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King Eupator, Tom Hanks, and Mrs. Lincoln

03 Dec

Hammock Snakeroot

Ageratina jucunda

Asteraceae

Yesterday, John and George had a good time searching  for Mistletoe in the Mariposa Cane Slough Preserve in Pt. St. Lucie.  This beautiful scrubbish hammock is pure nature joy. And it is in the newspaper,  having its grand opening today (12/3) as this is being typed.  It is an example of the great green things a coalition of green-lovin’ friends of the earth can achieve.  Click for Mariposa

The mystery of MCSP is: “where’s the Mistletoe”?   (Phoradendron leucarpum)   At the southern tip of the Oak Mistletoe range, the species inhabits St. Lucie County, and it is reputed to be in Mariposa.  We looked and hunted, but Christmas kissing in the Preserve  this year must occur without Mistletoe.  Those  big old trees are covered with vines, ferns, Spanish Moss; trying to spot the Mistletoe was  too needle-in-the-haystack for us at the moment, so on to more earthbound plant…

Setting aside an orchid or two, the dominant floral displays yesterday came from the Aster Family, starring Hammock Snakeroot (Ageratina jucunda).   Now we digress a moment, but don’t worry, it all comes together.

A more northern species of Ageratina (White Snakeroot, A. altissima)  is the cause of Milk Sickness which afflicts cattle who eat it and people who drink the tainted moo juice.  The disease was epidemic in the early 1800s in the greater Ohio Valley Region, and killed seven people in Little Pigeon Creek, Indiana in 1818, including Abraham Lincoln’s mother, Nancy Hanks (Lincoln).

Hammock Snakeroot (photo by JB)

Ever notice the resemblance between Nancy Hanks, Tom Hanks, and Honest Abe?  It is not coincidence.

Nancy Hanks (from Google Images)

Also in flower yesterday was Jack-in-the Bush (Chromalaena odorata).  If we turn back the hands of time, this species, Hammock Snakeroot, and White Snakeroot all used to be classified the genus Eupatorium before contemporary taxonomists messed with our minds slicing and dicing the genus.  Geezers like John and George have the older Eupatorium names lodged  in our synapses.

Tom Hanks (from GI)

 

The easiest way we know to distinguish Ageratina from narrowly defined modern Eupatorium is to look at the phyllaries (the little bracts around the flower head).  In true Eupatorium the phyllaries are conspicuously of two lengths, whereas in Ageratina they are nearly all equal, with a smattering of odd little outliers.

We like Eupatorium, because the name has soul—for  King Tiberius Julius Eupator Philocaesar Philoromaios Eusebes, better known as King Eupator, who reigned over the Bosporus in the late Roman Empire.

Tell the truth

 
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Posted by on December 3, 2011 in Hammock Snakeroot

 

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But Rot Might Be Good For You

25 Nov

Ganoderma lucidum

[This week, being Thanksgiving, no field trip.  However, John, who is developing his mushroom skills, visited Seabranch State Park near Pt. Salerno where he photographed the fungus Ganoderma lucidum, and researched it.  He’s the brains behind this post, for which George is the typing assistant.]

The word Ganoderma strikes terror into the hearts of South Florida palm gardeners.  Recently Professor Monica Elliott from the University of Florida gave a lecture at Palm Beach State College describing Ganoderma Butt Rot in palms.  The culprit is Ganoderma zonatum.  Many hardwood species suffer Butt Rots too, and today’s Ganoderma can be a hardwood butt rotter.  If you are Asian, however, “Ganoderma“ has a more positive ring to it.  Stay tuned on that.  First, some boring but necessary taxonomy.

Ganoderma lucidum at Seabranch State Park (by JB)

Fungal taxonomy is messy.  Within a species the variation of morphological forms and the environmental influences on shapes and colors can be bewildering:  “those can’t be the same species!”   Butt they are.  Today’s Ganoderma lucidum is an case in point; seen broadly it is the center of a species complex and is understood poorly.  The entire genus has been an historical classification nightmare, with several hundred “species” named around the world, most of them probably belonging in synonymy (that is, redundant).  Part of the nightmare comes from medicinal principles attached to—and patented with—species names.  The nomenclatural mess got so out of hand that a prominent mycologist in 1994 proposed a decade-long moratorium on naming new species in Ganoderma.   So for present purposes, let’s say Ganoderma is a large worldwide genus of wood-decaying fungi best known as “bracket” or “shelf” fungi,  although the shelflike “conk” is not their only form of spore-producing body, which can resemble a mushroom, although the underside will have pores instead of the usual gills.

Ganoderma lucidum production (Google Images)

Ganoderma lucidum is prominent species in Asian medicine, known as Ling Shi in China and as Reishi in Japan.  Its applications are ancient, diverse, highly commercialized, and embraced by modern medical research.  Among the many traditional applications are treatments for high blood pressure, diabetes,  respiratory disorder, cancer, and fatigue.  One of the joys of botany is seeing traditional medicinal applications carry forward into contemporary therapies.  Mainstream cancer-related Ganoderma research focuses largely on diverse effects on the human immune system.

What struck me about John’s findings is how many different threads extend from the same fungus found around the world:  photogenic “mushroom” in a state park, cousin to dreaded tree disease, traditional Asian medicine, and  potential pharmaceutical.   Every living thing has a story,  yet so often we just rush past and say, “oh, look at the pretty mushroom.”

Apply in the event of Butt Rot

 
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Posted by on November 25, 2011 in Ganoderma lucidum

 

Naked Embryos and Dead Man’s Fingers

18 Nov

Black Mangrove

Avicennia germinans

Verbenaceae

This week’s Friday field trip by John and George got nuked by a combination of work obligations, rain, and car trouble.  With reference to the last-mentioned, this post was written in the commodious Napleton Nissan/Kia Service lounge in Riviera Beach, with complimentary coffee and People Magazine.  So we’ll step back in time just a couple weeks.  Black Mangrove (Avicennia germinans) surprised us by practicing dispersal in massive quantities by bare naked embryos.  We found thousands of them in the tidal wash on the beach at the Hobe Sound Wildlife Refuge across the Intracoastal from Tiger Woods’s spread.  Everybody knows that flowering plants usually disperse as fruits or as seeds, but as exposed embryos?  In saltwater?  Yes.  And some were already rooting on shore, making it clear how you wind up with extensive stands of Black Mangrove.

Black Mangrove embryo castaways on the beach (photo by JB)

Googlization reveals this peculiarity to be old hat to mangrove cognoscenti, even being the basis for the specific epithet “germinans.”  But we’re nobody’s cognoscenti, thus our happy surprise at the little embryonic nudists.  It is also old hat to some plant propagators who soak Avicennia fruits to liberate the embryos for sowin’ and growin’.  By the way, the name Black Mangroves refers to the dark-colored wood.

Embryos from Avicennia species can remain viable over 6 months submerged in sea water and can float alive at least 50 km, although most dispersal is local.  The embryos are large, fleshy, and well provisioned before release.  They look like the innards from a giant lima bean.

Having escaped their fruits and seeds, and having enlarged, they  are in a sense prematurely germinated, and in this way vaguely resemble the precocious seedlings dropping from the unrelated Red Mangroves with a big prematurely sprouted embryonic root sticking out of the persistent fruit covering while still on the mama tree.

Inquiring minds may now ask, well, what about the third Musketeer,  White Mangrove?  Its fruits disperse in the traditional fashion—intact—but they have some “pregermination” going on too, as the seeds can sprout inside the fruits during dispersal.  This shared tendency is an interesting tidbit of convergent evolution where three different and unrelated species have all adopted premature germination, in different forms, to meet the challenge of saltwater-drift dispersal.

Dead man’s fingers (photo by JB)

Anyone with much experience hanging around docks has encountered spooky black gnarly “dead man’s fingers” rising vertically among Black Mangroves.    More convincingly than Bald Cypress “pseudo- pneumatophores,”   Black Mangrove pneumatophores have obvious adaptations as root snorkels.

The fingers are filled with spongy tissue suitable for gas exchange.  The finger lengths adjust to the need for air, and lenticels (breathing pores) on the fingers reportedly open and close in response to environmental conditions.

 

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on November 18, 2011 in Black Mangrove

 

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Gaseous Emanations and Tropical Soda Apple

13 Nov

Tropical Soda Apple

Solanum viarum

Solanaceae

In Allapattah Flats Natural Area yesterday John and George were struck by the conspicuous autumn beauty of a detested invasive weed, Tropical Soda Apple.

Find Tropical Soda Apple in this Gigapan taken by John 11/11 at Allapattah Flats.  (Hint: look near the white posts.)  You can pan around and zoom in and out: Click

Beyond wicked thorns, why is this South American Category I invasive weed the bane of all that’s good?    Those little ”tomato” fruits bear  oodles of hyperviable seeds and are experts at animal dispersal, reportedly moved around by cattle,  feral hogs, deer, raccoons, and other animals, and possibly by birds, as well as in feed, sod,  manure, and other agricultural products, The  spot where we photographed the plant was decorated with raccoon (?) scat.

The weed loves and invades pastures, degrading over a million acres in Florida alone, quite a feat for a South American species unknown in the U.S. prior to the 80s.  There are ongoing efforts to control it with insect biocontrols, hopefully ones not interested in tomatoes, potatoes, eggplants, and many native Solanaceae species.

Cow + TSA = dispersal (and sick cow?)

Tropical Soda Apple differs from other Solanum species in our area by having the young fruits colored like mini-water melons, straight thorns, and petiolate leaves.

Solanaceae are in large part a druggy toxic bunch, despite the edible species, so what about Tropical Soda Apple? Livestock beware! Illness occurs, including brain damage visible upon autopsy.    Cattle do not read veterinary journals; they eat the fruits and scatter the seeds with abandon.  One of the toxins, solasodine, serves commercially as a precursor for steroidal drugs.  It is amazing how little attention there is to human poisoning from such a tempting berry.  The berries are said to be disgusting, which probably has saved children.

The thorns are just plain evil, yet animals do harvest the fruit.  And this ties in with the beauty we beheld yesterday.  The plants were devoid of leaves, no longer very thorny, and festooned with beautiful cherry-tomato-sized golden berries glowing in the late afternoon sun.  They could serve as fanciful holiday trees at the mall, and are eye-catching at a hundred yards.  This otherwise forbidding species apparently lowers its leafy-prickly guard and gooses up its tooty-fruit advertising at seed-dispersal time.  The berries probably become less toxic upon ripening.

The thorny leaves are gone and the golden orbs are ripe for the plucking (but don't) (Photo by JB)

Let’s go a little deeper on that.  Ripening fruits, of which there are many, produce the hormone ethylene.  Ethylene is involved in leafdrop, which is dramatic in the present case.  Bear with us a moment on an academic yet relevant quote from the 1943 Botanical Gazette concerning Soda Apple’s cousin, the tomato.  The title says it all:  “Defoliation of the Tomato Plant as a Response to Gaseous Emanations from the Fruit.”  Plant physiologist John Skok, from the University of Illinois (which Michigan beat yesterday in an ugly contest), tackled a horto-headache with tomato plants: they drop their leaves late in the growth cycle.

The berry opened (photo by JB)

Like Hercule Poirot, he first dismissed some red herrings, diseases and nutritional problems.  Then he revealed the true culprit, in his words,  “defoliation is in part a response to emanations of ethylene or a combination of ethylene and other unsaturated hydrocarbon gases from ripe fruits…”

OK then, ethylene functioning as a hormone induces leafdrop in a species closely related to Tropical Soda Apple.  (In modern agriculture artificially applied ethylene defoliates crops for mechanical harvesting.)  The phenomenon serves a positive purpose in Tropical Soda Apple by removing the thorny leaves while flashing the showy fruits.  Here we have an apparent case of a pre-existing hormonal mechanism enhanced through eons of evolution  to become a specific adaptation for seed-dispersal in TSA.  Not bad for a debased weed!

 
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Posted by on November 13, 2011 in Allapattah Flats, Tropical Soda Apple

 

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Allapattah Flats and White Pine Barren Aster

05 Nov

 Yesterday John and George went wildflower-hunting in the Allapattah Flats Management Area in Martin County west of Palm City, and found bugs.  Not just mosquitoes, but also good interesting types.

Web in the morning sun (by JB)

Although not arthropod experts, we can match pictures with the best of them, and our creature identifications come from highly scientific picture-book flipping.  Do not bet excessively on them.  We learned that the Female Golden Silk Orb Weaver Spider makes mighty strong silk (which we experienced), is larger than her puny male, and has only a minor bite (which we did not experience) despite her arachnophobia appearance.

Female Golden Silk Orb Weaver (by JB)

 We learned further that the Salt Marsh Moth Caterpillar may occupy Dogfennel (Eupatorium capillifolium) in abundance.  It reportedly extracts toxic alkaloids from Eupatorium, one of its favorite host genera. (Eupatorium toxins killed Abraham Lincoln’s mother, although she probably did not eat caterpillars, and that topic is for another day.)  The caterpillar wiggles nervously when approached, then drops abruptly from its branch in clear annoyance. How does the caterpillar scatter across a large meadow of Eupatorium?  The species can wind-sail on a silky “parachute” when small, and when older they disperse overland.

Salt Marsh Moth Caterpillar on Eupatorium before dropping (by JB)

The adult Salt Marsh Moth is white with dark spots, having some yellow coloration in the male.  It is not particularly a salt marsh dweller.

Let’s get to a plant.  One of the more striking species at Allapattah this week was White Pinebarren Aster (Oclemena reticulata, aka Aster reticulatus), a species distributed mostly to the north of our haunts, and not found much south of Lake Okeechobee.  A quick look at the flowering dates on herbarium specimens shows most flowering is in the Spring or early Summer, then blossoms seem to wane in Summer, with a second blooming period in the Autumn.

Oclemena, yellow phase (by JB)

Here is a perfect example of a species whose flowers change color, placing it in the company of Mahoe Hibiscus, Rangoon Creeper, other “Aster” species,  and scores of  additional examples in many families.    Flower-color-changers seem typically to go from a light coloration, often yellow, to reddish.

This occurs in Oclemena in the disk flowers, the small flowers packed together at the center of this Composite flower head, that is, the eye changes from yellow to burgundy.   This is not likely to be mere decline with age, but rather a signal to pollinators of a change in floral status.  Many flowers signal reward availability to pollinators with changing color.   That color change accompanies diminished pollen or nectar availability is well demonstrated.  Moreover, presumably innate preference for “reward now” coloration occurs in bees, butterflies, and additional insects.  Even more remarkable, researchers have trained butterflies to alter their behavior based on color in relation to rewards.  Pavlov’s Swallowtails.  Yellow is a pervasive bee-advertising color while reddish tones are not.

The "we're closed" phase (by JB)

 
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Posted by on November 5, 2011 in Allapattah Flats, White Pine Barren Aster

 

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Love Vine

29 Oct

Love Vine

Cassytha filiformis

Lauraceae

Bee on Conradina (Photo by JB)

John and George explored the Hobe Sound National Wildlife Refuge on the shore of the Intracoastal yesterday, encountering millions of Black Mangrove embryos in the beach debris, some of them taking root.  This was interesting because the dispersal agents are tough, food-laden bare naked embryos without benefit of enclosure in fruit or seed.    We saw Dicerandra immaculata in full bloom left over apparently from a reintroduction effort, enjoyed a bee working over a False-Rosemary (Conradina grandiflora) systematically flower by flower, and encountered a pixieland of mushrooms on the scrubby sugar sand dunes.  

The most imposing and conspicuous (fully) living thing there was the Love Vine draped over trees and shrubs, so we must give it its due.  Love Vine is a nearly leafless scrub-loving parasite resembling orange-tinted spaghetti noodles overwhelming its scrubby shrubby victims.  The botanical name Cassytha comes from Aramaic for “tangled wisp of hair.”  The old name “Woe Vine” fits pretty well too.

To remove a common point of confusion, Love Vine and Dodder look alike but are unrelated examples of convergent evolution.   Dodders are species of the genus Cuscuta in the Morning Glory Family, Convolvulaceae.  Several species live in Florida, with a handful of species in our immediate area.    Although resembling Love Vine, they are far less common and tend to specialize on herbaceous victims as opposed to Love Vine’s preference for bigger prey.

Love Vine (image found on John’s camera after he dropped it fleeing into the woods)

Love Vine (Cassytha filiformis) is a member of the Cinnamon Family, Lauraceae.  Love Vine differs from Dodder by having fleshy drupes (vs. dry capsular) fruits, and by having a feature characteristic of Lauraceae: anthers that open by flaps instead of by the usual slits.   You can see this with a hand lens.   A suggestible observer might sniff the membership of Love Vine in the Lauraceae by a faint spiciness when crushed.   Love Vine has its flower parts in multiples of three, as opposed to multiples of five in Dodder.

Our species, one of about 20 in Cassytha, is worldwide in warm-climate coastal areas.  Apparently the fleshy fruits disperse in part by floating, aided undoubtedly by birds and by storms.

The adaptations of Love Vine for parasitism are profound.  The vine adheres to its host with “suckers” (haustoria) that look like something on a space-alien octopus. 

Love Vine haustoria on oak leaf (photo by JB).

You might think it just sits there and sucks, but the invasion runs deeper.   Tissue from the sucker enters the host and spreads into the hosts cambium (living region just under the bark) and/or phloem (sugar-conducting tissue immediately outside the cambium).  It is never a great idea for a parasite to kills its host.  Although Love Vinosis is sometimes fatal eventually, the attack has a built-in host-sparing restraint.  The parasitic tissue invades the cell walls of its host and draws nutrients out of the host cells across the cell membranes, but the parasitic tissue never actually breaks the host’s cell membranes, thus leaving the host cells alive to keep on feeding.  The recurring idea of harnessing Love Vine as a biocontrol against unwelcome plants may be hobbled by the comparatively nature of Love Vine’s attack. 

On a subcellular level, the xylem (water-conducting) tissues in the parasitic suckers have structures often called “graniferous tracheary elements.”  In plain English, the plumbing at the intake zone has a pressure valve involving tiny granules whose function seems to be to control the stream of incoming stolen sap.    The distribution and roles of these poorly known structures need research.

Around the globe, Love Vine has accumulated numerous uses, ranging from body decoration, to medications, to hair promoter, to potential modern cancer therapy.   As is so often true, the plant contains toxic alkaloids, yet is on the menu in some cultures.    And of course, Love Vine is the active ingredient in love potions.    Happy Halloween.

 
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Posted by on October 29, 2011 in Love Vine

 

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Sensitive Brier

22 Oct

Sensitive Brier

Mimosa quadrivalvis

Mimosaceae

 First,  today’s story is based at Halpatioke Park in Stuart.  Enjoy John’s Gigapan in the park.  You can pan around and zoom in and out.  Click Here

Second, let’s get our Mimosas straight.

Different Mimosa #1:  Most gardeners and botanical garden visitors have touched and crumpled poor neurotic  Sensitive Plant.  That fun species is Mimosa pudica (pudica = shy) and, although not native to Florida, crops up occasionally in the sunshine state.  It differs from all other Florida Mimosas by having just two pairs of pinnae (major leaflets).

Different Mimosa #2:  Mimosa strigillosa, sometimes called Powderpuff or Sunshine Mimosa, is a Florida native and  a commercial groundcover.  It was a 2008 Florida Nursery Growers and Landscape Association 2008 “Plant of the Year.”  This species has a somewhat elongate (vs. globose) flower head and is the only thornless species in Florida.  (The 4th Florida species, Mimosa pigra, is a vining species with thorns and with flat fruits.)

Different Mimosas #3:  Tropical American Mimosa tenuiflora and some other species have psychedelic root drugs used in mind-bending preparations.  As far as we know, the only “trip” you experience from any of the Florida species is stumbling over a vining stem.

Different “Mimosa” #4:  The “Mimosa” tree is not a Mimosa and is irrelevant.

Different Mimosa #5: Is a disgusting cocktail made with champagne and orange juice. Avoid it.

Mimosa quadrivalvis flower heads (by JB)

Now that the pesky  imposters  are marginalized, let’s talk.  Yesterday John and George enjoyed a 70-degree, blue-sky visit to Halpatioke Park and selected Sensitive Brier to feature here.   Mimosa quadrivalvis, the only Florida species with a four-angled (vs. flat) pod, was in beautiful bloom with its highly pink poofy flower heads.  Less attractive but more interesting were its ugly bristly pods.  To older folks, this species may be more familiar as Schrankia,  a persistent form of  nomenclatural brain pollution.  Does Sensitive Brier recoil from probing like a good “sensitive” brier should?  Yes, but less dramatically than Different Mimosa #1.

Thorny ripe pods (by JB)

 

Let’s linger a moment on the sensitivity.  Many Legumes tend to droop their foliage at night.  They are not wilted.  Rather, they “close up shop” by means of little muscles called pulvini (singular: pulvinus) at the bases of the leaves and sometimes at the leaflet bases too.  The pulvinus controls the angle of the dangle in response to environmental cues.  We won’t go far down that technical road, but briefly, the plant responds to the different reddish light tones during the day compared with those at dusk.   Far-red light characteristic of dusk sends a “time to droop” signal to the pulvinus.  The mechanism is related closely to the way long-day and short-day plants determine the season, and to red/far-red  cues governing seed germination.  Take the drooping  reaction, change the cues from light color to touch, and you have leaves that recoil  when a cow comes sniffing around.  You can watch here as a Mimosa goes to sleep thanks to its pulvini.  Click

What really grabbed us, literally, was not the beguiling flower head, and not the sensitive leaves, but the pods.   They are scary, resembling slim barbed torpedoes.  A reasonable observer might interpret the thorns on the pods as protection from herbivores, which of course is probable, especially since the entire plant is armed similarly.  Beyond that, fruits from many plant species apply spines and varied protuberances to cling to passing creatures to aid dispersal.  That’s conceivable with today’s plant.

 

Mess with the pods, and they unzip (by JB)

 

Playing with the ripe legumes we noticed something fun:  if you abuse them, for instance by dragging the spines across fabric, the pods pop open readily along pre-set lines presenting the seeds all lined up like paratroopers getting ready to jump.  It seems that abrasion and tugging on the spines helps open the pod.  Maybe creatures do it sometimes, or maybe the wind helps as the pods grab each other and snag surrounding vegetation suspended on their vines.

 
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Posted by on October 22, 2011 in Sensitive Brier

 

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But can you say Aeschynomene?

16 Oct

Aeschynomene americana and A. indica

Jointvetches

Fabaceae, Leguminosae

Dr. Livingstone I presume?

Today John and George scoped out the Kiplinger Natural Area off of Kanner Highway in Stuart.  Among the many attractions, the area is home to gorgeous Loblolly Bays (Gordonia lasianthus), but that’s for another day.

Enjoy this Gigapan of a pond in Kiplinger taken by John.  You can zoom in and out and pan around.  Click

Even more amazing than Loblolly Bay (yeah, right)  are two skanky Legume weeds, species of Aeschynomene.  The amazing thing is their togetherness.  Although not rare, you don’t see Aeschonomene every day, yet in Kiplinger two species occur essentially mixed in the same clump.  If you agree with our speculations, you obviously possess superior intellect, and feel that birds of a feather flock together.  Here we have two different species of the same genus holding hands, even though one is native and one comes from afar.

Aeschynomene americana by JB

Because both species are seeded deliberately around the warm world for livestock fodder,  their precise nativities are obscure.  But let’s pretend we know.  Aeschynomene americana, Shyleaf, is native and widespread in Florida.  Aeschynomene indica  is likewise widespread here but not native, and probably originated in South America.  Seeds are sold commercially, and species of Aeschynomene can be noxious weeds.

Aeschynomene indica by JB

The two growing almost touching each other seems to be a reflection of shared genes and therefore shared ecological tolerances and preferences, which is something to ponder.  Tendencies for different species of the same genus to reunite happens.  A cherry-picker might pluck debatable examples from Echinochloa, Emilia, Richardia, Sesbania, and Sida.

Overall in Florida there are about six Aeschynomene species, some native, some not.  A quick word on distinguishing the two species featured today and most likely to be encountered in the range of “Treasure Coast Natives.”   Aeschynomene americana has leaflets with 2 or more longitudinal veins, flowers with a predominantly pinkish cast, and fruits with one edge deeply lobed into pretty curves.  Aeschynomene indica, by contrast, has flowers with yellow and pink tones, a single vein in each leaflet, and fruit with almost straight (very slightly curvy) margins.  Interesting agricultural fact:  Aeschynomene americana adds 112 kg nitrogen per hectare in Florida.

Now here is the cool part.  Pith from Aeschynomene species is the usual pith of pith helmets, long favored by British explorers, tropical troops, oppressors of indigenous peoples, and khaki-wearing headwear fashionistas.  It took a lot of work to cut strips of pith and layer them onto a helmet mold, like paper mache.  Pith is porous, and a real pith helmet provides air conditioning when you dunk it in water.  The water evaporates cooling your malarial brain.  Amazingly,  they still manufacture the helmets (at least in Viet Nam) and you can still make yourself look like a 19th Century colonist if you wish.

Jungle explorers prefer pith helmets for sun protection.

 
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Posted by on October 16, 2011 in Jointvetches

 

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Catesby’s Lily—Eye Candy and Brain Teaser

08 Oct

Catesby’s Lily

Lilium catesbaei

Liliaceae

First things first, who was Mark Catesby?  And why does that matter?  (It does, be patient.)  Born and educated in England, Mark (1682-1749) earned his mark exploring, documenting, and illustrating the natural history of the Southeast and the West Indies before the days of the mighty Linnaeus, whose work is the official beginning of plant nomenclature.  Mark Catesby’s “Natural History of Florida, Carolina, and the Bahama Islands” displayed the natural history of our area in engaging vivid color, in the early 18th Century.

Catesby’s Lily and “Wampum Snake” by Mark Catesby

The example above shows Catesby’s Lily etched by Mark himself along with a “Wampum Snake.”  The critter has gone through the nomenclatural mill since Catesby’s times, and appears to be what we’d now call a Banded Watersnake (Nerodia fasciata).  (Commentary on this identification is welcome.)  So here is the big deal:  MC brought together one of the showiest wildflowers of the Southeast with one of the most colorful books of the early 1700s.  Who needs a Canon with all those megapixels!?

Well, we do.  Compare Catesby ca.1743 with Bradford October 2011.  Enjoy the Gigapan taken yesterday at the Jupiter Wetland Trail by John, and play Find Waldo.  In a Gigapan you can move in and out and pan around with a little practice.  Catesby’s Lily is there for visual enjoyment.

CLICK

What pollinates such a showpiece?  The main pollinator, at least in our place and time, seems to be the Palamedes (or Laurel Swallowtail) Swallowtail Butterfly (Papilio palamedes). (CLICK)  There are other cases of butterflies being prominent pollinators on our native lilies.  And there is mystery here.

In a botany class we teach that a big showy flower is a large investment for a plant, and that flowers tend to fit the body sizes of their pollinators.  A textbook butterfly-pollinated flower might look like a tiny inverted witch’s hat half an inch tall.  Such flowers are usually clustered.  Think of Pentas or Butterfly-Bush.  We teach also that jumbo reddish or orangish flowers tend to serve hummingbirds.  So how is it that humble butterflies dominate these expensive, orange-red “bird” flowers bigger than a butterfly? And to throw in another curve, the petal (tepal) bases are narrowed sharply, leaving big gaps between them.  Such “clawed” petals occur occasionally in the floral world but are odd by Lily standards.  So what’s up with all that?  Now it is time to speculate.

Could it be that big reddish lilies adapted originally for bird visitation spawned descendants re-treaded secondarily to butterflies for reproductive services?  Could the history of Catesby’s Lily be something like that of a child who grew up to be a particle physicist, and drifted later in life to  selling  live bait?

Evolutionary biologists seek hints of earlier characteristics of any species by looking at the broader context of its relatives.  If you suspect the guy selling bait started out as a physicist, you might find it relevant that his mother, father, brother, and third cousin were Nobel Laureates.  Lilium has scores of species around the Northern Hemisphere.  Is bird-pollination commonplace among them?  Yes.

So could it be that habitats occupied by Catesby’s Lily became hummingbird-deficient during ancient times, steering originally bird-pollinated lineage down the butterfly path?  Palamedes Butterflies are common inhabitants of open wet places, so did they fill an ancient void?  Did the Lily and butterfly find each other as a “second marriage”?  (Lily-Swallowtail hookups are known to involve additional species.)

Catesby's Lily by JB

What about those unusual clawed petals?  Hummingbirds hover and poke big strong beaks into tubular petal arrangements.  But if a “bird” flowers gets a re-tread to become a “butterfly” flower it might have to adjust to the ways of a butterfly:  a butterfly lands and hangs on; it probes for nectar with a thin and delicate proboscis; its wings would not fit into a tubular shape but seem compatible with well separated petals.   Those grooves at the petal bases might help guide the proboscis.  A wild speculator might interpret the non-conventional petals to be a secondary adaption to the needs of the visiting butterfly.

Catesby’s Lily ranges across the southeastern Coastal Plain from the mid-Atlantic states to Louisiana.  The butterfly wanders similarly but more broadly, and its floral visits are not strictly the Lily.

To change the subject, the main larval host for our “Laurel” Swallowtails are Red Bay and relatives in the genus Persea, a genus persecuted by Laurel Wilt disease.  Oh oh:  the disease kills the Red Bays, which might impact the butterflies, which might impact Catesby’s Lily.  Hope not.

Lilium catesbaei occupies mostly wet pine woods, wet prairies, and similar open moist habitats.  It is generally reputed to decline if fire is suppressed and  to increase after burning, ducking hot times by means of bulbs safely below ground.  The beauty lures eager native plant gardeners like Papilio palamedes, and cultivation is possible, but the lily is particular and reputedly hard to grow.  Not often spotted in the garden world.  That’s ok—kinda nice just where it is.

 
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Posted by on October 8, 2011 in Catesby's Lily

 

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Baldwin’s Kissing Comfit

03 Oct

Baldwin’s Eryngo

Eryngium baldwinii

Apiaceae

Today John, John’s wife Dee Staley,  and George enjoyed a field trip on a perfect October day to the Kissimmee Prairie State Park with the Palm Beach Chapter of the Florida Native Plant Society.  On the way, Dee pointed out  Crested Caracaras to add delight to the day.  Sorry, no pictures!

Although the main theme of the expedition was hot and heavy grass-watching, one of the first distractions was Baldwin’s Eryngo sprawling  in a sandy meadow displaying its fuzzy little blue flower globes.  This species creeps around most of Florida and a little in neighboring states, often on seasonally moist sands.

Baldwin's Eryngo in Kissimmee Prairie State Park. Photo by JB.

Now for a momentary edifying sidetrack.  Ever wonder why so many plants of the Southeastern U.S. have Baldwin in their names, usually as  baldwinii?— Eryngium bladwinii,  Eleocharis baldwinii,  Scleria baldwinii,  Rhynchospora baldwinii.   William Baldwin (1779-1819) was a Philadelphia physician and botanist prone to explore the Southeastern U.S. (and much beyond);  he had a jones for sedges.  His friends, enemies, and correspondents were a who’s who of American botany of the period, their names echoing through the botanical literature as specific epithets:  Amphicarpum muhlenbergii,   Eragrostis elliottii, Fraxinus darlingtonii.  Dr. Baldwin was probably mostly a swell guy, yet he dissed the work of his controversial contemporary Constantine Rafinesque acidly as “the wild effusions of a literary madman.”  The madman outlived the doctor by over 20 years.  Baldwin died of Tuberculosis on a plant-hunting excursion.

Back to Baldwin’s Eryngo.  Crush it…smell the carrots?  Eryngos are in the Carrot Family, the Apiaceae, also known as the Umbelliferae for their  trademark umbel inflorescence.  In Eryngo the umbel is squshed down to a tight flower head reminiscent of Asteraceae.

This would be a fun genus to study, or maybe a nightmare, due to the mind-boggling diversification of its species.  If Darwin had not studied finches, Eryngium could have helped illuminate the origin of species.  Around here we see Eryngium yuccifolium, Rattlesnake Master, which looks like a desert yucca, and we see and smell  the utterly different Eryngium aromaticum, which has bristly leaves not too different from some lawn weed.

Statewide there are nine species in Florida from the tip of the Panhandle to the docks of Miami, in habitats ranging from swampish to scrub,  one species endemic and endangered (Scrub Eryngium), a couple others escaped  exotics.  The garden selections are mighty pretty and are probably taken to be thistles by casual passers-by.

The crazy quilt of Eryngium diversity has not escaped the interest of contemporary taxonomists who are attacking  the genus—known for long distance dispersals, hybridizations, and rapid diversification—using DNA techniques to sort it all out.   There are over 200 species worldwide.  As varied as the species may be in overall appearances, in habitat preferences, and in behavior, they all have flowers in globose heads, and these are often blue.

Being fragrant, Eryngos collectively have big histories in human affairs.  As explained in Dan Austin’s “Florida Ethnobotany,” candied Eryngium bits were called “kissing comfits.”  They  were the breath mints of their day, except better, having aphrodisiac power.  Along these lines, and  to recycle Dr. Austin’s gleanings from Shakespeare, Falstaff said:

“Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of Greensleeves; hail kissing comfits and snow eryngoes; let there come a tempest of provocation.”

Who said botany is stodgy?   In what other blog does a smelly little weed  lead to aphrodesia and tempests of provocation!

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2011 in Baldwin's Eryngo

 

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