This time of year, rabbit tobacco is a fine dried arrangement. Photo by Ken Moore.

By Ken Moore

One of my favorite native herbs, rabbit tobacco, is an eye-catching wildflower with an engaging aromatic quality. Frequently called sweet everlasting, among countless other names, it retains its wooly white stems and leaf undersides and aromatic qualities for months. Late in the season, the stem leaves turn grayish and take on a lasting curly, dried characteristic.

The ample late-summer rains have been good for this common annual of open fields and roadsides; I’ve enjoyed seeing more of it this year than in the past. And even now in late November, the aging tawny-white seed heads are evident along roadsides.

Its scientific name, Gnaphalium [naff-AY-lium] obtusifolium, from the Greek, gnaphalon, refers to the soft, wooly hairs on stem and leaves. The leaf, -folium, is obtuse, obtusi-, being somewhat rounded at the leaf tip. Now, just to keep some of you taxonomically current, I recently discovered that this plant has been reclassified to Pseudognaphalium obtusifolium.

I’m always intrigued by plants with pseudonyms. I guess rabbit tobacco is not really a gnaphalium, but it’s like a gnaphalium. I’ll leave it to you to ponder its taxonomy.

I’m more intrigued with the common name, the heritage of which I’ve yet to discover. One story is that some Native Americans believed rabbits liked this native herb and were helpful in caring for it in their field habitats.

I presented my question to revered Lumbee herbalist Mary Sue Locklear at the American Indian Heritage Celebration in Raleigh last Saturday. She replied that she had never read or heard a satisfactory explanation, though she enjoys imagining that the bunch of tiny white flower heads resemble the rabbit’s tail, and thus the name. I like her explanation.

She also said there’s nothing better for breaking fevers than a long steeped tea of equal parts dried rabbit tobacco leaves and flowers, green pine needles and green sweet gum leaves. Sweet gum leaves are collected green and dried for use during the winter months.

Earlier Saturday morning at the Carrboro Farmers’ Market, I visited with local herbalist, wildcrafter and teacher Will Endres. Like so many of us, Will also was puzzled about the heritage of the common name; he considers the name a bit demeaning for an herb of such great value. As a digestive bitter, chewing the green leaves is one of nature’s finest herbal aids. Will prefers to use the green leaves.

Pearly white-topped rabbit tobacco is easy to spot in early fall. Photo by Ken Moore.

When asked about smoking rabbit tobacco, Will had a lot to describe. He said it does relieve symptoms of asthma and similar respiratory ailments. He prepares a rabbit tobacco mixture, with other herbs, that is helpful for folks trying to break a smoking habit.

I could have talked with Will Endres and Mary Locklear all day without exhausting the medicinal, ceremonial and spiritual heritage of this engaging plant.

And as for those rabbits – well now, Peter Rabbit was known to enjoy rabbit tobacco tea, though it was most likely a lavender substitute, perhaps the very first “pseudognaphalium.” And then there was Uncle Remus’ Brer Rabbit who “tuck a big char terbacker … you know this life everlastin’ that Miss Sally puts among the clothes in the trunk; well, that’s rabbit terbacker!”

Apple-size fruit of Japanese persimmon are larger but not tastier than native persimmon. Photo by Ken Moore.

By Ken Moore

Several weeks ago, I was quizzed by a Citizen reader about a particularly dramatic small tree in a Carrboro yard along his daily route near the intersection of Hillsborough and North Greensboro streets. He described it as a small tree having orange miniature pumpkin-like fruits. I had to pause and think for a short while. “Oh, yes, I remember there is a small tree in that neighborhood that appears festooned with lots of little jack-o’-lanterns.”

It’s one of those eye-catching Japanese persimmons, Diospyros kaki, often simply called kaki. It is a small tree that bears orange, fleshy fruit, delicious when eaten fresh or used for jams, breads and puddings.

Though kaki is the most frequently cultivated persimmon species, I don’t think it is as much a delicacy as our native persimmon, Diospyros virginiana, a much taller tree, common in yards and along streets in our local neighborhoods.

The female, fruit-producing trees are easy to find right now by looking for the soft, ripe, quarter-size (sometimes larger), darkened, plum-like fruit on the ground beneath the tree. I began collecting fallen ripe persimmons beneath my favorite tree a month ago, before the recent frosts. Old-timers say it takes several frosts to ripen persimmons. But not any more. Perhaps shorter day light is the trigger. There are lots more on the tree. They’ll be dropping for several weeks more.

The Japanese persimmon in the garden of the nature sanctuary where I sometimes serve as a guide for school groups also has already produced soft ripe fruit.

Note well that you don’t want to taste the fruit of either of these two persimmons if they are hard to the touch. Just accept the “It’ll turn your mouth inside out!” description of anyone who has tasted an unripe one.

Last week, a group of third-graders helped me compare these two persimmons. We tasted a ripe Japanese persimmon growing in the garden and then walked over to a native persimmon growing along the wood’s edge. As tasty as that bigger Japanese variety is, those youngsters, without any prompting from me, showed a preference for the flavor of the native.

Our native has an almost cult-like following. As described in the Nov. 1, 2007 Flora (“Persimmon season”), folks who treasure persimmons will stake out their favorite tree(s) wherever they are and visit frequently to harvest, hoping other folks don’t know about their secret.

European settlers learned early from Native Americans that this little fruit, sometimes called possum fruit, was good raw or cooked and could be dried for storage. A Native-American word, “pasiminan,” means dried fruit. This fall I’m going to dry a batch to try as dried delicacies.

Medicinally, the persimmon was used extensively. I am particularly intrigued by the description of chewing the bark for heartburn.

Persimmon'07 Though smaller than Japanese persimmon, the flavor of native persimmon has created a cult-like following of admirers. Photo by Ken Moore.

Being a close kin to the tropical ebony tree, the heavy, dark-brown wood of native persimmon has been used for golf clubs, weaver’s shuttles and other items requiring hard, smooth-wearing wood.

Being mindful of how much we have learned from Native Americans, make note of the 14th annual American Indian Heritage Celebration taking place on Saturday, Nov, 21, from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. at the N.C. Museum of History, across from the N.C. legislature on Jones Street in Raleigh. Dance, food, demonstrations, story-telling and crafts from North Carolina’s Native American tribes are well worth scheduling into your weekend.

Square-stemmed, opposite-leaved wild oregano flowers more robustly in cultivation than in the wild. Photo by Ken Moore.

By Ken Moore

Don’t go looking for wild oregano, Cunilla origanoides, because you’ll probably become frustrated that you can’t locate it. But you can be aware of it, and then if you do stumble upon it during one of your woods walks it will be a very special moment.

I had such a special moment this past weekend, when exploring the labyrinth of trails of the university’s Carolina North natural area.

My first encounter with this obscure little plant was years ago, while walking through the open chestnut oak forest atop the dome of North Carolina’s Stone Mountain. The forest floor was covered with hundreds of wild oregano plants, which, with the burgundy-colored leaves of the fall, seemed to be a loose carpet beneath the tall oaks. I recall that as one of my memorable “oh, wow” botany experiences.

The few scattered plants along the upper reaches of the Botanical Garden’s nature trails do not make that same lasting impression, nor do the many scattered plants along the trail edges crisscrossing the forested hilltops of Carolina North.

But simply recognizing a few plants here and there is really special for me, and I can’t resist reaching down to gently crush a leaf to enjoy that mild turpentine-scented aroma, so characteristic of this native American herb.

Wild oregano is also known as American dittany, an obvious reference to the dittany of Crete, Origanum dictamnus, which was revered as a magical herb of many medicinal and fantastical properties. Though these plants are kindred spirits within the mint family, our native Cunilla makes no claims such as that magical herb of the ancient Greek isle.

The pleasantly pungent aroma of our wild oregano is definitely engaging. It was utilized by Native Americans throughout its natural range in eastern America for a tea to relieve the discomfort of colds, fevers, headaches and even snakebites.

I concocted a sun tea of a modest bundle of leaves and stems and found the result a pleasing pungent brew that certainly would have been enhanced with a bit of mint or lemon balm. I wonder how a few leaves spread over a homemade pizza would alter the flavor of the anchovies I’m inclined to layer across the surface? I don’t have a sense that this particular native herb has much of a future as a lucrative commercial crop.

Another common name, stone mint, must refer to the typical open rocky forest habitats where we find them scattered throughout our local Piedmont region.

The diminutive wild-oregano, found in dry oak forests, is distinguished by opposite leaves that, when crushed, give a mildly turpentine-mint odor. Photo by Ken Moore.

So that you don’t have to depend on infrequent surprise encounters to appreciate and enjoy wild oregano, I suggest growing a plant or two in a sunny spot in your garden or even in a container. The Botanical Garden has a large container of this wild herb growing just outside the back entrance of the Totten Center. It’s in full flower now and definitely more robust than any plant you will find growing in the dry rocky woods. I procured a nice flowering specimen from the garden and though I’m happy to have a wild oregano of my very own, I will continue to consider it really special to find one in the wild.

By Ken Moore

Two weeks ago, Dave Otto shared photos of wild gingers in full flower along Bolin Creek. The wild ginger flowers, generally hidden beneath the leaf litter, had been exposed by recent rains.

The leather-textured flowers are long lasting; you can still see them. If you practice that “take a closer look” walking strategy, you will most likely find two species of wild ginger on the forest floor.

In fact, if you take yourself outdoors this next week, you will catch the fullest peak of early-spring flowering we’ve had in years! This abnormal spring, the earliest flowering species are lingering in an unusual overlap with later-flowering species.

For example, in a normal spring, if there is such a thing, peak flowering of redbud is followed by peak flowering of sassafras and, finally, flowering dogwood, which “normally” peaks on April 10 every year. This weekend, you will see all three at peak. Dogwood is peaking closer to April 5.

Yesterday, I saw lingering flowers of typical early bloomers like hepaticas, trout lilies, pennyworts and, most surprising of all, trailing arbutus, Epigea repens. I don’t recall observing trailing arbutus in flower as late as April 1. So don’t delay that walk in the woods if you want to catch this wildflower spectacle.

Now, back to wild gingers. The first to begin flowering is heartleaf, Hexastylis minor, easily spotted as a single leaf or a clump of leathery, white-mottled, evergreen, heart-shaped leaves. To view the flowers, you have to practice “belly botany” and carefully tease away the leaf litter at the base of the leaf petiole(s). Each widely open, heavily textured flower is a beautiful, white-mottled burgundy color. Please replace the leaf litter over the flower(s) as you found them.

The other ginger you will likely encounter is Hexastylis arifolia, identified by a larger leaf shaped more like an arrowhead than a heart. The leaves are not as dramatically white mottled as heartleaf. This ginger is commonly called little brown jugs, because the greenish-brown flowers, open slightly at the top, resemble narrow little urns. Another common name, little pigs, refers to the little pig ear-like unfolding of leaf buds next to the flowers. This ginger begins flowering several weeks after heartleaf. It’s beginning now, so you will see them both.

Another evergreen heartleaf you may encounter locally is Hexastylis virginica, which has a similar leaf but a smaller, less widely open flower than H. minor. Common in the mountains and occasionally seen locally is the deciduous wild ginger, Asarum canadensis, which is now breaking dormancy and grows as a spreading groundcover, in contrast to the single clumps of the evergreen species. There are nice displays of evergreen and deciduous gingers at the Botanical Garden. If you want to grow them, Niche Gardens and the Botanical Garden have plants.

Native Americans made widespread medicinal use of leaves and roots of the wild gingers. Pioneers used the plant as a ginger flavor substitute.
When you go out to discover gingers in the next few days, those of you who have been keeping watch will notice that just about all of the beech leaves have dropped.

Wildflower walk: Dave Otto is leading a Friends of Bolin Creek spring wildflower walk on Saturday, April 11, leaving from Wilson Park at 9:00 a.m. All are welcome.

Flowers huddle close to the ground beneath the arrow-head shaped leaves of ‘little brown jugs’ wild ginger. Photo by Betsy Green Moyer

Shiny, unfolding new leaves flanking the flower of ‘little brown jugs’ resemble little pigs’ ears. Photo by Betsy Green Moyer

Bloodroot buds timidly rise in search of the warming sunlight. Photo by Betsy Green Moyer

By Ken Moore

I’m anticipating seeing bloodroot, Sanguinaria Canadensis, on a woods walk in the next couple of weeks. The common name refers to the reddish milky sap that exudes from a cut along the side of the finger-size rhizome. The root was a source for yellow to red-orange body painting and dyeing of clothing and baskets by Native Americans.

The petals of this common eastern American wildflower are as brilliant white as our recent fresh snowfall. Look for it on deciduous forest slopes scattered among ferns and other woodland plants. To catch the bloodroot in flower, you will have to take regular walks beginning soon. Once a bloodroot presents itself, you have only a few days time to catch the flower.

Plan your walk after mid-morning to catch the flower fully open in the warming sunlight. As the day cools, the petals close up. This action is repeated for several days and then the petals drop off, leaving an elongated pod that slowly swells through the spring to drop seeds that are quickly carried underground by ants. You may enjoy pondering why it spends so much energy closing and opening its petals.

Once you discover a bloodroot in flower, look around for more. See if you can find one still in bud, appearing timidly to poke its head up from the young leaf that wraps around the flower stem as it emerges.

Now that is anticipation!

If soil moisture is ample, the attractive lobed bloodroot leaf stays green well into the summer. Bloodroot is desirable for the woodland garden, and once established will naturally reseed. Niche Gardens and the N. C. Botanical Garden sell nice propagated plants. Call ahead if you wish to time your visit for bloodroot flowering at either location.

Bloodroot has such a rich herbal heritage that it must have been one of the staples in the medicine basket of Native Americans, akin to our own handy bottle of aspirin.

Medicinal use of the dried root included preparations of tonics for all kinds of internal ailments from colds to cancers, and salves applied to external injuries like axe cuts and just about every sort of skin irritation.

Now, before any of you take a notion to try any of the described remedies, heed well Dr. James Duke’s first comment about bloodroot in his Handbook of Northeastern Indian Medicinal Plants: “This plant is extremely poisonous.” Search for more information if you wish, but remember that Native Americans spent centuries observing and learning how to utilize this native herb.

My favorite description of the use of bloodroot comes from Paul Green’s Plant Book: “A tea made from the root is supposed, like carrots, to be good for the eyesight, also good for the nerves and coughs and colds. Two ounces of this tea in one pint of alcohol made a fine stimulant for both babies and rheumatic old men. The babies were allowed two teaspoonfuls for a dose once a day. The old men could suit themselves. In the latter case I doubt the pint lasted very long.”

I don’t recommend you try this! I do recommend you get out soon on a bloodroot search, just for the beauty of it!

Snow-white petals of bloodroot open on warm sunny days to expose golden-yellow pollen-bearing anthers. Photo by Betsy Green Moyer

Lots of trees are bare, cold temperatures reign, and yet our Piedmont flora continues to glow. The scarlet-red fern-like leaves of sumacs are still dramatic along roadsides and the rich burgundy-reds of highbush blueberries are noticeable against otherwise leafless forest edges.

If you venture into the forests, you will encounter the subtler colors of native viburnums, often called arrowwood because Native Americans used the hard straight stems of these shrubs for arrow shafts.

On a walk this past Sunday, I delighted in seeing leaves of maple-leaved viburnum, Viburnum acerifolium, taking on dusty-pink colors. A few of the plants still bore small clusters of black drupes, a surprise because the birds usually grab those preferred tasty morsels immediately. I’ll wager that following the recent freezes, those fruit will be absent, though the leaves will linger. Some of the foliage was still green, just beginning to turn. You may remember having seen the viburnums’ flat-top clusters of white flowers scattered throughout the local forests during the middle of spring. It’s fun to visualize the spring appearance of plants when seeing them in their fall habit.

The maple-leaved viburnum is easy to spot; the Latin of its name, V. acerifolium, translates as “maple” (acer) “leaf” (folium). So you are looking for a waist-to-head-high shrub with opposite leaves, like maple trees, and a leaf shaped, in this case, like that of the red maple.

Keep a keen eye out for this pale pink-leaved beauty because, though common, it is scattered here and there throughout the forest. Sometimes you will discover a nice thicket of it on some of the forest slopes.

Far more common, making extensive thickets on low ground as well as upper slopes, is the closely related downy-leaved viburnum, V. rafinesquianum, also called arrowwood. This viburnum was named in honor of Constantine Samuel Rafinesque (1783-1840), who is underappreciated as an early American botanist and natural historian; if you take a little time to research his adventurous life, you’ll find amazing anecdotes to share at your next dinner party.

Leaves of downy-leaved viburnum are opposite (like all viburnums), short-petioled, coarsely toothed (serrate) and egg-shaped (ovate), easy to distinguish from those of its longer-petioled, maple-leaved cousin. Its leaves are a nice coppery pink, not dusty pink. Both are quite drought resistant and make fine garden plants.

As noted many times in previous articles, we are fortunate in our Piedmont region to have the brilliant and subtle leaf color begin in late summer and slowly progress into winter. Take a walk on Thanksgiving Day and make note of how many trees and shrubs are still holding colored foliage. And don’t forget to direct your viewing occasionally to the ground of the forests, forest edges and fields. You’ll be surprised to spot amazing colors on stems of not-quite-dormant perennials and the winter basal rosettes of other perennials and winter annuals that remain quietly active right on through the cold months. You’ll discover a lot just by walking slowly and taking those closer looks. So bundle up and take yourself outdoors! There’s lots to discover!

By Ken Moore

They began flowering weeks ago and they are still making a show along roadsides and wherever folks allow them on their lawns and in their gardens.

I give native daisy fleabane, Erigeron annuus, freedom to grow wherever it suits itself in my wild landscape. Masses of tiny white daisy flowers on multi-branching stems, three to five feet tall, cheer up my yard and garden areas for weeks and weeks. This year, they’re flowering in profusion everywhere, in spite of the continuing drought.

Goldfinches are attracted to the seed heads of the fleabane. It’s amazing how those thread-thin fleabane stems can support those birds. I generally don’t see the goldfinches until I’ve walked up close enough to frighten them into flight and then I’m aware of the plant stems rocking back and forth, relieved of the weight of the feasting birds.

Our pioneer forebears considered this annual wildflower an insect repellant, thus the rather unappealing name, fleabane. I wish they were effective for ticks. The extensive use of fleabane species by Native Americans throughout America for medicinal and ceremonial purposes almost defies description.

Where fleabane is allowed to grow and flourish in and around the garden, the effect is the abandoned exuberance of an English cottage garden. In addition, the common fleabane is a fantastic cut flower, being a showy companion with any flower.

Another showy white flower is the biennial Queen Anne’s lace, Daucus carota, the wild carrot parent of our cultivated carrots. Following its introduction by European settlers centuries ago, it so quickly became a common weed that Native Americans utilized it as a food and medicinal herb.

It is regarded as a serious exotic invasive in some parts of our nation, particularly in the Midwestern prairie restorations, but it doesn’t seem to pose a real problem in our local Piedmont. It is such a beautiful work of art that I am always careful to leave groups of them scattered about my wild landscape, and they are a great contrast mixed in with daylilies. Like the fleabane, it’s not going to stay in place, but will move about wherever seed can find a foothold on a bare patch of soil.

So how do you know you have one or more of these plants freely moving about in your yard and garden? Well, recognizing the carrot-like foliage of the Queen Anne’s lace in the late summer and winter is rather simple. Recognizing the winter rosettes of fleabane is a bit more difficult; to the unaccustomed eye, the leaves simply look like any other green leaves. The certain way to learn to recognize a volunteer plant in your landscape is to allow it to grow until it flowers. Then you’ll know what you have and whether or not it’s a keeper.

Many beautiful and truly drought-tolerant plants are routinely “weeded” from our gardens because we simply don’t know what we have.

It is easy to get lost in the beauty of just a part of the flower head of Queen Anne’s Lace. Photo by Ken Moore