Tulbend, the Turkish word for turban, which the flower resembles, is the source of the plant’s name, though it is called laleh in Persia and Turkey. The diversity of the genus is located in the Pamir and Hindu Kush ranges of the Himalayas and the steppes of Asia Minor. Most cultivars of tulip are derived from Tulipa gesneriana, and adorned the gardens of Sultans and the privileged who could afford such indulgence. The flamboyant colors and elegant chalice-shape of Tulips are instantly recoginzable and have been celebrated by artists, poets and folklorists, weavers and jewellers, architects and novelists, over many centuries.

Each stem puts forth one bloom, but a few species have up to four flowers. The colorful and attractive cup-shaped flowers typically have three petals and three sepals, more correctly tepals. The bloom has six distinct stamens and three-lobed stigma. The fruits are leathery textured three angled capsules, containing flat disc-shaped seeds in two rows per locule. Evidence of sacred geometry!

The delicate feathered patterns most admired come from potyvirus, the mosaic virus carried by green peach aphids, Myzus persicae, common in European gardens of the 17th century. The virus produced fantastically colored flowers but also weakened the plants which slowly died.

Accounts of the fortunes and bankruptcies of 17th and 18th century European speculators and investors embroiled in Tulipomania read like thrillers, even though the theme is so familiar in our own times.

The plant takes its name from digitus, the Latin word for finger and was so called long before official Linnean nomenclature was the practice. The common English name, foxglove, may have originated from folk’s  (woodland folk or faeries) glove. The elongated bell-shaped flowers so easily fit the tip of a finger that their resemblance to a glove or a thimble is unmistakable. In Germany, the plant was called fingerhut or thimble; in Ireland Dead Man’s Thimbles; in Norwegian, Revbielde, meaning “Foxbell,” the only specific reference to fox.

The Common Foxglove, Digitalis purpurea, is a favorite ornamental garden plant, valued for its showy flowers, its colors ranging from purple and magenta to pale pinks and whites, its intriguing speckles and freckles, its mottling and spotting. Every part of the plant is toxic, especially the leaves of the upper stem.

After ingesting leaves, stems, seeds or flowers people suffer from nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, abdominal pain, hallucinations, delirium, and severe headache. More acute conditions include irregular pulse, tremors, cerebral disturbances, xanthopsia (jaundiced or yellow vision), blurred blue halos, convulsions and deadly disturbances of the heart.

Yet for centuries folk medicine and herbalists used extracts from the plant to treat ‘dropsy’ and various cardiac ailments.  In 1775 a 34-year-old Stafford physician and botanist named William Withering heard of an old Shropshire woman who could successfully treat dropsy. The active ingredient in her secret family recipe was digitalis. Withering himself tried the remedy before administering it to his patients. He published his results and acquired a reputation for the treatment  of congestive heart failure. Only quite recently has digitalis been superceded by other pharmacological compounds.

Irresistible to children’s book illustrators and gardeners, the Foxglove can restore as well as destroy life, giving us reason to marvel at its potency.

Convallaria majalis  var. rosea (Pink Lily-of-the-Valley)

From the Latin convallis for valley—a favored habitat for the plant—and majalis or belonging to May, this fragrant spring bloom derives its botanical name. Its other names are May Lily, Ladder-to-Heaven, Our Lady’s Tears but most popular of all is the lily-of-the-valley. Its flowers are usually white, although pale to darker pinks are less common but also popular.

In folklore it was favored by the Norse Goddess of the Dawn, Ostara, while more recently it was delared the national flower of Finland in 1967. One legend claims the lily-of-the-valley sprang from the blood of Saint Leonard of Noblac who battled a dragon.  Another tells of a nightingale that did not sing in the woods until the flower bloomed in May, signifying the return of happiness or a beloved. In Christian lore it indicated Eve’s tears on expulsion from Eden, or Mary’s  tears when she found an empty crypt three days after her son’s crucifixtion. They are said to bloom spontaneously on the graves of those executed for crimes they had not committed.   Called fairy ladders in Irish lore and the queen of flowers by John Keats. The shy beauty, dainty fragrance and demure presence of the lily-of-the-valley has been celebrated by many other poets and artists and it symbolized humility in religious painting.

The plant also had a significant presence in folk medicine—the water of the flowers was used as a heart tonic, believed to strengthen the memory, cure gout and it was valued as an essential ingredient in love potions—all this despite its considerable toxicity. And let’s not forget the perfume industry’s efforts to imprison the plant’s delicate fragrance in a bottle, soap or lotion—never quite capturing the elusive lightness that only flowers attached to the plant release.

Myosotis sylvatica (Forget-me-not)

From the Greek for mouse’s ear, which the leaf resembles, this genus obtains its name. There are several species in the genus and they are widely distributed in cool, damp climes. Forget-me-nots can be annual or perennial, with diffuse root systems. In the spring, on their straggly, tangled stems they bear small, almost flat, 5-petalled blue flowers—one cm. or less in diameter—with a bright yellow eye, encircling a ring of orangish red. So many distinct colors in such a minute surface! The seeds are enclosed in tiny tulip-shaped pods which disperse readily.

Its common name translates from the French, ne m’oubliez pas, with similar variations in other languages. In one legend after all the plants had received names a tiny unnamed one cried out, “Forget-me-not, O Lord!” and God declared, “That shall be your name.”  It was a popular belief that those who wore the flower would not be forgotten by their lovers. Henry IV adopted the flower during his exile in 1398, retaining the symbol when he returned to England the following year.

Legends aside, what actual role could this humble little flower have played in the war ravaged Europe of the first half of the 20th century? Listen to its story: In 1926, at its annual convention in Bremen, Germany, the Masons of Grand Lodge Zur Sonneat chose this tiny blue flower as their emblem.  In 1938 the Nazi Party Winterhilfswerk selected the very same flower for its badge and it was manufactured at the very factory that supplied the Masons with their emblem. Freemasons could now openly wear their forget-me-not badge as a secret sign of fraternal membership without fear of detection. Freemasons around the world continue to display the badge on their lapels as a reminder of suffering in the name of their fraternity, particularly under the Nazi regime.

The little Forget-me-not has surely earned its name!

Polygonatum multiflorum (Solomon’s Seal)

The Latin name Polygonatum means many-jointed, referring either to the numerous knots or swellings of the root, or to the numerous nodes or joints of the stem; multiflorum distinguishes this many flowered species from others in which the blossoms occur singly or in pairs from each axil.

King Solomon, ruler of Israel from 961 to 931 B.C.E., is said to have owned a magical signet ring which showed two triangles, one pointing up and the other down. They symbolized water and fire, the combination of opposites, union of body and soul, transmutation and his seal was said to endow the king with supernatural powers. Each year when the stem withers on the rhizome of the plant a scar remains, similar in appearance to a seal. This resemblance accounts for the plant’s common name. Since the scars also resemble knobs, they account for the scientific name denoting many-jointedness.

Underground, as the root-stock creeps along, it is thick and twisted, gnarled and knotted, scarred at intervals from the numerous nodes or joints of the leaf stem of previous years. From these swellings we can read the age of the plant. Above ground the stem of the plant starts off vertical and sturdy and then arches over gracefully, almost parallel to the earth beneath for the rest of its considerable length. The stem is smooth until the first leaves appear to embrace it, in an alternate arrangement to the end. Where the large, broad, deeply-ribbed leaves attach to the stem you can detect a pale raised crescent. Elongated trumpet-shaped flowers dangle from pedicels, connected to the peduncle which attaches in the embrasure between stem and leaf. This point of attachment held me riveted during the weeks I spent in the plant’s company, as did its sinuous, meandering trajectory.

In folk medicine the plant was reputed to relieve a host of maladies from mending bones, healing injuries, soothing gastrointestinal distress, menstrual cramps, and menopausal discomforts to alleviating symptoms associated with diabetes, insomnia, kidney dysfunction, infertility, removing skin blemishes and increasing mental concentration. No wonder the majestic plant bends under the weight of such responsibility!

Mention “orange” and you instantly conjure up a host of associations—brilliant colors, a fresh, clean scent and a juicy explosion of tart, sweet, tangy flavors.

Oranges originating in Asia centuries ago, slowly made their way across continents and oceans to Europe and the Americas. The Vedas (composed between 1,400 and 800 B.C.E.) refer to citrons and lemons; in Chinese literature 27 varieties of the fruit are mentioned in a book of tributes to Emperor Ta Yu (2205-2197 B.C.E.) by Han Yen Chih in 1178 C.E; Theophrastus (ca. 372-287 B.C.) describes them in his accounts. More recently a Mr. Columbus brought seeds to the New World from his older one.

While the citron is thought to have originated in northern India and spread to China, the sweet orange is believed to begun in southern China, entering India later on. Three citrus species are considered the source of “hybridization events” (naturally-occurring fertile cross-pollination), resulting in a great many varieties and causing endless complexity and confusion in citrus taxonomy and nomenclature. The word “orange” can be traced from the Sanskrit naranga, Persian narang, Arabic naranj,  to European auranja, arangia, aurantia, naranz, naranja, laranja, orenge. There is a great deal in a name, Mr. Shakespeare!

One of the oldest fruit trees to be domesticated, it has the unusual trait of displaying  both mature golden orbs as well as its small fragrant white flowers simultaneously.
The fruit is a modified berry (hesperidium) with a tough, leathery rind around a segmented interior (carpels) which contain juice-laden vesicles. The pigmented outer layer of rind (flavedo) contains volatile essential oils. Finely grated peel is known as zest in culinary parlance. The white fibrous layer of the inner rind (pith or albedo) is usually discarded, except in the case of citron. The color of citrus fruits develops best in subtropical climates with cool winters; in warmer regions the fruit remain the tropical “green orange”.

From orange-blossom honey to bridal bouquets, perfumes, scented oils, soaps, insect repellents, furniture polish; from orange sticks for manicure to culinary delights, liquers, juices, and vitamin C to cure scurvy—citrus trees have a very long history of befriending our species. They may very well have been the immortality-giving golden apples of the sun from Hera’s orchard, guarded by three nymphs, and known in Greek mythology as the Garden of the Hesperides.