This everblooming sport of the North American native Rosa palustris gets better every year. It’s about six feet tall and six wide, a nice sphere of delicate foliage that stays full all season and is never without bloom.
It smells light, delicate, and heavenly. And it’s thornless.
I got mine from Antique Rose Emporium in Texas.
This is a once-bloomer I’ve seen a lot in the Bluegrass area. In the heat of summer it looks pretty scrawny, but it’s the first rose to bloom, and it looks spectacular when it does. Wicked sharp thorns.
It suckers heartily, and is dead easy to start by digging up one of the suckers. This one flourishes on a steep, dry slope.
Does anyone know what it is?
November has been very warm until today, and the roses took advantage of the long Indian summer and fall to bloom and set hips. Last night we got some frost.
I woke up to this.
He or she shed his last skin sometime yesterday. At first he was the same color with the same markings as he was when a gobbling caterpillar, and I could tell he had changed form only by his new shape and his “safety harness.”
Now he has developed his protective coloration and blends in better with his surroundings. I’m assuming that he will overwinter as a pupa.
You can see the safety harness better here. It contrasts with the lavender ribbon on the azalea stem.
Right beneath the lavender ribbon I tied on the azalea to tell the painters not to trample it this spring, I saw this Eastern black swallowtail caterpillar, and I knew he was getting ready to pupate. His body language is completely different from when they’re pigging out on parsley or, in his case, rue. He’s very straight and compact and — not eating. For a caterpillar, “not eating” is not an option.
Here’s what they look like while they’re eating:
Relaxed, curvy, stretched out, shoveling it in. That’s their job at the larval stage.
In the picture at top of this post, he’s on an azalea twig – not a host plant, and too woody to eat – and perfectly straight, and still.
It’s October, and a mushroom I don’t recognize has unfurled its umbrella overnight. It’s the most delicate thing, semi transparent like a Luna month’s wing, and it looks like it would glow in the dark.
I’ve been trying to get the essence of Peggy Martin into a photograph.
I’ve been trying to get the entire plant into one photograph.
It’s not possible.
I think this is hilarious.
You want to feel smart? Like you know what you’re doing? Plant a Peggy Martin.
But you have to have a lot of room.
This specimen was started by me from cuttings the summer of 2012; planted in our new yard either December 2012 (unlikely, as we moved after Thanksgiving 2012, too late to plant) or more likely spring 2013. I’ll scare up pictures from last year. She made a nice effect then, but now she’s a behemoth. A lovely, thornless behemoth.