All About Mayapple

Early one May morning a long time ago, in the damp open woods of southeast Kentucky’s Appalachian mountains, she was crouched over a plant that had leaves like umbrellas.  The plant was just about a foot tall and she was looking  low on its stalk.

“This here’s the Mayapple,” she said, “look here beneath the leaves and you’ll see its one single bloom. We’ll mark it now, cause come fall when it’s all died back, we’ll want to find its roots.”

I peeked at the hidden bloom while I listened to the rhythm of her soft voice. Her stories were the best part of our treks up those mountains.

“Long time ago, it’s said a young Indyun man was taken by sadness.   He’d been shamed in battle, had lost his woman, and no more did he want to live. He ate the plant, just like you see it here, and fell to sleep right where he lay. He never woke up no more.  They left him layin’ there, an’ in time the Mayapples covered him. Others of his friends who had bitterness in their lives, followed him, ate the Mayapple,  laid down beside him and  their bodies formed mounds where the Mayapples now grow.  Come fall, we’ll come back and gather some roots, they make good skin medicine.”

I looked around at the mounds on the forest floor.

“You can’t dig those roots, Aunt Bett, I’m too scared to see the Indyun bones.”

“Cain’t see those bones no more, chile,” she said, “they soaked into the roots and that’s what gives the Mayapple its healing powers.”

I shivered in the early morning air.

She used a rock to pound a long stick into the moist ground beside the stalks of leaves shaped like umbrellas.  I cringed thinking of the bones that stake might drive into. Then she reached her hand to me and I dug in the pocket of my overalls for the remains of one of my bright blue hair ribbons. She tied it to the stick.

“We’re markin’ our spot and come summer we’ll come back when the fruit is ripe. I’ll give you a small taste, but only if it’s ripe. I don’t want you to sleep forever like the Indyun boys did.  Then come fall, we’ll come back and dig up some of them roots.”

“That’s OK, Aunt Bett. I don’t reckon I need to taste none of that fruit,” I said, a little panic stricken. I sure didn’t want to become a mound of bones beneath the Mayapple blooms.

Those stories were my Aunt Bett’s way of making sure I was never tempted to taste a toxic plant. I might forget the name of the plant, but I never forgot its bloom nor her stories.   When fall arrived, I watched closely as she dug up the long slender roots of the Mayapple, thinking to myself that they looked a lot like long dark skinned fingers.

The Mayapple is native to North America, it grows in wetlands and in damp woods. Its dainty white blooms appear in May and it bears its fruit in August.  Once when I was feeling quite brave, Aunt Bett gave me a tiny taste of the ripened fruit.  It was much like a sweet cucumber, I remember, with a dash of lemon sprinkled in. I also remember thinking that if something was going to kill me, I’d much rather my last meal be more to my liking, maybe chocolate.

Contrary to the beauty of its bloom and its foliage, and contrary to the mildly pleasant taste of the ripe fruit, ingestion of the Mayapple can be fatal.  Medicinally it was used by those same Native Americans as an emetic, but even then there were possibly more who were killed than who were cured.

There are indications that those same Native Americans may have used the powdered root as an insecticide on their crops. Some say they soaked their seeds in a decoction made from the root to protect the seeds from pests.  Of course records were not kept in those days and it’s the legends and the lore that made their way to me. I only know for sure that the plant is highly toxic.

But in fall Aunt Bett and I climbed that mountain once more and dug up the finger-like roots after the foliage had died down.  Aunt Bett dried them and later pounded them to a powder that was mixed into a salve to cure warts and other skin eruptions.  The resin from the roots of the Mayapple makes it effective against warts.   Aunt Bett  never let me help her pound the root, she was always afraid it would get into my eyes.  I learned to be cautious around the Mayapple.

Podophyllum peltatum, the botanical name for Mayapple, comes from the Greek words podos and phyllon, meaning foot-shaped leaves. When translated into English, the term peltatum means ‘shield-like’.

In early days, and upon the advice of the Native Americans, the colonists continued to use the root of the Mayapple as an insecticide. Later it was used as an ingredient for preparing a laxative and sold over the counter as a medicine known as ‘Carter’s Little Liver Pills”. Some contemporary herbal practitioners use extracts from the Mayapple plant on the skin’s surface to cure warts or moles and also sometimes to combat skin cancers.

The root is currently used in cancer medications and may have commercial potential as a cultivated plant.  It contains podophyllin, which has an antimiotic effect (interferes with cell division and prevents cell growth).

Of course the herb is no longer taken internally owing to its toxicity, but it has been proven that the root can be beneficial in treating all types of moles and warts if cream or ointment prepared from it is applied externally.

In May of this year I found myself wandering the woods near the Amana Colonies in Iowa. My host, Larry Rettig, and I found the Mayapples blooming, and much like Aunt Bett years ago, I found myself on my hands and knees looking at the dainty bloom beneath the umbrella leaves.  I looked around and sure enough, there were mounds surrounding the clump of Mayapples.  The memories came back in shivers on my skin and later when I came home and looked at the photos I took that day in Iowa, I could hear Aunt Bett’s low melodic voice saying:

“Cain’t see those bones no more, chile,” she said, “they soaked into the roots and that’s what gives the Mayapple its healing powers.”

I guess we’ll never really know, now will we?