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.
From the warm lower slopes of the Himalayas, where they scramble through scrub from India and Nepal on into Bhutan, comes one of the more theatrical shrubs you can grow. The genus carries the name of Johan Theodor Holmskiold, an eighteenth-century Danish botanist, while sanguinea nods at the blood-red flush the flowers take on with age. For years they sat in Verbenaceae. Botanists have since moved them into Lamiaceae, the mint family, which makes them distant kin to salvia, rosemary, and teak. You would never guess as much to look at them.
Weigela is a deciduous shrub of rounded habit and opposite oval leaves. This cold-hardy old-fashioned favorite is native to eastern Asia. 'Java Red' is an old variety also known as 'Foliis Purpureis'.
Hypericum frondosum 'Sunburst' is the garden-refined face of a tough native shrub, a compact, rounded selection that mounds to about three feet and fills each summer with powderpuff golden flowers, the largest in the species at nearly two inches across, each a dense brush of stamens over broad yellow petals. The leaves are a cool blue-green, and as the season turns the older stems reveal red-brown, exfoliating bark, so the shrub keeps a quiet interest well past bloom.
The Lauraceae is an underappreciated family. Its members include cinnamon, camphor, bay laurel, and the avocado, which gives you some sense of the range of things the family has contributed to human civilization. Machilus thunbergii is another member in good standing, though these trees arrive in the Western garden with considerably less fanfare than their relatives. In East Asia they are well known: a coastal evergreen tree native to Japan, Korea, Taiwan, China, and Vietnam, valued for timber, planted as a street tree, and the source of makko, a powder derived from the bark and used for centuries to bind incense and, in a more practical application, to repel mosquitoes. The bark also has a history in traditional medicine. Here, in other words, is a tree that has been useful to people for a very long time, which is not a bad thing for a plant to be.
This one comes with a paper trail. 'Illustris' was first described in 1873 by William Bull, the Chelsea nurseryman, who listed the plant as Alocasia illustris in his catalogue of new and rare plants and sold them out of his glasshouses at 536 King's Road. Nobody knows quite where they came from. Colocasia esculenta is a restless, variable species, and Bull had rivers of tropical material moving through the place, so the likeliest story is that he caught a dark-leaved sport among the green, liked what he saw, and kept dividing the stock. Every 'Illustris' in cultivation descends from that one Victorian decision. A 150-year-old clone, still in production.
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 arrive with a pedigree, and some arrive with a person. This one came to us from Ken Wurdack, a botanist at the Smithsonian's National Museum of Natural History, and his work centers on the systematics and evolution of the spurge family, Euphorbiaceae. He's the sort of botanist who describes entirely new genera in the tribe Hippomaneae, which happens to be the exact tribe Sebastiania sits in. So this is a spurge handed over by a man who names spurges for a living, which is about the best reference a euphorb could ask for.
This one is named for a doctor and a place. The epithet gardenii honors Alexander Garden, the Scottish physician who settled in Charleston in 1752 and was first to find this shrub, describe the species, and send a plant across to England, the same Garden the gardenia is named for, though this Carolina native may be the truer monument. (The genus belongs to his English correspondent Dr. John Fothergill, in whose garden the shrub later grew; the species is Garden's.) Their home is the southeastern coastal plain, the low acid country of bogs and pine savannahs from the Carolinas to the Florida panhandle and Alabama, scattered and never common, the kind of habitat that disappears quietly.
Ernest Wilson came across this shrub in the late summer of 1901, up in the mountains above Ichang in western Hubei, and sent the seed home to Veitch in Exeter. Of the two thousand or so Asian plants he introduced to the West, "Chinese" Wilson counted Kolkwitzia amabilis among his finest, which is no small ranking once you consider the company they were keeping. Dirr, in the Manual of Woody Landscape Plants, is content to let the explorer have the last word. The beautybush flowered in England by 1910 and went on to become very nearly the defining garden shrub of America between the wars, then quietly slipped out of fashion. These shrubs turn up far less often now than they ought to.
For most of botanical history the genus Parrotia was thought to hold a single species, the Persian ironwood (Parrotia persica) of the Caspian forests. Then came a small Chinese tree with a long and tangled paper trail. A fruiting specimen gathered in Jiangsu Province in 1935 sat in a herbarium drawer until 1960, when the botanist H.T. Chang described the specimen as a witch-hazel under the name Hamamelis subaequalis. The living tree, meanwhile, had vanished. The species was presumed extinct for half a century, until a 1988 expedition found the tree again, and only in the late 1990s did DNA settle the question once and for all: no witch-hazel at all, but a second Parrotia, sibling to the Persian across some 3,500 miles of Asia.
Two Hall of Fame inductions hang on Leslie Ann's lineage, though neither is for a flower. The award stamped on her record, the Ralph Peer Sasanqua Award, carries the name of the man who in 1923 hauled recording equipment south to Atlanta and captured the first commercial sides of country and blues. Ralph Peer pioneered field recording and sits in both the Country Music Hall of Fame and the Blues Hall of Fame, then turned that same restless curatorial instinct on camellias late in life, founding the Los Angeles Camellia Society in 1948 and rising to president of the American Camellia Society by 1957. The man who recorded the Carter Family also decided which sasanquas deserved to be remembered. In 1961, one of them was this one.
Few plants carry their history as plainly as Danae racemosa. The name reaches back to Greek myth, to Danae, daughter of the king of Argos, and the foliage carries a heavier classical freight than almost anything else you can grow in shade: Roman poet laureates are said to have worn the sprays as their wreath, and Alexander the Great may have taken his victory crowns from the same hills where he was fighting. Hence the two common names that have followed the plant for centuries, poet's laurel and Alexandrian laurel. Danae is, for the record, no true laurel at all.
The gardenia needs no introduction in the South; the scent alone has been stopping people in driveways for generations. What 'Chuck Hayes' adds to that old story is nerve in the cold. The line traces back to the late 1970s and a Virginia Beach nurseryman named Charlie Hayes, who noticed a single-flowered gardenia that had come through a brutal freeze unbothered. He crossed that survivor with a double-flowered plant and handed the seedlings to Dan Milbocker, a horticulturist at the Hampton Roads research station, who grew them out, picked the toughest, and eventually released the plant under Hayes's name. The result is a fully double, classically fragrant gardenia that behaves as a far more delicate shrub has no right to.
There is a version of the flowering dogwood almost nobody has met. Cornus florida 'Suwanee Squat' was found in Suwannee County, Florida, by Bob Simons, a forest ecologist who spent half a century protecting the wild hardwood country of north Florida. As a young man in the early 1970s he walked a mixed-hardwood hammock outside Gainesville, decided the place was worth saving, and talked ten landowners and the state into making it San Felasco Hammock; that became the pattern of his life. A man who knew that kind of forest the way most of us know our own street is exactly the sort to notice a dogwood doing something a dogwood is not supposed to do. Woodlanders introduced his low, sprawling oddity to cultivation, and the plant has stayed scarce ever since, the kind of tree you mostly hear about secondhand from someone who saw one and never got over it.
Baccharis halimifolia is a plant of edges and thresholds, growing where the land loosens and blurs into water: salt marsh margins, ditches, tidal creeks, and back dunes. In fall, when most things are shutting down, the groundsel bush erupts into a soft storm of white seed fluff, like a marsh firework frozen mid-explosion. This is the shrub that coastal Louisiana calls manglier, that botanists call groundsel bush or eastern baccharis, and that local healers have quietly trusted for generations.
Hardiness
Zones 6–10
Light
Full Sun / Part Shade
Height
8–10 ft.
Spread
5–8 ft.
Bloom
White
Plant type
Shrub
Traditional use
respiratory support, immune support, detoxification & cleansing, general wellness
Oleander, Nerium oleander, is the great sun-loving evergreen of the Mediterranean, grown since antiquity for a long summer of bloom, with dark green, leathery, lance-shaped leaves in whorls of three along long, sparingly branched stems. 'Hardy Pink' is one of the cold-tougher selections, carrying showy, lightly fragrant clusters of clear rose-pink flowers from late spring well into fall.
Hamamelis virginiana does everything backwards, and that is the entire appeal. When the rest of the woods has shut down for the year, when the leaves are gone and nothing else is in flower, witch hazel chooses that exact moment to bloom: spidery yellow flowers, all thin crimped strap-like petals, scattered along the bare branches through late fall and into the cold. They carry a faint sweet scent on a mild day and they wait, patiently, for whatever gnat or late fly is still working, because almost nothing else is. This is the shrub that flowers when flowering makes no sense, and is all the more loved for the defiance.
Some plants are loved for how they look. Calycanthus floridus is loved for how they smell, which is a different and older kind of attachment. The flowers are strange and handsome in their own right, an inch or two across, dark maroon going toward burgundy, built from many narrow strap-like segments with no clear line between petal and sepal, somewhere between a small magnolia and something from the bottom of the sea. But the reason this shrub has been passed down through Southern gardens for three centuries is what happens when the flowers open on a warm day: a deep fruit-bowl perfume, strawberry and pineapple and ripe banana, that drifts well beyond the plant.
Every winterberry covered in red is hiding a secret, and his name is 'Southern Gentleman'. Winterberry hollies are dioecious, male and female on separate plants, and only the pollinated females set the blazing red fruit the species is grown for. No male nearby, no berries. 'Southern Gentleman' is the male who makes the show possible, and asks for none of the credit.
