Trillium, and an Urgent Caution

Although it appears we previously declared that the foxglove was the only flora of a flowery sort we could identify, as it turns out there may be one or two others (if we include the lovely trillium, above). Math has never been our strong suit (although we had thought single digit calculations were within our grasp, which appears not to be the case).

If, however, you are seeking said suit, we believe the one below will do nicely.



Conversely, perhaps our "floral" problem (and what a felicitous problem to have, indeed) is moreso a case of Poor Organization, since we previously seemed to have identified another bit of flora, King Edward VII Flowering Currant, pink variety, or Rubes sanguineum, as you may no doubt recall. (We are, in fact, quite proud of ourselves whenever we can correctly cite botanical names. It seems to suggest a certain level of expertise which we are otherwise Notably Lacking in.)

But back to the trillium. One would think if ever there was a flower whose name one could easily recall it would be this, in that its very appellation describes its features, which is to say that tri (connoting, as you surely know, three) describes its number of petals, leaves, and, some sources say, its number of, ahem, stigmas (about which we will say no more since we are having great difficulty grasping their botanical role).



This appellative congruence on the part of trillium is very much in contrast to, say, the hyacinth (see above) which cannot be found growing wild in the Northwest Woods and which does not look in any way at all like what it is. In fact, in mythology Hyacinth (from which the name of the flower is derived) is actually a Divine Hero (to be distinguished from a deity) who, as it happens, was struck and killed by a discus thrown by Apollo (as shown in the painting below by Giovanni Tiepolo).

We have heard of getting "disced," but it seldom results in such mortal consequences. Then again, only the gods are immortal.



While not wanting to make light of such an unfortunate event, we cannot help but be a bit curious about the presence of the armless (and surprisingly rotund) Satyr who appears to be looking down with some amusement at Hyacinth's demise and Apollo's, um, disc-omfiture. There also appears to be what looks like a badminton racket and some idle balls lying about, which further confuses us since we thought there was a discus involved.

As it happens, when he was eleven years old Mozart composed a three-act comedic opera (of sorts) called Apollo et Hyacinthus, K.38. If he had occasion to have seen the Tiepolo painting we can imagine why he might have found such humor in the event.

But, we dally (daily, we do, as a matter of fact, and gaily as well). We don't tally very well, however, as you have learned.



Now that we have your attention, it is essential that you make note of the following: DO NOT PICK THE TRILLIUM'S FLOWERS.

Nor, for that matter, its leaves (although that is a rarer impulse).

As it happens, to do so is to inhibit the trillium from blooming again for seven years, which is a terribly long time to wait to be at one's best. We are heartbroken that there aren't greater efforts to communicate that fact in the Northwest Woods, and may well take it upon ourselves to post small signs near the trillium to that effect.

Still, the threat of seven years of bad pluck is not enough to deter Certain Sorts. Perhaps we will have to resort to discing them.