Long ago, the old fields were part of a large farm—a sprawling expanse of what looks to have been excellent ground.
This once verdant patchwork of rich pastures and croplands was doubtless fertile and productive. But that propagative, earth hasn’t been turned by a deep-biting plow or yielded a bountiful silo-filling harvest for decades.
Nowadays, the long-fallow lands sport a thick covering of the usual succession mix of wild plants. Stuff you’d expect to see in any sprawling patch of abandoned ground—goldenrod, asters, ironweed, mullein, milkweed, and a dozen more similar commoners.
“Weeds” to those who lack appreciation for the ragtag fecund diversity of a feral meadow—and superciliously ignore their blooms and beauty.
Oddly, perhaps, it also harbors a smattering of prairie species such as coneflowers, sunflowers, and prairie dock.
Too, a thick fringe of big bluestem covers a low swale. In another month or so, that ol’ turkeyfoot grass’s head-high blue-green stems will turn a lovely burgundy red.
It’s obvious there are at least a couple of untold stories here—a forgotten history. What happened? When? Why? Moreover, what was here before all that?
I don’t know those answers. But I’ve often questioned whether the presence of such historically native prairie plants is natural—a sort of botanical repressed memory harkening back to some bygone time before the first bull-tongued plow sliced into the soil?
Or wondered if they were simply partially reseeded—accidentally or intentionally—after the land was relinquished, and left to again fend for itself?
What drew me here the other morning was an acre or two of gleaming white in one of the largest field’s far corners. I know that field and knew what the gleaming patch was all about, but I wanted a closer look.
It was still early, barely an hour past sunrise. Nevertheless, the temperature was already pushing to 80˚F and climbing. By the time I’d slogged and struggled across the two-hundred-yard shin-tangling gauntlet, I was mopping sweat with my bandana and wishing I’d had a modicum of foresight and brought along a bottle of water.
Apparently, for some of us, age does not automatically bestow wisdom. Regardless—it was still a worthwhile effort.
The white blooms I’d tripped and trundled through the field to see were comprised of a dense stand of Queen Anne’s lace, their umbels, or flower heads, forming one vast snowy mosaic of vegetative tatting.
In the lower crosslight of early morning, the white flowers seemed to be floating, suspended like frothy clouds above a chlorophyll-green sea.
According to some sources, Queen Anne’s lace takes its name from Anne of Denmark, 1574 and 1619, who was the wife of King James VI and I. Legend says Queen Anne was always fond of wearing various bits of lace on her dresses.
Other sources believe Queen Anne’s lace was named after Queen Anne II, 1665-1714.
There’s also a version claiming the plant was named after Saint Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary. Accordingly, Saint Anne became the patron saint of lacemakers.
Regardless, one close look at the flower heads and it’s easy to understand their likening to a bit of lace. The heads, or umbels, are really composed of many smaller clusters of tiny flowers called umbellets. This entire mass of exquisite blossoms can measure six or more inches across.
Incidentally, if you examine the center of the flower mass, you’ll usually see one to several tiny, deep-red-purple flowers.
What? You’ve never noticed any maroon-red flowers on the white blooms of Queen Anne lace? I’m not surprised—they’re tiny, mere dots of color; not apparent with just a cursory glance; you have to really look close.
Botanists can’t agree as to why these isolated and minuscule red-purple umbellet flowers occur.
But folklore insists Queen Anne once pricked her finger while tatting, which caused a single drop of blood that dripped down, stained her lacework…and left its everlasting reminder.
Many field guides list “wild carrot” as a secondary common name for Queen Anne’s lace. This brings up the botanical controversy as to whether Queen Anne’s lace, Daucus carota, is the forerunner of modern carrots, or a “gone wild” version—a sort of chicken-versus-egg question.
Moreover, a third camp insists Queen Anne’s lace, while related, is a distinct species, neither the vegetable’s progenitor nor progeny. So far, to the best of my knowledge and research, DNA studies have failed to lay this question to rest.
We do know the cultivated carrot, Daucus carota sativa, likely originated near Afghanistan. Carrots were known to the ancient Greeks and Romans centuries before the time of Christ. And they were in North America by 1609.
If you’ve ever grown carrots in a garden—or at least picked a few bunches from their rows—then, unsurprisingly, you’ll find their greenery fragrancy identical. A carrot patch and a stand of Queen Anne’s lace smell exactly alike!
Wild Queen Anne’s lace, like tame carrots, is a plant rich in vitamin A. It has been employed for centuries in the treatment of various ailments, including gout and hiccoughs, kidney problems, and flatulence.
During the reign of King James I, the flowers of Queen Anne’s lace were boiled in wine to create a popular love potion that was also believed to be a contraceptive. While the concoction may have proven helpful at achieving its first objective, it was ineffective at preventing the latter—which no doubt led to occasional embarrassing or worse moments a few months down the road.
While some view Queen Anne’s lace as nothing more than a pesky weed, I count it among my favorite summer wildflowers. A royal late-season gift we can all enjoy.
Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].
