Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountain-Bells

Day 257: "Learn something new every day." That's not always easy to do, but sometimes it occurs as a happy accident. Such was the case when I was verifying that the taxonomy of Anticlea occidentalis hadn't changed again. I know the plant's common name as "Mountain-bells," but common names being rather flexibly applied, many nurseries refer to various Alliums as "Mountain Bells" (with or without a hyphen). The term may also be casually dispensed to several other mountain-dwelling, bell-shaped flowers. Common names annoy me, but nevertheless, discovering that our native Anticlea is also known as "Feather-bells" scored a point on my "Learn something new" chart; I had not heard it before, and it seems more appropriate to the delicate, recurved petals of this dainty flower. Mountain-bells are almost always ringing, their chimes only audible to faeries and other woodland sprites. The slightest breeze sets them in motion at the ends of their thready stems. Habitués of moist meadows and seeps, they may also be referred to as "Bronze Bells" or "Mission Bells" by those who don't care to be more specific about a plant's true identity.

The Logic Of Names

Day 183: This isn't another rant about taxonomists. Their business is scientific nomenclature, not common names. Common names can be derived in a number of different ways including popular usage, translation of taxonomy or attribution by an "authority" in the field. Hence, we have some rather peculiar epithets applied to species, often at odds with what one might expect. For example, "Douglas Fir" is not a true fir, and relatively recently, the preferred spelling of the common name has changed to include a hyphen ("Douglas-fir") in an attempt to prevent confusion. Not all species are as lucky, case in point many of the violets which populate our forests. Somewhere in the dim annals of time, the name "violet" must have been appropriately ascribed to a little purple flower, else why would "violet" have arisen as a logical option? Later, the term was applied to other flowers having common characteristics with other Violas, if not their colour. Just think, if Viola glabella had been the first-named of its family, we'd now be talking about it as a Crocus ("yellow") instead.

Trillium Cluster

Day 167: Spring is coming on in a rush! I spotted my first Trillium of the season just a few days ago, quite near this site along the Bud Blancher Trail where today they were out in dozens. Following close on the heels of Skunk Cabbage, Trillium boasts a common name reflecting its early emergence: Wake-robin. A charming term, it is sadly falling into disuse for the white-flowered variety, more often to be heard in the eastern portion of the United States where a red-blooming species carries the name. Like so many common names, it may also refer to other unrelated plants, a confusion which less romantic Latin resolves. As much as I prefer using scientific nomenclature for clarity's sake, the phrase "Wake-robin" conjures up a delightful vision of fantasy forests too enchanting to resist.

Membranous Dog-Lichen, Peltigera Membranacea

Day 170: As if lichens weren't fascinating enough by themselves, existing only by cooperation between fungus and algae, their common names are utterly intriguing. Peltigera membranacea (Membranous Dog-Lichen) is a member of the larger family of "pelts," which includes among other Dog and Fan Lichens such oddities as Freckle Pelt, Frog Pelt, Carpet Pelt, and Born-Again Pelt. Other families have even more peculiar names: Rock Pimples, Ragbag, Sea-Storm, Spray Paint. Who thought up the vernacular nomenclature? And what had he been drinking? I can understand Oakmoss and Bearded Lichen, but what about Naked Kidney and Salty Rock Tripe? Gritty British Soldiers? Bloody Comma? It's enough to make me wonder whether my love affair with these complex lifeforms has its roots in science or etymology.