Hatiora Rosea

Day 235: We could debate the taxonomy all day. The currently accepted nomenclature for this cactus is Rhipsalidopsis rosea, with Schlumbergera rosea and Hatiora rosea listed as synonyms. It was Hatiora when I first learned it shortly after the internet became "a thing" and I was able to research the plant after cultivating it for a decade or so, and thus it became "Hattie" for short. Some of my plants have nicknames like that: Fitch (Hoya fitchii), Knob (Ceropegia woodii), Bella (Hoya bella). Hattie earned her moniker when she bloomed after spending years as a tangled mass of prickly stems. She'd been known as my "Swedish Christmas cactus" before that, solely because I'd been given a slip by a Swedish friend. Then, as I mentioned, the internet came along and I was able to determine her real name: Hatiora rosea. However, her name was not carved in taxonomic stone, or else taxonomic stone is in the same mineralogical category as talc. In any event, the next time I looked up "Hatiora rosea," she'd undergone a name change. Neither "Schlummy" or "Rhippy" suits her, so Hattie she remains.

My Yellow Bloomers

Day 129: Wanna see my yellow bloomers? Here they are: Huernia zebrina and (where did we leave off with those damn taxonomists on the Latin?) an encore from the Christmas cactus. My crafts room/loom room faces south and offers one small window for a cactus shelf. It's cooler back there in the wintertime, which is exactly what many cacti need to come into flower. If not engaged in a weaving project, I have been known to miss flowering until withered blooms had fallen to the floor, but as a general rule, when the shelf's occupants decide they want to put on a show, they are moved to the fireplace mantel where I can admire them until they fade. For those of you who may remember the horticultural experiment involving two varieties of Christmas cactus begun over two years ago, Yellow is still holding on to one of the seed pods, and I am patiently waiting for it to mature. The second seed pod dropped without forming seed. I have greater hope for the second, although whether the seed will be viable remains to be seen. Even if it is, I cannot guarantee that the hybrid will even bloom.

Out On Display

Day 35: They...those...them things... (hold that thought...we'll come back to it in a moment) have been brought out from the weaving room where temperatures tend to be a little cooler in spring and autumn than in the rest of the house, conditions ideal for setting their annual blooms and remaining true to varietal colour. If given too much light or warm nights, the yellow and white types tend to blush pink, and the crimson and scarlet ones lean more closely to one another in hue. I refer to my collection as "the Dragons," with abundant manes and long tongues so like those ornamenting the head of the mythological Chinese beast one sees in parades. Whether they are "Christmas" cacti or "Thanksgiving" cacti is partially a function of photoperodism, i.e., the duration of daylight. Nursery plants are usually forced to bloom in time windows relative to either holiday and are released in batches accordingly.

And now we come to it: are they Zygocacti or Schlumbergeras? Here I must admit to a certain stubborn retrogressive attitude because they were one of the first plants whose scientific name I learned. I must have been all of seven or eight years old at the time, and thought that "Zygocactus" was a wonderful word even though it failed to impress any of my peers (a situation quite common to my childhood). I had not yet discovered the fluidity of taxonomy or I might have been on the alert for the change which came some time in the mid-50s when "Zygocactus" became obsolete and the genus was re-merged with the Schlumbergeras, from which it had been separated in the late 1800s. I went merrily through most of my adult life calling them "Zygocacti," and even now, slip back into the old habit although I know better. "Zygocactus" is still used by many growers as a common name (NB: "common") for these low-maintenance holiday favourites.

Hybrid Seed

Day 265: Some of my readers may recall that in November 2019, I brought out my little paintbrush to tickle the flowers of a white Schlumbergera (Zygocactus) until they released pollen. I transferred the pollen to two receptive flowers on a yellow Schlumbergera and sat back to await results. By early December, the ovaries of the yellow plant had begun to swell. By April, they had begun to turn pink, indicating that they were ripening. One dropped about a month ago while still somewhat tender, so I let it lay until it had dried out thoroughly, and on July 1, I cracked it open. It contained roughly two dozen tiny black seeds which I planted in a mix of potting soil and sand.

Years ago, my husband conducted a similar experiment. As I recall, his craving for results caused him to harvest the pods before the seeds were mature; in any event, those he planted never germinated. In this case, I think the pod may have fallen prematurely despite the appearance of the seeds. The second pod is still attached to the plant.

Horticulture does not bring the instant gratification so desired by many. It is an exercise in patience; plants progressing through their cycles recognize only their own urgencies and cannot be rushed. Can you stand the suspense?

The Inside Story

Day 222: Outside, my flower beds are blooming lavishly, but my houseplants are telling an inside story. Huernia zebrina (Lifesaver Plant, center) is putting on a stellar show, one star already gone nova and several hovering at the event horizon of a botanical Big Bang. The ... for the moment, let's just call them "Easter cacti," shall we? ... have a profusion of buds and flowers in various stages of development. This brings us now to the rabbit hole of taxonomy, and down we go.

Once upon a time, there was a genus called Schlumbergera. It belonged to the tribe of Rhipsalideae, and its extended numbers included a wide variety of leaf and flower forms. All members of the tribe were more or less epiphytic, which is to say that they liked to grow on trees or rocks, rather than having their roots directly in soil. During the late 1800s, the differences in form led to the creation of a second genus (Zygocactus), into which many of the Schlumbergeras were reassigned. Those which bloomed at Christmas were called Zygocactus; those blooming at Easter remained Schlumbergera. In the mid-1950s, the two genera were recombined, but the name Zygocactus had come into popular use and remains a common name for the Christmas-flowering species to this day (emphasis: I said "common name"). Now enter Hatiora, and another subject of much debate. According to some botanists, Hatiora deserves a unique genus. Others protest that it should remain among the Rhipsalideae.

If I were to make a list of taxonomic synonyms for Christmas/Easter/Hatiora cacti, it would probably achieve critical mass and cause a meltdown. Suffice to say that the different flower forms of the winter vs. spring bloomers supplies me with visual justification for calling Christmas cacti by their common name Zygocactus or scientific name Schlumbergera (not shown), Easter cacti by either Schlumbergera or Rhipsalidopsis as the mood suits me ("Scorpius" shown left), and delicate Hatiora rosea (right, optionally Rhipsalidopsis) by "Hattie," just because she's cute.