A Red Columbine seed head. (Image: Brendan McGarry)

I was doing laundry, dutifully emptying my pants pockets, when I came upon a little cache of seeds. Nestled into the seam was a handful of little roundish dark things that felt like pebbles when I probed the outside of the pocket. I knew exactly where they came from — the Red Columbine, Aquilegia formosa, I planted a couple years ago. At some point, I had walked by them, noticed a few lingering seeds in their cup-like seedheads, and emptied them into my pocket.

Tucking seeds away into any available container has become almost habitual for me over the past couple of years. It’s gotten to the point where I have to remind myself that I don’t need more seeds of certain plants. Now, I stow little baggies and old mint tins in my car and every bag I own. More than once this year I have found myself using a (clean, unused) dog poop bag to collect some choice seeds while walking the pooch.

It would be entirely fair to question this behavior. But it’s not new to me, or people, and it’s not clutchy hoarding — or, at least, not when I reign it in. I have been doing this in the little vegetable gardens I’ve had in my various homes over the years. Letting my kale, peas, and lettuce go to seed and collecting next year’s garden feels like a no-brainer and also supports pollinators.

What plunged humans into agriculture and in turn, year-round habitations around 12,000 years ago, was the knowledge of how to effectively grow plants from seed. There’s strong evidence that the first selective seed harvesting may have begun over 30,000 years ago, long before the dawn of agriculture. The food you buy from the grocery store literally rests on the knowledge our ancestors carried with them for generations. So to some degree I am just being a human.

But, why save seeds and not just buy them? There are many reasons to support certain seed producers — they have higher QC, their scaling and focus on growing seed means you can access more varieties with less fuss, and generally small businesses safeguarding heirloom plants are worth investing in.

In my instance, I am doing it as a low cost way to spread more native plants across my yard.

Saving seeds is extremely anti-capitalist, because the general movement encourages us to share and steward plant genetics outside of the economy. Seeds you collected from that heirloom variety of bean you grew on Capitol Hill might be fun to mail out to a friend who lives in New Jersey. Or you might want to bring them to the King County Seed Library or a seed swap event. I can’t always afford to buy every single plant I’d like to try growing or want to spread across certain areas of the yard but I can afford to make a few new friends.

Spiky seeds from Common Fiddleneck (Amsinckia menziesii), an annual native that suddenly appeared in a weedy patch of my yard. I gave it space, let it go to seed, and collected some. (Image: Brendan McGarry)

You know inherently that seeds from different plants are far from the same (even if they do all generally have a seed covering and embryonic roots and leaves). The Scarlet Oak acorns you skate across on the pavement are very different from the perfect globes of dandelion seed heads, each seed with their own parasol. Those shapes and sizes meet the needs of the plant, and have been shifting and improving over millions of years. The acorn keeps well and is buried in perfect medium by a forgetful squirrel, where the hard cover eventually breaks down for springtime germination. The dandelion, plucked by a Cal Anderson reveler, is blown across the grass by gust of breath, and parachutes into a bit of soil and moisture and immediately begins to germinate assuming the temperature is even moderate. Plants approach seed dispersal and germination in so many different ways, seeking out the right balance of temperature, light, air, and more for their success (which is tied to their natural environment). To collect, save, and grow plants by seed you need to have good knowledge of the plant, native or otherwise, which is part of the fun.

I’ll admit that when I first started experimenting with saving seeds, I wasn’t particularly methodical. I just tossed different species in their own trays one fall (at a depth approximately three times the seed size), watered them in, and crossed my fingers. The following spring I waited anxiously, picking out obvious interlopers from my flats. I was happy that the Great Camas, Camassia leichtlinii, seeds I collected from a friend’s garden enjoyed the cold, wet couple of months in the ground and stuck up their single cotyledon (that first, embryonic leaf). The Spring Gold, Lomatium utriculatum, seeds were a bust, not because of the wintering (what propagators call moist stratification), but because of the depth of my seed trays. Various Lomatium species have been important food for indigenous people wherever they grow because of their edible taproot, which requires deep soil. Unsurprisingly, I got an entire flat of Fringecup, Tellima grandiflora, which is one of those native plants that grows like a weed and can hang in among our urban medley of introduced forbes. Some of them even germinated that fall, but died during a hard frost. Thus I learned that I can just seed Fringecup in early spring and save space for seeds that actually need to overwinter, like the camas.

Because botanists and gardeners are extremely generous types, there is a wealth of information about how to successfully grow plants from seed (or from cuttings) on the internet. (Here’s a really nice guide for PNW natives produced by the Natural Resources Conservation Service.)  Over the past couple of years I have gotten a lot better at this process because I started actually thinking about the plants I wanted to grow and sought out good info (hint: seed suppliers typically want you to be successful and share that info readily). After failing to get lupine to grow two years in a row I finally realized that their hard seed covering needs to be scarified to increase the chance of germination, which can be done with sandpaper or hot water (but would happen naturally by passing through an animal’s digestive tract or with environmental inputs like acidic soil or abrasion).

This seed saving, native plant propagation bent follows you around, and be warned that if you start, you might end up with seeds all over the place. I currently have the fruit from native honeysuckle sitting in a bag on my desk, and earlier today I covered myself in goldenrod seeds when I attempted to spread them in another part of the yard (frankly if I just leave them alone they germinate where they like and I can transplant them later). The benefits are many and the practice gives me a deeper relationship with whatever I am choosing to collect and grow. Seeing native bees visiting flowers I grew from seed, a caterpillar eating willow I started from a cutting, or Song Sparrows eating seed left on a plant is a deeper reminder of the value beyond just being a nature nerd.

Hairy Honeysuck, Lonicera hispidula, that I respectfully took a few berries from in August. (Image: Brendan McGarry)

For some plants we are right on the cusp of good seed collecting and others are well past due (something that flowers in April is well done by now). I know the season is ending when I watch feathery Fireweed seeds blowing down my street. Yet, the Selfheal, Prunella vulgaris, around my yard has copious seed heads that rattle every time I walk by. The Large-leaved Avens, Geum macrophyllum, I transplanted from a scungy ditch near my house has easily collectible seed to spare. Both are good candidates for first tries at this stuff because they are common, easy to find (hint: use iNaturalist), and easy to grow.

The author’s hand, covered in seeds from Trailplant, Adenocaulon bicolor. This unassuming native clearly seeks transit on passersby with sticky seeds. I took these home, dried them, and successfully grew them this spring. (Image: Brendan McGarry)

Before you start collecting, I’d encourage a little reading. There are more issues at hand than simply “are you allowed by the landowner.” (And also, I don’t ask permission for collecting plant seeds that will eventually be weed whacked by a parks crew, but that’s just me). Avoid collecting from rare plants, or struggling remnant populations, and always be modest in the amount you collect (a good guideline is for every 20 seeds take only one). While it’s all fun and games, reducing natural recruitment of native plants and depriving animals of important food is definitely not the assignment. Robin Wall Kimmerer and the Colorado Native Plant Society have some nice words on the subject.

The season’s drawdown is really a time of peak productivity, even as we watch the world get ready to rest. I have a lot of seeds I have collected from our garden, from friends, from seed growers (I like Northwest Meadowscapes), and from a few thoughtfully scoped out wild plants. There are a lot of hopes for next spring, which I guess is what it’s like to be a seed.

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