All Hail Caesar Weed . . . and Two Very Cool Water Birds

Purple Heron, Ardea Purpurea

Limpkin, Aramus guarauna

      I first met Caesar Weed some half a dozen years ago during a horticultural class I took at Palm Beach State College.  It was a full semester of all kinds of weeds—the majority of which, I was mildly irritated to find out, grew in my own yard.  

     The fact that there is a wild-growing vacant lot across the street from our home probably had something to do with it.  

     Most of the weeds were also what I would call “wild flowers.”  The plants grew during specific months of the year and tended to spread out horizontally, sending down rootlets along the stems as they grew.  The flowers were small, usually about the same size as the nail on my pinky finger.  

The flowers, close up, however, made up for their size with their colours and petal configurations.  What appeared as a spot of yellow or purple in the middle of a green patch turned out to be unexpectedly complex arrangements of unusually shaped petals.  The stamens were frosted with vivid pollen grains. 

     Most of the names of the grasses and plants and sedges have escaped my conscious mind.  Caesar Weed, for some reason, is an exception.  

I think it is because of the leaves.  They are stiff and covered with minute hairs that give them the feel of fine sandpaper.  Long after I pick a plant to take it home and photograph it, the leaves are ridged and the flowers pristine.  Most weeds, once separated from their roots, begin immediately to wilt and the flowers to close up.

 Green Deane, a blogger, (www.eattheweeds.com/caesar-weed-sampler/) writes that Caesar Weed, Urena lobster, is also called burr mallow or pink burr, and is edible.  The plant was imported to grow as a source of food. The blooms are edible, as are the young leaves.  The root can be boiled and the tea used in place of aspirin or used for stomach ache--it is also an anti-bacterial. Unfortunately, it is no longer harvested, being considered "famine food," and is labeled invasive.  It grows equally well in marshes and in dry soil when it rains enough. The leaves have "star shaped hairs" on the back so that even cows, who have no teeth on their bottom jaw, won't eat them. (end quote)

I also remember the plant because in the far corner of my yard, on a neighbor’s side of the chain link fence, is a respectable stand of Caesar Weed.  I do my best to keep the plant away from the clusters of pineapple plants growing in that corner—but I don’t really mind that my efforts haven't eradicated the plant entirely.  

I like the fact that I remember its name.  I like to feel the leaves when I rub one between my fingers.  I love the tiny, purple blooms that pepper the long stems.  I like that the plant reminds me of the few years ago when I was taking classes every semester and learning about the plants and trees that grow around me.

I like learning—and Caesar Weed will always be a part of that time in my life.

I don’t have many close friends, and this weed feels like a friend every time I see it.

The birds are another matter.  Both are unfamiliar to me.  Reading about them tells me that they are plentiful in Florida—but I don’t frequent the marshes where they spend their time.  I love getting photos of birds from Florida a place where ibis are as common as robins in the North.  

Teaching, Tests and Always Being There

Photo of the Salt Lake Temple in SLC, UT.  The inside is even more
inspiring inside . . . and I appreciate that wonder because there are guidelines
I have to follow to be allow the privilege of entering in.

Version of nitrogen cycle that I made on my iPad 

I have just finished an on-line final for a Botany class. (I got 85 out of 102 points . . . two stupid mistakes, three others I just didn't remember.)  It was a fun test--kind of a weird thing to say I suppose.  I like tests, though.  They give me a chance to see how well I have learned the material . . . and sometimes a small thrill that I can still recall information that was a challenge to acquire. 

My dad taught me about appreciating tests.  At 26, as a teacher of college English classes, I actually hated grading papers and essay tests.  They were boring like nothing else I could name.  At that time I had two toddlers (or, a little later, two pre-schoolers and a baby), and after a long day I would have to fight to stay awake.  I was complaining to my dad about it, and he pointed out that tests were an indication of the ability of both the student and the teacher.

Rose hip before it's mature.  I love all the tiny fibers that were there--and that only one seed formed.

I took this observation to heart and changed the way that I thought about teaching. 

Brent took this of me in Central Park, NY.
It was cold--with a strong cold wind . . . thus the tear.

From then on, I began each semester by introducing myself and telling my students that I was there to have a good time.  If I had to be there, so did they.  If I had to read their papers and fell asleep, then the paper didn't get a passing grade.  

I also promised them, though, that if they would attend class and do the assignments as I taught them to, that they would finish the semester having learned how to write interesting, captivating prose that would engage and challenge their reader (or at least me) to wonder about the ideas that were presented--and to stimulate him/her to think about his/her world differently.

At that point, there were a number of people who usually slipped out the back of the class or slumped down in their chairs--if they had been able to they would have begun texting their friends or surfing the net for a good place to go drinking that night.  I am talking, though, about a time that was way back when the best phone was the smallest phone--and when all that phones did was call people.  

Back to class . . . from that time forward I had only myself to blame if someone was able to foist a boring, wandering essay on me to read.  

Something else happened to me as I did this.

The underside of the leaf of a lavender--all that intricate faceting is beautiful to me. 

I began to believe what I was teaching.  I had only my own perspective--my own history as a reference for all that was going on around me every day.  When I helped these people to write well, they were able to show me things I had never thought of as interesting in a new light.  They helped me find new meanings for words that, before then, were one-dimensional and bland.  They taught me about what was important to them and why they believed it was of worth.  

Close up of common Florida weed.  The flower is actually about the size of the nail on my pinky finger.

The essays were short--I'm talking about Freshman Composition classes here--but they learned how to decide what they thought about their subject before they handed in a paper.  They learned how to limit their subject so that what they had to say actually meant something.

Photo that I took a few years ago in my side yard--mallow plant.
I think of this as an example of the first statement below--the details are assumed because
the writer hasn't allowed the reader to see the details that she/he does.

Rather than start with "My mom is really cool.  She is always there for me.", they began to see and express their ideas so that I could enter their worlds:  "There is no other person who listens as well as my mom.  When I got a D+ on a math test, she didn't yell at me for being so stupid.  Instead, she let me rant on for awhile and then offered to look at the test with me.  It took a couple of days, but by the time I had told her about each problem I got wrong, I was able to teach her how I should have done it.  By the time we got done, I understood the math.  She took a lot of time to listen to me.  I still hate math, but now I know how to add, subtract, multiply and divide fractions."

Way different ways to express a feeling that, to that writer, was saying exactly the same thing.

This--an example of the second writing above . . . focused on one thing, but also put into context.

I am enjoying the classes that I am taking right now.  Mostly they are horticulture classes.  I just finished taking Nathan through a pre-calculus class--taking notes, doing homework with him.  It has been a long time since I have taught.  

I guess I do miss it.  What I miss most, though, is the combination of teaching and taking classes at the same time.

As a graduate fellow, I was able to do that.  Taking and giving tests at the same time.  If nothing else, it always made me feel more compassion for the people I wrote for--and who had to write for me.  

It was a good balance.