Saturday, November 10, 2012

Re-Planting Lincoln's Union Plaza

A few months back I criticized Union Plaza--a new dowtown park here in Lincoln--both on my blog and in the local paper. I stand by what I've said, and I'm finally going to go further, looking deeper at what I see to be major landscaping flaws. Lincoln has and is currently undergoing massive "big boy" civic construction--this park is one, the doubling of the downtown haymarket (arena, hotels, etc) is another. The grandeur of our new buildings (and roundabouts) outstrips the awe of our garden and green landscapes, which is a common problem with most cities.

How we interact personally with our green landscapes as we walk them is often an afterthought to hardscapes--it should in fact be at the forefront as an educational and artistic tool demonstrating a city's diversity, creativity, and regional roots. In other words, an awareness of what makes a city a city, how people live within the natural world, and how they depend upon it--in other words, a public park should show how nature is not an escape or recreational weekend destination only, but an everyday service to our bodies, our cells, our nourishment. I find this all lacking to some degree in Union Plaza.


To me, this new park represents centuries of western didacticism. If you straighten the lines--and thank god they are at least curvy and mimic the flood channel--the park soon looks like Versailles. This tradition of overlaying a landscape with perfect geometric lines is not only a sign of imperialistic / hubristic thinking, but in the landscape world of Oehme and Oudolf (the new american landscape) it's simply outdated. To me, when I look at Union Plaza, I see a small space trying to be something big in another century, in another country--I see a king's wealth and order on display. I see Jefferson's grid that destroyed native ecosystems, native wildlife, and native peoples.


I love the idea of this park. I love that people and corporations worked together to make it happen. I love that it can be a place for events and a place to stroll. But I do not want to stroll here. It does not invite me. It does not make me linger. It does not connect me to a place. It does not make me feel peaceful, reposed, transformed and transfigured like a garden should. I learn nothing. Can you see this in just the two above images? It's open, sunny, and monocultured. Who will sit on the slopes of buffalo grass? Why would you? What's holding you to this place? To this city? Very little. Let's look at some other images.


In the above image you see some nice hardscaping--natural places to sit by the water. However, nothing pulls you down to this space, nothing invites you in for a closer look, to linger, to be here.


Here's an example of wasted opportunity for native prairie plants--which is what I'm advocating. Native plants full of color, scent, texture, and wildlife, and requiring very little water or maintenance. Some plants on the upland slopes that like it dry, some that can take the periodic flooding down low. Deeply-rooted plants that won't need supplemental watering and that won't get washed away. See that space between the sidewalk and the wall? Coneflowers, milkweed, sideoats grama, indian grass, sunflowers, salvia, prairie clover, and on and on. Who is going to stop and sit here? No one. Who will walk by this on a rush to get somewhere else, up ahead where the eye is drawn? Everyone. This is a wasted space with no wonder and no power. The same goes for the two images before.

There's a neat amphitheater for concerts and such. But all around it, and all around the parking areas and more, the plants are in uniform and linear distribution. When I see plants evenly spaced and in lines I am incredibly bored. This is what you see "professional" landscapers do--lines of grasses. Rows of one type of flower. The plants don't sing, don't mingle, don't paint a picture--they are forced into unnatural order not representative of our prairie culture and lineage (though, I suppose, they do represent our cornfields quite well).



Perfectly spaced chokeberries. Just chokeberries. So you have two seasons of interest only--a week in spring, and maybe two in fall. All over the park are swaths of beds with simple plantings evenly spaced. Lines and rows. Why? Is this representing, mirroring, contributing to the teachings espoused in the mosaics along some walls?

Wilderness is a philosophy, not a boundary.

But rains held off. Day after day the clouds, as white and dry and puffy
as milkweed seeds, scadded high with the winds.

A planting of barely-monarch-attracting Asclepias tuberosa,
in perfect rows, is in front of this image. I raise 100s of monarchs
a year and see about one egg on tuberosa. Insects in general
also prefer the nectar of other milkweeds in my garden four miles west.
So, there is no wonder, joy, or connection to landscape or nature in this park. Not yet, anyway. There is very little benefit to wildlife. There is no awareness of nature here, no way to teach people about their natural heritage, to connect them with the natural world, and no reason a child would linger here--except for the playground equipment on the northwest edge. This last point saddens me, especially after reading Richard Louv's Last Child in the Woods.

What's an altermative? What's modern, sophisticated, enriching, enveloping, what draws in tourists and sets a city apart? The Lurie Garden in Chicago and the High Line in New York. Native plants in waves, wildlife meccas, a destination, a place to linger and meet, a place to connect with each other and the world. A place to wander and wonder.

Lurie

Lurie

High Line

High Line
See the difference? FEEL the difference? Union Plaza needs prairie. It needs Nebraska. It needs the Great Plains. Right now it's just another park, ho hum. It could be so much more with a few dozen bags of seed and maybe a "friends of Union Plaza" volunteer organization that goes out each March for a few hours to cut down the prairie plants, as I do in my garden--easy maintenance, four seasons of interest and wildlife value. Lincoln, we need prairie. We need our world and our lives handed to us just as in writing, painting, sculpture, music, and dance--all evidence of a thriving community, just like a diverse prairie brimming with flowers, grasses, and insects. Here's our chance.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

And That Was Fall

Still warm and bone dry, and although early hard freezes (three at 22 degrees) prevented some perennials from turning nice colors, we ended up having some of the nicest vistas ever in the small garden. A few bees are still out on the last of the asters and a fall-blooming onion. Most of the below photos were taken over a week ago before our 50-70mph wind storm that lasted two days (the high number is a gust, the low number a steady breeze).







This fall has been a bear. And yet putting one's head down and pushing through only results in time going even faster, without many of the simple pleasures along the way. As I'll look at the garden over winter, the bones that are left standing will reflect back the echo of what I've accomplished--in the face of work, family, and an extreme drought. It's not dining on ashes, it's dining on faith; when you leave the garden up for winter it never ceases to live, metaphorically or actually. Yesterday I counted nearly a dozen bird species out back at the feeder, fountain, and tromping through the dead perennials. This is home for all of us, interwoven together, and when you recognize this fact time stands still for a moment and everything comes into focus. Live for these moments. Live in them as long as you can.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Catching Breath

I didn't realize it had been over a week since I posted here. I don't think I've ever neglected this blog in such a way. But in the last 5 days I've graded 80 essays, been attempting to apply for academic teaching jobs (which cycle around only once a year, in the fall), mowed the lawn for the first time since early July, and have attempted to clean up garden tools and containers while gathering seed before the goldfinches take it all--which they already have I suppose.


I've also been working on a gardening book proposal here and there, in 30 minute snippets, as well as trying to think about the next writing stages of the Oklahoma memoir. I never believed my parents and aunts when they told me life gets faster year by year. I thought, oh, maybe every 5-10 years. But as April turns into October (what year I don't know anymore), I'm faced with one truth more and more--carpe diem. I'm not carping well. You really really do have to work to carpe, you have to will it and force in moments. Balance has nothing to do with equality and everything to do with catching your breath for a moment. Hence I'm here.


I've been admiring the fall garden, how it slides so quickly yet accurately from full outward life to inward--how like an introvert, how like me, it puts away the facade and once again quiets itself to center and gather over a winter. I've come to cherish winter now, too--the time, the reflection, knowing that it will very soon be spring again and I'll be called outside, which is both a working inward and outward from myself. The garden is one key part to who I am, and yet so is the writing. It is time for writing, to carpe in a different way again.


I don't know if everything works out, but I have this incurable sense that it will, that a storm of purpose and direction is gathering around me and all I have to do is show up and be ready to ride the wind home. Yes, that's ALL I or anyone has to do. I hear a blue jay calling from the elm, and see a flash of red from a house finch. A last green tomato is on the vine. The fog and mist is heavy today but it holds me close to home. I swear that even as I write these words I can smell the rich soil of home in Minnesota and the tinny soil of home in Oklahoma like two halves to a mystery coming together here in Nebraska. This is how it feels to put your hand into dirt at the end of a garden year and know time and place are illusions.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Garden Picture Time


Indian grass rocks
In person, ironweed seed heads glow when backlit
Liatris mucronata among aster
Looking west
Native to Alaska, burnet is too unique to pass by
View from my office window

'Wichita Mountains' goldenrod
A surprisingly good crabapple year
A wash of amsonia about to turn bright yellow, orange, then rust


Sometimes, the right tree goes in the right place

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Diversity = More & Stronger Plants, & People

Here in the Plains I'm always thinking about grassland diversity, and how areas of my garden that are thicker and more varied seem to perform better on average (this from a casual observer with no scientific training). Of course, I often think about diversity because there's a corn field over there, one over there, and another right there. Monculture mecca.

A recent University of Minnesota study proves that a diverse plot of grassland species has 2.5 times the biomass of a single-species plot. This means more wildlife and a stronger environment--storing carbon, filtering water, providing food for wildlife, creating natural fertilizer, etc.

Most striking was that after a long period of time, if you take out one species, the plot's biomass decreases. After a while, the plants have become so dependent on one another--each having its own niche--that the greater whole suffers. Reminds me a little of humanity. So if we farmed smarter (non monoculture) we could actually produce more food on less land, thus reducing the need to clear cut forests and the last of the grasslands.

And here's an Ohio study that shows non native plants have an advantage over natives as climate change occurs. This year, flowers bloomed weeks earlier--for natives, that means before their insect pollinator partners emerged (synced up evolutionarily over thousands of years), which translates to no propagation of the next generation.

As a wildlife gardener working with native plants, I see a moral imperative growing season by season. This summer 2.5" of rain in nearly four months has vastly decreased insect life. The planet is changing. More droughts, longer droughts, more violent temp swings, colder winter spells--the more I touch the soil, the more I understand. If we value diversity in humans, why not in the environment? But then again, anyone different from us often gets chastised, shunned, murdered. It's no surprise then what our planet is turning into. If we love our children, we must instill within them the love of what sustains them.

"A change is required of us, a healing of the betrayed trust between humans and earth. Caretaking is the utmost spiritual and physical responsibility of our time, and perhaps that stewardship is finally our place in the web of life, our work, the solution to the mystery of what we are. There are already so many holes in the universe that will never again be filled, and each of them forces us to question why we are permitted such loss, such tearing away at the fabric of life, and how we will live with our planet in the future." -- Linda Hogan, Dwellings.


Monday, October 8, 2012

My Prairie Dream

I want to restore farmland to prairie. It may be better to find some remnant prairie and preserve it, since those are turning into crops at a record pace the last few years. But either way, land in the farm belt is pricey--averaging $8,000-$10,000 an acre or thereabouts. So if a person wanted to restore 100 acres--a very very small prairie that could only support a fraction of the native wildlife--it'd cost one million buckaroos.

But here's the dream that's building, and how I hope to sustain it:

100-200 acres of land somewhat near a population center

House with solar, wind, geothermal, cistern (100% off the grid)

Greenhouse

Writing shed


How to Make Money (this is all part time stuff):

Sell native prairie plants and veg at farmer's markets

Have a "dig your own" prairie plant plot

Have several small cabins for 1-2 week writing residencies on the prairie

Create a semi-manicured expanse or garden, with vista of prairie, for weddings

Have an annual music / writing / arts prairie festival

Open the prairie to school groups and other private tours

Hold workshops for sustainable prairie growing and management


It seems like a person would really have to know their stuff to do this (or be just enough insane to jump right in, full of vigor and faith). Choosing the right place seems critical for many reasons, not only the lay of the land, but the location of that land. Even on a prairie a person is not an island, though they may need inordinate amounts of time being lost out there on the ocean of grass.

What would you do? How would you do it? How much would you risk? Looking back on your life, do you wish you'd put in all your chips for just one big thing?

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Hear Me at Vegfest or the Radio

It'll be 48 and chilly, but this Saturday I'll try to talk native plants for backyard wildlife at Vegfest, which is at Holmes Lake in Lincoln. I'm speaking at 3pm, and I'll give away seeds and maybe some plants. There'll be lots of stuff to see, do, hear, eat, etc.

Also, I'll be on the radio program How's It Growin' next Wednesday (10/10) from 11am-noon cst. KZUM, 89.3 on your FM dial. Talking native prairie plants and probably getting into a lot of trouble. I do believe they have a live internet stream.


Saturday, September 29, 2012

Take My Hostas and Anemone

The Deep Middle's front garden is getting a total redo, because when Mr. Deep started it 5 years yonder back he had no idea what he was doing, now he does.

Please come take my hostas before the compost pile does. Take divisions of my anemone, too. Monarda as well, a purple / magenta job. You have a few days, maybe a week. Message me asap.

Mr. Deep will be building a bench and sitting area in the shade, and creating a super mini mixed grass prairie in half sun. All for $100. (His wife isn't holding her breath but he promises to grow his own plants from seed this winter.)

Big blue something. Bench goes here.
Cream-splotched something.
Actually a very yellow lime something.
You can tell that hostas aren't very drought tolerant, not this year, and even a little bit of sun scorches them (I think hostas are vampires, therefore the perfect Halloween season plant for you!). They should never have gone in these places, and they have little wildlife value. So as I continue to sell them to you... uh... just please come take them, I'll divide for you if you supply the bucket or bag.

Monday, September 24, 2012

The Prairie is Our Amazon & No One Cares

A recent feature in the Minneapolis Star Tribune about the loss of prairie on the Great Plains has, of course, poured salt on an open wound for me. The last few years I've read book after book, article after article, about the loss of this critical habitat--and it is critical, as much as the Amazonian rain forest, but you don't hear fundraising songs or see national tv ads or billboard signs funded by "Save the Prairie." So, here are some highlights of the article with stunning maps of how much we've lost--even in just the last 5 years.

The Biggest Pressure on Prairie is Commodity Prices 

"Livestock operators just can't compete against the combined forces of crop insurance and high commodity prices. Around Highmore, they estimate they can make $50 to $100 an acre by grazing cattle; corn is fetching $300 or more per acre this year, regardless of how good the yields are [thanks to crop insurance].

In recent years, new varieties of genetically modified corn and soybeans have allowed farmers to push the Corn Belt westward, planting row crops on land once better suited to grazing cattle [because it's so arid]. Today, that tough prairie sod doesn't have to be plowed, just planted. The new corn and soybean seeds are immune to Roundup; farmers can kill the native grasses with the herbicide, then plant right over them."
[And all this marginal farmland needs irrigation--draining reservoirs, streams, rivers, prairie potholes, and the largest underground freshwater formation, the Ogallala Aquifer, which is being depleted so fast it may be gone in just a few decades. The Ogallala spans SD, NE, CO, KS, OK, KS, TX, and NM.]

How much grassland there was
Prairie is a Water Filter and Bird Nursery

"Heavy spring rains, once sequestered by wetlands and deep-rooted prairie plants, instead pour off the cropped fields. Eventually the water, often carrying fertilizer, herbicides, and pesticides, makes its way to the Missouri River, then to the Mississippi and eventually to the Gulf of Mexico's "dead zone'' -- an area near the mouth of the great river, now nearly 6,000 square miles in size, which is so polluted that it can no longer sustain most aquatic life.

"The northern plains that include Minnesota, the Dakotas and Canada are called "the duck factory," because nearly half the nation's wetland and grassland birds are born there, and many of those species are in decline. Many other animals are already gone, especially the large creatures like elk, bison and prairie wolves. Now, the smaller ones are at risk as well."

Prairie as Buffer Against Drought and Dustbowl II

"In the dry summer months, some of the richest soil in the world sometimes blows away on the wind."

"According to one federal study, the 16 South Dakota counties that experienced the greatest loss of grasslands are also the counties most susceptible to drought and crop loss. Farmers in those counties also had twice the insurance payments as the rest of the state."

How much has been converted
How Fast Grasslands are Vanishing

"Since 2008, the rate of land conversion nationally has exploded. In just four years, some 37,000 square miles of grasslands, wetlands and shrublands have been converted to row crops, according to the Environmental Working Group (EWG) and the Defenders of Wildlife, which analyzed federal satellite images to document the change. Minnesota and the Dakotas alone lost an area the size of Connecticut.

Of the Minnesota land that was once tallgrass prairie, only one-fourth is in grasses of any kind today, according to satellite data. And only about 300 square miles, scattered in remnants across the state, remains in its virgin state."

How much has been converted in the last 4 years
The Other Side

"Brian Hefty, who is reaping the benefits of the new agriculture, sees things differently. He dismisses the arguments for preserving more prairie with a critical question:
"How much do you need?" he asked.
Hefty and his brother, Darren, are third-generation South Dakota farmers. They own 2,500 acres of corn and soybeans near Sioux Falls, and they run a chain of 34 stores that provide farmers in eight states with seeds, chemicals and equipment to drain their fields.
The Hefty Brothers are widely known among Midwestern farmers as the blond and jovial hosts of "Ag Ph.D.,'' a folksy cable TV show where they teach all the latest farming techniques and technology. Their annual farm fests draw hundreds to workshops on topics like patterned tile drainage and navigating wetland protection rules.
In making the case for modern agriculture, Hefty shows a serious side that his TV fans don't always see. He also illuminates the deep philosophical divide between agriculture and conservation. Productive land, he said, is an improvement over land in its natural state. [why do we still have this antiquated, 19th century mindset?]
"Don't tell us what we have to do with our land," he said in an interview. "We are trying to make it better."
True, he acknowledged, South Dakota is "pretty dry" compared to the rest of the Corn Belt. Still, farmers should grow corn here because the new technology and the quality of the soil allow them to grow some of the best corn on Earth.
"There aren't many places better than this," he said.
The latest advances in agriculture are also good for the environment, he said. Roundup Ready corn reduces soil erosion because farmers can plant with less plowing, he said. "Now I can plant seed without massive tillage."
And the new seeds, by generating higher yields per acre, mean less land has to be used to fulfill demand, he said. As a result, Hefty said, the United States has the cleanest water and one of the most productive food systems in the world.
"In a good share of the world, they don't care about the environment," he said. "They want to eat."

My Rebuttle to Mr. Hefty:

GMO corn that is roundup ready encourages mass spraying. Crops that grow more densely don't mean less land is used, as made evident by the amount of marginal land converted in recent years. It's about money. Greed. About navel gazing. About our eyes just on the present moment, forgetful of past lessons, unsympathetic about paying it forward. If you're trying to build a business to pass on to your kids, especially farming, it will be hard for them as global temperatures swing violently (the arctic sea ice melt may cause massive swings in the jet stream, leading to prolonged dry and wet spells).

Don't get me started on the growing links between high fructose corn syrup and diabetes, Alzheimer's and junk food, or GMO foods creating learning disabilities and allergies... or corn fattening up cattle, hogs, and chickens (all pumped full of hormones, making girls begin puberty earlier, hormones that change sex in fish and that stays in our drinking supply for a very long time)--all that corn makes for fatter meat than grass fed animals, leading to increased heart disease.

How much is left
The Ecological Effects

"Once native prairie is plowed, it's gone, ecologists say. It takes decades of careful planting and management to restore the complex web of life that includes microbes and tiny insects invisible to the human eye."

"When preserving wildlife, there are thresholds," said Joe Fargione, a prairie specialist with the Nature Conservancy. "You can keep species if you lose half or 70 percent" of an ecosystem. But if you go beyond that, you start to see losses of species. Compared to rain forest habitat, we may be closer to those critical thresholds."

Why don't you go read this lovely piece by Bill McKibben about global warming. 


Carbon Sequestration

"Perhaps least appreciated, however, is the role grasslands play in storing carbon, which, when released into the atmosphere as carbon dioxide, is a major contributor to global warming. Their vast underground root systems, which can reach depths of eight or nine feet, hold an astonishing one-third of the world's carbon stocks. That's almost as much as the amount stored by forests, according to the World Resources Institute, an environmental think tank. On average, every time an acre of grassland is plowed, it releases 60 tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere -- about the amount emitted annually by 30 passenger cars.

Preserving grasslands as a hedge against climate change makes sense, even after considering the environmental benefits of ethanol, said Jason Hill, a University of Minnesota professor who studies grasses and biofuels.

It will take a century before the carbon saved by burning corn ethanol equals the amount unleashed by plowing up the grassland used to produce it in the first place."

I Go On

I feel terribly angry and impatient when it comes to conservation. People look out for themselves in the moment, there's no larger image in their minds, no community, no one species looking out for the larger whole. If you want to change the world, you have to do it slowly through red tape, grass roots organizing, petitions, creating awareness, fighting the "don't tell me what to do I'm an American" syndrome, and dealing with corporations and governments bent on self interest--it all feels like a juggernaut of spikey anvils crashing into my head. And I feel we're out of time. How do conservationists keep fighting, especially as they lose more and more no matter what victories might happen? And we need big ones--like a buffalo commons, a Grassland National Park the size of Yellowstone (we have no national park which is prairie).

If I have kids I know the world I'm giving them will be worse than mine. Resources will be more scarce. The luxury of time we had to plan ahead, afford those changes via alternative energy and conservation, that time will be gone--the money will be gone, the priorities shifted in a panic of oil and clean water running out. We borrow the future from our youth, and we're borrowing most of it. We don't care about our children.

I want to leave something more. I want to stand up and shout that I did something, some of us tried our best, some of us wailed hard against the ignorance and the power hungry, money hungry, uncaring majority (or is it a minority). What do I do? How do I do it? How do you change a species? How do you change centuries of culture? How do you change what surely must in the end be human nature? How do we learn that in innovation and restraint comes even more possibility? Like a sonnet whose form is so structured that when you order the syllables and rhymes--when you creatively push against the limitations--something far more incredible transcends the boundaries of imagination. Have we lost the ability to imagine our full potential?

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Not My Birthday

But it's my mom's, a big one that I'm sure she'd rather just ignore for a myriad of reasons this year. But seeing as she planted a seed 'o' nature in me--or it's at least convenient to think so--this blog post will honor her. Really, I think when my parents moved us up to Minnesota is when nature opened up to me, especially as I was on the edge of my teenager moody years. My solitary nature, penchant for introspection, and USDA hardiness zone four's distinct seasons collided and turned me into a garden god. Wait. Strike that. Just a minor deity.

I've lost the images I took of my mom's garden before they moved from my childhood home--they may still be on some rolls of real film in a drawer. There was an extensive rock garden out front across the whole hillside, and out back a shade garden with stream and small pond. I asked her to walk the landscape on my last visit in 2006 or 2007 and we mapped out each plant, I even did some sketches:


My "drawing"
Nature's "drawing"

Here's an interview Fran Sorin did at Gardening Gone Wild about growing up outside with my mother.

And maybe you'd like to read an excerpt from my unpublished memoir, Morning Glory, which has a most lovely elevator pitch: "When a relationship between mother and son meets in the garden, her past confronts his future."

But really, this is what you should read, also from the memoir: my essay "Across the Flats" about our car trip to a new nursery in Minnesota after the big move.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

An Absence of Prairie



I’ve not seen a real prairie. Haven’t stood on a ridge to see grass to the horizon, or been lost up to my shoulder in bluestem or Indian grass. I’ve put as many plants in my small garden as I could—coneflowers, clover, liatris, winecup, side oats grama, milkweed, aster, mountain mint. I have walked the twenty feet to the edge of my parent’s property line in MN to look over 3 acres of seeded prairie, and in a small stand of perhaps a hundred square feet the inverted turkey feet of bluestem seed heads flail against a pale blue sky. I have walked the never-plowed 800 acres of Spring Creek Prairie in Nebraska where my wife and I were married, where wagon ruts of an Oregon Trail cutoff are almost discernible. I have seen edges of the Tallgrass Prairie Preserve in Kansas, the sheltered Wichita Mountains short grass, and the mixed grass of Black Kettle National Grassland in Oklahoma, but not even all of them together could give me a clue.
  
Maybe the closest I’ve come to prairie is flying over the Plains, a field of clouds beneath, dark blue above, or on the mossy Irish coast looking west toward Iceland. I feel a gunshot hole in my chest, see its shadow on the ground in front of me, feel the air chill my insides, know I’m not just incomplete but desperate—absolutely desperate—to plug the absence. I think about tearing up my small front lawn, seeding with buffalo grass, placing clumps of little bluestem here and there like hiccups. 

But I don’t have the guts or the faith. There is something about dining on ashes that comforts me. Is it nostalgia for something I never knew? Is it solipsism or self pity? Is it just easier to romanticize what we don’t know and never experienced and create an image only, an interpretation whose personal experience makes the unknown seem more real? This is what impressionistic painters must feel—caught between an inner and outer world and unable to completely express the place in between where we live in fear and hope. 

I remember walking railroad tracks as a boy, balancing on one rail, the sharp rock between timbers, the faint sound of an invisible train coming fast from behind; this is what it’s like walking a corn field where prairie once was, and where it could be again. 

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Life Returns to the (Dry) Autumn Garden

Yes it's been a long, hot summer, and I'm just now getting out into the garden as nighttime temps reach into the low 40s. Dividing plants, moving seedlings, setting up pots for winter sowing. The garden is coming to life though as the temps cool--hoards of insects, masses of blooms (I do garden for fall). I love fall. The different blooms remind me of family and specific memories--for instance, the scent of zigzag goldenrod is my grandmother's perfume. I wish I could bottle the goldenrod, the asters, the joe pye, the sunflower. All I have is a blog.

We finally had rain this week! 1.7"! Previous 3 months we'd had 0.7"!
Caryopteris is a good, long bloomer for me, and insects, and spiders.
One of the few mantis I've seen this year. Huge, too.
Eupatorium altissimum is covered in 100 insects right now. I swear. There's a joe pye for every season!
One of the monarchs we've released.
Monarch batman?
I love this closeup. Very rich, like autumn.
Coughing, sneezing, or shy? (or angry?)
Sunflowers at sunset.