Column: Seeds on the go

Never underestimate the meticulous planning of nature. Linden flowers are starting to develop the little nutlets that contain the seed (photographed July 8, 2018). The nutlets are attached to the pale green, narrow leaves called bracts, which will dry and turn brown and eventually be carried off by the wind, spinning like helicopter blades, to deposit their load of nutlets in the landscape. 1 / 1 Linden flowers are starting to develop the little nutlets that contain the seed (photographed July 8, 2018). The nutlets are attached to the pale green, narrow leaves called bracts, which will dry and turn brown and eventually be carried off by the wind, spinning like helicopter blades, to deposit their load of nutlets in the landscape. Advertisement Everything in nature has a purpose. Nature also makes sure that everything is given the means to deal with that purpose. Looking at the plants in my garden, I think, 'You know exactly what you have to do and how to do it.' I've been watching them for years. When they start to grow, there's the thrill of anticipation as I follow their progress. But I'd say that the most fascinating time to observe what plants will get up to is when they begin the business of survival: when they start making seeds (Thor Hanson's 'The Triumph of Seeds,' 2015, excels in presenting this complex subject to the general reader; Vancouver Public Library has a copy, Richmond does not). The varieties of seeds in the world number in the hundreds of thousands. Over 90 per cent are produced by flowering plants in which the seeds are enclosed in ovaries or fruit flesh; these plants are called angiosperms (from the Greek for vessel and seed). A very small percentage are produced by gymnosperms (from the Greek for naked and seed), whose seeds are exposed, sometimes in cones (I'd never have guessed that juniper berries are actually the fleshy seed cones of the juniper tree). Of the dozens, if not hundreds, of seed varieties in my garden, three have intrigued me the most, probably because they are the easiest to observe: the linden, dandelion and milkweed. In early to midsummer the linden tree puts out flowers, perfuming the air with their pleasing scent. The flowers are attached to stems that are in turn attached to narrow pale green leaves called bracts. Eventually the flowers give way to the fruit, which are small, round nutlets with a tough outer shell. Each fruit contains one seed, more rarely two. In the autumn the nutlets turn from green to brown, as do the bracts. When the wind catches the bracts they act like a helicopter blade, carrying the seeds to scatter them in the landscape. A mature linden tree can produce as many as one million seeds per year, only a tiny fraction of which will ever germinate. Among the first flowers to bloom in our yards are the dandelions. Many people bristle at the sight of them (my father thought dandelions such a nuisance that he made himself a special tool to eradicate them). Pollinators, however, rejoice. Dandelions are sources of nectar at a time of year when our gardens have no, or few, other plants to offer nourishment. Dandelions are members of the Aster family. Their flowers are composites made up of many individual florets. When you next see a dandelion, take a close look: each floret is made up of five fused petals which end in tiny teeth. After blooming for a few days the flower closes up. It will take several more days for the dandelion to get its seeds ready. When it reopens we see the receptacle (resembling a pincushion) stuck with brown seeds that end in tiny bristles called pappi. Small songbirds, especially finches and sparrows, will hang on to the dandelion's stem to feed on the seeds, plucking them out of the receptacle. If the birds don't get them first, the breeze will catch the pappi and disperse the seeds by air. In my eyes every plant's production of seeds is an extraordinary feat but none has amazed me more than that of the milkweed. The first time I saw how milkweed prepared for its future I was startled. When the delicate flowers had finished blooming, green seed pods began to appear in their midst. They looked like aliens and grew ever larger over a period of weeks until they finally turned brown and split open. What they revealed took my breath away. Could a human or a machine have done such an expert job of packing the seeds and their silky floss into that spindle-shaped pod? Could a human or a machine have designed any of the hundreds of thousands of seed varieties in the world and choreographed their journey? I don't think so. Nature is inimitable. Sabine Eiche is a local writer and art historian with a PhD from Princeton University. Her passions are writing for children and protecting nature. Her columns deal with a broad range of topics and often include etymology in order to shed extra light on the subject. 📣 Got an opinion on this story or any others in Richmond? Send us a letter or email your thoughts or story tips to [email protected]. 📲 To stay updated on Richmond news, sign up for our daily headline newsletter. 💬 Words missing in article? Your adblocker might be preventing hyperlinked text from appearing.