Delphinium Glareosum, Rockslide Larkspur

Day 291: Every wildflower season, there are always a few names I forget. Usually it's because I have nothing with which to associate them, like the infamous "smithii" of taxonomic shame. I get as far as "Delphinium" with this one ("Larkspur" in common reference), but the second half of the binomial invariably eludes me. I never bothered to look up the source Latin for "glareosum" until this morning, but had I done, it would have linked the common and scientific names forever in my mind. "Glareosum" means "gravelly." We commonly call it "Rockslide Larkspur." Gravel or rocks, whichever you choose to call its preferred habitat, the name now makes sense. You'll find it in the subalpine zone, its intense blue lighting up grey scree fields and pediments, even putting to shame the Mountain Bluebirds who frequent the same regions. Each floret comes with its own bee, i.e., the black-and-white center typical in most Delphinium species. Young leaves are reddish-purple, turning green as they mature in sunlight.

Lovin' The Latin

Day 289: I know I do a lot of ranting about using the Latin epithets rather than common names, probably just as often as I rail at taxonomists for employing unhelpful terms like "smithii" instead of words which tell you something about a species' field characteristics, so today I'd like to demonstrate how Latin guided me to the identification of one of Team Biota's Mystery Plants. When we first observed this unknown growing along the roadside, its buds were tightly closed. The foliage was difficult to see in amongst a heavy growth of thimbleberry, but as I observed it, I made note that it looked rather like that of a birch tree. The plant was obviously neither a birch nor a tree, but that information didn't really narrow the options. With only foliage to go on, the field manuals weren't much help, so when I got home and processed the pictures, I sent one off to Arnie and to David at the Burke with the comment that, "If I was a taxonomist, this would be 'somethingoranother betulifolia.'" And then I settled in with the guides, determined to find it if I had to do it the "inexpert" way: paging through and looking at each picture. Then on an off chance, I decided to browse the Burke gallery first with a search for "betulifolia" ("birchlike foliage") in Descriptions, and lo and behold! up popped a solitary Spiraea. Now it must be said that "betulifolia" is appended to the binomial as a subspecies or variety, and the accepted name is the short form "Spiraea lucida," but by using the informative Latin, I reached the identity of the plant without a lot of needless thrashing around. David confrmed my findings and Arnie said he was highly amused that my suggestion of "betulifolia" had been spot on. Latin! I love it!

Egg Hunt

Day 6: While attempting to confirm that the big, floppy mushrooms which spring up in my yard so prodigiously at this time of year were indeed Suillus caerulescens, I made a tissue slice which captured perfectly an ovoid form which I believe to be an insect egg. It is far too large to be a spore, which of course was what I was hoping to find. Although considered edible, Suillus flesh is generally too full of bugs to be worth the bother, at least in my personal experience. "Wormy" is the word most frequently used to describe the condition, although in fact the little wiggly things are the larvae of minute flies. Were that not enough to put me off eating the bounty at my doorstep, S. caerulescens is one of the blue-staining species which cause abdominal distress in some people but not in others (sidebar: I'm the "one in a million" who always gets the undesirable side effects from prescribed medications, and am unwilling to chance it with mushrooms). S. caerulescens is typified by large, angular pores, a viscid cap, and a preference for growing in Doug-fir detritus. Other Suillus species may be associated with larch or various pines. And for those of you who are trying to get a handle on Latin, "caerulescens" is related to the English word "cerulean," a lovely shade. The root word is "caeruleum," i.e., "blue."

Spotted Towhee, Pipilo Maculatus

Day 179: Once known as "Rufous-sided Towhee" here in the Pacific Northwest and considered to be one and the same with the eastern species, Pipilo maculatus (Spotted Towhee) was separated from Pipilo erythrophthalmus (Eastern Towhee) in 1995 after decades of debate. The bird, however, is only indirectly the subject of this discussion. Instead, we're going to talk Latin.

Ironically, both "maculatus" and "erythrophthalmus" could be applied to either species. Both are spotted and both have red eyes. That's what the two terms mean. Now while most of you won't readily be able to pull up from memory many English words with roots in "erythr-," but "ophthalmus" should ring a few bells. Have you ever been referred to an ophthalmologist for an eye problem? That medical professional may have used an ophthalmoscope to look into your eyes. Yes, "-ophthalmus" is a clue to an identifying characteristic: it tells us to notice the bird's eye. If you happen to have some medical background, you might recognize "eryth-" as being part of the word for a red blood cell: erythrocyte. "Eryth-" in "erythrophthalmus" further indicates that the eye is red.

Let's move on to "maculatus." This one is easier. The English term "maculate" is not one you hear commonly, but it is a valid adjective and means "spotted" or "stained." However, don't strain your brain in trying to remember that. Just think of its opposite: immaculate. Something "immaculate" is without stain or spot.

Seriously, folks, you use a lot more Latin in your daily conversation than you probably realize, Greek too. English is a youngster as languages go, and "modern" English (i.e., English in a form you'd be able to understand with relatively little difficulty) is only about 500 years old. Step back a little more than a century into Chaucer's day and "woot ye wel what I meene of this" as it applies to the English of his era. If you think of Latin as a "dead language," think again. It's alive and well in scientific nomenclature, and also in our everyday speech.

Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountainbells

Day 266: Mountainbells...Anticlea occidentalis. You might notice a similarity in the second half of this plant's Latin binomial to the one I posted yesterday: "occidentalis" and "occidentale." I am not grounded firmly enough in Latin to be able to explain the distinction other than to say it has to do with the gender attributed to the first half of the name, Thalictrum being masculine, Anticlea being feminine. Most European languages are gendered. For example in Spanish, "the table" is "la mesa" (feminine) and "the car" is "el carro" (masculine). You go along just fine assuming words ending in -a are feminine until you hit "el problema" and "el agua" (both masculine as evidenced by the article preceding them). I can vouch for the fact that it works the same way in German, Russian and presumably French (another Romance language, i.e., one which originated in the vicinity of Rome, not one with which you can woo a lover). Russian doesn't have articles, but nouns are gendered, and German even includes nouns with the non-gendered article "das." You thought this essay was going to be about the plant, right? Wrong.

I've recently taken Park-sponsored two trainings dealing with diversity. One was focused specifically on gender identity while the other skirted the edges of it without adressing it fully. I failed to connect the subject to botanical Latin at the time, but the more frustrated I become with shifting taxonomy and in particular changes which only happen in order to bring both halves of the binomial into gender agreement, the more strongly I feel that gender should be expunged from language altogether, and if articles are necessary, they should be there merely to specify the somethingoranother belonging to "them," or to "their" possessions.

At first I resisted they/them/their because of my singularity. I'm not two people, not plural, and neither are you. That said, language is a continuously evolving entity. Many people of my generation will find it hard to unlearn the stock "he/she/his/hers" words because they have been taught us since birth, but we should make an effort. I am willing to embrace new vocabulary (perhaps moreso than some of the rest of you because I deal with taxonomic changes on a daily basis) and also to try to eliminate from my speech those sneaky gendered words we toss about so freely ("you guys" falls from my tongue all too frequently when I am addressing a mixed group).

While I doubt that I'd ever be able to convince the taxonomists that it would be a lot easier to talk about "Thalictrum occidental" and "Anticlea occidental," I trust my readers not to be so dogmatic. Plants may not take offense at being mis-gendered, but some of your human friends might.

Syl-LAB-ic Em-PHA-sis

Day 311: Pronunciation of scientific names is widely varied among amateurs and professionals alike, but some leave very little wiggle room if you analyze the sections of the Latin. A prime example is presented in Rorippa curvisiliqua, "Yellowcress" in boring and uninspired English. "Rorippa" can't be fumbled so badly that it's rendered unrecognizable, but "curvisiliqua" might tangle the most adept tongue unless you understand what it means.

At the altitude where I observed it, this member of the Mustard family grows in a dwarfed state. I might have recognized it immediately if it had been full height (up to 40 cm), but at Ghost Lake, plants seldom exceed 10 cm. Upon seeing a "little yellow flower," I bent over for a closer look. That was when I noticed the "curvisiliquas." When dry, the curved seed pods of Yellowcress (visible in the bottom image) split in two lengthwise to release the seeds (technically, they become dehiscent). The curved, ripe pod is referred to as a "silique," a word which implies a specific botanical morphology and explains what action to expect. In its own way, you could say that the Latin term dehisces verbally. When it breaks in two along its length, it gives us the seed words "curvi" and "siliqua," i.e., a curved silique. Thus the pronunciation is obvious: curvi-si-LEE-qua. Wasn't that easy?