Windflowers in myth and reality

Late-blooming anemones freshen the garden. — Gerturd K./Creative Commons

Ready or not, here comes fall, with brisk temperatures and a quickening of urgency to make the most of what good weather is left to us.

The garden is in transition now, but far from spent. True, the annuals are fading and the vegetables are browning as the last harvest approaches. But it ain’t over ’til it’s over — and there’s still more to come.

By design, the ends of the growing season get special attention in my garden.

Most people think immediately of chrysanthemums and asters, the former introducing russets, gold and reds to echo the turning leaves and the second offering cool blues and hot neon pinks and magentas. But there are flowers with kinder, gentler hues and of these, my favorites are the late-blooming anemones.

The anemone patch at the foot of the garden has come into blossom and it's a thing of beauty. While the diminutive woodland anemones of spring, Anemone blanda, hug the ground and stand no more than ankle-high, the fall variety grows three feet tall or better. Powder-pink blossoms and their fuzzy, round, marble-shaped buds bob and weave atop long wiry stems, responding to every breeze.

You may have heard that the genus gets its name from the Greek word anemos, meaning "wind," which may explain why one common name is "windflower." But that might not be the real deal.

Other authorities claim that the name is derived from the Semitic na'aman, meaning "handsome one." This could be a reference to the notoriously good-looking Greek youth Adonis, who captured the heart of Aphrodite, goddess of love, and was struck dead by the jealous war god Ares, who appeared in the guise of a wild boar.

Yet another story in the tangled web of myth brings us back to the wind metaphor. Anemone in this tale was a nymph who was the beloved of Zephyr, god of the gentle west wind. His infatuation piqued the jealous Flora, goddess of flowers. She transformed anemone into a spring blossom that would forever suffer the rough touch of Boreas, god of the chilly north wind.

Ready for its close-up, the “eye” of an anemone. — Gertrud K./CC

Confusion about the mythic is matched quite nicely by the waywardness of horticultural nomenclature. You'll often see the fall types called "Japanese" anemones, but that's not quite right, either. The first of these plants to reach Europe in 1844 were found by the plant hunter Robert Fortune, growing in the graveyards of old Shanghai — they were widely cultivated in China as well as Japan.

To add another geographic snarl, the modern anemone also has a Himalayan parent in Anemone vitifolia. This explains why the most correct botanical name is Anemone x hybrida — indicating interspecies breeding — and the best common name might be Asian anemones. We don't want to slight any local gods or goddess who may smite us witless mortals or abandon us in cold, windy places.

Anemones are easy to grow and can survive a fair amount of neglect, which recommends them for unfussy settings like cottage-style gardens and spots under high-limbed trees. Filtered or part-day sun suits them fine as they don't like to dry out and any moderately fertile soil will do.

The fibrous roots can be planted spring or fall, and at first they don't amount to much in the way of size. But in about two years, they begin to spread in a satisfying way, eventually making a thick, weedless patch of handsome, fuzzy leaves. Beginning in late August and continuing for weeks, they reliably produce an abundance of flowers good for cutting — all without much input from you.

I started with three divisions of `Victor Jones' perhaps five years ago, and now have a solid 6-by-8-foot mass, only kept to those dimensions by period spring thinning. Next spring, I'm going to plant root sections from my culls in unprotected ground under the trees to test their deer resistance.

It's a pity that such an obliging flower has mythic associations with fatal jealousy and immortal woe. I am myself more drawn to sentiments of the English lovers Katherine Bradley and Edith Cooper, who wrote together under the pen name of Michael Field. In the poem "Constancy" they profess (or confess) their mutual passion:

“I love her with the seasons, with the winds,

As the stars worship, as anemones

Shudder in secret for the sun, as bees

Buzz round an open flower."

Take that, Flora. Think on it, Ares, you old boar.