Category: Garden

Garden 2006

My garden lies high above the San Andreas Fault and the fog that fills its valley. It is a process, not a destination.

March – In like a lion, and I ain’t lyin’!

Tree limbs broken from windOnly nine days without rain and/or snow. The wettest March in one hundred years. We at least have a roof over our heads. But that’s yet another story

The trees damaged in the storm that blew the roof off were removed or trimmed by a pro. (I don’t do trees–usually.)

April – Tattered beauties

Daffodils
Rain, rain, rain! I have planted some parsley and broccoli starts but done little else.

The daffodils are blooming. These are not the first of the daffies to bloom but they are the gaudiest. The winds of April often topple them and give them the look of an aging strumpet.

May – Of artichokes and aphids

A ripe artichokeThis Purple of Romagna artichoke is the centerpiece of one of the vegetable beds.

Last year this artichoke had an aphid infestation. I washed aphids off each day, but more were back the next, with their attendant ants milking them for the nectar they extracted from my poor artichoke.

Then one morning the ants and the aphids had company. They were joined by the one of the ugliest looking creatures I have ever seen. I rushed to my field guide and found it was the larval form of the beautiful lady bug. Talk about puberty! Those critters made short work of the aphids. A couple of days later there was nary a one left.

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June – A wild month

California poppiesAnything grows!

July 2006

Raspberries growing on the bushToday is the first day of July. I am reveling in raspberries. I hung CDs amongst the berries to flash in the sunlight and scare the birds away. It’s working. Those flashing CDs even startle me, but I don’t scare easily.

Who knows what else July will bring?

August

Rows of wildflowers on a Texas wildflower farmA heat wave, and a surfeit of cucumbers, peppers, parsley, tomatoes, potatoes and garlic left me with only a field of wildflowers at Wildseed Farms outside of Fredericksburg, Texas, to show you.

September

Where did September go? I seem to have lost it.

The Root of the Matter

Photo of a Jerusalem cricket next to a quarterOctober 1, the perfect moment to plant garlic for next year, was approaching. Garlic planted in October will yield fat juicy heads by June to last  me another year. Planted earlier, it grows too fast and is zapped by winter storms. Planted later, it grows too slowly and bolts before it’s fully grown.

I loaded my wheelbarrow with rich moist compost, a product of the remains of last year’s garden. A growing new mound, the remnants of this year’s harvest, replaced it. Over the year it will turn from a dry, crackly heap of stems and leaves to dark soft crumbly dough. Garlic loves it.

I scooped up heaping handfuls of this rich stuff, threw it on the bed where the garlic would rest, and prepared to dig it in. But I stopped short. There in the midst of the wheelbarrow lan an insect about two inches long. It was pale and inert, but something about it told me it was not dead. It seemed to move slightly as if it were trying to wake from a long sleep. I have become used to the worms in the compost and have learned that they signal good health in the soil. But this was more than I had bargained for.

Bugs have always seemed foreign to me–so remote from what I know that they seem as if they are from another planet. Yet there is something weird enough about their appearance to make them fascinating to look at –especially when they are just lying there and not doing something unpredictable (and when they are not in my house). I’m not a scientist, unless curiosity counts, but from somewhere in a far off corner of my mind came the name Jerusalem cricket. I decided to find out if I was right.
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But what should I do with the critter whose sleep I had so abruptly disrupted? I took it back to what remained of the compost and buried it once again, pleased that I had donned garden gloves before I started the whole project.

Later, I consulted the internet and my field guide on insects. The creature, it seems, is native to our area and is not a pest. It is known in Spanish as niña de la tierra, child of the earth. It does not sting and is not poisonous, although it can bite. Its main diet is roots. So why should I disturb its slumber? In summer when temperatures soar and the land becomes dry, it seeks moist havens where it can sleep, turning pale in the darkness, until the rains of winter arouse it. Roots swell and soil softens. It returns to live the second and last year of its life underground. I woul be no Lady Macbeth and murder this guest as it slept in my compost.

But I do hope the roots my cricket favors are those of weed and not those of garlic. On second thought, maybe I should just plant an extra row or two.

Night Moves

Off in the distance I catch the baritone “Whoo, who-who-whoo” of a Great-horned owl emerging from the dark silence of the night. In reality the night is neither dark nor silent. Insects drone, stars twinkle and a moon is rapidly appearing through the lace edging of the chaparral. It is the time of night when most people are thinking of pulling the blinds, closing the doors and turning on the lights.

They are not alone in their retreat when the sun goes down. The quail, now mostly adolescents replacing the tiny chicks of early summer, come down for a final drink from the pond before disappearing until dawn. Other birds take their turn too. In the bird world only the owl and the poor-will (that flies up in alarm from the road when danger threatens its young) seem to relish—or tolerate—the night, flying up in alarm from the road when danger appears and threatens their young.

After a decorous pause the owl is treated to an answer to its question. A pitch or two higher and several trees closer, a similar quartet of “who-whoos” is clearly sounded in response. A conversation ensues, each owl answering from a slightly different angle as they scout out the territory. Coming closer and closer, at last a shadow passes noiselessly above in the now-risen moon and perches atop a telephone pole. The pair will be back for a night or two and then vanish. But they will return in a month or six weeks after touring the territory they claim as their own. And who among us would say it is not?

A shape emerges from the bushes. It is large and round and dark and seems to roll along the ground. Behind comes another, and then a third. Clearly they know where they are going and head for the garbage can, securely fastened with a bungee cord. The largest shape rises up and the can goes down. Another climbs on and, like a lumberjack in a river full of logs, rolls it into the drive. At last, frustrated at their failure to reveal the treasures inside, this raccoon trio, the bandits of the night, gives up and heads for the pond. They slosh and they splash in the moonlight knocking down cattails and churning up mud until it’s time to move on. With one last hope at finding a meal they climb the porch steps and peer in through the screen. Leaving muddy footprints for dawn to discover, they melt back into the shadows with scarcely a sound.
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Deer move fearlessly through the meadow. Some of my flowers that bloomed during daylight will be decapitated before the stars go out. A lone bat scoops up insects along an erratic path through the sky.

There are nights when coyotes howl in the distance, mornings when I find leaves of lettuce or cabbage in the garden with holes in them that were not there the night before.

Lights go on in a few houses down the valley. Down the trail in the moonlight I see the shadow of a couple walking slowly, holding hands. The night is has a little something for everyone.

Lazy Days of Summer

The pace softens by the Fourth of July. Days are warm. The sun has sung the world to life. It is time to sit and watch.

A scrub jay has discovered a treasure. What it is I am not quite sure. It looks like a nut or an oak gall. Whatever it is, he is determined to crack it open. He stands on a board by the driveway and hammers the thing against it. He attracts the attention of five other jays and of me, but the object remains unbroken. The other jays look on with interest, appearing to covet his treasure. One hops up to him on the ground close enough to grab the thing should he drop it. The others hover above in the tree, advising and scolding, or maybe taunting and teasing. He puts it down with a foot on it and repeatedly rams his beak against it in skull-shaking attempts to break it open. Finally, failing thus far, he flies away with it.

Within less than a minute a rabbit appears to take his place. She jumps a few feet down the drive, turns and jumps back. She turns again and retraces her path. Another rabbit appears. It too hops about at leisurely pace seeming to have nothing particular in mind.

Quail appear one by one out of the brush. The first, a male, takes up a watch. He looks nervously in all directions. Finally, when all seems clear, another quail appears, and then another and another. Adult quail lead the way, eight or ten in all, headed for our small pond. Then a mad scramble begins. Chicks covered with fluff and no larger than a tablespoon tumble down the hill. Surely on their first outing, they are carefully herded and ringed by their elders, each taking a vantage point in the outer circle around their small charges. They take turns drinking, fussing all the while.

At the end of the drive a small deer ambles by. No more than four feet at its head, it has two furry numbs where antlers will be. It strolls down the dirt drive and effortlessly springs up an almost sheer cut.

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Beneath the surface bloated tadpoles gulp down particles so minute they can hardly be seen. Here and there a few of them are beginning to sprout legs.

Yesterday evening I saw a rattlesnake coiled in the sun at the end of the drive. He startled me as much as I startled him. But he has vanished. I hope we have mutely decided to stay out of each other’s territory.

I wonder, as I watch these animals, if they are watching me as I watch them. Can they hope that I will live peacefully in their space as I hope they will live peacefully in mine?

For now I only know it is July. It is time to sit and watch.

What’s the Buzz?

A bee pollinating a flowerSuddenly the sunny silent April air began to vibrate. Something imperceptible commanded my attention. First a distant hum, then a distinct buzz broke the stillness. It became louder with overtones adding richness and depth to the sound. It was moving toward me. In a flash it became clear. A swarm of bees was headed my way.

On one other occasion I had experienced this phenomenon. Then, too, it was spring. I was out in the open as a swirling mass of hundreds–probably thousands–of bees headed directly for me tumbling over themselves like waves breaking on the shore. I had only time to take shelter behind a tree trunk before I found myself surrounded on all sides by a cloud of driven insects. The buzz of countless wings made a sound like no other. It happened so fast that I had neither time nor previous experience to consider what might happen to me.

I had only been stung once in my life and that was no wonder. Barefooted, I had stepped on a bee. But there I was in the midst of a whole hive of bees. Why, with no provocation, had they headed straight for me? What a bit of arrogance that thought turned out to be! These bees had no interest in me. Who did I think I was–their queen?

The tree bisected their headlong flight. In less than a minute the cloud passed, becoming only a faint shadow in the air as it vanished. Their queen was seeking new digs. These bees had no choice but to follow. More powerful than perfume, her chemistry bound these bees to her. They would follow her blindly until she found a new home. But to them I was nothing.

But to me they were something.
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In the years since that time bees have come on hard times. A fungus has found them–at least the European bees that work so hard in our orchards and fields. Their numbers have shrunk. These migratory workers, often living in stacked boxes at the edges of farms, do more than we know to fill our plates with abundance. Their absence or presence can drive food prices up or down. The ceaseless labor of worker bees during their short lives ensures food on our tables and new generations of bees that work tirelessly for their queen–and for us.

So I have come to admire bees, in their many varieties, and to marvel at their skill to do things I cannot. I take an interest in their welfare and hope that they thrive. They have shown me respect, I will give them the same.

On that recent no-longer-silent April day I watched as the buzz in the air came alive. Well above the ground and off to the east, they passed like a billow of smoke. I wished them good luck in their search for a home.

I know I need them more than they need me.