By Ken Moore

Remember that large genus of wildflowers in the aster (composite) plant family with the scientific name referring to some ancient king who thought one of the species was a poison antidote? Back in August, I described the many merits of boneset, Eupatorium perfoliatum, and more recently, two more Eupatoriums, flat-topped, blue flowered ageratum and the towering, feathery dog-fennel.

Please have patience as I indulge in describing another Eupatorium. I begin noticing it in early August, when the characteristic flat-topped inflorescences, the term for a plant’s flowering branch structure, begin bud formation. Single multi-stemmed plants or whole populations of them begin calling attention to themselves along the roadsides, where not in the path of frequent mowing.

Standing one to two feet tall, they look like puffy little clouds hovering just above the ground. Well, that’s the image I pull up whenever seeing them, and I enjoy weeks of roadside viewing as they gradually turn from pale-green to pure-white when they reach full flowering in September-October. Now as we move into the early weeks of winter, those plants are still attractive as grayish dried arrangements that last into the dead of winter. All three developmental stages of this plant are effective as a base or filler for flower arrangements.

This Eupatorium hyssopifolium, hyssopleaf Eupatorium, copies the leaf arrangement pattern of its namesake, the holy herb, hyssop. The short narrow leaves scattered up and down the stems usually have fascicles (tight clusters) of smaller leaves emerging from the leaf axils. I recall my delight decades ago when I learned to observe that “fascicled-leaves-along-the-stem” characteristic of this Eupatorium; until then they looked to me like any other roadside plant.

I remain in awe that plants like the whole group of Eupatoriums crowd so many tiny flowers into those variously structured inflorescences. It’s remarkable how many different insect pollinators are attracted to those flower heads. Our admiration should not stop with the flowers.

A closer look at the seed heads of those various Eupatoriums reveals, crowded together, thousands of single little seeds, little nutlets, called achenes by botanists. An even closer look with your hand lens, which I hope you always carry with you, will further reveal that each of those seeds are crowned with a ring of filament-like hairs.

These are the “parachutes” that carry those seeds aloft for wind dispersal. Now think about nature’s efficiency with this strategy. First of all, those seed plumes, so interlocked as they are, prevent all those seeds from being dispersed at once. You will notice that some of those seeds will hang on for weeks. That’s a plus for birds foraging during late fall and winter, and don’t be concerned for the plants; there are so many seeds produced that enough of them will gradually take flight on the winds to establish new plants near and far.

There are other Eupatoriums out there that we may not have noticed, but they are all being noticed by pollinators and seed-eating critters. And don’t fear, I won’t describe any more. I believe during the past few weeks, we’ve taken a closer look at the most engaging and useful of them.

Tiny black seeds are held in place for weeks by the delicately interlaced hair-like parachutes.

By Ken Moore

One of my favorite drives is west out of Carrboro on N.C. 54. Along the way are forest edges, fields and vistas across hilly terrain, beautiful miniatures of the grand mountain views that are four or more hours drive away.

With each drive, I usually discover something of interest not observed before. I’ve been waiting since about this time last year to share my discovery of an impressive sumac tree I noticed exactly 3.5 miles from the edge of town.

I glimpsed on a fence line on the left-hand roadside the brilliant fall color of what I thought was a sassafras tree. On my return drive, I remained alert to take a closer look and was surprised to realize that my sassafras was really a winged sumac.

Now, winged sumac, Rhus copallina, is by nature a medium-height, rhizomatous shrub. A single seedling plant can produce a vigorous clump simply by extending its shallow horizontal roots (rhizomes) in all directions. When you see an extensive display of it, you may be looking at a single plant. I very seldom see it above five or six feet in height, a condition certainly maintained by roadside mowing schedules that are a constant threat to nature’s efforts at self expression.

The specimen along that farmyard fence is the only winged sumac I’ve ever seen that could be described as a tree. Since the length of that fence is always neatly trimmed of vegetation, I have a hunch that the property owners are largely responsible for helping this particular sumac attain its tree stature. I have a thicket of winged sumac, and I’m inclined to see whether I can encourage a tree from it – that is, if I don’t have to spend much time pruning the rest of the thicket.

This time of year, I find myself appreciating the shining brilliant-red of winged sumac as unsurpassed of all the fall colors, and then I spy the brilliant reds of its cousin, the smooth sumac, Rhus glabra (see Flora, Aug. 30, 2007), a larger similar rhizomatous roadside shrub. I guess my favorite fall color is whatever I’m viewing at any given moment.

Smooth sumac is easily distinguished from winged sumac by its vertical, conical seed heads that are displayed well into the winter. Winged sumac seed clusters are curled, round shapes that tend to present a messy effect. Looking closely at the center line (the rachis) of the compound leaves of winged sumac reveals a narrow flattened leafy surface along the edges, hence the description, winged sumac. Staghorn sumac, Rhus typhina, seen only in our mountain regions, is a similar but even taller species. There are great photos and descriptions of all the sumacs in Fall Color and Woodland Harvests, described in last week’s Flora.

We learned long ago from Native Americans that a refreshing drink, not unlike lemonade, can be made from the fresh berries of all three of these native sumacs; medicinal teas and other decoctions were made from the stem and root bark.

Note the winged sumac’s rachis between the leaflets. Photo by Ken Moore

It’s fall, and we have a winter’s worth of exploring along Bolin Creek ahead of us. I took my own solitary preview walk last Sunday.

My favorite access begins at the well-marked trailhead in Wilson Park that enters the Adams Tract nature preserve. An uphill walk through mature piney woods leads on over the oak-hickory forest and down through the beech-maple forest to the edge of the creek. All along the way, I could not help but pause frequently to admire mighty specimens of pine, oak, tulip poplar, beech and maple, each with an interesting story to relate, if only we knew how to talk to trees.

Well-worn trails lead in all directions along the creek’s corridors and on up into the Carolina North trails. It’s a close-to-home adventure to see if you can get yourself lost in these hundreds of acres of connected forests. If you succeed, you are never far from a trail that leads to a road or adjacent residential community.

It was a difficult choice Sunday for me to abandon enjoying the colorful wildflowers and grasses of fields and roadsides to enter the darker world of the forest. I was rewarded in rediscovering the beauty of fall’s lively awakening in so many ways.

The presence of so many different types of fungi (mushrooms) hugging the forest floor and clinging to fallen and standing trees reminded me that my mushroom guide was of little help left unattended on an indoor bookshelf. I took extra time out to appreciate a clump of coral fungus, so appropriately named for its underwater look-alike. This particular one seemed affectionately accompanied by the leaf of a crane-fly orchid, newly emerged for its seasonal growth to take advantage of the winter sun soon to be streaming through the leafless forest canopy. Numerous coral fungi are scattered about the forest floor. Some are edible and some are poisonous, so, unless you are an expert, enjoy with your eyes, but don’t touch.

I was surprised to see a few flowers of the witch hazel already open. They usually wait until closer to December. The leaves are just beginning to take on their beautiful golden-yellow tints, and a lot of them sported those characteristic little witch’s hat-shaped insect galls perched on the leaf’s upper surface. You can always identify a witch hazel if you find those little witch’s hats, because that particular insect lays its eggs only on the leaves of witch hazel.

We are fortunate here in our Piedmont that fall’s awakening goes on and on for weeks. It’s as exciting as springtime, with something new to discover with each trek outdoors. A great companion to help you appreciate the diversity and brilliance of our local fields and forests is Fall Color and Woodland Harvests, an easy-to-use visual guide to tree colors and nuts and berries by C. Ritchie Bell and Anne Lindsey.

The little witch’s hat insect gall is a tell-tale mark of a witch hazel leaf. Photo by Ken Moore

By Ken Moore

Eupatoriums have been featured in past Flora columns. Joe-Pye weed, Eupatorium fistulosum, that tall mid-summer, dome-shaped, butterfly-covered, pale-purple-flower-headed roadside one comes immediately to mind. Then there is the recently described flat-topped, white-flowered, boneset of medicinal fame; remember, the “perfoliate” leaf one, E. perfoliatum?

Well now, I’m not going to try to describe the two dozen or more different species of Eupatoriums growing throughout our state, but there are two that can easily catch your attention now along our roadsides.

First, let me comment a bit on the official name, Eupatorium (yew-pat-OR-ium). It’s from the Greek and commemorates Mithridates Eupator, King of Pontus, who is credited with the discovery that one species was an antidote against poison.

Perhaps it was one similar to our own boneset. So there you have a tidbit about the genus name for this group of wildflowers (call them weeds if you dare) that are a part of the large aster or composite family of plants.

Challenging you regular Flora readers, remember the flower characteristics of the aster family? The flowers are really tight clusters, heads, of tiny flowers in configurations of disc (tube) flowers in the center surrounded by a circle of ray flowers, like Black-eyed Susans, or heads of all ray flowers, like dandelions, or heads of disc flowers, like Joe-Pye weeds.

Eupatoriums are characterized by flat-toped, dome-shaped or other various-shaped clusters of hundreds and hundreds of heads of tiny disc flowers. You will want to devote at least a few minutes, if not half an hour, for a Eupatorium conversation at your next dinner party.

For a couple of weeks now, I’ve been admiring a misty purple flowered clump of E. coelestinum (see-less-TY-num) protected from mowers by the guardrail along the bypass crossing Smith Level Road. The species name, appropriately, means heavenly or sky blue. The common names include mistflower, blue boneset and ageratum, the latter likely familiar to most of us. Perennial ageratum has been passed along from garden to garden for so long that it is generally considered an escape from cultivation rather than the native it is. It’s fun to see it occurring in moist fields and roadside ditches this time of year. Next time you see it, take a closer look and try to count the number of disc flowers in a single head.

The other Eupatorium of note is E. capillifolium, the weedy dog fennel of pastures. The species name refers to the capillary-thin, thread-like leaves that make the whole plant look like a kid in need of a barber. Head-high perennial stems, gracefully waving thousands of dusty white to pale-burgundy disc flowers, may go unnoticed when growing so plentifully in fields, but a single plant in a garden border can be a real knockout. The volunteer specimen dog fennel in Diana Steele’s wild curbside garden on Mason Farm Road is worth a drive by.

While the merits of ageratum are mainly aesthetic, the merits of dog fennel are enhanced by a heritage of Native-American medicinal use. I’ll leave it to you to seek out some details from the Herbal Remedies of the Lumbee Indians or James Dukes’ Handbook of Northeastern Indian Medicinal Plants. I’m not certain I would use the new information for dinner table conversation, but I’ll forever admire dog fennel with greater appreciation.

Volunteer dog fennel is a show-off in front of swamp sunflower in Diana Steele’s wild curbside garden. Photo by Ken Moore

By Ken Moore

The “fall is for planting” counterpart to the spring gardening frenzy is in full swing. While I marvel at the energy of gardeners planting, pruning, cleaning and “putting gardens to bed for the winter,” I just can’t bring myself to direct energy on any of these activities. I’m way too absorbed trying to keep pace with nature’s gardens peaking everywhere just now.

For me, the notion of “putting the garden to bed for the winter” has a sinister tone of finality about it. Though many plants take a so-called rest, the garden doesn’t stop in the winter.

Observing nature, you’ll note that some plants send up their leaves in the fall to take advantage of the winter sunlight. For many plants, the winter months are the true growing season.

Take special care of perennials with evergreen foliage or newly emerging green basal rosettes, like the hummingbird’s favorite cardinal flower. If you put those plants to bed with a blanket of mulch, you’ll lose them.

If you plan to cut down all those dried stems and fluffy seed heads, take another hint from nature’s wild gardens: tall branching stems and variously shaped capsules and fluffy seed heads remain standing to provide food and shelter for birds and other critters. In addition, the standing stems provide winter beauty with the play of sunlight and the capturing of dew and raindrops and, on rare occasions, snow and ice. Consider leaving a few of those seed heads and stems for the birds and added points of interest in your own garden.

Over the years, I’ve discovered nature to be a helpful gardening partner. Many of my original plants just couldn’t make it without excessive watering and other care. I simply could not water enough my favorite clump of Joe-Pye weed.
Fortunately, nature moved it by seed to other locations where they thrive without any help from me.

Nature also took charge of the design around my hot west-facing deck. The colorful perennial border along the edge slowly succumbed to the root and shade competition of a southern sugar maple that volunteered there. The shade of that tree now makes the deck habitable in the summer. I love that tree more than the original flower border.

As in nature’s gardens, each year I look forward to a different garden design around my house. I never know where the passion flower will emerge. I have to be vigilant to spot where the annual wild jimson weed will occur. Perennial poke, another favorite, is more predictable, but there are always new ones I select to leave here and there to replace old ones.

I’m always on the lookout for volunteer redbuds, dogwoods, black haws, sumacs and deciduous hollies. Selecting a few to leave in place ensures me truly maintenance-free specimen plants.

Letting nature become an active partner in planting and thereby influence the design of the ornamental garden has reduced my responsibilities to occasional pruning and weeding, leaving more time for the vegetable garden.

Whether or not you choose to partner with nature as you garden, take time out to enjoy nature’s gardens all along our country roadsides. A must-see natural garden is the coastal plain habitat at the N.C. Botanical Garden. It is unbelievable. At an all-time peak right now, the sculptural and color effects of the wildflowers rival the annual sculpture show outside and the paintings of Robert Johnson and botanical illustrators inside.

Swamp sunflower, coreopsis and boneset dominate the current spectacular fall wildflower display in the coastal plain habitat of the N.C. Botanical Garden. Photo by Ken Moore

By Ken Moore

Though it’s sometimes called pawpaw, it can’t be confused with our native pawpaw, Asimina triloba, so frequently encountered along our stream corridors. The leaf of the tropical pawpaw, more commonly called papaya, Carica papaya, is deeply palmately lobed and dissected, looking more like a buckeye tree leaf having a bad hair day.

Papaya is a delicious tropical fruit-bearing plant that I haven’t seen since a visit to frost-free areas of southern Florida years ago.

So what’s it doing outdoors here in Carrboro? Some of the local folks visit the plant in wonderment on a daily basis.

So where can you see it? Go to Johnny’s on Main Street in Carrboro, halfway between the fire station and the post office. One of Brian Plaster’s staff at Johnny’s, Genero Rodriquez, buried a whole overripe papaya in a corner of one of the raised garden beds out back late last fall.
A few months ago, it started to emerge from beneath the tomato and pepper plants and is now showing off with cream-colored flowers and green baby papayas that sadly fall off before ripening.

Papayas, by nature, come in separate male and female plants, and, like our native persimmon and holly trees, you have to have both sexes around. Otherwise, we can’t look forward to persimmon pudding in the fall or red holly berries for holiday decoration.

Though there are some papaya cultivars that have perfect flowers, bearing both male and female parts, Johnny’s single plant is not one of them.

That papaya is not going to produce ripe fruit, and it is not going to survive the frost that will eventually arrive. Even though it’s the beginning of October, you most likely will have several more weeks to be one of the many visitors to view Genero’s papaya at Johnny’s.

Take the kids by for a visit. I would love to have just a hint of the thoughts in the heads of some of the youngsters I’ve seen gazing up from beneath the giant leaves of that papaya plant during the past couple of weeks.

Of South American origin, domestication of papaya most likely began in the Amazonian basin. It is a common breakfast fruit in much of the tropics. In addition to the fruit, the seeds are edible, credited with having a flavor a bit like watercress, and the tender leaves are prepared like spinach.

Unripe fruit and the leaves are credited with producing an enzyme that is used as a dietary supplement to aid digestion. It is also used as a component in meat tenderizers and, perhaps of interest to some Carrborites, used to prevent cloudiness in bottled beers.

In future years, as our growing season becomes longer, Johnny’s may have more than one papaya plant growing, with a better chance of both sexes being present, and a greater opportunity for ripe fruit here above the tropics.

Without a male plant close by, these female papaya flowers will never produce a mature fruit; the young fruit shown at lower right will soon drop. Photo by Ken Moore

By Ken Moore

I was amused at Andy Borowitz’s description of Labor Day week “pointless Filler columns.” Tell-tale signs of columnists taking an out-of-town break, he describes, are rehashing older columns, using lengthy quotes and repeating themselves throughout the column.

I can’t imagine that serious writers would actually stoop to those tactics.

As I anticipate doing a little salt-water fishing, really going east to take that closer look at coastal plants, I am taking the time to describe my favorite plant, pokeweed!
“My poke’s bigger than your poke!”

That brag has passed between more than two energetic gardeners in this area. While most folks consider the common American pokeberry, or poke salad, Phytolacca americana, a weed, really sophisticated gardeners admire and grow this giant native perennial.
Poke is a striking plant for all seasons. It flowers and fruits into the late fall, and it’s difficult for me describe my favorite aspect of the plant. It’s probably the stem; no other image stops me in my tracks more than the stark beauty of poke’s brilliant red stems in late summer and early fall!

The tiny pendulous flowers bloom throughout the growing season. A “closer look” reveals white petals surrounding emerald-green centers, contrasting with pink-to-burgundy-colored stems. I am always stopped in my stride, unbelieving such color schemes. Though I am known to sing the praises of any native plant presently in my view, no other wild plant evokes my exuberance more than the common poke!

I love everything about this plant. The flowers have little emerald-green centers that mature into berries turning from green to pink and finally shiny black. Daily entertainment is provided by our year-long resident mockingbird competing furiously with the summer resident catbird for the ripe berries.

From late summer through the entire fall, the 4-to-8 foot-tall branching stems of the poke are a brilliant scarlet to rhubarb burgundy-red. When highlighted by low-angle morning and evening sunlight, there is no more spectacular effect in the wild or managed landscape.
Even in the dormant months, the dried tan-colored stems of poke remain an interesting architectural feature. I never cut stems down until the emergence of the lush green leaves from the base of the plant in the early spring. Then we refer to this special plant as poke salad.

If you have never enjoyed eating poke salad, then you are missing out. Visit the farmers’ market in early spring to get cooking strategies from some of the old-timers there. Make certain you note the details, because poke is also a poisonous plant, so you have to know what you are doing to safely enjoy this culinary treat.

Poke has everything. In addition to the sheer beauty of the plant, it is edible, it is poisonous and it is medicinal. Wish I had the space to relate my annual conversation with a friend who collects the dried berries by the pint jar and delivers them to her 90-year-old aunt, who concocts a special tea to relieve the pains of arthritis and rheumatism. Don’t you try it until you know what you are doing!

Poke stories abound. Some notable ones, recorded by local legend Paul Green, are found in Paul Green’s Plant Book. Check out the wild story about poke as a poison ivy cure. I suspect you won’t try the cure, but you will never forget the tale.

Pokeweed’s white petals surround a little green pumpkin-like fruit, attached to a ruby-pink stem, is unbelievably beautiful. Photo by Ken Moore

U.S. Fish and Wildlife botanist Julie Moore, who was with the N.C. Natural Heritage Program in the 1970s, returned last week to speak at the annual meeting of the B.W. Wells Association (bwwells.org) at the Rockcliff Farm Heritage site in Falls Lake State Park. Julie shared memories of legendary NCSU botanist/plant ecologist B. W. Wells, who in 1932 wrote The Natural Gardens of North Carolina, a very readable scientific exploration of the state’s plant diversity from seacoast to mountain tops. (For more on B. W. Wells, see Flora, March 27, 2009)

In addition to memorable stories about B.W. and his wife, Maude, Julie described Well’s special gift for describing scientific facts in an understandable and enjoyable language for lay people. Crediting Wells, she added: “It’s not necessary to travel away from home to find extraordinary plants and nature. Interesting things are always present, at home or wherever you may be. We just need to know where and how to look!”

That was certainly the lesson I took away from last week’s beach gathering of friends on the Carolina coast. Whether crossing the dunes for fishing, swimming or shelling, folks’ attentions were focused ahead on the splashing surf. As is so characteristic of daily movements, whether at work or at play, we seldom take time to contemplate what surrounds us.

I was stopped in stride as I crossed over the lush dune-stabilizing vegetation sprawling beneath the easily observed sea oats. Taking “a closer look” by stooping down to practice belly botany, I discovered a vegetative sea of half-inch-size pink and cream-colored flowers and short upright stems of 2 ½-inch-long pea pods.

Referring to A Guide to Ocean Dune Plants Common to North Carolina by botany friend Jean Wilson Kraus, I quickly identified beach pea. It’s also called wild bean, and sand bean.

Strophostyles helvula is in the bean family. And even though it is an annual, it is a sturdy plant holding that dune sand in place during the growing season, and I suspect the lingering leathery leaves and root system contribute quite a bit of holding action in the winter months.

Observing those beach peas for several days, I noticed that the flowers open pink and turn creamy color later in the day after being pollinated by any number of flies, moths and butterflies, including painted ladies and cloudless sulphurs. Pea pods were emerging only from the creamy-colored flowers.

Jean described that the little peas can be cooked as vegetables. Since they were plentiful all over the dunes, I harvested a double handful. To onions and some spices sautéed in olive oil, I added those peas and water and cooked until tender. Beach peas made a tasty dish, I guess like anything prepared with onions and olive oil.

However, the labor-intensive shelling of those miniature peas suggests that we’ll not likely find them at the Carrboro Farmers’ Market any time soon.

But what fun to discover a wild bean patch while crossing a dune to fish and then to reflect that the original human inhabitants may actually have harvested those little dune peas for sustenance centuries ago.

Beach pea flowers open pink and turn cream-colored after they have been pollinated. Peapods and the peas inside are edible. Photo by Ken Moore

By Ken Moore
Boneset, Eupatorium perfoliatum, is one of those Native-American herbs reputed to heal all ailments.

I like Paul Green’s observations (Paul Green’s Plant Book): “A tea from its leaves or roots made a fine tonic and it was good for all kinds of diseases, including urinary troubles and female disorders. It was said that in the old, old days the doctors made bandages of the crushed leaves and wrapped then around a broken leg or arm to help it heal better, whence the name.”

Well, that just about says it all!

Except, I have a recollection from some old-timer that the boneset name originated from observing the leaves. The opposite leaves completely wrap around the stem, which actually protrudes right up through the middle of the leaves.

Leaves wrapping around a stem are described as “perfoliate,” thus the Latin species epithet, perfoliatum. It’s helpful when the scientific name describes a real physical characteristic; that’s true of very few plants.

Back to the old-timer’s explanation. A plant leaf so tightly joined at the center suggested that the plant had some special powers to heal broken bones or at least assist in pulling the pieces back together. Well, that’s the world of herbal medicinal lore. Some described remedies are effective and some may merely be lore. I didn’t use boneset when, years ago, I broke my wrist, but I do sometimes use herbal remedies – at least the ones that work for me!

Eupatoriums is a big genus in the composite (aster) family. Remember from past Flora columns that the composite family is a huge assemblage of plants characterized by a few to hundreds of little flowers tightly compressed into a flowering head.

A typical composite is the Black-eyed Susan with a compact head of tiny tube (disc) flowers, surrounded by a ring of showy ray flowers. Other composites, like dandelions, are tight clusters of only ray flowers and still others, like the Eupatoriums, are a broad, usually rounded-flat top arrangement of hundreds of clusters of only tiny disc flowers. It takes a really close look to zero in on the individual disc flowers. Those threadlike structures extending from the tops of the flowers are the ripe stigmas of the female flower part, the pistil, reaching to grab some pollen from unsuspecting pollinators scrambling around on the flower heads.

At least two dozen species of Eupatoriums, generally called thoroughworts, are flowering in fields and along roadsides these last weeks of summer. The easiest of the white-flowering ones to identify is the boneset, because of those perfoliate leaves! Boneset commonly grows in ditches and wet meadows throughout the state.

Tall stemmed Joe-Pye weed, with showy purple, dome-shape flower heads seen in roadside ditches these days, is also a Eupatorium. The botany types among you may be happy to know that Joe-Pye weed has recently been reclassified to Eupatoriadelphus. Tuck that melodious name away for the next time you want to impress your friends.

Regardless what name you select, boneset, like Joe-Pye weed, is a beautiful garden plant, but few gardeners consider boneset for their perennial border or wild garden. They should; those white flower heads are beautiful and those perfoliate leaves, wrapping around the stems, are an engaging accent throughout the growing season.

It takes a really close look to detect the tiny disc flowers of boneset. Photo by Ken Moore

By Ken Moore

“I’m always nervous about reading in Flora that I have yanked out another one of those wild weeds for which you have such high regard.”

That was the response from gardening friend Diana following my expressed enthusiasm in spying a horse nettle in her curbside garden along Mason Farm Road. She timidly admitted that it was one that had escaped her weeding earlier in the day.
Diana’s curbside, and the rest of her yard, is one of my favorite gardens because it is carefully managed so that it appears not to be managed.

Knowing that her garden is frequently being discovered and enjoyed by young children, I offered an understanding nod, because the very poisonous berries of horse nettle mimic the appearance of those tasty yellow-gold cherry tomatoes. Diana is wise to keep those low-to-the-ground tomato-looking fruit away from the natural curiosity of children, who likely have learned that anything looking like a cherry tomato must be a cherry tomato.

Where young ones are not likely to get their hands on the poisonous fruit, however, I encourage you to allow horse nettle, Solanum carolinense, a bit of freedom in your garden. Each time I see it in flower, I stoop down to admire those white and purplish-blue flowers, looking so much like tomato flowers on steroids.

Occasionally, you will stumble upon one that looks like a garden plant. That happened last week while I was walking along the fields of the Botanical Garden’s Mason Farm Biological Reserve. One such garden-plant specimen visually jumped out from the field edge. The oversized flowers were a real visual treat.

Some of you may remember an experience similar to that described by Paul Green (Paul Green’s Plant Book): “This pest used to play havoc with our bare feet as children, especially if the dead dried plants chopped up by the hoe were stepped on. The thorns were sharp as little needles.”

If you take a closer look you will easily see the spines along the stems, as well as on both sides of the leaves. You definitely tread softly when moving barefoot among horse nettles.
It is commonly found in sunny disturbed areas, which is why this native is sometimes considered a pest in cultivated areas. But in the natural succession of plant growth, horse nettles give way to larger perennials and eventually to competition of shrubs and trees. In the meantime, this drought-tolerant perennial provides a service with its vigorous tap root breaking up barren, sterile soil, gradually improving it for other vegetation following in its path.

Horse nettles are having a late-summer re-blooming fling just now, and though the little tomato-like fruit of the early-season’s flowers are already dispersed, you’ll likely be seeing fruit again later in the fall.

There are many descriptions of medicinal uses of horse nettles. The Cherokees, in particular, have an interesting heritage. Described remedies include stringing the roots around a baby’s neck for teething, making a grease of fried berries to treat mange on dogs and crushing leaves in milk to kill flies. One of the most intriguing to me is the application of wilted leaves to relieve irritation from poison ivy. I haven’t tried this yet, but certainly plan to do so.
So, take a closer look at those flowers and watch out for those spines!

A closer look reveals the spines on stems and leaves of horse-nettle. Photo by Ken Moore