#locoweed

[thebotanicalarcade]

The wikipedia page for this plant is one of the best things I have ever stumbled upon.

One of the common names is "devil's cucumber."

From the wikipedia page-

In the United States the plant is called "jimsonweed", or more rarely "Jamestown weed" deriving from the town of Jamestown, Virginia, where English soldiers consumed it while attempting to suppress Bacon's Rebellion. They spent 11 days in altered mental states:

The James-Town Weed (which resembles the Thorny Apple of Peru, and I take to be the plant so call'd) is supposed to be one of the greatest coolers in the world. This being an early plant, was gather'd very young for a boil'd salad, by some of the soldiers sent thither to quell the rebellion of Bacon (1676); and some of them ate plentifully of it, the effect of which was a very pleasant comedy, for they turned natural fools upon it for several days: one would blow up a feather in the air; another would dart straws at it with much fury; and another, stark naked, was sitting up in a corner like a monkey, grinning and making mows [grimaces] at them; a fourth would fondly kiss and paw his companions, and sneer in their faces with a countenance more antic than any in a Dutch droll. In this frantic condition they were confined, lest they should, in their folly, destroy themselves—though it was observed that all their actions were full of innocence and good nature. Indeed, they were not very cleanly; for they would have wallowed in their own excrements if they had not been prevented. A thousand such simple tricks they played, and after eleven days returned themselves again, not remembering anything that had passed.

— Robert Beverley, Jr., The History and Present State of Virginia, Book II: Of the Natural Product and Conveniencies in Its Unimprov'd State, Before the English Went Thither, 1705

The datura and it’s lore – these are the dark variant and curiosities prints from my March herbologist rewards 🌟🌛 this spiky little plant is one of the original witches weeds, used in poisonings and potions throughout history!

[stuners]

HERO DOSE $ Call Gas ⛽️💨

[susiecards]

7 of clubs

Purple Locoweed

[thingsifoundongeoguessr]

Locoweed

[ghostoffuturespast]

19 April 2024 - Friday Field Notes

Pond scum 🐸

Spiderweb with condensation and frost on the left and Golden Currant (Ribes aureum) on the right.

The prairie is largely still sleeping. We've had very wide ranging temperatures the past few weeks, everywhere between below freezing up to the low eighties, 30-80°F. And of course, it snowed yesterday lol.

Apart from the early spring bloomers, most of the plants seem to be biding their time for more consistent temps.

On the left, what I think, is Douglas's Sedge (Carex douglasii) and on the right, Purple Locoweed (Oxytropis lambertii)(Or is it a milkvetch? My coworkers and I have not come to a consensus, but Seek said locoweed, so I'll go with that for now. It's pretty, whoever they are).

Some of my native plant starts at my house have started germinating though! Which is exciting! I potted these back in mid-February and just left the trays outside to do their thing. A couple more weeks and, hopefully there'll be some more green.

[bambiraptorx]

I'm going to miss the nickname locoweed specifically to spite you

Honestly I wanna try and figure out a way to work it into the fic somehow because it's such a good, unserious name. Maybe Leo ends up with two flower nicknames from Draxum who knows. It would definitely be fun to include it somehow though

[lizardsaredinosaurs]

Fassett's Locoweed (Oxytropis campestris var. chartacea)

Wisconsin, USA

Status: Endangered

Threats: Limited range, habitat loss

dude this weed is like so loco

[todaysbug]

January 30th, 2023

Arctic Blue Butterfly (Agriades glandon)

Distribution: Found throughout North America and Eurasia. In North America, found from Alaska to Newfoundland, southward to northern Arizona and New Mexico; in Eurasia, found in mountainous regions of the Pyrenees and Alps, as well as further north.

Habitat: Found mainly in cold habitats, such as arctic tundras, subarctic and subalpine forests, mountain meadows and fields, rocky trails, and bogs. In southward regions, usually found in cooler mountainous areas.

Diet: Feed on plant nectar, like most butterflies; common food plants include small, alpine flowers such as rock jasmine, saxifrage, snowbell, locoweed, and plants of the Androsace and Vaccinium genuses.

Description: The arctic blue butterfly has many subspecies due to its wide distribution, with variations in its appearance depending on the population. Because it occurs in such cool regions, caterpillars and pupae overwinter in a state called diapause, where the metabolism is entirely halted until environmental conditions become more ideal for development.

Images by Robert Webster, Matt Rowling and Nicky Davis.

[rust-bearer]

In The Roots of the Spark

First Aid / Riptide Hanahaki, for @thebirdkiwi. 2K words comm.

On Earth, First Aid had encountered a flower with an interesting name. Astragalus, they called them. Milkvetch, goat’s-thorn, locoweed. First Aid remembered it well, because he’d brought a bundle of them back with him before he was stationed on Delphi. Other mechs that came to his clinic would sometimes ask after them, and First Aid answered honestly, that he just thought they looked interesting, that their clinical effects on humans were equally as interesting too. Quite a few mechs, though- the ones with an interest in that sort of thing- thought they were very pretty. First Aid remembered Ambulon had been one of them, and First Aid had mentioned that their English word meant something along the lines of bone, if you looked to the root of it, something somewhat medical if you imagined it. It had been one of the first things First Aid had ever said to Ambulon. 

The flowers died long before they made it to Delphi. First Aid hadn’t minded, really, but Ambulon had been… sad? Maybe. This was before First Aid had been able to know Ambulon like the back of his own servo, so the memory is foggy, and what might have been sadness could very well have been something else. It was just flowers, after all. But First Aid remembers it anyway. Just like he remembers trying to make it up to his new coworker, his friend- finding that book on flower poetry, from some time on Earth. Sending a copy to Ambulon too. Look, First Aid had said. Astragalus means, ‘your presence softens my pain’. 

Ambulon thought it was funny.

But it isn’t so funny now. 

Time passes and doesn’t stop moving forward, First Aid knows. Those flowers are long dead, and even their memory is fuzzy around the edges, just like how time will make Ambulon’s image into something faint. The adventure of the Lost Light is fun and daring, and the new dimension is something First Aid had never even thought possible, but it loses part of its luster as First Aid sits in the medical bay. Earth lays outside the window; humans from a different time, four deca-cycles earlier than First Aid had ever met them. Different vehicles on the road and different music on their radios. 

The same astragalus, on his desk. 

Riptide had come in earlier and brought them. He’d remembered them from all those years ago- First Aid can remember it now, too. Blue and white mech, standing in the clinic, peering curiously at the flowers in the vase, the way the pink petals caught blue optic-light. An excited smile. 

First Aid’s digit reaches out, brushes the petals carefully. His mask lays on the desk beside it, and one of the petals has already fallen off onto it, from where Riptide had tried to arrange them like he’d seen. First Aid smiles a little, but it disappears as he hears the medbay door open. And quickly, he slots his mask back on. He should get back to work.

—------------------------

The toxin in Astragalus is called Swainsonine. First Aid can’t find any studies on humans that deal with it, but there’s plenty on their horses. Lethargy, depression, erratic behavior, 

incoordination. First Aid has been looking these symptoms over on loop, because- because-

Because he’s looking in the mirror now, and his faceplate is off, and there’s a servoful of flower petals resting in his servo, ones he’s just coughed up. More than yesterday. 

Someone knocks on the door. First Aid frantically begins to scrub the petals down into the drain, and he knows Ultra Magnus would be having a fit if he knew what First Aid was doing. He manages to get them all down the drain, and he’s just starting the clean the pink stains from the edges of his mouth when the door opens, and Riptide peeks his head in.

“Oh! Sorry First Aid, I didn’t realize anyone was in here.” Riptide does look genuinely apologetic. But then his optics just barely manage to catch the sight of the stains on First Aid’s mouth, before First Aid covers it back up with his faceplate. “Woah- that doesn’t look good. Are you alright?” Riptide pushes into the bathroom a little, and First Aid has to take a step back. 

“I-” First Aid begins, and has to stop because his throat wants to cough rebelliously. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

It’s something, but First Aid doesn’t know what. It’s not the first time he’s coughed up the petals, and it’s getting worse. But he doesn’t know what to do, and he’s seized by a brief, frantic urge to ask Riptide for- something. Help, maybe? Help with what? 

“Are you sure? You don’t look so good, either, Aid…” 

“I’m fine.” First Aid repeats, and pushes past his friend. It was a mistake to try and go out to the bar today when he’s being haunted by these flowers, haunted by Ambulon’s favorite damned flower, when Ambulon is dead and won’t ever be coming back. First Aid manages to dodge the doorframe as he stumbles out of the bar, wishing he’d gotten a drink as he hurries back to the medbay. And as he enters, he sees the vase of astragalus on his desk. What had been Ratchet’s desk. Who now occupies Ambulon’s desk. 

With an abrupt, snarled cry, First Aid yanks the vase of flowers from his desk and- momentarily- makes to throw them into the trash. Holds them in the air, though, and… doesn’t. 

Instead, he casts his optics down, and gently sets the vase back onto his desk. Even with his careful tending, they’re beginning to lose their luster, and a few petals have dislodged from the sudden movements. And suddenly, First Aid feels far, far tireder than he had been mere moments ago. The medbay is empty. Velocity is out with the others at the Earth base. Ratchet is with Drift. And First Aid is alone with a vase of flowers, and alone, he coughs dryly behind his mask. Without anyone else around, the sound has nowhere else to go but echo raspily through the space. Cough, cough, cough. 

—---------------------

First Aid doesn’t know if he was in love with Ambulon. That’s a strange thing to think, as he sits below deck, watching the oil cistern glisten in the night lighting. But it’s also true. First Aid drops a handful of astragalus petals into the oil, watches them bob in the artificial current. It’s been long enough that he has to think about the question, and long enough that he can barely manage to push past the pain to try and find an answer.

It feels like love. When you know someone long enough, to be trapped with them long enough, to work side-by-side with them long enough. Pharma had been callous even before he had finally lost his mind, and it meant that First Aid and Ambulon truthfully only had each other for their brief company. And when they’d gone to the Lost Light together, it felt like their friendship was different. Different in a good way, but First Aid doesn’t know what that means, now, because it had been cut off before it could even begin. The pain in First Aid’s spark is so deeply set that trying to unravel it just twists it further up. They’d been like one single sentence, for the longest time, First Aid - and - Ambulon. Even when First Aid had made other friends, it was still the same. 

First Aid and Ambulon. Then, just First Aid. 

First Aid wonders if he’s dying. There’s nothing in his files that say anything about coughing up flowers; nothing about your body aching from the inside, or energon staining his mouth, or being barely able to stay awake at all hours of the day. He’s terrified to take off his faceplate now, and he knows- even if he doesn’t know, he knows that it’s only a matter of time until he drowns in his insides, choked out by flower petals that still find ways to worm their ways out of the edges of his mask. He peels another one from the corner and lets it go into the oil. The room feels like it’s tilting with the action, and First Aid leans back, his helm swaying. All the edges of panic are dulled, and he finds he doesn’t care very much as his body abruptly pitches forward, and he slides down into the oil reservoir. 

Medics are heavy. They have to be, to carry other mechs around. And that means that First Aid slowly sinks to the bottom, lights becoming more and more dim as he descends. His vents expel air, bubbling around him, and he can catch the sight of a few more swirling petals flying away from him as he goes down, down. It’s not like anyone will notice. He feels untethered; he stops at the bottom and doesn’t even bother to move, just lays there, staring upwards. And, morbidly, he takes his faceplate off, just to watch the bloom of flower petals fly outwards from his mouth. If they weren’t killing him, he might be able to see why Ambulon liked them so much. 

And, Riptide…

Wait- Riptide-

A figure closes in swiftly on First Aid, and First Aid’s lights flare in surprise, ambulance siren letting out a startled and muted wail with a flash of lights that illuminates Riptide’s frame. The fear on his face. First Aid feels arms wrap around him, words mouthed to him that don’t travel through the oil, and then Riptide is picking First Aid up and moving towards the surface. The movement disturbs the flower petals, and they dance around the pair as they move, dull pinks like splashed energon blood. When they surface, First Aid’s body makes a full convulsion, but it’s too late to try and cover his mouth to hide the damage that’s been done. He can only hang strangely as Riptide sets him down. 

The question reaches back into his mind: did he love Ambulon? He wonders if this is some kind of punishment, to be choked to death all the way to his spark by something Ambulon loved. Loved. No, he doesn’t think he loved Ambulon. Ambulon meant the world to him, but First Aid doesn’t think it was like how he feels now, as he finds his gaze landing on Riptide. Because it was because of Riptide that First Aid went to the oil reservoir. That First Aid had stopped sequestering himself away in his room. And it was Riptide who had thought of First Aid enough to bring flowers; something from Earth, for someone who loved Earth. 

Maybe if things were different, Riptide could have loved First Aid too. But now, it feels like there isn’t any time left at all. Just enough time to lay there and melt into this puddle of agony and regret. Astragalus.

“First Aid!” Riptide repeats, again, and First Aid realizes that he’s been calling to him. “What happened? What were you doing in there? Why are there- wait, you’re bleeding? First Aid! Tell me how I can help! First Aid!”

“Do you know-” First Aid manages to slur out, past the petals. “Did you know, what astragalus means?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “Your presence softens my pain. I should have told him that.”

“First Aid-”

First Aid squeezes his optics shut. His helm abruptly jerks. Still, he has to say it. He has to tell him; he never got the chance to tell Ambulon, but he can tell Riptide. Because he remembers this, he remembers Riptide speaking to him in fearful, low tones in the ship as they jetted away from the Lost Light, and he remembers Riptide’s awe when First Aid had brought Thunderclash back to life, and he remembers Riptide’s smile when he brought in the flower bundle from an obscure memory a lifetime ago to try and make First Aid smile too.

“Riptide. I think I love you.”

Then, First Aid’s optics go dim. 

—----------------

When the hours finally roll past, and the medbay murmurs to life again, First Aid awakens; laying on a medical bed, alive, Riptide asleep in the chair beside him. First Aid’s vents intake air, and for the first time in a week, he doesn’t feel himself choking as he does it. And as he opens his mouth, there’s no lingering taste of pink and rot. He finds himself reaching up to touch his mouth, and there’s no petals to be found. As if he had dreamt the entire thing, save for being in the medical bay. 

Somewhere, squirreled away deep in his spark, he still feels that lingering ache for Ambulon. But it’s… quieter now, as he looks at Riptide. First Aid opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Just watching him instead. The light of the Earth’s sun filters through the medbay windows, and First Aid sees the little vase of flowers that Riptide has set on his desk. The astragalus are still there, but there’s something else there too now. A flowering bushel of rosemary. And First Aid’s mind calls up the file on flower language as he looks it over.

Rosemary. Your presence revives me.

First Aid smiles. 

[ask-de-writer]

WIND MEETS THE ROM : Part 24 of 27 :

MLP Fan Fiction

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WIND MEETS THE ROM

Part 24 of 27

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Cover art by @wind-the-mama-cat

54212 words

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 06/01/18

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story? Read from Part 1, here!

///////////////////////

They were working Hanar's booth while waiting for Rose to finish making Wind's bow and arrows.

By way of simple gossip, Wind remarked, “Rose has already started to make some boxes out of that opalized wood that she bought this morning. They are lovely.”

“Wind, dear, I thought that she was working on your new bow and arrows.”

“She will be, Hanar. Just as soon as she gets a box or two made up. Priorities, you know. She has a new material to play with. A lot like you with a new dance step.”

Hanar chuckled, “Not just me, dear. Those sways and slides are spreading faster than wild fire with a strong wind behind it. Apparently Marchhare mentioned them to De Writer and he has been telling all the Rom bands about them!

“We are going to be busy every time that we meet a different band, teaching them how to do sways and slides. And those bands will teach any bands that they meet.”

While Wind was realizing with some awe that the enthusiasm that she had seen was only the tip of the iceberg, she saw a filly and two colts from Sando's band setting up a blanket to do some busking. The two colts had a lyre and one of the Rom's deceptively tricky double drum sets.

As the music began, with flourishing sashes the filly began her dance. She was dancing to Wind's Wings and brilliantly incorporating the new sway and slide steps!

Wind nodded toward the youngsters, “You are right. Those foals are from Sando's band, if I remember correctly.”

Hanar shook her head in agreement as she measured off a length of cloth for a customer. “They are, Wind. Could you cut this for me? I don't want to put it down to get my shears.”

Wind absently reached over with her metal hand. A claw sprang out of the tip of her index finger and sliced the stretched fabric precisely.

Barely even pausing, she casually slapped the nose of town pony who was trying to swipe a few of Hanar's coins from her cash box. The coins fell back with a tinkle as the unicorn yelped!

Hanar smiled as she folded the fabric. “Thanks, Wind. I always wonder why such a prosperous town as this has so many poor ponies that need to steal from us. Surely their towns can take care of them.”

The foals that were following Wind about interrupted with laughter. “Won't no pony hire him! All that he ever does is drink his money away!”

That brought Wind pause. She quietly reflected that she had not seen or heard of any Rom getting intoxicated on any substance.

She asked Hanar, “I have seen town ponies getting drunk on that, what do they call it? Locoweed beer. Why don't any Rom?

Hanar tapped her Freedom with reverence. “When we get the Freedom, we have to promise to do the best that we can at everything that we do. If you fog your mind, you can't keep that promise. Marchhare, De Writer or both of them will know.” She shuddered all over as she finished, “Worse, they will be disappointed.”

Wind thought about that for only a few moments. Shaking her head, she agreed, “I had not thought of it that way, but you are right. I would hate to disapoint them.”

It was only a few more minutes before Myest strolled down the midway from his forge. He was carrying a beautiful recurve bow and two quivers of arrows in his magic.

Wind, looking them all over carefully, was impressed. She asked, “That is beautiful work. I am not even going to ask how you managed to bond the steel laminations to these wooden ones. What is that wood? It doesn't look quite like Blackwood.”

He beamed as he replied, “It is a close relative of Blackwood. It is tougher and springier but not quite as hard. It has prettier grain than Blackwood does, too.”

Wind agreed, “It sure does. The grain patterns really go well with the swirly weld patterns in the steel laminations there.” She stepped between the bow and the loose string, carefully fitting it into the nocks of the bottom limb and putting the bow under tension as she slid the top loop of the string into its nocks. Flexing her arms and shoulders first, she held the bow in her flesh hand and drew back the string to a chin anchor, held it for a few seconds and gently let it relax. She repeated the exercise twice more.

Selecting a target arrow, she laid it across the rest and nocked it to the string. Smiling happily, Wind pulled the arrow back, aiming at a bale of hay about forty meters away. The thump of the arrow burying itself in the bale was almost instantaneous after her release!

Whistling a happy little tune, Wind went up to the bale to retrieve her arrow. It was sticking almost all the way out on the backside of the bale!

Taking her arrow out carefully, she sauntered back to the waiting foals.

With a serene smile, she pulled and shot all five of her target arrows in quick succession. Up at the bale, she tipped it up for all to see. All five arrows were standing up from the bale in a tight group. She carefully recovered them all, placing them in her quiver and returning to the waiting foals and others who had gathered to watch.

She noticed that an RRP pegasus had joined the crowd that was watching her. He told her, “I'm corporal Hayes, Mam. I will be magic detecting while you are shooting. If somepony tried a prank on you with those arrows ponies could get seriously hurt.”

Wind smiled at him and replied, “Thank you, corporal. That does set my mind to rest. Do you know where I can get some willow withies? I want to make some hoops to hold moving targets.”

He smiled, “What? Something that Rom don't make?”

Wind grinned as she retorted, “They likely do, I just haven't seen it yet!”

“Well give Rushy Glen a try, up the midway there, about ten spaces. She does wicker works.”

Bobbing her head in thanks, Wind trotted up the midway and easily spotted Rushy Glen's booth. Her wicker work was truly excellent. Wind paused to check the tightness of the weaving and the neatness of the forms that she made in her wicker work.

Shaking her head in admiration, Wind told her, “This is wonderful work. I have never seen wicker this well done in all of my travels. I need three simple hoops about a meter across. What would they cost and how soon can I get them?”

Rushy looked out from under her light yellow forelock as she replied, “I can do them in about ten or twenty minutes. They will cost one silver, five. Do you want anything else?”

Wind pointed at her display, “Yes, I want those three baskets too. How much for all of it?”

“Those three and the hoops? Three silver, four. Why not get something from one of your Rom friends?”

Wind smiled as she pulled the coins from her pouch, “Because none of them makes baskets this good, that's why. Rom always buy the best, if they can. I will send some of my friends who need basket work up here.”

“You are serious? Me? Better work than a Rom?”

“Dead serious. You prove that town ponies CAN do first rate work. Most just do 'good enough' rather than their real best. The Rom just really do their best at whatever they do. They do have some secrets but the real secret of their success is never doing a slipshod piece of work.”

Rushy Glen nodded as she pulled willow wands out of a soaking tub and started weaving them together in a sort of complex braid. It was not at all long before Wind's first hoop was ready. Setting it aside, she began the second.

Wind watched a master of wicker in delight as Rushy Glen finished up her last hoop.

Rushy Glen's eyes went wide as Wind packed her largish baskets into her innocent looking bag of holding. Her customer happily rolled her hoops down the midway back to the Rom encampment.

Things were slow for a little before another Rom wandered up, looked over her basketry and thoughtfully selected several. Before the day was out, she was busy, frantically but carefully weaving more baskets to replenish her stock!

In the meantime, Wind set up her targets in the centers of her new hoops and had Corporal Hayes take them behind a tree for safe shelter. One at a time, he rolled the springy, bouncing hoops across in front of her. Wind bided her time on each shot as the hoops leaped and bounded from the tufts of grass in the meadow in front of her.

When the last of the hoops had bounded to a stop, Corporal Hayes gathered up both the hoops and the arrows. He gave the arrows to Wind and set the hoops up against the inner rope ring where everypony could see what Wind had done. Of the three, two were in the yellow ring and one was a bull's eye! Pasting dots of paper over the holes, Wind silenced any comments about luck by repeating the performance four more times.

Hanar cheerfully circulated through the crowd with Wind's donation box! The tinkle of coins was music to Wind's ears!

An off gray earth pony snorted in a disparaging way, “That ain't impressive! You done it too easy. Now, if you was blindfold, that would be worth watchin'!”

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[dulcimergecko]

Sunday Six(ish)!

The horse shifted as Sherlock ran the comb over a sore spot on her withers, her ears flicking backwards in agitation.  Sherlock paused in his brushing, gentle fingers ghosting over the mare’s skin until he identified two separate swellings, both likely caused by a member of Tabinidae or horse fly family.  

With an apologetic hum, Sherlock moved the curry comb further down, making a mental note to reapply insect repellent when he was done.  The mare’s eyes quickly hooded in contentment as Sherlock continued his methodical grooming, being careful to avoid the small wounds as he resumed his musing aloud.  “—negative for locoweed.  I also tested for Pteridum aquilium, also known as Bracken fern which inhibits the uptake of thiamin, leading to neurological impairment, but the results were negative.  What’s interesting is that some horses develop a taste for Bracken fern, despite its toxicity.  I’d rather hope you, at least, are a bit more intelligent in that respect...”

–Excerpt from the upcoming chapter 29 of ‘The Devil’s Blaze’ 

[drhoz]

#1896 - Datura stramonium - Jimsonweed

from Franz Eugen Köhler's Medizinal-Pflanzen

Not from @purrdence​‘s NZ trip, but related to the Solanum previously, and current news on top of that.

AKA thornapple, moon flower, hell's bells, devil's trumpet, devil's weed, tolguacha, Jamestown weed, stinkweed, locoweed, pricklyburr, false castor oil plant, and devil's cucumber.

I don’t have my own photo, and a lot of those common names suggest a plant to avoid, for the same reason - it was the cause of a nationwide food recall here in Australia, recently, and that’s why I’ve decided to talk about this menace. The contamination in the packaged baby spinach wasn’t identified in the early reports, but the description of the symptoms were distinctive enough that I immediately thought ‘hang about, that sounds like Datura poisoning’, and it turns out I was correct.

Whilst the plant has been used in ethnogenic rituals by some cultures, it’s unlikely to ever be a recreational drug as the amount of scopalamine and atropine in this and other Daturas varies widely with season, growing conditions, and age of the plant making the plant exceptionally hazardous, and the results vary from ‘terrifying hallucinations’ to ‘death’. The symptoms of anticholinergic syndrome are distinctive enough there’s a traditional mnemonic: "Blind as a bat, mad as a hatter, red as a beet, hot as a hare, dry as a bone, the bowel and bladder lose their tone, and the heart runs alone" -  pupil dilation and blurred vision, hallucinations and delusions, flushed skin, fever, dry mouth and dry skin, constipation and difficulty urinating, racing heartbeat and more. And if that wasn’t enough, repeated use appears to be strongly associated with later dementia. 

And don’t ask me about the coffee-table herbology book that listed it as an aphrodisiac, a few decades back. I yelled blue murder when I read that. 

Anyway - the binomial nomenclature derives from Sanskrit dhattūra 'white thorn-apple', and possibly from the Greek for ‘mad nightshade’. Jimsonweed comes from an incident in Jamestown, Virginia in 1676, where English soldiers found it is an unwelcome addition to a salad (much like the current case).

“This being an early plant, was gather'd very young for a boil'd salad, by some of the soldiers sent thither to quell the rebellion of Bacon (1676); and some of them ate plentifully of it, the effect of which was a very pleasant comedy, for they turned natural fools upon it for several days: one would blow up a feather in the air; another would dart straws at it with much fury; and another, stark naked, was sitting up in a corner like a monkey, grinning and making mows [grimaces] at them; a fourth would fondly kiss and paw his companions, and sneer in their faces with a countenance more antic than any in a Dutch droll.

In this frantic condition they were confined, lest they should, in their folly, destroy themselves—though it was observed that all their actions were full of innocence and good nature. Indeed, they were not very cleanly; for they would have wallowed in their own excrements if they had not been prevented. A thousand such simple tricks they played, and after eleven days returned themselves again, not remembering anything that had passed.

— Robert Beverley, Jr., The History and Present State of Virginia, Book II: Of the Natural Product and Conveniencies in Its Unimprov'd State, Before the English Went Thither, 1705

In the current outbreak, that’s affected over 200 people, heavy rainfall probably washed seeds into the spinach fields where the young sprouts were mistaken for baby spinach and picked. 

[mossymicroscope]

Field Locoweed

Oxytropis campestris, native to the pacific northwest and Canada as well as Europe. In greek 'oxy' means sharp or pointed while 'tropis' means keel refering to the keel pedal (bottom structure of the flower) which is pointed or beak like. In Latin 'campester' means pertaining to a field or plain. It produces the alkaloid swainsonine which is harmful to grazers in large quantities causing locoism. That can be a problem because grazers find it a very palatable plant. It is also a larval host for butterflies. Astragalus is another genus that similarly produces swainsonine and is also called locoweed, it has a blunt keel.

[lucyannsblog]

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[pilotlessdrones]

Whenever I was crossing those terraced fields of wheat, whenever I was in a remote mountain village hovering over a wedding party and people were dancing, I’d allow myself a few minutes to imagine the tables turned. I’d see myself sitting in Nevada with a bunch of other drones I know, our Hellfire missiles safe at home, using a joystick to fly a glider made of human flesh stretched across a lab-grown endoskeleton. I’d picture soft human children being launched from great heights onto a family of drones out for a picnic in a field of poppies and locoweed. No drones would be harmed.

[dr-otter]

You have a point; in DARE they told us that marijuana is also called locoweed because it made farm animals that eat it hallucinate and die or have to be shot, and I knew that was not true even as a kid, and that locoweed is jimsonweed or milkvetch (which is in fact bad news to eat).

So then I started wondering what ELSE adults were wrong or lying about.