milkweed

Seen: Albino Milkweed

albino milkweed

Yesterday, while tending to the pollinator garden I coordinate in a nearby public park, I was surprised to see this common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca) exhibiting albinism.

Apparently albino milkweeds occur infrequently in nature, likely due to a genetic mutation. Because they lack chlorophyll, they are unable to photosynthesize and, reportedly, do not live as long or grow as large as ordinary milkweeds. However, milkweeds spread by rhizome, meaning that albino milkweeds may gain nutrients from fellow plants to whom they are connected.

Albinism in plants is never common, but reportedly occurs often enough in redwood trees and orchid plants to suggest it may confer some evolutionary advantage (perhaps especially in shade and understory environments), wherein non-chlorophyll-producing plants—known as mycoheterotrophs—forgo photosynthesis in favour of parasitizing mycorrhizal fungi. One wildflower native to Canada, Monotropa uniflora or ghost pipe, is fully mycoheterotrophic.

[Personally, I object to the term “parasite” to describe mycoheterotrophic plants. If the mycoheterotroph gains or borrows energy without harming the source plant or fungal organism, it seems to me it would more properly be described as a commensal.]

I cannot say whether the albino milkweed in my local park has ‘chosen’ a mycoheterotrophic strategy or is simply a mutant plant. It is noticeably smaller than its peers, but seems healthy so far and shows the beginnings of a blousy blossom head. I will monitor it through the season to see how it grows. I’m curious to see whether it will remain healthy and, equally, whether its blossoms will attract insects.

In the meantime, my mutant milkweed is a thing of beauty and a source of wonder, nestled in among her green sisters. I am grateful to her for existing, and for giving me the opportunity to learn something new about plant genetics and physiology.

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milkweed fluff, loosed from its casing

Putting the Gardens to Bed

At six o’clock the setting moon casts its waning glow in the west, while a thin wedge of dawn opens up on the eastern horizon. A pale, thin dawn that silhouettes the trees, stark and bare on this November morning. At seven the little birds congregate at the feeder, wings buffeting the air, their tiny heated hearts beating impossibly fast. Beneath them fat squirrels gather seeds the birds kick down and plan their own incursions at the feeder.

purple asters with yellow centres, glowing in the November lightYesterday, on the last improbably warm day of this beautiful fall, I finished putting the gardens to bed. On Thursday I planted the garlic, pushing fat cloves down into yielding soil, and set the containers against a stone wall in our front garden where they will receive reflected heat and light, and yesterday I mulched them and tucked leaves deep around the containers.

Yesterday I pulled the last of the tomatoes, harvesting the green fruit, and picked red and green peppers. One final, fibrous eggplant revealed itself, too woody to be eaten, and so with regret it went into the compost. All the containers are now tucked away; the walks swept; leaves mounded on the gardens; a couple of nursery trees dug down into the soil to overwinter; patio furniture put away; the air conditioning compressor covered; verandahs swept.

The final task—the one I always put off until last—was to clean out the eavestroughs on the garage. A few years ago we had the eavestroughs on the house replaced and covered with gutter shields, and this has saved us from needing to wedge an extension ladder between the houses, climb up two stories and stick our heads above the roofline in the narrow space, hoping not to swallow too much leaf litter while hauling it out. But the garage eavestroughs are old and uncovered, and fill up over the season with decaying leaf material and bits of grit from the old shingles. Usually I complete this messy task on the last possible day, while rain and flurries swirl about my frozen head. Yesterday it merely rained, a warm rain, as I sang ‘Swamp Thing’ to myself and hauled buckets of sludge down a step ladder and dumped them into the compost (where they will make incredibly rich soil).

milkweed fluff, loosed from its casingThen I put the ladder away, swept the walks one last time, and cast my eyes over the gardens, looking for anything that might be vulnerable to winter. The only container plant left uncovered is the pineapple sage, now blooming in bright red fireworks, which I will cut and bring in today before tucking the very last of the pots away.

There are flurries in the forecast for tomorrow, and then it will be time to turn inward, to warm interior spaces, and hearty meals, and cozy evenings spent with books.

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