The Language of Flowers

Shelley Sat, 02/14/2009 - 13:11

Yesterday I took what will most likely be my last photographs of the annual orchid show at the Missouri Botanical Gardens. Though the flowers still charm, trying to focus all my attention through the lens while simultaneously avoid stepping on an elderly man, or rambunctious child, has proven too much and I decided yesterday the pictures taken will be my last.

The Missouri Botanical Gardens is celebrating its 150 year anniversary, and the show is focused on the Garden, itself, rather than on some whimsical tale or story. I think better of the show for returning focus to the Gardens, and for its simple and elegant design. In particular, I liked the foyer decoration this year, with its emphasis on Victorian and turn of the century gardens and flowers, centered on a collection of tussie mussies and an antique book the Garden people pulled out for inclusion in the show: the handmade booklet titled, "The Language of the Flowers", given as a gift from husband to wife. The front of the book contains a lovely little poem, perfect for Valentine's Day

There is a language 'little known,'
Lovers claim it as their own.

Its symbols smile upon the land,
Wrought by nature's wondrous hand;

And in their silent beauty speak,
Of life and joy, to those who seek.

For Love Divine and sunny hours
In the language of the flowers.

Though the sophisticate may find the poem overly simple, he or she may change their mind when they look at the book where the poem is contained, and at the page after page of flower names and their meaning, all written out in the gift giver's best copperplate, and each hand decorated.

Language of Flowers book cover

Language of Flowers pages

Language of Flowers poem

The language of flowers had its roots throughout history, but in Victorian times, flowers and their meanings formed a new language, a secret form of communication between friends, lovers, and would be lovers. One could not say, "I love you" to a maiden, but one could imply his love with a gift of red roses. Whether the rose had its thorns or not provided a separate message, as did the number of petals and leaves. Gentlemen would send entire bouquets of different flowers, all combined to create a complex message, and a favorite parlor game was trying to decipher the message so given. What an elegant form of communication.

In the language of the flowers, an orchid means beauty and refinement, so my gift of beauty and refinement for you.

Lady of the Lake

Shelley Thu, 04/19/2007 - 17:00

I went to the Mingo National Reserve this week–the last bit of bottomland left in the delta region of Missouri's boot heel. It's full of cypress swamps, marshes, a river and a lake, and is an important breeding ground for migratory birds. If the sounds I heard were any indication, the number of species that inhabit the grounds must be enormous.

I walked one trail and the songs were so loud and diverse that I found myself spinning about, trying to identify even a few of the birds I heard. No matter where I went, my movement always triggered a rustle in bushes, leaves, or water. What was both tantalizing and frustrating is that I would only catch a glimpse of whatever moved: a black and white hint of a woodpecker wings, the shadow of a eagle overhead, a heron peaking out at me from the trees. Never, quite seeing the whole.

As I drove the auto tour–a rough twenty mile road open four months of the year– biting and stinging insects would immediately come in through the open windows whenever I stopped, which was frequently. When I started back up again, the insects were just as quickly gone–not before leaving a souvenir, or two. I didn't care, as it was a small price to pay to be surrounded by such mysteries.

I grew up in the Northwest, in a land full of white water rivers, huge open lakes, tall mountains, and vast fields. It is so unlike the small, secretive swamps and marshes unique to the south. There is no habitat that speaks to me more of being in the south than to walk in a cypress swamp, which is probably why I find them both compelling and disconcerting.

We rose from the depths of swamps such as these. They represent the last bit of 'original life', though the world's rush to make them useful is destroying most of them and their important cousin, the rain forest. The problem with the Mississippi delta is it's considered some of the richest farmland in the world. Deposits from the river overflowing its banks have built up a top soil that is literally feet deep in some places. However, with such richness is a price: the land is wet, boggy, swampy, and flooding is a natural part of the ecosystem.

Still, people persevered, and much of the original land where indians camped for over 12,000 years–to hunt and fish in the dense forests, the rich waters–is gone; replaced by neat hoed rows and small towns. Replaced until the Old 'Sip reminds us, from time to time, that we don't own the land on which we live.

cypress swamp

yellow bird

cypress swamp

white heron

dragonfly

butterfly

cypress swamp

lone duck on log

In Search of Lacey Smith

Shelley Mon, 01/22/2007 - 18:01

I'm not sure when I'll be able to return to my search, but I hope to sometime in the near future. I'm trying to find a Lacey Smith, though he's long been dead and the only event of any note in his life that I can see is he shot and killed Polk Grimes the first of February 1, 1870 in a town called Jollification.

I discovered Lacey Smith by accident when I was looking for Missouri mills and discovered the Jolly Mill. Jolly, short for Jollification; so named, as the good rumor goes, but not fact as the stuffier insist, because of the whiskey mill that formed the heart of this small but thriving community nestled against a limestone hill and surrounded by good corn growing land.

The town died, oh long ago, when the train came through…elsewhere. At its time though, it was something, but that was before the Union soldiers burned the town down during the Civil war, it is said though I can't find any real record of the Union army actually setting fire to the town. The Union soldiers came through several times, killed people, but no one ever mentioned about Sargent Whatsit lighting a match and saying to the troops, "Watch this town light up like the 4th of July, boys!" That's what I would have said.

The mill still stands, bought by people in the county and turned into a park with picnic tables and such. They also recreated the town from descriptions, and moved a one room school house to the site. I went out there in early fall to take photos and check out the place where Lacey Smith shot Polk Grimes, but was a bit disappointed. Oh the mill is nice and the school is quaint, but across the pond are homes of people wealthy enough so that no matter how hard you looked, you couldn't see a thing other than "No trespassing". The sun was too hot for good photos, but I did enjoy the turtles on the logs and a white heron that seemed as curious about me as I was about him.

He walked in the water on the opposite side of the pond from me, until I got to the mill and went out as far as I could on the rocks near the building and he went out on the rocks across from me and we just stared at each other until he finally decided I wasn't all that interesting and took off: long skinny black legs pulled straight back, body like a bullet in flight.

The caretaker and her two young children were at the faux village; she was mowing and the kids were playing. I think I asked something, not sure what, and she was polite but not over friendly. I was going to ask where the Grimes family cemetery was, to see where Polk was buried, but felt uncomfortable.

There was old Baptist church with a cemetery on the road to the Mill, so I made do with it. I stopped on the way back and walked among the stones, trying to see if Lacey was among them ("…strung up for killing that poor boy, Polk…"). No such luck. I did find one Grimes, by marriage only though. I wondered that she was buried with her family rather than her husband.

I liked the old church. It reminded of the story–I think it was in "Let us Now Praise Famous Men", by James Agee and Walker Evans–about them stopping by a plain white back country church alongside a dusty road in the south, when a young black couple came walking by. I can remember the words, about the couple walking side by side only their hips touching; the clean white of their clothes; not saying a word–I wish I could write like this, where you still see the picture the words formed long after you forgot where you read them.

No young black couple that day, but a couple of farm dogs came towards me out of one of the fields of uncut hay. They were silent, just a determined march through the field: one mottled black, white, and brown, the other, one of those dogs with light blue eyes. I measured my distance to the car in heart beats; I've always been afraid of the loose dogs along the Missouri back roads. I walked, did not run, to the car but only breathed when I was inside. Turning around, I saw the dogs cross the road behind me, not once looking my way, just continuing the same determined, silent march into the next field.

Of the Grimes, James P. "Polk" Grimes' father was William Grimes who himself was murdered in 1878. The man who murdered him, by the name of Connor or O'Connor was tried once, convicted, and then tried again and convicted again. I figured this had something to do with his lawyers because Goodspeed's historian wrote about how they "…worked the law through all its many crevices."

William's father was Gainsford Grimes from England who came over to America just in time to fight with George Washington. After having done so, Mr. Grimes returned to England after the war to take a bride, a Nancy Poe. A "…member of the celebrated Poe family, who about this time immigrated to America. This also according to Goodspeed's 1888 History of Newton County.

Anyway, among Nancy Poe's famous relatives was Aaron Poe, the 'celebrated indian fighter'. It took the longest time before I decided to try a variation on the name to realize that the historian got the name wrong; he meant Andrew Poe. Andrew was a celebrated indian fighter in the Ohio valley area, and ended up having another son who also became a famous indian fighter. Whether Andrew and Nancy were related to that other famous Poe, Edgar Allen, is difficult to say; their ancestors all came from England about the same time. Cousins, let's make them cousins. Heck, yeah that works. History doesn't have to be factual, only interesting. You wait, and I'll work Jesse James into this, too.

There's an interesting story behind the Goodspeed histories. Goodspeed was a small publishing house in the 1800's that published complete histories of several midwestern and southern counties. I find the one from Newton county to be enormously entertaining. For instance, from the "crime" section:

Horace Tongue, who shot and killed Samuel Rice, at Neosho, in the Spring of 1856, was tried, but acquitted, as the murdered man interfered in his family.

Reece Crabtree was wounded near Pilot Grove by Confederates, but while en route to Neosho, died. Immediately after, bushwhackers arrived to kill him outright, but, finding him dead, departed.

John C. Moss, who resided five miles south of Joplin, believed himself to be Christ in the summer of 1881, and was placed in jail by Sherriff McElhaney. At the time Hall, another insane man confined there, hearing the yells of Moss, said to the latter: "Get up from there and stop your howlin'; I believe you are crazy anyhow." It was this Hall, on being led to a spring, would play in the water like a duck.

A dead body, supposed to be that of Jesse James, was found by miners eight miles south of Joplin, in November, 1879.

The same time Lacey Smith killed Polk Grimes, the James gang were riding the lands of Missouri robbing banks and avenging the Confederacy; joining with other so-called Bushwhackers–former confederate soldiers unhappy at the outcome of the war. Missouri probably has more caves than almost any where else, and every one of them harbored a bushwhacker at some point. But that leads us back to the day when Lacey Smith shot and killed Polk Grimes.

Polk was only 25 and Smith not much older, but why the one shot another I don't know. When I go to Columbus and look through the old newspaper archives, maybe I'll find out the whys and wherefores. "Lacey Smith killed Polk Grimes for messin' with his family", or some such thing. The Grimes served in the Confederacy, and some say that Newton county had its own civil war; that brother killing brother wasn't so far off. Maybe Smith was a Union sympathizer but if so, he should have been the dead one because there was no sympathy for the Union in Jollification–after all, they did burn down the town. Not the Mill, though.

On February 10, ten days after Lacey Smith shot and killed James P. "Polk" Grimes, the Neosho Times reported that Smith was tried and committed for action by the grand jury by one Wolcott and Smith Esquire, (we're assuming no relation to the accused). Two guards were assigned to take him to Neosho, but between Jolly and Neosho, all three disappeared. Several days later, the papers the guards were carrying showed up, folded neat as a pin and laid on the porch of Grave's & Co, a store co-operative in Neosho.

You see now? It was interesting to read about the three going missing, but people go missing all the time and back in those days and in that area, a lot of people went missing and died, or just plain died. But it was the papers, folded up and left on the store's porch–now that just catches at you.

A Globally Warmed Fall

Shelley Sat, 10/07/2006 - 18:26

One impact of global warming could be seen easily this week in the stands of trees around St. Louis. At Powder, most of the forest was badly hurt by the recent high temperatures, which ended up cutting short what should have been a colorful scene. The forest had few birds and the deer were gone as the natural pond had dried up–the first time I've seen that happen in six years. If we do get rain this week and these temperatures finally fall, we still might have a chance for the week following to have one good, last burst of color.

I was inspired by my outing to attempt to capture what is, in essence, a tangible view of global warming, but still produce interesting photos. I'm not sure if I've succeeded, you'll have to be the judge (or not).

Once I reassured him that I rarely take pictures of people, he was quite friendly. His reaction did leave me deeply curious.

Global Warming Leaf A

global warming in New Hampshire

Global Warming Leaf One

global warming will hit Vermont hard

Global Warming Leaf Two

Global Warming Leaf Three

EPA Global Warming impacts: forests

Global Warming Leaf Four

impacts of climate change in the US

Poison Ivy makes a pretty leaf

Missouri Fall Color report

Dead Leaf

Missouri: A Land of Firsts

Shelley Wed, 08/09/2006 - 00:00

I love history. Not necessarily the big stories: the world wars, and tales of kings and queens and daring do. No, I like the stories of people who do acts of normalcy that end up creating waves that ripple from small to large to larger until an ocean of change sweeps across the age and the land; leaving the debris of old ways, fractured customs tumbled about like the broken pieces of concrete that are left when the Mississippi swells its banks.

Did you know that the first formalized woman's suffrage movement in the US originated in Missouri? That Missouri was the last state to be admitted to the Union as a slave state, but the first state to free slaves, even before the 13th Amendment was passed? That the first woman lawyer practiced law in this state? Her name was M. Lemma Barkeloo. She was also the first woman lawyer to participate on a case in Federal court.

The James gang plied its nefarious trade in Missouri; the Pony Express started here, as did most treks west. The first steel bridge was created here, the first steamboat race ended here.

The worst earthquake in history, in terms of strength and potential damage, as well as sheer impact on the geology of the area happened here. Luckily it was before all these red brick buildings were built.

The first woman to sue to be allowed to vote was Virginia Minor here in 1872.

On October 15, 1872, Virginia Minor tried to register to vote in the upcoming election, but was refused by St. Louis' sixth district registrar, Reese Happersett. Happersett refused to register Minor because she was female, thus provoking a civil suit brought by Virginia and her lawyer husband, Francis Minor. Minor's action was part of a nationwide pattern of civil disobedience, in which hundreds of women across the country attempted to vote. Susan B. Anthony led a small delegation of women to the polls in Rochester, New York, and was successful in casting her vote for Ulysses S. Grant. Three weeks later, however, on Thanksgiving Day, Anthony was arrested on the charge of voting fraud. Anthony was a celebrity who was used by the judicial system as an example and a warning to all women in the United States. When Anthony's case came to trial early in 1873, the judge had written his opinion before the trial started, and directed the jury to find a guilty verdict. Anthony was ordered to pay a fine of $100, which she refused to do.

The list goes on an on. In terms of sheer social upheaval, Missouri is literally the epicenter of change in our history.

It's the little facts I like. The ones that make great stories. The best possible event that can happen to a history buff like me is discovering a historical fact that has the potential to be a great story, and to realize that no one has told it yet. No, not even Wikipedia.