With all the discussion of unwanted non-natives in the garden and in the country, one thing has stood out this spring as a reminder of things from abroad that make us smile—the explosion of daffodils that welcome us wherever we turn. I was reminded of this when I visited Jeff Steele’s garden in Ashley Falls for his daffodil party, but also whenever I drive down almost every road in the region, where naturalized daffodils show up in the oddest places, by old homesteads and roadsides where they were planted and forgotten, on woodland edges, and in front of abandoned storefronts. These geophytes (the technical name for bulbous plants) emerge, flower and set seed, while sitting nicely amongst the new foliage of native cranesbills and grasses, which will cover the daffodil foliage after the flowers bloom and the foliage declines, having fortified the bulbs for next year’s bloom. Other stands, purposefully planted in neighbors’ beds and borders, motivate us to get out into our gardens where they will keep us in good company as we do our spring chores. While not native, these flowers seem to integrate nicely into our gardens without taking over.
This genus Narcissus is native to southern Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa. It has a range of species and forms that have been hybridized and selected over the years for form, shape, color and bloom time. If one were curious to see the variety of forms the genus takes, landscape designer Jeff Steele’s garden would be a good place to start. He has planted hundreds of varieties—primarily in large drifts—based on their divisions, classification and variety.
A walk around his property teaches a visitor about the botany of these beloved bulbs. The perianth of the flower consists of tepals and the corona. The tepals are the petal forms that tend to flare back slightly and surround the cup or the corona. Both vary in their form. Triandrus daffodils are pendant and have recurved sepals and protruding coronas that often look as if they have been taken by the wind, and their gently nodding flowers are ideally used in settings that are more naturalistic. Split corona types are one of the showgirls of the genus, with frilly centers that appear layered and feel like they could be the work of artisans working in couture. They are well-suited to beds and borders , and should set where they can be viewed closely.
Steele’s garden is filled with miniature forms, small-cupped varieties, and colors ranging from white and soft yellow to pink and soft green. Some varieties—such as poeticus types—are more fragrant than others, and each bears examination on all fronts. Many are planted beneath the large trees on the property and will finish their cycle—from spring growth to flower to seed—before the canopy above is in full effect. Once the leaves wither and dry, the bulbs will go dormant for the season, and will leave room for other plants to grow. In this sense, they make good neighbors for a variety of later blooming perennials, but they are also wonderful paired with spring ephemerals that bloom concurrently.
A trip to Steele’s garden gives me hope that we can see the merits of plants—and people—from elsewhere that belong in our community and contribute to our well-being.
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A gardener grows through observation, experimentation, and learning from the failures, triumphs, and hard work of oneself and others. In this sense, all gardeners are self-taught, while at the same time intrinsically connected to a tradition and a community that finds satisfaction through working the soil and sharing their experiences with one another. This column explores those relationships and how we learn about the world around us from plants and our fellow gardeners.
