Tag Archives: plants

Unraveling the Mystery (and History) of the Crocodile Fern

14 Jan

I like ferns. Whenever I am at a botanic garden, I take a close look at them. I love the elegance of the leaves (fronds), the way the fronds unfurl, and the polka-dot patterns of the sori (spore cases) on the underside of the fronds.

During the recent winter holidays, we went to the Garfield Park Conservatory in Chicago — a magical place any time of the year, but a fantastic one to visit during the colder months. My attention was caught by a fern I had never seen before, with an intriguing leaf pattern:

This fern is called a Microsorum musifolium (or Polypodium musifolium). ‘Microsorum’ means ‘small sori’ and ‘musifolium’ means ‘banana-like leaves,’ because of the fern’s long, strap-like leaves. ‘Polypodium’ means ‘many-feet’ and refers to the growth pattern of the fern’s underground, horizontal stems (see the lithograph at the bottom of this post).

In recent years, this plant has also become known as a Crocodile Fern because some people think the texture and pattern of the fronds looks reptilian. (And because some clever house-plant marketers decided “Crocodile Fern’ would sell better than, say, ‘Banana-Leaf Fern’ — or worse, ‘Wart Fern,’ as it is sometimes also called.) Because of this new-ish twist on the plant’s name, it is now common to see the fern [mis]labelled as Microsorum musifolium ‘Crocodylus,’ the latter part of which signals an animal genus, not a botanical one.

I don’t have any crocodile photos, but I do have some close-ups of an alligator’s back. And while I can see that the fern does look reptilian in a way, it may be a stretch to say it looks like the patterns on the back of a crocodile (or alligator):

Common names aside, the fern is native to Southeast Asia and the Pacific Islands, and is an epiphyte; it grows on trees for support but it does not take any nutrients from them. Instead, it forms a half-basket against the tree trunk that catches falling leaves and debris, which give the plant moisture as well as nutrients as the leaves and debris decompose. As a houseplant (ie, when it is not tucked against a tree trunk), the fern will form a full, circular basket. Plants that do this — including Bromeliads — are called ‘trash-basket plants,’ which is not the nicest name for a great adaptation. Luckily, many ferns in this category are called Bird’s Nest ferns, which sounds much better.

Microsorum musifolium was first described by the German-Dutch botanist Carl Ludwig Blume in his famous 19th-century work, Flora Javae (Plants of Java), written after he had served as a director at the botanic garden in Bogor (then known as Buitenzorg), Java. There is some confusion over when, precisely, Flora Javae was published, as different sections were added between 1828-1858.

I saw a hand-colored lithograph of ‘Polypodium Musaefolium’ attributed to Blume’s 1829 edition of the book for sale online, and wanted to confirm that it was, in fact, from that book (not that I wanted to buy it; I just wanted to know when the fern was first mentioned). I looked at the list of sections added to Flora Javae over the years, which notes all the ones added in 1829, but there were no sections called Polypodium or Polypodiopsida. I wondered if ferns were called something else back in the day. Sure enough, ferns were traditionally classified as Filices — and that was the title of one of the 1829 sections. So I knew Blume had devoted a sizeable section of Flora Javae to ferns, and I hoped Microsorum musifolium was among them.

Motivated by this discovery, I kept looking and — amazingly — found a full-text 1858 version of Flora Javae, thanks to the Biodiversity Heritage Library; it is from an edition held by the Peter H. Raven Library at the Missouri Botanical Garden. The 1858 version includes all the sections added previously, including the one on ferns. I searched the text for ‘Microsorum musifolium,’ but no luck. Then I remembered Blume’s lithograph was labeled ‘Polypodium.’ That worked; there are a LOT of Polypodium entries in Flora Javae. But the search did not turn up any entries for Polypodium musifolium or musaefolium (at the time, I did not realize that this result – POLYPODIUM MUSffiF0LIU3L — was the one I was looking for). So I tried to scroll through all the entries manually to find it . No luck, again. Until I came across another clue: the lithograph was described online as being Tab. LXXIX, and using that as a guide, I finally found the entry for ‘Polypodium Musaefolium’ on pp. 171-72 of Flora Javae:

And there you have it. Should you be lucky enough to see this unusually patterned fern in a botanic garden, or grow it as a houseplant, you will be able to say it was first immortalized in print almost 200 years ago! And that it kind of, sort of — from a certain angle and at a certain distance — could resemble a crocodile’s back.

Echinacea or Rudbeckia hirta? The Clues I Failed to Notice

6 Aug

You may look at the beautiful potted flowers above and know right away what they are. When I look at them now, I also know. And forever more, I will know. But for the past couple of weeks, every time I walked by this part of the deck, I reveled in how beautiful these ‘echinacea’ were, and what an unusual color, too. I would then glance over to a different part of the garden and marvel at how many other beautiful varieties of echinacea existed:

But I was wrong about the potted flowers in the first photo, despite abundant evidence. My disregard for the facts started when I forgot what was written on the original plant tags and did not feel I needed to re-check; it spiraled from there and led me to overlook the obvious.

Mostly, it was hubris; I thought I knew, so I failed to observe properly, or fact check. What clues did I miss? Many. As this blogger stated, a gardener confusing a rudbeckia with an echinacea is like a farmer confusing a sheep with a goat. Ouch. In my defense, sheep and goats are very closely related genetically– as are rudbeckia and echinacea. And until a couple of weeks ago, I did not have this ‘Cherry Brandy’ rudbeckia in my garden. But I get the point, and now I can see the obvious differences between the “sheep” and “goats” in my garden.

Here’s how to tell them apart:

1. First, it’s not by how hairy one plant is, vs the other. I read that one way to tell them apart is that echinacea have hairier leaves. But both plants have hairy leaves; echinacea leaves feel rough like a cat’s tongue, while Rudbeckia hirta leaves are softer and more velvety (see photo below):

Since both plants have hairy leaves, it’s not the best test. There is a better one (in fact, the best and easiest one):

2. Examine the cones. Rudbeckia hirta cones (l) are relatively soft and usually look like black button tufts (hence the name Black-Eyed Susans), while echinacea cones (r) are harder and pricklier and more conical — and are not black, but orange or green or brown.

3. Look at the “petals” (though technically, they are ray florets, not petals): This can often help, but not always. According to this way of telling the difference between the two plants, echinacea petals tend to droop and point downward while rudbeckia petals tend to stick straight out. But in the photo below, some of the echinacea petals are drooping and some are sticking straight out. It depends on the variety and the plant’s stage of development. So use the “petal” test as a first form of evidence gathering if you like, but be sure to confirm with the cone test; it will give you the right answer.

In seeking the right answer today, I learned something new. Not just about the difference between Rudbeckia hirta and echinacea, but about assumptions and facts. And about taking the time to stop and smell the roses — and see the petals and leaves, and touch the cones.

Botanical Garden of Rome (Orto Botanico)

29 Sep

Sometimes, after a week spent dealing with the logistical and bureaucratic aspects of moving to a new country (opening a bank account in Italy and accessing online banking are not for the faint-hearted, for example), all you want is a tiny bit of peace. That can be hard to find anywhere near the usual sights of Rome. But there are two spots where it is possible if you get to each when they open: the walled-in ‘Non-Catholic” Cemetery in Testaccio (burial place of Keats, Shelley, and other luminaries), which I will write about later, and the Botanical Garden of Rome in Trastevere, which is featured in this post. Despite having lived in Rome before, we had never been to this lovely spot; beyond the horticultural appeal, it would have been a fantastic, open place to take our (then young) children and let them run around. That is why you should get there right when it opens, especially on weekends–Roman families start arriving later in the morning.

 
Entrance sign; View of fountain

 
Hybrid Tea Rose ‘Altesse;’ White Gossypium (cotton) flower

 
White water lily and its reflection; Ferocactus pilosus (cactus)

 
View from Medicinal Garden; Tropical Greenhouse

 
Giant Water Lily pad; a young pad unfurling

–More photos from the Botanical Garden of Rome here.

Plants: Why it Pays to Be Prickly

5 Apr

Didierea madagascariensis (Octopus Tree)

Didierea madagascariensis (Octopus Tree), close-up

While most people would bristle at the thought of being called prickly, a plant would consider it quite the compliment.

For us, prickliness has negative connotations. A prickly disposition means someone is easily irritated, a prickly sensation is one that is itchy and scratchy, and a prickly situation is one to avoid.

But for a plant, prickliness pays. It is a protective adaptation that allows the plant to survive while facing multiple challenges, the main one being herbivores hoping for a nice snack. In my garden, carnivores of the canine variety are the bigger problem; their rampages through the flower beds in pursuit of squirrels have felled less-protected plants. But even they now know not to tear through the rose garden.

In common parlance, the terms “prickles,” “thorns,” and “spines” are often used interchangeably, but botanically speaking, they are different things: prickles come from a plant’s epidermis (the outermost cell layer) and break off quite easily, thorns are modified plant stems, and spines are modified leaves or parts of leaves. Rose “thorns” are actually prickles.

In this post, I’ll focus on spines. Why? Because it still boggles my mind that spines are ….  (modified) leaves.

   
Didierea madagascariensis                                       Pachypodium lamerei

Aside from being a source of protection, spines serve an important function for xeric plants (xerophytes: plants that have adapted to survive in environments with little water; cacti, aloes, agaves and other succulents are xeric plants). In desert areas, most plants with large, thin, flat leaves wouldn’t last very long; they would lose too much water. So desert plants had to adapt, or die. One of their adaptations was the modification of leaves into spines. Compared to traditional leaves, spines have a very small surface area, which reduces water loss. They reflect sunlight, deflect drying winds, and provide shade to the plant. At night, when it’s cooler, spines collect and drip condensed water vapor.

Knowing all this has expanded my thinking about “prickliness;”  in this case, the pricklier the situation, the better!

Cleistocactus winteri (Golden Rat Tail cactus)

 

Tis the Season for…Crape Myrtle

31 Jul

It’s that time of year. All over our neighborhood, Crape Myrtles (also known as Crepe Myrtles) are in bloom.  The long-flowering trees and shrubs originated in Asia, but made their way to the southeastern part of the United States more than 200 years ago after a pit stop in Europe. With so many different sizes and colors to choose from, there is bound to be a Crape Myrtle for almost every garden.

Our Siren Red is a relatively small variety–it will only be about 10 feet tall when fully mature, which is just right for our townhouse yard.  Of course, I also thought the Porcupine Grass was just right for our yard, but failed to adequately imagine what 8-foot tall clumps of  vibrant ornamental grass would look like at their peak; with two of them on either side of the Crape Myrtle, it is in danger of becoming the filling in a Porcupine Grass sandwich. I’m hoping the Crape Myrtle will soon outgrow the Porcupine Grass. If not, I’ll have to think of a Plan B.

I chose the Siren Red because of its size, and also because of its beautiful deep-red flowers. With crimson-colored new-growth foliage that turns green, and berry-like buds, every part of Siren Red is a pleasure to behold: