Ficus carica

As excited as I was to find the quince tree in Dumbarton Oaks last November, I was equally delighted to find fig trees (Ficus carica) lining the walled vegetable garden.  Figs have been a favorite of mine and my family's for generations. My Italian grandmother (who is 100 years old) loves nothing more than a perfectly ripe fig in the late summer.

Figs are easy to recognize, due to their straggly habit and large, deeply lobed leaves. If you were unsure that you truly were looking at a fig (or at least a member of the Ficus genus) you could simply snap off a leaf and wait for the milky, latex-like sap to appear.  

Of course, if there are fig fruits actually on the tree, like the one below, you probably don't need to hesitate in your identification.  But, calling this "fruit" is inaccurate.  The thing that we usually consider a fig is technically a flower.  The flower is blooming - and the fruit subsequently sets - inside the pod you see below.  Your next question, I'm sure, is how does the flower get pollinated if it's fully covered?  Ficus carica has a special relationship with the fig wasp, which burrows into the small hole at the center of the fig (technically called an ostiole) to pollinate the flower.

Figs have been popular for millennia. Fossil records dating back to 9000 BC indicate the fig was cultivated in the Jordon Valley long before wheat or barley - or even legumes, were grown for agriculture.  The plant grows best in Mediterranean climates but can survive in areas as cold as Hungary, so long as the summers are hot.

The 'fruit' are high in fiber and calcium, as well as many other nutrients, and are high in antioxidants too.  When they are fresh they don't travel well, so for large-scale agricultural purposes, they are often dried.

Inside the library at the garden, an exhibit of botanical art was on display and sure enough, Ficus carica was featured in the title art.  In addition to the plant's rich history of agricultural and commercial use (fig newtons, anyone?), it's featured repeatedly in the bible and in early Greek literature.

Japanese Maple

Below we have the same shot of the katsuratree I blogged about last week.  If you look beyond that sprawling beauty, you'll see another large tree.  At first glance, you'd maybe wonder if they are the same, but a second look proves that wrong. 

 

The tree to the left has samaras, and opposite leaf orientation.  That, along with the stripey bark and a few persistent leaves make it quite clear that this is Acer palmatum or Japanese maple.   A gigantic Japanese maple. 

Most cultivars of Acer palmatum (and there are hundreds of cultivars) top out at about 30', max.  'Bloodgood' is by far one of the most famous cultivars and gets about 15'.  I'd love to know what this one is, since its spread is around 45' and it's probably just as tall. 

 

Elsewhere in Dumbarton Oaks, a smaller, more protected specimen still had leaves on it.  As you can see the plant has amazing fall color. 

Despite the gorgeous seasonal interest, I don't use Japanese maples too often.  Namely because I'm not crazy about the deep purple foliage many of the cultivars have during the summer. Some cultivars have green leaves during the summer, and I like them much more. 

Though it's hard to be critical of this plant when the fall color is so remarkable!  Indeed, that's why it's one of the most popular small non-flowering ornamental trees. 

American Beech

A few posts back, I promised to write about the American beech, or Fagus grandifolia, at Dumbarton Oaks.  To be sure, if you have been to Dumbarton Oaks, you know precisely which tree I'm talking about.  Even people who wouldn't be able to identify this tree as American beech would remember this particular specimen, as striking as it is.

 

Beeches are extremely slow growing (and Fagus grandifolia is more slow growing than its relative, the European beech, or Fagus sylvatica). In Central Park, specimens of European beech abound, but it's hard to find an American beech like this.  Low-branching and with shallow roots resting on the ground, this is an ideal specimen for introducing the plant to students. 

It's easy to identify a beech by its smooth (elephant skin-like) bark, which is often covered with graffiti.  In fact, a part of beech trunk, with the words "D. Boon Killd Bar o this tree 1775" inscribed on it, is on display at the Grandfather Mountain Nature Museum, though it's been proven that Daniel Boone himself was not the graffiti artist.

Of course, in the Virginia-Maryland-DC area, American beeches are downright ubiquitous.  I encountered the one above while running on the C&O Canal in Georgetown.  In its native forest habitat, beeches tend to sucker and so you will also find communities of beeches. I've been on old tracts of land where the only tree around is the beech.  That's the result of this suckering tendency and because it has very hard wood  (which consequently protected it from harvest until the chainsaw was invented).

The fall color is...okay.  It has a rusty golden-orange color which is just fine.  The leaves are ovate and the presence of very small spines along the margin help distinguish it from Fagus sylvatica, which has an entire margin.

Beeches produce nuts that provide food for dozens of birds and forest mammals.  The seedcaps are fuzzy, four-winged capsules which are persistent on the tree through early winter or spring.  The plant also provides habitat for many caterpillars.  The wood is used for furniture, flooring and woodenware.

Though the bark alone makes beeches easy to identify, the buds are also very distinctive.  Long and slender, they have always reminded me of a spindle on a spinning wheel.  I'm guessing, more specifically, in some deep recess of my memory, they remind me of the cursed spindle that Sleeping Beauty is fated to touch. I looked up a clip online and am pretty sure that's where my association comes from.  Since it's Friday, and who doesn't like a bit of Tchaikovsky and Disney, see for yourself here.