Savoring Sumac

Hydrangeas are in, yews are out.  Interest in vegetable gardening swings with the tides of economics and pandemics.  In the hippest neighborhoods, spider plants in macrame hangers have even made a comeback.  Public opinion on native plants is on the way up, too.  In my collegiate plant identification classes, our professor would say “it’s just a native,” somewhat disparagingly, when we looked at an eastern red cedar or tuliptree.  Today, those on the front of one of the trendiest gardening curves are going native and banning non-indigenous plants entirely, or are trying to plant gardens which are composed largely of native plants.

Some natives, such as bottlebrush buckeye and the sugar maple, are attractive and easy to invite into your personal landscape.  Others, like poison ivy, would only be employed in the garden of a sadist.  I’m interested in the plants which people deem in-betweeners, such as sumac.  In England years ago, I was approached by a nicely dressed gentleman, who guessed I was an American.  “Our favorite plant comes from your country,” he said.  I guessed it must be the giant redwood, a certain hybrid tea rose, or perhaps a rare orchid.  “No,” he replied, “it is sumac.  It has the most magnificent fall color and beautiful fruit!”  Our new love of natives hasn’t discovered sumac yet, so I’m here to promote its case. 

Locally, sumac species such as staghorn (Rhus typhina) and smooth (Rhus glabra) grow wild in hedgerows, right-of-ways, and abandoned fields.  This “wildness” may be part of the discord, since sumac defies pruning into meatballs or hockey pucks and will always look shaggy and primordial.  Sumac supporters point to cultivars with dissected, lacey foliage that is prettier than the common types, such as Rhus typhina ‘Dissecta’ or ‘Laciniata,’ both with finely cut leaves.  I’ve had ‘Laciniata’ in my garden for decades, and found it not wildly rampant from seed or sprouts.  While it has moved fifteen feet from its planting spot, seeking more sun, the very few unwanted runners have been easy to remove.    

“But it is poisonous!” the sumac-phobes will proclaim.  Nonsense.  These sumacs are fine to touch.  In fact, poison sumac (Toxicodendron vernix) grows primarily in bogs, has white (not red) berries, is closely related to poison ivy, and is not common locally.  Once again, the name is the problem, not the plant.  Perhaps sumac needs a new image and a re-boot, a process which succeeds with some politicians and certain consumer brands.      

Sumac is useful, too.  Legendary Master Gardener Winnie Lustenader, an edible wild plant aficionado, offered up a truly delicious lemonade made from sumac berries.  Sumac fruits also make excellent fuel for a beekeeper’s smoker, the device used to calm honeybees while the prodding around in their hive.

In closing, I must quote the famous plantsman Michael Dirr, who opined in his Manual Of Woody Landscape Plants, “Europeans have long appreciated Rhus glabra and Rhus typhina.  Perhaps, someday, Americans will become more introspective and appreciative of our rich woody plant heritage.” 

A Brush With Greatness

Sometimes the worst garden disasters create happy endings.  This was the case for our Norway spruce.  A towering giant, it was hit by lightning in July 2015, giving it a fatal trunk crack from top to bottom.  While I was glad the tree took the jolt rather than the house, its removal left an ugly blank patch which quickly started to fill with weeds.  Faster than an American Pickers guest star at a tag sale, I started acquiring and installing new plants, including two winterberry hollies, a spicebush, a moosewood maple, and best of all, a bottlebrush buckeye.

If you look in your woods for bottlebrush buckeye (Aesculus pavia) and don’t find it, please forgive me.  I admit that calling it native is a bit of stretch, since the most extensive natural populations are found in central Alabama, with nary a sprig in New York.  But get to know this outstanding woody ornamental, and you’ll be hooked, too.  The Morton Arboretum calls it a handsome shrub with memorable flowers, while British botanist William Jackson Bean wrote “no better plant could be recommended as a lawn shrub” and Wayside Gardens proclaims it “one of the best flowering shrubs for the summer.”  While I freely admit that Wayside doesn’t go in for understatement regarding anything they sell, for an Englishman to give high praise to an American plant, it has to be good.

So, let me tell you why bottlebrush buckeye is a plant of special merit.  First, it has great foliage and form.  Its medium green leaves are palmately compound, giving it a unique texture, and it develops into a dense mound ten to twelve feet high and at least as wide.  Unless you want to block the view out your first-floor windows, don’t plant one near your house.  Instead, locate it on the margin between lawn and woodland, where it excels.  Bottlebrush might also be grown as a small tree, but the plant’s spreading nature would then require management, which seems a shame.  Better to plant it someplace where you can let it branch to the ground and spread a bit.  As garden writer Margaret Roach keystroked, “Give it plenty of room–and I mean plenty–and it will make a beloved companion for decades to come.” 

Plantsman Michael Dirr wrote “there are few summer flowering plants which can rival this species.”  The delicate white flowers are borne in cylindrical panicles up to 18 inches tall, dozens of which will appear on a mature plant in late July.  Although the name “bottlebrush” sounds a bit prosaic, it aptly describes the form of this floral display.  The buckeye fruits, which are light brown nuts inside pear-shaped capsules, aren’t prolifically produced here in the north.  Bottlebrush buckeye rarely needs pruning, unless planted too close to the house.  Southern Living’s Steve Bender sums up by stating:  “People often expect the prettiest plants to be a pain to grow, but that certainly isn't the case here. Bottlebrush buckeye needs moist, well-drained soil and partial to full shade. That's it.”