The Secret Garden

 Burning season is almost here and I can't wait. Bill would call it the caveman in me. Oh, how he loved to burn. And so do I. I've been cutting brush and brambles and honesuckle vines like a madwoman. The only thing that makes me stop is when the poison ivy leafs out in early spring. I've had to contain the slash-and-burn part of my persona since April, and I can feel her rising up again. Winter is coming, and winter is the time for cutting and burning.

This little story starts with a fire, one my friends Walter, Kevin and Bobby started for me last November. They had cut the big Colorado blue spruce on the east hill at my request. Planted in 1992, right after we moved in, the poor thing had succumbed to spruce blight, a fungal disease that is inexorably killing all the Colorado blues I planted. I'm sad about that, because the mourning doves like to roost in them and the chipping sparrows nest in them, but there's nothing I can do against a blight. There's only one left now, and it's dying slowly. 

So they'd cut this tree, and we'd piled a bunch of other stuff I cut on it and set it ablaze. With the help of a little kerosene, we soon had quite the fire, an impressive tower of flame. 

              

When the burning and tending were all done (and that took a couple days), there was a nice blackened patch in the meadow, sterilized, for all intents and purposes, of the plants that grow so thickly in the meadow. Sumac and goldenrods, vanquished for a brief moment. I saw an opportunity in that blackened patch.

In November, 2020, I'd gone to a roadside down in Whipple where I'd seen New England aster growing wild. Now, for years I've had exactly one New England aster plant on my 80 acres. It grew along the driveway in the shade of the Virginia pines, and it never did well, but its brilliant purple blossoms with their sunny red-gold centers brought me joy. I wanted more of that.

So when those New England asters down in Whipple went to seed last fall, I headed down there with some Ziplocs and gathered a lot of seed.  I waited for a gentle winter rain and scattered them on the burnt soil. Either it would work or it wouldn't. But at least I'd have tried.

My friend Laurie Johnson from Wisconsin is a prairie queen, and she sent me absolute bags full of mixed seed--swamp aster, showy goldenrod and the like. Then I sent her a bunch of butterflyweed seed in thanks. I spread the seed Laurie sent me on the burned patch, too.

While putting together my new webinar on gardening, I found this amazing photo. Do you see the burned spot, the black blotch on the left side of the meadow? There seems to be something coming up in it...how I wish I had gone to investigate then! But no...I forgot alll about it, and let the overgrowth of the meadow keep me from straying from my well-mown paths. Silly me. But that makes the surprise all the more delicious!

I was mowing the meadow paths a couple weeks ago when out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of rose-purple, peeping through the thick goldenrod.  Oh. My. God. Could those aster seeds have taken root? Could they already be blooming?? I didn't think they'd get big enough to bloom the first year!! I thrashed my way through head-high goldenrod and sumac, up to what had been the burned spot. What I beheld took my breath away. 

This is a video I made the next day, after I'd spent all morning cutting paths to it. It will give you some idea how I felt when I burst out of the smothering thicket and into this little secret garden, reserved just for beauty.

              

Here's Curtis, enjoying this little patch of utter surprise.

             

I decided, upon beholding this small patch of nothing but asters and pure blessed vibrant color, that there was nothing I'd done around the place that had brought me more joy than simply scattering aster seed on a burned patch. I think part of my rush of emotion was the surprise of it all-- having forgotten I'd done it, and then literally stumbling on it as I mowed--catching that flash of rose purple and following it, breathless, through the tangle, and then coming on this hidden, secret garden.

Because I am a creature of the moment, I was engaging in a ridiculous exercise, trying to rank my feeling on beholding this pop-up aster garden, against other wonderful experiences I've had here at home. 

Which include:

1. the orchard dogwoods in full bloom, cleared of vines and strangling rose. 

 2. bobcats hunting squirrels in the yard. 

3. walking beneath blooming dogwoods in the silver light of a full moon of May. 

Anyway. You get the picture. There is so very much joy around, waiting to be found--and made.  My love for this land is deepening with every small thing I do to improve it. I don't just live here--I interact with the land, and it gives so much back for every little gesture.

I have two enorrrmous brushpiles to burn this fall.  I cannot wait. You can be sure I will be gathering more aster seed by the roadside for the clean black burn patches they leave. Which do I love more? The blue-purple

or the rose-purple?

Total tossup. And lest you think the Secret Garden is a perfect Brigadoon, I found THIS

growing in the middle of the garden

Luckily it was just coming into bloom, and had yet to set seed (I think...) This is Japanese stiltgrass and it has EATEN the prairie meadow, where I had the soil disced to prepare it. Japanese stiltgrass is the entire reason I cannot disc to prepare the soil for planting--it multiplies ferociously when the soil is turned.  I carefully pulled out as much of the single clump as I could. Then I came stomping back and dug up the rootball and carried it to the fire circle and immolated the damn thing. If there is anything I hate it's Japanese stiltgrass. That one plant alone could have completely obliterated the Secret Garden by next spring. Praying I caught it in time. Die badly, you scourge.

There is always, always trouble just around the corner in Paradise, but for now, I'm going out to waller in the glowing success of these brand New England asters, gleaming in the September sunlight

Blue and rose-pink, with happy yellow centers and crawling with happy bees and butterflies

and I'm going to be thankful for beauty like this, and thankful that I get to live in its midst. 

Young Hummingbirds On the Loose!

Summer. I love it. But I really, really love August, a month that doesn't get much respect because people remember it as too hot, too humid, too something or other. Here's how I see August. Everything is still growing and blooming as hard as it can. Baby birds have fledged, by and large, and are absolutely everywhere, at least on my ridgetop in southeast Ohio. Wherever I walk, I'm scolded by parent birds, who are telling me they have young ones hidden nearby. I hear a strange continuous rustling in pine needles and follow the sound to a male hooded warbler, puffed up, tail dragging, skittering slowly over the forest floor as he leads my eyes inexorably away from his nest. It is SO cool. To enjoy August, all you have to do is stop complaining and show up.

 

This is a typical move by a juvenile ruby-throated hummingbird. Young flight muscles tire easily, so they're always looking for a place to stand while learning to ply the flowers for nectar. You will not see an adult rubythroat busting a move like this.

They vie for privileges at the crocosmia blossoms with spicebush swallowtails. Crocosmia "Lucifer" is native to Africa, and is naturalized in places like Costa Rica and Scotland, my goodness. While it spreads in my beds, I haven't seen it popping up in other places in my yard or in southern Ohio. It grows from a bulb, but you don't have to lift it in the winter. Just leave it right where it is! For whatever reason, mine just went NUTS this summer of 2021. It was a gift from my friend Bonnie many years ago, but this year it took center stage, delighting the hummingbirds and swallowtails and me.

The young hummingbirds stop frequently to rest and preen.

 

  

I love being in on the intimate moments when they're acting like birds instead of insect helicopters.

Sometimes, when the sunlight is bright and clear and striking the flowers just below my studio window, I get some acceptable photos. Like this one:

And this one, which is one of the better hummingbird photos I've taken. The trick is having sufficient light and fast enough shutter speed to freeze those wings.The brighter it is out there, the more likely you are to be happy with your shot.

I absolutely love the video game thrill of keeping my lens on a rapidly moving hummingbird. Or warbler, for that matter.

Pretty little glittering scrap of life, lighting up my world.

 

 I'm very grateful that the stem borers that attacked and killed my cardinalflowers last summer are nowhere to be seen this summer. This hardy native has thrown seed children all over the bed where it first started, and marched up along the north side of the house. I've aided the dispersal, transplanting many seedlings up into the front yard beds, which is now aflame with crimson blossoms and the little green sprites who feed on them. It is most satisfying. I've also given lots of cardinalflower seedlings to local friends, who very much appreciate these Ohio-tested natives adapted to our conditions. The trick in growing and propagating cardinalflower is not to deadhead it. Let it go to seed and disperse, then lay the ripe seedheads on bare soil where you want it to come up. Don't mulch a cardinalflower bed! you'll inhibit recruitment of seedlings. Do keep it moist. Be generous with water, especially in dry spells. 

Super tall stalks appreciate support, and hummingbirds love to perch on the rungs of tomato cages, too. Win-win. 

 

This is how the original bed, which I've had going for at least 20 years, looked in 2017. Borers killed these plants, but new ones have spring up and will soon be as tall and beautiful as the originals. In the meantime, the crocosmia has spread like mad, and I'll have to take some of it out to make room for more cardinalflower. A great problem to have!
 

Feeders are fine, as long as you keep them absolutely spotless and free of mold and bacteria. But there's nothing like watching hummingbirds feed the way they were designed to, at the plants they evolved with. Plant it and they will come!

JZ

Planting the Memorial Maple

I've been mowing a great wide boulevard out to Bill's resting place since late April. I want to make it easy and inviting for us to get there. Bill didn't mow much in the last couple of years, and the shining sumac has taken over. If the meadow is going to have to be three years overgrown for awhile, at least the central path will be navigable.

The coneflowers and liatris I planted on his grave burst into joyous bloom in mid-July. It was fantastic. I had simply taken the liatris from my north bed, where it was getting too much shade, thanks to my now-huge liberated bonsai Japanese maple! The liatris never missed a beat, and took off. Prairie plants are like that. They're deep-rooted, willing to wait for their window.  (We should all aspire to be more like prairie plants.)

Aged cow manure mixed into the grave's topsoil didn't hurt. If you're going to bloom, you have to eat!

I visit Bill's grave in all weather, at all times and in all light conditions, but this dewy July 25 morning was the best of them all. Native plantings don't get much better than this. There's an understory of showy (pink) Missouri primrose that's going to be fantastic next spring.

Curtis, of course, always accompanies me. We "go see Daddy." Man, Bill loved this dog. And Curtis understands the import of this spot. He was there for the burial, led the funeral procession out, walking slowly so as not to outpace Elsa, all of his own accord. Someday I may be able to write about that, but probably not anytime soon. It was something to witness.

 

So now fast-forward to August 19, and the flowers have faded, though they're still trying to bloom a bit. It's time to plant the Memorial Maple. The Bonsai-no-more. It's the last day I can do it and have both kids here for the ceremony. Liam leaves at 1 pm.

I'm blown away by the beauty of the meadow on this fine hot morning. And I decide to put off having it mowed until everything's done blooming. Heck with it. So what if it's bare over the winter; I cannot stand to mow these wildflowers down in full bloom. I've never seen Joe-Pye weed in the meadow before. Amazing things happen when you let meadows go. And then not-amazing things happen, like losing the meadow to a steadily growing over-your-head sumac forest. That I don't want. Hence the mowing plans. But not now. Not now. Phoebe pleaded with me, like Snow White and the forester, not to fell the meadow, and I heard her. Its beauty took me away. (It was Snow White, wasn't it? Who was the girl in the fairy tale who begged the forester not to cut the trees?)

I've gotten up super early to dig the bonsai hole, before the blazing sun glares over the pines.  I'm grateful for this sandy loam, that presents nary a rock to my poacher's spade. Too well do I remember trying to plant trees or anything in Connecticut and Massachusetts. Good luck digging a big hole all by yourself. Here in Ohio, it's possible without hiring help or deploying TNT. It isn't all that hard.

 

I finish digging the hole, and I decide to dig out some poison ivy that keeps coming up at the head of Bill's little plot. "No poison ivy on Bill!" I growl. (I now have gigantic crazy itchy blisters between my fingers thanks to that little moment). I send the spade in and turn up the earth.

 And under the clod I turn up there is Something. I freak allll the way out.

 How perfect is it, that a box turtle has laid her eggs right over Bill's head? How amazing is it, that this nest, unlike all the others I've found dug out along my Boulevard of Broken Dreams, has somehow survived the skunks and the coons? 

Here's a hen box turtle starting a nest on the Boulevard in the first week of June. Yep, that's Curtis, bombing in more ways than one. Almost all of the nests I saw being dug along the Boulevard were predated by skunks and coons within a few nights. I tried so hard to find them and cage them before it happened, but I couldn't do it. Every time I thought I had one, it turned out to be a partial attempt. I pray some made it through.

There are four eggs on Bill's grave. I find one in the tailings and return it to its depression, hoping I haven't ruined it.How incredible that my spade has not harmed these precious, mostly-incubated eggs? It is perfection. I was meant to find this nest, to protect it. More on that later. We have a tree to plant.

Curtis leads the processional again, with all due gravitas. Liam has taken time from packing his last items for his return later this day to West Virginia University, to be my mule, hauling the tree, some cow manure, and 15 gallons of water out to the gravesite. Phoebe brings up the rear. We are making our own ritual.

 Some great Curtis Loew side-eye in this shot if you click on it.

 

First, we mix manure and potting soil with the loam I've dug out, and make a nice bed for the tree. Liam waters it until it's swimmy.

 

We lower the tree into the hole, face it the best way, and fill around it with a mix of manure, potting soil and native loam. Then we drown it with 5 gallons of water. 

  

Curtis gives Phoebe a kiss as she sits by the newly-planted tree. It doesn't look nearly so tall now that it's out with its feet in the big meadow. 

My idea was to have a shady place to sit when we visit Bill. It will happen. I will be old by then, but it will happen. It's mostly for the kids.

 

Curtis isn't a mad dog, nor is he an Englishman. 

He ain't sitting in the noonday sun. He won't be called out of the shade, either, not even for a photo. That's a cur for you. They have their own minds, are dripping with common sense. We laugh at how different he is from Chet, at how flagrantly self-centered Curtis can be. Of course, we love him for his  fiercely independent mind. We love everything about this dog.

I am grateful to have had this beautiful summer with both my kids. It has been a gift beyond measure to know they are asleep in their own beds right across the hall, that they're being nourished by the food I have grown and cooked for them, that my girl can cut the flowers I planted for her and prowl the milkweed that's grown for her. That we can go out and squeeze the kiwis and pick the golden raspberries and tuberoses every day. These are the things that matter. It seems so simple, but it's not anymore. It is everything. I know there will come a time, perhaps next summer, when neither of them will come home, and that is as it should be. We will all adjust, because adjusting is our only option, and it will continue to be good.

 The little ceremony we made, of planting this venerable tree nearly twice their age, by their father's grave, to honor him and remember him, is everything, too. Ceremony, ritual, tradition: we don't need to rely on society's customs. As a family, we make our own, doing what feels right and salutary to us, what fits. We're a small family now, but we are all the tighter for it.

Bill was, I think, too big for his pot here on earth.  Certainly one of the most expansive people I've known. Maybe he needed to be set free, to another life we can only guess about. And the little tree, 37 years in a pot, is sending feeder roots out as I write, exploring the good Ohio loam

and waiting for the rain.

Monuments and Memories at Mt. Auburn Cemetery. With Gratuitous Cats.

There was a bunneh holding a sunflower balloon when I got to Hodge's house on my birthday morning.  That night, there was Grandma Cree's lemon pound cake, swimming in lemon sauce and so, so delicious, to share with Hodge, husband John, Corey and Phoebe. How wonderful was that?

I have more images from Mount Auburn Cemetery, which is so rife with wonderful things to look at that I could probably blog from there for two years straight without running out of material. Add in the change of seasons, weather and light, and I could blog it for a lifetime.

I met bluestone on my birthday. A trip to Wikipedia leaves me confused as to whether this might be Pennsylvania or Shenandoah Valley bluestone; whether it's feldspathic sandstone (PA) or feldspathic greywacke (VA). Or neither. Dunno. The Webz being what they are, somebody might flutter in on little cupid's wings to tell me. Rocks. I love 'em, but I don't know 'em.

Look at what they can carve from this stuff, though. We found a family with fabulous bluestone tablets, marvelously hard and fine for detail.

I'm just guessing here, but I'm thinking the family name of Beebe might have something to do with the hive and its inhabitants carved hereon...Maybe they called Edward "Bee" in good New England fashion.

Loving the stylized wings that promise to lift these children (or their heads, anyway) into heaven. 

I'm not sure what's going on here, but we really dug this one, a sort of disgruntled face with a surprise turkeytail of feathers around it. If I had to guess I'd say it was an attempt at a likeness of the deceased.

This is a particularly lovely stone. I really love the botanicals on so many Mt. Auburn stones. 

Speaking of lovely botanicals, a sea change is occurring at Mount Auburn as management is emphasizing the use of native plants to beautify and attract pollinators. It's working!

The mound on which the viewing tower stands used to be landscaped, if I remember, in grass and shrubbery. Now, a native plant garden is springing to life!

I couldn't have been more thrilled to see these plantings, with tiger and spicebush swallowtails and silver-spotted skippers flitting through.

Wild bergamot (Monarda fistulosa) and purple coneflower (Echinacea purpurea) are the big splashes of color. The butterflies were so happy. Butterflies in a cemetery lift the heart. Good going, MAC.

American goldfinches appreciate the seeds in all these coneflower heads, and they'll check out the bergamot come its time, too. A Baltimore oriole tootled overhead, red-eyed vireos sang; house wrens darted behind stones. It was divine to see what had been a non-descript hillside spring to life with unbridled meadows of native plants that belong and prosper here.

We climbed the tower for a breathtaking view of beautiful Boston. 

The light had a shimmery, surreal quality that made me feel as if the sky were putting on a show just for us.

Near Willow Pond, half-hidden beneath massive dawn redwoods (Metasequoia), Hodge showed us a gigantic boulder, cloven in half, that she'd never noticed before. It was the perfect compliment to the biologically ancient trees overhead. Corey swiped Phoebe's phone to shoot her portrait against the rock.

We grooved on some exotic hydrangeas on the way down to Willow Pond.

Since Phoebe's been working with Caroline Waller of Passiflora Studio, her already keen appreciation of flowers has expanded. She's helped Caroline pull off several weddings this summer, and learned volumes about floral husbandry, arranging, work and life. 

She now knows how to make these!

hence her enchantment with exquisite oakleaf hydrangeas such as inhabit Mount Auburn. She was itching to make bouquets! but of course restrained herself.

Watching the birdwatcher watching turtles at Willow Pond.

35 years ago, I found many life birds at Willow Pond. Vireos love weeping willows, and that's where I'd find them--white-eyed, yellow-throated, red-eyed, warbling--even Philadelphia sometimes!

To be there with my daughter and her love, well, that was a full-circle moment, one that filled my heart.

The paths beckoned us onward. 

We found more putti. I especially loved the artistry in these. Gorgeous faces, and pretty darn good wings, too, if you don't get too Science Chimpy about the two sets of secondaries or the overlap of the underwing coverts. Let's just say they're better than the bluestone wings.

Oh, the Easter lilies, singing of spirits rising again! One of my very favorite stones, natural and pleasingly asymmetrical, like nature herself.

Any trip to Mount Auburn would be incomplete without noting some of the weirdness that weather and acid rain wreaks. I'm always a bit creeped out by the sleeping children, but when they melt...

A cradle full of groundcover.

There is a dorm called Wigglesworth at Harvard. 

More weather-related alchemy... I'm pretty sure this little fella was not scowling when first installed. Hey! Where did my dadburn hands go??

We have lots of fairly irreverent fun at Mount Auburn, but we try to keep our chortling muffled.

Corey takes a dip at towertop.

Truly, one of the best birthdays ever. All right. I'm done celebrating, but I'll never be done reminiscing about time spent with people I love in a place I love too.

Gratuitous cat photos from Java Macomber

What? I wasn't just slouching unattractively.

Yes you were.

and her more decorous sister Star

who takes up a kitchen stool in a most delightful way.

These two are da bombs. I get a huge kick out of watching them interact with each other and totally manipulate Hodge and John into doing their every bidding, which revolves around (at last count) four metered daily feedings. Lots of very soft, pitiful coughy mewing and give-me-kibble-staredowns, all day long.

You forgot to top me off after the morning feeding.