In the pink

Pinks are related to the florist’s carnation. — miheco/Creative Commons

I’m a sucker for old-fashioned flowers, so of course I have pinks edging the garden paths, lending the spice of their clove-scented blossoms to the rich perfume of the climbing roses.

Offset by grassy, blue-green foliage, their flowers appear in impressive numbers, sitting atop thin stems in saturated hues of pink, rose and red. I haven’t counted the blossoms on my most prolific little plant, but they have to number in the hundreds, with more on the way.

Dianthus, the genus to which these plants belong, means “divine flower,” and I can’t argue with that. Contrary to what you might think, they are commonly called pinks not because they tend to be that color — the color was named for the flower, not vice versa — but because of the neatly zigzagged edges of their petals, which look like they’ve been trimmed with pinking shears. (For those of you who have never sewn, pinking shears put an edge on woven fabrics that won’t unravel.)

Pinks are related to the florist’s carnation, which can’t be grown outdoors in much of North America because summer temperatures are too high. Pinks, on the other hand, are perfectly hardy, rarely more than 15 or 20 inches high, and charming additions to the sunny border.

You can make a hobby of collecting different varieties — there are more than 300 species of dianthus including annual, biennial and perennial forms. The different classifications include “selfs,” of a single solid color, bi-colors with two shades in concentric rings, laced pinks with a vibrant “eye” and a narrow band of color around the petals, and “fancies,” a catchall category for other variations. There are double-flower forms, and a biennial type, known as Sweet William, that bears its blossoms in clusters, rather than singly.

I’d given up on growing pinks (and tulips and asters) in unprotected ground, since these seem to be among the favorite foods of rabbits. Behind a fence, however, all can reach their appointed size and splendor, and even in winter present a satisfying clump of evergreen (everblue?) foliage.

There are a couple of tricks to getting a good showing. Pinks like a fertile soil on the “sweet” side, which means you will probably have to work some lime in. These are sun-lovers, requiring a minimum of five hours of direct sun.

They are quite intolerant of wet feet, preferring a well-drained and even sandy soil. Pinks should not be mulched with the standard mulches, since these would tend to keep the crown too moist — pebble or gravel mulches are okay.

When they bloom, pinks bloom prolifically. — Hunda/Creative Commons

The key technique to keep the plants blooming is deadheading, that is, removing the spent flowers. On an eager-beaver like my little bi-color pink, this can be a prolonged exercise, but well worth it. Generally, pinks bloom in June and can bloom for a month if you keep snipping.

On the downside, perennial dianthus tend to be short-lived plants, lasting perhaps three or four years on average. You can take cuttings from mid-May to mid-July, setting them in a sandy mix, but I rarely do. I usually just divide the plants after a season or two, discarding the woody centers and planting divisions of vigorous, outer stems and roots. When they peter out entirely, I just get more.

Pinks were extremely popular in colonial America, which is probably why they seem so appropriate on the grounds of my 200-year-old farmhouse. But their place in Western gardens dates to the Middle Ages, when they were among the first plants to be tinkered with by early hybridizers.

Shakespeare wrote of pinks or “gillyflowers” or “gillyvors,” as they were then known in “The Winter’s Tale:” “The fairest flowers of the season/Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors.” Those streaked guys must be among today’s “fancies.”

In the Bard’s day, dianthus flowers were used to flavor soups, salads, sauces, jams and even wine, lending them the flavor of cloves. By 1675, there were at least 350 cultivars growing in England, where pinks remain a popular cottage garden plant.

I’m not so very sure anymore what varieties I have in my garden. I believe the salmon-pink bi-colors are ‘Old Spice,’ the deep rosy red ones are ‘Fire Witch,’ and the paler pink pinks are ‘Bewitched,’ but I wouldn’t swear to it.

They’re all pretty, as far as I’m concerned. It’s on my very long list of future projects to order single examples of at least two dozen varieties, plant them in and see how they all perform. You can’t have too many of a flower this sweet and easy. Or maybe it’s just that I never met a pink I didn’t like.