Field Notes—

Columbine At The Gates

By Curtiss Clark

We have a little brown and white dog, a foundling mutt with a proprietary air and an obsession with border security. He waits outside patiently for passersby to intimidate with raised hackles and a plaintive hound’s howl that, when it erupts, lifts his forequarters off the ground.

Because he is short and cannot see over the bordering hedge and stonewall of our corner property, he rushes between the open entrances so that he may see and be seen as he delivers his simple insistent manifesto: “It would be folly to enter here!”

What he does not know is that the two gateways in the front hedge and the side wall already have been clearly posted with that warning — by two volunteer columbine plants.

In the language of flowers, the graceful columbine blossom is emblematic of folly. And by chance, windblown or bird borne seeds of a cultivated variety of the plant wedged themselves in rock crevasses at both gates and flourished there. A designer could not have placed them better. They are beautiful and still in bloom, nodding their pretty heads as the dog barks.

There is no explanation of why the columbine represents folly in my tattered copy of Flora Symbolica, or The Language and Sentiment of Flowers by John Henry Ingram. The book was published in New York and London in 1869 at a time in American and European popular culture when tongue-tied lovers literally said it with flowers. Mr Ingram’s book explains how to put together elaborate bouquets with specific messages based on the arrangement of flowers with distinct meanings. (My heart beats only for you, but your mother thinks I’m a fool, so meet me at the apothecary shop.)

The columbine is in the buttercup (Ranunculacea) family; the buttercup, according to Mr Ingram, represents riches. Folly and riches… I bet there’s a lot of chasing in circles in that family.

The Latin name for columbine is Aquilegia, which derives from aquila, meaning eagle. However, the word columbine itself is derived from columba, which is Latin for dove. Both descriptions apparently are inspired by the graceful descending petals of the blossoms, which look like talons to some, winged doves to others. Perhaps there is a political component to this divergence of perception, but frankly it would be folly to go there.

The species of columbine at our gates is Aquilegia vulgaris, a European variety with pretty purple blossoms. Wild columbine (Aquilegia canadensis) is a true New England native with red petals descending like a bell to enclose yellow stamen-and-pistil clappers, hence the columbine’s other common name — rock bells.

The plant loves rocks and steep slopes. So it is no wonder that the blue Rocky Mountain form of the plant (Aquilegia coerulea) is so prolific that it was chosen as the state flower of Colorado. And that accounts for why, when you google the word “columbine,” you will not find a mention of the flower on the first eight pages of results.

In Colorado, they have named everything after the columbine — businesses, streets, a town, and as we all know, an ill-fated high school. In our culture, Columbine now evokes thoughts of tragedy and grief. The little rock bells of Colorado will have to toll a long, long time before columbine, the flower, makes a comeback to the top of Google’s listings.

The plant is a perennial, though. It specializes in comebacks. Our two clumps of columbine first came to our gates uninvited. But it is reassuring to know they will arrive again and again in coming years — despite the best efforts of a barking dog.