| The First Flowers of Spring |
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By Lindsay Bond Totten
Scripps Howard News Service
February 2003 Impeccable timing is what transforms the earliest bulbs of spring into sparkling jewels of the garden. For them, timing is everything, and they know it. If the dainty blooms of snowdrops, the delicate petals of winter aconite or the amethyst falls of Irish reticulata opened a month later than they do, they'd be but semi-precious gems among early spring's dazzling riches. But they're first, so they glitter more rightly against the earth's bare brown skin. Winter aconites and snowdrops are the earliest of all the minor bulbs to appear. Often, they can't even wait for spring. Watch as they anxiously unfurl tentative blossoms where the sun has melted a small patch of snow. If I live to be 100, I'll never tire of the welcome sight of these amazing little flowers. They look so fragile, yet they challenge the elements every March, and win. Common snowdrops (Galanthus nivalis), with their tiny green-and-white blooms, are just as sweet as they can be, but the "giant" snowdrop, G. elwesii, 8 inches tall instead of 6, shows up a little better. One variety, known as "Magnificum" makes me smile, as if something just inches tall could wear such a mantle. But I guess compared to other blooms around it, "Magnificum" does stand head-and-petiole above. Rock gardeners might appreciate the subtle differences of the double-flowered snowdrop, G. nivalis "Flore Plento." It's nice, but almost indistinguishable from the species at a distance greater than two paces, so this cultivar is perhaps treasured more by collectors than the rest of us. Winter aconites are most pleasant in large drifts, carpeting a woodland path or planted right in the lawn. Yellow petals glow like drops of amber in the weak sunshine of late winter, with petals so thin they look as if they might be crafted from tissue paper. Aconite foliage is quite handsome and disappears so quickly and completely that the ripening leaves are rarely a nuisance. If it bothers you to leave the surrounding turfgrass shaggy while the foliage matures, set them off to the side at the front of the bed. The foliage of early perennials will soon cover them up. Of all the bulbs of earliest spring, my favorite is Iris reticulata. If you don't know this iris, imagine the bloom of a regal Siberian, shrunk by half, then a little bit more: A perfect iris flower in every respect -- standards, style branches, and falls -- on a stem just 4 inches tall. Iris reticulata hails from high in the mountains of Western Asia. It's completely hardy in my USDA Zone 5b garden, but it's not content here. Our clay soil holds too much moisture. I try to make it happy by planting it in a sharply-drained bed amended with coarse sand and grit, but a wet summer - a season which Iris reticulata prefers to be dry -- will do it in. Luckily, the little bulbs are inexpensive, so I just buy some more. Iris reticulata blossoms come in a range of blues, from deep velvety purple to pale amethyst. The closely related I. danfordiae is yellow, while I. bakeriana and I. histrioides add stripes, freckles, and splotches to lighter petals. The species have been hybridized, so many colors are available, if a gardener is willing to explore specialty bulb catalogs -- and pay the price. In the interests of full disclosure, it must be admitted that ripening Iris reticulata foliage is not the tidiest. Polite at first, when the tiny flowers emerge, it stretches to an ungainly foot or more at maturity. Thin and grass-like, the leaves flop over, a couple of weeks imitate weeds, until they disappear -- or are cut off -- for another year. Rarest of the late winter bulbs, so perhaps the most precious, is the ferny-leaved Adonis vernalis. Such a delicate plant, yet it bursts through the snow to bloom in March. Hunkered next to a rock or a south facing stonewall, the cheerful lemon-yellow blooms draw heat from that inanimate source and thrive there. Don't look for sophisticated plant combinations when it comes to the earliest bulbs of spring. Research will turn up very little, for there simply isn't much selection in the way of accessories. If your climate is a little gentler than mine, you can try to connect with winter hazel (Corylopsis sinensis), or, grasping at straws, take advantage of the golden stems of yellow-twig dogwood (Cornus sericea "Flaviramea") as the sap starts to rise. I recommend just letting the garden wear these gems as exquisite solitaires. Or, plant them in drifts, where they'll sparkle like sequins affixed to the subtle fabric or late winter. (Lindsay Bond Totten, a horticulturist, writes about gardening for Scripps Howard News Service.)
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