Several weeks ago, as I was prepping for a local shade tree tour, one of the tour organizers sent me a picture of a “mystery tree” that was growing on private property on our chosen route. The picture showed little, except very large green leaves. I thought the tree might be some kind of catalpa, a genus that features impressive foliage, except that catalpa leaves are usually heart-shaped and the picture did not seem to show that.
I didn’t see the tree in person until I was actually on the tour and accompanied by about twenty-five enthusiastic tree lovers. When I saw the “mystery tree”, a voice in my head said “magnolia”, but did not specify a species. There are a large number of magnolia species in commerce, and an even larger number of cultivars, so identification beyond the genus level can sometimes be a challenge. Clearly the voice in my head was not up to it.
I was saved by the homeowner, who emerged from the house behind the “mystery tree” just as our group was passing. She indentified the tree as a “cucumber magnolia” or Magnolia acuminata, a species that is native to the eastern United States and hardy in my USDA Zone 7a locale, but not common. The last one I saw was at the historic Bartram’s Garden outside of Philadelphia. At the time, in 2009, the tree was almost 170 years old. Sadly, it was toppled by a sudden, severe storm the following year. “Sic transit gloria mundi,” as they say—So passes the glory of this world.
Sometimes known as “cucumber tree”, the cucumber magnolia got its nickname from the bumpy, seed cones, which, in their green, juvenile state reminded some fanciful individual of cucumbers. The supersize leaves are generally elliptical and can grow up to ten inches long and half as wide. The trees themselves may boast equally impressive dimensions. Left to their own devices, they grow fifty to eighty feet tall, with a pyramidal form. Clearly it is a tree to be reckoned with and planted in spaces that can accommodate its mature dimensions. This may be why my suburb is not home to more cucumber trees.
Like many magnolias, the cucumber has showy, fragrant flowers, which might remind you of the similar blossoms of the related tulip tree or Liriodendron tulipifera. Borne in late spring, they are goblet-shaped and normally pale greenish in color. The only problem is that the flowers appear high on the tree and are often camouflaged by the large leaves, especially in the early spring, when those leaves are clad in fresh green.
That pale green color may not help onlookers who want to celebrate the flowers, but it has proved useful to plant breeders who have long searched for a yellow-flowered magnolia. A smaller, somewhat bushy Magnolia acuminata variety, subcordata, was crossed with a white-flowered Chinese species, Yulan magnolia or Magnolia denudata. The offspring of these crosses included some of the best yellow-flowered magnolias on the market. In my own backyard, one of these cucumber/Yulan children, ‘Elizabeth’ produces scores of tulip-shaped, butter yellow flowers each spring on a tall, relatively compact tree. It is inspiring to stand within site of the tree late in the day and see the sun shining through the yellow petals.
Cucumber magnolias boast distinguished historical connections, including one to Thomas Jefferson, who once requested some young plants from pioneering nurseryman John Bartram, in whose garden I met my first cucumber tree. Bartram also sent seeds to friends in England, who introduced the tree there to great acclaim. Jefferson went on to plant acuminata seeds in his Monticello nursery in 1810. I do not know for certain, but I’ll wager there are cucumber magnolias still growing at Monticello.
Even when cucumber magnolia trees die, they live on in fine-grained wood that is often transformed into boxes, furniture or carved sculptures. The silver lining in the cloud that enveloped Bartram’s Garden after the great storm of 2010 was partly attributed to the fact that the wood of the downed cucumber tree was transformed into sculptures by over 40 artists, all of whom paid homage, in one way or another, to John Bartram. The sculptures were exhibited at a Philadelphia gallery in 2014.
I already have one magnolia on my property and there is hardly room for another rose bush, let alone something as majestic as a cucumber magnolia. Even though I can’t satisfy my acquisitive nature, I take comfort in the fact that since solving the riddle of the “mystery tree’s” origins, I at least know where to find one the next time I need a dose of magnolia inspiration.