Magenta

I haven’t finished weeding my back garden. No one really sees it much at this time of year, and even I am away from it for long periods of time in late summer.  But I’m happy to be here right now because my new phloxes are in flower.  The plants are young yet, but putting on a nice August show in the weedy pond garden.  And guess what?  They’re that rich shade of magenta that “experts” used to warn new gardeners about: the much-maligned hue to which Phlox paniculata would “revert”, given half a chance.

Magenta phlox in my back garden

Well, I declare here and now that I am head-over-heels about the colour magenta. I wear it, throw it around my neck, and pull it down over my head in snowy winter.  To me, it is the colour of the jewel I would want to find in buried treasure.  And I dearly love all magenta flowers, neon-bright though they may be.

Row 1:  Triumph Tulip ‘Passionale’ (Tulipa), Armenian Cranesbill (Geranium psilostemon), Rose Campion (Lychnis coronaria), ‘Robert Poore’ Garden Phlox (Phlox paniculata)  Row 2:  Chinese Ground Orchid (Bletilla striata), ‘Soprano Light Purple’ African Daisy (Osteospermum), Everlasting Pea (Lathyrus latifolius), ‘Scorpion’ Beebalm (Monarda didyma) Row 3:  Persian Cornflower (Centaurea dealbata), Hardy Gladiolus (Gladiolus communis ssp. byzantinus), Persian Shield (Strobilanthes dyerianus), ‘Purple Dome’ Aster (Aster novae-angliae)

Row 1: Triumph Tulip ‘Passionale’ (Tulipa), Armenian Cranesbill (Geranium psilostemon), Rose Campion (Lychnis coronaria), ‘Robert Poore’ Garden Phlox (Phlox paniculata)
Row 2: Chinese Ground Orchid (Bletilla striata), ‘Soprano Light Purple’ African Daisy (Osteospermum), Everlasting Pea (Lathyrus latifolius), ‘Scorpion’ Beebalm (Monarda didyma)
Row 3: Persian Cornflower (Centaurea dealbata), Hardy Gladiolus (Gladiolus communis ssp. byzantinus), Persian Shield (Strobilanthes dyerianus), ‘Purple Dome’ Aster (Aster novae-angliae)

As colour names go, it’s a rather strange one, and not part of the traditional artist’s colour wheel by which we classify primary, secondary and tertiary colours.  Industrially, magenta was one of the first synthetic aniline dyes, from coal tar, and described in this 1868 book titled On Aniline and its Derivatives, A Treatise Upon the Manufacture of Aniline and Aniline Colours,by M. Reimann:  “Magenta was first known under the name fuchsine, which name is still general in France and Germany. The name is taken from the name of a flower having a colour very similar to magenta, the fuchsia codinea. From it fuchsiasine was first formed, which was then soon abbreviated to fuchsine.  The colour was introduced into commerce about the same time as the battles of Magenta and Solferino; hence the name now most generally used to denote this bright bluish red colouring matter.”

Magenta can arrive in the garden in early spring, courtesy of the ultra-hardy small-flowered rhododendron, ‘PJM’, whose blossoms can admittedly be a little jarring when sited near equally strident yellow forsythia.  Much better to give ‘PJM’ a carpet of deep blue scilla or grape hyacinths.

Rhododendron  'PJM'

 

As the spring season goes on, you can paint with magenta tulips, such as the Triumph variety ‘Don Quichotte’, shown below in a stunning ménage-a-trois at the Montreal Botanical Garden with red ‘Cherry Delight‘ and salmon-orange ‘Temple of Beauty‘ tulips.

Tulipa 'Don Quichotte'

 And it’s the assertive hue of the Armenian cranesbill, Geranium psilostemon, which always seems happiest to me nestled in luxuriant green foliage, as it is here at the Toronto Botanical Garden, with just a little lavender G. ‘Brookside’ geranium to keep it company.

TBG-G. psilostemon & G. 'Brookside'

There are many magenta-toned roses, especially those derived from R. rugosa and R. gallica parentage.  Most, like the rugosa hybrid ‘Hansa’ below, emit a strong perfume.  The magenta centaureas make good companions for these early-season roses.

Rosa rugosa 'Hansa'

And yes, there is the majestic magenta of summer phlox, like this spectacular and mildew-resistant ‘Robert Poore’ variety at the Toronto Botanical Garden.
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Phlox paniculata 'Robert Poore'1

If you want an explosion of fireworks in your summer garden, look no further than the zingy magenta flowers of Gomphrena ‘Fireworks’, shown here with Verbena bonariensis.

Gomphrena 'Fireworks' with Verbena bonariensis

With late summer comes the rather disobedient (or should I say merely aggressive?) obedient plant, Physostegia virginiana, with its trumpet-shaped flowers, a lovely magenta companion for purple asters and goldenrod.

Physostegia & Aster

And of course there are the many magenta-hued dahlias, which I’ve enjoyed using in fall arrangements, especially paired with the rich orange hues of autumn.

Magenta-dahlias

Finally, as the gardening season draws to its frosty conclusion, magenta bestows a true treasure, in the shimmering fruit of the various beautyberry species, including the lovely North American native Callicarpa americana, below.  Magenta the magnificent may have its critics, but I cannot imagine a more beautiful way to dress a garden with jewels for its final scene.

Callicarpa americana 1