Native Plants – The Cottage Wife

Oh, the lies we gardeners have been told, the empty promises, the heartbreak, the “part sun” betrayals and the sweet little innocent-looking seedlings that turn out to be garden thugs. If you’ve ever planted something based on the label’s information, only to be gaslit by a yarrow or abandoned by an aster, then this post is for you. Because if I were in charge of plant labels, we’d have a whole lot more honesty in the garden centre. There would be the common elements like a picture of the plant, its “typical” statistics and then the cold hard truth. Let’s start with a classic: 1. Part Sun – Translation: Give me the sun I want (and no, I won’t tell you how much that is) or give me death. I think somewhere there’s a guide for how much sun “part sun” means, but the plants haven’t read it. I think what it actually means is, “I require exactly 6 hours and 50 seconds of - not too intense, but intense enough - light or I will promptly fold in on myself like a dandelion at night.” Plants labeled “part sun” should really come with a warning like this: WARNING: This plant has zero tolerance for less than 6 and more than 6.2 hours of sunlight … or emotional neglect. I think New Jersey Tea might be one of these plants. I have 5 of them, all within a few feet of each other in my foundation planting. Aside from the rabbits loving them, they are all growing at radically different rates even though they get only slightly varied sunlight. It makes me a little crazy. 2. Spreads Quickly – Translation: I will rule the world … MUHAHAH! This label sounds almost charming, doesn’t it? Like a helpful little filler plant, eager to do its job and bulk up the border. But here’s the truth: if a plant is described as a vigorous spreader, what that actually means is: “This plant is an aggressive land baron that will seize territory, overthrow neighboring species, and declare itself mayor of your entire property … and maybe your county.” You think I’m exaggerating? You already know of my nemesis pearly everlasting. I planted two 4” pots in a front garden bed, thinking in time I’d be supporting pollinators and adding rustic charm. The next spring, after I had pulled those two plants out, I discovered it had sent runners in three directions and was popping up in the middle of a completely different garden, ten feet away. I pulled it. It laughed. I dug it out. It multiplied. I apologized to the bugs and ripped out more. It’s still threatening a land grab! I am not convinced it isn’t sentient. Same goes for yarrow and New England aster. Lovely flowers, all of them. But let them get comfy, and next thing you know, they’ve claimed squatters’ rights in the rose bed and Brian’s taking vinegar to them in the lawn. I’m seriously considering Googling “how to stage a plant intervention.” 3. Low Maintenance – Translation: Only if you’re lucky Susan. Don’t believe the hype. Low maintenance is often code for: “This plant will be easygoing until it gets powdery mildew, flops over in the wind, a bunny looks at it sideways or it mysteriously dies for no reason, and then you will feel personally responsible for the demise of such an easy plant.” Some of them really are low maintenance, to be fair, but more often than not, that phrase just means “it’s usually easier to keep alive than the others.” 4. Drought Tolerant – Translation: Tolerance is subjective. You’d think “drought tolerant” would be a good match for a dry, sunny spot, and sometimes, it is. Unfortunately, real drought tolerance doesn’t kick in until the plant is fully established, which takes a few years - without drought. Until then, it will require more babysitting than a sleep-deprived toddler with a popsicle and a crayon. And once it is established, you might find yourself with another type of monster on your hands (see “Spreads Quickly,” above). 5. Great in Containers – Translation: As long as you feed and water it every 12 hours. You buy the plant. You buy the cute pot. You follow the directions. You imagine yourself as the kind of person who effortlessly keeps a thriving container garden alive all summer. Fast forward two months, and your “perfect patio accent” is either a bloated green beast that sucks water like a sponge and is tipping over under its own weight or it’s been a dried out twig for 5 weeks. Great in containers, sure - as long as you don’t have a full time job beside babysitting it. 6. Needs Good Drainage – Translation: Your drainage will never be good enough. Our house is built on rock, with lots and lots of clay-ish fill, and we live in the forest. We have areas that are soaking wet in spring and bone dry by August. However, we did amend the garden beds with a fair amount of good topsoil. It’s still not good enough apparently. So when a label says “needs good drainage,” what it really means is: “If this plant’s roots even sense moisture retention or mildly sticky soil, they will throw themselves into a dramatic death spiral and make you feel like a gardening failure.” There are diva plants (I don’t have any of those here), and then there are drainage princesses. I’m looking at you, coneflower. You’re lovely, but you’ve got the constitution of a 19th-century heiress with a fainting couch. 7. Can Be Grown Indoors – Translation: You may keep it inside but it won’t like it. This one’s a trap! The label says “can be grown indoors,” which makes you feel like a trendy, plant-savvy goddess who’s about to create a lush, herb-filled, oxygen-rich sanctuary. In reality: The light isn’t right. The humidity is off. You will either overwater or underwater … or both. And after three weeks, the thing turns brown, shrivels into a raisin, and dies in your kitchen window while you pretend it never existed. If a plant can be grown indoors, it should say: “You will need a grow light, a mister, a humidity tray, and the patience of a monk. Oh, and it will probably end up looking dead two weeks before it goes back outside.” I’m thinking of trying to prove this and overwinter some of my herbs indoors. Do I dare?! 8. “Pest Resistant” – Translation: The Bugs and all creatures of the forest didn’t get the memo. “Pest resistant” sounds reassuring, doesn’t it? Like you’ve chosen a plant that knows how to stand its ground, the strong, silent type that shrugs off aphids like a hero in a Western flick. Reality check: “Pest resistant” means some bugs might not be obsessed with it, but plenty of others definitely will be. Often ones you didn’t even know existed until now. Take my new rosebush, for example. A sweet little number called Never Alone. Turns out that’s not a name — it’s a prophecy. I planted it. I admired it. I congratulated myself on choosing something “easy.” And then one morning I walked out and found nothing but stems. All the leaves? Gone. The flowers? Skeletonized. The dream? Over. I don’t even know what ate it. There were no suspects, no evidence, just the unmistakable sense that every hungry insect within a 3-mile radius had thrown a rave and forgotten to clean up afterward. If a label says “pest resistant,” it should also say: “Except for aphids, beetles, sawflies, caterpillars, mystery chewers, and that one very determined slug who apparently trains for this.” Or maybe just skip the claim altogether and admit it: “Pests will treat this plant like an all-inclusive buffet, and you are the reluctant cruise director.” 9. Disease Tolerant – Translation: Hope You Like Powdery Mildew Ah yes, disease tolerant. That comforting phrase that suggests your plant is basically immune to the horrors of garden life. What it should say is: “Will absolutely get powdery mildew the second the air gets a bit humid, a mosquito sighs too close, or you look at it funny after a good rain.” I swear some of these plants are just waiting for an excuse to turn into a fungal crime scene. “Tolerant” doesn’t mean resistant, it just means “it will survive but we won’t take responsibility when this turns into a sad-looking science experiment in July.” Bee balm, I’m talking to you. You're gorgeous. You attract hummingbirds. And yet by mid-summer, you’re the horticultural equivalent of a sneeze in a subway car. It tolerates the disease, alright — like a martyr. While infecting everyone else. In Conclusion: I Just Want the Truth Is it too much to ask for a little honesty on those glossy tags? I don’t want poetry. I don’t want marketing lingo. I want a plant label that reads like a dating profile written by a brutally honest best friend: “Hi, I’m Rudbeckia. I’ll bloom like a beast and love the sun, but if you give me too much shade I’ll sulk. Also, I self-seed like nobody’s business. Good luck.” I think we'd all be better off, don’t you? But then again they'd all look like this: Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to transplant something that claimed to be “well-behaved.” I’m not falling for it this time. (I totally am.)