Don’t believe the experts. Summer doesn’t start with any solstice. It starts when the martagon lilies begin to bloom.
The martagons aren’t like most other lilies. They have a different form, with swirling whorls of leaves at a couple of strategic locations along the stem. The head of tiny buds sits at the top of the plant for a long time, then all of a sudden the plant sets off separate branches, so that every bloom gets its own dropping showcase. It has a kind of Christmas-tree shape and a Christmas kind of feel because its blooms are so sprightly.
The flowers are commonly known as turk’s caps, because they hang down in that shape. The name martagon apparently comes from the Turkish word martagan, which is a kind of turban.
In the breeze, the flowers waft back and forth gently and must often must be staked.
Martagons are especially valuable to the gardener who must contend with shade, because they actually prefer that setting.
When I was a child, my grandmother’s cottage garden was a spectacular array of lilies of various sizes and shapes. But the martagons always stood out. She had white ones with yellow stamens, yellow (then called Mrs. Backhouse, now called Brocade) and a dark red-brown called Dalhansoni.
By the time my interest in horticulture finally progressed beyond mere admiration of someone else’s labour, there were still a few martagons straggling through the “jungle” at the back of the garden. They were rescued, eventually put in the right spot in a shady new section in front of the garage. Now they are the stars of the show each June.
Through a wonderful nursery in Neepawa, Manitoba called The Lily Nook (www.lilynook.mb.ca), numerous lilies, including martagons, have been restored to Peg’s garden.
A portion of the winnings of the Super Bowl pool a couple of years ago was illicitly invested in a martagon called Black Prince. The price tag was $60 for a single, fist-sized bulb. The purchase was illicit, because (don’t tell) it was not specifically mentioned to the person with whom I share my life. Slipped my mind in the euphoria of the post Super-Bowl celebration I guess.
It was impossible to tell the first year whether the Prince was still with us, as martagons tend to be slow starters.
He was toasted with a dry martini (Broker’s gin if you must know), and great sighs of relief, when his inky-purple blooms finally appeared last summer.
Old photographs prove that it would be impossible to surpass the breadth and colour of my grandmother’s passion for lilies, but we try our best and for a couple of weeks each June, the martagons pay their own special, bobbing tribute to her.