Last year, the first spring wildflower I found was colt’s foot—a little dab of sunshine—but so far my roadside in Frostburg is still recovering from Snowmaggedon, as artist Shane Odom recently called the past few months in Western Maryland.  The saturated ground on the mountainside where I live is coated with wet, dead leaves and smashed weed stalks from last week’s melting of some two feet of snow in rain and warm temperatures.  An additional foot of snow had already filled the earth to the brim, so when these snows swiftly melted they left vegetation slicked down and shellacked to the earth, drab brown and sooty.

Hardly spring-like--but I did see a spear of bloodroot leaves pierce the shellacked winter ones, so I know that stuff isn’t impenetrable.  Spring will get to my yard, even if my home does sit in the afternoon shadow of Savage Mountain.  (N.B. In the time it took to write this essay, the first colt’s foot bloomed where I usually find it, also in that Savage shadow, so we’re on our way!)

I recently began working in Cumberland, a mere ten miles down the hill but 1,050 feet closer to sea level--and a much warmer climate than Frostburg.  Snow disappeared in Cumberland a week and a half before the slightest suggestion of a snowmelt in Frostburg.  Daffodils and crocus have been blooming in Cumberland for a couple of weeks now.  Still, it hadn’t been what I’d call warm even in the Queen City until the middle of last week.

So it was that last Wednesday, I took a mid-afternoon walk.  After hearing everyone who came into the front office exclaiming how gorgeous it was outside, I couldn’t bear another minute at my computer and left the former church and synagogue that is our building.  The old stone structure sits on a narrow street lined with homes built in the 1800’s or early 1900’s, a mixture of federal styles and Queen Annes and Edwardians, most of which have seen better days.  (Fortunately, some have been bought by people who are trying to restore them to their former beauty.)  As spring progresses, I’ll be looking for heirloom flowers and shrubs in those old yards.

And I was not unrewarded even on this early spring walk.  When I first glimpsed the patch of Persian speedwell, I experienced the “thrill” that Anne of Green Gables describes whenever she discovers flowers in bloom.  Hundreds of tiny, bright blue flowers greeted me with shining faces in the sun—slightly clownish with their almost-but-not-quite symmetrical shape, their deep blue outer stripes and bright white centers, the two miniscule stamens with their tiny-but-prominent penis-headed anthers.  (Flowers are the sex organs of plants, after all.)

I knew this particular speedwell (Veronica persica) but had never seen it in mats of this size.  This one was up to a yard wide and several yards long, appearing in what must have once been a border garden along a stone wall.  Or perhaps the homeowner (or one in the past) is a kindred spirit who decided to fill that border with these tiny but beautiful blue flowers.

I first saw this version of speedwell in a garden I’d dug in my front yard two summers ago.  That is the sunniest spot in my aforesaid-shadowy yard, so I couldn’t afford lawn.  I hand-tilled the grass and planted flowers and a few vegetables.  The Persian speedwell—also called birds-eye speedwell—popped up almost immediately in the disturbed ground, and it was love at first sight.  (It makes weeding so much easier when one appreciates the weeds!)

Now that I’ve researched the flower, I realize it’s considered invasive and undesirable by farmers and people with “perfect” lawns, but I’d be happy to have my entire yard covered with it.  With its matting habit and low height, I’d never have to mow.  I’d be blessed by an emerald-green lawn often liberally sprinkled with sky blue flowers.

That dichotomy is expressed in an article by the Oregon Extension Service, which describes speedwells’ damaging competition with crops and its potential use as an ingredient in a grass and broadleaf mix that would be require less water and fewer pesticides than what has been marketed in the past.  A good, green choice.

Last Wednesday’s patch grew in front of a grand old Victorian, a huge place with turrets and bump-outs and a wrap-around porch.  The Victorian’s yard was retained at four feet above street level by an old stone wall and concrete steps.  The late afternoon sun radiated warmth, and I imagine the wall absorbed that heat and gently baked the soil beside it.  In that warm soil, these first tiny flowers of spring bloomed cheerily in their St. Patty’s-Day green, frilly foliage.

Speedwell likes to grow in yards and waste places, and the number of varieties in the species can make identification a challenge.  Growing beside what I’d already ID’d as the Persian speedwell was a nearly identical, but much smaller variety.  The type I’d first encountered in my yard—years before the Persian—had turned out to be thyme-leaved speedwell, which had even smaller blooms, with darker blue stripes and straighter-edged leaves than the scalloped leaves of both these varieties.  Eventually, after looking through several field guides and Web sites, I was certain this smaller twin of the Persian is green field speedwell (S. agrestis).  I do welcome corrections, though!

Whenever I discover a new plant, I identify it scientifically (and hopefully accurately), research its medicinal and other useful properties, and then turn to the etymology of its various names.  Finally, I look at its folklore.  Sometimes, of course, this happens all at once, depending on the source.

Veronica is the plant’s scientific name—one of the prettiest I know!  (Even if I couldn’t stand raven-haired Veronica in the Archie comics.)  Supposedly, this pretty name refers to the woman who wiped blood from Jesus’s brow as he carried his cross.  “Ever afterwards,” writes Julia W. Henshaw in Mountain Wildflowers of North America, “her kerchief bore the vera iconica, ‘the true likeness,’ of his sacred features.”  “Vera iconica” is actually a mixture of Greek and Latin terms.

According to Hensaw, “The Dutch call this plant ‘Honour and Praise,’ because it was once upon a time believed to contain valuable medicinal properties.”  “Honor and praise” certainly complement “true image.”

Actually, though, Hensaw was there referring not to the Persian but to the common speedwell, Veronica officinalis.  Officinalis as a variety name means that plant was once used by apothecaries for “official” medicinal purposes.  Common speedwell, or Veronica, as I prefer—because it may well be the most beautiful of all the speedwells (if one were forced to choose) and therefore deserves the species name—is ascribed a long list of healing properties.  In A Russian Herbal, for instance, the authors claim it is beneficial for numerous ills of the intestinal and respiratory tracts, gout, gallstones, kidney stones, skin conditions such as eczema, burns, wounds, and is also known to “relieve headache, calm nervousness, and treat insomnia.”  Other sources list even more ailments it ameliorates. That’s some plant!

But what I most love about the common speedwell is its uncommon beauty.  A mere six inches high, it stands mostly erect and is covered in a fountain of tiny lavender blooms—a miniature delphinium, I like to think of it, as it reminds me of that elegant garden dream.  I first found my mini-version hiding in waist-high grasses during one of my walks, and I literally fell to the ground in a sort of Anne-of-Green-Gables-like swoon.  A few days later, a dozen or so of these delicate plants arrived in my yard. I prefer to use this plant’s common name “Veronica” than to call it “common speedwell.”  It is a fairy princess’s flower if ever there was one.  (When it appears in my yard, I'll post photos.  Meanwhile, try a Google image search for it!)

But back to the speedwells I found on last Wednesday’s walk.  The Persian’s variety name, “persica,” of course, refers to the variety’s supposed homeland.  For the green field speedwell, “Agrestis,” appropriately enough, is Latin for “rustic, wild, of the fields”; the term can also be extended to mean “boorish” or “a clod”—but not, I feel safe saying, when referring to the pretty little flower.  Though perhaps a farmer would disagree.

And “Speedwell?”  What of that name?  I’ve read a number of different possibilities for why the plant has been so known for centuries in England.  The term either refers to the flower’s speedy healing properties, its ability to spread rapidly in tilled soils, or its use in nosegays and tussie-mussies, which were often given as farewell gifts with the warm words, “Speedwell.”  History buffs know that “Speedwell” was also the name given to a ship that was supposed to sail with the Mayflower but didn’t leave Europe until many years later.  According to Betty Tar Mackey in How Stuff Works, “In Ireland, a bit of the perennial plant was pinned onto clothes to keep travelers from accidents.”  Its healing properties were also highly extolled in Ireland.

No matter the origin of its common name, I hope the plant speeds well to cover large parts of my yard with its diminutive charms.  I intend to cultivate it to that purpose.  And I hope it is joined by its cousins, especially the lovely Veronica, not at all a common plant to me.  Until then, my friends, speed thee well to spring and summer fun and flowers!

[P.S.  I don't have a great camera OR Lisa Sheirer's amazing eye--I hope Lisa posts some speedwell photos to her Flickrstream soon!  I will upload some to this article if she does, with her permission, of course.]