The American chestnut tree has dominated Eastern forests for centuries, but it almost disappeared when a foreign blight was introduced in 1904. Scientists have been trying to breed blight-resistant trees and recently planted several at the New York Botanical Garden, just steps from the blight's origins over one hundred years ago.
Ken Druse puts together "recipes" for your garden—whether you are looking for a Midwest prairie, a collage of trailing vines, a woodland nook, or a night-blooming palette—showing what to plant for each theme. Each garden "recipe" is captured in these beautiful images by Ellen Hoverkamp. The images are not only stunning, but practical—Druse and Hoverkamp put ground covers at the bottom, shrubs in the middle, and trees at the top.
The Hersonswood nursery garden has been sold to the Port Gamble S'Klallam Tribe, which had its ancestral land on the garden's property. The tribe will preserve the historic gardens and educate the members and public about native plants.
Australian plants are like the ultimate self-sacrificing mother: They give and give (certain trees can reach 20 feet in just a few years and flower for six weeks or more) but ask so little in return. (Fertilizer? Rain? If you insist.) Their fantastical forms, however—including sculptural, hairy, or waxy blooms in neon colors—are anything but matronly.
Portland's Rose Society was founded in 1889, and the city's collection of hybrids, floribundas, and grandifloras has been growing ever since. In 1917 the International Rose Test Garden opened as a testing ground for new varieties of roses. Some of its first plantings were rose refugees from Europe during World War I. Today, over 10,000 plants and 550 species slope towards the city's downtown horizon.
The world's largest treehouse is a 97-foot-high chapel in Crossville, Tennessee. Minister Horace Burgess began building in 1993; today, he continues to make improvements and repairs with salvage wood and repurposed materials. It's a popular place for Sunday services, weddings, and, swinging on an 80-foot tall tree.
A flower's demise is a slow process—unless you're photographer Jon Shireman, in which case it happens with a quick pivot and a smash. He immerses his flowers to stiffen them, then flings them against a hard surface. The shattered remains are beautiful.