Fairfax County General :
Fairfax Underground
Welcome to Fairfax Underground, a project site designed to improve communication among residents of Fairfax County, VA. Feel free to post anything Northern Virginia residents would find interesting.
Welcome to Fairfax Underground, a project site designed to improve communication among residents of Fairfax County, VA. Feel free to post anything Northern Virginia residents would find interesting.
Budding trees
Posted by:
GhJKK
()
Date: February 23, 2014 04:28PM
In spite of the recent weather, I've noticed a lot of one type of tree budding today. They are dark red on the branches of tall trees, not bushes.
Can anyone tell me what type they are, I'm horrible at this. Would have taken a picture, but they are high up and I only have a camera phone.
Thanks in advance!
Can anyone tell me what type they are, I'm horrible at this. Would have taken a picture, but they are high up and I only have a camera phone.
Thanks in advance!
Re: Budding trees
Posted by:
Marvingayewasshotbyhisdad
()
Date: February 23, 2014 05:29PM
Thank you, good doctor. I have looked up the various maples and you are correct!
Re: Budding trees
Posted by:
local
()
Date: February 23, 2014 06:23PM
May also be the redbud trees which are indigenous to this area...
Re: Budding trees
Posted by:
springishere
()
Date: February 23, 2014 07:14PM
local Wrote:
-------------------------------------------------------
> May also be the redbud trees which are indigenous
> to this area...
Redbuds are usually the first to go....Also, magnolias too. Flowering should be starting up in a few weeks, so buds are right on time.
-------------------------------------------------------
> May also be the redbud trees which are indigenous
> to this area...
Redbuds are usually the first to go....Also, magnolias too. Flowering should be starting up in a few weeks, so buds are right on time.
Re: Budding trees
Posted by:
newgatedenizen
()
Date: February 23, 2014 09:30PM
Buds and Leaf Scars
When most of us think of buds, we think of spring phenomena—and usually in association with garden flowers. But tree buds, which contain embryonic leaves, stems, and flowers, are usually formed the summer before they grow into the forms they take in spring, and winter is one of the best times to view them.
During the summer and fall, tree buds grow to a certain size then stop, or rest, for the winter. At that stage, they are called winter or resting buds, and they remind us that life hasn’t fled the body of a leafless tree, it’s just in waiting, and the shapes of next year’s leaves and flowers are already programmed into its buds. Resting buds also provide one of the best ways to identify trees in winter, because their designs are unique to each tree species.
Compare, for example, the terminal bud of the beech to the terminal bud of the tulip poplar, oak, and horsechestnut—four of the trees easiest to identify by their resting buds. (A terminal bud occurs at the end of a tree twig, as opposed to lateral buds, which occur along the twig’s sides.) The terminal bud of American beech is unmistakable: shaped like a thin spear, it is a pale, yellowish brown and covered with dry, shingle-like scales. Its tip is so sharply pointed I’ve always thought it could be in a CSI episode—“murderous botanist dipped beech bud in poison”—or something like that. In addition to having an unmistakable shape, beech terminal buds always occur singly, which is entirely different from the terminal buds of oak, for example, which occur clustered at the tips of the twigs and are coarse, stout, and hoary in comparison with the beech bud’s refined, narrow, well-chiseled look.
The terminal bud of horsechestnut is large—about the size of a night-light bulb—and its scales (the protective covering of the bud) are covered with a sticky resin that makes them look and feel as if they’ve been dipped in molasses. The resting bud of tulip poplar (and its protective covering) is also relatively large, but, while actively growing, it is a study in soft, smooth, unblemished green. (Later it turns a purplish brown.) The two scales (modified stipules) covering the tulip poplar bud come together like praying hands or ducks’ bills, depending on your perspective. At the end of the summer, the terminal buds on a cutover tulip poplar (one that has been cut down and then comes back with vigor) are often very large, and I have had the experience of pulling them apart to discover an identifiable, folded leaf pressed against the other plant material inside. Folded down its midvein the way a valentine is often folded down the center for cutting, this embryonic leaf is miniscule but unmistakable in shape. Imagine that tiny leaf waiting patiently in those praying hands all winter, and you’ll never see a leafless tulip poplar as lifeless again.
Tree buds vary in the way they are “packed,” in the nature of their contents (leaves and stems, leaves and flowers, or flowers alone) and in the way they are arranged on the twig. In some species, like dogwood, it’s easy to tell flower buds from leaf buds (the flower buds look like clenched fists), and many trees’ flower buds are rounder than their leaf buds. But on most forest trees, leaf and flower buds are indistinguishable until the leaves or flowers begin to emerge. On an oak, for example, it is impossible to tell just by looking at it which of the tree’s lateral buds will produce flowers. Only the lateral buds of an oak (as opposed to its terminal buds) produce flowers, but you just have to wait and watch to see which of those buds will bloom.
Like the leaves that follow them, buds are arranged in an alternate or opposite (rarely whorled) pattern along the twig, and these arrangements can help you identify trees in winter when leaves are absent. The leaves (and buds) of maple, ash, dogwood, paulownia, horsechestnut, and buckeye are positioned across from each other on the stem (opposite). On most other common trees, they are alternate.
The buds of different tree species also vary in the way they are protected from drying out. Some trees have what are called naked buds (the terminal buds of the pawpaw and witch hazel, for example, are protected only by their outermost waterproof leaves), but most tree buds have protective scales covering the embryonic plant material inside. The number of scales varies from one to many, with the willow having, for example, a single cap-like scale covering its bud, the bitternut hickory (like the tulip poplar) having a pair of scales meeting but not overlapping in the middle, and most tree species having numerous overlapping scales arranged in various patterns like shingles on a roof.
The terminal bud of horsechestnut is large—about the size of a night-light bulb—and its scales (the protective covering of the bud) are covered with a sticky resin that makes them look and feel as if they’ve been dipped in molasses. The resting bud of tulip poplar (and its protective covering) is also relatively large, but, while actively growing, it is a study in soft, smooth, unblemished green. (Later it turns a purplish brown.) The two scales (modified stipules) covering the tulip poplar bud come together like praying hands or ducks’ bills, depending on your perspective. At the end of the summer, the terminal buds on a cutover tulip poplar (one that has been cut down and then comes back with vigor) are often very large, and I have had the experience of pulling them apart to discover an identifiable, folded leaf pressed against the other plant material inside. Folded down its midvein the way a valentine is often folded down the center for cutting, this embryonic leaf is miniscule but unmistakable in shape. Imagine that tiny leaf waiting patiently in those praying hands all winter, and you’ll never see a leafless tulip poplar as lifeless again.
Tree buds vary in the way they are “packed,” in the nature of their contents (leaves and stems, leaves and flowers, or flowers alone) and in the way they are arranged on the twig. In some species, like dogwood, it’s easy to tell flower buds from leaf buds (the flower buds look like clenched fists), and many trees’ flower buds are rounder than their leaf buds. But on most forest trees, leaf and flower buds are indistinguishable until the leaves or flowers begin to emerge. On an oak, for example, it is impossible to tell just by looking at it which of the tree’s lateral buds will produce flowers. Only the lateral buds of an oak (as opposed to its terminal buds) produce flowers, but you just have to wait and watch to see which of those buds will bloom.
Like the leaves that follow them, buds are arranged in an alternate or opposite (rarely whorled) pattern along the twig, and these arrangements can help you identify trees in winter when leaves are absent. The leaves (and buds) of maple, ash, dogwood, paulownia, horsechestnut, and buckeye are positioned across from each other on the stem (opposite). On most other common trees, they are alternate.
The buds of different tree species also vary in the way they are protected from drying out. Some trees have what are called naked buds (the terminal buds of the pawpaw and witch hazel, for example, are protected only by their outermost waterproof leaves), but most tree buds have protective scales covering the embryonic plant material inside. The number of scales varies from one to many, with the willow having, for example, a single cap-like scale covering its bud, the bitternut hickory (like the tulip poplar) having a pair of scales meeting but not overlapping in the middle, and most tree species having numerous overlapping scales arranged in various patterns like shingles on a roof.
Probably the easiest leaf scar to see on a common tree is the large, heart-shaped leaf scar of ailanthus. On the smooth, slightly furry surface of Ailanthus altissima, this leaf scar stands out like a scab on a knee. Other leaf scar shapes include some that are triangular in outline, some round, some oval, some scalloped, some shield-shaped, some crescent-shaped, and many other shapes, each indicative of the species. Leaf scars also vary in their relationship to the stem (raised above, depressed into, or flush with the surface of the twig), in their texture, and in the number and configuration of the bundle scars within them.
Bundle scars? If you don’t know this term, it’s a good one to learn, because it is materially useful and metaphorically fascinating. To look at a tree up close and miss its bundle scars is to overlook its leaves’ broken connection to the tree (and all the back and forth energy and water exchange that implies). Bundle scars are the tiny, raised spots, usually looking like dots or bars, that occur inside a leaf scar and that mark the places where the leaf’s “pipes” have been broken. The word “pipes” works for me best in this context, but what we are talking about is the tree’s vascular tissue, or veins, through which water and nutrients pass from the tree into the leaves and through which food passes from the leaves into the tree. Trees of each species have different “pipe arrangements,” and when you look at the bundle scars in a leaf scar, what you are seeing is where the pipe arrangements have been broken.
The number, shape, and pattern of the bundle scars within a leaf scar provide additional keys to a tree’s identity. The number of bundle scars varies from one to around thirty, and depending on the species, bundle scars can be irregularly arranged or arranged in patterns that vary from lineups that look like smiles and horseshoes to clusters that look like socket holes and paw prints. The naturalist Ruth Cooley Cater once suggested looking for faces in the patterns of bundle scars in leaf scars, and while she saw more faces in leaf scars than I do, following her lead I can find the face of E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial, in the leaf scar of a black walnut. On the black walnut leaf scar, which is sort of a flattened shamrock shape, like E.T.’s head, are three tiny horseshoe-shaped clusters of bundle scars that look like eyes and a mouth.
What leaf scars represent—their symbolic significance—intrigues me as much as their physical appearance, however. Everywhere you see a leaf scar and its accompanying bundle scars, you are seeing a healed-over spot where a tree has, in order to keep itself alive, discarded a leaf. Because in winter, with reduced sunlight, a leaf is a liability to a deciduous tree (kept on the tree, it would continue to lose water to the atmosphere while producing little food), trees break their connections to their leaves and instead put their resources into maintaining their other living parts, including their resting buds. Not only does this process seem intelligent, efficient, and elegant to me, but there is something about it that seems to represent a life lesson—the wisdom of marshaling your resources when they are limited and you are under stress, so you can survive to live more productively another day.
Seeing Trees
by Nancy Ross Hugo
When most of us think of buds, we think of spring phenomena—and usually in association with garden flowers. But tree buds, which contain embryonic leaves, stems, and flowers, are usually formed the summer before they grow into the forms they take in spring, and winter is one of the best times to view them.
During the summer and fall, tree buds grow to a certain size then stop, or rest, for the winter. At that stage, they are called winter or resting buds, and they remind us that life hasn’t fled the body of a leafless tree, it’s just in waiting, and the shapes of next year’s leaves and flowers are already programmed into its buds. Resting buds also provide one of the best ways to identify trees in winter, because their designs are unique to each tree species.
Compare, for example, the terminal bud of the beech to the terminal bud of the tulip poplar, oak, and horsechestnut—four of the trees easiest to identify by their resting buds. (A terminal bud occurs at the end of a tree twig, as opposed to lateral buds, which occur along the twig’s sides.) The terminal bud of American beech is unmistakable: shaped like a thin spear, it is a pale, yellowish brown and covered with dry, shingle-like scales. Its tip is so sharply pointed I’ve always thought it could be in a CSI episode—“murderous botanist dipped beech bud in poison”—or something like that. In addition to having an unmistakable shape, beech terminal buds always occur singly, which is entirely different from the terminal buds of oak, for example, which occur clustered at the tips of the twigs and are coarse, stout, and hoary in comparison with the beech bud’s refined, narrow, well-chiseled look.
The terminal bud of horsechestnut is large—about the size of a night-light bulb—and its scales (the protective covering of the bud) are covered with a sticky resin that makes them look and feel as if they’ve been dipped in molasses. The resting bud of tulip poplar (and its protective covering) is also relatively large, but, while actively growing, it is a study in soft, smooth, unblemished green. (Later it turns a purplish brown.) The two scales (modified stipules) covering the tulip poplar bud come together like praying hands or ducks’ bills, depending on your perspective. At the end of the summer, the terminal buds on a cutover tulip poplar (one that has been cut down and then comes back with vigor) are often very large, and I have had the experience of pulling them apart to discover an identifiable, folded leaf pressed against the other plant material inside. Folded down its midvein the way a valentine is often folded down the center for cutting, this embryonic leaf is miniscule but unmistakable in shape. Imagine that tiny leaf waiting patiently in those praying hands all winter, and you’ll never see a leafless tulip poplar as lifeless again.
Tree buds vary in the way they are “packed,” in the nature of their contents (leaves and stems, leaves and flowers, or flowers alone) and in the way they are arranged on the twig. In some species, like dogwood, it’s easy to tell flower buds from leaf buds (the flower buds look like clenched fists), and many trees’ flower buds are rounder than their leaf buds. But on most forest trees, leaf and flower buds are indistinguishable until the leaves or flowers begin to emerge. On an oak, for example, it is impossible to tell just by looking at it which of the tree’s lateral buds will produce flowers. Only the lateral buds of an oak (as opposed to its terminal buds) produce flowers, but you just have to wait and watch to see which of those buds will bloom.
Like the leaves that follow them, buds are arranged in an alternate or opposite (rarely whorled) pattern along the twig, and these arrangements can help you identify trees in winter when leaves are absent. The leaves (and buds) of maple, ash, dogwood, paulownia, horsechestnut, and buckeye are positioned across from each other on the stem (opposite). On most other common trees, they are alternate.
The buds of different tree species also vary in the way they are protected from drying out. Some trees have what are called naked buds (the terminal buds of the pawpaw and witch hazel, for example, are protected only by their outermost waterproof leaves), but most tree buds have protective scales covering the embryonic plant material inside. The number of scales varies from one to many, with the willow having, for example, a single cap-like scale covering its bud, the bitternut hickory (like the tulip poplar) having a pair of scales meeting but not overlapping in the middle, and most tree species having numerous overlapping scales arranged in various patterns like shingles on a roof.
The terminal bud of horsechestnut is large—about the size of a night-light bulb—and its scales (the protective covering of the bud) are covered with a sticky resin that makes them look and feel as if they’ve been dipped in molasses. The resting bud of tulip poplar (and its protective covering) is also relatively large, but, while actively growing, it is a study in soft, smooth, unblemished green. (Later it turns a purplish brown.) The two scales (modified stipules) covering the tulip poplar bud come together like praying hands or ducks’ bills, depending on your perspective. At the end of the summer, the terminal buds on a cutover tulip poplar (one that has been cut down and then comes back with vigor) are often very large, and I have had the experience of pulling them apart to discover an identifiable, folded leaf pressed against the other plant material inside. Folded down its midvein the way a valentine is often folded down the center for cutting, this embryonic leaf is miniscule but unmistakable in shape. Imagine that tiny leaf waiting patiently in those praying hands all winter, and you’ll never see a leafless tulip poplar as lifeless again.
Tree buds vary in the way they are “packed,” in the nature of their contents (leaves and stems, leaves and flowers, or flowers alone) and in the way they are arranged on the twig. In some species, like dogwood, it’s easy to tell flower buds from leaf buds (the flower buds look like clenched fists), and many trees’ flower buds are rounder than their leaf buds. But on most forest trees, leaf and flower buds are indistinguishable until the leaves or flowers begin to emerge. On an oak, for example, it is impossible to tell just by looking at it which of the tree’s lateral buds will produce flowers. Only the lateral buds of an oak (as opposed to its terminal buds) produce flowers, but you just have to wait and watch to see which of those buds will bloom.
Like the leaves that follow them, buds are arranged in an alternate or opposite (rarely whorled) pattern along the twig, and these arrangements can help you identify trees in winter when leaves are absent. The leaves (and buds) of maple, ash, dogwood, paulownia, horsechestnut, and buckeye are positioned across from each other on the stem (opposite). On most other common trees, they are alternate.
The buds of different tree species also vary in the way they are protected from drying out. Some trees have what are called naked buds (the terminal buds of the pawpaw and witch hazel, for example, are protected only by their outermost waterproof leaves), but most tree buds have protective scales covering the embryonic plant material inside. The number of scales varies from one to many, with the willow having, for example, a single cap-like scale covering its bud, the bitternut hickory (like the tulip poplar) having a pair of scales meeting but not overlapping in the middle, and most tree species having numerous overlapping scales arranged in various patterns like shingles on a roof.
Probably the easiest leaf scar to see on a common tree is the large, heart-shaped leaf scar of ailanthus. On the smooth, slightly furry surface of Ailanthus altissima, this leaf scar stands out like a scab on a knee. Other leaf scar shapes include some that are triangular in outline, some round, some oval, some scalloped, some shield-shaped, some crescent-shaped, and many other shapes, each indicative of the species. Leaf scars also vary in their relationship to the stem (raised above, depressed into, or flush with the surface of the twig), in their texture, and in the number and configuration of the bundle scars within them.
Bundle scars? If you don’t know this term, it’s a good one to learn, because it is materially useful and metaphorically fascinating. To look at a tree up close and miss its bundle scars is to overlook its leaves’ broken connection to the tree (and all the back and forth energy and water exchange that implies). Bundle scars are the tiny, raised spots, usually looking like dots or bars, that occur inside a leaf scar and that mark the places where the leaf’s “pipes” have been broken. The word “pipes” works for me best in this context, but what we are talking about is the tree’s vascular tissue, or veins, through which water and nutrients pass from the tree into the leaves and through which food passes from the leaves into the tree. Trees of each species have different “pipe arrangements,” and when you look at the bundle scars in a leaf scar, what you are seeing is where the pipe arrangements have been broken.
The number, shape, and pattern of the bundle scars within a leaf scar provide additional keys to a tree’s identity. The number of bundle scars varies from one to around thirty, and depending on the species, bundle scars can be irregularly arranged or arranged in patterns that vary from lineups that look like smiles and horseshoes to clusters that look like socket holes and paw prints. The naturalist Ruth Cooley Cater once suggested looking for faces in the patterns of bundle scars in leaf scars, and while she saw more faces in leaf scars than I do, following her lead I can find the face of E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial, in the leaf scar of a black walnut. On the black walnut leaf scar, which is sort of a flattened shamrock shape, like E.T.’s head, are three tiny horseshoe-shaped clusters of bundle scars that look like eyes and a mouth.
What leaf scars represent—their symbolic significance—intrigues me as much as their physical appearance, however. Everywhere you see a leaf scar and its accompanying bundle scars, you are seeing a healed-over spot where a tree has, in order to keep itself alive, discarded a leaf. Because in winter, with reduced sunlight, a leaf is a liability to a deciduous tree (kept on the tree, it would continue to lose water to the atmosphere while producing little food), trees break their connections to their leaves and instead put their resources into maintaining their other living parts, including their resting buds. Not only does this process seem intelligent, efficient, and elegant to me, but there is something about it that seems to represent a life lesson—the wisdom of marshaling your resources when they are limited and you are under stress, so you can survive to live more productively another day.
Seeing Trees
by Nancy Ross Hugo
Re: Budding trees
Posted by:
truthguyyeah
()
Date: February 23, 2014 09:36PM
Redbuds are the first to go, but they are not considered tall trees.
Most likely a Red Maple.
Most likely a Red Maple.