Fern Glen Essays
Bewitched
by Judy Sullivan

Oft in autumn, we experience nature as vistas and views, trailing the train of Midas, by whose touch all becomes gold. Amidst this panoramic glory grows a multi-stemmed tree of humble proportions, whose aureate leaves conceal tiny flower-suns with corrugated rays. In a season of decay unfolds new life. We are captivated by Hamamelis virginiana, the witch-hazel.

Certainly, the last bees and the few remaining gnats are grateful for these oddly twisted blooms; by October, nature's burgeoning buffet of summer pollen has been reduced to scattered fragments. Therein lies a clue to the witch-hazel's peculiar timing. This particular flowering period insures pollination. Each narrow petal curls inward on cold nights to retain warmth and opens again with the first kiss of sunlight. Yet, there is the issue of progeny. What about the fruit?

Here we can turn to the genus name for enlightenment. The Greek roots of Hamamelis are hama "together" and mela "fruit." Look yet again. Near each set of blooms are two or three small, round capsules. This unassuming habitant of forest and fen produces fruit, flower and next year's buds simultaneously. A singular achievement.

Most remarkable is the fact that, although the straggling bees have transferred pollen from one flower to another, the egg deep within each bloom is not fertilized until the following May. In such a way, the witch-hazel provides a time of maturation similar to other trees and shrubs.

The fruit swells until early October, when it is ripe for the plucking by squirrels and chipmunks, which gnaw through the hardened coating to reach the two glossy black seeds within. Still, the limited reward of the witch-hazel seeds doesn't tempt them to dine more than a few feet from the reassuring height and girth of a canopy tree. Moreover, their gratitude is fleeting, as they quickly abandon the witch-hazel in favor of acorns, hickory nuts and other more toothsome fare. The result is that witch-hazels growing next to trees have fewer offspring to launch into the world. And launch they do.

By mid-autumn, the woods are under an artillery barrage of witch-hazel seeds, exploding from their capsules with all of the force of birdshot from a gun barrel...and all of the sting, as well. The object, of course, is to avoid overcrowding by dispersing its seed as far as possible. Distances of twenty feet are not uncommon. Yet, despite the apparent rush to propel seeds to the farthest corners of the landscape, they require a full two years to germinate.

This is what we love about nature - the incongruous, the unlikely, the seemingly contradictory that all work together in one cohesive whole, one grand ballet, one great plan. We take the last leisurely strolls of the season, our faces upturned to watch leaves of russet and gold spinning to the ground, nostrils flaring to capture that unmistakable autumn melding of sweet and pungent, feet plowing furrows, which rustles roust the skittish squirrels. We pause, and gaze, and are bewitch-hazeled.

Questions, comments, or other feedback to Judy Sullivan.