Under the Mistletoe

One of my friends and co-workers, Julie, and I like to take short walks a couple times a day. We pass by the same cars, the same bushes, the same goose-poop, and the same trees day after day, month after month.

On one of our walks over the summer, I happened to glance up into the branches of a tree in the office parking lot and noticed something strange: a branch that didn't match the others. I asked Julie what it was and she said, "Oh, that's mistletoe."

At first I thought she was joking, because of course that's not how mistletoe happens to come about. Like babies coming into the world via the stork, mistletoe comes into the world when the Christmas Elves use their magic to make it, then it's wrapped in little plastic bags and is sold at Christmas-time, where the proceeds are used to support Santa's hot chocolate (with marshmallows) addiction. Everyone knows this. But she insisted that it was indeed mistletoe and that this is how it grows -- as a parasite on an unsuspecting healthy tree.

Coming from Maryland, this concept of mistletoe growing as a parasite on a tree was as easily fathomable as Oprah losing weight and keeping it off. Technically, Maryland is considered the "South" since it's below the Mason-Dixon line, but obviously -- aside from having Southern Bride magazine -- it's really not very southern. If mistletoe grows on trees in Maryland, I've sure never seen it.

Anyway, by the time we went on our next walk we thought for sure the landscaping company would have noticed the mistletoe and would have cut it out of the tree, but when we passed by and looked up into the branches, it was still there -- now with little berries starting to grow. Through the fall as the leaves fell off the host tree, we again thought for sure someone would notice the parasite and cut it out, but still the mistletoe grew and grew.

By the time we made it to November I started bringing my camera with me on our walks so I could chart the mistletoe's progress. First there were only leaves, and then there were two berries, then four. The mistletoe is strong and healthy, and to look at it -- except for the fact that it looks nothing like the surrounding branches -- you'd think it was truly part of that tree. It has grafted itself onto the branches and made itself at home. You can't tell where it ends and the tree begins.

After some deep scientific research on the subject (i.e. Wikipedia), I learned that this parasitic relationship is made possible by birds eating the mistletoe berries and excreting the seeds, which stick to the branches of whatever tree they happen to be perched on, and then the seeds harden and become part of the host branch. (With all the bird poop that gets aimed at cars, it's a good thing automobiles are not organic.) Here in North Carolina there are mistletoe patches everywhere you look, in virtually every kind of tree.

I think a fitting end to my mistletoe adventure will be to cut it down and bag up the pieces and sell them around the office, and then mail the money to Santa. His hot chocolate supply is probably running low.