Dogwood

Even the most nature-oblivious people can’t help but notice that a lot of trees are blooming this month. Cherry trees are the most numerous, and there are probably a hundred varieties of them. Only a few actually bear cherries; the rest just flower for a few days, and then scatter petal confetti for a few more days when they’re finished. Cars that park under such a tree while this is going on drive away looking like they’ve been to a party.

Then there are magnolias, apple trees, plum trees, pear trees and — drumroll please — dogwoods. If there were an election for Most Beautiful Flowering Tree, dogwoods would win regardless of whether the ballots were mailed or cast in person.

There are about 100 dogwood species spread out across the earth’s temperate regions. Our local tree, cornus nuttallii, can grow to 90 feet tall, and right now, its masses of big white blossoms are impossible to miss.

We have two other local native cornus species:  One is a shrub called cornus sericia, known as red osier dogwood, that is abundant in or near wetlands, and common in well-watered gardens. The other is a groundcover called cornus canadensis, sometimes called buncherry. It’s also valued as a well-behaved, slow-growing garden plant.

But it’s the big dogwood tree that is the queen of all our local dogwoods. It likes to be wild, and is not generally enthusiastic about being in a garden. It’s seeds are hard to germinate; one website reports germination may take up to 18 months. Another prescribes scoring the seeds with a sharp knife, then chilling them for a couple of months, then scoring them again and keeping them warm for a couple more months. And once they do come up, they don’t do well when transplanted.

My neighborhood is lucky to have a few big old native dogwoods. They were probably growing here before the houses were built. A county assessor might think they’re so beautiful they should count as adding value to the homes they are near.

On second thought, that’s a terrible idea. It would give people a financial incentive to cut them down.

But dogwoods aren’t safe in the woods either. George Walter, who writes the JOLT’s bird column, reports that when they’re not in bloom, dogwoods resemble alder and other common deciduous woodland trees. People unknowingly cut them down for firewood without knowing noticing their distinctive leaves and seeds.

But carelessness and failure to fully examine and appreciate cornus nuttallii is nothing new. In 1806, Meriwether Lewis, who was in our state as part of the Lewis and Clark expedition, thought our dogwood species was the East Coast species, cornus florida. In the 1820s David Douglas, a famous Scottish botanist and plant collector, also mistook it for c. florida and didn’t send seeds back to England. (Maybe that was just as well since they’re so difficult to propagate.)

This was a time when numerous British and European natural scientists were exploring American birds, wildlife and plants and sending specimens home for the education, delight, and potential profit of their countrymen.

Finally, in the fall of 1834, Thomas Nuttall, an English botanist and former curator of the Harvard University botanical gardens, became the first to accurately describe our dogwood species while he was staying at Fort Vancouver. It was named cornus nuttallii by his friend John James Audubon.

Today there’s no doubt that our native dogwood is distinctive, precious, and worthy of greater appreciation and care. Maybe artists could raise its profile in the Procession of the Species. Maybe it deserves permanent public art, or designation as an official municipal tree. Maybe chain saws should be sold with a label that says, “Do not use this tool on a dogwood tree.”

But really, the path to preservation of dogwoods starts with more people looking at them right now, and remembering what and where they are.

Jill Severn writes from her home in Olympia, where she grows vegetables, flowers, and a small flock of chickens. She loves conversation among gardeners. Start one by emailing her at  jill@theJOLTnews.com.