Why is it that blue flowers show up so badly in photographs? I understood, I thought, back when I was using film, that failure to represent blue properly was a function of film chemistry. Garden photographers I knew called it the “Ageratum effect,” after a bright-blue-flowered annual bedding plant whose blossoms always photographed a pale gray with a slight bluish tinge. You’d think that digital “film” wouldn’t be subject to the same limitations. And indeed it isn’t: I could easily have cranked up the blue in this shot of the two Ceanothuses in the front yard, both of them blooming better than ever. But why won’t it come out even close to the right shade the way greens and reds do, without tweaking?
I’m thus missing lots of opportunities for photos. All the Ceanothus in town are blooming. I’ve never been able to settle on a favorite plural. It’s an increasingly common plant in industrial landscapes, and this makes possible the conversation Becky and I had today driving the Fitzgerald Avenue onramp to I-80 West: “That Ceanothus is spectacular.” “Sure is. Hey, have you seen the one out front of the Best Buy? Amazing.”
The Ceanothus “Julia Phelps” in the foreground is a plant I’ve wanted to grow since 1987. That plant in particular is maybe six years old. Here it is about this time of year in 2004:
That blue’s wrong too. The blossoms are a fluorescent indigo with a haze of tiny white stamens, set off against dark green leaves.
Just behind the Julia Phelps in the top photo, looking a bit like a vague blur above the varigated agave (but showing up better in the larger versions on Flickr) is a Ceanothus “Sierra Blue,” a victim of tough love. I gave it an ultimatum last year: stop looking horrible by this time 2007 or get yanked out for kindling. It had spent three years growing from a vigorous four-inch seedling to a scraggly,chlorotic yellow shrub that looked as though it had been growing in a mushroom cellar. To underscore my threat I lopped off a dozen spindly lower branches in summer 2006. By January the Sierra Blue was a handsome small tree with healthy green leaves, and it’s blooming its head off right now: sky blue blossoms smelling of honey.
I let this year’s luck with Ceanothus guide me into a foolish error: I bought a four-inch Ceanothus “Ray Hartman” two days ago, and must find a place for it to grow which will be difficult because Ceanothus “Ray Hartman” gets to be about twenty feet by twenty feet at maturity. Maybe I could plant it in a neighbor’s yard without them noticing.
Ceanothus are fun plants for the California gardener. They’re a repudiation of creationism, for one thing. California is the center of Ceanothus diversity, in that there are more species endemic to California than exist anywhere else in the world. Adjacent valleys often have disparate species of Ceanothus growing in them. The geographic patterns of the species tell a story of separation, evolution, and reunion. The Ceanothus biogeography of California cannot, in fact, be explained any other way, and to sort out the threads would make any Intellligent Deisgn advocate throw up his hands in defeat.
The plants are boons in other ways as well. They fix nitrogen, always a handy trait in a garden. Their honey-scented blooms are nectaries for what are rather anthropocentrically called “beneficial insects”: they attract predatory wasps and ladybugs and lacewings and such, which then stick around to eat your aphids. They generally require no additional water once established, and in fact many will suffer if not kept bone dry during summer, the Julia Phelps being one such. Planted in a well-watered lawn, a Ceanothus “Julia Phelps” might grow nicely for three years, then dwindle for two and die in year six. They grow in habits from moderate-sized tree (Ray Hartman being an example) to ground-hugging prostrate mat, and some are amenable to espaliering up a wall like vines, which is how they get them to survive in England. The seeds are edible: they were a chief local constituent of a little-remembered native dish known as “pinole.”
And then there’s the color, blossoms from ultraviolet to pale white, a swarm of bees attending each cluster on sunny days. That’s reason enough to grow them right there, even in years not quite as good for Ceanothus as this year has been so far.
Glorious ceanothus! This one’s been a long time on my wishlist, along with Fremontia and arctostaphylos, for here in dry, hot Oklahoma. Finding native plants at the local nurseries is a challenge. You ask for something native and hear something back like, “you mean, do we dig up weeds and sell them? Sorry, lady”
Thanks for the nice reminder of home for an Okie transplant.
Re: Bees.
I’ve been reading about “Colony Collapse Disorder,” the mysterious disappearance of honeybees now being reported in a number of U.S. states and parts of Europe.
Are you noticing any apparent difference in the number of bees?
it’s hard to even describe the color, but they are all in bloom around here. it is the kind of eye-popping color that makes you want to stop and look, just because it is fabulous and you might never see it again. except, there is one a block back, and another up the road, and so it is real but unreal at the same time. but only for little while, then they go back to looking like bushes.
The primary Ceanothus species I’m aware of up here in western Montana is C. americanus, or wild Red Root. I haven’t seen it in bloom, but its odor when the summer sun strikes its leaves is unmistakable and welcoming.
So how do you pronounce that genus? I tend to want to start it with /s/ and emphasize the second syllable, but I suspect I’m wrong on both counts.
i’m so suggestible. had to run several errands today, and i must have seen a hundred ceanothus. most on my route are the deep, vibrant blue/violet of the post above this one, in the 2-3 foot high range, and tending to a greater width than height. but i also noticed many of lighter hue, and one show-off that is imitating a tree—high as the house it stood before, more upright than bushy.