A Blue Bottle Tree Grows in Appalachia

I admit to suffering from unjustified anxiety regarding the growing number of blue bottle trees peppered along dirt roads and adorning eclectic yards of West Asheville. One gust of wind, and someone will be mowing glass shards! Nonetheless, I’ve often wondered the story behind this beautiful and distinctive form of yard art.

Let me clarify. I am referring to the cobalt or “haint” blue-glass bottle trees that have stood in the same yards for generations. Granted, commercially manufactured trees are sold everywhere from Amazon to eBay. BottleTreeBob.com even advertises, “Got haints runnin’ wild? Who you gonna call?” My guess is Bottle Tree Bob. Or maybe his kinfolk, The Bottle Tree Man. But I’m not talking about Bob or his band of merry “haint” catchers. The barren shrubs whose limbs are given one more go-around, the sheer devotion of collecting so many distinctive blue bottles—now that is a dedicated art form that harkens tradition. 

The history of the tree’s origin, typically linked to Africa, is well documented, though not all scholars agree on the first sighting. We can assume that because this is a cultural practice (perhaps of multiple cultures), and culture is alive, then origin is likely disparate. Associated belief systems grow right along with the trees themselves. In the early 20th century, some rural Appalachians strung eggshells from naked tree branches as a talisman to keep witches away, especially in early spring. Whether bottle or eggshell, the message is the same: Evil need not knock on this door. 

I, with the help of my Labradors, am constantly killing shrubbery, so maybe a bottle tree could help. But I want to create it authentically. I want to collect the “haint” blue bottles—bonus if they contain mercury to deter mosquitoes—and decorate the closest Crape Myrtle. But where to start?

Since I’m of the generation, I take the obvious next step. I Google. Did you know there is a blue bottle fly? There is also a Facebook page.

Refine search.

Where have generations turned to find their bottles? Milk of magnesia bottles pop up again and again. Really? Have our ancestors experienced such bowel distress that they consumed enough medicine to fill an entire tree? It is time I seek out experts.

Don and Jean Ellen Forrister live in Sylva, North Carolina. They have a lovely bottle tree. Jean Ellen first encountered the art form while visiting Mississippi. Don, an artist, completed the project back home. Turning into their driveway, I am taken aback by the large display of bottles illuminated by my headlights. Later, Don tells me that he believes this reflectiveness is the true aesthetic       appeal. Both sun and moonlight reflect off the bottles and bathe the ground in shades of blue.

Once inside their home, I can’t help but blurt out, “Where did they all come from?” 

Don and Jean Ellen smile. “Everywhere,” Don says. “Yard sales and flea markets. But most of them came from my parent’s dumpsite.” Don reminds me that garbage pick-up is a relatively new luxury. Not so long ago, families found a deep, nearby ravine where they dumped their household trash. Now, of course, we know this is environmentally disastrous, but it does make for some mighty fine treasure-hunting.

I wonder, if most of his bottles came from family property, what products did Don’s family use?

“Oh, there’s Vicks VapoRub and old prescription bottles. Wine bottles and water bottles. But the majority are milk of magnesia bottles,” Don recalls.

“Yes!” I interrupt. “Why so much milk of magnesia?”

“We used it for everything,” Jean Ellen says, laughing. “They’d say a good dose could fix anything—especially a bad temper.” She eyes Don as confirmation.

Don agrees that medicine was sometimes used to correct behavior. Think castor oil. He also emphasizes that the “haint” blue color may be an extension of the “healing” process. He likes the thought that one is protected at night from evil spirits—that they are captured and then burned off with the morning sun. He likens it to how some people paint blue around their doorway, cleansing visitors of sins as they walk through.

Renewal. Forgiveness. Now those are concepts we can all appreciate.

Don leans back and nods. “It’s really about relationships, isn’t it?” he says in a reflective tone. “I have a relationship with every bottle I collect. We have a relationship to the history and cultures that inspire the trees. If the wind is blowing hard, I worry about the tree.”

I imagine not everyone has a relationship with their yard art, but that is the difference between commercial sculptures and the tree I want to create. A relationship must be cultivated if one ever hopes to generate a space for renewal and forgiveness. That thought helps to alleviate much of my anxiety—and not just about broken glass.