Flora Wonder Blog: November Bluster

Many of us wondered if the world was truly ending last June (22^nd, 2021) when a heat dome developed over the Pacific Northwest, when temp records were smashed to a huge degree – pun intended. Yes, we scorched and were subdued by the infernal power, but those of us in agriculture/horticulture learned important lessons about the endurability of certain species and cultivars. Many plants succumbed in the 116F Big Fry, others cringed...but managed to survive mostly intact, while some cracked a wink and wondered what was the big fuss. The latter seemed to say, “We love the Hots as long as you give us enough water.”

Acer palmatum 'Sango kaku'

In any case our world was over-warm, all probably the fault of the previous Trump Administration. Perhaps it was the heat-stress that produced an exceptional fall-color season, since thriving, luxurious deciduous trees often do not shine in autumn, as if a summer struggle is required for best performance. But sadly this year's splendid fun was short-lived as blustery wind and pelting rain blew most foliage out of sight. I and a number of visitors clicked digitals one day, aimed at our humongous Acer palmatum 'Sango kaku' (48 years old); like we had died and gone to an orange heaven, but the next day the leaves had flown...down the road.

Cercis canadensis 'Black Pearl'

We receive a finite number of seasons – never enough, especially since mine are mostly gone – but this nurseryman is spoiled more than the typical city slicker, for I have gathered the best species from around the world to humor myself while I grind out a living. Let's take a look at what I found this short fall, for I definitely feel I've received my money's worth.

Decaisnea fargesii

Decaisnea fargesii is a multi-stemmed deciduous shrub from China and the Himalaya, and I have one planted at the southern end of the nursery, and I suppose my original start is now about 40 years old. The species is commonly known as “Dead-Man's Fingers”* since the metallic-blue bean pods are weirdly squishy and liquidous, but I wouldn't know – I've never handled a dead man. The pulp inside the bean – but not the seed – is somewhat sweet, and in its native lands it is a food source. In Sikkim in the Himalayan foothills I saw baskets of pods, but the locals (Lepcha tribe) couldn't fathom my interest in them so I didn't learn much. I wanted to know if the latexy gum was eaten straight, or if it was mixed with rice or something else to be more palatable. Our office manager Eric Lucas sampled the “fruity” liquid and discovered that his lips were stuck together, as if pasted with a super-glue. I was fascinated, but didn't want to duplicate his experiment. Aficionados of horticultural history know that the generic name honors Joseph Decaisne (1807-1882), the French botanist who was director of the illustrious Jardin des Plantes in Paris, while the specific epithet honors the French missionary Pere Paul Guillaume Farges (1844-1912) who discovered the species in China. The two photos above were taken 10 seconds apart and obviously from different angles, but I'm impressed that the plant is rendered so photographically different depending on the available light. The image closest to this text is my favorite due to its impressionistic obscurity, which is more or less how I'd describe myself should I ever write my autobiography (which I won't).

Decaisnea fargesii

*Also known as the “Blue Sausage Bush.”

Lindera obtusiloba

Lindera is a genus of deciduous shrubs/small trees that, frankly, will never rate on anybody's top list of essential garden inclusions. I guess that's because the flowers aren't much, at least individually, but en mass some of the one hundred or so species can display an impressive cloud of color, especially with L. obtusiloba from China, Korea and Japan. At one time named Lindera cercidifolia Hemsley for its roundish leaves, nevertheless it presents three distinct lobes. The interesting orbs turn butter-yellow – not sort of, but really Yellow – in autumn. Back to the spring flowers, though, for L. obtusiloba's puffs of simple light yellow are remarkably similar to those of Cornus mas, the “Cornelian cherry,” and besides they both flower in our garden at the same time (March). Every year I cut a twig of each and bring them into the office and challenge my light-weight computer-nerd paper-pushers to identify them. They groan and ignore my annual challenge...wishing that I would leave them alone, but I do it because I can't tell one from the other either. I repeat to myself, “Ok Buchholz: Cornus left hand, Lindera right, Cornus left, Lindera right.”

Lindera species

...But then there's other Lindera species, a hundred I said, though all of them lesser known than L. obtusiloba. So lesser known that I don't know one from the other either. I acquired various species from niche-shrub vendors – L. umbellata, L. rubronervia, L. glauca and L. erythrocarpa as examples, but I could never keep them straight without their identification labels, and since my mindless crew was far less than diligent I will never be able to accurately identify the shrub above. Our resident beavers aren't at all concerned, as every few years the branches are gnawed to the ground, whatever their nomen. Well, it sprawls at pond's edge and I can't blame the rodents' urge to eat or make their houses with the brush. The Lindera genus was named by the Swedish naturalist Karl Peter von Thunberg (who was an “apostle” of Linnaeus) and he named it for his contemporary Johann Linder (1676-1723), a Swedish physician and botanist.

Ginkgo biloba 'Autumn Gold'

Also at pond's edge are three Ginkgo biloba 'Autumn Gold', in a little section labeled the “Ginkgo Corner.” All three of the alleged-male clone produce seed – they've gone fruity one could say. I've written about the phenomena before, and I've read a little about ginkgoes' trans inclinations, but no one in the Flora Wonder readership has ever commented about the male trees producing seed. Three out of three, no less. I like the novelty of it, especially since the 40-year-old culprits with their smelly fruits are at the far edge of the property where no one usually goes.

Ginkgo biloba 'Variegata'

Keeping the 'Autumn Gold' company is one tree of Ginkgo biloba 'Variegata', a “group” according to The Hillier Manual of Trees and Shrubs (2019) that is “slow-growing and very prone to reversion.” Sir Harold Hillier's son – I guess Robert – visited the nursery about 20 years ago; he was with a British plant tour group, but I didn't know he was present until they were ready to board the bus and leave. He seemed to enjoy our collection, but mostly wanted to ask about my variegated ginkgo. I told him its story, that it reverted completely – not just a branch or two, but the entire tree. One spring it leaved out completely green, all of it, when the previous spring it was full of cream-white portions on nearly every leaf. I gave it 5 or 6 years, then planted the damn thing down by the pond. After existing devoid of variegation I made the comment to more than one plantsman that “once 'Variegata' reverts it will never come back.” But lo and behold, a small branch did sprout with a rich amount of variegation, so the color juice was still in it. I cut off the green portion completely a couple of years later, and though a somewhat misshapen branch-tree, it remains variegated to this day, and I invite any Hillier to come see it. But not today – all of the leaves are gone.

Sassafras tsumu

Leaves are also gone on my one specimen of Sassafras tsumu (or tzumu) but they were a brilliant orange-red two weeks ago. Strangely Hillier's Manual only lists the American Sassafras, albidum, but I've seen its Chinese counterpart – known as Cha mu – in various collections and it is plenty hardy in Oregon. To my untrained eye the two species look identical, but I've read that “molecular data supports some differences,” and furthermore, S. albidum (from eastern USA) is dioecious while S. tsuma is monoecious. Both species can display one, two or three-lobed leaves, but tsumu supports more three-lobers than S. albidum. According to the J.C. Raulston Arboretum, the quirky S. tsumu: “On occasion, typically male plants will put out some female flowers and form fruit...” just like with my free-flowing Ginkgo biloba 'Autumn Gold'; and guess what: both genera can be found down at the Ginkgo Corner. What a crazy/fun place that is?! As I have implied before I love the world's mix-ups – for they keep our imagination/reality on its toes.

Viburnum opulus 'Aureum'

In the same “crazy” Corner is an old specimen of Viburnum opulus 'Aureum', a bush I love but one I doubt that any of my employees or most of my customers have ever noticed or would be able to identify. Why? – why I have developed such a life with an obsession for obscure plants I don't know, but maybe you can fathom for yourself from the photos above. Hillier says that the “water elder”* is a large vigorous shrub with maple-like leaves “which colour richly in autumn.” Of V. o. 'Aureum': “A striking form of compact habit with bright yellow leaves. Tends to burn in full sun.” My bush didn't burn at all in our 116F summer-inferno, and I suppose that's because it is sited in partial shade in a location with an upper water table...just to its liking. I wonder about its future though, because I can't be its protector forever, and while I'm confident that it will out-live me, will the new owner(s) ever notice it?

*The specific epithet opulus is from Gaulish opoplos for “maple,” possibly from Proto-Indo-European oku-olo meaning “sharp.”

Betula nigra 'Fox Valley'

In autumn I usually have fun with Betula nigra 'Fox Valley', both for its prominent, rustic trunk and also for its fantastic leaf-colour patterns, Yes, two are planted in the same general area as the shrubs mentioned above...in a corner where I appreciate to grow trees amongst the natural thickets. In fairly deep shade by the Cold Creek Rivulet I'm amused that both foxes lean very northward as they attempt to capture any southward sun. What an awkward situation, to lean...until eventually toppling over I suppose. I acquired 'Fox Valley' many years ago, then later another “River birch” cultivar, 'Little King'. But I was fooled because apparently we have two trade names for the same tree.

Phytolacca esculenta

I've grown the American “Pokeweed,” Phytolacca americana, and also the Asian version, P. esculenta. The specific epithet esculenta simply means “edible” or “good to eat.” But not so fast, my friend, since only young leaves should be used (like a spinach) for they become toxic with age. I planted the two species next to each other for I wanted to see for myself how they would differ, but the American species failed to emerge one spring. P. esculenta has thrived in the moist humus in the shade down by Cold Creek for 20 years, but I grow the perennial only for looks, not for food or medicinal purposes. The small berries ripen to shiny black in autumn, and I was careful that my children should stay away from them because I didn't know what effect they might have. My pokes were sited near our native Sambucus, which is S. nigra subsp. cerulea and when the kids asked if the elderberry was edible (it is) I said no, “Never eat anything black!” The common name of pokeweed is derived from the Virginian Algonquin tribe uppowoc, then later the poke was a shortened form of puccoon, the name of a plant used for dyeing, and indeed the berries are said to make an ink. The generic name phytolacca is from Greek putov (phyton) meaning “plant,” and the Latin lacca, a red dye. Poke Salad Annie is a 1968 song written and performed by Tony Joe White, with its lyrics describing the life of a poor rural Southern girl, and was eventually covered by Elvis Presley.

Acer circinatum

All of the plants discussed in this blog reside at the bottom, west end of the nursery, kind of a wild outpost compared to the more tended gardens up above. I'll finish though with a couple of Acer circinatum bushes that have kept their colorful leaves throughout the November bluster. They are not growing on my property but I pass them 2-4 times per day on my drive from home to work. The two are located ten feet apart as a hillside understory where they receive some respite from the wind and rain. They are on a curvy portion of the road with no shoulder, where it would be too dangerous to get out of the car for closeups, so I took the pictures out the car window, hoping that a truck or school bus wouldn't smash into me. I escaped harm but I feel like I deserve hazard pay.

The word bluster is from Middle Low German blusteren, meaning a “violent, boisterous blowing.”

“When autumn blusters the orchard rocks.” -Robert Browning.

“The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools.” -Henry Beston

“Autumn, the year's last loveliest smile.” -William Cullen Bryant

“Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons.” -Jim Bishop

Stormy view through the kitchen window.

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Friday, November 12, 2021

November Bluster

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