Among the false hollies, 'Rotundifolius' is the gentle contrarian. Where the species arms the youthful leaves with fierce holly spines, this old form lays them down entirely: the leaves are small, thick, and rounded, nearly circular and spineless, a heavy, puckered dark green that reads more like boxwood or a miniature bergenia than an osmanthus. The oddity is the whole appeal, a curiosity that stops a plantsman mid-path.
'Variegatus' brings light to the false holly. The spiny, holly-like evergreen leaves are edged in clean creamy white against a dark green center, so the whole shrub reads as a soft glow at a distance and a crisp, formal pattern up close. The variegation lifts a shaded corner the year round, a quiet luminance that the plain green species cannot offer.
Step into a North American wetlands grove, and you'll find Osmunda cinnamomea, the majestic cinnamon fern, standing tall on fronds that arch with the dignity of cathedral windows. Native to rich, damp woodlands and boggy stream edges across eastern North America, this stately fern thrives in humus-laden soil, the base cloaked in cinnamon-colored fibers that inspired the common name. In spring, the center of each dark green vase unleashes erect fertile fronds, spore-tossing cinnamon sticks that rise above the sterile foliage before maturing to warm, russet brown.
In the dim, humid hush of a Southern swamp or the shaded edges of a woodland stream, Osmunda regalis var. spectabilis, commonly known as the American royal fern, stands as a silent monarch. This grandiose fern, native across eastern North America, unfurls towering fronds that burst upward in graceful rosettes, often reaching 3 to 6 feet tall with a spread of 2 to 3 feet. The distinctive, dignified look has earned these ferns the moniker flowering fern, a nod to the upright, spore-laden fertile fronds that crown each spring with tassel-like clusters before maturing to russet-brown.
The purple firespike answers a quiet complaint of the warm-climate gardener, that the tropical border runs to reds and hot corals and forgets the cooler end of the spectrum. Odontonema callistachyum carries erect spikes of tubular, lavender-to-amethyst flowers at the tip of nearly every branch, each spike lengthening to almost a foot as the buds open in succession from fall into spring. The genus name joins the Greek odous, a tooth, with nema, a thread, for the small toothed filaments within the bloom, while the epithet callistachyum means, simply and accurately, beautiful spike. The leaves are broad, glossy, and faintly fleshy, a lacquered dark green that holds the plant together as a handsome mound even between flushes.
Few plants light a shaded corner the way firespike does. Odontonema strictum raises erect spikes of slender, tubular, scarlet flowers to a foot long from late summer into winter, each spike a torch held above dark, glossy, quilted foliage. The genus name pairs the Greek odous, a tooth, with nema, a thread, for the toothed filaments inside the bloom, and the plant answers to a tangle of common names, firespike, cardinal's guard, and firestick among them, though firespike is the one that sticks.
Sundrops make a gentle joke of their family. Oenothera fruticosa ssp. glauca belongs to the evening primroses, a tribe famous for opening at dusk and closing by mid-morning, yet the sundrops break ranks and bloom by day, holding cups of clear, satiny yellow wide open through the sunlit hours of late spring and early summer. The genus name comes from the Greek oinos, wine, and thera, to hunt or seek, an old and disputed reference to a European relative whose roots were once thought to give a taste for wine; the epithet fruticosa means shrubby, for the firm, upright stems, and glauca notes the blue-green bloom on the foliage.
The olive is an evergreen Mediterranean tree, sometimes a very large shrub, with narrow leathery leaves gray-green above and silver beneath, and small fragrant white flowers carried in axillary racemes in late summer. Fruit ripened in dry climates is the source of commercial olives and olive oil. In the humid Southeast the olive has never been a dependable fruit producer, whatever the winter hardiness, and the honest advice is to grow one here for the silver evergreen structure and treat any crop as a bonus. There is now a commercial grove in south Georgia, so perhaps a suitable variety has been found, though the University of Georgia's own assessment of adaptability and productiveness in the state remains carefully undecided.
The olive is an evergreen Mediterranean tree or large shrub, the narrow leathery leaves gray-green above and silver below, the flowers small, white, and fragrant in axillary racemes in late summer. Where summers are dry, that fruit becomes table olives and oil. Where summers are wet, as here, the crop is unreliable and the tree earns a place for other reasons entirely: for the color of the foliage in low light, for the character an old trunk develops, and for the fact that an olive in a Carolina garden is still an unlikely and pleasing thing. A commercial grove has gone in down in south Georgia, which is encouraging, though the University of Georgia is still calling the question open.
The olive is an evergreen Mediterranean small tree or large shrub with grey-green leathery leaves and small, fragrant white flowers in axillary racemes in late summer. Fruit produced in dry climates is the source of commercial olives and olive oil. While the species is generally winter hardy in the warmer parts of the southeastern United States, the olive has not been a dependable fruit producer in our humid climate, and has never been readily available in the South. There is now a substantial commercial grove in south Georgia, so perhaps a suitable variety has been found; the question is more open than it was twenty years ago.
A true olive for the shade, Olea yunnanensis is the sort of plant that rewards the gardener who reads labels twice. The genus is the olive genus, kin to the ancient Mediterranean fruit tree and to the sweet olives and privets of the same family, yet this species hails from the mountains of Yunnan in southwestern China rather than the sun-baked hills of the Old World. The narrow, leathery, dark green leaves carry an unmistakable Osmanthus cast, glossy above and paler beneath, and build into a dense, rounded evergreen canopy that holds the year.
Osmanthus armatus, a rare gem from the evergreen forests of western China, brings both elegance and resilience to the garden. This large, multi-branched shrub is known for thick, lustrous, dark green leaves adorned with prominent marginal and terminal spines, reminiscent of holly.
Some plants are grown for the eye and some for the nose, and sweet osmanthus belongs wholly to the second camp. The very name tells the story: Osmanthus joins the Greek osme, a scent, with anthos, a flower, and fragrans doubles down, so the botanical name reads almost as fragrant fragrant-flower. The blooms themselves are tiny, waxy, and creamy white, tucked so far back among the leaves that a passerby often smells the plant long before finding the flowers, a warm apricot-and-honey perfume that carries across a whole garden on a mild autumn day.
For all the sweet osmanthus grown across the South, most carry the same tiny white flowers, so 'Conger Yellow' arrives as a quiet surprise: a clone bearing clusters of soft, butter-yellow blooms against notably large, glossy leaves. The flowers keep the family gift, that warm apricot-and-honey perfume that drifts on autumn air and, in mild climates, returns in scattered flushes through much of the year, strongest as evening cools.
'Fudingzhu' turns the usual tea olive up a notch. Where most sweet osmanthus scatter a modest few flowers among the leaves, this selection smothers itself in dense, bead-like clusters of small, creamy-white blooms, so freely and for so long that the name is said to mean pearls upon the Buddha's head, for the way the pale flowers crown the plant. The scent is the pure osmanthus perfume, a rich sweetness of ripe apricot and peach that carries on the evening air.
The orange sweet olive is the tea olive at full volume. Where the common form carries tiny white flowers, Osmanthus fragrans f. aurantiacus bears clusters of deep yellow to burnt orange, and the color comes with an even richer scent, a heady sweetness of ripe apricot and peach that fills a garden on a still autumn afternoon. The blooms open in one great, concentrated flush, brief at perhaps a week or two, but so heavy that the whole plant seems to smoke with fragrance while it lasts.
Grown for the leaf rather than the flower, 'Goshiki' is the most colorful of the holly osmanthus. The name means five colors in Japanese, and the spiny, holly-like evergreen leaves earn it: flecked and mottled with cream and yellow against dark green, and flushed at every new growth with startling pink and orange that slowly settles to gold and green. The species name heterophyllus, from the Greek for different-leaved, fits the whole clan, whose juvenile leaves bristle with holly teeth while older ones smooth to entire margins.
'Gulftide' is the tea olive to reach for when you want the fragrance of the genus and the toughness to carry it through a cold winter. A dense, upright evergreen with glossy, dark green, spiny holly-like leaves, this selection covers itself in tiny waxy white flowers in autumn, and the scent they throw is out of all proportion to the size of the bloom, sweet and carrying, one of the real pleasures of the fall garden.
Holly osmanthus is a large evergreen Asian shrub whose leaves do a convincing impression of holly, spined, glossy and hard, so convincing that people reach for the plant expecting berries and are surprised twice: first by the fragrance, and then by the fact that the leaves are set in opposite pairs, which no holly ever manages. 'Purpureus' adds one thing to that reliable frame. New growth breaks a deep purple-black, holds the color for weeks, and settles into dark green still tinged with purple, so the shrub flushes dark twice a year rather than green.
'Sasaba' is the holly osmanthus taken to a theatrical extreme, grown less for flower than for the sheer drama of the leaf. Each dark, glossy, evergreen leaf is cut and incised into narrow, spine-tipped lobes that jut out in every direction, so that the whole shrub reads as a slow green explosion. The Japanese name says it well: sasaba means bamboo leaf, for the narrow, divided foliage.
