identifying Shortia

: Jennifer Rose

I saw this unusual flower in a Portland park. What is it?

This is Shortia galacifolia, also called Oconee Bells, a spring-blooming low-growing evergreen perennial native to Georgia, the Carolinas, and parts of Tennessee and Virginia (in southeastern woodlands within the boundaries of Cherokee lands). It is rare in the wild. It was first ‘discovered’ by plant explorer André Michaux in 1788 (with help from Cherokee guides) and not ‘found’ again for almost a century (by Asa Gray). It was known to the Cherokee long before Michaux and Gray became fascinated by it. Its Cherokee name is ‘shee-show,’ two-colored plant of the gods. Because it grows near the water’s edge, it is said to be a harbinger of spring rain. The common name Oconee is derived from Cherokee, Ae-quo-nee, meaning ‘land beside water.’

You can learn more about it from garden writer Charles Elliott’s two-part essay, The Long Trail of Shortia, linked here and here. There is also an essay about its discovery and rediscovery on the Harvard University Herbaria & Libraries website. It is clear from Michaux’s own documentation that Indigenous people knew a great deal about this plant (“I came back to the camp with my guide at the head of the Keowee and gathered a large quantity of the low woody plants with the saw-toothed leaves that I found the day I arrived. I did not see it on any other mountain. The Indians of the place told me that the leaves had a good taste when chewed and the odor was agreeable when they were crushed, which I found to be the case”), but Michaux and Gray, like so many non-Indigenous plant explorers, did not question the decidedly Eurocentric bias behind the idea of plant discovery and classification.

Botanists, Plant collectors, Shortia

The Signature of All Things

In The Signature of All Things, Elizabeth Gilbert weaves a narrative that follows the life of Alma Whittaker, a dedicated botanist driven by an insatiable curiosity for the world. The novel, encompassing elements of historical fiction, botanical exploration, and an unyielding pursuit of knowledge, immerses readers in Alma’s journey as she grapples with love, loss, and the intricate facets of the natural world.

Gilbert’s prose paints a picture of Alma’s experiences across continents and decades, capturing the essence of an era marked by scientific breakthroughs and societal transformations. I will note that the book incorporates outdated and offensive terms prevalent in the 19th century, particularly in describing Black and Indigenous people, as well as gay men. While I personally was hoping for a more critical examination of colonization and historical injustices, the narrative predominantly reflects Alma’s European-centric experiences. This focus may be regarded as both a reflection of the prevailing attitudes of the time—where Eurocentrism was prominent—and a limitation that, unfortunately, neglects the exploration of other diverse perspectives that existed during that historical period.

I did love Gilbert’s portrayal of how Alma’s unwavering passion and devotion to the botanical world shapes her entire existence. Rather than remaining a mere backdrop, botany becomes the cornerstone of Alma’s life events, resulting in a narrative where nearly every moment is interwoven with her botanical pursuits. This centrality of botany offers a unique depth to the narrative.

I especially appreciated the contrast between Alma’s exploration of moss and the portrayal of glamorous tropical plants, like orchids. Moss, with its associations of resilience and understated beauty, provides a window into Alma’s character, revealing her preferring and embodying the overlooked and intricate. Meanwhile, the allure of orchids symbolizes exoticism and societal expectations, but also offers a reflection of cultural and historical values, adding depth to the broader context of the story.

In essence, the novel is an interesting blend of historical fiction and botanical fascination, offering a portrayal of Alma’s life while prompting reflection on the societal issues of the era.

Reviewed by Ashlyn Higareda in the Leaflet, Volume 11, Issue 4, April 2024

The Plant Thieves: Secrets of the Herbarium

The National Herbarium of New South Wales, Australia, acts as setting and springboard for Prudence Gibson’s narratives about and descriptions of preserved plants. Gibson holds in admirable tension the wonders of the herbarium and the troubling colonialism that assumed authority over Australia’s plants, collecting them without permission, naming and organizing them by European standards. The question of who owns plants hovers in the background.

Gibson spent three years seeking “to find out what plant-human relations really are and what they mean. And what that meaning tells us about the herbarium” (p. xvi).

The chapter on Joseph Banks, for instance, dwells on the irony of Banksia, a widespread tree in Australia, being named for the famous English plant collector. Yes, he was an amazing collector, but the plant was there long before he arrived. Gibson describes some current efforts to add plant names used by Indigenous people to the herbarium descriptions. The task is challenging in part because the many Aboriginal groups have different names for the same plants.

The National Herbarium moved to a new site during the years Gibson was working on this project. The Plant Thieves includes some lively conversations between Gibson and local women artists creating art for the new building. Throughout Gibson expresses awe at the care given the plant samples in the herbarium.

One chapter recounts a collaboration between botanists and Indigenous Elders to solve a mystery about black beans. These large seeds (also called bogum or Moreton Bay chestnuts, also known as Castanospermum australe) are toxic, but Indigenous people process them for use in a bread called damper. (I used Google frequently to translate Australian terms.) Somehow the plant had spread hundreds of miles, puzzling scientists, because this plant does not spread easily. European settlers believed Indigenous people were not organized enough to establish long trade routes, a logical way the plant could have traveled. The Elders told a Songline story of an ancestral spirit carrying a bag of beans many miles. When scientists examined plants along the route described in the story, they found bean plants everywhere. This evidence supports the presence of a highly developed Indigenous social organization.

The Plant Thieves reads very easily. Gibson brings to life the many people she meets and provides much intriguing information about plants and their ties to the herbarium.

Reviewed by Priscilla Grundy in Leaflet for Scholars, Volume 10, Issue 9, September 2023

The Weeds

It’s hard to imagine a more botanical novel than Katy Simpson-Smith’s The Weeds, which takes its narrative structure from Richard Deakin’s 1855 book Flora of the Colosseum of Rome, or, Illustrations and Descriptions of Four Hundred and Twenty Plants Growing Spontaneously upon the Ruins of the Colosseum of Rome. The primary characters are two intentionally unnamed women, one in 2018 and the other in 1854, and the occasional refrain of a ghost, the unsettled spirit of Richard Deakin hovering over the Colosseum.

The contemporary woman is a graduate student from Mississippi, gathering plant observations for her thesis advisor. She is a keen observer of plants and people, and we soon learn she has recently lost her mother (who also had a strong connection with plants). As she works on the Rome Colosseum project, she develops an idea for a thesis exploring climate change through the plant life in Jackson’s Mississippi Coliseum. The 19th century woman has transgressed the norms of society: she is eager to avoid an arranged marriage and takes up petty thievery to make herself unmarriageable. The “you” addressed in her narrative is her lover, a woman. She works as Deakin’s indentured assistant, observing and describing the plants.

Both women consider the wild plants in context (how are they used by humans and animals, how they fit in an ecosystem, how climate affects them). For this, both are rebuked. The thesis advisor is dismissive, telling his student she has “an anecdotal mind,” whereas true scientists (men) are rational, and do not allow sentiment to intrude. Her role is to record and learn, his role is to interpret and author. The fictional Deakin tells his assistant that science is knowledge freed from emotion, and she wonders “how many days or centuries it will take for him to be proven wrong.” Whenever either woman mentions mystical, medical, or agricultural associations of the plants, they are told these things are irrelevant. But the 19th century woman believes “there is a bias against time here, and I must fault science for its disregard of history. Does it think knowledge is not accumulated but sudden?”

By turns furious, hilarious, and botanically erudite, this deeply feminist novel shines a light on the relative invisibility of women’s contributions to botany in particular and science in general. The women characters are never named because that has so often been the case in real life. Nothing in the historical record suggests a resemblance between the fictional Richard Deakin and the real one, but there are undoubtedly many instances of women overlooked and omitted as co-authors and researchers, whose contributions to the pool of knowledge remain unrecognized. Their absence from the record is a ghost that should haunt us.

The book includes a dozen exquisite graphite drawings by Kathy Schermer-Gramm, depicting selected plants of the character’s proposed Flora Colisea Mississippiana. If you want to explore Deakin’s book, a digitized copy is linked here and in the catalog record.

Reviewed by Rebecca Alexander, published in the Leaflet for Scholars, Volume 10, Issue 10, October 2023.

Flora’s Fieldworkers: Women and Botany in Nineteenth-Century Canada

In the nineteenth century, Canadian women got their hands dirty in lots of botanical projects. Flora’s Fieldworkers, edited by Ann Shteir, fills some gaps in the history of these women’s work. The book grew out of a 2017 workshop, “Women, Men, and Plants in nineteenth-century Canada,” at York University in Toronto.

Some women in this volume collected plants. A few sent plant samples to William Jackson Hooker at Kew Gardens in England for his Flora Boreali–Americana and to other plant seekers. Several women established or participated in organizations promoting or educating about botany and horticulture. Others produced botanic or floral art – paintings, albums, quilts. Nearly all gardened.

Flora’s Fieldworkers describes these endeavors, often placing them in a context of pushing the boundaries of the roles socially prescribed for women. Gardening and floral art were women’s work. Everything else in botany required women skillfully to insert themselves into the male-dominated establishment.

Christian Ramsay (1786-1839), the Countess of Dalhousie, amassed great quantities of plant specimens in Canada (and India and Scotland). Some are still preserved in several herbaria. She sent samples to Hooker, which he used. Like almost all the women in this volume, Lady Dalhousie taught herself botany, and she became expert. Her collecting opportunities came as she followed her husband’s diplomatic career. In her case, as in others, the author reminds us that England’s empire-building hovered in the background.

Catherine Parr Traill (1802-1899) was the most famous woman in this collection, though much of her fame grew from her work as a children’s author and natural historian. Plants played a large role in such works as her The Backwoods of Canada, along with the birds and small animals. She combined careful and accurate plant descriptions with the context of her own sense of connection. If she could not find a new plant described in her small botanical library, she happily invented her own name for it.

Traill began collecting plants soon after her arrival in Canada from England in 1832, continuing for seven decades and writing detailed descriptions of each. With the help of her niece, Agnes Fitzgibbon, Traill published two volumes (both using standard nomenclature), Canadian Wild Flowers (in the Miller Library’s Tall Shelves) and Studies of Plant Life in Canada , in the rare book collection. Both titles are digitized and available online.

Ramsay, Fitzgibbon, and Traill join numerous others in this enlightening volume on early women botanists up north.

Reviewed by Priscilla Grundy in Leaflet for Scholars, Volume 10, Issue 7, July 2023

Julia: A Biography of Julia W. Henshaw

“Julia” is a graphic biography of Julia Henshaw (1869-1937), who published the first book on the wild flowers of the Canadian Rockies in 1906. This was a relatively small aspect of her colorful life and author/illustrator Michael Kluckner chose her later role as an ambulance driver in World War I for his book’s cover.

Henshaw had a passion for the mountains, seeded on a visit to Switzerland from her native England as a young woman. She met both Mary Schäffer Warren and Mary Vaux Walcott on a visit to the Rockies for her journalism work in 1898. Kluckner concludes this visit helped focus her interest in the native plants. It is certain she learned much about the flora from the two American women, as well as the techniques of photography which were used to illustrated her book, “Mountain Wild Flowers of Canada” published in 1906 (the Miller Library has the American edition, which is the same except for the title).

Biographers disagree on the possibility of plagiarism in Henshaw’s book. Letters from Warren much later in life expressed bitterness that her protégé published a year earlier than her own book on the wild flowers. Nonetheless, the two women stayed in contact, as both were founding members of the Alpine Club of Canada, and participated together in some of that organization’s functions. One can only hope that their love of plants helped to mellow their professional rivalry.

The author is very skilled at drawing facial expressions that bring out the emotions of his subject and her companions. The tension between Henshaw and Warren is far stronger as portrayed in this media than in the words I have read in other biographies. Other tactics used by Kluckner include interspersing newspaper clips and occasional photographs from the period. He even put himself in the action, seeking answers from the ghost of Henshaw when more conventional research materials failed.

In one of these exchanges between author and subject, the ghost of Henshaw explains, “It works like this – you rest in peace until someone begins to fiddle with your legacy. That wakes you up and you get a chance to respond. The problem is, some biographers don’t listen.”

Excerpted in part from Brian Thompson’s articles in the Winter 2022 and Summer 2023 issues of the Arboretum Bulletin

The Forgotten Botanist: Sara Plummer Lemmon’s Life of Science & Art

Sara Plummer Lemmon (1836-1923) was a transplanted easterner, moving from New York to California in her early 30s hoping to find a climate to improve her health. She settled in Santa Barbara, establishing a library and becoming interested in the native flora.

A decade later, she married John Gill (“JG”) Lemmon (1831-1908), a survivor of the notorious Andersonville prison in the Civil War, who had also moved to California for his health. Together they explored the mountains of Arizona, California, and Mexico, developing an important herbarium, now housed at the University of California, Berkeley. Sara was also a skilled botanical illustrator. Her and JG’s story is told in “The Forgotten Botanist” by Wynne Brown.

Sara was an advocate for having the California poppy (Eschscholzia californica) named the state flower. Although first proposed to the state legislature in 1895 and passed by both houses nearly unanimously, two succeeding governors refused to sign the bill for unrelated political reasons, postponing enactment until 1903.

The joint headstone for JG and Sara in Oakland’s Mountain View Cemetery lists them as “partners in botany. Author Brown reflects, “The actual balance of that partnership between JG and the woman known to the world as ‘& wife’ is still—and probably always will be—up for question,” but she concludes that many future ecologists will “rely on the work of this determined couple.”

Excerpted from Brian Thompson’s article in the Winter 2023 issue of the Arboretum Bulletin

Alice Eastwood’s Wonderland: The Adventures of a Botanist

Alice Eastwood (1859-1953) had a challenging childhood. Born in Toronto, her mother died when she was only 6, admonishing Alice from her deathbed to look after two younger siblings. Her father struggled to have a viable career and keep the family together. At times, Eastwood was forced to stay with relatives or at a boarding school. It wasn’t until many years later the family reunited in Denver.

Despite these hardships, Eastwood was fortunate to have mentoring by different individuals who fostered her great love of plants. Exploring the native flora in the mountains of Colorado deepened that passion. Her story is told in a delightful, memoir-style book from 1955, “Alice Eastwood’s Wonderland: The Adventures of a Botanist,” by Carol Green Wilson (1892-1981).

In her early 30s, Eastwood traveled to California and met two other influential women of plants. The first was horticulturist Kate Sessions (1857-1940) in San Diego. Wilson describes their friendship, which lasted for fifty years, as one that “often drew Alice Eastwood from the cloisters of pure science to the practical field of horticulture.”

Continuing her journey to San Francisco, Eastwood intentionally visited the California Academy of Sciences to meet Katherine Brandegee (1844-1920) and her husband, Townshend Stith (T.S.) Brandegee (1843-1925). Their friendship was cemented by joint botanical excursions around the Bay Area.

The Brandegees eventually convinced Eastwood to become the joint curator of the botanical collection at the Academy. It was not easy to lure Eastwood away from her beloved Rockies, but the salary of $75/month, all of Katherine’s income, sealed the deal. Within two years, the Brandegees retired, leaving Eastwood as sole curator and head of botany for the Academy, a position she held until her own retirement over fifty years later.

While regarded as one of the supreme botanists in California’s history, Eastwood is probably most famous for her rescue efforts of the Academy’s herbarium collections threatened by the fires that followed the 1906 earthquake. Well before that fateful day, she had anticipated the dangers of fire and housed the most valuable herbarium specimens in an easily-accessible case. This allowed her, with the help of one chance volunteer, to lower nearly 1,500 collection items six stories using rope, strings, and her work apron! She continued her efforts to save Academy collections over the following days, even while losing her own home to the fires.

Excerpted from Brian Thompson’s the Winter 2023 issue of the Arboretum Bulletin

The Perfect Specimen: The 20th Century Renown Botanist Ynés Mexἰa

Ynés Mexἰa (1870-1938) didn’t discover her career passion until later in life. The daughter of a Mexican diplomat father and an American mother, her childhood was difficult with her parent’s divorce and several moves throughout the eastern United States. She spent her 20s and 30s in Mexico living through two marriages, moving to San Francisco in her 40s, where she required years of medical care to recover following a mental and physical breakdown.

As part of her treatment, her doctor encouraged getting involved in hobbies. She discovered the Sierra Club, and eventually enrolled, at age 51, at the University of California, Berkeley. While not seeking a degree, she took courses on botany, including classes through the California Academy of Science where she met Alice Eastwood. Together, they joined on field botany trips into the mountains of California.

While this became a valuable collaboration, Mexἰa discovered that she most enjoyed exploring alone. Over a 13-year career that followed, she took many long trips to Mexico, throughout South America, and briefly to Alaska, collecting plants to press and later sell to many of the outstanding herbarium collections in the United States. The details of these travel are chronicled in the “The Perfect Specimen” by Durlynn Anema.

Mexἰa’s career, cut short by her death from cancer, was extremely productive, adding about 150,000 new specimens to American botany, including several new species. She was not bothered by rough conditions, and her knowledge of Spanish language and culture, and her ease in interactions with indigenous people, allowed her to explore remote areas for new plants.

Excerpted from Brian Thompson’s article in the Winter 2023 issue of the Arboretum Bulletin

The Multifarious Mr. Banks : from Botany Bay to Kew, the Natural Historian Who Shaped the World

[The Multifarious Mr. Banks] cover

Joseph Banks was indeed multifarious. Webster defines the term as “having or occurring in great varieties.” Garden lovers might know that Banks became famous after collecting plants on a round-the-world voyage with Captain Cook on the Endeavour in 1768-71, and that he developed and guided Kew Gardens for decades. Toby Musgrave does justice to these huge accomplishments. What he adds is the astonishing range of other ways that Banks influenced the horticultural world – and often other worlds – in late 18th and early 19th century England and beyond.

The book is organized chronologically through the account of Banks’s Endeavour voyage and a smaller one to Iceland, but then proceeds by subject through other areas of Banks’s activities.

Banks was very wealthy. He was endlessly curious. He apparently knew everyone of any importance in England and many others on the Continent and in America. He had an outgoing and friendly personality. James Boswell describes him as “an elephant, quite placid and gentle, allowing you to get upon his back or play with his proboscis,” (p. 187), as opposed to another world traveler (Scottish explorer James Bruce) who was “a tiger that growled whenever you approached him.”

Banks was also a firm believer in progress and in empire (which 21st century readers might be less enthusiastic about). Musgrave shows us Banks’s close relationship with King George III, that nemesis of the American Revolution. “Farmer George,” as the king was called, loved Kew Gardens and walked in it with Banks regularly. In Banks’s decades-long efforts finding new plants and acquiring them for Kew, he remained focused on how plants could be used as crops or resources to aid the empire.

Banks belonged to more that 70 clubs and societies. It’s hard to imagine how he did all this and still managed his own multiple properties, regularly updating them with new planting plans. The most prominent society activity for him was his position as president of the Royal Society, a title he held for 41½ years beginning in 1778. In all these activities Banks assisted other scientists in a multiplicity of areas, giving counsel, offering connections, and sometimes providing cash.

When England needed a new site for prisoners, after Georgia was no longer available due to American independence, Banks weighed in on proposing Botany Bay in Australia as an appropriate location. He also pulled strings and even arranged smuggling a prize breed of Merino sheep from Spain, to the benefit of Australia as well as England.

Through his connections and frequent correspondence with members of the Lunar Society of Birmingham (which included Erasmus Darwin, Benjamin Franklin, and Joseph Priestly), with a great many others, and through his own study, “Banks became an acknowledged expert in a wide range of subjects including agriculture, botanic gardens, canals, cartography, coinage, colonization, currency, drainage, earthquakes, economic botany, exploration, farming, leather tanning, Merino sheep, plant pathology, and even the plucking of geese” (p. 281). Multifarious indeed.

This is a real biography, based on copious research. Musgrave avoids fictional conversations and mostly stays away from suggesting what Banks “must have thought.” Fortunately, the author is not afraid to express an opinion, such as that Banks behaved very badly in breaking his engagement to Harriet Blosset. Mostly the story Musgrave tells is one of amazing positives, ending with his justified assessment of Banks as a “great and remarkable man”(p. 332).

Published in the Leaflet, November 2021, Volume 8, Issue 11.