HORTICULTURE Plants grow on you, even if names don't

Plants' Latin names can be a real gender bender.
By LINDSAY BOND TOTTEN
SCRIPPS HOWARD NEWS SERVICE
It's true what they say about education -- it's wasted on the young. If I'd had any clue I'd pursue a career in horticulture someday, I'd have paid more attention in high school Latin class. Botanical names would be so much easier if I had.
But at 17 those lessons were pure torture. Why did the Romans have to make speech so complicated? Did they really talk like that?
Gender specific
Unlike the English language, each Latin noun -- in this case, every plant's genus name -- demands a gender, usually masculine or feminine. (If they couldn't decide which it should be, the object was deemed "neuter"). Technically, you can determine a plant's gender by its ending.
While the system might have seemed rational to linguists of that day, the logic of it escapes this 21st-century gardener.
For instance, plant names ending in "-us" are masculine. Those ending in an "-a" or "-is" are feminine. An "-um" or a "-dendron" -- well, those are "its." To be correct, genus and species names must agree in gender, like Syringa reticulata.
Makes sense?
Makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Bi sturdy oak trees (Quercus) are obviously masculine. Lilacs (Syringa) are members of the fairer sex. St. Johns wort (Hypericum) is neither, as worts should be. (No one has figured out Cotoneaster yet.)
If you think it's a perfectly clear point, you'd be wrong. For when it came to trees, ancient speechwriters were conflicted. Trees, it seems, were feminine, no matter what. Quercus (oak), Malus (crabapple), Cornus (dogwood) and all the other trees ending in "-us" are actually "shes."
They're what my Latin teacher called "exceptions to the rule." Except that at the end of the day, there always seemed to be more exceptions than rules, which is why she kept plenty of red pencils sharpened.
So ... Quercus alba is correct; Quercus albus is not. Say Cornus florida, Malus floribunda and Fagus grandifolia.
It did not go unnoticed by this class of 17-year-old high school students that the Latin name for pine --Pinus -- was feminine according to the Romans -- the ultimate irony, given how the letter "i" is pronounced in Latin.
Rhododendron maximum remains stubbornly neuter, committing to neither sex, while Hibiscus syriacus (Rose-of-Sharon) is truly a man among shrubs. (No wonder the darn thing sets so many seeds, with such a point to prove.)
Can be interesting
Without pop quizzes or report cards to worry about, botanical names can become interesting -- even fun -- for gardeners who don't take their Latin quite as seriously as Miss Ihrman took hers.
Consider plant tags, for instance: Print the botanical name in bold letters and display the label prominently. Bingo! You're an expert.
Taraxacum officinale, correctly referred to by its botanical name, is no longer a lawn weed, but a proper herb.
The spoken word is just as powerful. Be precise when swapping information with experienced gardeners (they'll call your bluff), but deploy your Latin liberally and definitively with everyone else. You'll look, and sound, like a real pro. Everyone will want advice.
Say it in Latin and even crownvetch (Coronilla varia) becomes a plant you just gotta have.
A colleague of mine was once applying for a position at a highly regarded arboretum. When the time came to introduce his family, his 3-year-old daughter, carefully coached by her dad, of course, let slip that her favorite tree was Metasequoia glyptostroboides. He got the job.
Whether they're "hes," "shes" or "its," Latin names establish common ground among gardeners. Common ground eliminates the confusion of common names.
Just ask for "japonica" in your garden center sometime. You could walk out with a shrub (Chaenomeles japonica, Kerria japonica, Pieris japonica), a tree (Styrax japonica, Cercidiphyllum japonicum, Acer japonica), a vine (Lonicera japonica), or a flower (Anemone japonica). Your garden would be wonderful, but very, very crowded.
Since grades no longer matter and my plants don't care as long as I feed and water them, I'll refer to favorite charges fondly by "he" or "she" as the spirit moves me. My gorgeous magnolia, all soft and pink, is definitely a "she." The muscley hornbeam, what else but "he?"
I haven't worked up sufficient affection for the Heptacodium yet to call it one way or the other, but it's only a couple of years old, so I'll give it time.