The Ice Cream Vine: Colonel Johnston’s Tropical Wonderland

July 9, 1926

On this day, dear readers, the Green Bay Press-Gazette regaled its readers with a most extraordinary tale titled "Ice Cream Grown on Vine in the yard of Former Kentuckian."

One cannot help but be intrigued by such a headline, dear readers, for it promises the sort of botanical wizardry that would make even the most seasoned gardener raise an eyebrow in delicious skepticism.

The subject of this horticultural marvel was none other than Colonel Henry Wallace Johnston, a gentleman who, until his fiftieth year, had contented himself with the mundane business of hardware in Lebanon, Kentucky. But as is often the case with those possessed of exceptional vision, the ordinary would not suffice! At the precipice of middle age—when most men settle comfortably into their well-worn habits—our daring Colonel uprooted his life entirely and transplanted himself to the fertile soils of Homestead, Florida.

In 1912, with the audacity that only the truly passionate possess, Johnston established a 20-acre kingdom of botanical wonders christened "Palm Lodge Tropical Grove." The Colonel, ever mindful of appearances, dressed for his self-appointed role with theatrical precision—sporting a tropical ensemble crowned with a white helmet, looking for all the world as though he had triumphantly emerged from an expedition in the wilds of some board game adventure!

Known in whispered reverence as the "Wizard of Palm Lodge" or "Florida's Burbank" (a comparison to California's famed Luther Burbank that I assure you was not bestowed lightly), Johnston amassed over 8,000 specimens of tropical fruits and flowers, many of which had never before deigned to grace American soil. While the Colonel never ventured beyond America's borders, his genius for promotion was unrivaled. Allow me to share some of the more deliciously scandalous tales of his botanical empire:

He bestowed the provocatively named "lipstick tree" upon an unsuspecting public.

Among his treasures was a flower producing a scent so bewitching it could only be called the "Scent of Lilith"—a name that surely set tongues wagging in proper society.

The Colonel delighted in demonstrating the Dumb Cane tree from Cambodia, warning visitors with theatrical gravity that a single bite of its leaves would render one's tongue utterly paralyzed for six long weeks!

When Harvey Firestone and Henry Ford returned from Madagascar with rubber plant specimens, fate cruelly destroyed their botanical souvenirs—yet our Colonel's plants thrived magnificently.

One cannot help but wonder at such a coincidence!

His Palestine tree fruit was coddled in cellophane while still on the branch—a practice that seems suspiciously like dressing one's children in formal wear before they've learned to walk—allegedly to protect against insects before being employed in religious rituals by rabbis.

Perhaps most whimsically, his gingerbread palm produced fruit that—can you imagine?—tasted precisely of gingerbread, as though Nature herself had decided to venture into confectionery.

The Colonel's botanical prowess was such that he supplied nearly all tropical exhibits for Florida at the Chicago World's Fair, a fact he was undoubtedly modest about mentioning at every possible opportunity.

Each of the Colonel's green treasures was grown from seed—no shortcuts for our botanical virtuoso!

Not content with merely growing curiosities, Johnston produced nearly 300 varieties of fruits and jellies, all packaged within his verdant domain.

The Colonel maintained a 15-acre aloe vera plantation and, by 1920, harvested leaves with such tender care that each was individually wrapped to prevent their precious jelly from escaping—a level of attention that most mothers do not lavish upon their own children.

And yes, dear readers, the pièce de résistance: the infamous "ice cream vine," known to botanists as monstera deliciosa.

This peculiar fruit, resembling a giant ear of corn without its modest covering, allegedly tantalized the palate with flavors of banana, strawberry, and pineapple combined—Nature's own attempt at a dessert menu!

Palm Lodge stood as Florida's premier attraction, with the Colonel magnanimously charging no admission. Homestead's Chamber of Commerce reported that 30,000 visitors, including serious botanists (who presumably maintained straight faces throughout), passed through its gates annually. On one particularly bustling day, after entertaining 2,000 guests, the register revealed that Henry Ford himself had wandered among the throng, unrecognized—perhaps the only time in that gentleman's life when he was not the center of attention!

One cannot help but wonder, dear gardeners, what other botanical marvels await discovery in our own modest plots.

Though we may not all dress in tropical helmets or claim to grow desserts on vines, the Colonel's spirit of experimentation might inspire us to look at our gardens with fresh eyes.

After all, if a hardware merchant from Kentucky can reinvent himself as Florida's botanical wizard, what might be possible in your own backyard?