The tall asters that dominate my front garden used to be known to dirt gardeners and botanists alike as “asters.” Botanists and plant taxonomists now call them Symphyotrichum, a name that makes simple plants sound complicated and inaccessible. Everyone else still calls them asters. I hope the plant taxonomists will take the hint and rescind the name change.
No matter what you call them, my asters, a variety called ‘Andenken an Alma Potschke’ (usually shortened to the somewhat more euphonious ‘Alma Potschke’), are beautiful. This is not because of me. All I did was plant the first one years ago. It and its descendents self-seeded with wild abandon and now there are scores of them.
When I look out at the swathes of ‘Alma Potschke’, I see genetic diversity in all its glory. The original plant had rose pink flowers. Many of the offspring have them as well. Others feature blooms in shades ranging from pale pink to nearly purple. Most are similar in height—about three to four feet tall—but that is because I chop them back by one third in early summer to keep them medium tall and floriferous rather than gargantuan and spindly.
I love the variations and even though asters are alarmingly prolific, with growth habits that are at odds with garden discipline, I only grub out enough seedlings to keep them from taking over.
The bees, butterflies and skippers love the asters and when I stand in the plants’ midst, I feel the insects’ life and vitality surging around me. And it will live on, because when the local beekeeper harvests his fall flower honey, my asters will be part of the flavor mix.
This is why I garden.