Constant friends
I’ve previously mentioned Scarlet bloodroot (Hæmodorum coccineum) here, here, and here. The reason for writing about the plant yet again is that sixteen of the ninety-nine growing in my backyard have developed flowering stalks, and I’m excited! Truly. Should I, by the way, have rounded those figures to fifteen and a hundred? Maybe, yes. But while it makes little difference to readers whether I’m a wee imprecise in this matter (doesn’t it?), I like to keep a record of such things to develop an idea of the peculiarities of each species of plant growing in my care.
In this case, I’m curious to know how floriferous Hæmodorum can be so that in the future I might — with some measure of credibility — recommend or not their inclusion in garden designs. Based on my experience, I’m assuming that future clients are more likely to be interested in how well a plant flowers. Many have expressed a preference for colour, you see. So, theres bee sixteen from ninety-nine. Although it’s early days yet. And all ninety-nine will form part of my garden regardless of their flowering reliability because they’re indigenous to this area and so suit its climate well.
Two years ago I was wholly unaware of the existence of this species. Less than a year ago I knew about it but had never seen it, and to this day I’ve yet to see any growing in the wild, although they’re far from uncommon. Consequently, until these last few days I’d never seen its flowers other than in some online images. And although the species has grown well among my collection of potted plants, I hadn’t expected them to flower while growing in one-hundred and forty millimetre pots, nor in their first year since germination from seed.
It’s now nearing the end of the dry season, and in their natural habitat in this area Hæmodorum are lying dormant — their foliage, if present, would be dry and wizened, looking for all intents and purposes as if the plant is dead. Had the wet season already begun, plants in their native habitat would show signs of flowering now. But the rhizomes of those growing quite commonly close-by on the lower slopes of Castle Hill, and elsewhere, will still have some life in them while waiting out the tail end of the dry for the first sign of some decent rainfall (is it ever indecent?).
I’ve not seen any evidence of a rhizome in my plants. They’ve fleshy roots that are obviously red, but that is all. Perhaps they develop more of a rhizome as they mature? Nevertheless, because mine are watered regularly, no dormancy has been triggered, and so now their developing flower buds have become a very welcome and unexpected delight. The anticipation is palpable. It looks as if the first flowers will open in any day.
Should one be excited by the prospect of a plant flowering — enough, that is, to commit to writing about it, much less cogitate over? I doubt that anyone harbours any ill feelings toward a fellow human for such. What, exactly, would give them cause? They might be quietly amused, indifferent, or quite possibly delighted that someone else besides themselves experiences the same kind of enthusiasm for a plant they’ve grown that’s flowering for the first time. Or any time, for that matter. Certainly, my many male friends from Papua New Guinea are not shy in expressing their interest in the subject of plants in general, and flowers in particular, which is pleasantly surprising given their outward virility and the cultural and historical reputation indigenous Papua New Guineans have as fearsome warriors.
Considering, however, that PNG is traditionally a nation of gardeners, it makes perfect sense that flowers there are admired by men and women alike. By the way, there’s a World Heritage Site in PNG’s Western Highlands Province — in the Wahgi Valley about fifteen kilometres north-east of its capital, Mt Hagen — which is one of a dozen or so places in the world where domestication of plants developed independently of other similar sites across the globe. In this case, and according to current estimates, that began approximately nine thousand years ago. Might such a deeply rooted cultural legacy of agriculture and plant domestication — that in many parts of the nation is largely unbroken by industrialised agriculture — lend itself to a greater appreciation of all plants, including those grown purely for ornament? I think so. But of course I may well be wrong.
I suppose it would be naïve, though, to believe that — as when I was a child and teenager — there isn’t still a vestige of dismissiveness, ridicule, or antagonism among some Australians who find it peculiar, if not aberrant, or indeed abhorrent that a man might be momentarily spellbound by a flower. A plant’s blooms are, after all, still largely viewed as something gifted to and only appreciated by women. Rarely does that happen the other way around. Of all the flowers bought on Valentine’s Day, what proportion, I wonder, are given by women to men, or men to men for that matter? And how many fathers regularly receive a bunch of flowers on Father’s Day? I’d like to think it happens somewhere. Having eschewed such annual ‘celebrations’ for most of my life, my guess that it almost never happens may be off the mark. But I doubt it, and am arrogant enough in this belief to say so.
It isn’t just the Hæmodorum’s flowers that have captured my imagination — though they are certainly sufficient in themselves. There’s also the matter of what animals might be attracted to them — other than the occasional human, that is. A few months ago while my Swamp orchids (Phaius australis) were in bloom, I noticed one afternoon while watering that they were being visited by a small but not inconspicuous bluish-grey butterfly, darting from one flower to another. Until then I’d never seen first-hand a butterfly extract nectar (what else would it be doing?) from an orchid flower, and so my curiosity was immediately aroused.
Now with so many Hæmodorum about to reveal their most vivid colour — and the real possibility of more flowers to follow — I’m very curious as to which animals might take advantage of their nectaries (if there are any), pollen (an important food source for many invertebrates including bees, of course, but also some spiders which eat pollen caught on the wind in their webs, and some ants), and, ultimately, seed (another vital source of food for so many animals).
It’s important — for me that is, but with more than another eight billion people on the planet, odds are there are some others too— to maintain some curiosity about the world, especially while so much of it appears to be falling apart at the seams. Admittedly, most of my curiosity is invested in the natural world. The imminent blooming of Hæmodorum in the backyard — or of any plant there— is ridiculously trivial in the greater scheme of things. For me, though, such ‘minor’ events are not only joyous, but also a necessary restorative that seems to help fortify my sense of self and resilience, certainly more effectively than anything I could buy off-the-shelf or online for improving my wellbeing.
I understand that plants and flowers, gardens and gardening aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. Though for anyone who has never gardened, I’d recommend they take a sip someday. And for those who have recently taken to gardening and are finding their feet, keep sipping. Japanese scholar and author, Okakura Kakuzō knew more than a thing or two about tea…and gardens, to say nothing of flowers. Apposite is this from arguably his best-known work, The Book of Tea (1906 — said to have never been out of print); “In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends.”
To be continued…
