From Whence They Came...

One thing I've always been interested in is how variable individuals within a given species are. Just look at the diversity among human beings, for instance. Even more amazing is the crazy variation among domesticated animals, like dogs.

Plants are no different, and we frequently cultivate variants that have some unique trait or the other. For many of our food crops, these traits relate to disease resistance, or to stress tolerance, or to some sort of yield parameter. For example, cabbage, broccoli, kale, brussels sprouts, and cauliflower are all different forms of the exact same species: Brassica oleracea. Among ornamentals, the foci are more commonly aesthetic: big monstrous flowers, dazzling red fruits, frilly leaf shapes, curly-q branches, etc... Those are all fun things to look into from a research perspective, but I have been more fascinated with how individuals within a species differ as a function of their geographic origin. While these differences may be morphological (like bigger flowers), more often than not it is some physiologic difference that is peculiar. The older term in the literature for this discipline of study is genecology, and while the word is infrequently encountered these days, I still like to use it.

The first species that prompted me to think about such matters was the cedar of Lebanon, Cedrus libani. My advisor from Purdue University lauded the species' attributes, and in particular a unique provenance mentioned below. This fabled evergreen of yore hails from the Mediterranean and was the apparent source of timber for the Temple of Solomon. Unlike other members of the genus, this species gets flat-topped in dotage, and has strong, horizontal branches. While it could be cultivated throughout much of Europe, growing it in colder climates of North America proved to be a challenge, indeed. After countless failed attempts to find a source that was able to survive the winters of Boston, MA, C. S. Sargent (the first director of the Arnold Arboretum) eventually obtained seed collected from the Taurus Mountains of Turkey. Because of the high altitude in which they grew, these populations were pre-adapted to the cold winters of temperate North America -- including Boston. Recognizing that this provenance was unique (and reliably cold hardy), botanists placed plants of this origin into their own subspecies: Cedrus libani ssp. stenocoma. The image above is of one such specimen growing at the Morris Arboretum of the University of Pennsylvania; its origins can be traced through Sargent's earlier efforts.

This gets me ruminating... So, what about people? Ever think about your provenance and its effects on you? I'm not talking about morphology or physiology, but more the person each of us is today and the individual BAVs (beliefs, attitudes, and values) that we possess. How much of this is due to our place of origin? And, to what degree are we able to change? While I am certainly in a different locale from where I was raised, I'm not so certain I am that different from the person I was at age 18. And yet, when I'm put back in the middle of smalltown Indiana, particularly when talking to former classmates from high school, I feel like a total alien. Surely, I have changed, but how much? In trying to explain it, the ecologist in me ponders the potential for plasticity. Maybe some origins have a strangle-hold over those who grew up there, essentially producing 'specialists' unable to acclimate to a new environment, whereas other origins produce 'jacks of all trades' able to fit in any place. Or maybe all origins are the same and there is the same subset in each population, say 10%, that is able to respond (favorably) to a new environment. Had my fellow classmates even bothered to have a 10-year reunion a few years ago, I would have been able to assess such plasticity better -- there were a few that moved away like me. But, because most of them are deadbeats, the reunion wasn't even organized. Maybe I'll be able to conduct the experiment in another 10 years if they have a 20- or 25-year reunion. Alternatively, JB and his wife are coming up on their respective 10-year reunions. Maybe I can convince them to study this for me.

Who Are You?

I was glancing at the cluster map to the right the other day, and noticed dots in areas where I didn't know I knew anybody (GA? TN?? a few others).

So, if you happen to be reading this verbiage and want to send me a note, use the comment function. And if I don't know who you are, introduce yourself!

ENTJ

Ever take a Myers Briggs (MB) test? I did for the first time some 13 years ago, and got the same result as I did just last week: I'm an ENTJ (Extroverted-Intuitive-Thinking-Judgemental), although I score slightly low on the E and T characteristics, bordering on Introverted and Feeling. What I find fascinating is the fact that the MB is consistent over time and amazingly revealing about peoples' personalities. This afternoon, the MB came up in conversation among the Philosophe Five and we discussed how some of our collective traits overlapped, but that for the most part we are all different. I think this is just another example of how effective we are as a team; how we complement each other.

We joked a few weeks ago that we should try and convince a future employer that we all need to be hired as a group, that none of us fly solo. Spousal accomodation is common in academia, so why not hire think tanks the same way? Alas, there are not too many think tanks in the plant sciences. In fact, I suppose one of the few is located here: the autonomous, but Cornell-affiliated, Boyce Thompson Institute. BTI is not so much a think tank, per se, but close enough for this example. Regardless, I do not see any of us, besides JM (who used to work there) finding a slot at BTI. If I played the lottery, and struck it big (say, at least 300 million dollars), I would establish a center for plant research that would allow each of us to work in our own research areas, yet collaborate when appropriate. I would like it to be affiliated with, but not tethered to, a university. That way, we get the benefits of a collegial environment and its resources, but would be perhaps immune from some of the Ivory Tower headaches. And, of course, Friday afternoons would be reserved for discussion time.

I suppose I should start playing the lottery. Or, find a very wealthy benefactor. I wonder if Bill Gates likes plants?


I often get chastized because I only talk about trees, and temperate ones at that. So, as I sit here in Stella's this cold/drizzly night, I figure I should spice things up a bit. One of the downsides of living in the northeastern part of the US is that one cannot grow a darned thing from the Southern Hemisphere. However, temperate maritime climates (Cf for those who know the Köppen scheme), such as the British Isles and the Pacific Northwest, are great places to grow faniciful things from 'down south.' One species that I became smittin with while living in the UK is Crinodendron hookerianum, an evergreen shrub from Chile. This species produces luscious red flowers, remininscent of lanterns, that dangle amidst glossy, dark green leaves. Who knows, with global climate change, maybe temperature and precipitation patterns will shift sufficiently that one will be able to grow such a beauty in upstate New York someday? As tempting as that may be, I hope it does not happen.

Vernal Equinox

Today was the offical start of spring, and the Ithaca weather was anything but. A blanket of snow the thickness of my down comforter covered the ground when I awoke, which caused me to utter a few choice words. However, my drive in coincided with Garrison Keillor's voice as he narrated The Writer's Almanac and I shook away my distaste for the weather. Today's poem struck me as most appropriate for this blog.

"Trees" by W. S. Merwin from The Compass Flower.
© Macmillian Publishing Company

Trees

I am looking at trees
they may be one of the things I will miss
most from the earth
though many of the ones I have seen
already I cannot remember
and though I seldom embrace the ones I see
and have never been able to speak
with one
I listen to them tenderly
their names have never touched them
they have stood round my sleep
and when it was forbidden to climb them
they have carried me in their branches



Magical things, Trees.

The Ocean.

Remember when Kramer challenged Calvin Klein when they came out with a men's fragrance called "The Ocean" (his original idea was called "The Beach")? Well, while dosing some plants with a bunch of Instant Ocean (TM) salt spray today, I got drenched big time. (Note to self, when draining the spray boom, don't stand directly below the outlet.) I didn't bother to clean myself off much before coming to Stella's, so I didn't notice the deposition of dried salts in my hair. It really formed a cool pattern once it interacted with the wax I put on this morning.

So, when somebody asks (and I know some people have noticed), I'll just tell them I am using a new hair product called "The Ocean".

12-year old Jameson


Normally, I stick to Scotch, but in honor of the patron saint of Eire, I had some mighty fine Jameson today. One of the members of the Fab 5, BS, just accepted a job at the University of TN, and brought with him a half-empty bottle of some of Ireland's finest with him. Those interviews must have been rough! While we celebrated his success at getting a job, I tried to get him and DS to start blogs. We will all need to rely upon something in a year's time to keep some sort of tab on each other. JM, the fifth member of our posse has a blog that he will be adding to soon.

The past few days I have been using a spectral radiometer to examine what light is doing when it hits leaves. When light hits a leaf, it has three routes it can take: 1) it is reflected off of the leaf surface, 2) it is transmitted through the leaf, or 3) it is absorbed by the leaf. I'm looking at how much individual salt crystals, as would be deposited by ocean spray, increase the amount of reflected light. YAWN. Actually, it is a cool part of a bigger picture. What I want to comment here is about the technology. The machine is circa 1985 and the ancient software that I use on it is about the same age--running on an old laptop. So, after I run all the samples, I have to remember how to use DOS in order to save the data files onto a 3.5" floppy. My laptop doesn't have a floppy drive, so I have to hunt down another computer (luckily an ancient one in the greenhouse), download the files onto it, and then e-mail them to myself. I complain a bit, but it isn't THAT much of a pain. What is a pain is that things go out of date SO often. The spectral radiometer and integrating sphere are expensive pieces of equipment, and they work perfectly fine, so no need to replace them. However, the company that made them (LiCor), no longer makes/supports them or the software, so we have to keep around old computers just to access and use things. Things go out-of-date so quickly; too quickly. I heard that the National Archives has to maintain a whole army of people who know how to use old technology (as well as the old machines themselves), just to access all of the millions (billions? trillions??) of documents that are stored electronically. I'm not anti-technology; far from it. But, it does make one nostalgiac for books, which are pretty easy to read and last for 100s of years. Or, stone tablets, which can last 1000s.


Spring is around the corner, or at least they tell us that it is. One of the vernal harbringers I look forward to isn't appreciated so much for its flowers as it is for its colorful bark in late winter/early spring. The shrubby dogwoods, as a group, are spectacular this time of year, with the red osier dogwood (Cornus stolonifera) being one of the most commonly planted. However, Cornus sanguinea, the bloodtwig dogwood, is even more brilliant. In many cases, its individual branches are suffused with multiple intensities of the same color, or even different colors all together, as can be seen here in the selected clone 'Midwinter Fire' (which is pretty darned close to and often confused with 'Midwinter Flame'; I cannot tell the bloody things apart). The basal portions of the stems are yellow, which then darken and deepen to become orange and then red at the tips. Quite the show stoppers, particularly if there is a bit of dark green as a backdrop. Normally, snow is required to get the best effect, but because these have lighter colors in their stems, they can stand out even amidst the mulch.

Why the colorful stems, and why only in late winter, you ask? Well, recall that when light hits a surface, it can do one of 3 things (reflected off, absorbed, or transmitted through). When excess light is absorbed, it can actually cause a lot of damage to a stem, or a leaf, or even your skin (hence our prolific use of sunscreen). Certain pigments (such as anthocyanin and xanthophylls) actually act as 'sponges' and mop up the excess energy, preventing the build-up of free radicals. This time of year, as the sap starts moving through the stems and the plants begin to initiate growth, they can be particularly susceptible to damage. However, by the time May rolls around, a full canopy of leaves has been produced and the stems are sufficiently shaded that the expensive pigments are no longer needed -- and the bright and brilliant stems become dull.

Cool stuff.

Navigating the Blogosphere...

One of the members of the Philosophe 5, DS, recently constructed an amazing document that outlined his teaching philosophy. Among the many techniques he incorporates into teaching is assessment of not only his students' abilities to learn, but his abilities to instruct. And he doesn't just do this at the end of the semester, or even the weekend, but throughout each individual lecture! Kudos to him for making the effort to ensure that his audience is not just 'getting it' but that he is doing his part in 'delivering it.'

So, less than a week into this venture, I think I should conduct a needs assessment of this Blog. I have no idea just why people are reading it, to be honest, but the map to the right shows that I've got people in 3 hemispheres checking in to read words of wisdom (no doubt akin to the words of wisdom written on the stall doors of the mensroom on the 1st floor of Plant Science; and no, I did not put them there). I don't know if those who read this are 'getting it', but I certainly am benefitting from reading those 'words of wit' of others. Friend ML, who is now in Santiago, Chile, has a FANTASTIC blog detailing her trials and tribulations and joys during her year abroad. Check out Directed Wanderings. And this morning, I was rolling on the floor after being introduced to George the Rabbit, a blog maintained by a Bostonian friend's wife. I have learned so much about raising rabbits already -- who knew that unbonded bunnies could turn into vicious killers? Hmmm... maybe the white rabbit in Monty Python's Holy Grail just needed a bit of leather?

So, to finish this post... While I say I speak for trees, in reality, they talk all the time. Does one need proof? I have not figured out how to add sound here, so instead just look at the face of this dawn redwood, Metasequoia glyptostroboides, that I photographed on the grounds of Stourhead (UK) a few years ago. If it looks familiar, you may have seen it on Edvard Munch's "The Scream."

Seinfeld moments. We all have them.

Just yesterday, as I greeted another graduate student, he replied in a Jerry-Seinfeld-Saying-Hello-To-Newmenesque way, "Hello.... Michael." A few hours ago, I had another Seinfeld moment. I did laundry the other day. I hate laundry. I hate it. I am not good at it, either. Well, I thought I had popped enough quarters in the dryer, however when I arrived at the laundromat an hour later, several items (mostly jeans) were still damp. As there were quite a few impatient customers circling the soon-to-be-free appliances like starving vultures, I thought it would be wise to toss my sorta-dry clothes in the hampers and run home. I did what I have done many other times (yes, I often fail to put enough quarters in the machine) and just lay my clothes on and around the hot silver accordians we also call radiators. After I returned home today, I changed out of a pair of dark green cordoroys (they really did not go with the rest of my ensemble) before I came into Stella's. Not thinking anything about it, I grabbed a pair of jeans off of the nearest 'dryer' and dove right in. One word: heaven. Kramer is SO right. I stood there in ecstasy and amazment, startled that this was the first time I ever had experienced such a pleasantry. I swear, it was something bordering on an illegal substance. I think I may start to lay my clothes out onto the radiator each night before bed, that way I can step right out of the shower and after a brief towelling off, into a pair of piping-hot-trousers!


Yesterday, following a meeting at Cornell Plantations, I passed by several Hamamelis x intermedia 'Arnold Promise' that were in full flower. This cultivar of hybrid witch hazel is one of the best, and was the first selection to be made (at the Arnold Arboretum) from the hybrid union between H. mollis and H. japonica. To me, the spicy smell that accompanies the bright yellow flowers is reminescent of cinnamon and pipe smoke. Simply dazzling, to stare into the spidery blooms on a cool, crisp day and be overwhemed by the scents. Everybody should have a witch hazel in their back yard.

Coffee at Stella's

Bright and balmy morning here in Ithaca. A sunbeam nudged me awake around 7AM, and I have been out and about ever since. I had planned to do several loads of laundry, but who really wants to surround themselves with dirty haberdashery on a day like today? Actually, who the hell wants to do it on ANY day?















After I finish this cup of java (and this entry) I plan to do some good old-fashioned science in the greenhouse. I have a dissertation that is in need of writing, and before I can write the whole thing, I need to conduct a bunch of experiments as I try to unravel just why a certain inland tree species is growing on the coast of Korea and Japan. The narrow strip of trees shown here has been growing for centuries near a small fishing village on the island of Wando, off the SW coast of the Korean Peninsula. They survive despite the stresses and pressures caused by the salt spray.

But, more on that another time. I am going to get a coffee to go and head to the greenhouse.

Let's start someplace

Well, so here I am, finally putting ink to paper (or whatever the electronic equilivances may be) and creating a blog. Next thing you know, this Luddite will be purchasing a cell phone, or worse, a BlackBerry!


Tonight is a Friday night, and I find myself at my very favorite haunt, Stella's Cafe . Earlier this afternoon and evening, I was with 3 of the 'Philosophe 5,' as per usual on a Friday. Our typical venue is 159 Plant Science (the illustrious office shared by 3 of us), but today we ventured to downtown Ithaca, to the newly opened Kilpatrick's Publick House. I am always amazed at the sheer breadth and depth of our conversations, and even more overwhelmed by the color and dynamic that exists after but a few doses of alcohol. Within our secluded booth, we discussed everything from evolutionary theory, the Transformer Cartoons, negotiating faculty positions, to embarassing episodes with erections. I love grad school.

My partner in Crime, a Mr JB (officemate and bestest friend in the world) announced today the launch of his personal blog. While I have been reading the electronic verbiage of others for a good many months, I had never completely crossed over to the point of initiating my own blog. However, in recognizing my sincere interest in reading what was on his mind, as well as the blogs of others on a regular basis, I thought that perhaps my own musings might be of interest to other folk.

So... Here I am.

What is up with "i speak for the trees"? Those reading must think I am some sort of dirty hippy (which fits with Ithaca, NY), or some sort of Druid (which may also fit with the upstate NY locale). But, I think one can speak for arboreal entities without being either of the two. Whenever somebody asks me what I, as a Ph.D. Candidate in Horticulture, DO, I start out by saying that every plant has a story, or two, or 10... or 1000.... And, I see my role as a person who seeks to discover those stories and tell them to the rest of the world. Sometimes, I can accomplish this by steeping myself in archival lore. At other times, some serious labwork might be required, and at others, a bout of field ecology is sufficient to tell a fantastic tale about how a certain tree lives, was discovered, is loved, etc... There are far too few of us Tree Tale Tellers out there, so that translates to a great number of untold stories just WAITING to be told.

So, how about we start with a story... My first (tree-) love was with the ethereal katsura tree, Cercidiphyllum japonicum. This is a species found in China and Japan, naturally, and as a planted specimen throughout temperate Europe and North America. I could wax and wane far too much about its beauty and intrigue, but I'll spare you. Regardless,it is a gorgeous plant, as can be seen in this image taken at Cornell Plantations.

Many things have struck me as fantastic about the katsura, but right now I am drawn to the longevity of individuals and the methods by which they survive long periods in isolation. Let me back up a bit. In China, the species has been listed as rare, mostly due to logging and other agricultural activity. As a result, individual trees may be few and far between, which is of particular concern because the species is dioecious, meaning there are separate male and female trees. If they live in isolation, and are incapable of pollinating themselves, well, in a biological sense, they can be SOL. One thing an individual katsura is able to do is survive 1000+ years, going through periods of rapid growth, and then 'cutting back', so to speak, where they drop their large cumbersome branches and resprout from the base. This self-coppicing practice can be advantageous, as large trees with established and expansive root systems, upon 'downsizing' and losing their hungry sinks, can sprout up and more easily supply their new branches with the resources (i.e., water) that they need. This strategy lets them get by in extreme isolation, for decades to even centuries, without sexually reproducing and setting seed (if it is a female), or pollinating another tree (if it is a male). I cannot help but think of Tolkien's Ents, who survived eons without their Entwives. If a katsura could speak (actually, I have conversed with them many a time), they would do so deliberately, with ample pauses, no words wasted, like an Ent. I like that in a tree.

I wonder if people are similar? Not so much in the reproductive thing, but in the way that they go through periods of rapid growth and exploitation of their surroundings, to periods where they conservatively cut their losses and reinvest in themselves?

Someday, I will better interpret the katsura tree's dialect, better able to translate what it tells me. Just like Trekkies can speak Klingon, someday, Cercidiphiles will speak Katsuran...