My horti-botanical roots...
I often am asked how I managed to wind up doing what I do: telling stories about plants, and trees in particular. I tell people it is natural that I do what I do, as my mother is a very able gardener and my father a detective. I was destined to grow up to be a PI: Plant Investigator.
The other day, while en route to California, I recalled one of my very first experiments. It was autumn of 1986 and an assignment in my 7th grade biology class was to design an experiment to test an hypothesis. My teacher, Mr. S. was an excellent one. An earlier project for the class was to make a leaf collection. That was my first exposure using taxonomic keys to identify unknown plants. I got an A+ on the leaf collection, a bound bundle of 30-odd specimens that I still have on my shelf.
But, back to the experiment. There had been two trees that were favorites of mine as a kid, perfect for climbing. One, an old contorted mulberry (Morus alba), not only presented an array of branches from which to perch prostrate upon, but come summer produced an endless supply of sickly-sweet fruits. Oh the hours I would spend up in that tree, reading books, day dreaming, and sharing mulberries with the starlings (which would then fly over my mother's clothesline).
Not far away from the mulberry was the remnants of an old apple (Malus domestica) orchard that had been established in the early 1900s. Like the mulberry tree, many of the apple trees were perfect for climbing. And, by summer's end, they yielded ample yellow apples to eat and share with the horses.
Not yet learned in the botanical sciences and assuming that ANYTHING was possible, I decided to join these two species together in a magical splice, which would fuse and grow and eventually form a hybrid that had the best attributes of both the mulberry and the apple (would I call it a mulapple?). And so, I collected my cuttings and presented my proposal to Mr. S. "Oh, this is all fine and good, Michael, but WHAT is your hypothesis? And what are your treatments?" he asked me.
I responded matter-of-factly, "I want to see if it works, if I can stick the two twigs together in a jar of water and watch them grow together and make a new tree." I had seen my mother root many a houseplant cutting, so of COURSE this would work. At the time, perhaps my command of the birds and the bees needed improvement, for me to think I could create a new species so easily. OR, perhaps I really was precocious and I was attempting a graft-chimera that would span across whole families of plants. Hmmm... I think the former.
My patient teacher insisted that while my ideas were all fine and dandy, what I was doing was solely an observation. It wasn't an experiment with a testable hypothesis. So, to the drawing board I returned. I went home that day and climbed atop Mr. Mulberry. And I thought. And thought some more. And then I saw my dad cleaning out the barn, scooping endless shovelfulls of horse manure out onto the pile in the nearby barnyard. Knowing that some of this would eventually find its way to the vegetable garden, I began to formulate my perfect experiment...
Why not test if the cuttings would root better in water or a manure-soil concoction? I rushed inside, grabbed paper and pen, and rewrote my proposal. I clearly stated what my anticipated results would be and what my hypothesis was: the splices placed in the manure would root together perfectly, far better than those in water. The next day, I presented my ideas to Mr. S., and he proudly nodded his head and agreed that my ideas were grounded in experimental science. I had a testable hypothesis.
I went home that day, collected two sets of cuttings (1 from each tree), and bound them together with a rubber band. One bundle I placed in a mason jar filled with water. The other I stuck in a 5-gallon bucket that I had filled with the ripest-smelling, freshest horse manure I could find. (Note: I know that I only had 1 replicate for each treatment, but give me a break, I was 10 years away from my first course in Statistical Design of Experiments!)
I waited.... And waited... And waited some more. Weeks went by and yet nothing happened. No roots formed in EITHER treatment, let alone join together and hybridize. I waited some more. The twigs began to soften... and then rot... and then stink, particularly the manure treatment. Imagine a 5-gallon bucket full of wet manure and no drainage...
I eventually threw the whole thing away, but I wrote up what I observed. My hypothesis was half correct, I suppose. The cuttings in the water didn't root, as I surmised. But, neither did the other treatment. I got an 'A' on the project. I had followed the rules, designed an experiment, and tested my hypothesis. The goal of an experiment is to refute your hypothesis (or somebody else's); it is impossible to ever prove one correct.
An experiment never fails.
Cercidiphyllum japonicum
I often am asked how I managed to wind up doing what I do: telling stories about plants, and trees in particular. I tell people it is natural that I do what I do, as my mother is a very able gardener and my father a detective. I was destined to grow up to be a PI: Plant Investigator.
The other day, while en route to California, I recalled one of my very first experiments. It was autumn of 1986 and an assignment in my 7th grade biology class was to design an experiment to test an hypothesis. My teacher, Mr. S. was an excellent one. An earlier project for the class was to make a leaf collection. That was my first exposure using taxonomic keys to identify unknown plants. I got an A+ on the leaf collection, a bound bundle of 30-odd specimens that I still have on my shelf.
But, back to the experiment. There had been two trees that were favorites of mine as a kid, perfect for climbing. One, an old contorted mulberry (Morus alba), not only presented an array of branches from which to perch prostrate upon, but come summer produced an endless supply of sickly-sweet fruits. Oh the hours I would spend up in that tree, reading books, day dreaming, and sharing mulberries with the starlings (which would then fly over my mother's clothesline).
Not far away from the mulberry was the remnants of an old apple (Malus domestica) orchard that had been established in the early 1900s. Like the mulberry tree, many of the apple trees were perfect for climbing. And, by summer's end, they yielded ample yellow apples to eat and share with the horses.
Not yet learned in the botanical sciences and assuming that ANYTHING was possible, I decided to join these two species together in a magical splice, which would fuse and grow and eventually form a hybrid that had the best attributes of both the mulberry and the apple (would I call it a mulapple?). And so, I collected my cuttings and presented my proposal to Mr. S. "Oh, this is all fine and good, Michael, but WHAT is your hypothesis? And what are your treatments?" he asked me.
I responded matter-of-factly, "I want to see if it works, if I can stick the two twigs together in a jar of water and watch them grow together and make a new tree." I had seen my mother root many a houseplant cutting, so of COURSE this would work. At the time, perhaps my command of the birds and the bees needed improvement, for me to think I could create a new species so easily. OR, perhaps I really was precocious and I was attempting a graft-chimera that would span across whole families of plants. Hmmm... I think the former.
My patient teacher insisted that while my ideas were all fine and dandy, what I was doing was solely an observation. It wasn't an experiment with a testable hypothesis. So, to the drawing board I returned. I went home that day and climbed atop Mr. Mulberry. And I thought. And thought some more. And then I saw my dad cleaning out the barn, scooping endless shovelfulls of horse manure out onto the pile in the nearby barnyard. Knowing that some of this would eventually find its way to the vegetable garden, I began to formulate my perfect experiment...
Why not test if the cuttings would root better in water or a manure-soil concoction? I rushed inside, grabbed paper and pen, and rewrote my proposal. I clearly stated what my anticipated results would be and what my hypothesis was: the splices placed in the manure would root together perfectly, far better than those in water. The next day, I presented my ideas to Mr. S., and he proudly nodded his head and agreed that my ideas were grounded in experimental science. I had a testable hypothesis.
I went home that day, collected two sets of cuttings (1 from each tree), and bound them together with a rubber band. One bundle I placed in a mason jar filled with water. The other I stuck in a 5-gallon bucket that I had filled with the ripest-smelling, freshest horse manure I could find. (Note: I know that I only had 1 replicate for each treatment, but give me a break, I was 10 years away from my first course in Statistical Design of Experiments!)
I waited.... And waited... And waited some more. Weeks went by and yet nothing happened. No roots formed in EITHER treatment, let alone join together and hybridize. I waited some more. The twigs began to soften... and then rot... and then stink, particularly the manure treatment. Imagine a 5-gallon bucket full of wet manure and no drainage...
I eventually threw the whole thing away, but I wrote up what I observed. My hypothesis was half correct, I suppose. The cuttings in the water didn't root, as I surmised. But, neither did the other treatment. I got an 'A' on the project. I had followed the rules, designed an experiment, and tested my hypothesis. The goal of an experiment is to refute your hypothesis (or somebody else's); it is impossible to ever prove one correct.
An experiment never fails.
Cercidiphyllum japonicum
posted by guy among the trees at 7:53 PM
3 Comments:
The scientist in you seem to have developed early as a child! =) I would have to say that the artist in me developed when I asked my mother to do a realistic depiction of the banana, and after looking at her rendition, I worked on my version several times before becoming satisfied.
Hey Michael, don't know what prompted it but I made my way to your blog and just wanted to say how enjoyable your writing style is. It's nearly poetic, and very intelligent.. and it's all really well constructed.. though I get the impression it's just the way you write and you don't have to think too much about it. I've been told that's a really great gift (and that I have it as well) but I don't know, it hasn't come in all that handy for me as of yet. Unless you count collecting a livejournal following. :shrugs: Well, it was good reading from you, cheers.
Eric, isn't it fascinating what little seeds become? Methinks you and I are lucky, in that we had people who planted those seeds early on.
Byron, thanks for your kind words! Do you have a blog as well?
Post a Comment
<< Home