Asimina obovata is the bigflower pawpaw, a Florida native that carries the largest, showiest blooms in a genus better known for its fruit. The pawpaws are the temperate outliers of the Annonaceae, the custard apple family whose tropical members include the cherimoya, soursop, and ylang-ylang, and Asimina alone among them ventures north into the sandy uplands of the American Southeast. The genus name descends from an early Native American word for the fruit, carried into English through the French asiminier, while obovata describes the egg-shaped leaves, broadest above the middle.
Aucuba japonica is one of the great problem-solvers of the shade garden, a glossy broadleaf evergreen that thrives in the dry, difficult shade where few other shrubs will, and var. borealis is the toughest of the clan. Drawn from the cold northern reaches of the plant's Japanese range, this small-leaved form was selected for hardiness, holding very shiny, dark green, leathery leaves through winters that would burn a common aucuba. The genus name is a Latin rendering of the Japanese aokiba, for the ever-green leaves.
This is one of the quiet mysteries of the Woodlanders collection, a narrow-leaved evergreen aucuba received years ago from the U.S. National Arboretum under the name Aucuba himalayica, and quite possibly the slender japonica form known as 'Longifolia' instead. Either way the plant is a striking departure from the usual aucuba, trading broad, spotted leaves for long, willow-like, finely serrated blades of glossy dark green. Woodlanders has not seen this aucuba offered anywhere else, which makes the plant a true collector's piece whatever the correct name proves to be.
Baptisia megacarpa, the Apalachicola or bigpod wild indigo, is a rare and remarkable native of the floodplains and forested slopes of the Florida Panhandle, southeastern Alabama, and southwestern Georgia. The species grows on sandy ridges and stream terraces in the Chattahoochee River drainage, finely tuned to that particular corner of the South.
On the deep Kalahari sands, where a hard year brings barely fourteen inches of rain, this bauhinia grows as a spreading, half-scrambling shrub, now and then gathering enough height to pass for a small tree at twenty feet. The leaves give the genus away at a glance: two rounded lobes joined at the base, the shape everyone calls a camel's foot or a cow's hoof, blue-green and leathery enough to shrug off a dry season. Then, in summer, the shrub opens flowers that look too large and too fine for the country they came from, five crinkled white petals with a fringed, almost torn edge, carried in flushes that run on into autumn. In Botswana and Zimbabwe the grey louries and the parrots come to eat them.
Bejaria racemosa, the tarflower, is one of the odd and lovely surprises of the Florida scrub, a heath-family shrub that looks nothing like the rest of the clan. Where blueberries and azaleas carry small, fused, bell-shaped blooms, tarflower opens wide flowers of seven separate petals, white to soft pink and sweetly fragrant, held in loose summer racemes. The genus honors the eighteenth-century Spanish botanist Jose Bejar, and though older books spell the name Befaria, botanists have since settled on Bejaria.
Buddleia cordata ssp. tomentella is a striking, large evergreen shrub with broad, somewhat heart-shaped leaves in soft gray-green, the lighter undersides flashing in every breeze. First collected by Yucca-Do Nursery near Los Lerios in Coahuila, Mexico, the plant was originally offered by Woodlanders as Buddleia sp. 'Los Lerios', and the true identity was later confirmed by Dr. Jon Lindstrom of the University of Arkansas, a longtime customer and plantsman of note.
Buddleia loricata, the mountain sagewood, is a rugged evergreen from the high Drakensberg of South Africa and Lesotho, and one of the hardiest of all the butterfly bushes. Unlike the familiar deciduous buddlejas, this species holds narrow, crinkled, sage-like leaves the year round, dark green above and felted silvery white beneath. The species epithet loricata means clad in mail or armored, a nod to that tough, quilted foliage, while the genus honors the English clergyman-botanist Adam Buddle.
A seldom-offered evergreen, Buxus balearica is the bold-leaved boxwood: an upright shrub or small tree related to the common boxwood, Buxus sempervirens, but with noticeably larger, glossier leaves. Less cold-hardy than the common box, the Balearic boxwood is a fine choice for warmer gardens, where the big evergreen leaves give a lush, polished presence.
A twisting, weeping take on the classic boxwood, Buxus sempervirens 'Unraveled' breaks the upright, clipped mold of the genus entirely. The branches arch and twist into a loose, cascading, almost sculptural form, dense with the familiar small evergreen leaves but carried on a frame that drapes rather than stands. A selection from the JC Raulston Arboretum, 'Unraveled' brings a wild, playful edge to a plant usually grown for rigid formality.
Callicarpa dichotoma belongs to the mint family, Lamiaceae, though the beautyberries wear their kinship lightly. The genus name comes from the Greek kallos, beauty, and karpos, fruit, a promise the plant keeps every autumn, while the epithet dichotoma describes the way the slender branches fork in neat pairs, giving the shrub a tiered, arching silhouette. Native across East Asia, from China and Korea into Japan and Vietnam, the purple beautyberry has long been grown for that moment in late summer when clusters of small violet fruits ripen along the stems and hold on well after the leaves have gone.
Of the thirty-odd bottlebrushes, this is the one Australian growers reach for when they want the word spectacular to mean something. Callistemon phoeniceus is endemic to the southwest corner of Western Australia, a hard, sandy, summer-dry country, and the shrub arrives in spring and summer carrying scarlet brushes four to six inches long, each one finished with a dark tip so the whole spike reads as red shading into near-black. The leaves are the other half of the appeal: thick, stiff, and distinctly blue-green, holding that cool grey cast right through the year, which makes the red land harder than red on ordinary green ever does.
Two camellias do most of the work in American gardens, Camellia japonica and Camellia sasanqua, in countless named forms. The Far East holds far more, and Woodlanders is among the few nurseries offering the lesser-known species to gardeners here. Camellia crapnelliana, the Crapnell camellia, is one of the most distinctive: a slow, upright evergreen first described from Hong Kong Island and named for the collector Crapnell.
Most gardeners who grow camellias know two of them. Camellia japonica opens in winter, C. sasanqua in autumn, and between the two a practiced collector can have flowers from October through March. What happens in April is generally someone else's problem.
Camellia euryoides offers a quiet counterpoint to the camellias most familiar to American gardeners. Where Camellia japonica and Camellia sasanqua have long defined the genus in cultivation here, those two represent only a sliver of a far broader Asian lineage. C. euryoides, a shrub or small tree of the subtropical forests of Fujian, Guangdong, and Jiangxi, belongs to that richer world of species camellias: subtler, finer in texture, and made for gardeners curious about the genus beyond its showiest forms.
Camellia fraterna is a camellia stripped back to wild beginnings, a species from the hills of eastern China far removed from the big, blowsy blooms of the garden japonicas and sasanquas. Where those carry a few large flowers, this one covers slender, upright branches in a snowfall of small, single, white flowers, faintly pink outside and softly fragrant, that arch the stems with their sheer number. The small, pointed evergreen leaves and open, airy habit give the plant an easy, natural grace.
Camellia gigantocarpa is a rare and remarkable species from the subtropical forests of southern China, first documented in the wild in the 1980s in Guangxi Province. The name says the essential thing: gigantocarpa, giant fruit. Where most camellias are grown for flowers, this species is prized above all for the great woody seed capsules that follow them, among the largest in the entire genus.
High in the shaded ravines of Hong Kong's Tai Mo Shan, a single camellia tree stood unrecognized until 1955, when the Agricultural, Fisheries and Conservation Department documented an unexpected beauty among the undergrowth. The botanist J. R. Sealy soon described a new species and named the tree Camellia granthamiana, honoring the then-Governor Sir Alexander Grantham.
Most American gardeners know two camellias, the winter-blooming Camellia japonica and the autumn-blooming Camellia sasanqua, each in a hundred named forms. Camellia longicarpa belongs to a different and far less familiar company: the small-flowered wild camellias of section Theopsis, scarcely grown on this side of the Pacific. Woodlanders remains one of the few nurseries offering these lesser-known species to gardeners who want the wild plant rather than the show cultivar.
Fragrance is the rarest thing in a camellia, and Camellia lutchuensis is the great exception, a species grown less for the size of the flower than for the scent that rises from it. The blooms are small, single, and white around a center of yellow stamens, carried in profusion on a twiggy, airy shrub, and they release a sweet, sometimes spicy perfume unusual in a genus famous for having almost none.
