He Thinks It's a Stick

Issue No. 6

Hello! Remember The Outside In? I know, it’s been a minute. I pressed pause last June when in-law eldercare and my health stuff started to take even more of my energy, but now I’m back with a new iteration. This time it’s an epistolary offering and it’ll be sent on a whimsical schedule (i.e. there is no schedule—surprise!). You may get one or two letters a month—short or long—or none. We’ll see how it goes. You can still expect me to write about plants, but not with the same constraint as before when I focused on one plant and one herbarium specimen (you’ll get photos now instead of specimen images).

I hope you enjoy the first letter. Please feel free to write me back (by hitting reply), or, even better, by commenting on Substack. Likes and shares mean a lot too. Thanks for being here. xo

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Dear Friend,

Recently, I encountered a woman and her big mongrel in the lane behind the house where I’d been eyeing up the daisies and chickweed along the boulevard. They were coming toward me, and I toward them. The dog seemed wary of me, so I was wary of the dog, but I still tried talking to the creature to put it at ease. “Hello there,” I said (to the dog, not the woman). “Are you having nice walkies?”

The dog ruffed suspiciously, and the woman renewed her grip on the leash. “He’s never seen a cane before,” she said. “He thinks it’s a stick.”

“He’s not wrong,” I said because my cane is made of wood. For a moment, I thought about throwing it for the dog to fetch. I can’t say why I get these undignified impulses.

My beloved was poking along a few feet behind me (gathering sticks himself for kindling) and after the woman and the dog had passed, he said, “I was worried you might’ve actually thrown your cane like it was a stick.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know, it just seems like something you might do,” he replied.

Am I really known to be the kind of person who might throw her cane as a stick for a dog? I can’t decide if I like this about myself or not.

Speaking of dogs, two species of vegetation are in bloom in the garden right now that have “dog” in their common names—dog-toothed violets (Erythronium oregonum) and flowering dogwood trees (Cornus florida).

I only have a few things to say about dog-toothed violets. They’re native woodland wildflowers that are both endearing and press well. I think of them as one of the fairy flowers because it’s easy to imagine the wee folk stretching out on their leaves when the weather is fine or, when it’s raining, gathering underneath their tepals (this is what plant parts are called when they can’t be easily classified as either sepals or petals). At least that’s what little Jilly would’ve thought, and I guess I still do. Another thing is that I find it quite funny that, in addition to being called dog-toothed violets, they have three other common names referring to different animals: fawn lily, trout lily, and adder’s tongue. Which is it—canine, deer, fish, or serpent—and for heaven sakes, why? Is it a Rorschach test?

I have a bit more to say about flowering dogwoods. My friend Marisa is giving an expressive arts class on the dogwood tree this month. When we met online the other week, I told her that I’d planned to bring in a flowering dogwood branch for her to see. She told me—though she wasn’t serious—that it was just as well I hadn’t because she’d read it was bad luck to bring dogwood into the house. Apparently, this has to do with a Christian legend in which a dogwood tree provided the wood used to build the cross on which Jesus was crucified. Because of its role in the crucifixion, it is said that God both cursed and blessed the tree. It was cursed to be forever small, so that it would never grow large enough again for its wood to be used in a crucifixion, and it was blessed to produce beautiful flowers in the shape of a cross to serve as a reminder. I don’t know about you, but I think that God misplaced his revenge. The tree wasn’t to blame! The Romans involved in NAILING A MAN TO A CROSS were.

I still have dried dogwood flowers from last year. I brought them inside in May. June is about when our year took a turn for the worse, so for a second I entertained the thought that I had brought it all on myself by failing to adhere to superstition. But I’m not a Christian, and I simply cannot resist them. I will continue to pocket fallen dogwood flowers and adorn the fireplace mantle in my studio with them because I love how they dry as though they’re delicate works of paper art. And besides, I’d rather believe Native American legends, according to which dogwoods represent protection and safety.

I’m glad it is spring and there are tales to tell about it, however small. I used to think I wanted a big life, but I now know better. A small life means you have to notice the small things. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Yours Ever,

J