I love the big, bumptious, fast-spreading asters in my garden. There is ‘Alma Potschke’, often written about and even more often spotted in every single one of my garden beds. I know she is officially an “it”, but calling her “she” seems more logical. ‘Alma’ self-seeds as if she thinks extinction is just around the corner. Despite that, who could not love her? She is tall—growing over five feet high when deer don’t shorten the stalks—and flowers in shades ranging from medium pink to dark magenta. The many individual blooms open over a long period, so ‘Alma’ can shine forth for a couple of weeks before giving up the ghost for the year
Only slightly less vigorous than ‘Alma’ is Aster frikartii ‘Monch’, which is smaller, bearing three-foot tall mounds of small, bright blue flowers with golden centers. ‘Monch’ actually features arching stems, which create the attractive mounds. Like ‘Alma’, it has expansionist tendencies, though the expansion generally comes from the outgrowth of the original clump rather than be rampant self-seeding. I divided my ‘Monch’ last year because it had completely outgrown its allotted space in the front garden. This year, the new back garden specimen is showing signs of growing as quickly as its parent. In a few more years, I will have clumps of ‘Monch’ in between the many stands of ‘Alma’.
This year, though my affection for the big asters is undiminished, I find myself drawn to their smaller wild cousins. These are the asters whose species names are a secret shared only with their botanist friends—and even those friends sometimes find themselves stumped. All over the yard, the asters peek out from under the hedges, brave the inhospitable zone behind the garage and stand defiantly in front of the overgrown holly trees. Usually they grow only twelve to eighteen inches tall, with a plethora of tiny flowers in either white or pale blue. Valor is a given. In so many places, including my yard, they must compete with the seasonal wave of boneset–Eupatorium perfoliatum–an aggressive spreader that sports fluffy-looking flowerheads composed of scores of tiny white blooms. I yank out most of the bonesets when I see them; I never yank out a wild aster.
In the shady part of the garden, a few plants of the white wood aster—Aster divaricatus—sprout in small numbers. Its flowers are spindly and sparse looking, befitting their status as a semi-shade plants. Sunnier spots see species like the slightly more robust-looking small white aster—Aster vimineous. My favorites are the exquisitely small flowers of a species with pale blue blossoms. I am not sure of its name, but it could well be a naturally occurring hybrid “planted” by a bird who ate seed in a neighbor’s yard or a nearby untended area. I love them all in bouquets, but am careful not to pick too many, for fear of preventing self-seeding. If only they could take a lesson from ‘Alma Potschke’.
The little wild asters have been rechristened in the last twenty years or so, along with some of their cultivated brethren. Plant taxonomists, having given scientific consideration to the origins of various asters, decided that the American natives should be separated from their non-native kin. That resulted in the non-natives remaining in the Aster genus and many of the Americans reassigned to the genus Symphyotrichum, an ungainly name for a lovely group of plants. Needless to say most people still call the whole crew “asters”.
Of course, there are some large wild asters as well, and they are much in evidence in the northeast where I live. The New England aster, formerly known as Aster novae-angliae, is three or four feet tall, with branching stems full of dramatic blue-purple flowers. It is a parent of many of the fashionable cultivated varieties, including ‘Alma Potschke’.
The New York aster—Aster novae-belgii—is also relatively large and large-flowered, but generally favors moist or marshy places. It too has been widely hybridized. Students of Latin will note that the species name means “new Belgium”, not “New York”. This is because settlers from Europe’s low countries got here ahead of those from England. The flowers that were here to greet them were named accordingly.
This year I let the large asters hold sway in the garden and pick the little wild ones for the house. Though beautiful, they are not showy; though stalwart, they don’t put on airs. Their quietness mirrors my own feelings as the hours of daylight wane.