Celebrating Emergence

The shift to spring is now palpable here at our east Texas homestead. I notice the sun's early morning rays shining more in our backyard, the temperature is hovering the in 60's or 70's most days, and spots of green are popping up in the landscape.

Emergence in the plant world is filled with such anticipation. Around us life is erupting, and it is so good to see fresh growth in a landscape scarred and burned from the extreme cold a fortnight ago.

The daffodils are up. Well, most of them are. I thought this would be a daffodil-less spring as many of the early tazetta types from the Mediterranean were bleached white. But, those that have more northern European blood seem to have made it through safely. The yellow-orange 'Ceylon' and large-cupped yellow 'Carlton' are now beginning to bloom. I noticed their buds above the snowline, but they still survived the cold. These are two Narcissus cultivars that actually do well for us here in east Texas and will increase in number with the years. Most modern hybrids just don't get adequate chilling to flower or grow well.

A bit of burn on the tips of the foliage of these ‘Ceylon’, but other than that, the cold didn’t phase them.

Narcissus pseudonarcissus are now flowering, too. They are much smaller than the varieties above, but I love their diminutive size. I recall seeing their minute buds huddled among the blue-green foliage as I scurried about preparing for the coming cold and wondering if they would survive. Seeing their buttery yellow coronas reminds me of my youth and the abandoned yards full of them on the backroads in Tennessee marking where homes once stood. Even then I would pick handfuls of them to bring their sweet scent into our house, much like I did ahead of the two inches of rain we got this past weekend.

This line of Narcissus pseudonarcissus flowers faces south, soaking in the sun.

Ahead of the rain I divided some large clumps of Narcissus pseudonarcissus and planted them into the beds near our house that I have been developing into naturalistic plantings since our arrival here a little over three years ago. These plantings needed more early spring color, and I plugged in the bulbs before the rain started amongst the emerging foliage of Pycnanthemum and a nice purple foliage form of Tradescantia gigantea I found.

I randomly scattered Narcissus pseudonarcissus into this bed over the weekend. Though I’m not done yet, my goal is to have small groupings, denser in the middle and then less bulbs on the outside.

Ahead of the rain was also a good time to move 20+ Penstemon tenuis and 30+ Penstemon digitalis plants I grew in propagation beds from last year. Both were derived from seed that I collected from plants growing here, and they were just barely beginning to produce shoots out of their basal rosettes. Now I feel like I have enough plants to make an impact come April for the purple-flowering Penstemon tenuis and May for the white-flowering Penstemon digitalis. I was surprised at how shallow their root systems were. I was able to scoop them up with a shovel almost like one would scoop lasagna out of a dish and place into a similar shaped hole.

A wheelbarrow of Penstemon digitalis ready for planting. You can see the fresh foliage beginning to pop.

Nearby other natives are emerging, and it is a real cast of characters—Arnoglossum plantagineum, Trillium ludovicianum, Antennaria parlinii, Sanguinaria canadensis, Stenanthium gramineum, and even my Sarracenia in the bog. All of them know it’s time to grow.

I delight in seeing the hosta-like foliage of Arnoglossum plantagineum. Plants have finally gotten to a decent size at our place, and soon their shoots will rise for form a white corymb of rice-shaped flowers.

I was also happy to see my Trillium ludovicianum emerging amongst the groundcover of Antennaria parlinii I planted to mark the ephemeral. You can barely see the chicken wire cage that I planted it in to protect it from the gophers that plague our property, and if you look closely, you’ll see some one-leaved baby Trillium in the center!

The fists of Sanguinaria canadensis are shoving their way out of the soil and begun to unfurl as leaves.

The slivers of foliage on Stenanthium gramineum emerge from the ground. I’ve always found their maroon sheaths near the ground to be attractive but quickly hidden by the foliage.

I squealed this weekend when I discovered the antennae-like flower buds emerging on this Sarracenia flava ‘Black Ascot’ when cutting back the pitchers.

Yes, all this fresh growth of spring is truly wonderful . Sure, we may have another frost or two along the way, but for now I will celebrate emergence and the return of my many photosynthetic friends to the garden after their long slumber. It is so good to see them again.

A Cool-colored Planting

I’ve been inspired by the cool-colored wildflowers of Texas to create a plant community that celebrates their cheerful energy.  Living here for the past few years I’ve noticed this side of the color wheel tends to dominant the showier flowers and is likely a result of co-evolution with the pollinators present.

While I’m still a year or two away from having a full month-by-month list, I thought I would share a snapshot of an early trial bed of this color palette.   In a crescent-shaped planting near our drive way I’ve been plugging blues, mulberrys, fuschias, pinks, and whites in to see how they grow and mingle together. And, now that’s it’s looking particularly good, I wanted to share a snapshot of the flora with you.

This scene greets me every morning as I walk to my edible garden.

The dominant emergent is Gladiolus communis subsp. byzantinus scattered in the bed.  The fuschia-colored flowers radiate from a distance, and the north-facing slope creates a tiered theater effect so I see the audience of scapes from a distance in my veg patch.  More sparse in the bed are two penstemon—Penstemon tenuis and Penstemon laxiflorus.  The former has small, funnel-shapel purple flowers with ruffled edges that remind me of those old glass lampshades, and the later has blooms that are a pale pink and a bit flatter and longer.  A few Phlox pilosa in the bed still in the midst of bloom, and I’ve been watching them for seed to sow next year for more of this seasonal filler.

A few blues are scattered about.  The Sisyrinchium are pretty much finished, but their absence is now being filled by Prunella vulgaris.  It’s a nice native herb that has flowers which can’t decide if they are blue or purple.  And, I can’t forget the Tradescantia in flower.  Every morning, I smile seeing their brilliant blue flowers open. 

White flowers serve as good neutral colors in the mix.  A few Hymenopappus artemisiifolius plants are blooming with Astrantia-like blossoms.  I also adore the couple of Baptisia alba in the bed.  The stems have a dark purple color that continues my cool-colored theme.  And, Achillea millefolium is beginning to carpet the ground to provide an effective groundcover. It’s white landing pads add a nice splash of brightness to the bed.

As the color scheme evolves, I’ll share more about what’s of interest.

A Cruel April Fools' Joke

Mother Nature played a cruel April Fools’ joke on me.  The forecasted low last night was 38°F.  The actual temperature recorded was 29°F.  

Whoa, what a drop!  I even checked last night around 9 pm before bed and saw that there was a freeze warning out for most of Arkansas and half of Mississippi and Alabama.  “Poor souls,” I thought.  

This morning, I about flipped when I saw 29°F as the low.  We had just planted over 140 tomatoes in our campus garden on Friday.  Would they be dead?! 

When I arrived at school, I rushed to check on them.  A few showed slight water-soaking, but the majority of them looked ok!  Whew! It’s marvelous having the garden on a hill with the ag building to the north to offer some frost protection.  Today, students covered them with row covers.

Water-soaked leaves on one of the tomatoes that didn’t fare well after the sudden temperature drop.

At home I didn’t fare so well.  Baby basil plants were burned this morning, and my potatoes were turning black when I got home later in the day.  I actually had the forethought to cover my tomatoes at home a day early for the 32–34°F they forecasted for tonight.  That protection likely saved them.  

Tomatoes are one crop gardeners try to protect as we play tug-of-war with the weather.  Early enough to be the first to have them but late enough so they don’t freeze.  With last night I realized my mindset on starting tomatoes has changed after moving to Texas. 

My cautious rule back home was to never plant tomatoes before May 1.  Since I like to grow my own plants, seedlings started around March 15 would have enough time to develop regardless of a warm or cool spring.  Our average last frost was April 20 in northwest Tennessee, and the delay would ensure my plants weren’t hindered by the cold weather.  Even though they were planted later, many years I would have tomatoes by the 4th of July and beat other growers in the area to have the first ripe fruit.  

But, living in Texas my focus is to plant my tomatoes ASAP because we get hot so quickly.  Pollination shuts down above 90°F.

However, I’ve learned my lesson with this experience.  Thanks to an idea from Lindsey Kerr I have strung lights under the floating row cover and topped that with tarps and blankets to protect the tomatoes.  Never again will I plant a tomato before April 1.  I’m not joking.  

Frost protection with lights. I have to admit with this cover and light effect I’m getting decorating ideas for next Christmas…

An Auger, The Best Purchase of 2018

One of the best purchases I made last year was an auger that I could attach to a cordless drill, a thought that hit me as I was dividing abandoned ‘Grand Primo’ Narcissus I discovered on an abandoned backroad.  Two clumps became 107 bulbs in a matter of minutes, and I wanted to get them in the ground as soon as possible. The auger and drill came out, and the task was completed in under an hour.

Narcissus tazetta ‘Grand Primo’ is one of the few Narcissus that is very persistent in the deep south. Scapes are adorned with over half a dozen petticoat-shaped flowers. Note other attributes like bright orange pollen and the corona that fades from butter yellow to off-white over time.

The ingenious idea was from Thomas Rainer.  We both were presenting at the Speaking of Gardening event in Asheville two years ago, and he mentioned getting one for planting the deep-rooted landscape plugs.

Several months later, I remembered browsing Amazon one night to purchase the thing.  When it came, I tried it out, and I was immediately impressed.  As someone who suffers from carpal tunnel in my wrists, using a trowel over and over again leaves my hand in pain after planting.  Now, I hook the auger up to a cordless drill, zip zip zip, and I’m ready to plant 50 plugs! I find that even the three-inch pot size will easily fit into a shallow excavated hole.

We bought one for school, and the students immediately fell in love with it, too.  I also convinced my parents to get one for planting bulbs.  

The biggest problem I encounter using the auger is roots.  In plain soil, it will go down without a problem, but roots often cause it to jerk around or just stop.  Also, safety note:  I find it best to hold it with both hands.  If you’re concerned about it whipping on you, get one of the two-handled drills.  I would especially recommend that option if you use a corded drill.

I know many advise dividing Narcissus once dormant, but I’ve had success moving them in the green. In this image you can see the circular holes made by the auger and my attempts to get the bulbs to the same depth. After sticking them in the hole, I use a hoe to replace the soil back.

The Old Factories

The door has closed for good on the old factory. Once full of the hustle and bustle of making, the air inside is now still and quiet. The essentials were moved out and relocated. All that’s left is a lifeless skeleton.

And, then the factory falls. From some lofty branch, this once photosynthetic powerhouse takes a whimsical whirl to the ground. Its landing spot is as uncertain as is its future.

Many view these factories with scorn. They burn them, demolish them, toss them to the curb. Anything to make the abandoned structures vanish and keep up the block.

But, I enjoy the old factories.

I enjoy shuffling through their midst. Their stark colors pop against the verdant turf. In some, the incandescent glow hasn’t been turned off just yet and still beam of color from livelier days. Where the wind takes them, they congregate and delineate fencerow and field alike. In such piles, kicking their stolid walls in a stiff breeze animates them once more.

I also enjoy how the old factories enhance the neighborhood. Arthropod entrepreneurs move in and bring a second life to these empty vessels. These remnants become hangout places for fungi and fun girl alike. Soon, the smell of brewed geosmin and earthy smells is on every corner. Graffiti and murals from earthworms and beetles appear overnight. Gentrification, right out my back door.

Yes, I enjoy the old factories. And, I wouldn’t get rid of them for the world.

With the arrival of November, I find myself raking leaves. And, being surrounded by trees on two and a half acres, we have plenty to use. Some have started to drop in earnest while others still hold fast. The succession helps this collector of fallen foliage.

While many gardeners herd them to the curb, to me each leaf is precious and nary a one leaves our property. For years, I’ve considered the litter quite valuable. Even as a teenager, I’d pile them up to make leaf mold and use this black gold to mulch plants the following year.

I keep my greed in check. Many that fall lie where they land for most of the winter. But, in areas where they are plentiful, I relocate them by the wheelbarrow load from the lawn to garden beds. A thin layer keeps the weeds down around vegetables, perennials, and woodies, and a thick layer smoothers the grass (save for the dastardly Bermuda!) to help create new planting areas. That’s exactly what I’m doing around our fig saplings. In the spring, this blanket will be plugged with grasses to create a groundcover matrix.

Some beds that I mulched last fall still have an icing of last year’s leaves. Amazing, no? They need a new coating as a few weeds are gaining hold, but still I’m impressed that they’ve persisted for so long.

Yes, I wouldn’t get rid of them for the world.

A Prairie from Scratch

Ah, August.  With the arrival of midsummer in the deep south, we can actually garden again without just hauling water to and fro.  Fall seeds are arriving, new growth is starting to appear on sun-scorched plants following a few afternoon showers, and my mind is dwelling on upcoming garden projects.  Forefront on my list is a prairie.

When we bought our house almost a year ago to the day, one of the acts that excited me the most was the creation of a prairie.  But, why?  Why return a 1/8th acre of clipped turf to wild?  These are a few reasons that immediately came to mind.  

1. As I’ve written before, I love grasslands.  Call it primal or call it high culture, but a waltz amongst the panicles and the floral tapestry of the wild is enchanting.  

2. I want to learn.  I want to get a hands-on education in making designed plant communities in the southeast.  This planting will become a living lab to practice different designs, combinations, and approaches.  Can I really plant directly into turf?  How can I achieve color or interest every week of the year in east Texas?  What will be a thug, and what worthwhile will need encouragement?

3. A prairie will reflect the genius of the place.  Drive down our roads, and you see Liatris, Asclepias, Vernonia, Rudbeckia, Baptisia, Gaillardia, Delphinium, Hymenopappus, Echinacea, Callirhoe, Penstemon, and more all growing in a matrix of short grasses.  Why not concentrate this wild and have it right out my door?    

4. I love seeing the wildlife flit and flirt across our micro-farm. It takes me back to my childhood chasing frogs at sunset or the first chrysalis I ever discovered.  Creating habitat for fauna of all kinds makes me feel like I’m doing good in this world, and as Noel Kingsbury recently argued is a core element of the designed plant community concept.  

5. Karen wants a prairie, too.  (No, really!)  I realized I've made her a bit of a mulch snob when she comments on far apart spaced plants and the wasted space between. 

My mind has iterated through different locations on the property.  At first, I wanted the planting to be in our backyard surrounding a towering water oak, mainly because early on we were spending hours on our backporch.  But, with time living here, I eventually realized that to the west of our house beside our driveway would be the best location.  The spot is a beeline straight from our kitchen window, and standing at the sink I find myself gazing out and imagining what will be in bloom or seed.  The site gets full sun save for the last few waning hours of the day when shade is cast by a mature water oak and a teenage Taxodium.  The site slopes slightly to the west in a terrace-like fashion, and the lay of the land is perfect for catching morning light as the sun lifts above the distant thicket in the summer and the house later in the winter.  Also, the prairie will be visible from the road so that people will see the crazy things that plant doctor is doing.  

The space is rectangular and runs the western length of our driveway.  It’s about three times as long as it is wide, tapering a bit with the curve of the asphalt.  The length of the prairie warrants a vista, and I know I want to frame the view and have something at the north end draw one’s eye from the south where the road is.  Our edible patch is just beyond the prairie, and perhaps I can create a focal point near this space.  Not sure what yet though.  

The biggest question I’ve wrestled with this spring and summer is how to create an immersive experience in the prairie.  How do I design it to be tangible and imbibed?  Paths are the obvious answer and will allow the interaction with the plants from a variety of angles.  I considered different layouts including parallel lines, turf spaces that ebb and flow in size surrounding a sea of taller foliage, and even doing geometric shapes like the orchard plantings at Le Jardin Plume.  Finally, I decided on a curving path that winds through the area and eventually circles back on itself.  When the grass is tall, I envision curves hiding what’s next and creating a sense of mystery.  I’ve also envisioned resting spots along the path throughout the prairie made by circles where chairs and tables will allow one to stop and enjoy the creation.  

Like a light pencil on a blank canvas tracing guides for a greater work of art, I’ve used my riding mower to mow lines for various projects at our house to begin shaping spaces, and I’ve used the same approach with our prairie.  Yes, it probably sounds like hillbilly horticulture, but it works.  I set the mower blade a bit shorter than the rest of the grass and mow the lines I want.  Any errors of my ways will grow back.  Living out in the country affords me the opportunity to play around in ways in which a city dweller might receive a citation or gawks.  With the prairie, I mowed the path I had in mind.  I walked the length of it stopping and pausing to view certain perspectives and to see what I liked or didn't.  Then, the outline is there for several days to allow the mind to absorb, mellow, and consider different scenarios.  After a couple of runs, I’ve about got the path where I want it.  To create resting spots in the prairie, I stop along the path with the mower and start circling outwards till I feel the space is large enough.  Eventually, I will put a peg in the center and measure a circle with string.  

Just some scribblings.  So that you could better see the paths and resting areas that I mowed, I colored them in on my iPad.  This view is looking north toward our fenced in edible patch, and you can see how the length beckons for shorter plants that will create a nice vista over the prairie.  

To give the planting legibility, I will keep the turf next to the drive way.  Two mower passes from the drive gives me a swath about 8–10 feet wide .    This area will also allow people space to park along our drive when we have several visitors.  

The side of the prairie that runs along our western property line will be planted with woody species, mostly evergreens to complement the Quercus and Taxodium already there.  We’ve known we wanted a privacy wall since we moved, and the verdant height will serve as a foundation that will help the front flora pop.  A lone Magnolia grandiflora ‘Bracken’s Brown Beauty’ is the start of more to come.  

The other woody species I want to add will help to further frame the prairie.  On the north and south ends, I want to plant fruit tree species to create an edge habitat, the height and spacing of which will quickly taper to a full sun planting in the center of the garden.  The north will get a mostly full circle of hybrid Asian/American persimmons I’m dying to try here in east Texas around one of the resting spots I mentioned earlier, and the south will get a groove of pawpaws.  

The other big question that I’m pondering is should the turf stay or should it go?  When Thomas Rainer spoke for us back in April, I showed him the area to be planted, and he asked me if I was going to plant directly into the grass and let the forbs and taller grasses take hold.  I told him I didn’t know, and I have since ruminated on that question.  I’d like to kill off everything because that gives me a clean slate.  But, the turf is dominated by centipede grass with some dreaded Bermuda scattered about.  That spawn of Satan I will be killing.  But, the centipede may act as a great groundcover to allow the transplants to get established and prevent various weeds from germinating.  

I’m saving the rest of the plant list for another post.  The cast of characters is still a work in progress and will likely be for the life of the planting.  I will say that the garden will be planted in phases, and I've already identified the north end as the first phase.  I’m in no hurry.  I’m propagating species here either by division of plants that I buy or find in the wild or from germinating and growing seed.  

In closing, I'll say all good prairies need a name.  I’ve chastened this area Prairie Lark, a play on words of one of my favorite avian species, the Eastern Meadowlark.  And, besides describing a passerine, lark also means "a source of or quest for amusement or adventure” and “to engage in harmless fun or mischief”.  

It's a perfect word for creating a prairie from scratch—an adventure with a little bit of fun and mischief mixed in.  

Where the Wood Thrush Sings

It's a sound that will stop me dead in my tracks, and turn my head like dog on point.  The song of the Wood Thrush.  Frozen, I listen waiting for the silence to break, half worried it might just be my imagination.  There it is again, the ethereal notes echoing through the woods and across the yard.

I drop my shovel and make a beeline for the thicket to the east of our house.  I pause and listen.  It is still far off.  The song is a bit choppy.  A few notes here and there.  Maybe it's just warming up.

I follow the fence up to the road and straddle the gravel shoulder.  Slowly I advance afraid I might scare it off, but the dense brush that hides this solitary performer must also obscure me.  

Now the song really picks up, and I am happy to provide an audience. 

My mind drifted back to when we first visited our new property.  I opened the door of the realtor's truck, and as I stepped out I heard the call of the Wood Thrush, one of my favorite (if not my top favorite!) birds.  Just a solitary note.  Nothing more, and since that hot July afternoon I haven't heard a peep.  No surprise there as I know it is a migratory species.  But, I have long wished to live in a place where one could walk outside and hear the trill of this passerine.  And for the past eight months, I've also hoped that first impression of our new property would not be the last.  The ee-oh-lay was certainly a good nudge saying, "This is right", and let's be honest, a small reason why I signed the closing papers.    

I started the short trek back to my planting, and throughout the day I was tickled pink to have it performing a natural oratorio with the ensemble of vireos, bluebirds, and gnatcatchers.  

I'm happy to live on an earth and happy to garden in a place where I can go outside and enjoy all that nature has to offer.  

Happy earth day, gardeners.  

“Whenever a man hears [the Wood Thrush song] he is young, and Nature is in her spring; wherever he hears it, it is a new world and a free country, and the gates of Heaven are not shut against him.”

— Henry David Thoreau

Field Notes from Connecticut, January 2018

When I travel, I always report things I’ve learned to my students upon my return, and in the spirit of education I decided to start sharing these field notes from my trips on the blog. 

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This past week I travelled to the frigid north to speak at the Connecticut Nursery and Landscape Association on engaging millennials in horticulture, and after an enchanting trip I wanted to share knowledge I gleaned from my excursion.  

 

GIRDLES ARE HURDLES

Rick Harper from University of Massachusetts Amherst spoke before me on how production influences tree survival.  He sees many cases of stem-girdling roots in trees in the landscape, a paradoxical condition where life-giving roots end up strangling the plant.   He reminded the audience to watch for causing this disorder when installing trees.  The disorder can occur on some species during production when roots in the pot grow out, hit the side, and then begin to circle.  What I learned is that in others like Acer, it may be due to planting the root flare too deeply.  If not corrected by slashing or disturbing the rootball or by planting at the right depth, the girdling roots can eventually result in poor health in the tree.  

BROKEN ARROW, PERFECT PLANTS

Caleb Melchior reminded me that Broken Arrow Nursery was in Connecticut.  Once I found out it wasn't far from where we were staying, I took Adam Wheeler, Broken Arrow's plant development guru, up on a previous offer to visit if I was ever in the area. 

Once we arrived, we bundled up for a brisk but sunny walk through the display gardens and nursery.  Near the entrance we passed a massive Larix kaempferi 'Pendula' that was planted in 1960!  Adam hinted that it was likely one of the largest in the US.  

Larix, Larix, let down your hair, so that I may climb thy golden stair.

Adam said that diversity is king at Broken Arrow, which is quite evident once you enter a greenhouse.   They have over 6,000 different taxa on the property, many offered as both retail... and mail order options!  Adiós, paycheck!  

As we walked in the the plant-packed, solar-warmed cold frame, my eyes wandered through potted shrubs and perennials.  One of the coolest plants I spied was ×Didrangea, a new-to-me cross the national arboretum made of Dichroa febrifuga and Hydrangea macrophylla that may have a chance in east Texas since both parents perform decently for us. There was also Acer conspicuum 'Esk Flamingo'.  I fold for great winter stem color on woodies, but alas, my appreciation must remain in the north and the Appalachians as most of them don't fair well in Zone 8.  Yes, I know.  I need to give 'White Tigress' a try.

Adam Wheeler is all smiles in his element.  

Nerds, anyone?  The candy that is.  The grape-colored buds on ×Didrangea tease a taste.  

Snake-bark maples tempt me to make a purchase, but alas they wouldn't fair well long in Zone 8b.

Back outside Adam recounted that history of the nursery.  It was started by Dick Jaynes who worked on Kalmia latifolia breeding for 25 years, and upon retirement, he opened the nursery in 1984.  As was briefly mentioned earlier, Adam’s role is plant development.  He stays on the cutting edge of what’s new and what’s been found to help the nursery keep its niche.  

On the east side of the nursery, we paused to enjoy the spectacular view of the low mountains of Connecticut with the sun hovering over Sleeping Giant Mountain.  Off to the side was a solar panel that impressively powered electricity in the main house and heat in the greenhouses.  I appreciated them as a nursery leading an effort toward sustainability as I feel all of us should be doing.  

Photosynthesis and artificial photosynthesis powers Broken Arrow, each in it's own way.  

One take away for our operation at SFA was this nifty stack of pots to educate customers on the different sizes of pots.  As anyone learning a new craft language, customers (and students!) don’t always understand logistical terms like gallon pot or three inch pot.  Having something visible and readable helps ease any learning pains.  

The leaning, learning tower of pots.  

 

HORTICULTURE.  EVERYWHERE.

I never knew that Connecticut was so agricultural!  While I had a brief visit once before, this time was the first I really got to explore the state.  It was charming seeing all the rustic farms and barns.  It seemed every road had this quintessential New England feel, and in every small town we saw a farm stand, garden center, or farm store.  Many were closed for the season, but in discussions with people I learned they come to life after the thaw.  Locals told me that there was a demand for plants in all forms, partly because Connecticut is New York’s playground.  As I left the state, I wondered why can’t we have more communities support small agricultural enterprises?

 

SIGN, SIGN, EVERYWHERE A SIGN

One of the inspiring things I also saw was that many nurseries, farms, greenhouses, and vineyards were featured on a Connecticut Grown sign.  I began thinking back to many of the side roads and city streets I’ve explored searching for a garden center.  I wondered why more states don’t do this?  And, if they aren’t willing, maybe garden centers, farm stands, etc. should put more signs up so that passers by at least know they exist?  There's power in alerting people that you exist.  

 

A BLANKET OF NEEDLES

While visiting Washington Depot to let Karen get her Gilmore Girls geek on, we saw a great use for your old Christmas trees.  Chop the branches off and lay them down to protect plants.  While in this setting the coniferous cover was for herbaceous ornamentals, the minute I saw the foliage I recalled how Eliot Coleman once wrote that spinach covered with evergreen boughs had a 90% survival rate while those uncovered only saw 10% survive.  I think it looked pretty, too.  

Such a lovely carpet of green!  Better than bare soil or mulch.  

Another fun tale from Washington Depot.  The bookstore The Hickory Stick Bookshop had an incredible selection of gardening books.  AND, IT WAS VISIBLE FROM THE FRONT DOOR!  Not tucked away in some obscure corner covered with cobwebs.  

 

A FEW PRETTY PICS

Connecticut roadsides offered many places to stop and pull off for photo ops.  I leave you with a few favorites.  

Happy Anti-privet Day!

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. ”

— Edmund Burke

Now that a hard freeze has descended on east Texas and erased the deciduous foliage from the landscape, the evergreens radiate in thickets and pastures alike, their verdant foliage an afterglow of warmer days when the world was all green.  

Most of these I like.  Eastern red cedar I adore.  Pines are ok.  I have an aversion to the shroud of needles they drop, but I love when wind whispers through them.   Even honeysuckle I’ll leave to make the flowers into sorbet.  

Sparse now, but once it leafs out in the spring, privet casts dense shade.

But, the one emblem of green I hate seeing more than any other in this dearth landscape is privet (Ligustrum sp.).  The scourge is everywhere and is a horticulturist’s nemesis.  The evergreen, shiny leaves cast dense shade preventing the growth of native plants below.  The emerald glow that does make it through isn’t enough for species to germinate or grow.  Some creature could eat it, but I’ve read due to distasteful compounds the leaves aren’t tasty to animals save for deer.  Now if only we could train these prized-plant-devouring, four-legged pests to eat only privet two of our problems would be solved!

Privet spreads like a plague upon the land near and far.  Rhizomes locally increase the pestilence, and it’s indigo-colored berries are feasted upon by birds and the seed spread by their wings.  Those seed not eaten drop below the mother plant, sprout, and create a carpet of minions .  

My first encounters with privet were at my grandmother’s house where I had my first vegetable garden.  I would hack the branches and use them for stakes.  Yet, sometimes even these limbs would attempt resurrection by sprouting shoots and roots.

It is so depressing to see a plant that we humans introduced for utilitarian purposes—to create living fences and hedges—now in some ways has a mind of its own.  It is taking over our land and erecting its own barriers, similar to the stories where robots we brought into being have become self-aware and gone astray to create a post-apocalyptic world.  

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There. is. hope.  Research shows that removal of privet results in the return of native species. 

We should have an anti-privet day, a day when people and communities go out as a mob with pruners, loppers, machetes, axes, and saws to eradicate this species.  I vote sometime in winter when it can’t hide in the smokescreen of foliage,few other garden tasks occupy our time, and most ticks and chiggers slumber.  It doesn’t have to fall on a set cardinal date every year.   A warm, sunny day will do where working outside for a bit will welcome the removal of a jacket.   

Before privet removal.

After privet removal.  Hey, there's a fence there!

I’ve been celebrating a few anti-privet days.  At our new property we have a few behemoths along our fence rows, but most are spindly young whips.  I’ve been eyeing their demise since we first moved in August. 

Small switches are easy.  A swift stab through the earth with a heavy shovel will make quick work of the job.  Larger beasts require a cut back approach.  They will sprout up in the spring, but a shot or two of glyphosate will kill the Hydra heads.  Be cautious cutting near or through barbed wire as the metal pricks can grab your clothes and you.  

Once cut straight branches can be used for trellising and staking material.  The rest of the refuse goes on a burn pile.  

A good afternoon's work.  There's more privet rubbish that's not visible past the pile in the back.  

Clearing along our fence row I had the idea of planting a fruiting shrub like a native Ilex or Sambucus where I rip a few out so that the birds have something to sustain them and tempt them more than privet in the future.   

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The east fence row is now clear of privet, and the north side is next.  The perimeter of our yard will soon be free of this curse.  Sure, there will be a few renegades I missed.  But, in the words of Seth Godin, I’ve put in the work and positively impacted my little microclimate.  I look forward to next winter when the deciduous leaves once again drop, and maybe the only verdant foliage I see will be the desirable evergreens.  If a few privet remain or have since sprouted, then I'll celebrate another anti-privet day.  

Maybe you should celebrate anti-privet day, too.  And, tell or bring a friend.