Born to the Purple

Next up in our Yukon wildflower tour is a dark lavender or blue-purple flower that’s blooming right now—the mountain larkspur if you’re Canadian, or sierra larkspur if you’re American, or delphinium glaucum if you want to show off your Latin. And those who know Latin might also  know that the name delphinium comes from the resemblance each flower has to a little leaping and swimming purple dolphin.

This particular type of larkspur (and there are many types of wild larkspur) is native in western North America from Alaska down through California and eastward as far as Alberta.  Yes, they dwell in the Rocky Mountains, and hence, you see, their common name.

 

Mountain larkspur is also found in Manitoba and Saskatchewan, but there it is an introduced species, not an  not  indigenous one. And it’s a pity that some traveler carried it to the prairies, because this plant does a nasty number on cattle who eat too much of it. Unfortunately, in the spring on the grasslands, larkspur reaches grazing height before the surrounding natural grasses and a few cattle will be lost due to larkspur poisoning. This wildflower is toxic to other animals, like horses and sheep, but for reasons not well-understood, it is not as deadly for them as it is for cattle.

It’s because of it’s pernicious effect on grazing cattle that delphinium glaucum has been declared a prohibited noxious weed in both the U.S. and Canada. That means no one can import the seeds, although I’m not sure what the seed import ban accomplishes, since these are native plants in both countries. But if you are crossing the border, you’ll want to check your pockets for any stray delphinium seeds, just in case. You wouldn’t want to be charged with smuggling a prohibited weed, would you?

So are mountain larkspur good for anything besides looking tall and stately and deep purple? As you might imagine, that noxious label limits their use as food or medicine, but their flower juice can be mixed with alum to make  a pretty blue ink. I’m not sure ink in delphinium blue is indelible, but it’d certainly be inedible.

 

 

The photo directly above is of another Yukon wildflower, one that, along with the mountain larkspur, is from the buttercup or crowfoot family. There’s a close family resemblance, isn’t there? The best way to tell these two flowers apart is by the fifth petal on this second one. See how it forms a hood over the bottom four petals? That mini head covering is what gives  this bloom one of its common names—monkshood.

 

In Latin, it’s aconitum dephinifolium. Better yet is another of it’s common names—wolfbane—given because the juice from this flower has been used for poisoning wolves. Like it’s larkspur cousin, monkshood is highly toxic. There’s a poem by  John Keats called Ode on Melancholy that has this line:

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf’s bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine….

That’s good advice. Three years ago, there was a young Canadian actor who died after he ate monkshood sap. He was a vegetarian known for his love of nature, but evidently not so much for his knowledge of it.

 

Where I grew up, every child learned this dittified warning, which saved me a few rounds of cortisone pills:

Leaves of three, 

Let them be! 

As a public service, I’m composing another little verse for those who live in monkshood territory.

Petals five and one’s a hood?

You must leave it in the wood!

It’s not exactly Keats, is it?

 

Previous wildflower posts: 

• Lavender Charm
• Into the Wild Blue
• The Blue Belles
• Stopping on Yellow
• Waving the White Flag
• Hot Pink

 Both photos are by Andrew Stark. You can click for a better view of the little leaping dolphins or stylish purple hoods.

Sunday's Hymn

Yikes! We sang not one hymn in church this morning. That makes posting a hymn we sang in our Sunday service a bit difficult, so here’s what I’ll do. I’ll post another hymn the choir sang this spring.

My Jesus, I Love Thee

My Jesus, I love Thee, I know Thou art mine;
For Thee all the follies of sin I resign.
My gracious Redeemer, my Savior art Thou;
If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

I love Thee because Thou has first loved me,
And purchased my pardon on Calvary’s tree.
I love Thee for wearing the thorns on Thy brow;
If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

I’ll love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death,
And praise Thee as long as Thou lendest me breath;
And say when the death dew lies cold on my brow,
If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

In mansions of glory and endless delight,
I’ll ever adore Thee in heaven so bright;
I’ll sing with the glittering crown on my brow;
If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

—-Will­iam R. Fea­ther­ston

Download the Riverdale Baptist Church choir singing this hymn. (The flautist is Serena McHone.)

 Other hymns, worship songs, etc. posted today:

• The Eighth Sunday after Trinity at Magic Statistics
  
• O Sacred Head, Now Wounded at Hiraeth
  
• God is the Refuge of His Saints at Seasoning of the Heart
• Praise the Savior at Field Stone Cottage
• Lord’s Day 28, 2008 at The Thirsty Theologian
• Far From My Thoughts at joythruChrist
• A Mighty Fortress at Practicing Theology
• Lift Us High to Resolve at Conjubilant with Song
• Beneath the Cross of Jesus at Whatever Things…
• Spirit of Holiness, Descend at The Happy Wonderer
• In Sweet Communion, Lord at Fish and Cans
• And Can It Be? at Driveway Blogger
  

Have you posted a hymn today and I missed it? Let me know by leaving a link in the comments or by emailing me at the address in the sidebar and I’ll add your post to the list.

Saturday's Old Photo: Brothers

My father is on the right and his brother is on the left—Frank (my dad) and Elton (or, as the family called him, Chief) Russell, natural sons of Bruce Russell, who died when they were both very young. The father who raised them was technically their stepfather, my Grandpa Vogt, a man who married my grandma and took her little boys in, raising them as if they were his own flesh and blood. In current language, we’d call their family a blended family—they had step-siblings and half-siblings—but they thought of themselves as just plain brothers and sisters. Soon, perhaps, I’ll post a photo of them all.

My mother’s note on the back say this photo was taken “about 1945,” which means my dad is nineteen and Uncle Chief would be 21 or so. They look very boyish, don’t they? Both men had ruddy complexions, so I bet they looked even more boyish  in person.

My dad, as you can see, is dressed in his army uniform.  He just missed WWII, he says, and if this photo is truly from 1945, I’d say he’s not exaggerating his near miss, since WWII wasn’t officially over until well into 1945. Do you suppose his mother breathed a big sigh of relief when the war ended?

When my Uncle Chief was a boy, he had polio that left him with some lingering health issues. For one thing, he had difficulty swallowing, so he had to be careful what he ate and how he ate it. When I remember him at family dinners, I see him chewing, chewing, chewing before he swallowed and then sipping water to wash things down.

Uncle Chief also had hole in his heart—perhaps not yet discovered at the time of this picture—and that made him weaker and more easily tired. I’m guessing that it was in the early sixties that he had open heart surgery to patch things up. Whenever it was, open heart surgery was still a fairly new procedure and I remember my parents waiting anxiously for the phone call to tell them how things had gone during the surgery.

Although he was never entirely healthy, Uncle Chief ran a farm, raised a family, and lived into his seventies—all accomplished with a vigorous attitude that compensated for any physical frailty.