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You can't spell "August" without "Joe-Pye weed"
... Okay, maybe you can, but it sure feels like the plant of the month. Like Rudbeckia hirta, it seems our strange weather patterns have been a benefit for our wild Eutrochium (syn. Eupatorium) species. From disturbed roadsides to low maintenance meadows and coastal dunes, Joe-Pye weed has made a summer stage for itself throughout the Eastern corridor and well beyond into Midwestern prairies and Southeastern bogs.
We are rapidly adding inventory!
Click the "Get Notified" feature for any plants you may be waiting on, and check back on our ever-evolving availability regularly!
Things have been hot (literally) and heavy these last few weeks with all the information that's been dumped on you about wildfire-and-smog-resistant plants, so we're taking a break this week from the doom and gloom.
Welp… definitely wasn't trying to predict the future, but alas, here we sit in central New Jersey surrounded by the thick, sulfuric, apocalyptic remnants of continuous Canadian wildfires.
There's really no positive way to transition into this week's/last week's topic, or any cheeky remark I can make, because honestly, I'm a little sad. Sad for the planet, sad for humanity, sad for the younger generations. Things seem pretty bleak when you look out your window to a nauseating greyish-yellow haze. We can't even have casual conversations about the weather anymore, because most of the time, they're depressing.
The green industry has been harping on the idea of "resiliency" for a while now.
Years, even. It's really within these last twelve or so months that "resiliency" has resurfaced as a buzzword, and it really never has been more poignant.
While our normal territory for plant shipment falls on this side of the Rockies, this week, with the fires ravaging acres and acres of forest and field alike throughout the Pacific Northwest, it feels important to bring awareness to this ongoing issue - and how it's directly related to and impacting those of us on the Eastern hemisphere of the continent.
It's been a few weeks that I've wanted to write about the mysteries of dragonflies and damselflies, but I've held off for the "right moment", whatever that means.
Well, right at the end of pollinator week, this seemed to be it. Dancing around our namesake pond, fairylike wings glittering in the late morning sunlight, dragons and damsels can be found hunting with both an urgency and a playfulness unlike most other insects. Although not intentional pollinators, dragons and damsels occasionally transfer pollen from plant to plant by way of their natural movement: flitting serendipitously from leaf to leaf on the prowl for a meal.
It was no contest who was getting the spotlight this week. Our smooth hydrangeas are in full bloom, from the production houses to the nursery gardens. More enticing than the pleasantly fragrant flower clusters, though, is the parade of critters found bumbling about the individual inflorescences. In no longer than ten minutes, I managed to spot various native bumble bee species, honeybees, ichneumon and brachonid wasps, hover flies, mimic flies, sweat bees, both pink-spotted and Asian lady beetles, and even an American Copper butterfly (Lycaena phlaeas) which effortlessly alluded my attempt at photographing it.
After my complete and utter failure with Polygonatum commutatum last week, which my brain confidently insisted was actually Podophyllum peltatum, I'm coming into this week's newsletter humbly begging for your forgiveness and offering a forecast of upcoming plants to look forward to down the road (aka summertime) as penance for my wrongdoings.
Anyway, while most of these plants won't be ready until August and September, we're still pretty excited about them and wanted to get you in the spirit for fall planning & planting.
Click the get notified feature on our website to be one of the first to know when these great selections are available (wholesale customers only, sorry).
Somehow, we've made it to the last week of spring, even though it's felt like true summer for a while now. Fruit has begun to appear on shrubs and trees. Things have fully leafed out, unless they bit the dust during the bout of random mid-spring freezes. Some things seem to be absolutely thriving this season, despite the snow, drought, high winds, or random heat waves followed by random overnight freezes. These are the plants that seem to continue carving a niche out for themselves as the weathered warriors of the Anthropocenic Hellscape we inhabit.
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.
We're trying a bit of a new format this week.
Instead of hammering you with information in word-form, we're gonna try a more visual format instead. Of course, you'll still get some verbiage because I simply can't help myself from waxing poetic, but who doesn't love some pretty diagrams that don't make your brain feel like it's melting out of your ears? I'd love your feedback.
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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