China Bayles' Book of Days

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Today, the Sun enters the sign of Gemini.

  The third sign of the zodiac, the masculine sign Gemini (the Twins) is ruled by the quick and lively planet Mercury, the messenger of the gods. A mutable sign, fluid and changeable in its purposes, Gemini governs communications and intellectual matters. It is an air sign, suggesting that Gemini people are ingenious, quick-witted, and highly verbal. They may also be restless, easily bored and frustrated when things move slowly.

  —RUBY WILCOX, “ASTROLOGICAL SIGNS”

  Gemini Herbs

  Mercury, patron of the art of medicine, was said to rule the respiratory and nervous systems; the ears and hearing; the tongue and speaking; the vocal cords, air passages, lungs, and thyroid, as well as the shoulders, arms, and hands. Plants ruled by Mercury under the sign of Gemini tend to have ferny or divided leaves. Some examples of Gemini herbs:

  • Parsley contains high levels of chlorophyll and has been used since ancient times to sweeten the breath, as well as to improve digestion.

  • Valerian is a nervine and a relaxant that helps to reduce tension and anxiety, relieve nervous stress, promote sleep, and ease tension-associated pain.

  • Licorice has been universally used as a treatment for lung ailments and coughs. It contains glycyrrhetinic acid, a cough suppressant with antiallergenic, antibacterial, and antiviral properties.

  • Dill is a nervine and a calmative. In Old Norse, its name means “to lull.”

  • Other Gemini herbs: elecampane, fennel, flax, caraway. See also the herbs listed for Virgo and Aquarius, both of which are associated with the planet Mercury.

  Read more about herbs and astrology:

  Healing Herbs and Health Foods of the Zodiac, by Ada Muir

  There is no single herb without its corresponding star above that beats upon it and commands it to grow.

  —MAIMONIDES, JEWISH PHILOSOPHER, 1135-1204

  MAY 22

  White coral bells upon a slender stalk,

  lilies of the valley deck the garden walk.

  Oh how I wish that I could hear them ring.

  That can happen only when the fairies sing.

  —TRADITIONAL

  When the Brownies Sing

  I learned this choral round in my Brownie troop, so of course we had our own special version of the last line: “That can happen only when the Brownies sing”—although a friend, years later, informed me that the “right” version belonged to the Campfire Girls.

  Over the years, the fragrant spring-flowering lilies of the valley have inspired many poems and legends. In an English tale, St. Leonard went out into the Sussex countryside to battle a dragon, who turned out to be the devil in disguise. After a desperate battle, St. Leonard killed the dragon. Lilies of the valley sprang up from the saint’s blood, so that pilgrims to the site could trace the path of the battle. (You’ll also find this story in China’s mystery Blood Root, where lilies of the valley figure in the plot.)

  Lily of the valley (Convallaria majalis) has long been a medicinal herb. An ointment made from the roots was used to treat burns and prevent scar tissue. More important, the plant had a significant reputation in the treatment of heart complaints, especially congestive heart failure. Modern herbalists recommend its careful use, although the herb’s powerful cardiac glycosides can be deadly in inexpert hands. In 1991, Ballantine recalled a cookbook because it suggested decorating a cake with lilies of the valley. (Corrected, the book won a James Beard award.)

  In the Victorian language of flowers, this lovely spring-flowering herb symbolized the return of happiness. When you see it, listen for the ringing of the bells, and be on the lookout for Brownies, Campfire Girls—or even fairies.

  The floures of the Valley Lillie distilled with wine and drunke the quantitie of a spoonefull, restore speech unto those that have the dumb palsie and are falne into the apoplexie and are good against the gout and comfort the heart.

  —JOHN GERARD, THE HERBAL, 1597

  MAY 23

  On this day in 1707, Carl Linnaeus was born.

  But these young scholars who invade our hills . . .

  Love not the flower they pluck, and know it not,

  And all their botany is Latin names.

  —RALPH WALDO EMERSON, “BLIGHT”

  “All Their Botany Is Latin Names”

  The Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus was not the first to suggest a basic classification for flowering plants, but he was the first to work out the system in detail, basing his system on the number of stamens in the bloom. Most of the time we don’t bother to include a plant’s full name. But we do use its two basic Latin names: the plant’s binomial descriptor. Binomial literally means “two names” and refers to the plant’s genus (which is capitalized and may be abbreviated by its first letter) and species (lowercase, may be abbreviated sp.). And in some instances, the binomial becomes a trinomial: some species are further divided into subspecies (subsp.), varieties (var.), and forms (f.). The cultivar begins with a capital letter and is placed inside single quotation marks.

  But why in the world do we need all this intimidating Latin? If we’re talking about the herb sage, why do we have to say Salvia officinalis? Why not just say “sage” and get on it with it?

  Because there are a gazillion sages in the world. In fact, I counted 90 different sages in one common-name plant index, not all of them salvias. Take the Jerusalem sage, for instance, which is blooming just outside my window today—not a sage at all, but a Phlomis fruticosa. And the Russian sage in my cottage garden is really Perovskia atriplicifolia “Blue Spire.” You wouldn’t ask either one of them to pinch-hit for Salvia officinalis in the turkey stuffing.

  And then there’s the common name puzzle. Say that you wanted to grow mullein in your garden—one of those stalky plants with large, fuzzy leaves that you see growing along the roadsides in summer. Would you look for Aaron’s flannel, beggar’s blanket, bunny’s ears, candlewick, hag’s taper, devil’s blanket, golden rod, lady’s candle, or velvet dock? In England, all of these names refer to one single plant, Verbascum thapsus , and tell us something about its many uses. But they won’t help you find exactly the plant you want.

  If you’re passionate about herbs, you’ll want to learn their names. But don’t be like Emerson’s “young scholars.” Love the flower, and know its name, as well.

  Read more about the mysteries of Latin binomials and common names:

  Gardener’s Latin, by Bill Neal

  Hang an ash bough over the door.

  Put an iron nail in your pocket

  And a piece of mullein leaf in your shoe.

  —TRADITIONAL PRESCRIPTION FOR PERSONAL SAFETY

  In the floral calendar, today’s flower: lilac.

  MAY 24

  From my youth I recall that elusive smell of woods in spring—a sweetness ascending from mold and decay but with the breath of young life rising from it. That is the odor that permeates the house when May wine is poured into the May bowl.

  —ADELMA GRENIER SIMMONS, HERB GARDENING

  IN FIVE SEASONS

  Sweet, Sweet Woodruff

  We can’t let the month of May slip by without a cup of May wine! This drink comes from Germany, where the sweet woodruff (Galium odoratum) carpets the spring woodlands with starry white blossoms and whorled leaves. The odd-sounding name woodruff grew out of the earlier wuderove, or “wood-wheel” (rove comes from the French rouelle, wheel, referring to the circlet of leaves around the stem). The plant contains coumarin, and when it is dried smells like freshly mown vanilla grass. It has long been valued for potpourris and perfumes and is a favorite in sachets. It was once used to stuff mattresses and pillows (hence the name bedstraw). During the Middle Ages, the herb gained a reputation as a wound healer and was used to treat digestive and liver problems. For gardeners with a shady, wooded area, sweet woodruff can be an ideal groundcover.

  But it’s the herb’s centuries-old use as a spring drink that we look forward to every year. Since the custom began in Ger
many, it’s traditional to use Rhine wine. Here’s an easy recipe:

  MAY WINE

  1 gallon Rhine wine (use half champagne, if you like)

  12-16 sprigs of sweet woodruff, dried overnight in the

  oven with the pilot light on

  1 package frozen strawberries, thawed

  1 cup sugar

  fresh whole strawberries

  Steep the sweet woodruff in the wine for 3-6 days. Chill before serving. Remove the herb and pour chilled wine into a punch bowl over a block of ice. Mash thawed strawberries with a cup of sugar and stir into the wine. Add champagne if you wish, and garnish each cup with a fresh strawberry.

  Read more about sweet woodruff and other herbs:

  The Illustrated Plant Lore, by Josephine Addison

  To make another herb drinke—Orange-flower Brandy. Take a gallon of French Brandy, boil a pound of orange flowers a little while, and put them in, save the water and with that make a syrup to sweeten it.

  —E. SMITH, THE COMPLETE HOUSEWIFE, 1736

  MAY 25

  Docke . . . is found almost every where, but especially in gardens among good and wholsome potherbs, being there better knowne, than welcome or desired; wherefor I intend not to spend farther time about his description.

  —JOHN GERARD, THE HERBAL, 1597

  A Desirable Dock: From Susan’s Journal

  Granted, the dock that is growing at the margin of my garden doesn’t look like much. It’s a weedy green stalk, about three feet high, with clusters of tiny green flowers clinging to the stem and a whorl of large, crumply edged leaves at its base. This is Rumex crispus—yellow dock or curly dock or just plain dock—one of the many unruly volunteers making themselves at home in my garden on this spring day.

  Dock is no stranger to me, however, and when it shows up in my garden, I let it stay put. The green flowers will turn into reddish-brown fruits as they age; they’ll look something like coffee grounds plastered around the stem. In fact, they look enough like coffee grounds that the plant is sometimes called coffee-weed. When I was about ten, my cousin Mary Jean and I “brewed” a coffee can of dock “coffee” in the sun and drank a cup of it. I shudder to think of this now (I could have been drinking jimsonweed tea, for heaven’s sake!), although we chose a good herb to experiment with. It’s said to be a blood cleanser, to nourish the spleen and detoxify the liver, thus promoting overall good heath. But my ten-year-old spleen didn’t need much additional nourishment and my blood hadn’t had a chance to get dirty yet, so I’m not sure that the dock had any particular effect.

  It certainly did its job a couple of days ago, however. Wearing shorts, I backed into a nettle and got stung good and proper. But since the dock was handy, I grabbed a couple of those big green leaves and rubbed. Hard. And while I rubbed, I chanted a charm that was first recorded in Chaucer’s day:

  Nettle out, dock in,

  Dock remove the nettle sting.

  It worked, of course. Dock’s astringent leaf eased the nasty sting just as it did all those long centuries ago. I said a grateful thanks to the dock, and left it, both welcome and desired, among the other good and wholesome herbs in the garden.

  In the language of flowers, dock symbolizes patience and shrewdness.

  Read more about dock, nettle, and other valuable herbs:

  Herbal Healing for Women: Simple Home Remedies for Women of All Ages, by Rosemary Gladstar

  MAY 26

  The love of the desert came to me slowly, for it is a hard-mind place, not a soft-skin place, and concealed in its openness. You cannot stroke it as you would a meadow, you cannot dissemble, nor are there corners in which to hide . . . To join it, one must come to know it, and to know it one must walk in it.

  —ANN WOODIN, HOME IS THE DESERT

  Prickly Pear: From Susan’s Journal

  The prickly pear cactus (Opuntia lindheimeri) is in bloom now, and the bees are crawling drunkenly over the bright yellow flowers, as large as hollyhock blossoms. Bill has cleared most of the prickly pear from Meadow Knoll because the spines are painful when we carelessly blunder into the plant, or (heaven forbid!) our dogs step on it. But I’ve safeguarded a few, because they’re beautiful and useful and because they remind me that not all plants are easy acquaintances.

  The prickly pear’s translucent yellow flowers ripen into ruby-red fruits, called tunas. These can be made into a beautiful red juice, jelly, marmalade, and syrup. The young, tender pads (nopales or nopalitos), are sautéed, steamed, or boiled and used in Southwestern cuisine; many supermarkets now carry them in the produce section.

  Research suggests that the nutrient-rich fiber in the fruits and pads helps to reduce cholesterol. Traditionally, there were many other medicinal applications. A pad, with the spines burned off, was split and warmed for use as a poultice to relieve chest congestion. A warmed pad was placed over the ear for earache, or over rheumatic or arthritic joints. The gelatinous sap was a soothing skin lotion for rashes and sunburn, and a poultice made of the mashed flesh of the pad was used to heal wounds and burns. Taken internally, the plant treated many gastrointestinal disorders.

  And like most native plants, prickly pear served many practical purposes. In rural Mexico, it was used (with water, lime, and salt) to make a waterproof paint for walls, and as a formidable fence—just try getting through that dense, thorny wall! Its fibers were used to make paper and its thorns as needles and pins, while the insect that feeds on its pads and fruit (the cochineal) made red dye. Like many other natives, this durable, adaptable plant has its darker side: free to roam, it can be an invasive pest.

  But I’m not thinking about that today, as I revel in those beautiful blooms. I’m thinking about the many native herbs that, like prickly pear, were important to earlier people—the buffalo gourd that grows in the south pasture, the cattails in the marsh, the redbud trees, the willows. They teach me about this place, about the richness and bounty of the land, and remind me that I live in a beautiful wilderness garden.

  Read more about using this at-home-in-the-desert herb:

  The Prickly Pear Cookbook, by Carolyn Niethammer

  MAY 27

  Rachel Carson, writer, ecologist, and marine biologist, was born on this day in 1907.

  For the first time in the history of the world, every human being is now subjected to contact with dangerous chemicals, from the moment of conception until death.

  —RACHEL CARSON, SILENT SPRING

  Gardening Green

  More than forty years ago, Rachel Carson made it clear that we are endangered by the chemicals in our environment. Most herbalists make it a practice to “garden green”—to follow organic practices of composting, mulching, soil and water conservation—but when it comes to keeping the pests off, we’re often not sure what to do. Here are some nonchemical pesticides that are safe to use in your garden.

  • Garlic. Interplant garlic with susceptible plants to repel pests. Make an insect-repellent tea: steep 3 ounces of minced garlic cloves in 2 teaspoons of canola oil for at least 24 hours. Mix 1 teaspoons of liquid castile soap or nondetergent soap (this helps the spray cling to the leaves) with 1 pint of water, and add to the garlic oil. Mix thoroughly, strain. To use, mix 2 tablespoons with one pint of water and spray. For greater fire-power, add a teaspoon or two of cayenne pepper.

  • Pyrethrum is derived from Chrysanthemum coccineum , the painted daisy. You can grow the plant or obtain pyrethrum from your local garden emporium. Dried and powdered, the flower heads are used as direct-contact insecticidal sprays and dusts and are effective against soft-bodied insects.

  • Herbal sprays. Make a strong insect-repellent tea by steeping 2 cups of fresh herb leaves in 3 cups boiling water for 2-3 hours. Strain out plant material. Add 1 teaspoon liquid castile soap or nondetergent soap. Dilute with 2 cups water before spraying. Herbs with repellant personalities: painted daisy (see above), sage, mint, thyme, rosemary, tansy, wormwood, feverfew, rue. Experiment to see what works on your particular pest. And do remember that a f
ew bugs aren’t going to eat up your entire garden.

  • Diatomaceous earth. This is a nontoxic substance made from crushed fossils of freshwater organisms and marine life. The tiny mineral crystals are sharp, and cut through the skin of soft-bodied insects. Dust on plants, sprinkle on the soil surface.

  Learn more about the life of Rachel Carson in this definitive biography:

  Rachel Carson: Witness for Nature, by Linda Lear

  We still talk in terms of conquest. We still haven’t become mature enough to think of ourselves as only a tiny part of a vast and incredible universe.

  —RACHEL CARSON

  MAY 28

  National Pickle Week occurs about this time every year.

  McQuaid drained his coffee cup. “Whatever Phoebe Morgan has on her mind, it’s confidential. Which means I won’t be able to tell you about it.”

  “A confidential tête-à-tête with the Pickle Queen?” I snickered. “Sounds like a real sweet dill to me.”

  McQuaid put down his cup with a loud groan.