by Lindsay Bond Totten
Scripps Howard News Service
If you view bulb catalogs as a cruel hoax, you're probably a shade gardener. Page after page of glorious color, but almost every description is followed by that dreaded phrase: "plant in full sun."
It's no conspiracy by the bulb purveyors--they'd love to sell you some bulbs--but one perpetrated by Nature herself.
Many bulb species hail from mountainous regions of Eastern Europe. Tulips came originally from Turkey (not The Netherlands), where skies are sunny, summers hot, and the soil is sharply drained.
Fleshy underground roots are simply a survival mechanism for plants native to that harsh climate. Foliage goes dormant during the dry season while the bulbs store moisture and food reserves for next season's growth.
Nonetheless, bulb flowers are so beautiful, so richly colored, that it's natural all gardeners would want them. Yet those of us with woodland gardens have to be practical. Bulbs aren't inexpensive. Buying sun-loving species in hopes of enjoying a week's worth of color--because they're pre-programmed, most new bulbs will bloom one, even in the shade--isn't a sensible investment.
Buried deep in better bulb catalogs, after pages of tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, and alliums, a shade gardener could get lucky and run across one or more of these five shade-loving varieties:
Crown imperial (Fritillaria imperialis): Catalogs may not reveal the crown imperial's well-kept secret: It likes shade. Not deep shade, but dappled shade cast from a high canopy of trees.
This remarkable bulb is both peculiar and regal at the same time. Tall stems sport an unruly tuft of foliage at the top, beneath which unfolds a colorful skirt of yellow or orange-red flowers. They may sound gaudy, and in great numbers they are, but a few bulbs tucked into a shady bed are more subtle than a handful of tulips.
Crown imperials bloom in early spring, before many of the trees leaf out. Widely heralded for their foul odor, this claim is highly over-stated. Gardeners may notice an unusual smell up close, but it goes virtually undetected at arm's length. The odor actually works in the bulbs' favor where deer are a problem.
Trout lily (Erythronium spp.): Through selection and hybridization, plant breeders have worked magic on an interesting, but inconspicuous, North American wildflower. The result is stunning--ask anyone who has compared 'Pagoda' with the shy little trout lilies that dot our eastern woodlands each spring.
Flowers of 'Pagoda' are the same shade of sulfur yellow as the native species, but individual blooms are much larger, with several carried on each stem. Robust leaves are broad and shiny, a nice foil for emerging ferns and creeping phlox in a shady woodland bed.
Squill (Scilla siberica): Squills can be a bit aggressive, but shade gardeners might welcome their cover-the-ground approach to low maintenance beds. Delicate blue flowers sparkle in the early spring sunshine, spreading reliably beneath trees that will later render deep and total shade.
Wood anemone (Anemone nemerosa): Don't confuse this woodland wildflower with Anemone blanda, which prefers more sun. Do experiment, however, with the delicate white daisy-like flowers, which blend charmingly with other spring ephemerals in rich well-drained soil.
Martagon lily (Lilium martagon): So exquisite is a mature drift of martagon lilies, yet so shade dependent, that gardeners with full sun will truly be envious.
There's no such thing as "instant gratification" with martagon lilies. Blooming size bulbs are not only hard to find, they're very expensive. So buy immature bulbs and be patient. (The first year mine bloomed--at too young an age--I knew I should pinch off the blossoms to allow the bulb's energy to flow to the leaves, but I couldn't do it. My reticence undoubtedly set them back a bit.)
Thoroughly prepare a bed before planting martagon lilies. With good soil they'll be content for many years, growing taller, stronger, and more beautiful with age. Once established, they resent being disturbed. For added enjoyment, mix the white and pink varieties together, surrounded by ferns, which won't compete with the delicate bulbs.
A warning about one shade-dwelling bulb: Ignore all catalog come-ons for Star-of-Bethlehem. Should you receive a "bonus" packet for free, throw it in the trash, not the compost heap. Don't even think about planting them.
Two generations ago, a gardener on our property fell prey to an advertisement for Star-of-Bethlehem. This sweet little "minor" bulb, with shiny grass-like foliage and small daisy-like blooms has since colonized four acres.
To plant a new bed, we must begin a year in advance to dig the soil and sift out the thousands of Star-of-Bethlehem bulblets. Diligence thereafter is the only way to protect wildflowers from a hostile takeover by this nasty little thug.
(Lindsay Bond Totten, a horticulturist, writes about gardening for Scripps Howard News Service.)
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