Dina Moon
Dig if you will the picture. I know. I know. The 80s reference desk called and wants their Prince quote back. So much for using the opening line of When Doves Cry as a column intro. Really, though, I want you to create a landscape in your mind. It’s 383 million years ago. No, I wasn’t alive then. Nice try. Scientists recognize this era as the Devonian period. It’s typically called the Age of Fishes, too, due to the variety and abundance of fish species that existed. This period is also marked by the development and emergence of things like forests, seeds, soil, and amphibians. The Armored Placoderm ruled the waters. Topping the charts at 13 feet, they were terrifying looking bottom dwellers with folded teeth. Don’t google that. You won’t sleep tonight. There was another predator in the making during this period. Meet the cartilaginous fish, aka the primitive shark. What a time to be alive. Not that sharks and armored fish with folding teeth aren’t impressive enough, we’re about to chat about the other thing that made a Devonian debut. Welcome the fern, the world’s first plant.
Ferns picked up good and bad raps over the years. The Irish linked them to faeries, suggesting the fae folk enjoyed hiding in their fronds. Then again, the Irish often despised ferns and felt they didn’t flower because they were cursed by St. Patrick after he found snakes harboring inside them. Slavic cultures have rich stories of ferns bringing fortune and communing with animals through speech, often granting that power to humans. In Medieval times (the period, not the franchise), ferns were dried and hung in homes to protect against lightning and negativity. Ferns supposedly have the power to restore sight, grant invisibility, and promote healing. The Maori viewed them as fertility enhancers. The Victorians used them for symbols of humility and sincerity. The Kiwis in New Zealand knew them as the national symbol for growth, direction, and new life. Early farmers recognized them as a cure for hillside erosion. Today, we see them as symbols of spring. After all, you know the last frost has probably passed when Brookshire’s puts out those ferns.
Nothing says kick your shoes off and sit a spell like a hanging fern on a southern front porch. I was first introduced to the lush porch fern back in the 70s. On Saturdays, my grandmother would take us on an adventure. My mom would drive us all, but Grandma paid for lunch at El Chico’s, so that makes her the ringleader. Our destination was always a mall: Town East, Big Town, even the old Lochwood Mall in Dallas – our destination for this day. Now, we boycotted Lochwood for some time. Grandma was upset that the Titche’s Department store had closed. But on this particular day, we had an ulterior motive, a visit to Ivadel McFarland’s home, my grandmother’s friend. Ivadel was a talented painter who lived in a glamorous mid-century modern home with those amazing red bricks that are ever so long and very narrow. There were Boston ferns on her porch, Boston ferns on columns in her living room, and Boston ferns hanging in her guest bath. My mother’s low pitched, slow southern drawl echoed throughout Ivadel’s house. “Oh, I just love ferns. I surely do.”
Momma was no stranger to plants. She liked a good golden pothos. I still refer to them as house ivy, just like she always said. I currently have 13 golden pothos plants in my modest home. They all originated from the “ivy” I inherited when my mother passed. I cannot recall whose funeral the original plant came from, but it is still alive and procreating other pothos plants faster than I can say, “Mom, where are you when I need you?” My mother’s pride and joy was a massive cactus named Crazy that she potted in a vintage crock. I’ve ravaged the internet in search of a scientific name. Although I don’t think it’s exactly the same, Euphorbia Ingen is as close to a Crazy doppelgänger as I’ve gotten. She was also a sucker for an African violet. I recall a Christmas cactus that lived in a closet like a sibling no one is supposed to know about. “Don’t open that closet! You know my Christmas cactus lives in there.” Like my mother, plants make me happy.
I made a spur of the moment stop at Brookshire’s yesterday. I needed avocados, bleach, and cat litter. The wind was whipping my hair across my eyes, impeding my vision. As I wrestled with my big grandma purse while clawing the hair away from my mouth (never wear your hair down when you have on lip gloss and it’s windy), I stopped in my tracks. “Hallelujah, it’s fern season!” Two of them came home with me. Sitting here and chatting with you, I can see them through my living room window, swaying in the much-reduced winds. They make me happy in a way where I think about my mother and know for certain that she approves. I can’t fathom any better way to usher in spring. A mother’s love and a fern, two things that have been around for eternity.
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