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On this first day of a new millennium, it seems appropriate that I echo the timelessness of the natural world by writing about one of nature’s first experiments in producing a showy flower: the magnolia.
I know of no other scientific name as vividly descriptive or as pleasurable to say as “Magnolia grandiflora.” The botanist who gave this noble tree its Latin name no doubt meant “grand” to refer to the size of the waxy white flower, which is indeed “grand” in size.
I cannot but think of the whole tree as “grand” in the sense that it is used today: magnificent, splendid, “of the highest rank” (Oxford American Dictionary). After all, a thousand dollars is a “grand,” as is a piano of the best quality and size.
Except when they are in starry bloom, I tend to give the tree more attention in winter, when it stands out against the grays and brown of winterbare deciduous trees with their straight trunks and delicate tracery of twigs. The magnolia’s leaves are of such a deep-toned, glossy green that they appear black in the rain or when light is fading at the end of the day. In full winter sunlight, the shiny leaves
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