Full of Surprises

If I wrote that every garden needed some Lycoris squamigera, I probably wouldn’t tickle the fancy of too many people.  If I said you would die for some Resurrection Lilies, some interest would arise, especially among the church folk.  A pop-up advert for Surprise Lilies would stir up the optimists, who think everything is coming up roses, but might turn off the pessimists, who can just picture a new invasive.  But if I showed you some Naked Ladies, everyone would clamor, and guys might even get interested in horticulture.

All these wonderful names belong to just one plant which has a rather odd life pattern.  In spring, along with the awakening of most other plants, a cluster of thick, dark green, strap-shaped leaves is produced.  Shortly thereafter, however, these die, and the space is taken over by daylilies, lady’s mantle, and other garden plants, or even weeds.  Weeks go by, then in early to mid-August comes the magic.  Two-foot tall flower stalks emerge from the ground, crowned by clusters of magenta buds.  These open into pink, trumpet-shaped, lily-like flowers enclosing a cluster of yellow stamens.  For those who have forgotten the early set of leaves, it seems terribly odd and more than a little surprising that these leafless flowers have sprung from seemingly nowhere.  If you remember the leaves, but thought the plant died and vanished, then it’s resurrection is a joyful occasion.  And the curvy, fun, pink flowers certainly do hold more than a little of the feminine mystique.

Just where Naked Ladies comes from is a bit of a mystery, too.  Signs point to Japan or China, and it might be a hybrid of two different Lycoris species. Dr. George Rogers Hall of Rhode Island is credited with introducing it to New England from Japan in 1862.  Hall was a medical man seeking his fortune by opening a small hospital in Shanghai, but he entered history by being the first to import plants from Japan to the USA.  Having proven hardy in the chilly climate, Naked Ladies spread through various distribution channels across the country.  Given its disappearing act, it is difficult to offer in garden centers, where the task to sell a pot of non-descript leaves or fragile, fast-fading flowers is mighty.  Designated more of a “garden novelty item,” Naked Ladies has found a home within mail-order catalogs and web sources, where it can be easily acquired.  It is also undoubtedly a pass-along plant, since it can easily be dug up after the leaves fade, divided, and then shared with friends and neighbors. 

I can certainly attest to the hardiness of Naked Ladies, having several clumps in my old garden planted many decades ago by the previous gardener.  One patch pops up next to an ancient forsythia, a large group lives in my perennial garden, and one poor soul struggles to survive under an expanding magnolia.  Naked Ladies need their sun and don’t like competition, and who can blame them?