When it comes to protecting a cherished plant, no measures are too extreme. Behold my well-protected jelly palm.
To quote another song title, baby, it’s cold outside. Well, OK, it isn’t so cold here in Portland right now, but it was last month—we had, according to my friend Paul Bonine, “the fourth coldest December in history at Portland Airport.” This meant four nights in a row when the low averaged 13.25°F. I know I’m not going to get a lot of sympathy from those of you in Des Moines or Buffalo, but when you have a garden full of plants from the world’s Mediterranean regions, temperatures that low are a pretty good reason to panic.
When you know a serious cold snap is coming, you have to decide whether you’re going to take any extraordinary measures to protect vulnerable plants. Most of the time, I just grit my teeth, let nature take its course, and hope for the best. But last month, I caved: I was determined to save my jelly palm (Butia capitata, so called for its abundantly borne yellow fruits, which make a tasty jelly) at all costs. For those of you not familiar with this graceful creature (a native of the Brazilian highlands), it belongs to a group known as feather palms, and is considered hardy to anywhere between 12°F and 10°F, depending on which source you consult. Theoretically, I shouldn’t have had to worry. But I did. The palm occupies a very prominent place in the back garden, it’s beautiful, it was expensive, and I really, really didn’t want it to die.
So I went to my neighborhood nursery (Portland Nursery, which I love with a passion) and bought some six-foot-tall stakes and many yards of row-cover fabric, and, with the aid of my trusty staple gun, built a little tent around the palm. Then I went and got a shop light and hung it inside the tent, to generate a little bit of warmth. The result was as you see in the photograph above. At night, with the shop light burning, it was kind of pretty, with the fronds making decorative, spiky shadows against the cloth.
When the cold snap finally ended, I anxiously peered inside the tent to survey the damage. There was none: the plant was totally unscathed. My conclusion: the expense and effort were justified. In fact, I wish I had done something to protect the six Phormium ‘Yellow Wave’ we also have in the back, because they’re not looking happy at all.
The jelly palm, happily unscathed. I wish I could say the same for the ferns next to it.
Phormium 'Yellow Wave', in tatters. Sad, sad, sad.
So there you have it, OverPlanters: triumph followed by tragedy—the very essence of gardening. As a friend of mine is fond of saying, we sigh and go on.
What plants, if any, would you go to extreme lengths to protect? I’d be interested to know.
Hi Tom! I see you’ve discovered a method similar to mine for saving my precious Meyer lemon tree. Last year I used Christmas tree lights strung around the tree with clear plastic that is used by the nursery trade for hoop houses. This year I used a warming pad (used for seedlings) laid on the soil and more clear plastic. Both worked well. My lemon tree survives. Your palm sounds divine.
Tom,
Your story – which is beautifully written – underscores the fact that we really *can* get those ultra-special plants through the occasional record cold snap with a bit of preparation and, ok, a bit of down-and-dirty toil. With all my new yearly acquisitions (I’m sure you understand…), I inevitably have to leave a certain number of new young plants to live or die. As a result, I now specialize in techniques for speeding the recovery of plants weakened by traumatic cold! Still, there are plants I can’t risk losing. And thank Dog I made the effort this year, as I am now enjoying the lush, fragrant flowers of Daphne bholua, whose buds and leaves were fried all over town during the last cold snap. All I can say is, hooray for heavy-duty frost cloth! And I have some great tips gleaned from Mr. Sean Hogan for helping Phormium recover, btw…
I am nowhere geeky enough to qualify for even reading a blog about overplanting but I do lament the passing of those plants I sacrifice when I dare the USDA hardiness gods. In every cold snap every few years, some new irresistibly charming acquisition from a plant show or rare nursery that I throw out into the front lines of my freeze zone shows why it is not in any other garden around here. A few succulents I put into a small greenhouse and pray.
I threw pitiful bits of row covers over my now big fuschias in containers – and do hope they will resprout next spring. (They did last big freeze). I knew the trick of putting a lightbulb under the covers to keep them warm but this is too extraordinary for me. They are the only plants I have had since I took cuttings from my very first garden in San Fransisco now 30 years ago.
On me ! Now that I say this I must some way to save my fuschias …