Photograph of bluebells by LeAnn Spencer
In Defense of Chicory
Come midsummer, when its time to celebrate the full bloom of a restored prairie in all its botanical glory, I also find myself drawn to something that would not be welcome in that rarefied landscape: the tiny, blue flowers of chicory. Chicory, that tenacious Old World import, blooms in vacant lots, ditches and alongside roads where, sadly, I spend far too much time.
It’s my brother of the commute.
Many years ago when I took classes at the local arboretum to learn the differences between invasive weeds and native wildflowers, it was comforting to see this old favorite in a crowd of unwelcome botanicals. When studying regional flora, the battle lines get drawn pretty quickly between the “bad” weed plants and the “good” native plants. But I feel sympathy for a plant that was introduced to a new continent only to find purchase and comfort mainly in waste areas. A life that doesn’t seem as much a choice, as it does a purgatory.
The story of chicory contains hopeful American themes of persistence and determination. Chicory found a foothold here, served as a coffee substitute for pioneers, and provides a splash of blue in a landscape where hues of purples and violet are more common. The blue blooms of chicory – usually a few coarse, sky-blue daisies about the size of a quarter scattered along the stem – are garden worthy but ephemeral. An individual blossom will open in the morning and last but a single day, those cut and put in a vase last not at all – this makes the sight of blue chicory backlit by morning light all the more significant.
Chicory is one of the adaptable members of the aster family and cousin to sunflowers, daisies, goldenrods, and countless other kin. It has evolved for survival, but if chicory is one of the bad weeds, it hasn’t strayed too far from redemption. It is rarely seen in dense concentrations and then only in harsh areas like highway shoulders or rail yards where little else grows. It’s an odd plant that favors the roughest environments, but then seems willing to bow out gracefully as soon as conditions improve, moving on, looking for the next hot spot, a scar in some soil pile, or maybe a lonesome ditch that needs botanical attention.
What we call “weeds” are the first ones to enter disturbed areas. They’re tenacious, they germinate and grow quickly. They’re unglamorous, but they hold soil. They’re nature’s unheralded healers of land, working until pedigreed plants want a toehold, and then they’re run off with pesticides and hoes.
When I see chicory blooming on summer days, I’m cheered by its presence, encouraged by its resilience, and grateful for those flecks of blue sky brought so very close to earth.
Copyright © 2008 David Coulter. All rights reserved.