Saving the Japanese Plant Manual

Summer Festival by Yusuke Nagamine (Haruko's father)

My wife and I both realize and fundamentally accept the need – or at least the wisdom – to downsize in our lives...to rid ourselves of that which is not necessary. Oh, to be sure, I still retain art on the walls, hundreds of books on the shelves, beloved photos and well-wishes from all of my five children, all the memorabilia that comforts and sustains me as I age, grow ancient and ponder what has passed. I suppose it is a human inclingation to retain the stuff of life, that which defines who we once were, or at least who we had hoped to be.

With my encouragement Haruko gathered numerous bags and boxes of books that we wished to be done with, half of them written in Japanese and the remainder in English. They will ultimately go to the local library, to the Portland-area Japanese school or to Goodwill...but, at least, out of our house. What an epic achievement! – to accumulate, then to relieve ourselves (our shelves) of prior mementos. The term for these relatively brief “memories” originates from the Latin verb meminisse which means “to remember,” while memento mori suggests “a reminder of mortality,” where we'll perhaps be completely relieved of our possessions.

But wait a minute! One book on the top of the refuse pile had been on Haruko's crowded kitchen shelf for a dozen years or more. It was a plant photo book, an encyclopedia I supposed, but I dismissed it because it was written totally in Japanese which I'll never be able to decipher. It arrived in America by a fresh, enthusiastic intern, but after slogging through long days of tedious manual labor at Buchholz Nursery, I doubt that she ever looked at it either, so she gave it to Haruko rather than lug it home. Haruko never employed it, for her go-to plant manual was the handy pocket book that got her through a Tokyo University degree in landscape architecture, and which she often grabs when trying to answer my tree queries. Haruko's discard, she explained, was too large and unwieldly to be user friendly so she never consulted it. That reminds me of my 1600-page Oxford English Dictionary where one requires a servant to hold and turn pages, while perusing word origins with a magnifying glass...which has all been replaced now by the internet.

Acer macrophyllum

Helianthus annuus

I paged through the old intern's tree book, impressed with the outstanding photographs, some of which presented a full-sized tree from the wild. Many of us can take close-up pictures of leaves, trunks, flowers and fruit, but the array of quality images of the total tree is seldom encountered. I wish I could plagiarize a few for this blog, but alas all of the photographs are from my camera.

Cornus florida in Tokyo

Pinus strobus

All of the trees are listed in Japanese, but fortunately the genus and specific epithet is then rendered in English, as well as an English index, so I could at least know what I was looking at. I turned at random to page 22 where I found Pinus luchuensis, a species I have never grown. My Hillier Manual of Trees and Shrubs (2019) describes the “Luchu pine” as “A rare, small to medium-sized tree with smooth, greyish bark. Leaves in pairs...Japan (Ryukyu Islands).” Hmm, probably not hardy for me, as the islands extend for 700 miles southwestward from Japan's southern island of Kyushu to northeastern Taiwan. But what surprised me on the same page 22, was photographs and a description of Pinus strobus, an east-coast American species, and what was that doing in a Japanese tree encyclopedia? The answer, which I had discovered much earlier, is that the Japanese literature often presents species if they are used in Japan, whether native or not. For example, you will encounter the American native Cornus florida used as a street-tree in Tokyo, rather than the Japanese native Cornus kousa.

Cycas species

Ginkgo biloba 'Nana Horizontalis'

Another matter that concerned me was why the Pinaceae appeared so early in the tome, and clearly nothing was advanced in alphabetical order. Without the index you would page endlessly to find a certain tree, for the book begins with Cycas revoluta, then to Ginkgo biloba, and ends with the Compositae such as Pertya glabrescens and Chrysanthemum nipponicum on page 719. Another non-user-friendly presentation if you ask me! Haruko – honeee – help me here, explain what's up with your damn book. My wife trotted out from the kitchen with serving spoon in hand, to translate and explain. She quickly surmised that this book, as well as many Japanese plant reference books, presents the species in the order of their evolutionary emergence, not in alphabetical order. Ah, so that's why it begins with Cycads, followed by Ginkoaceae, then soon thereafter with the Pinaceae. Wow – this reference book is deeper than I had first imagined.

Platycarya strobilacea

Platycarya strobilacea

Platycarya strobilacea

The “walnuts” (Juglandaceae) also make an early appearance, and one of my favorites is Platycarya strobilaceae, and I grow a beautiful specimen in the Flora Wonder Arboretum. I learn from Hillier that it was first described by Siebold and Zuccarini, and is native to Japan, China, Korea and Taiwan. You only encounter it in a few arboreta but I'm fascinated with the “Conspicuous and distinctive cone-like fruits.” Indeed. It was introduced in 1845 by Robert Fortune, the stealthy Scotsman who pilfered tea plants (Camellia sinensis) and tea-making information from China – as his primary purpose for the East India Company – but who also introduced many other ornamental species such as Pseudolarix amabilis, Trachycarpus fortunei and Rhododendron fortunei.

Carl Ludwig Blume

Viburnum furcatum

Viburnum furcatum

Viburnum furcatum

Viburnum furcatum

Beautiful photos of Viburnum furcatum appear near the end of the book, and the large woodland shrub is native to Japan and Taiwan. White flowers emerge in May, according to Hillier, “in flattened, terminal corymbs, surrounded by several sterile ray flowers, resembling a lace cap hydrangea. A beautiful species of elegant charm; an excellent woodland plant.” I first encountered the species at Arboretum Trompenburg in Rotterdam, and it imparted a warm glow in their dark, soggy October landscape. The specific epithet is from Latin furcatus due to its branching “like a fork,” and was thus named by the German botanist Carl Ludwig Blume in 1858.

Mahonia japonica

Mahonia japonica 'Hivernant'

I suppose Mahonia japonica is my favorite of the many species in the Berberidaceae family; certainly Haruko and the evergreen shrub look good together. Known as the “Japanese Mahonia” due to its cultivation there for centuries, it is actually native to China, another of the many appropriations that the book presents. In flower (light yellow now), it always attracts hummingbirds, those cute little creatures that can turn quite feisty as they vie for territorial rights. After flowering the greenish grape-like berries mature to blue-black and are enjoyed by birds, but my single specimen is sparse on fruiting, and I wish that long ago I would have had the foresight to plant a hedge of it, but I don't have the patience now. Mahonias can look raggedy at times, kind of like they're half dead. That is the draw-back of the genus, but I have learned that you can cut them completely back to the ground and they'll resprout afresh. Some botanists suggest that Mahonia is more properly included in the Berberis genus, especially since some species in both genera can hybridize, but I'll retain Mahonia because I dread the project to change all of my labels.

Betula ermanii 'Fincham Cream'

Betula ermanii 'Fincham Cream'

Betula ermanii 'Fincham Cream'

Betula ermanii 'Grayswood Hill'

I have a modest Betula collection at Flora Farm consisting of a dozen or so species. Most are named with the same identification when I acquired them long ago, but I know that the taxonomy has changed in recent times. For example my wonderful tree of B. costata 'Fincham Cream'* is not listed in the Hillier Manual of 2019, although suggestions are made that a number of B. costata cultivars actually belong to the B. ermanii group, though the latter listing does not include 'Fincham Cream'. The RHS Horticultural Database – the same outfit that produces the Hillier Manual – says B.c. 'Fincham Cream' is a synonym of B.e. 'Fincham Cream'. B. ermanii is from China, but can also be found on Mount Hakkoda, N Honshu, Japan, according to Hillier, and Haruko's book has some excellent photos.

Fincham Hall

Leonard Maurice Mason Gravesite

*Named from the late Leonard Maurice Mason's arboretum at Talbot Manor, High Street, Fincham, a village in northwest Norfolk, England. Mason was a wealthy farmer of 6,000 acres but his hobby was tropical plants such as orchids, bromeliads and begonias, and later in life he was awarded the Victoria Medal of Honour. His headstone was adorned with images of foliage and bears the inscription “A Great Plantsman.”

Carl Maximowicz

Betula maximowicziana

Betula maximowicziana

Betula maximowicziana, the “Monarch birch,” is a Japanese native that possesses the largest leaves of any birch. How appropriate that the “Monarch birch” was named by Eduard August von Regel (1815-1892), a German horticulturist and botanist who eventually became Director of the Russian Imperial Botanical Garden, and in Regel's career he described and named over 3,000 plant species. The specific epithet honors Karl Maximowicz (1827-1891), the Russian botanist also honored for the Japanese maple, Acer maximowiczianum, the “Nikko maple,” one not to be confused with Acer maximowiczii which was introduced from China by E.H. Wilson in 1910. Hard to keep track of all that! In any case, the “Monarch birch” is a variable species, so one should probably propagate by grafting or by cuttings of an improved form. Most gardeners would prefer a pure white trunk over one that is grayish. I find many birches at their most attractive in winter when the leaves are out of the way, but B. maximowicziana puts on a spectacular show in autumn with brilliant yellow foliage.

Daphniphyllum himalaense ssp. macropodum

Daphniphyllum himalaense ssp. macropodum

Daphniphyllum himalaense ssp. macropodum

Daphniphyllum himalaense ssp. macropodum 'Variegated'

Daphniphyllum himalaense ssp. macropodum 'Variegated'

I have grown Daphniphyllum macropodum from seed for a number of years, but there's not much of a market for it however. That's hard to explain for it is an elegant evergreen species with Rhododendron-like leaves. In recent years the cognoscenti dubs it D. himalayense subsp. macropodum, which is a lot to cram on a label, not to mention that we use it as rootstock to graft a variegated form with a dubious cultivar name of 'Yellow/White' or sometimes one sees it as 'Variegata'. I think our variegated cultivar ultimately originated from Akira Shibamichi, the noted Japanese plantsman who I revisited last November. Mr. S. speaks no English and I no Japanese, so my poor wife is stuck in the middle. What is clear is that the old geezer loves Haruko and flirts with quips and jokes, most of which are not translated for me. I would love to spend a day or two with him in the company of a neutral translator, and attempt to document his experience and source information for a large number of interesting plants that only he seems to know about. Perhaps an earnest Japanese horticulturist could accomplish that, and if young and female he would ramble on and on to her. Hillier's 9^th edition (2019) does not mention a variegated form, maybe he is waiting for a 10^th edition to do so. He does say that the species itself is native to China, Japan and Korea, and that it was introduced to cultivation in 1879 by Charles Maries while he toiled for the Veitch Nurseries of England.

Daphniphyllum teijsmannii 'Snow Country'

Daphniphyllum teijsmannii 'Variegated'

Daphniphyllum macropodum is included in Haruko's plant encyclopedia with attractive photos, and so is another species, D. teijsmannii, but the latter is absent from the Hillier manual, perhaps because it is not deemed hardy in Britain. I have never grown the straight species, but I was gifted an attractive variegated cultivar of D. teijsmannii by a former intern; and both plants had been propagated by grafting. I asked Haruko to translate the book's chapter to get a feel for what information was contained. Most of it was dry stuff about plant structure and size as you would expect in a manual, but she did learn that the species is native to warm coastal regions. Furthermore, it is used in floral decorations, as in wreaths, for New Year's Day celebrations, kind of like we use Poinsettia in America. Not having the D. teijsmannii rootstock to propagate with, we tried rooted cutting four or five times in summer under mist, but with absolutely no success. I kept my two large specimens in a warm greenhouse for over a decade, but then I sold one to Sebright Gardens in Oregon, as I reasoned that I didn't need two stock plants of what I can't propagate. Sebright owner, Thomas Johnson put his outside in his arboretum where it has survived for the past two years. He is a more cavalier gardener than I, and I admire that he takes chances where I am hesitant. I intend to visit his collection every spring, and I hope to find the variegated Daphniphyllum still thriving.

Euscaphis japonica

Euscaphis japonica

Euscaphis japonica

Euscaphis japonica is included in the Japanese encyclopedia, but once again it is absent in the Hillier Manual, and the omission is odd since it is listed as hardy to USDA zone 6 (-10F). I keep one in an unheated greenhouse where it takes up way too much room. Haruko's book contains another boring description, and overall I would say that the Hillier Manual is the far more interesting of the two reference books, though it lacks any photographs. Haruko's book does not mention that Euscaphis japonica is known as the “Korean Sweetheart tree” and that it is also native to China. The North Carolina State University's website says,“This is a J.C. Raulston [the late] Arboretum introduction and it is rare to find one in cultivation. J.C. Raulston discovered the Korean Sweetheart tree in 1985 on the Korean Peninsula while participating in a U.S. National Arboretum collection expedition.” What is not clear is whether it was new to science, or merely new to the United States. The generic name is from Greek Eu meaning “good” – as in Euonymus – and scaphis meaning “a vessel” on account of the seed pod. Indeed the fruit pod resembles the Euonymus genus, and though a brilliant red in autumn with a solitary, shiny black berry, it is a tree that I doubt that I could sell. Too bad – I like it – and it has been suggested as a good addition to a winter garden because of the attractive purple-brown bark with white striations.

Well, enough; maybe some day I'll do a Part II about Haruko's Japanese manual, or maybe not. What I do know is that it went from Haruko's shelf to the recycling box...then onto my self where I intend to keep it.