I'd love to pick apart a plant or two with you occasionally, but you must promise not to panic when I trot out alien names.
Attach this motto to your fridge: "Be a Latin lover!" Besides making you grin, it'll remind you that you CAN master this stuff.
We can't manipulate Mama Earth to our advantage yet, so lets venture into esoteric gardendeegookia, just for fun.
There are zillions of people named "Sam," but no one is named Samplunkia kadeedlehopPERia. That's his Proper name. We can't mix him up with that guy down the street named "Sidewinder Sam," or "Sam the Man" at the bar. People KNOW who you want. At nurseries, the staff will know exactly which beauty to fetch when you trot out a plant's full Latin name, then, incidentally, the common one. No chance of delivering the wrong Sam. Everyone's on the same page.
Why Latin? Because it's stone dead (Read: "Won't evolve, ever," even 1,000 years from now). It's the ideal language for labeling. Gardeners on every continent will understand you.
Good news; you've already mastered words like delphinium, narcissus, lobelia; master one more.
Aristolochia macrophylla. That's Ah-ris-toe-LOCK-ee-a. Rolls off your tongue, doesn't it? If you haven't run for cover yet, and will please stop laughing, let's bumble on.
The first time I beheld this word, I gargled a protest. WHAAAT? But, controlling my rolling eyes, I did my best to memorize those outrageous syllables. Now I trot smugly into nurseries, and confidently grease it out, impressing ME all to pieces. Not to mention staff. Best of all, I KNOW what's whatia. (I once popped into a local garden center, wanting "cotton -- easter." Nice try, but Wrong. It was "Ca-TOE-nee-ass-ter!" Cotoneaster. Got it!)
Now, Aristolochia -- (SAY it!) -- is interesting. This vigorous vine twines up trellises, or arches, displaying heart-shaped leaves that get bigger every day. For romantic gardens, it's perfect.
More intriguing, though, are the tiny Sherlock Holmesian meerschaum pipe-flowers shyly hiding under those rich, green leaves. You'd never suspect they're there.
It's comfy in partial shade to part, or even mostly sun, with reasonable soil, regular water and a lick of food, it grows lengthily every season. (I whack it short every early spring.) It mingles with CLEMatis terniflora, a vine that blooms in September. (Bulletin: Bugs ignore both.)
Got a computer? Go to "Google." Type in "Aristolochia macrophylla." (Note: The second word's not capitalized. Notice how I sneakily manipulate you to write it?) Bang on the second listing. Up pop photos, plus lots of fascinating dirt.
Lately, Aristolochia has revealed an annoying tendency. Sneaky fingers ooze into other beds, far from the "main frame," winding around surprised plants; I sever these extra arms, hoping they'll retreat. This snoopiness developed only after eight years' residency. Avoidance is easy. Sever stray tendrils early.
Examine "Aristolochia" again. It sniffs of "aristocrat." (Wasn't Holmes ratha snooty?) Look again at "macrophylla." Macro equals BIG. Phy(rhymes with pie)lla equals leaf. "Macrophylla" pops up often as a second Latin name, sorta like 'Smith.' So it's important to know the first one. (An example: 'Hydrangea macrophylla' equals Big-leaf Hydrangea.)
A plant's name often offers "care" clues. (HYDRAngea loves water.)
Are you still with me?
Aristolochia's "pet" name -- (PROMISE not to cleave to it, chucking the proper one) -- is "Dutchman's pipe." Yeah, I know. What's "Dutchman" got to do with Holmes? I dunno. Just focus on the pipe -- whatever helps you remember.
So. Find MY Aristolochia this summer; you have the clues. Get acquainted, and go home, smug. You're wiser today -- always a good thing.
Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at blairdee@gmail.com. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at blogs.record-eagle.com.
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