I love snowdrops, those wonderful harbingers of spring. While I am not a “galanthophile” who goes gaga over the slightest variations in snowdrop markings, I have been slowly amassing a collection of different varieties over the years. I bought most of mine from the Temple Nursery, a tiny concern in Trumansburg, New York, operated by Hitch Lyman, a true gentleman, as well as being a galanthophile, and a great plantsman.
The Temple catalog used to be hand-lettered, but now it is typed. There is no order form, and the only acceptable payment is a personal check. To order you type a letter stating your bulb request, enclose a check for the requisite payment, and wait for mid-spring delivery. When the bulbs arrive, they are enclosed in a manila envelope. A brief note from Hitch is inside, encouraging you to plant the snowdrops immediately, along with the little plants, which are wrapped in damp paper towels that are, in turn, swathed in bubble wrap and secured with a rubber band.
The snowdrops are delivered this way because they were harvested “in the green”, just as they finished blooming in Trumansburg. While snowdrops can be grown from dormant bulbs planted in the fall, planting “in the green” is the best way to ensure success.
My collecting process has been slow because Hitch’s individual rare varieties are very expensive and in limited supply. Most years I can afford between one and three bulbs. Fortunately snowdrops seem to like my garden and many of my singletons have multiplied, eventually forming clumps. From time to time I divide the bigger clumps and spread the snowdrop largess to other parts of my property. I grow some relatively tall specimens—up to eight inches high—and smaller ones. Some sport relatively large single flowers, while others bear smaller double blooms. The green petal markings, which are best viewed close-up, vary from variety to variety. Some even have yellow markings and yellow ovaries at the bases of the flowers. Most are fragrant, and some are extremely so. To my nose the blossoms smell of honey. The early bees evidently think so as well.
The most common snowdrop is Galanthus nivalis, which is native to Europe and southwestern Asia. The stems are generally about six inches tall, with the flowers nodding from slender pedicels atop each stem. Each flower has three outer petals—known botanically as “tepals”, and three shorter inner petals. The inner petals are marked in green.
When single snowdrops, like Galanthus nivalis, are fully open, I think the outer petals look like wings. “Fully open” happens when the sun is shining. At dusk the flowers close up, waiting for another day.
You would never know it to look at them, but snowdrops are part of the amaryllis or Amaryllidaceae family, just like the holiday amaryllis or hippeastrum that brightened many of our homes during the darker months. Denise Wyles Adams, in her wonderful and comprehensive book, Restoring American Gardens: 1640-1940, notes that the first American citation referring to Galanthus nivalis dates to 1737, which means that the plants arrived with early settlers. Establishing themselves in colonial gardens, some jumped fences and naturalized in fertile American soil. A double-flowered snowdrop, Galanthus nivalis ‘Flore Pleno’, was mentioned by pioneer Pennsylvania nurseryman John Bartram in 1735. ‘Flore Pleno’ is still available today, and my garden is home to at least one clump.
I am very fond of the muscular—at least by snowdrop standards—Galanthus elwesii, which was introduced in England in 1875, and migrated to the United States sometime afterwards. It stands tall among the common snowdrops and looks lovely in small indoor arrangements, where it is easier to see the green markings. I am entranced by ‘Polar Bear’, an elwesii variety with three outer petals that are almost fan-shaped. The variety is only available in bulb form, but I may succumb to temptation and order some for next fall anyway.
The largest concentration of galanthophiles, some of whom might even be accused of glanthomania, is in the British Isles, though a number of people like Hitch Lyman have brought degrees of galanthophilia to this side of the pond.
Not all snowdrops do well in all locations, but generally they like decent soil in full sun to part shade. I grow them at the bases of deciduous trees and shrubs, because the snowdrops have flowered and mostly disappeared before the trees and shrubs are fully leafed out. Because of that ephemeral tendency, it is a good idea to mark or take pictures of the spots where they grow for reference when you are planting in summer and fall.
The news about galanthus is especially good for those of us plagued by deer. The four-legged varmints may accidentally step on your snowdrops, but they are unlikely to chomp on them.
If you are a snowdrop novice, see if you can acquire some “in the green” at a plant sale, or from a friend who is dividing established clumps. Absent those opportunities, try Brent and Becky’s bulbs at 7900 Daffodil Lane, Gloucester, VA 23061; (877) 661-2852; www.brentandbeckysbulbs.com. Print catalog available.