Would a sedum by any other name be so cute? Timber Press includes tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands of plant names in our books every year. Plant names are constantly changing, being challenged, and being debunked; yet there is no real final authority on plant names like a Supreme Court. Plant names either survive or fade based on how convincing the argument of their sponsor when a plant is published (as for botanical names) or chosen by the breeder or selector (as for horticultural names). There are codes to govern how the names are published and promulgated but this only cuts down on the confusion a little bit. (I won’t even get into patent or trademark names, which would make you completely nuts.) If you’re convinced that California fuchsias are really from genus Zauschneria, you really can’t be called incorrect even though most people now accept inclusion in the genus Epilobium. As long as your name was published validly once, even if that were 100 years ago, you can’t really be wrong, although you can certainly look a little foolish and old fashioned.

This is all a way of saying that perfection is impossible, but we try our best. Our readers might enjoy one rabbit hole we chased down concerning the correct name of Sedum burrito, which is mentioned in Debra Lee Baldwin’s wonderful Succulent Container Gardens. Debra appealed to succulents-expert Fred Dortort, who also happens to be the author of an upcoming encyclopedia. If you’re not a plant geek, you can stop reading here, but if you’re like us, you’ll find his account gripping and edge-of-the-seat reading:

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I love houseplants. Particularly the long draping ones that hang over bookshelves. I love the way houseplants can make a room feel more fresh and interesting, and add a nice touch of green.

Recently, I’ve been struggling to keep my plants alive and happy. My problems are threefold — here they come!

Rubber monsters add a touch of the wild to your domestic plant.

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People everywhere are starting seeds these days, and over the course of the next few weeks, I’m going to be starting some seeds too. Hooray for seed starting season! Over the weekend I sorted through my seed collection to asses what I need to buy, what I should toss, and what I can keep.

You know how you’re supposed to throw away your spices every once in a while, because they don’t last forever? (Yeah, I don’t know anybody who does that either.) Seeds are the same way — they don’t last forever, and it’s really, really hard for me to accept that and move on.

Here are my seeds (do not be distracted by the butter dish, pineapple, and cake in the background.)

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Last year at this time, I had fond dreams of growing sweet peas that would climb up the railings of my front porch and fill the air with sweet scents. I would have a chair on the porch, of course, and sit there with a cup of hot lemon tea on warm spring mornings. Everything would be perfect.*

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Sunday was one of those rare sunny winter days in Portland. Birds were chirping, the kids were riding their bikes in circles, and I decided to tackle some front yard clean up.

My house’s former owner had quite a green thumb—come spring my front yard will be a fun mix of vegetables, fruits, ornamental grasses, and perennials. On Sunday morning it was a soggy, overgrown, and under-pruned mess of fallen leaves and barren branches. I looked around and realized it was all up to me now. This yard is mine and I can either take up where the former owner left off or become that yard on the street that everyone whispers about.

So I began to clean up. I cut back perennials, trimmed the grasses, and raked the leaves. I cleaned out the unknown mess that had taken over one of the containers on my porch and made room for the succulents I plan on putting in it. I’m dedicating the next clear weekend day to recreating these this design found in Debra Lee Baldwin’s new book, Succulent Container Gardens.

In the end, I filled an entire compost bin with yard debris and I didn’t even step into the backyard, which is quickly becoming an unappealing jungle. But my front yard is no longer hiding in shame, and I’m actually excited to do some more work.

Growing up, we were considered to be the country mice of the extended family as we lived on a one acre plot about 45 minutes from the “big city.” All of my cousins, aunts, and uncles lived on medium sized suburban city lots, and it was just understood that we lived in the wild, though my family religiously mowed the lawn at least once a week spring through fall.

Our huge expanse of a front yard was mostly lawn, as was our back yard, and even though we had fir, cedar, and fruit trees placed sporadically about, our street was about as suburban as you can get in the middle of the country.

It wasn’t until I moved to a small suburban apartment complex with an almost perfectly manicured lawn and grounds that I began to realize the similarities between the two places and started wondering what truly is wild.

In comes William Robinson — with Rick Darke — and The Wild Garden. William Robinson pioneered the naturalistic gardening style in Britain (home of the perfectly manicured lawn and sculpted boxwoods), and his style continues to influence gardeners across the globe today.

Timber author Rick Darke updated Robinson’s classic with gorgeous new photography, and some introductory chapters, and he has recently written an article for The American Gardener magazine that describes exactly “What is Wild?” (Link goes to a PDF.)

William Robinson and Rick Darke have shown me that you don’t have to live in the country to have a naturalistic, “wild” space.

Fern over at Life on the Balcony wrote a post in December about her gardening resolutions for 2010. Seemed like a good idea to me, so I’m going to follow suit. Yes, I am a bit late, but what’s wrong with a few late resolutions? I can’t really get much planting done for another month anyway. Now’s the time to set impossibly high standards for myself.

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At the beginning of the year, I finally took the time to do some much-needed garden cleanup. It felt good to get out of the house and futz around with plants.

Portland went through a few spells of cold weather in December, and most of my vegetables froze and then thawed into mush. Since then, the mush had rotten into Uck. Some nice colors, though.

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This guest post was written by David Deardorff and Kathryn Wadsworth, authors of What’s Wrong with My Plant?, and originally appeared on their blog.

Our fingers are stiff with cold. It is winter here in the Northwest. David picks up his end of the measuring tape, and a hundred feet away, I pick up mine. We walk ten feet downslope and lay the tape on the ground again. Steamy clouds of our breath hang in the air. Dry leaves and twigs crunch underfoot. David turns on his recorder and walks across the slope toward me. He records the name and size of every plant the tape touches.

“How’s it look?” the landowner asks. She stands beside me and is concerned. A year ago, the bluff on which her home sits started sliding toward the beach. Saturated by heavy winter rains the glacial till became unstable and slumped. Afraid her house might fall into Hood Canal she called on us to help her manage runoff, re-establish appropriate native vegetation and stabilize the slope. Today, we conduct line-intercept transects along permanent monitoring points to see if any movement has occurred in the last year. If the land is moving, then the plants will have shifted position.

“So far, so good,” David responds. “Nothing has moved.”

The woman smiles in relief.

David slowly rewinds the meter tape onto the yellow spool. “The beach strawberry is doing a great job of stabilizing the slope. The mix of other perennials and shrubs we selected are providing good cover.” He bends over to examine the small plants at his feet. “And I see a dozen new starts of your alumroot. Looks like volunteer seedlings.”

The small-flowered alumroot, Heuchera micrantha, is native to the Olympic Peninsula. It is an evergreen, low maintenance perennial that is a valuable parent of numerous superstar hybrids.

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I’ve bought a house. A small bungalow built in 1926 that is the perfect size for me, my husband, and our future English Bulldog, Rondo (who does not yet exist, but is to be named after the point guard of the Celtics). And now that I am an official homeowner, I no longer have any reason not to garden. Especially considering the yard I’ve inherited.

One or both of the prior owners clearly enjoyed a little digging in soil. The front yard is a great mix of a tiny patch of grass, a few tufts of native ornamental grasses, several colorful perennials (roses, bleeding hearts, dahlias, and stuff I don’t know the name of), succulents, and herbs. I think I’m going to maintain much of what is already there, through I’d like to pull up a few of the grasses to make room for more succulents and I’d like to replace one side of the grass with a raised bed.

The backyard is where I plan to change the most. Though it is beautiful, I think it’s a little overplanted. I’d like to remove several things to make room for a new raised bed. I’m also planning on taking out the water feature—I am never relaxed or peaceful enough to appreciate a calming flow of water. And, I think the rain in Portland is more than enough. There is already a wonderful area full of peppers, tomatoes, beans, corn, and more veggies that I am going to leave alone (and hopefully not kill). We also have a cold box that is currently occupied by weeds. I don’t know what we’ll put in it yet, but I was thinking lettuces or maybe a few herbs.

I’m going to do my best to document the trials of my first garden. I promise to share the good and the bad and everything that happens in between. Lucky for me, I have access to the full Timber Press library to gather information from along the way…

P.S. These pictures were obviously not taken this month. If they were taken this month they would much more barren, much less green, and — thanks to a little Holiday weekend yard work — much more cut back.