Blooms and Binomials: Celebrating Carl Linnaeus’ Botanical Legacy

May 23, 1707

On this day, a babe was born who would grow to become the most meticulous gardener in history.

Not content with merely tending to plants, he would go on to name them all. Ladies and gentlemen, I speak of none other than Carl Linnaeus, the future Father of Taxonomy.

Picture, if you will, a world where every flower, shrub, and tree stood nameless in our gardens.

A chaos of greenery, unmarked and unchristened. Such was the botanical bedlam that reigned before our dear Linnaeus took up his quill.

As a child, young Carl found solace in the gentle embrace of petals. Legend has it that whenever he was upset, a simple flower would soothe his tempestuous spirit. Who among us hasn't felt the calming effect of a garden in full bloom?

On May 1st, 1753, Linnaeus unveiled his magnum opus, Species Plantarum, a work that would send ripples through the pond of natural history forevermore.

His system of binomial nomenclature gave each species a surname (the genus) and a given name (the species), much like the lords and ladies of our finest gardens.

Linnaeus himself proudly mused,

"God created, Linnaeus ordered."

And order he did, with such conviction that his classifications, marked by an "L." after their name, endure to this day.

But let us delve deeper into the life of this remarkable man, for there are tales yet untold that may cause even the most stoic of gardeners to raise an eyebrow.

Did you know, dear readers, that it was our very own Linnaeus who reversed the scale of the Centigrade thermometer?

Yes, the same instrument we consult daily to ensure our tender plants don't succumb to frost.

His friend Anders Celsius had created it with water boiling at 0 degrees and freezing at 100.

Linnaeus, with his penchant for order, saw fit to reverse this scale, gifting us the more logical arrangement we use today.

And what of the Asiatic Dayflower, Commelina communis?

Its genus bears a touching tribute to the Commelin brothers, two of whom achieved botanical greatness while the third perished before his time.

Linnaeus, in a stroke of poetic genius, wrote:

"Commelina has 3 petals, two of which are showy where the third is not conspicuous"

Next time you spy this bloom near water in your garden, with its two large blue petals and one diminutive white one, pause to remember the Commelins and Linnaeus' tender memorialization.

But Linnaeus was not content with merely naming the flora of the world.

On a journey to Lapland, he acquired a raccoon named Sjupp, a creature he described as "tremendously stubborn." This furry companion opened Linnaeus' eyes to the possibility of classifying animals as well as plants. He first dubbed raccoons Ursus lotor, the washing bear, a charming moniker for these fastidious creatures.

Imagine, if you will, the botanical garden of Uppsala, where Linnaeus kept his raccoon. Students would find themselves pestered relentlessly if they dared carry raisins or nuts in their pockets. One can only wonder at the chaos that ensued when Sjupp was feeling particularly mischievous!

Linnaeus' life was not without its share of drama. Once, he found himself forced to flee Hamburg after exposing the mayor's prized "stuffed seven-headed hydra" as nothing more than a clever assemblage of snake and weasel carcasses. One can only imagine the scandal that ensued!

Of all the plants Linnaeus named – and there were over 8,000 – it was the humble Twinflower, Linnaea borealis, that he chose to bear his own name. This sweet, diminutive plant of the honeysuckle family, with its faint vanilla scent, became Sweden's national flower. What a fitting tribute to a man who found beauty in the tiniest details of nature.

As we tend to our gardens this spring, let us remember Carl Linnaeus, whose birthday we celebrate today. His legacy lives on in every Latin name we utter and in every plant we classify.

So the next time you find yourself pestered by weeds, instead of cursing their presence, why not pause to properly identify them?

After all, as Linnaeus might say, even the most troublesome plant deserves its proper name.

And what of Linnaeus' own collection, you ask?

A tale of intrigue follows it still. Upon his death in 1778, his belongings were sold, and Joseph Banks, president of the Linnean Society, swiftly acquired everything of horticultural value. As Linnaeus' notebooks and specimens sailed towards England, the king of Sweden, realizing the loss, dispatched a navy ship in hot pursuit.

Alas, it was too late! Banks' precious cargo reached London first, where it resides to this day at the Linnaeus Society's Burlington House.

So, dear gardeners, as you deadhead your roses or trim your topiaries, spare a thought for Carl Linnaeus.

For without him, we might still be pointing at plants and grunting, rather than waxing lyrical about our Rosa gallica or Buxus sempervirens!