I
had wondered why the sassafras was combined with the cypress and
pine. Was it just to rhyme with “purple mass” (grapes) found
several lines previously? I did some research. I went to one of my
favorite books, Donald Culross Peattie’s A
Natural History of North American Trees.
I’ll spare you the exaltation I feel every time I read or even
think of Peattie’s book, but it is full of lore about trees.
Noting sassafras oil’s value as a demulcent to soothe inflamed
tissue and an emollient, Peattie gives a short history of the clamor
for sassafras, clarifying for me its use in Drayton’s ode. In the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, sassafras roots were grubbed out
by thousands to extract the oil. Virginia was a rich site for this
harvesting. In the process fields were cleared for other crops.
Peattie states that “no other American tree was ever exalted by
such imaginary virtues.” The craze began in 1574 with the
publication of Joyfull
Newes Out of the Newe Founde Worlde
by the Spaniard Nicholas Monardes, the “physician of Seville.”
His claims for the substance rival the wildest pronouncements for
modern dietary supplements and weight loss potions.
As
those images and recollections of what I had read swirled in my mind,
the perfume of the cut log lightened my head. And then it struck:
my nine-acres has sassafras trees, or at least did until the previous
owners cut them down. I committed myself to the quest, to search
through the thousands of trees of all sizes on the property for live
sassafras trees. I sliced a two inch thick crosscut of the log
before me, which, by the way, is shaped like South America, and hung
it on the wall of my garage as a constant reminder of my sacred
search.
But
first, I had to learn to identify a sassafras tree. There is no
description in Drayton’s poem. The scratchboard etching by Paul
Landacre (what a good name) in Peattie’s book is of a full- sized
tree (without leaves) in an open field. I had no open fields. There
is an illustration of the unique leaves, immature boat-shaped to
mature tri-lobed, but it was still early spring with only bare limbs
raised and waving around me. Of course, there was the odor, but I
didn’t want to notch every unknown tree in my woods to catch a
scent of the prey. However, I had taken the vow of the arborist’s
quest, and like Sir Percival or maybe more like Don Quixote, I set
off metaphorically on my journey.
For
the next several weeks, I searched. I confess the search was not
unfalteringly focused. It was spring and the woods were coming to
life. At first, I did not consciously notice the delicate bluettes
or white spring beauties. My springs had mostly been spent in Texas,
where overnight dun stubble fields turn into ponds, lakes, oceans of
bluebonnets, sprinkled with vibrant patches of red Indian paintbrush.
Even the treacherous bull nettle is beautiful in massive white
clusters. But here in the Missouri woodlands , the spring blooms
hide among the deep litter of oak leaves. When finally I noticed
those thumb-sized blooms, I spent much time getting down to eye level
with them. These blooms unfolded slowly from day to day. They and
all of the other quiet bursts of spring often drew my attention from
the trees, and the other trees took my mind off the sassafras. The
pink budding of the oaks and the brilliance of redbud and snowfields
of dogwood blooms filled my eyes.
Spring
turned into summer and summer into fall, and the limbs were bare
again. I had not discovered a sassafras fortune nor one lone tree.
Had the log I cut into earlier in the year been the corpse of the
last sassafras? With the cool of autumn, I began to clear around the
house again, carefully selecting the trees I left standing for shape,
size, and variety. On one side of the house I plotted out a fenced
yard for my dogs and a shed to store wood. There were two large
white oaks and a medium-sized bitternut hickory I decided to leave.
Among the scores of smaller trees and brush in the area I noticed a
thin trunk with green limbs. I recalled reading that such green
limbs were signs of sassafras. I cut one of the small limbs and
smelled a faint sweet odor that could have been sassafras. I decided
to spare the small tree, clear around it, and watch its progress.
In
the medieval literature, the protagonist often has a time limit to
fulfill his quest. A year fits the cyclic nature of quests. Spring
came again and the trees sprouted. As that thin-trunk fledgling put
on its new foliage, I studied the leaves. Some of them developed
into the tri-lobed shape so distinctive of the sassafras. Here was
my sassafras fortune.
A
few years later, I discovered one more in another corner of my woods.
I doubled my fortune. Sassafras, as most trees, do best in open
fields. They can grow to a height of sixty feet with a diameter of
eighteen inches. The tree pictured in Peattie’s book is large
trunked and fully crowned. After thirty years, mine are still
somewhat spindly with an arrow-like profile because of the larger
trees that overshade them. The one in the dog-yard has grown more.
For twenty-five years I fenced it off to prevent damage from the
mower or deer rubbing the velvet off their antlers. Finally, it got
large enough that I dismantled the fence.
I
do not tramp over my woods as much as I did in my younger days, but I
still have the South American shaped slice of log on my garage wall
and still look for green limbs or tri-lobed leaves when I do stroll
around the nine-acre woods. I may yet increase my fortune.
