Paulownia: A Princess with Laughable Leaves

“What’s a nice girl like me doing with a leaf like you?” I asked the biggest leaf on my princess tree (Paulownia tomentosa) the other day.

“Whaddya mean?” she answered with attitude.

“You’re wrinkled, you’re sticky, you’re big and hairy.What’s to like?” I replied.

“You love me,” she said simply. And she was right.

In my summer garden, I can’t resist a leaf that’s 33 inches long and 31 inches wide, even if ugly is one way to describe it. For me it’s a big deal. I live in New Hampshire, where tropical-looking plants are rare. In fact, they’re conversation pieces, and I’ve met many neighbors and passers-by when they gape at the princess tree by the road.

Why princess tree and why me? I like trees, and I like pruning.

To get my tree to look the way it does, I used a pruning technique known as coppicing. I whack it back to the ground each September when the foliage dies at the first or second frost. Each spring, new shoots arise. I let them grow, then pick a few straight ones and cut out the rest. The remaining shoots grow fast–the plant is usually 15 or more feet by summer’s end. But because I out the shoots every year, my princess tree never has a chance to flower or reproduce. Thus all its energy goes into shoot growth and into the foliage, which looks like munchies from the Age of the Dinosaurs.

Now you may have heard of Paulownia, and what you heard probably wasn’t good. This Asian tree produces lightweight valuable wood. If left on its own, it grows about 45 feet high and wide in Zones 5B-9, producing grand clusters of purple flowers and jumbo seeds, which are messy when they drop.

Yet it’s a weedy invasive from Massachusetts to Texas when it goes to seed, and I wouldn’t grow it in those states. My tree, however, never has a chance to set seed and reproduce. For me it’s a folly and a conversation piece, and it gives me a chance to explain ornamental coppicing to strangers.

“Hey, why aren’t you paying attention to me?” said my persistent princess, interrupting my train of thought.

She’s right. I should pay attention. In three or four weeks, she’ll be gone–just a jumbo mirage from the spectacular summer of 2010.