For generations the Iris has held a
peculiar hold on people. Those of us with ancestors in the temperate
zone of Europe, most of North America, and the dryer regions of
Africa and Asia--and, of course, Australia and New Zealand--those
ancestors grew bearded irises primarily. Generation after
generation, families grew irises that originated on the sunny
perimeter of the Mediterranean or the mostly dry Middle East. These
"flags" grew under a variety of names, some highly
descriptive (such as the dimunitive I. pumila), some so
romantic that even Shakespeare would gush (such as I. florentina,
the source of the fabled orris root, used in cosmetics to this day),
and some names are mysterious--at least until their history becomes
known. (The so called "cemetery iris" is a good example.
Botanically known as I. x albicans, the cemetery iris is a
lovely white flower that adorns burial grounds throughout those
portions of the world conquered by Muslim forces. The ghostly
flowers flutter in the breeze, serving as a beautiful reminder of
those who have gone before us.)
In more recent years gardeners have
discovered the remainder of the iris universe, especially what we
call beardless irises, and in particular the Louisiana irises
from North America. Beardless irises usually (though, alas, not
always!) offer the tremendous benefit of being strong of
constitution, resilient and, most notably, free of the scourge of
rot! Plus, these beardless irises, the Louisiana irises in
particular, are beautiful to behold, with a natural grace and charm
that has to a large degree disappeared from the excessively
hybridized bearded irises.
The name "Louisiana Iris"
originated with the famed naturalist and artist John James Audubon.
In the 1820s, while living in Louisiana, Audubon painted a pair of
Parula Warblers. And, as Audubon was prone to do, he included some
local flora in the background--in this case a tall and radiant
specimen of I. fulva . In his notes, Audubon referred to the
flower as a "Louisiana Flag," and in so doing he coined the
name by which we still know this iris and its relatives.
1
We speak of the Louisiana iris, but
actually this name applies to a grouping of related species called a
series in botanical parlance. The iris genus (let's
think of it as a “grouping” of related species for
simplification purposes) is a huge one, comprising some 200+ species.
These species range from tiny little I. danfordii, a bulbous
iris native to Turkey that blooms in very early spring on stems no
taller than three or four inches, to I. pseudacorus, a
robust giant of six feet that has become a noxious weed in much of
the world. To bring order if not reason to this disparate genus,
botanists and taxonomists, have grouped the irises into various
divisions. We have already mentioned the great divide known as
bearded vs. beardless, but it is further subdivided into series.
The Hexagonae Series
Species: Iris
hexagona
The five species that comprise the
Louisiana irises are given their own series name, the Hexagonae.
The series takes its name from the first of the species to be named
in a journal of botanical recognition. I. hexagona was
recorded in 1788 by one Thomas Walter, a Hampshireman who published
just before his untimely death at age forty-nine, a book titled Flora
Caroliniana. This iris was reported from coastal Georgia, South
Carolina, and Florida; it possibly extended into the Gulf of Mexico,
perhaps as far west as the swamps around the mouth of the Mississippi
near modern New Orleans. It is an attractive iris usually described
as "blue," but actually it has a goodly amount of lilac in
the flowers that are up to four inches wide. Stalks, normally no
taller than 36 inches and often shorter, are usually straight but
sometimes slightly zig-zag.
Species: Iris fulva
An exciting addition to the iris world
came in 1812 when J. B. Ker-Gawler, a British botanist and the
subject of a scandalous adultery trial, published a description of
I. fulva. This iris, in addition to being painted by Audubon, is
famous for the rusty-brown color it brought to the series. Often
referred to as the "copper iris," I. fulva has to
be seen in flower to properly appreciate its dusky red coloring. In
the tall bearded iris world a dark brown with slightly reddish
undertones is generously referred to as "red." The red of
I. fulva is, when at its best, exactly the opposite: a dark
red underlain with a hint of brown. On top of that, the better
selected forms of I. fulva have a sheen about them, giving
the flowers the texture of deep velour. Stalks are normally about
two-to-three feet tall, usually straight but sometimes with a zig-zag
form. Through the years iris fanciers have collected specimens of
unusual colors, including a fine yellow.
2
I. fulva has a wide
distribution, being found in middle and lower ranges of the
Mississippi River Valley, including Illinois and Ohio where the
winters regularly see low temperatures below zero degrees F.
Species: Iris
brevicaulis
The least imposing garden subject
among the Hexagonae is the species I. brevicaulis.
Described in 1817 by Constantine S. Rafinesque, I. brevicaulis
is a veritable dwarf--with ten-to-fourteen inch bloom stalks. The
stalks, which normally have a pronounced zig-zag pattern, are often
held in contempt for their tendency to lie prostrate upon the ground.
Regardless of any shortcomings, I. brevicaulis offers a
pretty flower, usually blue but sometimes white, and it is known for
its winter hardiness. Like I. fulva, I. brevicaulis is native
to a large expanse from the Gulf of Mexico to the snowy reaches of
Indiana. This species has been used to produce winter hardy
Louisiana irises.
Species: Iris
giganticaerulea
As the name implies, this species is
the giant of the series. I. giganticaerulea, despite its
imposing size, was not described until 1929 when Dr. John K. Small of
the New York Botanical Garden registered several species he had
discovered.
3
While none of the other irises afforded species status by Dr. Small
have held up to intense botanical and taxonomic examination, I.
giganticaerulea still shines brightly in the Hexagonae
firmament.
Sometimes reaching six feet in height,
I. giganticaerulea is a truly imposing iris. Imagine a
clearing deep within a cypress swamp, and suddenly shafts of sunlight
illuminate vast drifts of this blue species, its rigid stalks
hoisting large six inch flowers of the most wonderful blue, lilac,
lavender, and on to pure white. Signals are often large and brightly
colored, providing a nice contrast. This iris is found in a narrow
band along the gulf coast of south Louisiana and east Texas. This
limited range is a hint of the cold tender nature of this beautiful
iris.
Species: Iris nelsonii
The fact this wondrous species was
ever identified is quite a miracle. Discovered in the late 1930s by
W. B. Macmillan and given the name I. nelsonii in 1966 by
Professor L. F. Randolph, this iris was found in a limited range near
Abbeville, Vermilion Parish, Louisiana. For years it has been the
subject of considerable taxonomic debate, but the consensus seems to
be that it is a hybrid between I. fulva, I.
giganticaerulea, and I. brevicaulis. A hybrid, yes, but a
stabilized hybrid and thus worthy of species status.
4
The "Abbeville Reds," as the
finer specimens of this species were called, brought great excitement
to the iris world--and new genes into the breeding of hybrid
Louisiana irises. Like I. fulva, I. nelsonii is
reliably winter hardy through much of the United States.
The Age of Collecting
No one knows who first collected the
species and their hybrids collectively known as the Louisiana irises.
We can well imagine American Indians delighting in the beauty of
these irises, and perhaps growing them along the meandering banks of
rivers where villages were often situated. Without a doubt the early
French explorers, hunters, and trappers noticed the irises of the
waterways. It is truly ironic that the Louisiana irises we know
today are so identified with the French-speaking Acadian culture of
coastal Louisiana, for these were the sons of a country where the
fleur-de-lis is inextricably linked to the national culture.
Although a review of the literature
turns up nothing on specific irises collected by the "Cajuns,"
as they are affectionately known, there is some evidence of Louisiana
irises being collected from the wild and planted in gardens before
the Civil War. By the time W. R. Dykes published his great treatise
The Genus Iris in 1913, he had already bred two hybrids of I.
fulva X I. brevicaulis (named 'Fulvala' and 'Fulvala
Violacea'). This was quickly followed by E. B. Williamson of Indiana
who made the same cross and produced the beautiful 'Dorothea K.
Williamson,' a distinctive blue of robust species form that looks
classy today just as it did in 1918 when it went on the market.
5
Another Englishman, Amos Perry, bred ‘Margaret Perry,’
but he is most important for popularizing Louisiana irises in
Britain.
All of this activity is mere prelude,
for it took an energetic and stoic New York botanist to put Louisiana
irises on the map. His name was Dr. John Kunkel Small, and to this
very day Louisiana iris specialists still speak of him with reverence
and wonder. Small, a scholar with a Columbia Ph.D. in botany, was a
genius. As an undergraduate he published a pamphlet on the mosses of
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, his home state. In 1901 Dr. Small
ventured into Florida to conduct field work for his employer, the New
York Botanical Garden; for the next thirty years he had a botanical
love affair with a state not yet ruined by urban sprawl and
commercial agriculture. And during all this time Small was
researching irises of the southeastern United States.
Small found Florida captivating, but
he described south Louisiana as the "iris center of the
universe." On a train trip through the New Orleans area he was
astounded to observe veritable fields of irises flashing by as he sat
stunned in a speeding train. Soon he was driving around southern
Louisiana in a Ford Model T dubbed "the Weed Wagon,"
collecting in his own inimitable fashion. Small was a man who would
not hesitate to wade up to his waist in a Florida waterway in order
to free his stranded boat; on other occasions he could be old
fashioned, even formal. In one particularly evocative photograph,
Dr. Small is shown dressed in coat and tie while collecting seeds of
I. giganticaerulea. Imagine the heat of that August day in
Louisiana, no hint of a breeze to disturb the mosquitoes, and the
perspiration dripping, dripping down his well-clad back.
6
In 1931 Small named a veritable
menagerie of new "species," forty-one altogether, including
the seductive I. vinicolor, a "species" Small
described thusly: "The flowers of the blue types are beautiful,
those of Iris fulva are odd; those of Iris vinicolor
are exquisite."
7
It was indeed a beautiful iris, but the problem was in its status as
a new species. The same could be said for all the other species he
placed in the I. hexagonae series--excepting the stately I.
giganticaerulea. In the end, a fellow collector and
professional herpetologist by the name of Percy Viosca, Jr. published
a masterful analysis of Dr. Small's taxonomy of the Hexagonae.
8
Small's reach had exceeded his taxonomic grasp, Viosca concluded.
However, this hard working New Yorker did much to attract national
attention to the irises native to the Southeast. The lowly "swamp
irises" were finally getting some attention from the gardening
public.
Amateurs and Their Contributions
Like the British and many Europeans,
North Americans have a tradition of dedicated if not pathological
devotion to natural history. One of the earlier plant explorers was
William Bartram, like his friend Benjamin Franklin, a Philadelphian.
In more recent years the Louisiana irises have attracted the
attention of a cadre of admirers, a number of whom were avid
collectors in the years following Dr. Small's introduction of
Louisiana irises to the national public. The late Joseph K.
Mertzweiller of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, himself a pioneer in
developing tetraploid Louisianas, has written of the role played by
amateurs: "Following the work of Small some 20 years passed
before hybridizing really came of age, but this was not a static
period. It was the most important period of collecting."
9
Small was an unusual scholar for he
not only published in the professional botanical press, such as
Addisonia, but he also felt a mission to share his passions
with a larger public. His articles in the Journal of the New York
Botanical Garden were written with an appealing mixture of
scholarly authority and horticultural enthusiasm. In 1931 he
published heartfelt appeals to save "the vanishing iris,"
by which he meant the beardless irises of the lowlands--the same
areas in Florida and Louisiana being drained in a frantic effort to
"develop" the economically depressed South.
In the minds of many people,
especially gardening enthusiasts who lived in the "Cajun
Country" of south Louisiana
10,
Small's appeal was a clarion call to action. In Mary Swords
DeBaillon the Louisiana iris found someone who had Dr. Small's
promotional skills if not his academic degrees. Mrs. DeBaillon, who
lived in Lafayette, the defacto capitol of the far-flung Cajun domain
of coastal Louisiana, was a woman of storied enthusiasm and
indefatigable energies.
At her home near Lafayette Mrs.
DeBaillon assembled a huge collection of native irises, including
many she collected herself. Here's how W. B. MacMillan, himself a
legend in Louisiana iris circles, recalled his first meeting Mrs.
DeBaillon:
"Fortunately, I had
the advantage of meeting Mary DeBaillon in a camellia garden a short
distance north of Jacksonville, Florida. She had heard of our
discoveries in Vermilion Parish not far from Abbeville, of an
apparently new type of native iris which quickly became known as the
Abbeville Reds, now Iris nelsonii. She was quite eager to see it and
invited me to come to her place some two or three miles beyond the
outskirts of Lafayette. Perhaps you can imagine my amazement when I
first saw Mary and Dan DeBaillon's spacious home and beautifully
landscaped surroundings covering several acres. Mary was pampering
some camellia grafts that she had made herself, though she was well
advanced in her last illness. When I had explained more fully about
those Abbeville Reds, she was in our yard the next day with her
chauffeur, a spade for digging, wrappings and boxes for collecting,
plus a heavy blanket for a pallet when the pains might strike her as
they did before she was through that day."
11
Mrs. DeBaillon died in 1940, but not
before she managed to distribute Louisiana iris plants far and wide.
A network12
of her friends traded both rhizomes and seeds. W. B. MacMillan tells
of one encounter with Mrs. DeBaillon while visiting her home. At the
end of the day his host gave MacMillan "a small bag of Iris seed
taken from her finest plants but she had not identified specific
pods. They were shelled and all together; so we will never know what
produced 'Bayou Sunset' and 'Aurora Borealis'...."
13
These two irises became early standouts, and 'Bayou Sunset' was the
winner of the DeBaillon Award in 1949.
The death of Mrs. DeBaillon seemed to
spur on further work among other amateurs. Significantly, she left
her iris collection to a respected naturalist, Miss Caroline Dorman,
proprietor of Briarwood, a 100-acre nature "preserve" in
north central Louisiana. Miss Dorman immediately began evaluating
the irises, and over the following years introduced at least eighteen
irises under the name DeBaillon-Dorman. But greater things were to
come.
Society for Louisiana Irises Formed
On May 18, 1941 a group of Louisiana
iris fanciers, collectors, and a scattering of academics met to
consider organizing a society to promote Louisiana irises. J. G.
Richard, an Extension Horticulturist stationed at Louisiana State
University and a friend of Mrs. DeBaillon, suggested naming the
society after the late Mrs. DeBaillon, and "the very
representative and enthusiastic group of people" voted to create
the "Mary Swords DeBaillon Louisiana Native Iris Society."
A month later the president of the new
Society, Abbeville businessman and discoverer of the Abbeville Reds,
W. B. MacMillan, circulated an invitation to charter membership in
the Society. He outlined general plans for the Society, including a
desire to classify "the various types and colors." He also
called for the Society to identify and document all named varieties.
Happily, he reported that the Southwest Louisiana Institute (now the
University of Southwest Louisiana) had become the home of a "more
or less" official Society plant collection. And equally
happily, he concluded with the hope that the DeBaillon Society could
work cooperatively with other iris organizations, including the
American Iris Society.
14
Transformation into an organization
with by-laws might have threatened the spontaneity of this jolly band
of latterday William Bartrams or John Kunkel Smalls, but the
historical record indicates just the opposite. For years after its
formation, Society records indicate the group opened its circle of
friends to newcomers. Plantsmen like Sam Caldwell of Nashville,
Tennessee came to the Society's annual gathering with expectations of
not only meeting with iris fanciers, but also venturing into the
swamps to collect the now-threatened irises. This invitation to
adventure, held the constant possibility of stepping on a cottonmouth
snake or, much worse, tangling with an alligator. The tours offered
the veneer of danger, an experience that modern day irisarians can no
longer reasonably expect.
15
The Society had the misfortune of
organizing during World War II when shortages meant that annual
meetings were expensive even if austere. The members usually
gathered in mid-April in the darkened confines of the Evangeline
Hotel in Lafayette. First time visitors to the annual meeting and
show were amazed at the greenness of the Lafayette area during
the rampant months of spring. Saturdays were spent inside the hotel
in meetings and, in the afternoon, viewing the iris shows. Walking
through the show rooms with the ceiling fans gently whirring,
visitors were astounded at the beauty of these native irises.
Occasionally someone would enter a new
variety in the show and cause a stir among the attendees. In 1947 a
"dainty yellow named 'Jolie Blonde'" stole everyone's
attention.
16
The public welcomed these shows, and the Society was always eager
for publicity. In 1945 the annual meeting of the Mary Swords
DeBaillon Iris Society was filmed by Fox Movietone for national
showing, and Society members viewed it at the Jefferson Theater in
Lafayette.
In 1948 the organization changed its
name to the Society for Louisiana Irises, and at the same time issued
the first "Mary Swords DeBaillon Award" for the best
Louisiana iris cultivar. By 1950 the young society had over 200
members, including people in Europe, South Africa, Australia, and New
Zealand. Clearly, something was going on.
17
Part of the success for the
organization and the movement it served was the leadership of
Professor Ira S. "Ike" Nelson, who came to the Southwest
Louisiana Institute in 1941 to teach horticulture. But teaching was
only one interest of the many-talented "Professor Ike." He
was the first secretary of the Mary Swords DeBaillon Iris Society,
and in that capacity he served as the coordinator for the
organization and thereby gave it stability. He also knew how to work
physically, so every year he staged elaborate iris shows; at least
once he created a replica of a swamp, and another show featured a
reproduction of a Cajun cabin! Mrs. Katherine Cornay, writing in
1946, could promise a grand convention in Lafayette: "We can
also promise you trips into the vast beds of native irises where you
may feast your eyes and collect to your heart's content. Then, too,
there will be Cajun food, Cajun people, and a Cajun welcome, all of
which we believe you will enjoy."
18
Not every convention was free of
mishap. The very success enjoyed by the Society in promoting these
natives irises had the unintended consequence of attracting unsavory
characters. In 1947 the Society issued a letter of condemnation to a
commercial dealer in Lafayette who had used the Society's annual tour
to locate the shrinking beds of wild irises--on which the stinker had
"wrought carnage." Society President Hamilton Robertson
concluded: "Such conduct ill befits any right thinking citizen
and to lovers of natural beauty it is de[s]picable."
19
