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.

Good Bye, So-Long, Farewell

Good bye, so-long, farewell – they'll be saying that about me one day. Here today, gone tomorrow.

I've recounted before that I used to work at a Dutchman's nursery in Oregon, and the old windmill came to America after WWII with some horticultural skills to go along with his heavy accent. You could describe the gruff grahtensheider as “wooden shoes,” “wooden head” and “wouldn't listen,” but he carved out a living in Oregon because he was able to get plant starts, and then to sell trees back to his fellow countrymen who were big nursery players in New Jersey, “the Garden State.”

Abies procera 'Glauca Prostrata'

One day I was raking leaves in his yard – as his three sons were too important to do it – and I noticed a prostrate Abies procera (Noble fir) which was about ten feet wide and only one foot tall. He granted permission to cut scions, but warned me that it had no commercial value because it was too slow growing. I cut a dozen side shoots and all grafts lived. A year or two later I staked them so they could spill out evenly from the pot rather than grow sideways in one direction. I planted one in the original Display Garden, but the staking was a bad idea as it refused to grow horizontally, and the photo above was taken when it was about 35 years of age. The Dutchman said the cultivar was 'Glauca Prostrata' and I thusly identified it with a metal garden label, but every year that it continued to grow upward the label became more and more ridiculous.

Abies procera

Abies procera

I enjoyed looking out my office window at the “Glauca Prostrata” for many years, with huge cones at its top, and it was also a favored perch for our resident dove mates. About three years ago it began to look stressed, which I blamed on a long hot summer. I tried to ignore its problems, but eventually determined that it was an eye-sore and the garden would be better off without it. A sapsucker had wrecked havoc on the trunk at about ten feet up, and below that it appeared rotten. Not wanting it to topple in a wind storm I had a professional tree company come take it down. My foreman was a little miffed that I called in the pros, stating that his crew could handle the job, but at this point in my long career I have had no deaths nor serious injuries, and I want it to finish that way.

Three good-looking, strapping, 30-something guys showed up on time as promised...which usually is not the case. I was expecting a couple of ex-cons with cigarettes dangling from their lips, but these pros inspired confidence with their crisp, clean work suits and intelligent demeanor. I left for the other farm so I wouldn't have to listen to chainsaws and the chipper machine, or if they smashed another tree below I didn't want to see it happen. Three hours later I returned to see how they were coming along, and to my amazement the tree was neatly down and they were long gone. Good bye, so-long, farewell.

An Early Flora Wonder Blog

I am an old man, and I was already old ten years before now when employee Seth and I began the Flora Wonder Blog. I take the photos and write the drivel, then Seth enters it into the Blogspot format, a template that we're stuck with, one which limits layout creativity and which has become worse since Google bought the company a year ago.

In any case today's blog will be a rerun of one we did in the early years. I attended the Maple Society Symposium which was hosted by the Arboretum Wespelaar in Belgium, and on the last day companion Phil Turrell and I ditched the group and we were able to combine plants with European art for a most memorable day.

European Trip Day 8

"Brewer of Ghent"

Ghent

Ghent

Ghent

For our last full day in Europe, we drove a short distance from Antwerp to Ghent. The morning's business would not be plants, it would be art. We parked the car in the old center, the very old picturesque center, and were immediately greeted by an impressive statue of Jacob van Artevelde, the 14th century "Brewer of Ghent," also known as the "Wise Man." He was a political leader, having made his fortune in the weaving industry. Well, he wasn't so wise after all; he pissed off the pope and was excommunicated, then eventually was murdered by a mob.

Saint Bavo Cathedral

Saint Bavo Cathedral

The Ghent Altarpiece

Anyway, Ghent is a beautiful old city, still vibrant after many centuries, with old buildings and pretty canals. Our destination was the Saint Bavo Cathedral, over a thousand years old and home of the "Ghent Altarpiece," also known as the "Adoration of the Mystic Lamb." This altarpiece by the van Eyck brothers in the 1400's is considered one of the greatest works in western art. I longed to see it for many years, then found it to be more wonderful in person than I ever could have imagined. There was a lot of additional art in this old building, including a sprawling "Saint Bavo Entering the Cathedral" by Rubens.

Honestly, the primary motivation for me to attend the International Maple Symposium was not maples and other trees, it was the art. I should confess that on day one, en route to the nurseries in southern Netherlands, we stopped at the Mauritshuis Museum in The Hague to see Vermeer's "Girl with a Pearl Earring," a number of Rembrandt's, a van Gogh and much more. It was all housed in an elegant building with Vermeer's beautiful girl pictured in front. So while Buchholz Nursery paid for a plant trip, a little fun on the side was irresistible.

Mauritshuis

Strangely enough, even after seeing blood pouring out of the mystic lamb in the Ghent Altarpiece, we were hungry. Crossing the cathedral square, we entered a little café where Phil fulfilled his tourist's requirement and ate a plate of Belgian waffles. Then we went in search of the Ghent University Botanic Garden.

Cornus tonkinensis

Cornus hongkongensis

Pinus nigra ssp. maritima

The climate in Ghent is clearly more mild than in Oregon. Throughout the trip, and also here, I would see happy trees in the USDA zone 8 category. New to me were two Cornus: hongkongensis from SE China and tonkinensis from Vietnam. Actually, most everything was new to me, since my photos are now sorted alphabetically, I can't remember for sure what was taken outside in the small garden, and what was taken inside the fascinating greenhouses. Certainly from outside was Pinus nigra ssp. maritima, the "Corsican Pine," with fantastic bark. So was the ubiquitous Sorbus alnifolia, which we saw in nearly every arboretum, and Sapindus mukorossi with its butter-yellow leaves, native to Asia. Also outside was Celtis laevigata, the "Mississippi Hackberry" in the Ulmaceae family, notable for its gray furrowed bark. First seen in Wespelaar, I encountered again Styphnolobium japonicum 'Pendulum' which graced the walkway. I've never seen this plant in America, and just as well since nobody can pronounce it anyway.

Styphnolobium japonicum 'Pendulum'

Styphnolobium japonicum 'Pendulum'

Celtis laevigata

Sorbus alnifolia

Sapindus mukorossi

Inside it was warm and muggy with plant smells strong and heady. That putrid odor was coming from…which plant? And keep your hands close, as many trunks were guarded with spines, like Opuntia neoargentina. Encephalartos horridus really was horrible. Flowers were nearly finished on Crinum asiaticum, but I loved the leaf pattern, and also the leaves of Neodypsis decaryi. Ferns and strange things like Salvinia auriculata were in the pool, and I imagined piranhas could be swimming beneath. Podocarpus macrophyllus displayed lush foliage and Philodendron x 'Lynette' was in flower. What an amazing, smelly world this was, about which I know so little.

Opuntia neoargentina

Encephalartos horridus

Crinum asiaticum

Crinum asiaticum

Neodypsis decaryi

Salvinia auriculata

Podocarpus macrophyllus

Philodendron x 'Lynette'

Cibotium schiedei

University of Ghent Botanic Garden

Food plants were fun to see. Vanilla, coffee, tea and others make you realize that we take so much for granted with what we eat and drink. Theobroma cacao, the chocolate plant, is thought to have originated in the Amazon region, then transported by humans into Central America and Mexico. Theobroma is from Greek, meaning "Food of the Gods," and was first encountered by Europeans in 1502, by Columbus and his crew. Indeed, before leaving the Bavo Cathedral square, I entered a chocolate shop to purchase a mixed box for my most worthy (and addicted) wife. The sweet proprietress assisted me to choose the proper assortment, then announced that "now you will be safe to return home."

Theobroma cacao

Back outside Aloe speciosa showed off its nice trunk, as did Yucca carnerosana, I was appreciating the Agapanthus and nearly stepped on interesting mushrooms on the lawn. Really, nothing here, including the mushrooms, had any value for Buchholz Nursery. However, my appreciation of Flora's infinite bounty was greatly increased by visiting this special place. I could imagine to live in Ghent, probably alone as an old man with regrets and bittersweet memories, with my ashes finally tossed into a canal, or secretly spread throughout the botanic garden.

Aloe speciosa

Yucca carnerosana

Agapanthus species

Mushrooms

We had a half mile walk back to our car; out of this plant and art world, faced with the reality of a ten hour flight, back to our families and work.