Silenus and the Silenes

 [From May 10, 2010]

Drunken Silenus, by Peter Paul Rubens, c. 1618

Scarlet blooms of the Fire Pink (Silene virginica) have brightened the landscape the past several weeks. But I’ve been thinking about one particular patch of Fire Pinks that I saw on the Blue Ridge Parkway last June.

In the midst of the red flowers, a few white ones stood out conspicuously. I could recollect some range of color in Fire Pinks, but never anything approaching pure white!

I turned to my guidebooks for a white-flowered equivalent to Silene virginica. At first glance, Silene stellata seemed a likely candidate, but the Starry Campion (native to this area) has lacy petals very different from the ones on the white Fire Pink wannabes.

After reading that uncharacteristic white flowers can develop on occasion, I decided to take a two-minute crash course on albinism in flowers.

There are albinos and then there are albinos.

Technically speaking, an albino plant is one lacking pigments. This is a losing proposition, since chlorophyll is essential for the production of carbohydrates in most plants. Indian Pipes (Monotropa uniflora) derive their sustenance from complex relationships with other plants and fungi, and so they survive their lack of pigmentation.
(Tom Pelletier explains the Indian Pipes /mycorrhizal connections and life cycle http://www.curiousnature.info/A1-Indian%20Pipe.htm )


Indian Pipes, Monotropa uniflora

But back to Silenus...

Those odd white Fire Pinks had green stem and leaves, and thus were not “albino plants” in the strictest sense of the term. Through the expression of recessive genes, however, white flowers can appear on plants that don’t generally bear white flowers.

One more possibility is the “sport” which can result from a traumatic disturbance to plant tissue and leads to a deviation in only part of the affected plant.

Somewhere in the preceding, I might have touched upon the reason for a white Fire Pink.

Who knows!

By the way, "Fire Pink" (or at least the “Pink” part of its name) is not a reference to the flower’s color. Instead, imaginative flower-namers thought the shape of the petal suggested it had been trimmed with pinking shears.



Hence, this decidedly red flower is a pink.

And while on the subject of botanical etymology, Gray’s Manual of Botany explains:

[The genus name, Silenus] was adopted by Linnaeus from earlier authors, said to have come from mythological Silenus, referring to viscid excretions of many species, the intoxicated foster-father of Bacchus being described as covered with foam.

In another month, I’ll track down that patch of Fire Pinks once again, just to see if those mysterious white blooms return this year...with or without "viscid excretions."

Drunken Silenus Supported by Satyrs, ca. 1620, attributed to Anthony Van Dyck

A Perfect Day

 [From May 4, 2010]

The day had arrived to set out on a search for the Yellow Lady Slipper. I knew that if I waited much longer it might be another year before I would get a chance to see this spectacular flower growing in the wild.


Chau-Ram Falls, aka "the falls on Ramsey Creek” just above its confluence with the Chauga. Until this very moment I had been wondering why they named it “Chau-Ram Park.” NOW, I get it.

As best as I can tell, two slightly different species are referred to as Yellow Lady Slipper. In this case, turning to the Latin name only muddies the waters. My guide books apply these names to the Yellow Lady Slipper:

Cypripedium pubescens
Cypripedium calceolus
Cypripedium calceolus var. parviflorum
Cypripedium parviflorum var. pubescens
Cypripedium parviflorum var. parviflorum

Despite the confusing nomenclature, and the fact I’d never seen one in the wild, I was confident that I’d recognize one when I saw it, regardless of the precise name.

After a bit of research into where they grow I decided to head south. Last year, I found very detailed directions that led me to the Pink Lady Slippers on the Rabun side of the Chattooga River. This time, I was only able to obtain generalized reports of the habitat for this flower.

Playing hopscotch with the rain all day, I managed to avoid getting caught in any downpours. I spent some quality time at one possible site, the Chauga River. I’ve crossed this river many times on the US 76 bridge between Long Creek and Westminster, SC, but had never explored it. The stretch of the Chauga flowing through Chau Ram Park was rich with spring wildflowers including some that were new to me and some I have yet to identify.

No cypripedia, however.

A couple of more stops at supposedly likely locations yielded similar results.


Pink Lady Slipper, Cypripedium acaule

Returning to one of my favorite spots on the Oconee side of the Chattooga, I revisited a patch of Pink Lady Slippers I had seen on May 8, 2009. On that date, the wild gingers were also in flower, with their peculiar blooms that hide in the leaf litter at the base of the plants. But on May 2, 2010, I couldn’t find any gingers in bloom.


Wild ginger, Asarum canadense

The final stop on my agenda was another trail near the Chattooga, one that I had never hiked before. You couldn’t ask for a better trail. The area is dominated by rhododendrons and centuries-old hemlocks, which are now just gray ghosts.

I did see some flowers along the trail, but no lady slippers.

Although I had devoted a whole day to finding the Yellow Lady Slipper I couldn’t claim disappointment at coming up empty. It had been a lovely day. The time had come, though, for me to turn back and head for home. But not before seeing what I might see around one more bend in the trail. After crossing a dry creek bed, I looked up the hillside from the trail and noticed a subtle interruption in the rhododendron-hemlock vegetation. This area must have been a clearing some years ago. Grass grew thinly here and there. A few pines and other small trees were well on their way to closing the canopy.

Bushwhacking up the hillside, I did see various lilies with shiny, broad leaves, but no blooms.

I did not see any lady slippers.

The place was so nice I sat down for a few minutes of rest before my return trip.

When I stood up to take one last look around, I detected two yellow dots of color about fifty feet up the hill. The light bouncing off them suggested blooms with a spherical shape.

Could it be?



Yes, indeed!

A Burning Issue

 

Trip report from Foothills Trail Hike, 4/13/24

Split Mountain Ramble

[From April 10, 2008]

 

Claude Monet, Impression, Sunrise, 1872

Paris – April 1874 - a group of artists rejected by the juries of the Salon offered their avant-garde paintings for public view. Renoir, Monet, Cezanne and Degas rocked the art world in what became known as the first exhibition of Impressionism.

Meanwhile that same month, on this side of the Atlantic, there was another kind of explosion. The Hickory Nut Gorge gained notoriety as rumors spread of a volcano on Rumbling Bald Mountain, near Chimney Rock. Buncombe County’s Thomas Clingman (1812-1897), a one-time US Senator and a long-time explorer of the mountains, promptly weighed with his observations of seismic phenomena throughout Western North Carolina. In several articles he described "a certain mountain in the northern part of Haywood County, N.C. [which] was, at intervals of two or three years, agitated and broken into fragments along a portion of its surface."

Clingman first visited the site in 1848, and learned that the jolts to this unnamed mountain in northern Haywood County had been witnessed as early as 1812. Amidst his descriptions of the mountain’s behavior, he provided detailed clues to its location, so I compared his notes to my Haywood County topo map. Tracing the lines that indicated a mountain rising from Ledford Cove to Pug Knob, I saw the letters that spelled out "Split Mountain."

I was on the trail, with a map, a compass, a camera, and the words of T. L. Clingman:



The top of the ridge, where evidences of violence are seen, is perhaps three or four hundred feet higher than the ground below. There are cracks in the solid granite of which the ridge appears to be composed, but the chief evidences of violence were observable a little south of the crest. From thence along the side of the mountain as one descends, there were chasms, none of them above four feet in width, generally extending north and south, but also occasionally seen in all directions. All the large trees had been thrown down.

There were a number of little hillocks. the largest eight or ten feet high and fifty or sixty feet in diameter. They were usually surrounded by what appeared to have been a narrow crevice. On their sides the saplings grew perpendicularly to the surface of the ground, but obliquely to the horizon, making it manifest that they had attained some size before the hillocks had been elevated. I observed a large poplar or tulip tree, which had been split through its centre, so as to leave one-half of it standing thirty or forty feet high. The crack or opening under it, was not an inch wide, but could be traced for a hundred yards, making it evident that there had been an opening of sufficient width to split the tree, and that then the sides of the chasm had returned to their original position without having slipped so as to prevent the contact of the broken roots.

As indicating the sudden violence with which the force acted, a large mass of detached granite afforded a striking illustration. From its size I estimated that it might have weighed two thousands tons. It seemed from its shape to have originally been broken out of the side of the mountain above, and to have rolled in mass a hundred yards downward. It lay directly across one of the chasms two or three feet in width, and had been broken into three large fragments, which, however, were not separated a foot from each other.

I figured I could find Split Mountain. I wondered if it would resemble anything that Clingman had described.

The more I tried to imagine it, the more I hoped to locate that mountain. And the more I hoped to meet someone to tell me about it.

It was a gorgeous April drive. Beyond the big fields and rolling pastures of Crabtree, the farms were hemmed in by steeper and stonier mountains. Rock piles, hundreds of yards long, lined the ancient pastures on the slopes.

At last, my map and my compass told me I had found Split Mountain.

I couldn’t see any two thousand ton boulder broken into three large fragments.

I couldn’t see any hillocks, eight or ten feet high, fifty or sixty feet in diameter.

I couldn’t see any large trees thrown down, or saplings growing perpendicular to the ground.

But I’d found the place, and still hoped to find the person.



Then I saw him standing next to his porch.

I slowed to a stop and I said "hello".

He greeted me with a smile, and we proceeded to talking about rain and drought, developers with too much money, big tax bills, the price of gas, the prospect of raising laying hens and growing the corn to feed them.

This gentleman was exactly the person I’d hoped to meet. He must have been almost eighty, and he'd been born on the same homeplace where he lived today.

I showed him the Clingman article and asked what he knew about it.

"Not much," he said. "That’s Split Mountain, alright. But I’ve only been on it one time, hunting ginseng with my daddy."

He continued, "You see how those rocks run down the side of the mountain. I always heard you could go to the top, and find holes in the ground, where you could drop [fence] rails in and never hear them hit bottom."

I climbed out of the car, "I’d better take another picture of this mountain."

He pointed down the road. "There was a post office there one time. Split Mountain, North Carolina. And Riley Greene ran his mill down there. He ground corn into meal, and he had a sawmill, too. The sluice came all the way down the creek, ten or fifteen feet off the ground. In the winter, the water would overflow and freeze solid, all the way down to the ground. Winters were a lot colder then."

I enjoyed my visit, meeting this new friend, and seeing this place through his eyes.



On another day I might actually climb to the top of Split Mountain. I might even find that hole in the ground. And when I drop a fence-rail (or a walking stick) into that hole, I’ll let you know what I hear…or what I don’t hear.

For the time being I'll ponder over Clingman’s theories in regards to Split Mountain:

The extent and configuration of the ground acted on, the long intervals between the shocks, for a period of nearly a century past, and of the absence of heat and of the continuous escape of gasses, rendered it evident that these disturbances were not due to such a merely local cause as the combustion at a short distance below the surface of a bed of inflammable mineral substances. Though in the opinion of Mr. Fox and others, there are electric currents in certain mineral veins, yet no observations heretofore made would justify us in attributing such phenomena to electricity.

And I’ll continue to follow Clingman’s treasure maps to some other curious places in these mountains.

By the way, that First Impressionist Exhibition from April 1874 is depicted online at http://www.artchive.com/74nadar.htm It's worth a visit, too.


Camille Pissaro, Gelee blanche (Hoarfrost), 1873

The Grooms Tune on the Road to Mount Sterling

Spring is a good time to visit the area of Waterville/Big Creek/Mount Sterling and the northeastern corner of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park at the border of North Carolina and Tennessee.  The wildflowers are spectacular.  And the history of that area is notable, as well.

[From April 1, 2007] 

Under the heading "SOMEBODY OUGHT TO DO THIS–"

The next time I roll through the crossroads at Mount Sterling, I should be listening to an old fiddle tune, Grooms Tune… or Bonaparte’s Retreat. Not the jazzed-up western swing version of Bonaparte’s Retreat, but a doleful rendition played slow and sad. The real Grooms tune. Somebody ought to do this next week. Because April 10, 1865 (the day after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox Courthouse) was the day that three men were executed near Mount Sterling by Teague’s Home Guard.

The area had been ravaged by scalawags and bushwhackers, and the populace had suffered numerous raids of family farms by Union troops hunting provisions. The village of Waynesville had been burned two months earlier, and the citizenry was beleaguered and anxious.



For whatever reason, Henry Grooms, his brother George and his brother-in-law Mitchell Caldwell, all of north Haywood County, North Carolina, were taken prisoner by the Home Guard. The group traveled toward Cataloochee Valley and Henry Grooms, clutching his fiddle and bow, was asked by his captors to play a tune. Realizing he was performing for his own firing squad Grooms struck up Bonaparte's Retreat. When he finished the three men were lined up against an oak tree and shot, the bodies left where they fell. Henry's wife gathered the bodies and buried them in a single grove in Sutton Cemetery No. 1 in the Mount Sterling community, the plain headstone reading only "Murdered."

Now this account of the story was attributed to a Geoff Cantrell article in the Asheville Citizen-Times (February 23, 2000). Grooms family member Bettie Tanana, however, tells the story differently:

George was forced to play Bonaparte’s Retreat (later called Groom's Tune which can be found on the internet). Mitchell, according to Archives records, was an idiot and was told to put his hat over his face before he was shot. All three men were buried in a common grave. George was my great great great grandfather. My great great grandmother signed an affidavit stating that when she found her father's body his fiddle was found at his feet.

Some of Teague's men were also deposed verifying how the murders occurred. (I have copies of these records.) Most of the men in Teague's Homeguard were older men and neighbors of the men they shot. They even continued to live as neighbors after the war. Incidentally, another great great great grandfather, Henry Barnes was also found several miles away killed by Teagues Homeguard. His daughter, Amanda, married George Groom's son.

I had no idea that this scene was going to be in the movie Cold Mountain. I wanted to stand up and cry through my tears that that was my family being killed.

Myself, I’d like to think that come April 10, some fiddler will stand by the side of the little dirt road leading into Mount Sterling, and that fiddler will play Grooms tune one more time…really slow and sad.

Fire on the Mountain

 [From April 4, 2008]

Rumbling Bald Mountain, ca. 1940, Hans Curt Pfalzgraf Collection, D.H. Ramsey Library, Special Collections, University of North Carolina at Asheville 28804

Had you picked up the edition of the New York Times published on this date in 1874, you could have read of a "third-rate hoax" in Western North Carolina, the Bald Mountain Volcano. 

Starting in February 1874, stories spread concerning earthquakes in the Hickory Nut Gorge near Chimney Rock. By calling it a hoax, the Times was contradicting a story it had reported just a couple of weeks earlier:

RALEIGH, NC, March 17 – Passengers from the west on this morning’s train confirm the reports of the rumbling noises and the general upheaving of the Bald Mountain in Western Carolina. People living on and near the mountain are moving out, and a volcanic eruption is momentarily expected.

Despite the eyewitness accounts, the subsequent New York Times story that appeared on April 4, 1874 dismissed it as an old legend:

From Our Own Correspondent.
RICHMOND, VA., Friday, March 27, 1874.

The Bald Mountain Volcano, of North Carolina, has been regarded as a third-rate hoax here from the publication of the first sensational rumors in regard to it. The truth is, doubtless, that this new sensation is but the revival of an old tradition, derived from the Indians, that Bald Mountain was once, in very remote times, a volcano, and hence that absence of vegetation which has given it its name.

The Indian legend is to the effect that a certain tribe living at the foot of Bald Mountain was annually afflicted by the visit of a huge bird of prey, that made his eyrie on the summit of the mountain, and that on every visit seized and carried away with him a child of the tribe. The annual affliction had been undergone for a long series of years, when a great chief and medicine-man arose, and, just before the time for the next annual visit of the bird, began to preach a crusade against the common enemy. He adjured the warriors, as they were brave men and loving fathers, no longer to submit to the depredations of the bird, but to march against him and destroy him or be destroyed.

Thus aroused, the men of the tribe swore to follow the chief in the desperate venture, and, placing their squaws and children in a place of safety, they encircled the base of the mountain and began the ascent, resolved to kill the bird at all hazards and at every cost. The mountain was then clothed in rank vegetation – mighty forest-trees thickly undergrown by a tangled wilderness, that made the progress upward very painful and difficult. But the determined tribe persevered until, nearing the top of the mountain, what was their horror to perceive that it was not merely one tremendous bird they had to encounter and destroy, but a countless number of the fierce creatures, clustering in ferocious masses all over the higher portions of the mountain.

At this despair overcame them, for they at once recognized how impossible it would be for them to overcome and exterminate so many of the winged monsters, and they threw themselves down upon their faces, expecting the birds to rush down upon them and destroy them. At this moment their leader raised high his voice to the Great Spirit for their deliverance, and in answer to his prayer vivid lightnings sprang from every quarter of the cloudless sky, without a sound of thunder, slaying the birds to the last one, riving the forest-trees, and wrapping the whole mountain-top in flames, that soon swept from it every trace of vegetation. Thus were the monstrous birds of prey destroyed, the mountain made bald, and the tribe delivered. The anniversary of the deliverance was perpetually celebrated by the tribe, and the tradition I have just related handed down from one generation to another.

In this tradition lurks the true story, doubtless, of either the original formation of the ridge known as the Bald Mountains, or of an eruption which occurred many years ago.

So concludes the New York Times report from this date in 1874. But that does not conclude the mystery of the Bald Mountain Volcano. In May 1874, the Honorable Thomas Lanier Clingman weighed in before the Washington Philosophical Society to discuss Rumbling Bald Mountain and other seismic phenomena of Western North Carolina.

But that’s another story for another day...

Possum Hair Hat

 [From April 3, 2007]

I’d call it an astonishing mystery - on April 3, 1730 in the Cherokee village Nequassee (present Franklin, NC), Sir Alexander Cuming (a Scottish adventurer) orchestrated a ceremony to install Chief Moytoy as the "Emperor of the Cherokees," and won the allegiance of the Cherokees to the King of England. A member of Cuming's party related the event:

April 3. They proceeded this Morning to Nequassee, being. five Miles Distance from Joree, their Company always increasing. Here the Indians met from all Parts of the Settlements, (having received Intelligence of the General Meeting intended) by the Expresses sent from Keeowee. This was a Day of Solemnity the greatest that ever was seen in the Country; there was Singing, Dancing, Feasting, making of Speeches, the Creation of Moytoy Emperor, with the unanimous Consent of all the head Men assembled from the different Towns of the Nation, a Declaration of their resigning their Crown, Eagles Tails, Scalps of their Enemies, as an Emblem of their all owning his Majesty King George’s Sovereignty over them, at the Desire of Sir Alexander Cuming, in whom an absolute unlimited Power was placed, without which he could not be able to answer to his Majesty for their Conduct. The Declaration of Obedience was made on their Knees, in Order to intimate, that a Violation of their Promise then made in so solemn a Manner, would be sufficient to make them no People. Sir Alexander made the Witnesses sign to the Substance of what they saw and heard, in order to preserve the Memory thereof, after Words are forgot. The Witnesses were Sir Alexander Cuming, Eleazar Wiggan, Ludovick Grant, Samuel Brown, William Cooper, Agnus Mackferson, David Dowie, Francis Beaver, Lachlan Mackbain, George Hunter, George Chicken, and Joseph Cooper, Interpreter, besides the Indians.

Cuming anticipated some details of the ceremony, as indicated by one contemporary account:

Sir Alexander had been informed of all the Ceremonies that were used in making a head beloved man, of which there are a great many in this nation. They are called Ouka and as we translate that word King, so we call the Cap he wears upon that occasion his Crown, it resembles a wig and is made of Possum’s hair Dyed Red or Yellow, Sir Alexander was very desirous to see one of them, and there being none at that Town One was sent for to some other Town, He Expressed Great Satisfaction at Seeing of it, and he told the Indians that he would carry it to England and give it to the Great King George.

During the ceremony, Moytoy insisted that Cuming share in the glory of the moment. The Cherokees present lifted Cuming up onto the seat reserved for Moytoy and performed the Eagle Tail Dance that involved stroking him with the tail feathers of 13 golden eagles.

We’re told that Cuming made the trip to the colonies because of his wife’s dream that he would accomplish great things among the Cherokees. Drawn to a place he’d never seen, Cuming left England on September 13, 1729 and arrived in Charleston on December 5.

He was a persuasive confidence man, who wasted no time in swindling Charleston investors and planning an escape on the next ship heading back across the Atlantic. But not before his trip to the Cherokee territory as a self-appointed emissary of the crown.

For guides, Cuming enlisted white traders and Indian fighters familiar with the Cherokee land and people. On March 11, 1730, they set off from Charleston toward the southern mountains. Along the way, the party shot a wild bison in South Carolina, and were warned to avoid Cherokee territory because of the natives' toward the English.

Cuming never hesitated, but sped forward. At that time, there were about 64 Cherokee villages in parts of four present-day states, 30 to 60 houses per town. In an incredibly short time, Sir Alexander visited many of those villages, was greeted with exceptional generosity wherever he went, and forged extensive alliances with Cherokee leaders, culminating with the April 3 ceremony. He must have impressed the Cherokee people, because very soon after his arrival they hailed him as a 'lawgiver, commander, leader and chief' and presented him with the scalps of their enemies.

His whirlwind tour among the Cherokees began in the Lower Villages along the headwaters of the Savannah River, like Keowee, and then proceeded to Nequassee and the other Middle Settlements along the upper part of the Little Tennessee. He crossed the Unicoi Range past Murphy and visited the Overhills Settlements, including Tellico, before starting back to Nequassee.

He somehow convinced seven Cherokees (depicted in the illustration above) to return with him to the royal court as evidence of the agreement he had negotiated with the Cherokees. Cuming and his entourage arrived back in Charleston on April 13, just a month and two days after starting their expedition to the mountains. They boarded a ship on May 4 and landed in Dover, England on June 5, 1730. He was promptly thrown in jail for debt. The Cherokees thought it a counterproductive punishment in that it rendered the debtor unable to repay his debts.

What a day it must have been, 277 years ago today, when Sir Alexander went to Franklin and was crowned with a possum’s hair cap.

One "embellished" book on this episode is William O. Steele’s "The Cherokee Crown of Tannassy" which expands on the contemporary accounts of the expedition.

[The illustration: Seven Cherokee men show off English costumes given to them by King George II on a walk in St. James Gardens, London, summer 1730. Engraving, British Museum.]

Showy Orchis

 [From April 1, 2007]

For me, Showy Orchis is a harbinger. It has a quiet, self-assured way of announcing the arrival of spring. 

Orchis spectabilis is one of 29 different orchids found in the Great Smokies. It's considered rather rare, though what patches of showy orchis there are can be fairly extensive. Prefers moist, wooded areas with loamy soil at elevations of 1,500 to 3,000 feet.

Plants will speak volumes when we reclaim our ability to listen. It's amazing to consider the various impoverishments of the modern world and just how much we've lost from what we were once a part of. In "The Self-Organizing Mind of Plants," (1989) Kevin Kelly writes:

The unparalleled richness of knowledge about plants kept by aboriginal peoples is the most valuable green wealth of undeveloped countries. Destroying a rainforest not only destroys a gene bank, it also destroys a meme bank - all the future solutions, models, discoveries, and deep, replicating ideas that were held in the genes and partially extracted over centuries by careful shamans. That native scholarship with plants is a vanishing resource.

Biology, particularly botany, has always flourished with the amateur scientist's admirable skills - a reliance on empirical knowledge, and a capacity to engulf the subject in its entirety by means of unbridled passion. The whole-systems approach of an amateur is so suited for the green cybernetics of plant life, and the plant cortex is so uncharted, that an amateur could pick a green spot on the world map by throwing a dart, and quickly become the world's expert on what those plants know.

Transported

CLICK HERE FOR THE AUDIO VERSION OF THIS STORY.

 [From April 1, 2007]

It’s a funny thing, dancing with technology.

We load up the car, take off and and cruise along the interstate. A brief stop at a rest area opens the door on a microcosm of modern transport:

Weary, but relieved, truckers amble back to their rigs. 

Vacationing families look harried, as they must. 

A young couple unloads two sets of dumbbells and an enormous black and white cat who climbs up the hillside. The cat watches their exercise routine as they face each other squatting and stretching with the weights. 

In a few minutes, we’ll all be hurtling along on the pavement again…bound for every destination imaginable.

Our destination was to "almost Tennessee", the northeast corner of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, skirting the Appalachian Trail, across the Pigeon River, up from Waterville. 

Speed and gasoline can take you lots of places fast, some places not at all. Simply walking along the right trail brings a conflation of space and time. While you cross over the next ridge to view an unexpected bend in the river, you transport to another realm of time, approaching the ancient as well as the remote.

How long since this boulder field was a streambed, a riverbed no less? And these rocks, the size of houses! How and when did they tumble into place? And do they really defy gravity with their balancing acts? Or are they continuing their free-fall, be it ever, ever so slowly? Pulled back to and into the earth while plants spring forth from the ground, expressions of color escaping and exploding from the cold darkness.

Linger by the mossy horseshoe of a cascade on the creek and the secrets of Egyptian pyramids will start to reveal themselves. It’s all right there.

Phenology is just one way of understanding these plants and their place in time. We start at 2000’ elevation and over the next four miles gradually climb another 800’…progressing from shades of green to brown to gray, with multiple strata of colors along the way.

First is a lily field of sorts, full of yellow trillium, its foliage rich and variegated, its blooms a loose bundle of pale yellow.

Higher up a spectrum of violets from deep purple to lavender to white and yellow. Yellow? Yellow violets? That’s almost as priceless as finding blue oranges…and I’m still looking for those.

Higher still, the purple phacelia flows from the rocky crags above…and down the hill toward the creek.

And so it goes the whole way on the trail upstream. Beyond the bridge, we continue along the old rail bed to Walnut Bottoms. In this valley, the black walnut trees could have been six or eight feet in diameter. But as soon as a train could reach them they were gone. We don’t get as far as Walnut Bottoms, but do pass Brakeshoe Spring. Brakeshoe Spring? Aaaahhaa, I get it. This must be where trains, loaded with monumental walnut timber, would stop to cool their brakes, overheated on the long downhill run.

I’m not sure, but things seem to be blooming unusually early, from another abnormally warm winter. It’s March 31, and we see the blooms of Sweet Shrub (Calycanthus floridus), Fire Pink (Silene virginica), Great Chickweed (Stellaria pubera), Dwarf Iris (Iris verna). I wonder what will be blooming along here a month from today, and what will be blooming a year from today. [See "Bloom Times for Wildflowers of the Southern Appalachians."]

Late in the day, our feet are aching. We retrace our steps and return to the car and return to the highway and return to the city and return to what we think of as our lives.

Song of the Flower

Revisit the spring wildflowers at Fisher Creek Watershed near Sylva, NC from March 27, 2010.  I wonder what they look like today.

 

I am a kind word uttered and repeated
By the voice of Nature;
I am a star fallen from the
Blue tent upon the green carpet.

I am the daughter of the elements
With whom Winter conceived;
To whom Spring gave birth; I was
Reared in the lap of Summer and I
Slept in the bed of Autumn.

At dawn I unite with the breeze
To announce the coming of light;
At eventide I join the birds
In bidding the light farewell.

The plains are decorated with
My beautiful colors, and the air
Is scented with my fragrance.

As I embrace Slumber the eyes of
Night watch over me, and as I
Awaken I stare at the sun, which is
The only eye of the day.

I drink dew for wine, and hearken to
The voices of the birds, and dance
To the rhythmic swaying of the grass.

I am the lover's gift; I am the wedding wreath;
I am the memory of a moment of happiness;
I am the last gift of the living to the dead;
I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.

But I look up high to see only the light,
And never look down to see my shadow.
This is wisdom which man must learn.

-Song of the Flower, by Khalil Gibran

Wildflower photos from Fisher Creek Watershed, March 27, 2010:
Hepatica, Hepatica acutiloba
Trout Lily, Erythronium americanum
Spring Beauty, Claytonia virginica
Trout Lily, Erythronium americanum
Hepatica, Hepatica acutiloba
.

How Two Women Found the Shortia

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A remarkable account of a March 1902 journey to observe Oconee Bells in bloom appeared in the August 1902 issue of The Chautauquan.

Harriet Elizabeth Freeman (March 13, 1847 – December 30, 1930) was a Massachusetts botanist, geologist, conservationist, writer and lecturer. She was active in campaigns to protect forest lands and the rights of Native Americans. Her collaboration with writer and minister Edward Everett Hale was the subject of a book by Sara Day, Coded Letters, Concealed Love: The Larger Lives of Harriet Freeman and Edward Everett Hale. An early member of the Appalachian Mountain Club, she embarked on wilderness adventures in New England and beyond.

Freeman’s companion on the 1902 trip to the Keowee headwaters was Emma Gertrude Cummings (December 2, 1856 – October 12, 1940). Cummings was a horticulturalist, ornithologist and artist. She was born in Boston and lived most of her life in Brookline, Massachusetts. 

I will be posting a separate report by Cummings that also describes the 1902 trip to the South.

Freeman and Cummings traveled together on many expeditions. This photograph was taken in July 1902 near Mount Adams, New Hampshire. 

Left to right: Harriet Freeman, Freeman’s cousin Edith Hull, Emma Cummings and Freeman’s nephew Fred Freeman (on a bridge over Cascade Brook).

HOW TWO WOMEN FOUND THE SHORTIA

I.

BY HARRIET E. FREEMAN

YOU have known the wish that I have had for so many years to see Shortia galacifolia growing in its native habitat; but you will perhaps hardly understand it until you know the history of this interesting flower.

When the elder Michaux, a well-known French botanist, was in this country about 1794, he made a collection of plants from the southern states, taking them back with him to Paris. In 1839, when Dr. Asa Gray was abroad, this old herbarium was of course an object of great interest to him. Upon looking it over, he found a plant he did not know without flowers, having only ripened capsules and leaves, and labeled as having been gathered in "les hautes montagnes de Carolinie."

It was of such interest to him that on his return home he went into that region to look for the flower; but it was all in vain it could not be found. And he asked other botanists going to that region to look for him, but they had no better success. Dr. Gray had found a similar plant in a Japanese herbarium (another instance of the similarity of the Japanese flora and ours), and that only convinced him that this unknown plant of Michaux must be found somewhere in the Carolinas.

He named this American plant after Professor Short of Kentucky, Shortia galacifolia, the specific name given because of the close resemblance of the leaves to those of galax, a low-growing plant common everywhere in the woods of the southern mountains. These leaves are now sent north in such quantities for decorative purposes that they are about as well known here as in the south.

Mystery and silence still surrounded the little plant, until in 1877 a boy found it in the low country of North Carolina. The father of this boy was a botanist, and so by correspondence the name of the plant was learned. Still, it was not found where Michaux had described it, and Dr. Gray was by no means satisfied.

In the fall of 1886 Professor Sargent went down into the mountains of North and South Carolina especially to find specimens of Magnolia cordata, a tree about which there was almost as much mystery. He went out collecting in the day, bringing back the specimens at night.

On one occasion he brought back the leaves of a small plant, gave it to the men in camp, and asked, "What's that?" They were about to reply, "Galax!" when, upon a second glance, they said they did not know. One of them said, laughingly, "Perhaps you have found Shortia." Curiously enough, that very day Professor Sargent had in his mail a letter from Professor Gray bidding him rediscover Shortia and cover himself with glory.

Professor Sargent kept the leaves carefully, and on returning to Boston showed them to Professor Gray, who at once pronounced them to be Shortia. Imagine the joy and interest! Professor Sargent sent word at once to Mr. Boynton, who had been with him in camp and asked him to visit the place again and find the plant.

But these gentlemen had gone their several different ways in their days' excursions, and Professor Sargent was alone when he found those leaves. He wrote the directions as well as he could, and Mr. Boynton made several fruitless efforts before finding the right spot.

I learned all this in my visit to Highlands, North Carolina, in 1896, when I had Mr. Boynton for my guide. He showed me the letter Professor Gray wrote Professor Sargent, which the latter had given him for a souvenir. He had pasted it into the flyleaf of his "Gray's Manual."

I asked him then if he would be my guide into the region, should I ever be able to go there in March when the flower blossoms. He said he would gladly, and from that time I have always had it in mind that I would go there at the first opportunity. I waited six years, but that was little to the years of waiting that Professor Gray had!

II.

OCONEE, WHITE WATER VALLEY, SOUTH CAROLINA, March 19, 1902.

We are here, and we have found it!

Now to begin at the beginning. We left Seneca at half-past nine in our "hack," the morning clear but cold. A pair of small, thin horses, a colored boy for driver, and the vehicle and wheels all covered with yellow mud, of course.

House on the drive from Seneca to Oconee

Because the bridge had been carried away by floods, we had to make a divergence of five miles, making the drive thirty miles for dear Shortia!

We had been told that the road would be uninteresting up to the last moment almost, so we were not unprepared for the dreary waste we went through mile after mile. In order to clear the land, the people simply girdle the trees which then die and stand in various stages of decay. We passed through old corn fields and old cotton fields, and where the crop had not been thoroughly picked from the latter the white bolls looked very pretty.

At first we met a great many teams carrying out shingles from a mill which we did not pass. These were driven by white and black, but more often by the former. Always the men touched their hats to us and gave us friendly greeting.

Going by the mill, we met almost no one on the road; the houses were far apart and there seemed to be nobody about them. Finally, upon a sudden turn of the road, we saw a foaming river before us and no bridge; the road went in on one side and we saw it emerge on the other side. Fording, as you know, is no new thing to me, for I was well used to it in Shelburne, but I knew it was necessary for the driver to know the ford, and something depended upon the horses.

We asked the boy if this were all right and he said, "Yes." But then, he said "Yes" to everything, even when we asked him questions that contradicted each other. So that did not help matters. A line of foaming white breakers extended right across the river where we were to cross. I got out of the carriage and went up on a rock close by the river to look up and down, and the effect of the rapid, broken water was not reassuring. But we saw a camp of men on the opposite bank.

I waved my handkerchief and one of them came down to the edge of the water so we could call across. I said we were afraid and did not like to drive over with our boy. He said that it would be all right if we kept in the right place and did not get too far over to one side; if we did, there was a hole we should go into. We still did not like it and asked if he could not help us; though as there was no raft, or boat, or anything, I did not see how he could. called back that he would wade across and drive us over. So he took off his shoes, rolled his trousers up above his knees and came over, evidently stepping on slippery rocks below and balancing himself very carefully.

Then putting on his shoes he got into our wagon and drove us over in safety. He said the rock was "mighty slickery"; it did look like a single smooth rock which the horses had to walk over. Then he told us how a man with a mule team drove over a week before and did not follow directions and was carried down the river. I should think that it was two hundred feet that we had to cross. I handed out a piece of silver to him, but he said, "Oh, no! I did not do it for pay." But I made him take it, and he said that if we would call to him when we came back he would drive us back again.

Then came more miles of lonely road, more in the woods perhaps. We came sometimes to diverging roads which all looked just alike. There were no guide boards, or if there were, nothing legible was written on them.

We were on a clay road, not very rocky. But you know how clay roads wash, and it can't be helped; so the road was full of deep ruts and gullies. But our negro boy was careful and nice in driving, and the thin, small horses did very well, breaking into a trot themselves whenever there was a bit of good road. We met a good-looking man on foot, and from him we learned we were on the right road to Oconee, and he gave us further directions.

Then we met the postman, on foot, and we stopped to have quite a talk with him,— a tall, thin man with a good face, having but one arm and carrying the mail bag over his shoulder. His horse had got used up with hard work, so now he was doing his duty on foot, twenty miles a day, ten in and ten out, with an average, in the winter, of three letters a day. We bade him farewell and kept on. Meanwhile we had eaten our lunch while driving.

Postman to Oconee

At last, when nearly three o’clock, the character of the land seemed to change a little; it became more rocky and broken, with little streams and with a great tangle of laurel and rhododendron. As we were crossing a little wet place, Caroline and I both called out at almost the same moment; she saw the leaves and I saw something more. I got out and went back.

Yes! there it was. The leaves of the long-lost Shortia galacifolia and a few buds, and then two more buds nearly opening into flowers! We handled them carefully and then drove on, rather despondent. Yes, we had come too early. But then, it was a great deal to have seen the plants and buds. We would try to be satisfied with that.

We drove on to more damp ground, following a little brook where the trees had been cut, which let the sun in more, and there we saw it in abundance, some plants green, some redder, and the dear flowers standing. up a long finger's length, all in full bloom. There is a single flower to each stalk, having five white petals, each delicately fringed. Imagine our delight! We got down on our knees, looked at them, touched them, but did not gather one. For all their abundance, we could not but remember their history, and we could not pick even one to have it fade and then be cast aside.

We knew that Mr. A- lived in the valley, and Mr. Boynton (my Highlands guide) had stayed with him and said he knew he would take us in. We struck Mr. B's house first, and that looked very unpromising. Then we retraced our steps up the White river and found Mr. A----'s. Remember, there is no town here. We have as yet seen but three houses, well apart. Mr. A- was away, but Mrs. A was at home, and when it proved that Mr. Boynton had stayed with her we knew we were at the right place.

There are seven children in the family, from eighteen years down to two, and the younger ones came round us in some surprise. When we talked about the flower they knew what we came for and called it "little coltsfoot." The woman said we were too early for it, but the boy said no; he saw the "bloom" yesterday. They do not speak of flowers, but use the word "bloom" " very prettily.

After we had put our bags into our room the boy Junius went with us on the road following up the bank of the river, and we found the flower in greater or less abundance. We came upon a patch three feet square-nothing but Shortia, and all in bloom. As to that particular patch, it was in perfect bloom, and if we had timed our visit to a day it could not have been better. At night Mr. A- returned and he proved to be an intelligent, friendly man. We are fairly comfortable here - as much as we could expect in this primitive country.

Our supper and breakfast were of eggs and milk and hot bread. No butter! Mrs. A- tried to get it for us but could not. As she sat with us at breakfast, which we ate apart from the family, she said, "I reckon things down here look mighty strange to you all." And she always spoke to us of things" up in your country," as if we came from far away. When we asked the boy what time he got up he replied, "A half hour by sun."

Mr. A, a man of fifty perhaps, has always lived in this valley and of course has always known "little coltsfoot." He says about fifteen years ago some gentlemen from the north came into the valley to hunt for trees, and then they told him about this flower and that it grew nowhere else in the United States. Only in Japan was there a flower that was anything like it.

Bed of Shortia

Since then four men have been in to see it in bloom, the two Boyntons, Harbason, and Kelsey. He could not fail in his knowledge for he has always been here, and this settlement is so small. So we are the first outside women to have seen Shortia in bloom in its own habitat! Isn't that worth our long journey? The day following our arrival here we had the team hitched up for us at ten o'clock and we started with George, the colored boy, for driver and Mr. A-- for guide, to see some big timber, some tulip trees, as we called them poplars, as he called them.

Going up the river a mile, we had to ford; but the water looked so deep Caroline and I preferred to walk the log over which the water swashed just a little. On the other side we got into the wagon for a little while, but directly we got out to walk up the hill which was too steep for the little thin horses to pull us up. So we got in and out according to the road and the fords, for we forded six times, and when there was a log we generally took it.

At an open field we left George and the horses at twenty minutes past eleven, telling him to wait until we got back, and that we did not know how long we should be gone. We followed a trail for awhile, then scrambled through a rhododendron thicket and came to the creek, forty feet across. Mr. A- knew of this and said the only way to get us across was to fell timber. He took off his shoes, rolled up his trousers, and waded across.

After a few minutes we heard the sharp blows of an axe. He had selected his tree and begun work. The chips flew as he kept on. Finally the tree began to sway, totter, and crash! over it came across the river; an ash tree, eighty feet high and ninety years old (as Caroline afterwards computed by the rings), felled to make a footway for us! We crossed one at a time with Mr. A's help, the log lying eight feet above the foaming water.

Then we walked on through rhododendron thickets and through some open places and crossed a very steep bluff, where we had to go one at a time with Mr. A's help. Indeed in some places he went first and left his axe and the camera, then came back and took one of us over and then the other. He was somewhat surprised at our persistency and the ability we showed in getting over a "rough country," and I think we gave a favorable impression of northern ladies; for we must have been the first he had ever seen under such conditions.

Finally we came to the big timber - tulip trees, circumference sixteen and a half feet; chestnut trees, circumference fourteen feet; liquidambar, circumference nine feet; rhododendron, twenty-one inches in circumference. These were not guesses, for Caroline had her measuring tape. Mr. A- guessed on the poplars that they were one hundred and twenty-five feet high and seventy-five to eighty feet to the first branch.

But the Shortia! Beds of it! Banks of it! The ground was carpeted with it; large leaves, and such a luxuriant growth! For all that the leaves are evergreen they have a remarkably fresh and bright look, as if they were a new year’s growth. No rustiness or dullness, as if they had weathered a winter. We saw some flowers, but not a great many. Growing so much in the shade these flowers were later in blooming; but it was a great deal to us to see these masses of plants.

We made our way back to George and the horses and found them just as we had left them-headed away from home. It was ten minutes of three, and we had been gone three hours and a half. Reaching the house at four, we had some biscuits and hot milk, and started out for another walk down the river bank among thickets of the rhododendron.

We went to the post-office, kept by a widow, and there her two little girls told us there were "blooms over yonder on the branch," and we started off with them for another look at "little coltsfoot." The banks were simply covered with it. The woods had been cut off, so the plants were somewhat exposed to the sun. The consequence was they had not the rich, full leafy growth we saw in the woods this morning, but they had many more buds.

In a week's time the ground will be literally white with blossoms; and the little folks, three of them with us, kept saying the blooms would be "right pretty," and why couldn't we stay to see them, or why couldn't we come back.

The children are so pretty in their manners and so helpful, and their parents are so friendly that we feel sorry to leave the little valley, quite apart from saying good-bye to Shortia. The people are very poor, simply farmers, and to us the land looks so unpromising. And they have so little to do with!

They think it a wonder that we should have known of their flower and have come so far to see it. But it is worth the journey, and I am indeed glad that I have at last been able to bring to pass the wish of the last six years of my life.

Intention, Happenstance and a Tribute

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
-From The Enkindled Spring by D. H. Lawrence


A couple of weeks ago, I encountered a small patch of Trout Lilies.

Said I to them, “You are early this year.”


Trout Lily (Erythronium americanum)

And they replied, “Actually, we are right on time. You simply weren’t ready for us.”

Of course, they were correct. This time of year is a challenge for me, a time of anticipation and regret. Throughout the winter, I looked forward to the emergence of another spring. And here it is, hurtling forward faster than ever, The maple blooms create a rosy glow. Yellow flowers burst forth from the earth, giving back all the sunshine that they’ve imbibed. Trees that were bare, was it just yesterday, are clad in pink and white. A breeze comes along and the air is filled with tiny petals, drifting to the ground like flakes of snow.

I want to see it all, take it in and not miss a thing. I want to revisit the flowers I know, beloved familiar companions, and I want to discover the flowers I’ve never seen, elusive wonders. Though the days are getting longer, they are never long enough. What I don’t see today, I might never see. 

Each season of the year, each season of life, has its own poignancy.  One of my very favorite literary works is the 14th century chivalric romance, “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.” Among the many passages I cherish is this account of the changing seasons:

For Yule was now over-past, and the year after, each season in its turn following the other. For after Christmas comes crabbed Lent, that will have fish for flesh and simpler cheer. But then the weather of the world chides with winter; the cold withdraws itself, the clouds uplift, and the rain falls in warm showers on the fair plains. Then the flowers come forth, meadows and grove are clad in green, the birds make ready to build, and sing sweetly for solace of the soft summer that follows thereafter. The blossoms bud and blow in the hedgerows rich and rank, and noble notes enough are heard in the fair woods.





After the season of summer, with the soft winds, when zephyr breathes lightly on seeds and herbs, joyous indeed is the growth that waxes thereout when the dew drips from the leaves beneath the blissful glance of the bright sun. But then comes harvest and hardens the grain, warning it to wax ripe ere the winter. The drought drives the dust on high, flying over the face of the land; the angry wind of the welkin wrestles with the sun; the leaves fall from the trees and light upon the ground, and all brown are the groves that but now were green, and ripe is the fruit that once was flower. So the year passes into many yesterdays, and winter comes again, as it needs no sage to tell us.

My quest for spring flowers does not entail the same risks as Gawain's heroic quest. And yet, we’re both human. We set out with intention, plotting the course we think our lives will take. Then, what we call “chance occurrences” intervene, and our paths take unanticipated turns.

I have not been one to chart out a life plan and see it through in any meticulous way. My trajectory has often been more drift than drive. But even those who pursue their goals with greater tenacity are not exempt from happenstance and “the hand of fate.” In my own experience, unexpected moments have taken me on detours to some of life’s greatest joys (and greatest sorrows, too, but joy and sorrow are inseparable.)

Oconee Bells (Shortia galacifolia)

This time of year, I think about one of my favorite places, a little brook whose banks are lined with rare Oconee Bells. Years ago, when I learned about the botanical mystery story regarding this plant, I was determined to see them myself. With my intention firmly set, I made certain to be at the right place at the right time. The date was March 13, 2009 and it was one of the best days ever, far surpassing my anticipation of how it would be.

For several years, without fail, I made an annual return visit. My pilgrimage was a matter of intent, but not totally impeded by my intent. One year, I was there on the day of the vernal equinox. After meandering amongst the flowers, I followed the trail up toward a clearing. The sounds I heard did not prepare me for what I was about to see. I have tried to find a more accurate word for it, but my word choice then and now, is simply “orgy.” In a separate post, I share notes and photos from that memorable spectacle.

Yet another pilgrimage to this idyllic place was marked by another “random” meeting. Memories of that encounter are what prompted today’s musings. Oconee Bells are in bloom for a relatively short span of time. Before making the drive to revisit them, I would go online to find current photographs of the flowers. On one website, I did find up-to-date photos confirming that it was an opportune time to go. The author of the website also mentioned a tiny rare flower that could be found near the Oconee Bells.

Pygmy Pipes, aka Sweet Pine Sap (Monotropsis odorata)

Intrigued by that possibility, I made a beeline to my favorite Shortia patch with hopes of discovering Pygmy Pipes as well. I was almost halfway around the loop trail, when I saw a gentleman taking pictures. He looked like he knew what he was doing, and I thought he just might have some insights on Pygmy Pipes.

I told him I was there to enjoy the Oconee Bells, as usual, but that I was also looking for the diminutive plants I had seen on a website maintained by a guy named “Jim Fowler.”

He smiled and said “I’m Jim Fowler and you’re standing right next to a bunch of Pygmy Pipes.”

I was astonished!

We spoke for a minute or two, he gave me his business card, I admired the flowers and then we went our separate ways. We never crossed paths again, although I did revisit his website of gorgeous wildflower photography from time to time.


Jim Fowler (1946-2021)

A couple of years ago, however, I went to his website and learned that Jim had died. That was terribly sad news, but as I read the details, there was something perfect about it, too.

On the final afternoon of his life, June 25, 2021, Jim was photographing purple fringed orchids on the road leading up to the summit of Mount Mitchell. A fatal heart attack ended his four-hour photoshoot.



Purple Fringed Orchid (Platanthera psycodes)

I like to think that a piece I wrote about wildflower photography would have resonated with Jim Fowler. On one level, April in the Cove is about the bliss of photographing flowers. On another level, it is a contemplation of life and death, and as much as anything I’ve written, a summation of who I am.

Jim Fowler was especially fond of wild orchids, which happen to be among my favorite botanical subjects. In 2020, the U.S. Postal Service issued a set of wild orchid stamps featuring Fowler’s flower photos. He was quoted in the news release announcing the issue:

It’s amazing that my passions of photographing wild orchids and stamp collecting have converged today with the release of these stamps. My childhood interest in photography began on the knee of my mother, who was an accomplished photographer; my passion for the beauty of plants, I learned from my great-grandmother, who was a botanist at the Department of Agriculture; and the hobby of stamp collecting, I picked up from my older brother.





The website for the North American Orchid Conservation Center features a notable collection of wild orchid photos and commentary from Jim Fowler.

And his own website is still online and is a remarkable resource.

My intention, for the weeks ahead, is to share some quality time with the spring flowers, to embrace serendipitous surprises that come my way and to savor the many joys tinged with sadness. Such is the poignancy of this season.

One word in the English language which comes close to describing the so-called dichotomy is “bittersweet.” That isn’t ideal, and I have to believe that another language must have the word that conveys the concept more effectively. Until I find that one word, let the poets speak:

Selection from Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

-William Wordsworth


On Joy and Sorrow

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

-Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)


A Light Exists in Spring

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period --
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay --

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

-Emily Dickinson

The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too, Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

-Philip Larkin

Spring

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –         

   When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;         

   Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush         

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring         

The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;

   The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush         

   The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush         

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.         

What is all this juice and all this joy?         

   A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning

In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,         

   Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,         

Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,         

   Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.         

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

Home - Jim Fowler Photography (jfowlerphotography.net)

At 73, Jim Fowler's Orchid Photos Become U.S. Postal Stamp (flowerpowerdaily.com)

Remembering Jim Fowler - North American Orchid Conservation Center (northamericanorchidcenter.org)