Thinking of those who may be feeling lonely, fearful, anxious, confused. You're beautiful. All of you.
Today I made my first plantings in home soil - my new garden. 'Soil' in this case might be a generous term. Home is a dusty patch of native bushland set upon a precipitously steep substrate of mudstone. If it weren't for the tree roots tying the hillside together, it could perhaps be the valley floor. Those same roots are surely working upon cracking apart the mudstone blocks deep underground. Which is a good thing. In winter the soil is like a sponge. Water follows those root lines and seeps deep into the hill; the mud swells. But now, at the peak of summer, all is dust.
What could I be planting at such a time? Hmm... let's also consider the wildlife. The desperately hungry possums, the ravenous macropods. A juicy green leaf is rare this time of year. And while the macropods will search high and low for those rare leaves, possums.... Possums will eat anything, almost anything. Buckets with a whiff of compost juices, Kentucky Fried Chicken cartons in the camp fireplace. Hell, boot leather, even. You'd think they'd get hungry enough to try the Eucalypt leaves, wouldn't you? But no. Nibbling upon the spikiest of potted Aloes is better than eating gum leaves. I ask... what did brush-tail possums do before Europeans brought global flora to these shores? Starved, I bet.
But anyway. Dust. Possums. etc... What on earth could I be planting on a 45 degree incline, in possum-plagued dust, in the middle of summer? Belladonna. Amaryllis belladonna. If anything gardeners planted in Australia was possum-proof, drought-proof, plain old indestructible, it was the classic naked lady. There is a field not far from here that turns patchwork pink in late summer when the blooms appear. The rest of the year, you would never know they were there.
But I haven't planted the 'plain' old pink variety. Or any of the more select pink strains. I have, I hope, planted 'Hathor'. Hathor is a creamy white. I was given 3 bulbs of it some 35 years ago by my RHS gardening Aunt (as opposed to my Farm-stead gardening Aunt), and planted them in my childhood garden. I planted one each at the base of a conifer. I was small. The conifers were small. They bloomed. 'Hathor', not the conifers. I moved away and time passed.
This year, my regular trek to the old property to visit my elderly father, fell around New Year. Wandering round the remains of my old garden whilst dodging cow pats (it is now a cow paddock), I discovered my dad had cut the bottom limbs off those three conifers. Bare trunks were now conveniently cow height - cows love a good back-scratch on a conifer bough! - and revealed long-unseen ground. Beside each trunk was a clump of dried up leaves. Hathor! All these years in dense shade and each Hathor had not only survived but become a clump. And it was perfect timing to dig and replant! I say 'dig', but what it really entailed was a crowbar. Yes.
Joyful - but not inconsiderable - effort, resulted in a heavy bag full of bulbs. They have to be Hathor, right? That's what I planted there all those years ago. Anyway. Today I have planted around two dozen bulbs of various sizes in my home soil, and I have another dozen or so very small bulbs to pot up. It felt rather momentous to be planting the very same (and all their daughter!) bulbs in my new home. This is my place now, and I have begun the journey of cultivation with a legacy gifted me from childhood and an encouraging aunt. I shall nurture the dust and together we shall raise a garden of inedible delights! Hahahahha, Poss, just like the good old days, when everything tasted awful or made you sick, eh?
I'm happy with this shot. I can even call it art. "Inner light, breaking free..."
It's that amazing, blustery time of year. The air is icy cold as it blows down from the mountains, driving rain every place, whilst the sun showers us with gorgeous, radiant heat. Simultaneously. Spring in Tasmania!
A Glenbrook Bulb Farm classic hoop petticoat, 'Smarple, and the brave wild Prunus:
Pre-ramble!
This is something I wrote some time ago for our local collection of lily-tales: The Trumpeter. It is out there now, and I cringe to re-read things, but at some point it must have seemed a good idea to share it, because I pasted it here for the future. I guess today is the future. :p
The Ramble:
Let me begin with Seedling_5666, which flowered two summers past. It may now have gone to lily heaven. It could be among the many bulbs out there in boxes crying for attention. I won't know for a year or two. This baby is thanks to three (that I know!) Tasmanian breeders. People we have lost but whose lilies live on. I transferred the pollen between parents, but it is thanks to Kerry Smith, Joe Hoell and Brian Dutton that this lily bloomed for me, so I wish to share it. Even if I never see it again, it remains a special part of summer. A lily met upon the way.
Now, back in time. Collectively, it's summers long long ago, but effectively we can over-look temporal punctuation and reflect upon a single summer. Childhood. During the summer of childhood I was a nascent hybridist busy among the flowers; as innocently as any bee. I could barely have conceived of an "over 30 years hence", let alone have supposed I would still be looking for The Lily in that time. (It was surely just a few winters' sleep away, right?)
What hopes do you have when you start hybridising lilium? A specific goal? A thrill in being the first to lay eyes upon some ineffable beauty you can't quite imagine? Satiating curiosity?
I was, in the beginning, simply curious and ambitious. A natural scientist; an artist. I can't delineate the two. Growing life was a sweet triumph, already experienced: cuttings, divisions, sowing seeds of varied genera... but to combine genes of two lovely flowers and see what happens...? Ooohh... move over Dr. Frankenstein!
Summer past is peppered with varieties that are redolent now of pioneers in lily-breeding: 'Pink Champagne', 'Hawaiian Punch', 'Vonnie' 'Trenwell', 'Charlie', 'Wildfire'. An historic pioneer is a curious concept when you really think of it. But anyway, there were breeders to admire and their works to acquire. Yet as I pollinated - and dreamed of lilies as-yet unknown - I did so largely in ignorance of their effort and significance. Too, when a breeder passes, it seems their works acquire the glow of an opus. So it is that long-ago summer was also graced with already long-ago lilies and their esteemed (yet care-free!) creators. Those such as 'Black Beauty' and Leslie Woodriff, and the North hybrids from Dr. North; 'Jillian Wallace' by Roy Wallace... did it still exist? Beyond those, flitting through the mists, were plant hunters discovering little marble lilies and regales hanging from cliffs! Romanticised, idolised!
Yes, I think whilst my contemporaries were reading Smash Hits, I was reading about the adventures of Kingdon-Ward and Duchartre. Alas, alack, what ever did I miss? Hmmm....
I transferred that first swipe of fluffy pollen with no small expectation; 'maybe' pictures in my head and a heart full of optimism. But of course the babies would be beautiful! Of course. Surprising maybe; a little unpredictable, like a good adventure, but beautiful one and all! In a mere two years a cohort of delights would bloom; all name-worthy, unique, glorious!
And they did. Every one delightful, every one aglow. Of course they enchanted - who wouldn't be enchanted with a creation of their very own? What else but wonder could keep summer fingers busy and stained with pollen? Thankfully though, talk of naming them was only excited chatter. They were not good lilies. They remain residents of summer past. Happy ghosts.
Ask any precocious 12 year old if they can imagine the degrees of patience, practice, searching, study, understanding, hope, experiment, trial, retrial and growth from error involved in decades of breeding... hmmmm. No one told me this was work!! Results just happen, don't they? Just a dab. Or to be correct, a daub.
So I dreamt. After falling into the land of lilies and discovering a fantastical place to explore with unbridled relish, it is finally becoming clear, more than 30 years later, just how intently our predecessors built upon their work and one another to hopefully spare us from rolling the same rock uphill, over and over. (Hint: wild lily populations are 'new' rocks - go gather those genes!)
Is it true that DaVinci carried the Mona Lisa around all his life; touching, retouching, unfinished? I wonder. Australia, including Tasmania, has and has had, a good share of great breeders; inspired growers working with lilies generation upon generation, to perfect a picture of hardiness, vigour, and beauty. Is the work ever done? We talk about, and aim for, a 'finished' lily. One whose character is substantially unflawed. This baby we may unleash upon the world. But is it The Lily we dream of, or one we meet upon the way?
The truth is - with few exceptions - most of our babies haven't the health or merit to warrant a second glance from anyone but their mother! The breeder is never finished. The more crosses you make and seeds you sow and seedlings you grow out to flower, the more you observe, the more you learn, and consequently the more particular you become about your standards. Aggghhhh! Add to this that The Lily that took root in your mind during the summer of long-ago (a stray seed that fell between your fertile eyes) grows ever onward as you feverishly daub; shifting, changing, evolving... and your children fall ever further away whilst creeping ever closer to your goal. Present your children to the world now? Complete with ceremony of naming and dissemination? Ha! Well, they're just not right... they're incomplete... their pedicels are 5mm too short! They are Tom-kittens all of them; a disgrace to the party! Dishevelled, ill-dressed, (un-dressed!) rude, and in need of finishing!
Oh, the torment! When one wakes up a frosty morn to find row upon row of blind, unkempt poly boxes, managing somehow to fix you with a gaze of reproach, what has become of summer long, long ago? Unpot meeee..... uuuuuunpooooooot meeeeeeeee! Weeeeeeeed ussssss! Sorrrrrrrrt ussssss! Feeeeeeed usssssssss! Gaaahahahaaa! Does it dawn that maybe, in searching for the needle, collecting more hay made the job so much harder? Did Woodriff ever run, screaming, from his lily fields in horror?
But this is a phase. This too will pass. They say, in the search for The Lily, "go broad, go deep". In that order. Meaning, firstly widen your genetic interest to capture as much of quality as you can. Find the ones that grow well for you, that like you, that capture your imagination, that have potential... want the perfect Lilium pumilum for your plan? Raise hundreds. Thousands. Select The One. Use it with everything! Raise the babies, choose only the few best, then drill down. Mine the genetics you have selected. Focus. Narrow. There are gems down there!
Hyperbole aside, it is good advice. It has come from many of the greats, both living and departed. They were wise. I look out over my nursery though and think maybe, just maybe, I got lost somewhere. In the excitement of expansion I may have gone jussst a little over-broad. Then I think of summer. Summers soon. Somewhere in this genetic ocean are the building blocks I need. Many, many of these babies are gifts from great breeders, with years of dedicated selection behind them. They are already great works. Lilies like seedling_5666. As varied as they are between themselves, each group is a product of drilling down and bringing out those traits the breeder saw in their mind. As I follow the butterfly from dream to dream; bloom to bloom, I feel the anticipation repairing. The right permutation of genes is closer, sleeping. Summer optimism springs eternal!
The Lily is out there. She's out there.
