Young Sam Cracks Purple Jade Vine
Overhead, deep purple flowers dangle. The flowers from this vine feel rich. They captivate. They are rare because, until curious Sam came along, the secret to propagation eluded even my most esteemed garden visitors.
Under this vine, on this deck, lots of work conversations, strategizing, and even personal revelations have happened. It’s sort of the break room, the office, the gathering spot for our landscape crew. We stop here to take off dirty boots and overalls before heading into the cleaner office. It feels private and secluded, curtained by vine. Some very personal stuff has happened under this vine.
The green walls reach 8 feet, visually protecting us from a close neighbor named Joe. He’s a progressive, grow-our-food sort of Gen-Xer with a flock of free-range chickens. Joe’s hens scratch around, making inquisitive little ‘bok?, baok?, booaack?’ We joke, “Joe’s girls stand around the corner hoping to get the scoop on our upcoming plant of the year.” They just want some nuts tossed through the vine-covered fence. We joke about this deck being our locker room. Sam takes a leak through the hedge. The girls love it as his warmth, hitting the ground, brings up bugs and worms.
Over the years, many young gardeners gathered here for planning, plant talking, and after-work beer sipping. Right here, one young woman dedicated herself to going away for a Ph.D. One left to grow pot in Colorado.
Sam is special. If you saw a picture of a college sports team, you’d zoom in on Sam. His three-day blond stubble and reddish curls frame sparkling eyes and a sweet smile. You’d think this guy must be the leader of many wild adventures that could, but never do, go wrong. Or he’s the team captain who gets everyone cheering, even on a losing game.
Sam is none of those things. He’s introspective. He knits. He shyly suggests a new band for us to listen to while we drive, “You probably won’t like it. But it inspired me. Can I plug it in?” He plus his phone into the dash and hits play. Sam doesn’t believe in Bluetooth.
One afternoon, in his unflappable, measured voice, Sam, facing away from me and into that vine, says nonchalantly, “Hey, look at this.”
I saddle up to him and peer into the kudzu tangle.
When I see it, I hold my excitement for his sake. I want to be as cool as Sam. I fail. My eyes open wide, my mouth opens wide,
“Jesus-Elvis! How did you find that? How long has it been there, Sam?”
"I didn’t find it. I made it. And the girls don’t like it when you cuss.”
He’s fingering a giant apple-green bean. I’ve never seen one like it, and I’ve seen a lot of different beans. This one glows. This one has velcro skin and a thousand menacing spines. “Sam, how about you tell me what you mean by, ‘I made it’?”
“A few weeks ago, I crunched open one of the flowers with my fingers. You need some finger strength to pop them. I liked how it felt. So I did it again. And again, and I noticed pollen going from one to another. So, I’ve been watching this seed form. I pollinated it. I’ve been wondering, what in the world could do that in the wild? Not a butterfly or a bee. Something strong. It seems like this vine doesn’t want to make many seeds. But I found out that in the forest in China, bats pollinate it. So….”
He shows me. Sam grasped the balloon flower and squeezed hard between thumb and forefinger. Pollen pops out. He shook out the last drop. Then he squeezed again.
Soon enough, he had a bean pod.
Jade Vine requires patience. For such a vigorous vine and tough seed, Mucuna starts off life in a fragile state. About a month after sown, thread-thin stems extend a foot or more before putting on a leaf. Even after a few months, the stems remain vulnerable. If you break one off, the entire plant dies. But nurse it through the first year; you’ll have shade every summer.
Our vine is now 25 years old. Every winter, it dies to the ground. Every March, it sprouts up. Every summer it grows 30 or so feet, covering the deck with shade, privacy, and purple flowers. Every fall, we grow seeds in the greenhouse.
As surprising as the fragility of the young plant, is the delicacy of this dense canopy. There’s no need to construct a sturdy pergola. I’ve found the best way to guide the vine is a simple net of strings. We have two poles on the corner of the deck. I tie nylon string between them. As the vine grows through summer, I tack more strings over the deck. Mucuna weaves a green ceiling, and purple flowers hang down.
Now, years after young Sam has moved on; when I step out to talk on the phone, I reach up to the flowers. I pop and pollinate. It’s more satisfying than popping bubble wrap. My Mucuna seems sort of like a pet. Under it, inside a purple haze, I remember lots of young gardeners, some of whom I could’ve taught a lot. I think of Sam, whose quiet curiosity taught me lessons I still hold dear.
Mucuana cycloparpa vine isn’t for everyone. It took me years to figure out how to grow it well. We’re one of the few nurseries growing it; maybe the only one in the US that actually has it in stock every year. It’s a connoisseur plant, but also something to make your friends, gardeners or not, wide-eyed at the killer flowers.
NOTE—You may have seen this essay before. I shared it on Instagram, but Instagram removed it, saying it violated community standards. I suppose the line about taking a leak. I thought the essay was lost, but I found a copy, edited it, and shared it again here.
PlantPeople is a twice-weekly essay. Thursday, always free, is about quirky people who have a passion for plants. Sunday is for paid subscribers only. On Sunday, I try out different writing styles, topics, and techniques. Currently, Sunday is a 20-something-chapter novella about a young Southern landscaper who learns about race, worker rights, and living with the super-rich—the hard but exciting way.
Will you have seeds or plants this year?
I was thinking you were going to talk about a purple cultivar of Strongylodon macrobotrys but wow you opened my world to an entirely new genus I didn't know about. What a cool plant! I wish I had the room for it!