Missouri Botanical Garden

Last week I jumped ahead, blogging about the Missouri Botanical Garden's Climatron before I properly introduced the host arboretum itself. Probably because we've been freezing lately in Oregon and the lure of a tropical environment seemed compelling. It was also cold in the morning in St. Louis on the day we visited, but after an hour inside their hot house I had my coat off and tied around my waist.

Upon entering the Visitor Center the staff had placed a collection box that reminded attendees: “A garden doesn't just happen, it takes contributions to make it possible”...or some-such message; but we had already paid full admission so I ignored the funding plea for the time-being. But, before we left, Haruko asked if she could look in the garden's shop. “Of course, dear” – and, exhausted, I was happy to wait on a comfortable bench in the foyer. Twenty minutes later my phone rang and it was Haru asking if she could buy some stuff. “Of course;” I reminded her that we co-habitate, co-work, co-parent, co-spend, co-everything, and each dollar she leaves supports their worthy cause. “Yes, yes – get the MBG sweater-coat too – you look good in it.” I appreciate her frugality, but often she over-worries.

I'm the tight-wad actually, because I have been helping myself (for free, via internet) to their excellent, informative website called Plant Finder, where flora descriptions and photos are concise and scholarly, and yes I frequently do plagiarize the contents, such as with some of last week's Climatron blog.* The MBG's stated mission is “To discover and share knowledge about plants and their environment in order to preserve and enrich life.”

*The plant list, as they describe it, “is an internet encyclopedia project to compile a comprehensive list of botanical nomenclature, created by the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, and the Missouri Botanical Garden.”

The arboretum was founded in 1859, and is one of America's oldest botanical gardens in continuous operation and a National Historic Landmark. It's promoted as “A center for botanical research and science education of international repute, as well as an oasis in the city of St. Louis, with 79 acres of horticultural display.”

The land for the garden was provided by Henry Shaw (1800-1889), an English businessman who arrived at the small French trading port of St. Louis with his father – whose family in Sheffield manufactured and sold ironware. Due to Henry's business acumen he made tons of money supplying goods to the growing community and to those pioneering west, and at age 39 he retired from his hardware business to focus on real estate. Where the botanic garden is now located, Shaw described the land as “uncultivated without trees or fences,” so he decided to build a garden around his country estate. At times he returned to England and visited the grounds of Chatsworth, and after attending the Great London Exhibition he was inspired to give St. Louis a garden as great as those in Europe. And he did; one only wishes that he could return for a day to stroll through the place now, and imagine how he would marvel at the exotic world in the Climatron.

Ginkgo biloba

Ginkgo biloba

While the Climatron is a jungle of taxa jammed closely, my impression of the outside acreage was the size and generous spacing given to the individual trees. An enormous Ginkgo biloba immediately greets the visitor and it was glowing with rich autumnal color in the early November sun.

Taxodium distichum

Taxodium distichum

Near to the Ginkgo is a short row of “bald cypress,” Taxodium distichum, that looked like billowing orange clouds. On the lawn that bordered the cypress were woody “knees” that were lowly scalped by the mower, but in another location by a little stream the protruding ground stems were allowed to develop. Over 200 years ago French botanist Francois Andre Michaux saw the knees, but concluded, “No cause can be assigned for their existence.” Later, botanists gave these growths the name “pneumatophores” (air-roots) with the assumption that they allowed the root system – often in deep swamp water – access to air. More recently some scientists have examined this gas-exchange theory and conclude with Michaux that they do not aid in breathing, however they may provide structural support.

Glyptostrobus pencilis

Glyptostrobus pencilis

Glyptostrobus pencilis

For what it's worth, our old specimen of Glyptostrobus pencilis also produces knees, and it is known as the Chinese swamp cypress (shui song), closely related to the Taxodium. To copy from the MBG's Plant List: “This is the only species in the genus Glyptostrobus. It is currently listed on the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species as 'Critically Endangered.' Extinction in the wild may occur in the near future.” By the way I have enormous amounts of seed available to any Flora Wonder Blog reader who is interested in these deciduous conifers. Concerning the specific epithet for Glyptostrobus, it used to be lineatus but now we know it as pencilis, from Latin pensus, which means “hanging down” in reference to the pendant branchlets. I researched – believe me – to see if I could find a common etymological origin between the hanging down pensus and the Latin penis, but I came up...short. Penis means “tail.”

Maclura pomifera fruit

Haruko and I encountered a specimen of Maclura pomifera with softball-sized, orange-yellow fruit littering the ground. The damn things are ugly really, looking somewhat brain-like. One “orange” had fallen next to a drain grate, and I proceeded to photograph the interesting composition. Just then another fruit thudded to the ground and Haru shrieked for me to “Watch out – get away!” Since I have never been struck by lightning, nor have I ever won the lottery, I ignored her concern; but then another fruit pounded the ground near me, so I did hurry away.

Maclura pomifera

Maclura pomifera

Maclura pomifera was named after Scotsman William Maclure (1763-1840) and the specific epithet pomifera means “bearing apples.” The common name is “Osage orange” because the fruit has a faint citrus smell, while Osage refers to a member of an American Indian people originally from the Missouri area. The natives didn't call themselves “Osage,” it was instead the French's corrupted name from an Algonquian language. The tree itself is low-branching and armed with thorns, and I doubt that anyone would ever plant one without the accompanying fruit. Most Midwesterners deem the fruit to be inedible, but with some work the seeds can be extracted and they're said to taste somewhere between popcorn and raw sunflower seeds. We didn't sample any, but we saw one fruit ripped apart, apparently by a hungry squirrel. Maybe the furry rodent was above in the tree and was responsible for dropping oranges near me to protect his cache.

Fraxinus profunda

Benjamin Franklin Bush

A large tree was given plenty of space, and it attracted me for its straight, gray, ornamentally-furrowed trunk. The label identified it as an ash, Fraxinus profunda, which was originally named F. michaux, then F. tomentosa Michx. Its current specific epithet was given by botanist Benjamin Franklin Bush (1858-1937), and what a great name for an American botanist! Young Bush lived in Jackson County, Missouri when he received a copy of Class-Book of Botany by Alphonso Wood (another great botanist's name). He used the book to identify native species, but found it somewhat lacking, and that paucity inspired him to catalog the new species himself, and he published his own book in 1882. At one point he was employed by the Missouri Botanical Garden to collect plants from the far corners of the state, and he also spent time collecting with Arnold Arboretum director Charles Sprague Sargent. Sadly F. profunda is currently not recommended in landscapes because the species, along with other ash species, are being devastated with the introduction of the emerald ash borer (Agrilus planipennis).

Malus sargentii

Malus sargentii

Malus sargentii

Malus sargentii

A group of glisteningly-fruited apple trees caught our attention. Malus sargentii honors the aforementioned Charles Sprague Sargent, and it was a fellow Arnold Arboretum botanist, Alfred Rehder, who bestowed the name. The Hillier Manual of Trees and Shrubs describes it as “A delightful shrubby species...In spring it is smothered with golden-anthered, pure-white flowers, and in autumn with small, bright red, cherry-like fruits.” About 6 or 7 trees grew near the path with a squatty habit so I assumed they were top-pruned. For certain the lower branches had been removed, and all the better to reveal the wonderful trunks, and each tree assumed its own unique physique. If I was a neighbor to the MBG I'm sure I would visit this group often, and probably assign a name for each individual.

Tilia x euchlora

Tilia x euchlora

I've only grown one “lime” cultivar, Tilia cordata 'Akira Gold', and I saw the original selection – now large – at Shibamichi Hoten in Japan. We didn't encounter the T. cordata species at MBG, but I'm sure they had one or more on the grounds. But we did find T. japonica and T. x euchlora and it was the first time for me to examine the latter. The hybrid’s origin is uncertain, but is thought to be T. cordata x T. dasystyla, and has been known since about 1860. Hillier describes it as an “elegant tree when young with glossy leaves and arching branches.” Both parents are of European origin, with T. dasystyla native to the Crimea and Ukraine, and is rare in cultivation. The MBG Plant Finder claims that T. x euchlora, when in full bloom, attracts such “abundant” numbers of visiting bees that “humming can be heard many feet from the tree.” Hillier remarks that it is a “clean” lime, being free from aphids, “but its flowers tend to have a narcotic effect on bees.”*

*Like other lindens, T. x euchlora is a source for premium honey.

Tilia japonica

Tilia japonica

MBG's Linnean House

The genus name Tilia comes from the Latin name for the lime trees (AKA linden), known in southern Sweden as Linn, and in fact it's the origin of the name Linnaeus. Tilia japonica is native to eastern China and also to the four main Japanese islands of Hokkaido, Honshu, Shikoku and Kyushu, usually found in mountain forests up to 2000m (6561 ft.). It is the official tree of the Japanese city, Nagano.

Carya laciniosa

Carya laciniosa

I find it humorous that the Carya genus (in the Juglandaceae family), that this classification of edible nuts was first described by the English botanist Thomas Nuttall, and that his author abbreviation in botany is Nutt; i.e. “nuts by Nutt.” Carya is of course a North American hardwood tree and its name originates from Greek karya for “nut tree,” from karyon for “nut.” In Greek mythology the Laconian* princess Carya had a love affair with the god Dionysus, and after her death he memorialized her by changing her into a fruitful walnut tree. A temple, dedicated to Artemis Karyatis, was supported by statues carved in walnut wood, and modelled with feminine features which were called “Caryatids.” The ancient town of Caryae was one of six villages that united to form Sparta, and was the hometown of Helen of Troy. Girls from Caryae were considered especially beautiful and strong, perfect for giving birth to strong children. Too bad that Buchholz Nursery couldn't have recruited employees from that area; except that in another version, these women may have been more trouble than their worth, as the place is named for the “nut-tree sisterhood.”

*The princess was a denizen of “Laconia,” the ancient Greek land which Sparta was the capital. The inhabitants were known to be “laconic,” for using as few words as possible – pithy, terse and concise.

Carya laciniosa

In any case, Carya laciniosa is the “Shellbark hickory,” also known as “kingnut,” and it produces the largest of all hickory nuts, and those are sweet and edible. A champion “shellbark” is known in Missouri at 36.9m tall (121') with a spread of 22.6m (74'). It's difficult for this west-coast tree guy to keep straight some of the East-coast hardwoods, especially when the Carya genus contains C. laciniosa (“Shellbark”) and also C. ovata (“Shagbark”) since both display the same shaggy, peeling trunks. Unfortunately, the C. laciniosa was once a common sight, especially in moist bottomlands and floodplains of the United States, but only a few are left in nature today.

Gaillardia aristata

Gaillardia aristata

Decumbent fireworks was provided by Gaillardia aristata, a North American species in the sunflower family, Asteraceae,* and known by the common name “blanket flower.” The genus name was provided by our previous acquaintance, Thomas Nuttall, but he called it Gaillardia bicolor var. aristata. The genus was named for Antoine Rene Gaillard de Charentonneau, who was but an amateur botanist, but strangely the American native is the official flower of Wallonia (the southern portion of Belgium). The flower has good vibes, though, and is associated with joy, optimism, charm and abundance. It has also been mentioned with aristocracy, but that word has nothing to do with the species name of “aristata” (bristly or awned, referring to lacy leaf edges). Aristocracy doesn't seem to match with joy, optimism or charm, but perhaps it does with abundance. There are many legends concerning Gaillardia, for example the Aztecs believed that all flowers were originally yellow before the Europeans arrived, but due to bloodshed inflicted by the conquerors the petals cupped together to catch drops of Aztec blood before it touched the ground, kind of a sad story for joy, optimism and charm.

*Estimates vary greatly, but the Asteraceae family contains nearly 1550 genera and 24,000 species, the largest family of flowering plants.

Tricyrtis hirta

Tricyrtis hirta

We were impressed with a 3' bush of Tricyrtis hirta which was loaded with a couple hundred blossoms. The “Japanese Toad lily” was growing in a shady area and is apparently hardy enough to withstand St. Louis winters. The specific epithet hirta means “hairy,” although the casual observer would never notice that characteristic. The genus name is derived from Greek tri meaning “three” and kyrtos meaning “humped” because the bases of the three outer petals are swollen, but again, that feature can easily be overlooked. The plant was originally described by Carl Peter Thunberg as Uvularia hirta, then changed to Tricyrtis by Sir Joseph Dalton Hooker. The common name of “toad lily” is hard to fathom, unless it's simply the way the blossoms sit frog-like on the arching stems, or maybe the kaeru (Japanese name for “frog”) are happy to hang out in moist shade.

While we had some energy left, Haruko and I undertook an exploration of the MBG's Seiwa-en, a Japanese strolling garden named for “garden of pure, clean harmony and peace.” Fortunately all the plants looked healthy because Haru says Seiwa-en can be the name of a funeral home or cemetery. It was a unique garden for me, nothing like I've seen before in Japan or America, and I guess the main attribute would be its large size at 14 acres. Trees were pruned per Japanese garden tradition, but certainly not over-pruned, and many of the trees were given abundant space. In other words it wasn't overly busy, and in that sense you could say it was “peaceful.”

Pinus densiflora

Pinus thunbergii

Pinus sylvestris

According to the MBG website: “The Japanese garden is a monochromatic understatement, in which the viewer is permitted the thrill of personal interpretation and discovery.” Maybe I'm not so easily “thrilled,” but Haruko and I did hold hands as we strolled along the wide path. One pine in the distance puzzled me though, and that's because it wasn't monochromatic: the needles were blue when all other conifers were green. Hmm...it looked like a Pinus sylvestris, and indeed the label confirmed it, so what was that doing in a Japanese garden? Pinus densiflora and Pinus thunbergii – both native to Japan – were growing well as they do in all “authentic” Japanese gardens. The offending Scot's pine was nicely pruned and similarly shaped as its green brethren, but while I'm usually a fan of the blue, the pine just didn't belong in a Seiwa-en.

Acer palmatum

An old-timer Japanese maple was impressive for its stout trunk, and for the fact that many surface roots were visible. It looked to be just a green seedling, not any particular cultivar, but I could see from a distance that it was marked by two labels. I had to wait – it seemed like forever – for a couple of old ladies to get out of the way before I could examine my tree in peace. Admittedly I was growing tired and irritable and the tree's labels didn't reveal any useful information – they both read “Please Do Not Climb.”

Acer palmatum

We needed to eat, that was my problem anyway, but a final image took me back to pure, clear harmony and peace. It was a trunk silhouette of Acer palmatum var. dissectum, and all the better that most leaves had fallen. The maple and I are both old and crooked, but we stared at each other for a few minutes, communicating in silence, and thanks for the memory.