Hornbeam Smackdown

     The charming American Hornbeam (Carpinus caroliana) is not often found in home gardens. Perhaps it grows too slowly for those who want a towering tree in sixty seconds or less. I immediately feel kinship with a gardener who has one--in my mind it implies upstanding character. This native species has survived the onslaught of lumber barons and exotic pestilence where other key species such as Elm, Chestnut and Ash have met their Waterloo. Maybe it is no coincidence that American Hornbeam is also commonly known as Musclewood.

     Recently I was given one as a gift--I assumed a seedling in a small pot. Then a truck arrived at my home hauling a 2.5 caliper (ten foot) specimen with a three hundred pound root ball. 
     The driver offered to help me situate the tree using his hand cart but I warned him it was too risky. During the rainy season the soil on my property holds enough water to power the Hoover Dam for a week and I knew we'd end only up perishing in the mire. He wished me the best.
      I pulled on my high boots and hiked into the marshy field to scout the perfect location. Successful tree planting requires a bright ability to visualize things in twenty years. For example a row of young spruce trees planted directly beneath utility lines will one day make a nice pile of wood chips.
     American Hornbeam is a beautiful small tree, maturing to about twenty-five feet in height. Its satiny-sinewy bark is grey-blue and rock hard; the glossy leavens are deep green, ovate-oblong, sharply serrate. In fall the foliage becomes scarlet-orange. A tree this lovely requires a place in the landscape where it will not be ruined by crappy real estate.
     As I puttered along in my John Deere, transporting the tree at the slowest possible speed, I felt like 73 year-old Alvin Straight who in 1994 drove his sit-down mower from Iowa to Wisconsin. Every waterlogged gorge and grassy hump threatened to demolish me.
     Now, I've been planting trees of all sizes for a long time yet I persist in misjudging the depth of a hole. Yes I do love to dig holes the same way I like to bite my nails and brush my teeth--with far more zeal than is necessary. There I was on a cold November afternoon with bloody fingertips, self-inflicted gum recession, and a too-deep hole filled with a 300 pound tree.  
     My dad offered the worst possible solution: hitch a bungee cord from the back of the John Deere to the root ball and pull it out. I fumed that we did not have time to review Sir Isaac Newton's universal law of gravitation proving that heavy stuff gets heavier when it goes into a hole.  

     I opted instead for 4x4's. Using our bodies for counterweight I managed to jack the tree high enough to make a clay mound beneath the rootball, gradually raising the tree to a proper height. 
     To ensure good drainage in a wet area I elevated the root flare a few inches above the soil level and mulched with six bags of organic soil and two bags of shredded cedar. The stakes will be removed in one year after reaction wood has formed and the root plate is well anchored. Lastly I protected the trunk from girdling rodents by wrapping it with chicken wire.  
     Before heading in from the cold I took a final moment to appreciate my new American Hornbeam, a glorious addition to the landscape. I can hardly wait for spring when I can scout for Lo moth caterpillars, one of this tree's unique guests. Lo moth caterpillars are covered in clusters of bright green spines that sting like hell. If I am lucky enough to find one I will have a strong urge to touch it. Heck, it can't be more painful than having no fingernails.

Good Yews

By Shane VanOosterhout

The mighty yew (Family: Taxacaea; Genus Taxus) is a woody plant I used to disdain. How ridiculous of me. What I understand now is that I was judging the yew not on its own merits but instead because it is often used poorly in the home landscape.

I should clarify. The yew is used extensively in the home landscape because it possesses remarkable characteristics, mainly that it is nearly indestructible (tolerates abusive pruning) and is evergreen even in part sun to part shade.

Professional nursery growers love the yew because it propagates easily from cuttings. Landscapers love the yew because it is a budget-friendly shrub and provides instant green on the new, barren home site. In effect, it is probably the utilitarian nature of the yew that has contributed to unintended ugliness in our country.


Yews can grow 30-60 feet and spread 15-25 feet. There is a famous 300-year-old hedge on Bathurst Estate in Cirencester, Gloucestershire, England that is 40 feet tall that requires the aid of cherry pickers and two days' work to keep its shapely figure.

As an ornamental the yew has quite literally defined the gardens of the upper classes for centuries. Descriptions of lovelorn women scampering breathlessly through tall shrubbery is a veritable staple of British Empire narrative.

In the United Kingdom the yew is highly romanticized, its history full of lore, long-associated with mysticism, Druid culture and fertility rituals. The heartwood was used for crafting the longbow, a formidably powerful weapon used for defense and hunting.


In most American landscapes yews are planted on small lots where homeowners eventually begin to fear them or hate them as is evidently plain in their need to attack them with saws or throw bicycles at them.

Pruned or not, the yew is at its most stately and beguiling when allowed to develop some stature. Larger yews have elegance; they are regal and bespeak their ancient story. The needles are superior in the garden, their glossy foliage dark and powerful, providing essential texture, form and color.

The best looking yews I spot in neighborhoods are those that were planted with the intent of "disguising" the air condition units or the electric box. They are generally ignored which means they are given permission to grow. After 10-15 years these yews become handsome specimens even if they do tend to look a bit goofy stuck out on the corner of the lot with no companions to keep them company.


Nervous types get antsy when it comes to the toxicity of the yew, *banning them from playgrounds or anywhere children might play. Sources are known to erroneously report that the fruit (aril) is poisonous. The author(s) of an article on Botanical.com state of the yew: "Poisonous Parts---Leaves, seed and fruit" but in fact the poison taxane resides in the seed not the flesh of the fruit. (A reminder to carefully check your sources when researching online).

As a maturing gardener I've come to love the yew in a way I never thought I would. Plants have little say in where they end up in the landscape and I suppose it is not always fair to blame them for looking ruinous. I've always said that if plants could talk we would not have to dig them up and relocate them 20-30 times before finding them a proper home.

If you have a spot in your landscape to plant just one single yew where it can gain some real size I highly recommend doing so. Resist shaping it. Let it be. In time you will discover why our cousins across the pond hold the beautiful, practical yew in such high esteem.



*41 percent of all poisonings reported occur in the home kitchen, 21 percent in the bathroom and 12 percent in the bedroom, leaving 26 percent for other places, according to Cincinnati Children's Hospital. Statistically. the garden is not such a dangerous place for children.

Green Thumbs Don't Grow on Trees

People often tell me they aren't good gardeners, as if possessing a green thumb is a genetic trait, bestowed only to a lucky few. To this I reply, "If any of us were born with green thumbs we'd no doubt be spending a fortune on trying to correct the problem."

The metaphor of the green thumb is best suited to describe a hard-earned honor, a skill gained from routine practice, from many years of experience.

If there is a "secret" to becoming a good gardener, to turning one's thumb green as it were, it is not an inborn trait; it is passion, and everyone has passion.

The surprising thing about becoming a gardener is discovering your passion; rousing ancient senses within your mind and body that will lead you on a lifelong journey. Little did you know that new seedlings just up from the warm soil have their own unique odor, just as the sweet smell of babies can only be found on babies.

When hands touch a leaf or stem or petal one's nerves tingle. The brain, I am convinced, was long-ago wired to communicate intuitively with the botanical. This is not a magical phenomenon, it is evolutionary, for without a trait for the desire to care for plants the human race would undoubtedly perish; our earliest ancestors secured a place for homo sapien through the very act of gardening, through forming emotional connections with plants.