A to Z Blogging Challenge: K is for KnockOut

Pink KnockOut Rose planted to hide unsightly things

K is for KnockOut Roses

The first time I saw a KnockOut--rose, not boxing match--I was smitten. I think it was in 2002. We visited the Missouri Botanical Garden in St. Louis late that summer. Most of the roses in the fabulous garden were on their last legs of the season, but the KnockOuts were still kicking up their heels. Nothing fazed them, not the heat, humidity, smog, bugs...I couldn't wait to add these beauties to my own yard. Of course, I had to. I had already exceeded my budget for roses that year in our West Kentucky garden, and SAM and I pulled up stakes the next year. Florida called, and we answered. 

An example of the original red KnockOut rose, a William Radler creation

It wasn't until the spring of 2004 that I was able to plant my very first KnockOut, the original single red variety, and here it still is, blooming its heart out near the northeast corner of our northwest Florida home. It survived Hurricane Ivan that year and the one named Dennis in 2005. Katrina gave us a scare, but we were spared any serious damage. You might think I'm crazy--I probably am--but sometimes I think of it as a member of the family. It's helped me keep my chin up, and that's not an easy task at my age.



David Austin's "William Shakespeare" rose still thriving in a pot, two years later

KnockOuts aren't the only roses to make it through harsh growing conditions in Florida. Remember that William Shakespeare I planted in a pot a while back? A David Austin creation, it's still growing and blooming, although it doesn't make quite the bold visual statement that KnockOut does. In the scent department, it wins for sure. KnockOuts don't deserve any kudos for smelling great, pretty as they are.



"Iceberg" not yet melting in my Florida garden

Iceberg is another sweet-smelling winner in my Florida garden. It does tend to knuckle under to the heat, which starts getting intense in late May or early June, but it keeps coming back every spring--six years so far. I love the way it brightens up an otherwise drab flower bed, and it lights up the landscape at night when the moon is shining.

KnockOuts are probably the most versatile roses I've ever grown. They thrive anywhere I plant them, even in mostly shady locations. Blooming is more intense where they receive more sunlight, especially in the morning. They're bred to resist black spot, a fungus that attacks and weakens most other roses, but plenty of Florida sunshine really helps them knock it out. And that old sun has kept the katzenjammer from KO'ing me a time or two.

What helps keep you from feeling kaput?

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "K's" from Challenge sponsors and other bloggers.

Here I Sit, All Broken-Hearted...

Here I sit, all broken-hearted.

I thought I was done, but, no, I've just started.

Fifty hours of service (at least!) to give,

And ten hours in plant clinic--

Will I live?

I'll know in December if they think I'm okay.

After reading this post,

What would you say? 

From a gardener's perspective, how in the world could I be broken-hearted when the Knockout roses are blooming in synch with this Oenothera (showy evening primrose) in my garden?

Well, there's this seed experiment I participated in. We received these large beans to plant in various growing media, using different methods to induce germination. The beans have a very hard seed coat, and the only two that have sprouted after two weeks are the one that was soaked in vinegar (all the way on the left)...

...and this sorry specimen, which was beaten severely with a hammer. Mechanical manipulation of the seed coat in this case went terribly wrong. I literally beat the daylights out of it. To make matters worse, I can't remember what these plants are. Yesterday was my last MG class, and I left my notebook with the name of the plant written on it in the classroom. At least I think I did. I might have left it outside when we were looking for mole crickets amid signs of armadillo damage to the turf grass. Somewhere between the soap flush test for mole crickets and the goodbyes to fellow classmates, I set down that notebook with four months' worth of notes and forgot it, along with the name of this plant. Oh well! I may never find the notebook, but I will see those classmates again. We have a project to complete by mid October and much planning to do before it's done. I may be mentally rapping myself in the head with my knuckles over the mangled seed and misplaced notebook, but I'm not broken-hearted because of them.

If I don't get these trees in the ground pretty soon, one of those classmates may not speak to me again. She gave me these native swamp chestnut oaks and bald cypress trees last week with the understanding that I would plant them ASAP. It was beautiful outside yesterday, and those trees should have been planted. What did I do after class yesterday morning? I sat on the front porch swing, noting the drive-by snooters--people who stare, stop to pull a spec sheet from the "For Sale" sign box in the front yard, and drive on by--and kept on looking at the trees in the bucket. I was imagining what they would look like twenty years from now. You see, I can do that now without regret. We haven't sold the house, and we are taking it off the market, at least until the market is more favorable. If it takes a few years, so be it. At least I'll get to see these trees grow and thrive. So I'm not broken-hearted about having to leave my home for good.

We sold the kayak after that last trip on Lake Talquin. It wasn't because we don't like it. On the contrary, it's been one of the best boats we've ever owned--no fossil fuel required!--and we have enjoyed every minute we spent pedaling and paddling it. It's just that it weighs more than two aging people can easily handle without injuring themselves. I'm not sure if I'm broken-hearted about selling the thing or the fact that my back ain't what it used to be. No; I'm not exactly broken-hearted about the kayak.

Last weekend while I was visiting SAM in Tallahassee, probably while we were enjoying ourselves on a hike, Son was having his "best friend" put to sleep. Rocky came into our family about 15 years ago when he showed up at Son's workplace. He was a stray, and I resisted adopting yet another pet for a while. It didn't take long, though, for Rocky to wriggle his roly-poly self into our hearts. This love for the mutt somehow developed despite the fact that he loved to dig, uprooting many of my plants, and also managed to kill several trees over the years by urinating on them. He was especially fond of evergreens for some reason. Over the past decade and a half, I must have walked Rocky enough to go at least halfway around the planet. Then a few years ago, he developed a dog's version of arthritis and lately several painful tumors on his legs and feet, making it difficult for him to walk at all. He became anorexic. It was time to let him go. Yes; he was just a dog, but he kept me company on all of those walks. Even in mostly flat Florida, it was uphill all the way for him, listening in silence and wagging his tail while I griped, grumbled, and complained about things, sometimes even out loud! He never judged me, not once, not at all.

Up-Hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

--a poem by Christina Rossetti, 1858--

Kornblumenblau in Florida--Now I'm in Trouble!

Kornblumenblau in Florida--now I'm in trouble for sure. Wild child that I am, I decided to add some wildflower seed to one of my front flower beds. The seed mix produced mostly these bachelor's buttons or cornflowers, also known as Centaurea cyanus. Seedlings were easy to identify as they came up, set apart from the rest of my plants by their gray-blue cast and slender leaves. As you can see, Kornblumen come in a variety of colors these days. So I guess the famous German song Kornblumenblau won't carry the same weight in beer hall parlance anymore. What a shame that lines like "Cornflower blue/the sky is beautiful at Rheine/Cornflower blue/are the eyes of the women in the wine" will not apply at all if the Kornblumen are pink. In case you're wondering, the trouble I'm in stems from the fact that some experts consider Kornblumen to be a menace to society--plant society, that is. Apparently, it's an exotic imported from Europe or the Near East. I've heard it said time and again that ignorance is no excuse. "I didn't know!" should no longer be a part of the Internet generation's lexicon. We now have a wealth of information at our fingertips available around-the-clock. Propaganda propagators should not be a problem anymore, right? So, now I'm in trouble. For not considering what these lovely flowers can do once they get loose in a place like Florida. What can they do exactly? Spread like that wildfire plant Phlox divaricata? (I hope so, naughty gardener that I am.)

Kornblumen can find themselves in a vase on my table along with some hydrangea blooms, Knockout roses, and Gaura. I am dangerous in a garden; I know it now. Give me a piece of ground, and I'm likely to spread a menace like Kornblumenblau. I must be seeing things through a scrim.

"We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!"

--from The Message--

Ethel Gloves in Training

A very nice gift arrived via the UPS man yesterday afternoon. It had been awaited with much anticipation. Mr. Brown Thumb surprised me a couple of weeks ago with an announcement in one of his posts. He let me know in my comment section that he had something special waiting for me on his blog. A link to one of the Spring Fling sponsors, Ethel Gloves, provided a hint. Wow. I hadn't even entered a contest. The last time I won something was about 20 years ago at a school carnival fundraiser. It was a cake in a cake walk, and I had to buy a ticket to participate. Mr. Brown Thumb's prize sure has that other one beat. And it didn't cost me a thing. He said he wanted to share his bounty of gloves from the sponsor with me and some other bloggers because we had encouraged him in some way. Mr. Brown Thumb had no way of knowing what was going on in my life, but his gift came just in the nick of time. My other gloves had worn out, dry-rotted, and my state of mind recently has been a bit shakier than usual. Maybe it's starting to dry-rot too.


It's funny how things have worked out for me since I started the blog a little over a year ago. Some of the things I had planned for my life did not happen the way they were supposed to. Wah! Okay, enough of that nonsense. Some things did happen that were unexpected but wonderfully so, like the gift from MBT and another one from a special lady in Tennessee. Tina from In the Garden gave me one of her handmade garden markers when we met in New Harmony, Indiana, last autumn. We shared a special afternoon together with our husbands and her son. I'm not sure which gifts I treasure more--the items you see here or the encouragement, friendship, and support they signify.

Since I want these gloves to feel right at home, I took them for a little excursion around the garden. I thought I would ease them in by letting them get a feel for the kind of work they'll be doing soon enough.

These gloves do look like they're capable of withstanding some tough tasks, but the length might not suffice when rose trimming time comes. Most of my roses are the shrub variety, like Knockouts, and here in Florida they require a good haircut at least twice a year. I gave them all a crew-cut back in December when we were home for what we thought was going to be just a visit. June will probably be time for the next round of haircuts by W2W, the local rose barber. And there will surely be bloodletting, only the blood will be this barber's instead of the clients'. Marnie of Lilacs and Roses has a funny post about rose trimming time. She is all too familiar with the havoc those thorns can cause.

The gloves will have plenty of quality time pulling weeds in the flower bed on the east side. They'll also be deadheading these Gerbera daisies every few days. I'm collecting the seeds and hoping to spread them about in various beds when the weather cools off in the fall.

Our baby grapefruit trees probably won't require much glove time. I just thought I'd show off the blossoms which will be finished in a few more days.

Now it's time to get serious with the gloves. It will soon be time to add a new layer of pine straw to the berry patch, and I really hate getting that sticky resin all over my hands. Gloves, I hope you're up to the task.

I love tomatoes, but for some reason I do not like that green plant juice that gets all over my hands when I'm picking the fruit. It stinks and makes my skin itch. These pretty gloves will not stay this clean for much longer. The tag says they're machine washable. I hope so because after a few weeks in the garden they will need it.

There is nothing better than freshly cut broccoli; unless, of course, you don't care for cruciferous vegetables. I seem to remember a recent President had a problem with broccoli, among other things.

The gloves didn't seem to mind taking a tour of the garden and getting oriented to the kinds of tasks they'll soon be assuming. They look so nice right now, I almost don't want to get them dirty. But they look like they're made of sturdy stuff.

"Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education."

--from Puddn'head Wilson's Calendar in Mark Twain's Puddn'head Wilson, 1894--

Fortunes of Poetry on the Water and the Trash Heap

If "it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife," does it not follow that a married man in possession of a wife must be in want of a good fortune? He sure would find it helpful once the responsibilities begin to multiply and the bank balance reveals more evidence of subtraction than addition. Poor men! Well, at least some of them will get extra points for longsuffering. I know mine will.

These young people are more rich than they realize at the moment. I got richer by being able to spend the day with them this past Saturday. Boating and beach time took place on the "sound" side of Pensacola Beach. The water is much calmer there and therefore kid-and-boating-friendly.

While Grandma Martha watched Micah play on the beach, I was the lookout while my daughter-in-law took a wild ride on the tube. For some reason, Alan would not trust any of us women to drive the boat so he could take a turn on the water. I was a little hurt by his decision because I have a lot of experience behind the wheel of a power-boat. He probably remembers the times years ago, living on a lake in Illinois, when I tried to throw his father off balance. It was always done in a spirit of light-hearted fun, honestly!

My daughter-in-law proves that a good woman holds on even when things can get a bit choppy.

On Sunday morning, Sarah and I tackled the thorny problem presented by some Knockout roses. I love these shrubs for their resilience and beauty, but they tend to overstep their boundaries in this Florida climate. The plentiful rain and warmth we have had this summer at home apparently provided ideal growing conditions. I had to be ruthless and trim them severely. I usually perform this task late in the fall or early winter, but I only have a couple of more weeks until I go back to Illinois. I was also concerned that if Hurricane Ike paid us a visit, the shrubs would damage themselves and the screen enclosure by whipping about in the wind.

I know, it looks pitiful now, a veritable piece of destruction, but just give it a few weeks. It will be blooming again and as full as it was by next May, ready for trimming again. Maybe the canna lilies hidden behind its former mass will thank me with an abundance of flowers before I have to leave.

I can understand why Sarah leaves the rose bushes alone, even though she does a great job of maintaining the rest of the yard. Their thorns are fierce enough to penetrate the thickest gloves I have, and she has to be protective of her hands. She makes her living with them as a massage therapist.

We added a lot of stuff to the trash heap, or compost pile, if you prefer. We were rewarded for our hard work by what we found growing there. It was pure poetry.


Though I have grown cypress vine and morning glories before in my Midwest gardens, I have never grown them here in Florida, having found them to be a bit unruly once established. Somehow they managed to find their way to our trash heap, those little blessings on my mess. We usually burn the pile down a bit if it gets too big, but I think I will leave this mess alone for a while, at least until I come home the next time. It is trying so hard to cover up the evidence of my destruction.


"I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were."
"And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!"
"I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love," said Darcy.
"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again...

--All quoted material borrowed from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice--

A Time for Pruning

Once I got done mowing and trimming our acre in Florida this morning, I took a closer look at the roses surrounding the house and found them in dire need of pruning. In the northeast corner of the lanai, this Knockout has taken over and is beginning to rub against the screen.

Here, an unnamed daylily (purchased at a box store real cheap!) struggles valiantly past the Knockout to reach some sunlight.


This lovely tree rose is Honey Perfume. I definitely need more of this one. It has grown taller than any tree rose I have ever seen. It must be over six feet tall. The Thuja look like green sentinels protecting the rose from any harm. Fortunately, they are a slow growing variety and very fragrant themselves. I think the name is Emerald Green. Quite fitting, don't you think?

Here is another jungle, only this time in the flower bed at the front of the house. As you can see, the Loropetalum (I have trained it into a tree) is trying to make a comeback as a shrub, sending shoots out from around the bottom of its trunk. Can you spot the small lion (Peanut) roaring at me from her shady hiding place? I have a lot of work to do this weekend. An absence of several months can spell trouble for this gardener who likes her growing spaces to be in order. I can see that this morning's mowing was just the beginning.