Auntie Myrtle

Discussing groundcovers with coworkers has led me off on a new genealogical hunt. I'll keep posting about the search, but for now this is its origin.

The myrtle planted around my patio is blooming with pretty, precise blue flowers. Sparrows are tearing off shoots of the vine for nesting material. With myrtle, the sparrows often get more than they counted on. One poor bird sat at the top of my fence with three long strands of myrtle hanging from its beak, but couldn't figure out how to fly with all this carry-on luggage.
Exhibit A
Exhibit B
In Texas the term "myrtle" refers to crape myrtle trees (Exh. A) which provide color in our hot summers. In Nebraska "myrtle" is the name for a ground cover (Exh. B) also known as Vinca minor or periwinkle.

Myrtle grew all around my grandma's house in Pierce, Nebraska. Being a kid, I was oblivious to it until my mom decided to dig up a bit to plant around our house in Lincoln. We wrapped these horticolonists in newspapers--probably The Pierce County Leader and the Omaha Wierd Herald--and fretted about whether they would survive the three hour, 120 mile drive in the trunk of the '63 Pontiac Catalina.

My parents weren't prone to gardening. We kids were brought up with the idea that if you didn't water or fertilize, you wouldn't have to mow very often. The original owners of our house had planted a few chronically depressed rosebushes on the south side of the house, outside my bedroom window. It's all a bit jumbled with my kid understanding of the 1964 Alaska earthquake, but our parched lawn sometimes had big cracks during the hot summers. I was reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books about the hardships of life on the prairie and the horrible infestations of grasshoppers in those days. Big, ugly grasshoppers jumped over the cracks, surprising my bare legs, and spitting tobacco at me. To this day grasshoppers creep me out. Making a sculpture of an adult winged grasshopper did not help me overcome this aversion. (This photo and the next two are by Steven.)

The transplanting of the myrtle from Grandma's house to our house seemed like a big step toward making our yard more lush and friendly. I was all for it, and happy to be Mom's "big helper" on the project. That myrtle still grows happily in the shadier parts of my folks' yard.



In turn, I transplanted new colonists of that myrtle around the apartment building I managed as a newlywed at 1822 H St. in Lincoln, and later around our two homes in Omaha. I wonder if it is still growing around these spots. To plant myrtle around three houses in Oklahoma and Texas, I had to buy small pots from the nursery. When I moved to the condo complex, I brought myrtle, ivy, canna, and "purple stuff" colonists from my old yard. This is "purple stuff":


Grandma's sister was named Myrtle. The baby name website call Myrtle a "neglected horticultural name deserving of consideration". Grandma's middle name was Fern, probably also deserving of consideration. I'll let everybody know when I get a batch of three year old students with horticultural names. This wave of deserved consideration has yet to reach shore! For now, I'm awash in Carolines, Graces, and Claires.

The myrtle
c.1400, from O.Fr. mirtile, from M.L. myrtillus, dim. of myrtus "myrtle tree," from Gk. myrtos, from same Sem. source as Gk. myrrha (see myrrh).

verbena
genus of plants, the vervain, 1562, from L. verbena "leaves or twigs of olive, myrtle, laurel, or other sacred plants employed in religious ceremonies," from PIE *werbh- (cf. Lith. virbas "twig, branch, scion, rod"), from base *werb- "to turn, bend" (see warp).


The word "verbena" time zaps me back to Mrs. Barry's eleventh grade English class. We are reading Faulkner for the very first time, and trying to make some sense out of Light In August. We are all making fun of the writing, and saying, "Verbena, verbena, verbena," in high falsetto voices. I remember absolutely nothing else about Light In August, and I didn't know verbena was myrtle. I have read other Faulkner novels of my own volition. The Reivers is my favorite.

Anacreontic
of or in the manner of Anacreon, "convivial bard of Greece," the celebrated Gk. lyrical poet, born at Teos in Ionia (560-478 B.C.E.). In ref. to his lyric form (1706) of a four-line stanza, rhymed alternately, each line with four beats (three trochees and a long syllable), also "convivial and amatory" (1801); and "an erotic poem celebrating love and wine" (c.1656). Francis Scott Key in 1814 set or wrote his poem "The Star-Spangled Banner" to the melody of "To Anacreon in Heav'n," the drinking song of the popular London gentleman's club called The Anacreontic Society, whose membership was dedicated to "wit, harmony, and the god of wine."

To Anacreon in Heav'n, where he sat in full glee,
A few Sons of Harmony sent a petition;
That he their Inspirer and Patron wou'd be;
When this answer arrived from the Jolly Old Grecian;
"Voice, Fiddle, and Flute,
No longer be mute,
I'll lend you my name and inspire you to boot,
And besides I'll instruct you like me, to intwine,
The Myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's Vine."

The tune is late 18c. and may be the work of society member and court musician John Stafford Smith (1750-1836).

Myrtle is a symbol of the goddess Aphrodite in Greek mythology. Yertle needs a few shoots of periwinkle in his mouth.