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Let's take a break from in-depth plant stuff this week, and focus ahead on what's comin' down the pipeline.
If you've been on top of our inventory lately (as many of you have) or opted for the "Get Notified" feature on various selections on our website, you've probably noticed a smattering of new inventory that's gone in lately, or have peaked the projected crops for upcoming summer and fall release dates.
We're doing roses this week, selfishly, in homage to the long-honored (read: antiquated & no longer observed) celebration of Rosalia: The Festival of Roses.
The day of this email's release falls on World Migratory Bird Day, and we're delighted to bring you yet another of our feathered friends in our series of bird related newsletters. Just like deciduous azaleas, not much needs to be said about the American robin - herald of springtime, eater of earthworms, overseer of blue eggs. American robins can be found throughout North America, from Alaska to Texas, seemingly appearing in large numbers at the very break of winter's grasp. While robins in Alaska and Canada are known to migrate south for periods of time when extreme winter weather is expected, robins as far north as New York and Michigan are known to only travel limited distances (<100 miles) southward – if they go anywhere at all. Despite their considerably short migration range in comparison to other migrating bird species, this thrush family member is somewhat ironically named Turdus migratorius, suggesting a much lengthier commute than they usually commit to.
There's not much that has to be said about our native deciduous azaleas to prove their noteworthiness in the garden and landscape. They are, incomparably, some of the boldest and most ostentatious of our native flowering shrubs, with straight species and hybridized selections collectively producing a rainbow trove of blooms.
With both Earth Day and Arbor Day freshly behind us and the cusp of springtime just ahead (bar the summer-to-winter weather swings we've had lately), it seems like an appropriate time to dive into some of the flowering beauties that bring the season to life.
This week, instead of focusing on resilient hellscape plants, we're gonna take you back to a time of nostalgia, where cottage gardens bloomed with peonies and roses, trellises and espaliers were festooned with wisteria and clematis, and hydrangeas dominated foundation plantings as choice shrubs. With the future as uncertain as it is, it's okay to take a step back in time when things were simpler, colors seemed brighter, birds chirped louder and unlucky insects covered the windshields of our cars driving through cornfields at night.
In preparation for these upcoming resiliency-focused conferences, we'll get you warmed up with yet another plant built for the apocalypse: Phlox subulata. You probably already know this plant. Even people that don't know plants, know this plant. That probably has something to do with its ability to absolutely thrive in optimal conditions, as you've probably seen around your neighbor's rock walls, driveways and footpaths.
I thought this week would be a fairly easy write up. After all, woodpeckers are fairly conspicuous birds. Namesake rhythmic drumming of tree materials aside, their undulating flight patterns and often flashy black-and-white plumage sprinkled with dashes of brilliant red (like the pileated woodie) and occasionally yellow and tawny brown (think Northern flickers) make them impossible to ignore as an avid outdoorsperson, especially one that tends to wander about open woodlands.
Within the course of a week, the nursery has exploded with proof of life. Both in the gardens and the production houses, sudden, flamboyant conglomerations of springtime arrivals offer visual resting places for winter-worn eyes; spaces of spiritual respite adorned in serene pinks, yellows, purples, whites and, occasionally, varying shades of blue. Amongst these early performers, and perhaps most notable even to the most plantblind individuals, are the cherry and magnolia blossoms that dot forest peripheries with their bright whites and soft, bubblegum pinks.
It's hard to believe that April is basically here already. Seemingly within the last 24-48 hours, the magnolia buds around the nursery have popped open, daffodils and crocuses have created a technicolor patchwork amongst the nodding flowerheads of muted rose and deep burgundy hellebores, eager songbirds have begun gathering nesting material wherever available: testaments to the warmer, longer days we've finally breached.
Happy Spring, everyone! It might not feel like it quite yet, but warmer days are ahead of us. With spring, a sense of renewal emerges. A state of Mother Nature unraveling, gingerly shaking herself free of winter's skeletons and frost, blossoming into a state of resilient plenitude that once again quiets the slow, dull ache in our cold, weather-weary bones. In typical human fashion, once the heat of summer does finally arrive a couple months from now, we'll be whimsically longing for the cooler days of early spring that we currently take for granted.
With Saint Patrick's Day upon us, it seemed appropriate that we explore some non-shamrock plants native to the heaths, marshes, hillsides and meadows of Ireland.
While birds are beginning to stake claim on territories and mates and hellebores and witchhazels are blooming defiantly against the cold, there are other, unseen activities taking place. Nestled under leaf litter and detritus, a world of Lepidopteran larvae awaits the arrival of rising temperatures before emerging to take over our gardens and woodlands. Inspired by the beautifully produced documentary, The Extraordinary Caterpillar, and given the burgeoning seasonal change lingering just around the corner, it seems like a good time to revere the crawly critters of the coming months.
Often, our grasses are left as the finale for our production team, meant to offer late season winter interest to containers, installations, and indoor events. Crowned by seedheads of all types, the dormant-yet-visually appealing grasses serve as a visual resting place during a time when there's not much else to look at. Sadly, all good things must come to an end. While many of our grasses have finally met their fate at the steady hands of our production team, deftly being trimmed for a luxurious flush of new growth, one species remains a spectacle: Muhlenbergia capillaris, the hardworking but humble Muhly grass.
Besides the residual and persistent layer of crusty snow (which, as this is being written, still stands, although the pending rains may change that by the time you read this), there is a sense of rejuvenation on the horizon. You can feel it - spring is right around the corner. Daylight hours are stretching minute by minute each day, busy birds have been gathering seed and material to ensure they're well prepared for their coming broods, and the buds of magnolias and rhododendrons are slowly starting to fatten with life.
Along our journey around the tri-state area, we noted some plants that gained quite a bit of traction for their winter appearance and badassery. Of this group, Andropogon virginicus seemed to be the cream-of-the-crop: tough, no-nonsense, and charmingly topped with fluffy seeds that give this native grass an ornamental edge, Andropogon virginicus is a quintessential hellscape plant that begins our exploration into what we are affectionately calling Apocalypse Plants.
The constant flurry of movement around the nursery is punctuated by the busy flitting of brownish-grey snowbirds, often seen as flashes of white as their tails and underbellies soar neatly from tree to shrub to feeder.
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Last week, we promised you birds, and birds you shall receive.
With the digital drop of our 2026 New Plants Supplement this week (get it HERE in PDF format), it's officially time to dive into the weeds of some of this year's primary landscape trends and concerns. Aside from resilient, adversity-tolerant plants capable of succeeding in hellish conditions, we've noticed increasing demand for plants that support native bird and insect populations. This year, we're going to introduce or re-familiarize you with various North American birds and the plants that help to determine their livelihoods on a larger scale. This week, we bring you a long-time (and my own personal) feathered favorite, the affable tufted titmouse.
Yet another blank slate within the arbitrary rhythm of life that is time, ready to be inundated with new plans, routines, affirmations and aspirations. This is true also for our natural ecosystems, regardless of location, scale, or inhabitants. Wandering through the surrounding nursery woodlands, as I’m often wont to do during the chilly, barren months of January, my brain underwent a gentle refresher, ruminating upon the possibilities of what’s to come, what could be, and the appreciation for and understanding of things that no longer are.
We know how much you love reviewing your year through the perspective of your most frequently used phone apps, like Spotify, Duolingo, Youtube, Reddit, and even Amazon. Through these yearly overviews and a visual representation of our personal growth (hopefully), we glean some insight of our own internal trends and preferences.
Wouldn't it be nice if your plant supplier jumped on board with an annual wrap up? Don't worry, we've got you covered. Below are the top plant selections for 2025 according to volume of sales — these are the plants that YOU, the people, have requested and utilized in your landscape plans time and time again.
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It’s about that time of the year again, time for the Christmas Bird Count! And no, we’re not talking about seven swans a-swimmin’ or partridges in pear trees. We’re talking about National Audubon Society’s official Christmas Bird Count, or CBC, a volunteer-based bird census open to the public that now spans across 20 countries.
With exposed trees shamelessly baring their branches, the natural skeletal structures of these woody wonders are able to be admired from below, their intricacies and nuances noticeable for the first time since the eruption of leaf buds in early spring.
Nestled amongst the sleeping remnants of trees, whimsical moments of unexpected beauty can be found awaiting discovery: bright, scarlet red fruits of native hollies; Yuletide-immersing scents of juniper branches and cones; fluffy magnolia buds preparing resources for a spectacular display of blooms the following year.
We’ve been truly in the middle of hoa-hoa season this last week – a fresh blanket of fallen leaves contrast sharply against sullen, sunless skies, quilting frost-tipped fescue lawns much to the chagrin of their owners (this is a good time to tell you to LEAVE THE LEAVES!!!!). Slowly, leaves begin surrendering their cheerful autumnal tones for shades of mahogany, chestnut and espresso, decaying into fresh soil nutrients for the coming year. To the unknowing, November is seemingly the cusp of grey, colorless winter.
As this article is being written, fallen sweetgum leaves of all shades, tones, and hues of the seasonal color spectrum are harmonizing into a protective layer above Pleasant Run forest soils, weaving themselves into the fibers of their fellow forest comrades: Acer rubrum, Nyssa sylvatica, Sassafras albidum, and Acer negundo. Together, and along with their understory companions, the forest floor becomes a rainbow ensemble bespeckled by spiky sweetgum balls of the year before. Maybe you have memories of kicking the round sweetgum seed capsules down the block as an ennui-stricken youth coming home from a particularly grueling school day, watching as they skitter into storm drains and drainage covers, wondering where they would end up when the eventual underground waters did come to wash them yonder.
For those of you who are aware of Halloween’s true origins, which are founded in the traditions of the Celtic holiday Samhain (pronounced sow-in), you know that it’s much more than plastic-wrapped candies and 31 days of the best and worst horror movies streaming services have to offer. Historically, Samhain marks the end of the harvest season, when everything begins to go dormant and turn inward for the coming winter. As the official pagan New Year, Samhain is understood to be the time when the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest, making communication with the otherworld easier – a prime opportunity to offer gratitude for the bounty of the warmer, greener months that shrink away behind us, and humbly pray for prosperity, health, and happiness for the year ahead.
It’s certainly been an energetic October here at Pleasant Run. We’ve been busier than ever, traveling state to state promoting our humble New Jersey grown container plants, hitting record sales back at home, and pushing ourselves beyond the limits of exhaustion. Amidst the chaos, glimmers of beauty remind us why we’ve found ourselves in this green world to begin with. Chilly, misty mornings with dapples of the first sunrays lighting up the scarlets, burgundies, saffrons, chartreuses, and marmalades of the inward-turning trees reveal secret jewels nestled away from the brisk autumn air.
With the advent of cooler weather and the forever-disorienting shorter daylight hours (I don’t know about you, but waking up well before the sun has never been my thing), the woodlands surrounding Pleasant Run have finally begun their autumnal transition en masse. You may remember when we highlighted the scarlet foliage of early transitioner Nyssa sylvatica a couple of weeks ago, delighting in a massive 40’ specimen found along the nursery periphery.
Somewhat accidentally, I’ve been noticing an abundance of white wood asters lately. Maybe it’s just a really good year for them, or maybe they’re popping up at a time when I need to see a bright, cheery, daisy-like flower the most. Versatile and found on nearly every continent, asters have been a symbol of renewal, hope, and fidelity across florilateral cultures, or those that place reverence in flowers and the messages they are emblematic of (yes, I made “florilateral” up just now, but spell check didn’t correct me and it just felt right). From my own backyard in the shady clay-soil suburbs to the naturalized preserved lands with reclaimed and aggregated soil around Pleasant Run, it seems Eurybia divaricata is experiencing something of a boom, and deserves to be venerated as such.
The nursery is bustling with activity this month, with deliveries and pick-ups keeping our loading area packed nearly every moment of the work day, perennials happily pushing their final blooms for the year and pollinators eagerly lapping up their bounties, and deciduous woodies cloaking themselves in their annual fall couture collection of burgundy, maroon, bronze, umber, sienna, crimson, and saffron hues. This is the time when the blues, indigos, and ultraviolets of flowering perennials emerge in full force, contrasting hypnotically against the golden glow of the late afternoon autumn sun.
Tromping through the woods surrounding Pleasant Run the other day, searching for pliable branches and vines for an ongoing exposition structure, I happened to look up towards the canopy and notice twinges of crimson amongst golden yellows and lively greens, glaucous blue jewels dangling surreptitiously below. “Nyssa!”, I proudly thought to myself, admiring its early fall color from the damp forest floor. Noticing its surrounding companions – Acer rubrum, Ilex verticillata, Liquidambar styraciflua – and the moist, heavily saturated, and admittedly iron-riddled soil hosting them, the realization of our humble black tupelo’s true hardiness came to light.
