There is a Conocarpodendron bush at my grandmother Joan’s old house, Bietou, shortened to B2, in Cliff Road, Betty’s Bay. It’s not the first thing you notice when you walk up to the front door. It sits tucked away in the corner of the front garden, shielding the house from the road. Many grandchildren across the years have hidden among its branches in exciting games of hide-and-seek. It provided shade for lazy afternoons of reading, for those who enjoyed sitting on the grass. I was surprised to learn that Joan, an avid gardener, did not plant this particular plant. According to my aunt, Jenny Smitheman, it self-seeded after the terrible Betty’s Bay fire in the summer of 1970, where many houses were destroyed. It was growing there when B2 was built in 1977, although Jenny doesn’t recall noticing how big it was then while she was tidying up the builders’ rubble during the construction. That the bush was growing there before the house sort of makes it a very long-time family friend.
In Joan’s journals, I was very interested to read how my brothers and I thoroughly enjoyed hiding among the branches or roots of the Conocarpodendron bush when we were young. It felt like our own secret hiding place, and I believe Joan even joined us at times to tell us stories. The lowest branches had grown high enough from the ground, allowing enough space for us to crawl underneath and sit beneath the branches. I visited it with my father very recently, and we were both astounded by the thickness of the main trunk (approximately 40 cm), supporting a nearly 6 metre wide canopy of leaves and flowers. Beautiful flowers which Cape Sugarbirds, baboons, and bumble bees enjoy. Joan’s poem mentions how the sugarbirds love the “nectar deep inside” the flowers the conocarpodendron produces. Clearly, the bush is not only a source of joy for us humans, but is still a vital source of food for the beautiful birds that we enjoy seeing here at Betty’s Bay.
I had never before questioned where the Conocarpodendron had come from. I suppose I’d always thought it had been planted by Joan in her many enjoyable, relaxing gardening afternoons. The 1970 fire possibly caused smoke saturation in the seeds, which Joan believed enhanced germination. She used the same method for other Conocarpodendron seeds she planted. According to Jenny: “she got all the grandchildren to collect the dry heads, pull them apart and find the seeds, which she took to the [Harold Porter Botanical Gardens to be cultivated. They gave her seeds back after they had smoke-treated them.” I remember such an occasion myself. Joan got my brothers and me to help remove the flowers from that bush and pile them onto the floor in the middle of the lounge at B2. We sat around her, grabbing the flower heads, breaking them open, picking the seeds out, and putting them into plastic buckets. It was great fun.
The bush grew due to random chance after a devastating natural disaster. I appreciate all the very happy memories I have of that bush and what it meant to my grandmother, and I’m strangely glad I discovered she didn’t plant it. The natural, spontaneous sprouting allows it to be a symbol to me of how Nature finds a way to bring renewal and growth, even when tragedy strikes – like that fire. In that growth, there’s hope for the future. I hope you enjoyed reading about this Conocarpodendron as much as I enjoyed writing about it.
CON-O-CAR-PO-DEN-DRON
by Joan Norton
What a lovely word!
“And how we love your flowers!”
Says the Long-tailed Sugarbird.
“They’re yellow and they’re spiky
And there’s nectar deep inside.
And in your dark green bushes
Our babies’ nests can hide.”
Each bush is big and rounded
And almost like a tree.
At Betty’s Bay they’re growing
On the ridges by the sea.
If you’ve ever been to B2, you’ll have seen them in front of the house.
Tony Norton