Narcissus ‘Golden Echo’

Every now and then, I find a plant I adore and decide it needs a little homegrown public relations campaign. This long, cool spring with its attendant air of strange melancholy courtesy of Covid-19 was the backdrop for the month-long flowering of a little daffodil I originally saw at the Toronto Botanical Garden in 2012. This is Narcissus ‘Golden Echo’, paired with the lovely yellow-throated pink Triumph tulip ‘Tom Pouce’.

I made a note of how much I liked the daffodil and finally ordered 2 packages of 25 last summer from my friend Caroline deVries’s company FlowerBulbsRUs (she also has a wholesale business for designers and retail outlets). Come November, I wore my fancy, paint-splattered, rubber clogs and proceeded to dig my bulbs into my front yard meadow/pollinator garden.

This is what happens when your box of bulbs takes a photo of you in your 1980s car coat with the broken zipper that has stained more fences with you – and planted more tulips and daffodils – than you care to recall.

Fast forward to April 29th this spring and the bulbs in my little pollinator island.  This was a full month after the first species crocuses emerged on March 20th, followed by a blue sea of Siberian squill (Scilla siberica) and glory-of-the-snow (Scilla forbesii) in April. I wrote in praise of all the “little bulbs” in an earlier blog this spring. The following day, I made my first portrait of Narcissus ‘Golden Echo’.

The daffodil world has its own rules, traditions and famous breeder names, many of them in England and Ireland. But there are notable North American personalities who have produced the so-called American Hybrids. One of those was Oregon’s Grant Mitsch (1907-1989), who bred ‘Pipit’, ‘Accent’ and ‘Dicksissel’. But it was Brent C. Heath, below at his farm and business Brent & Becky’s Bulbs in Gloucester, VA, who crossed the European jonquil or rush daffodil (Narcissus jonquilla)  with an old Irish long-cupped daffodil ‘Ballygarvey’ (pre-1947) to come up with the sweet ‘Golden Echo’ daffodil I’ve fallen in love with this spring. It’s the one filling the rows in the thousands below. Though he had grown it for more than a decade, it was registered in 2014 and won the Wister Award the following year.  Brent is the third generation of mail-order bulb farmers at the farm his grandfather started in 1900; now his son has become the fourth generation. Becky is president of Heath Enterprises, Ltd. I’ve known them both since I joined Gardencomm (Formerly the Garden Writers Association) more than two decades ago.

On May 2nd  of this cool, long spring, the little Greek windflowers (Anemone blanda ‘Blue Shades’) were fully-open pools of lavender and the Tulipa praestans ‘Shogun’ had come into flower. Both complimented ‘Golden Echo’ beautifully.

When I decided to remove the old dwarf conifers that had grown too big for this island and replace them with a suite of perennials that would attract pollinators (here’s my video of a full year in the garden, made before planting ‘Shogun’ and ‘Golden Echo’)…..

…..adding lots of spring bulbs was just a seasonal bonus. (However, I did see honey bees gathering pollen from the crocuses early on and I’ve written about native cellophane bees on my Scilla siberica.)  But mostly it’s just to add preliminary colour to a garden I consider my gift to the neighbourhood.

In fact, that day I introduced myself to two women taking their daily walks at an appropriate, self-isolating distance from each other. As one snapped a few photos, they told me they loved seeing my garden change over the weeks since late March.

Here we see that fabulous apricot-gold ‘Shogun’ tulip with ‘Golden Echo’ and the purple-blue highlights of windflower and grape hyacinth.

Meanwhile in the main garden on the other side of the path, the big Fosteriana Tulipa ‘Orange Emperor’ was adding to the orange theme, just as the pink hyacinths were fading.

I made a lot of little nosegay bouquets this spring, including these ones on May 6th. ‘Golden Echo’ is in the one on the right, along with the pure white Narcissus ‘Stainless’ and the peach-trumpeted ‘Pink Accent’.  In the arrangement on the left are snakeshead fritillaries (Fritillaria meleagaris), Rhododendron ‘P.J.M.”, Siberian bugloss (Brunnera macrophylla) and the wonderful white Triandrus daffodil Narcissus ‘Thalia’.


Start with quitting smoking if uk generic cialis you’re on it. Overall, the role of school psychology is highly buy generic levitra important as it makes the pill indulge in the blood and hence, lower blood pressure. China is full of interesting culture; however, if you are planning viagra tablets online for the first time, it is time to see a Sexologist in Delhi. The preparation for a cardiac stress test you have done will determine the amount of time the test will find out description cialis viagra cheap take.
Meanwhile, in the main garden on May 6th, ‘Thalia’ was the star, along with the first flowers of the big Darwin Hybrid tulip ‘Pink Impression’.  And, of course, ‘Golden Echo’.

On May 7th, I zeroed in on this pretty pairing: ‘Golden Echo’ with the fascinating flowers of the broad-leaved grape hyacinth (Muscari latifolium) from the mountains of Turkey. The dark-blue flowers on the bottom are fertile; whereas the azure-blue flowers on the top are sterile.

May 13th saw me including ‘Golden Echo’ in a tiny bouquet along with the clove-scented Tazetta Narcissus ‘Geranium’, the lovely, orange-flowered lily tulip ‘Ballerina’ and the first blue forget-me-nots (Myosotis sylvatica). In the background are a few sprigs of forsythia. ‘Geranium’ is a personal favourite daffodil, one I included in a blog titled White Delight: Four Perfumed Daffodils to Tempt You.

By May 17th, you can see the green leaves of lily-of-the-valley (Convallaria majalis) – or, as I call it ‘guerilla-of-the-valley’ – at the bottom right of this photo. Indeed, it is hugely invasive in my garden, but I tolerate it creeping around everything since it doesn’t seem to affect the emergence of the summer perennials. And, of course, I did make good use of it the years I used it to decorate the hats I wore to our botanical garden’s spring party.

It’s funny;  I thought I wanted white daffodils exclusively in my garden, like ‘Accent’ in the foreground, but the soft yellow of ‘Golden Echo’ isn’t as obtrusive as the ballpark-yellow of some of the early daffodils like ‘King Alfred’ and ‘Carlton’. It fits into my multicoloured scheme very nicely, with forget-me-nots creating little clouds of pale-blue.

By May 22nd , my Fothergilla gardenii shrubs began to open their white, bottlebrush flowers.

Though the ‘Shogun’ tulips in the pollinator island were long gone by then and the flowerheads removed (I always leave the foliage to ripen and turn yellow in order to feed next year’s bulb), little ‘Golden Echo’ was still flowering bravely amidst the emerging leaves of echinacea, rudbeckia, salvia and sedum.

On May 23rd, I photographed it with the first flowers of Camassia leichtleinii ‘Caerulea’, a bulb that is as short-lived in flower as ‘Golden Echo’ is long-lived.

In fact, if the cool Covid spring of 2020 had not given way to sweltering temperatures this week, I believe sweet ‘Golden Echo’ might have flowered for another week or so, since the bulbs put up new flower stems that bloom sequentially, rather than all at once. Nevertheless, I was delighted on May 23rd to make my final bouquet featuring Brent Heath’s lovely little hybrid daffodil, along with lily-of-the-valley, common grape hyacinths (Muscari armeniacum), camassia and sweet-scented Burkwood’s viburnum (V. x burkwoodii).  By my count, that was almost four full weeks in bloom.

That night, it graced our outdoor table and the sixth take-out Covid meal we ordered from local restaurants to support them – and to give me a break from cooking. Hopefully, the restaurants will be back in business completely soon. I know that ‘Golden Echo’ will be back next spring, and the springs after that.

***********

To order Narcissus ‘Golden Echo’ in Canada, visit FlowerBulbsRUs. If you order before August 31, there’s a discount built into the price and free shipping for orders above $75.

To order it in the United States, visit Brent & Becky’s Bulbs.

That Morning Sun – Our Constant Star

I am posting this last (for now) musical blog in #mysongscapes of winter 2020 from my bed at home where my 2-day old bionic knee is being massaged by the ice machine.

I typed that first line last week so I’d have my blog all ready to post, before my eldest son in England convinced me to call the surgeon’s office Monday and cancel my St. Patrick’s day knee replacement, which was booked last autumn. “Why would you subject yourself to elective surgery, plus months of outside physiotherapy, with the increased risk of contagion? This thing is coming to the UK now and it’s coming to you.” So I did cancel my operation – at the same time as my provincial government asked hospitals to cancel non-essential surgeries. My non-bionic knee and I are together for a while longer. Sadly, I don’t have my dramatic first sentence anymore, but that’s perfectly okay.

This year, more than ever, I am so happy that spring is imminent, arriving at precisely 11:49:28 pm Eastern Daylight time tonight. At that moment, i.e. the vernal equinox – from the Latin aequinoctium or “equal night” – we reach the point in our year when earth experiences an equal number of hours of daylight and darkness (though apparently there is a teeny bit more daylight than dark at our latitude because of our atmosphere!) According to Wikipedia, “An equinox is commonly regarded as the instant of time when the plane (extended indefinitely in all directions) of earth‘s equator passes through the center of the sun.”  Intriguingly, this is also the earliest vernal equinox in 124 years.

I’m not an early morning person so I don’t photograph many sunrises, but this was a pretty one in Chicago a few years ago. That ball of yellow lighting up Lake Michigan is approximately 4.6 billion years old. The sun is not much older than earth, since our own planet is believed to have accreted 4.5 billion years ago from the solar nebula, i.e. the cloud of dust and gas that orbited the sun after its own formation.  It is a fiery ball of hydrogen and helium and though it looks massive to us (according to NASA, if the sun were hollow it would take 1.3 million earths to fill it up), it is a “yellow dwarf” or “G-type main-sequence star”.

The sun is our very own star, the centre of our solar system. It was rising over the savannah, below, when I was on safari in Kenya a few years ago. But our solar system is likely just one of billions of planetary systems in our own galaxy, the Milky Way, though only some 2,500 have been counted so far. And the Hubble explorer telescope has estimated some 100-200 billion galaxies in the universe, full of their own stars and planetary systems. The numbers boggle the mind.

In the southern hemisphere, the March equinox is the beginning of autumn. In the northern hemisphere winter is now officially over, even if it likes to hang around and harass spring with the occasional late snowfall – illustrating why glory-of-the-snow, below, is the perfect common name for Scilla forbesii, formerly Chionodoxa…..

…..and why crocuses have the good sense not to open wide until the snow melts and “that morning sun” shines down on them…..

…. and why Iris ‘Katharine Hodgkin’ (Iris winogradowii x Iris histrioides) is such a wonderful little trooper, given she seems to shrug off the most inclement weather….

…. then goes on to shine with her garden friends, the orange crocuses (C. x luteus ‘Golden Yellow’) a few days later!

In other words, in springtime in Canada, it pays not be the early bird – unless you’re a robin finding nesting material….

…. but wait until the spring sun teases open your shy flowers, like winter aconite (Eranthis hyemalis), below, which exhibits “thermonasty” in the presence of sunshine (i.e. it opens its tepals, which stay closed in cloudy, cool weather).

It has been quite a wild winter, hasn’t it? Not necessarily weather-wise, since we’ve had milder weather this year than many winters, as you can see from my highly unscientific snowdrop almanac below…..

…… but it was a life-altering kind of winter, with cataclysmic global shocks to which most of us are complete strangers. We like to think we are in control of our health. We trust our governments (mostly) to do the right thing. We take our creature comforts for granted. We think we need the company of other people. We engage in dark humour, then feel bad for trying to make light of a dire situation.  We worry – about our families, our friends, even people we don’t know who are going through trauma in these times of contagion. Our retirement funds are tanking. We are frightened, but try not to panic. And viruses aside, winter can be hard emotionally, the low light levels, the absence of green and living things, the constant cold. Seasonal affective order literally making us sad or depressed. So the coming of spring this year is more than welcome; it seems like a miracle of normalcy. That daffodils and hellebores will bloom once again….

….. and crocuses will spread their cheer.

The little spring bulbs always inspire me to create tiny bouquets…..

…. which generate an abundance of joy in inverse proportion to their size.

Witch hazels will unfurl their ribbon petals, if they haven’t already….

…. and the oft-unnoticed flowers of willows will attract native bees….

…. as will the intricate flowers of red maple (Acer rubrum).

Have you ever looked closely at maple flowers? They are tiny miracles of complexity. This is silver maple (Acer saccharinum).

It pays to peer closely at the little blossoms of cornelian cherry (Cornus mas) as they open. Aren’t they beautiful?

It doesn’t matter how many times I photograph ‘Leonard Messel’ magnolia (M. x loebneri); I am always bewitched by its grace and beauty.

Brassy forsythia isn’t on everyone’s favourite list for spring, and it’s easy to see why. But this enchanting combination of pale-yellow weeping forsythia (Forsythia suspensa) and Siberian squill (Scilla sibirica) at Toronto’s Spadina House always intrigues me. There’s just something about yellow and blue in springtime.

As the sun strengthens, buds will burst open on the trees, like this velvety parcel of shagbark hickory flowers (Carya ovata)….

…. and this exuberant explosion of flowers and leaves on Manchurian maple (Acer tegmentosum).

Leaves, of course, are the most important partners of our sun. It is leaves like the white oak leaves, below, that harvest the energy of the sun during photosynthesis…..

……absorbing carbon dioxide through the stomata and water from the roots to synthesize carbohydrates for the tree while releasing as a waste product the oxygen that permits the existence of life on earth. It is much more complicated than that, of course, with light cycles and dark cycles, but in essence this is the power of green leaves and that morning sun.

So as winter ends and spring begins, I’d like to offer a toast to the sun that will greet us tomorrow morning and every morning after that. Our constant star. And, of course, I have a song for that!

*********

The last song of #mysongscapes is one I heard for the first time only last year, by an artist I didn’t know at all before then.  Melody Gardot has quite a story herself, one that makes coronavirus look manageable. She started music lessons at the age of nine. By16 she was playing piano in Philadelphia bars on the weekends: the Mamas and the Papas, Radiohead, Duke Ellington. In 2004 at the age of 19, she was studying fashion when she was struck on her bike by an SUV making an illegal turn. She sustained a serious head injury as well as spinal and pelvic injuries. At first she couldn’t talk or move and suffered from memory loss. In a hospital bed for a year, she had to re-learn simple tasks. It would take her three years to speak properly.

Photo by Stefanie Meynberg

Music was the primary tool in helping her recover. As she said in an interview with The Brisbane Times: “Music is one of the only things that helps to reconnect neural pathways in our brain: listening, performing, singing, making a verbal attempt to sing along or hum. In my case this was why it was pointed out to me. First because I had some experience as a young person playing piano bars and so it was an innate ability but furthermore because of its ability to really help me progress when no other progress can be made.” Eventually, after much else failed, her doctor encouraged her to work with music so she began to hum, then sing into a tape recorder, then write her own jazz-inflected songs. She learned to play guitar lying on her back. Within a few years, her songs were being played on the radio in Philadelphia. She released an EP that met with success and was signed to a record label. She began touring, using a cane and wearing dark glasses to combat the acute sensitivity to light caused by the brain injury. In 2017, she moved to Paris. In the jazz world, she’s an enigmatic superstar.

In other words, Melody Gardot has seen the worst adversity life can deal and met it head on. Her song, the last in the #mysongscapes series of blogs, offers us that most elemental of comforts: optimism. That the sun will come out again in our hearts; that it will bathe us in its warmth; that it will be our light at the end of our tunnel. Spring is here, and that morning sun has come to greet us. Let me tell you, honey child.

THAT MORNING SUN (Melody Gardot, 2015)

There little babe, don’t you cry
We got that sunny morning waitin’ on us now
There’s a light at the end of the tunnel
We can be worry-free
Just take it from me
Honey child
Let me tell you now, child

That morning sun is here to greet us
With her loving light so warm
That morning sun is here to meet us
Waitin’ on the wakin’ up of everyone

She ain’t gonna quit ’till you’re smiling now
Lemme tell you, child
Lemme tell you, honey child

That morning sun
Has come to greet ya
She’s peekin’ round the corner
Just a-waitin’ just to meet ya
Shinin’ down on all your troubles
Lemme tell ya, child
Lemme tell ya, honey child

‘Cause this world was made for dreamin’
This world was made for you
This world made for believin’
In all the things you’re gonna do
Now, honey child
Lemme tell ya now, child

‘Cause this world was made for dreamin’
This world was made for you
This world made for believin’
In all the things you’re gonna do
Now, honey child
Lemme tell ya now, child

Ah, honey child,
Lemme tell ya, child
Ah… honey child
Lemme tell ya, child 

************

This is the 21st and final blog in #mysongscapes series of winter 2020 that combine music I love with my photography. If you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, have a look at the others.  And please leave a comment if you enjoyed any of them. I haven’t run out of songs, though, so I may throw in the odd new one over the months and seasons to come.

  1. Joni Mitchell’s ‘Night in the City’;
  2. Paul Simon’s ‘Kodachrome’ and my life in photography;
  3. Vietnam and Songs of Protest;
  4. Galway Bay and memories of my grandfather and Ireland;
  5. Simon and Garfunkel’s Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme;
  6. The John Denver lullaby I sang to my first grandchild, Today While the Blossoms Still Cling to the Vine.
  7. Gordon Lightfoot for a Snow Day
  8. Madame George by Van Morrison – my favourite song in the world
  9. Brown Eyed Girl(s) – Van Morrison’s classic and my black-eyed susans
  10. Raindrops – on flowers and in my gardens
  11. Miss Rumphius and the Lupines
  12. Bring me Little Water – on water in the garden
  13. Amsterdam… Spring Sunshine – a Dutch travelogue and a brilliant Broadway play
  14. Both Sides Now – a reflection on clouds and Joni Mitchell
  15. Crimson & Clover and Other Legumes – a love letter to the pea family, Fabaceae
  16. Mexico – James Taylor serenades in my travelogue of a decade of trips to Mexico
  17. Crystal Blue Persuasion – blue flowers in the garden
  18. My Bonny – remembering the late Laura Smith (and my dad)
  19. Up on the Roof – a Carole King love-in and a lot of green roofs
  20. Singing Malaika in the Serengeti