I cherish the names of this straggly shrub: poverty weed, Roosevelt weed, New Deal weed, false willow, seep willow, and the Latin, Baccharis neglecta--so called, I suppose, because it seems to grow in the most neglected places, or perhaps because it grows perfectly well on its own, regardless of whether it is cared for or even noticed. Or perhaps because it is indifferent to, or careless of, whatever attention might be paid to it.
Roosevelt weed? New Deal weed? Poverty weed? I'm told that this Baccharis earned these names during the Dirty Thirties when the the shrub was planted for erosion control throughout the Dust Bowl. It grows fast, spreads quickly, and thrives in poor soil (neglecta, yes), so it admirably did the job it was meant to do. Here at Meadowknoll, it grows along the fence, in an area that's always marshy during the rainy season--hence, seep willow.
But B. neglecta is probably not a plant you'd want in your garden. It's a water hog with a straggly habit, and is pretty for only a few weeks of the year. But just ask a bee or wasp or beetle or butterfly what they think about this weed. You'll get an earful. In the fall, the plants are covered with creamy white blossoms, producing a nectar that summons every bug with a sweet tooth for miles around. It's a delight to stand in our poverty weed patch and listen to the buzzing of happy insects sipping their rich treats.
And Baccharis has plenty of other uses, according to one of my favorite sources, Daniel's Moerman's Native American Ethnobotany. The Navajo used Baccharis wrightii as a venereal medicine ("Strong decoction of plant taken in large amounts for sexual infection") and as a "ceremonial emetic"--internal cleansing. The Cahuillas used the leaves to make an eyewash and a remedy for baldness, while the Hualapai applied hot poultices of the leaves to swellings, and made a cold infusion to bathe the temples as a headache treatment. So I've resolved to pay B. neglecta a little closer attention--and a little more respect.
Reading note. The trouble with writing about the wilderness is that there is almost none of it left, and so, although more and more writers are born, grow up and appear in print, fewer and fewer can possibly have even an approximate acquaintance with the wild destroyed world on whose splinters we stand.--Edward Hoagland