Beth Girdler

Her previous columns are archived HERE.

BETH GIRDLER

Beneath all that snow

Here we are at the beginning of February. As I write, the snow in my yard lies deep. Icicles hanging from the eaves are attaining great lengths, looking like twisted crystal narwhale tusks and columns of chimney smoke fragment the blue skyline.

The scene is ethereal and sets my mind to some pleasant introspection. I reflect on the term "blanket of snow."

Deep snow provides cover and protection for a myriad of life forms. Mice, voles, and shrews scurry unseen through endless mazes under the surface, safe from the watchful eyes of hawks and owls. Insects and insect larvae wait the winter out in suspended animation in soil just below the snow.

Also snuggled in the earth under the quilt of white are gems of the plant world. Little powerhouses of stored energy silently awaiting the set of cues that signal a perennial rebirth.

I am talking about bulbs.

I consider myself lucky to live in a climate that includes cold and snow since some of the world's most exquisite flowers grow from hardy bulbs. The evolution of the bulb structure is one of several possible adaptations to survival in a cool climate.

Bulb-forming plants take a summer's worth of nutrients and the chemical energy from photosynthesis (the process of converting sunlight into usable energy) and store them in layers of compact scales, which are actually modified leaves.

An onion is a good example. Cut one open and you will see the layers of fleshy scales within. This stored energy allows the plant to grow and bloom first thing in the spring, long before annual plants sprout from last year's seeds.

As long as growing conditions are adequate and stay relatively constant, bulbs can remain viable for many years. It is not uncommon to find clumps of daffodils growing near the foundation of a farmhouse that crumbled to dust half a century ago.

Along with daffodils, tulips, hyacinths and lilies are familiar garden bulbs. Although many of these have been greatly altered through hybridization, they all originated from wild plants. In less than three months you will be able to see our own native wildflowers pushing their way up through the warming soil. Many of these early flowers grow from bulbs.

Trilliums, wild leek, (known around here as wild garlic), wild lily-of-the-valley, and the delicate nodding trout lily can all be found growing in any maple bush.

Corn lilies, Solomon's seal, bellworts, rose twisted-stalk and the stately Canada lily appear a little later in the year. One of the most common complaints of southern gardeners is that they can't grow tulips as perennials. Without a cold season for the bulb to lay dormant, it will rot in the ground. If you look at maps for the distribution of the wildflowers named above, many are found only in the northern states and Canada. Some survive in mountainous areas to the south and, by my books, none make it as far south as Florida.

Buried along side the bulbs under the snow of our woodlands are other nuggets of energy in the form of corms, rhizomes, and tuberous roots that produce beautiful wildflowers.

Looking out at the fluffy snowflakes that have just begun to fall on this grey, chilly winter day, I am warmed by the thought of what lies beneath the thickening "blanket" of snow.

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