Perennials that die to the ground each Fall (which is most but not all of them) have to start from the ground-up again each Spring. If getting taller and taller is on your agenda (sometimes it isn't, as with the dwarf Solomon Seal that started this series), that means bigger and sturdier growth the taller you want to go. Unless you've realized that you can lean on your neighbors on the way up. Then you don't need to put as much energy into all of that bigger-and-sturdier growth, because you can borrow it from your friends.
Here, then, is just such a Solomon Seal,'Siberian Group'.
It's narrow flexible stems feel outward and upward for support that (true) I haven't yet provided. I'll partner this with a sympathetic "ballet boy" plant—one that's eager to stand there patiently while hoisting the more exciting ballerina ever higher.
Look at how Siberian Group gets and keeps ahold: The ends of the needle-like leaves elongate and curl into gentle hooks and handles....

...ready to accept the assist, willing or not, of anything nearby.
'Siberian Group', then, is a willowy sister of Blanche DuBois, also depending on the kindness of strangers.
Oh yes, Vivien, you've got more company than you know.

Ah, climbing hydrangea. The best and certainly the easiest of the really hardy vines. Sun or shade, even deep shade.  Any soil as long as it's not too dry.  As easy as autumn clematis, which is inevitable, almost ineradicable.

But climbing hydrangea is (or will be after another few years) a monster. For smaller spots, and to impress not only your horto-snob friends but also your non-gardening friends, plant this variegated climbing hydrangea instead.

"Mirranda" has yellow-edged leaves that are at best a third the size of the monster's. And she is not (at least for me) in any hurry. Mine is at the bottom left of a large well-cap stone that I mounted (or rather, paid guys with machinery and know-how to mount) on a heavy stand.
My hope is that she'll eventually "discover" the rock and start climbing with more speed. (Climbing hydrangea—indeed, any plant that climbs—has a sense of touch. When any piece of it determines that it's in contact with something to climb upon, that piece grows faster and therefore higher than all the rest.  It's found the way up to the greater sun, so deserves the reward of being the first piece of the plant to get there.)

Maybe this is the year Mirranda will grab ahold of my well-stone.


I would be thrilled to have the vine all over the wellstone, duking it out with the modest wisteria (Amethyst Falls, for another post) that's at the right and top. Mirranda top to bottom, stem to stern. What a fantasy, and one that I'm likely to have to wait five years or more to realize.