January 27, 2026 Giuseppe Verdi, Felix Gillet, Jean Kilby Rorison, Cultivating Sacred Space by Elizabeth Murray, and Rafflesia

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Today’s Show Notes

Late January has its own kind of quiet. Not the hush of fresh snow, but the steady, unshowy silence of things holding their shape.

In the garden, this is a month of endurance. Roots working without applause. Branches imperceptibly changing. The outdoor world takes in the smallest shifts in light and temperature, preparing to awaken and grow.

Today’s stories carry that feeling forward: a composer who needed the country to write, a nurseryman who made abundance from stripped ground, and a flower so strange that it took science nearly two centuries to decide where it belonged.

Today’s Garden History

1901 Giuseppe Verdi died.

Verdi is remembered for opera houses — for thunder and tenderness, for music that fills a room long after the last note has gone. But he did not live his life in velvet seats and gaslit foyers. He chose his beloved countryside.

After success came early, Verdi returned again and again to the land near his birthplace, settling at Villa Sant’Agata — a working estate, not a retreat. There, he became a farmer. He supervised orchards and fields. He planted trees. He worried over the weather and the water. He wrote letters about crops with the same seriousness he brought to composition.

He once said he did all his writing in the country — that there, somehow, everything arrived at once, and he was more contented.

At the villa, he woke at dawn and walked his land like a daily litany, checking fields, minding irrigation, lavishing attention on his horses. Some mornings included a small sailboat on the water. Then back to the piano — kept close, in his bedroom — and back again to the garden, the rhythm interrupted only by black coffee and the occasional visitor in the evening.

Someone once marveled that he could practice agriculture and composition with equal intensity. Verdi’s answer was simple: one restored him for the other.

In his operas, nature is never decoration. It is moral ground. In La Traviata, the camellia becomes a fragile marker of time — cultivated beauty already beginning to fade, a bloom that must be read before it is gone. Forests shelter the outcast. Gardens suggest an order that can collapse. Storms arrive without permission. Human lives unfold inside these landscapes, never above them.

Verdi also moved through public life — civic roles, patriotism, the complicated work of nationhood — but he never disowned his farming origins. If anything, he cherished them.

When he died in Milan, the city turned his private wish for simplicity into public grief. Crowds gathered. Bulletins were posted hourly. The procession felt like the passing of a head of state.

And today, in gardens, Verdi is remembered another way; in the tulip that bears his name. Tulip ‘Giuseppe Verdi,’ a Kaufmanniana tulip sometimes called a waterlily tulip, opens wide in the sun and closes again at evening, as if keeping its own small hours. Low to the ground. Early to bloom. Yellow lit with crimson markings. Foliage that looks lightly brushed or spotted — a compact flame of spring arriving before the season thinks it is ready.

1908 Felix Gillet died in Nevada City, California.

Felix arrived in America in the 1850s — French-born, sea-traveled, a man who began with a barbershop and ended with a nursery that helped shape the West.

In 1871, he established Barren Hill Nursery, a name that admitted what the land had become: barren, scraped down, unforgiving. The ground had been stripped to bedrock by hydraulic mining. No softness. No easy fertility.

And still, Felix planted.

He imported scion wood and young trees — walnuts, filberts, chestnuts, figs, prunes — and then he watched, tested, and trialed. Neighbors were astonished by how he irrigated, carrying water in bucket by bucket. Not romantic. Just devoted.

His nursery stock traveled everywhere — into the Santa Clara Valley, into Oregon’s Willamette Valley, into farms and homesteads that would feed generations. His introductions and selections still echo through agriculture today, in walnuts and hazelnuts, in grapes and prunes, in orchards that keep bearing long after their planters are gone.

Felix wrote constantly as well. His catalogs were filled with detail, questions answered, practical knowledge offered plainly, as if his work belonged to everyone.

In Nevada City, traces remain: street names, old stone gates, plaques, and fruit trees — fruit trees now more than a century old — still doing what they were planted to do.

Unearthed Words

1941 Poet Jean Kilby Rorison died in North Vancouver, British Columbia.

Her family and friends called her Jennie. In her poem “Flower Bells,” she wrote:

Spring will bring her floral bells
She’ll set them all ding-donging,
The erythronium on the hills,
The gaily dancing daffodils,
The wild blue hyacinth that fills
All English hearts with longing.

Spring in my garden by the sea
Does not shilly-shally.
For soon will come the blossoming time
The sweet o’ the year, the golden prime…

This is the kind of verse January can bear. Not because it is spring, but because it remembers. Because it insists the bell will ring again.

Book Recommendation

Cultivating Sacred Space: Gardening for the Soul by Elizabeth Murray

This is a quiet, unusual garden book — less about what to plant and more about what a garden can hold.

Elizabeth Murray approaches the garden as a place of private meaning: a threshold, a sanctuary, a living room without walls. She looks outward to traditions that treat gardens as contemplative spaces, to pilgrimage gardens like Giverny, where planting becomes atmosphere, and to the moss gardens of Kyoto, where time feels slowed on purpose.

But the heart of the book is practical in its own way. It asks what creates a sacred feeling in a space.

Is it an enclosure — a hedge, a wall, a stand of shrubs that makes a garden feel held?

Is it a path — the gentle insistence of moving forward, even in a small yard?

Is it a single object repeated with care — a bowl that catches rain, a bench placed where light lands, a tree planted for someone who is gone?

In late January, when planning begins to outpace planting, this book offers a different kind of design question: not what will impress, but what will console, what will steady, what will remain meaningful even when nothing is in bloom.

Botanic Spark

And finally, here's something sweet to ignite the little botanic spark in your heart.

2007 The Albuquerque Journal ran a story about a plant that had spent nearly two centuries refusing to fit neatly anywhere in classification.

The headline read:

“‘Bizarro’ Plant Finds Spot on Family Tree.”

The plant was Rafflesia — a flower without stems, without leaves, and without proper roots. Its bloom smells like something dead and grows startlingly large.

Since its discovery, Rafflesia baffled classification. It did not resemble its supposed relatives. It barely resembled a plant at all. And then, with DNA-based research, scientists finally placed it — not among the grand, showy families where imagination might send it, but into an order with thousands of species, and, most surprisingly, near lineages known for small flowers.

It was the kind of result no one would have bet on.

And that is the tenderness in it somehow. Because even this oddity — this outsider flower, this rule-breaker — still has a place in the family tree. Not because it is large or dramatic or extraordinary, but because it belongs.

Nature does not require resemblance in order to offer kinship. Somewhere, deep in the living world, there is room — even for the bizarro bloom.

Final Thoughts

Late January reminds us that the work we repeat is often the work that lasts.

Some things grow slowly. Some only show their value after we are gone. There is room in the garden for many ways of growing, even the ones that take time to be understood.

Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener.
And remember, for a happy, healthy life, garden every day.