Illicium parviflorum, the Ocala or small anise, is a rare Florida endemic, an aromatic evergreen of the star-anise family, Schisandraceae, tougher and more sun-tolerant than its showier cousin the Florida anise. 'Florida Sunshine' is the selection that made the species famous: a form whose foliage glows chartreuse-gold through spring and summer, holding the anise scent of the genus in leaves that light up a shaded corner.
Ted Stephens of Nurseries Caroliniana calls this one of his top ten favorite plants, and the reason is bloom. Indigofera amblyantha, the pink indigo, is a fast, airy, deciduous shrub from the streambanks of central China, a nitrogen-fixing legume in the vast genus Indigofera, and one of the longest-flowering hardy shrubs a Southern garden can grow.
Indigofera heterantha, the Himalayan indigo, is a graceful deciduous shrub from the mountains of the western Himalaya, a nitrogen-fixing legume grown for a long summer-into-fall run of rosy-purple pea flowers over ferny foliage. Michael Dirr, in his Manual of Woody Landscape Plants, notes that the species has performed admirably in his Georgia trials, and the plant has earned a quiet following among Southern gardeners for toughness and length of bloom.
The genus is the one that turned the Lowcountry blue. Indigofera gave colonial South Carolina its great cash crop alongside rice, the dye that Eliza Lucas Pinckney coaxed into commercial cultivation around Charleston in the 1740s and that filled the colony's coffers for a generation, made with skill drawn largely from enslaved West Africans. That fortune rested on a tropical cousin, Indigofera tinctoria, but the family trait runs through the whole genus, and the leaves of this one will give up the same blue if you care to steep them. We grow the plant for the flowers instead.
No genus carries more Carolina history in its name than this one. Indigofera means indigo-bearing, and indigo was the blue that built the colonial Lowcountry: in the 1740s a young Eliza Lucas Pinckney coaxed a successful crop out of the land around Charleston, and for a generation the dye stood second only to rice among the colony's exports, made with skill drawn largely from enslaved West Africans, until the Revolution cut the British bounty and the fields went quiet. The plant that did that work was Indigofera tinctoria.
The Indio mandarinquat is one of those happy accidents that citrus breeding throws up now and then, a natural cross between a mandarin (Citrus reticulata) and a kumquat (Citrus japonica) that borrows the best of both parents. From the mandarin come the size, the deep orange color, and the perfume; from the kumquat come the sweet, tender, wholly edible rind and a welcome measure of cold tolerance. The fruits hang like small golden lanterns against dark evergreen leaves through winter, oblong and glossy, and the whole tree carries a poise that belies how easy the plant is to grow.
Seen from across a summer garden, Ipomoea fistulosa could pass for one of the great perennial hibiscus, a big soft-wooded bush hung with pink funnels. Look closer and the flowers give the game away: these are true morning glories, five-petaled trumpets in shell to lavender-pink with a deeper throat, carried in loose clusters above broad, bright green leaves. Better known to botanists as Ipomoea carnea subspecies fistulosa, the bush morning glory breaks the family mold by climbing nothing at all, standing instead as an upright shrub six to ten feet tall.
Iris brevicaulis is the low, quiet member of a famous clan. One of the five wild species known collectively as the Louisiana irises, the plant carries broad blue to violet flowers on curiously kinked, zigzagging stems, so short that the blooms rarely clear the fan of sword-shaped leaves. Botanists call that back-and-forth habit fractiflex, and the trait gives the plant one of the common names, zigzag iris; the Latin brevicaulis, short-stemmed, records the same feature, while a third name, Lamance iris, honors the American horticulturist Lora La Mance.
Iris cristata is the iris scaled down for the woodland floor, a dwarf native barely six inches high that spreads into low, overlapping fans of bright green blades. In mid to late spring the mats light up with small flowers, an inch and a half to two inches across, in soft lavender-blue to violet, each fall stamped with a white patch and a raised orange or yellow ridge. That ridge is the crest that gives the plant both the Latin name cristata, crested, and the common name crested iris, and the feature sets the species apart from the bearded and beardless irises alike.
Among the wild irises of North America, Iris fulva is the one that broke the color rules. Where the family runs to blues, purples, and yellows, the copper iris opens in warm coppery red to burnt orange, a shade no other native iris offers, carried on slender stems in late spring and early summer with a soft, slightly drooping poise. The Latin fulva, meaning tawny or reddish-brown, records that unusual color, and the common names, copper iris and red iris, say the same thing more plainly.
A small crested iris with the carriage of an orchid and a quietly extraordinary biography. Iris japonica was named by Carl Peter Thunberg in 1794. Thunberg was a protege of Linnaeus and one of the only Western botanists allowed into Japan during the country's closed period, from 1775 to 1778, so much of what he brought back is, in a real sense, the first documented record of Japanese flora in Western science. The species had already reached Europe two years earlier, carried out of China by Thomas Evans of the East India Company in 1792. By the 1820s Pierre-Joseph Redoute, the same artist whose rose paintings turn up on every aunt's tea tray, was painting the plant under the older name Iris fimbriata in his Choix des plus belles Fleurs. A treasure of cultivated gardens for more than two centuries.
There is a small lie in the name. Sanguinea means blood, and yet the iris in front of you is blue, or blue running toward violet, with only a wine-dark deepening in the falls to argue the case. The botanists felt the strain too: Carl Thunberg first tried to file the plant as Iris orientalis in 1794, found that name already taken, and the species waited until 1813 for the one carried since. The Japanese never bothered with Latin. To them the flower is ayame, one of the three irises of early summer, threaded through a thousand years of poetry and arriving in that uncertain seam where the old poets could never quite agree whether spring had ended or summer begun.
The horticulturist Scott Ogden, in Garden Bulbs for the South, sets the scene: the Japanese roof iris, Iris tectorum, is famous in the native country as a flower for planting on sod roofs, just as houseleeks are used on the cottage roofs of France. In gardens the silky green fans of leaves form large patches, a fine subject for the foreground of a shady border, and in April the ruffled, orchid-like blooms appear among the handsome leaves. In the common form these are a rich mottled blue with white crests; even lovelier, Ogden adds, are the white, yellow-crested blooms of the form offered here.
The horticulturist Scott Ogden, in Garden Bulbs for the South, sets the scene: the Japanese roof iris, Iris tectorum, is famous in the native country as a flower for planting on sod roofs, just as houseleeks are used on the cottage roofs of France. In gardens the silky green fans of leaves form large patches, a fine subject for the foreground of a shady border, and in April the ruffled, orchid-like blooms appear among the handsome leaves. This is the common form, in which the flowers open a rich mottled blue, veined and freckled toward the center, with white crests.
Iris verna is one of those plants that feels like a secret, small, fragrant, and impossibly charming once noticed. Native to the pinewoods and sandy slopes of the eastern United States, this understated iris has been a spring companion for centuries, brightening forest floors long before gardeners thought to give the plant a place at home.
Itea, the sweetspires, are graceful shrubs of the family Iteaceae, their name taken from the Greek word for willow, after leaves that recall a willow's. Itea chinensis is the Chinese sweetspire, an uncommon evergreen member of the group, a medium to tall shrub of neat, compact form with oval, glossy leaves that hold through the year in the warm South. In spring the plant hangs slender four-inch spikes of small white flowers, softly fragrant and busy with bees.
Itea, the sweetspires, are graceful shrubs of the family Iteaceae, named from the Greek word for willow after their willow-like leaves. Itea oldhamii is a little-known evergreen sweetspire from Taiwan, a compact shrub with an unusual party trick: the juvenile leaves can be holly-like, edged with small teeth, while the mature leaves settle to a smooth, entire margin. In late spring the plant carries racemes of small white flowers over glossy evergreen foliage.
Itea virginica, the Virginia sweetspire, is a native shrub of the wetlands, streambanks, and floodplains of the eastern United States, from New Jersey to Florida and west to Texas. Sometimes called Virginia willow for the shape of the leaves, though the plant is no willow at all, the species is prized for arching, fragrant white flower spikes in early summer and for a fall display of orange, red, and burgundy that rivals far showier shrubs. 'Henry's Garnet' is the selection that made the species a garden staple, free-flowering, with six-inch white racemes and a deep maroon-purple fall color that gives the plant its name.
Itea virginica, the Virginia sweetspire, is a native shrub of eastern wetlands and streambanks, prized for arching, fragrant white flower spikes in early summer and a brilliant fall display of red, orange, and burgundy. 'Little Henry' is the dwarf of the clan, a low, mounded selection that reaches only about three feet, packing the fragrant flowers and fiery fall color of the full-sized sweetspires into a tidy, compact plant for smaller spaces.
