July 2008

Growing where I’m planted

Me and my faux old field

My friend Jennifer told me recently that she has been gardening in the same spot for 17 years.

“And I think,” she said dreamily, “that a garden isn’t really mature until about 17 years. Really.”

She laughed, and I laughed. This is a gardener’s idea of a good joke.

When my husband I first moved in to our house almost eight years ago, there was no garden here, just some azaleas, some daylilies and a few big trees. I couldn’t wait to put down roots, both figurative and literal.

Friends who came to visit laughed with us over a detailed “five year plan,” which carefully outlined several big projects to be completed each year until the yard seemed “finished.” Things on the list included: building a walkway, putting in fruiting shrubs, planting perennial gardens, removing some azaleas, building a pond, planting a vegetable patch, and growing herbs… It was a long list.

And between pregnancies and business trips, small illnesses and some rounds of drought we made our way down the page.

Some things did not get done. I still long for a pond, for example. But the realities of having children to supervise closely and a budget with a tight cap have left that one unfinished. The little people around here need to be better swimmers before we can tackle it with confidence anyhow.

And still I remove azaleas each year, so that task is not truly done either. This fall two more are slated for the chopping block. Both are way overgrown for the space they inhabit, and both take up valuable real estate on the sunny side of the yard. They will soon be replaced with either a native viburnum or some raspberry canes.

But I did a lot of work on the hot, sunny south side of our front yard, which contained one very ailing dogwood tree and loads of weedy grass. Once the tree was pronounced diseased beyond hope, we had it removed.

And so began what we jokingly called my “faux old field.” Old field is a term land managers and biologists use to use to describe abandoned agricultural areas. Many times they become habitat for a myriad of wildlife, including butterflies and ground nesting birds.

I used to dream long ago of living in an old beloved, rundown Victorian farmhouse out in the country where I could take a walk every day and see lovely old fields and deep forests all around. In fact, I thought that was my destiny.

But here I am, plunkered down outside of DC in a 1940s brick colonial which looks exactly hundreds of other brick houses in the immediate five mile radius instead.
Yes, our house looks exactly like those around it… but from the beginning I realized there was no good reason I couldn’t enjoy the old fields sensation in that weird little spot on the side of the house. And so I planned and outlined, removed invasive exotic weeds and searched out plants and shrubs. And I dug, and I dug and I dug.

When the shrubs first went in along the new wooden fence line, I was gloriously happy. Like the mother of a newborn, I took all kinds of pictures of my new creation and was pretty proud of what I had done. I watered and preened, weeded and planted some more. What worked stayed and was allowed to multiply. What failed was removed and replaced.

Looking at photos of those first two years now, I realize just how forlorn it looked. The shrubs were colorful, but oh-so-tiny, and the flowers were patchy at best.

But each year it got better and a bit closer to my original vision, and a turning point seemed to come last year, seven years after moving in, when I realized things were big and healthy in that section despite the severe drought. Things were dry, but they were still okay and still doing well.

Then this year I realized I was not really needing to do much in that area. I had become more of a land manager than a gardener in that one section of the yard. The shrubs were big with nice roots, and the flowers were taking off without my help. I weeded once, in early spring. I observe daily, I take pictures, I make a few pruning decisions. Hardly any work and lots of fun.

Meanwhile, the visitors – both invited and uninvited – have been spectacular.
Some insects have really made this their home. Butterflies of unimaginable number have come to drink nectar and lay eggs on leaves. Last year we snapped pictures of a rare visit from a zebra swallowtail. And monarchs and their caterpillars are numerous. Hummingbird moths are also all around in the early evening hours.

I am constantly surprised by the number of bird species we see, and each year something new seems to appear. Kinglets have been popping up lately from underneath the plants. Song sparrows have nested more than once out there. Blue jays and mockingbirds feed hungrily on the berries from our shrubs all winter, and ruby throated hummingbirds make their appearances at the flowers all summer long.

During last year’s news of the bees’ sad decline, I also took heart in the number of native bee species we saw on a daily basis in our own yard. They were small signs of hope in a time of great environmental angst.

Plant visitors began appearing, too, such as Queen Anne’s Lace which sprouted up behind the Virginia Sweetspire bushes last year. It was removed before it set seed and began to take over.

And the Swamp Milkweed (Ascelpias incarnata), bought at specialty nurseries and lovingly planted at the back near by kitchen window, suddenly had sister plants of Common Milkweed (Asclepias syriaca) growing right next to them. They grew and multiplied, got tall and smelled heavenly.

Where, I wondered, did those come from? Did their seeds come in the dirt of those nursery pots? Did a bird drop them one day while sitting on the edge of our fence?
Before our generic little brick house was built, this was a farmer’s field some sixty years ago. Continuing my fantasy of this being a “faux old field,” I like to think some milkweed seeds had been here all along, waiting for the right moment to sprout. Seeds can wait decades to germinate, even centuries. So perhaps these plants were descendants of those which lived here back in the early twentieth century. Perhaps this is more of a real old field than I realized.

I will never know for sure, but I’m glad they arrived and I am happy to tend them.
I know that in some gardens Common Milkweed begins to take over. I know I might have to cut it back to keep it in check. That’s okay. I’ve realized no garden is ever really finished, although once its established, a garden is much easier to enjoy. You keep learning, and you keep watching and tending and waiting, and you keep hoping.

Otherwise, what’s the point?

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