Season's Greeting

Merry Christmas to all! I just read that Hawaii had a rare snowfall today, while here in the northeast, temps have soared to unseasonably warm heights (in the 60s today). Misty layers of fog and rain have coated our front porches and cars, much like the post-Thanksgiving snowfall of only two weeks ago. It seems a distant memory! Yet, even though the breathtaking beauty of snow-frosted branches is hazy in my mind, I whip out my camera, and here it is, stored conveniently on my memory card:

Nature in all its magical, mystical glory: truly this season's greeting! May your holiday be peaceful, restful, chock full of laughs, fond memories, and just a moment or two to stroll outside, or glance through your window, and reflect on the beauty that is LIFE, all around us. Happy New Year.

On the fence about...fences

I'd bet just about all of us has heard the sage advice in Robert Frost's poem, Mending Wall: Good fences make good neighbors. There is a deep truth to the simple phrase, which speaks to each of us about issues of privacy, and proprietary concerns.

What his famous writing doesn't address is what those "good fences" are supposed to look like. How many neighbors have lamented the sorry appearance of a worn-out wall or been bedeviled by a fortress-like fence that looks better suited to a classic castle than a center-hall colonial? If good fences do, indeed, make good neighbors, then what can good neighbors do to ensure they're erecting the kind of fences the surrounding community can live with?

I think this question can be best answered if we think about how form affects function...or, what function we desire in a fence, so we can then create something aesthetically pleasing. Here, some of the main purposes of fences:

1. To keep something in (like a pet)
2. To keep something out (like wildlife predisposed to harming a pet)
3. To enrich the decorative aspects of a property
4. To keep prying eyes (and other body parts) from partaking of personal space
5. To comply with municipal laws (like fencing around a pool)
6. To comply with municipal laws and unwritten rules of common decency (to keep aforementioned body parts from partaking of the personal space in your pool)

Safety first: keeping wanted pets and kids (presumably they are ALL wanted) gated in while ensuring unwelcome wildlife stays out, one could opt for a 6-foot-high chain-link fence. But since most neighborhoods discourage residential spaces that look like the movie set of Alcatraz, it's wiser to look elsewhere for inspiration. Here, the wide variety of materials available:

The trend has been to go the more eco-friendly route these days and salvaged materials will often fill the bill. The greenest choice, they are usually inexpensive or even free. They are best for quirky, arty fence projects, but it can be difficult to find the right used materials in the quantity needed, and may require substantial elbow grease to make materials usable, such as wire brushing and painting old wrought iron.

Wood, especially sustainably harvested lumber, can be a relatively inexpensive choice that adds natural beauty to properties. It does has a shelf life, though. Wood can discolor or rot fairly quickly without regular treatments with potentially toxic stains, paints or sealants. Even with the protection, wood will need replacing quicker than other materials. But by choosing lumber with the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC) logo, eventual fence replacement doesn't have to add to the depletion of natural resources.

Metal products offer a variety of choices to homeowners: from lightweight, low-maintenance aluminum to durable, elegant-looking wrought iron. And the metal is usually recyclable and reusable. It's a more expensive choice, and needs painting or chemical treatment to avoid rust and flaking, but is increasingly popular with those looking for maintenance-free fencing.

Stone and brick walls as fences are sturdy choices and will stand the test of time. Although erecting them is heavy, time-consuming work that's hard on the back, the job only has to be done once. An since there's an abundance of salvaged brick and stone out there, its can be an eco-friendly choice.

Plastic and plastic composite fences require little maintenance, and often contain recycled plastic. Newer products including composites (plastic mixed with other materials, such as wood), are generally more durable than past plastic-fencing products, but it can get pricey.


Bamboo is an increasingly viable choice. Elegant and natural looking, it can be grown and harvested with fence construction in mind. It's also incredibly lightweight which bodes well for decorative fencing, but may not be sturdy enough for heavily used areas. And, like wood, it may discolor or deteriorate after a few years. Also, bamboo-fence making is an art form, so read several books or articles before you even start your project. Or hire someone who knows how to do it right.

My idea of the best property border is the living fence. Using plants or trees for screening is the most eco-friendly, attractive, cost-effective solution. And hedges often change color with the seasons, so this choice offers the most variety. Like all plants, hedging takes a few years to fill in, but there are hedge choices that will grown within a season or two (like forsythia). Putting plants closer than usual when designing the hedge will yield a tighter, fence-like effect, too.

As for height, check first with your municipality. Some areas have restrictions on how high a fence may be; others require a certain height for specific situations (like fencing around a pool).

When all is said and done, and every fence option is explored, you may be like me, and decide that you're no longer "on the fence" about this topic. I've decided that at this juncture, no border action is required for me, so: "don't fence me in." I'm keeping my space wide open.

Will it be a harsh winter?

How does folklore begin? Surprisingly, its roots are usually formed in fact rather than in fiction. Take the legend of the woolly bear: the brown and black caterpillar credited with the power to predict upcoming winter weather. Is it true? And who discovered it?

I feel particularly privileged to share the tale since it originates in my neck of the woods: Bear Mountain State Park, about a 15-minute drive from my home. As legend has it, in the fall of 1948, Dr. C. H. Curran, curator of insects at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, took his wife 40 miles north of the city to Bear Mountain to check out woolly bear caterpillars. It was the first of what was to become an annual trek.

While there, he collected as many caterpillars as he could, determining the average number of reddish-brown segments on the little buggers, and playfully forecasting the coming winter weather through a reporter friend at The New York Herald Tribune. Of course the critters are presumably named for their fuzzy appearance, and the fact they were originally studied at Bear Mountain, but these immature larva of Pyrrharctia isabella, the black-spotted, orangey winged Isabella tiger moth, are actually known to roam (and eventually flutter) in parts as wide-ranging as Southern Canada and northern Mexico. Yet the moth version of the species seems far less intriguing than the Rasputin-esque caterpillar.

In fact, Dr. Curran was so intrigued by his first experiment with the bristled crawlers, he continued it over the next eight years, attempting to prove scientifically a "weather rule of thumb" with the thumb-sized weather forecasters. His highly publicized efforts made the woolly bear the most recognizable caterpillar in North America.

Woolly bears, like other caterpillars, hatch during warm weather from eggs laid by a female moth. Mature woolly bears search for overwintering sites under bark or inside rock or log cavities, and when spring arrives, they spin gossamer cocoons and transform, reinventing themselves even more completely than Madonna, and emerge as full-grown moths. Usually, the bands at the ends of the caterpillar are black, and the one in the middle is brown or orange-brown, giving the woolly bear its distinctive striped appearance.

As legend has it, the wider that middle brown section is (the more brown segments), the milder the coming winter will be. Narrow brown bands predict harsher winters. But is it true?

According to the Farmer's Almanac: "Between 1948 and 1956, Dr. Curran's average brown-segment counts ranged from 5.3 to 5.6 out of the 13-segment total, meaning that the brown band took up more than a third of the woolly bear's body. As those relatively high numbers suggested, the corresponding winters were milder than average.

But Dr. Curran was under no scientific illusion: He knew that his data samples were small. Although the experiments popularized and, to some people, legitimized folklore, they were simply an excuse for having fun. Curran, his wife, and their group of friends escaped the city to see the foliage each fall, calling themselves The Original Society of the Friends of the Woolly Bear.

Thirty years after the last meeting of Curran's society, the woolly bear brown-segment counts and winter forecasts were resurrected by the nature museum at Bear Mountain State Park. The annual counts have continued, more or less tongue in cheek, since then."

Yet Mike Peters, an entomologist at the University of Massachusetts, suggests there could, in fact, be a link between winter severity and the brown band of a woolly bear caterpillar. "There's evidence," he says, "that the number of brown hairs has to do with the age of the caterpillar—in other words, how late it got going in the spring. The [band] does say something about a heavy winter or an early spring. The only thing is . . . it's telling you about the previous year."

So the little critter I caught up with on my back patio, pictured above, seems to have a narrower brown center. According to folklore, that means a harsher winter to come. Yet we know last winter was one of our harshest ever, so I'm sticking with science and saying that little guy's narrow band of brown is a testament to the past, and not a harbinger of impending deep freeze.

If that's the case, then we've come full circle. We're back to that age-old question: What will the weather be like this winter? Who knows! Chalk it up to yet another mystery in the universe. Meanwhile, I'll think warm thoughts as I watch my little woolly bear snuggle between the stones of my retaining wall.

Beauty in the winter garden

When I was a kid growing up in a nice, middle-class housing development in upstate New York, there were three styles of house--and only three--in my neighborhood: the raised ranch (which is now widely referred to as the bi-level), the split level, and the colonial. Of course, the variety of colors and other accoutrements on each individual residence (shutters v. no shutters, the presence or absence of screen doors, brick face v. aluminum siding, etc) ensured variety, but there was a certain "sameness" that was both comforting and disconcerting.

That uniform mindset, so prevalent in buildings from the 1950s through the 1980s, even extended to the plantings around the houses. It was an era of builder bargaining in landscaping: mini blue spruce trees and arborvitaes bought in bulk by the developers because they were reasonably priced and hardy enough to last through harsh New York winters.

Every house had these evergreens in front of them. And like the houses themselves, only the sizes and maintenance varied. Most people's shrubs were cut into neat little shapes: circles, squares and triangles of living plants lined along walkways like geometric soldiers ushering me onto the school bus, and making me grimace in the process. How I hated math, and any reminder of it in my life.

The more creative neighbors, like the artists who lived across the street from me, let their requisite arborvitae grow uninhibited, and in a matter of a few years it had spread its branches far and wide, all but obscuring their nearby fence. I liked their free-spirited approach to gardening (or their reasonable facsimile) and the plants appealed to me because they didn't look like all the others in the area.

Don't get me wrong; I had a wonderful childhood, full of friendly neighbors and tons of kids my age to play with. Our development was state-of-the-art back then: a place everyone and anyone would be thrilled to call home. Yet as I ventured into the wider world, I began to see new things. And these new things were full of variety. I had tired of the same old arborvitae, yew, barberry and spruce. And when I bought my own house I avoided what I thought of as inferior plants.

In fact, for the better part of 15 years I experimented with exotic grasses and perennials, and those plantings paid off big time--in the warm weather seasons. But after the last leaves of autumn fell, my lush landscape looked downright barren. All the evergreens I eschewed mocked me from neighboring lawns. Each winter they'd sparkle with newly fallen snow, their minty leaves peeking out from beneath their powdered lashes like coy coniferous flirts.

I couldn't help myself: I was entranced. I've now planted a plethora of evergreen bushes, and each winter I relish the shot of greenery they contribute to the gray and white landscape. The same plants I'd discounted I now value--not only for their year-round beauty, but their humble ability to teach me that everything has a purpose and a rightful place in this world. I--we-- just need to recognize it.

I took this shot a few weeks ago because although it's a municipal setting, I like the idea of massing the various evergreens into a whole new shape. I think similar plantings would complement residential areas, too.

Holiday garlands on a shoestring

In the Northeast, you have to be ready for anything. This year, it was the unexpected snowstorm the day before Thanksgiving. And although it looked magical, the toll it took on our snow-shoveling muscles was downright wicked.

Fortunately, the long weekend affords us all a chance to not only catch up with friends and relatives over a feasting table, but perhaps relish a little "me time" after the big meal is but a memory. I've always found it an excellent time to fill out Christmas cards, and make holiday wreathes and garlands.

Luckily I have access to lots of white pine trees, which fortuitously drop dozens and dozens of pine cones each fall. Add to that a spool of florist wire, and I've got a fun fall project to string together in front of a cozy fire while the winds whip outside, and the snow flies.

I created this particular garland, pictured, a few weeks ago because I wanted to decorate the eaves of my front porch for Thanksgiving. By weaving a sparkling gold ribbon throughout, I've created a decoration that will take me from this holiday right up through the next, and into the new year. Maximum festivity with minimum effort!

To create this garland, I simply wrap the wire (which comes in green or brown) around the base of the cone two times, knot it, then continue onto the next pine cone. It doesn't have to look perfect. I've found that the more random the size, shape and pattern, the more naturally appealing it looks.

November gatherings

The first serious cold snap has hit the Northeastern United States, and with the bone-chilling temperatures comes the realization that my garden is truly done for another season. Yet little reminders of what had once thrived hang on diligently: the seed heads of shriveled plants, lounging about the garden beds like lazy teenagers who sleep in. Only these slackers fail to irritate me. On the contrary, I gleefully clip and gather like a hardworking pilgrim each November, plucking and sorting, drying, and sharing.

I line up my paper bags (because plastic bags hold in moisture, which ruins seeds), place one variety in each (unless I want to intermingle plants in the garden beds next season, then I toss a few types together) and carefully label each cultivar. If I'm really on top of my game, I'll eventually transfer fully dried seeds into airtight containers, in late fall or early winter, but there's no guarantee this will actually get done. The holidays tend to throw me off more often than not, and the seeds in their little brown bags are easy to overlook. And, let's face it, I'm really not all that organized.

One thing I DO try to do, as I'm sorting and saving, is set some of my garden's bounty aside for the birds. Some of the best seeds come from the following plants:

Calendula: The edible petals are some of the easiest to harvest. I pluck them as soon as the blooms begin to fade, and dump them in that all-purpose paper bag to dry

Gaura: The reddish seeds fall easily from dried-out brown pods

Monarda: The easiest way to collect from this, the bee balm plant, is to crumble dried seed heads onto a paper plate, and scoop them up

Echinacea: Simply pull these cone flower seeds right off the upright heads

Perovskia: Clip the dried heads of the Russian sage, and shake carefully to dislodge seeds

Rudbeckia: Run fingers over dried seed heads to release tiny black seeds (have your bag ready to collect)

Sunflowers: Clip an entire head with a bit of stem and plant it in a bird-friendly place for a self-serve feeder

Millet: Consider providing this for the local bird population. Although it has little nutritional value, the hard shell grinds the seeds in the tiny bird gizzards, acting like a mill. It's ideal for their digestion. Like us, birds need fiber. Pennisetum glaucum "Purple Majesty" is a beneficial beauty

Lavendula: Let lavender stalks dry right on the plants--that's what goldfinches love best

Once I've gathered extra seeds for the birds, I'll place them right in my bird feeder. Also good: tying makeshift bird-feeding bundles onto nearby branches. I'll clip cone flower and black-eyed Susan, leaving three or four inches of dried stalk, which I'll bundle, secure together with twine, and hang upside down on tree branches. And if you're looking for a way to get the kids in on the action, find a nice big, round pine cone, coat it in a thin layer of peanut butter, and sprinkle the seeds on top: a nice Thanksgiving feast for our feathered friends.

A feast for the eyes

As Thanksgiving approaches, our thoughts tend to turn from garden design to garden fare. Recipes for Cousin Granville's sweet potato pie, Mema's mashed potato souffle, and Aunt JoAnne's pear-apple preserves fill our heads and hearts with edible anticipation, and fond memories. Decor ideas center around an overflowing holiday table. Yet what could be more enticing than preparing comfortable spaces and views outside as well as indoors? Even if it becomes too cold to make use of the outdoor areas, it's great to have a "room with a view," and spread the holiday cheer all around.

Now is the time to discover the best deals on perennials, garden tools, outdoor furniture and pots, even statuary. And it's at this time each year that I go on the hunt for things to enhance my garden areas. I usually set aside a weekend for perusing the local nurseries. One near my house even has a winery attached, so my friends and I always procure a non-drinking pal to drive us to that one.

In your quest for landscape perfection, don't overlook the Internet. Many online gardening/landscaping stores are trying to cash in on profits before the year's end. And Ebay always seems to have that ONE THING we often can't find anywhere else ( I bought a hand-held push lawnmower blade sharpener from them). As for large items, too costly to mail, Craigslist is vital. I make a habit of trolling my local listings once or twice a week, just to see if anything I like will pop up. Last week I hit the mother lode: 15 antique planters in all shapes and sizes for the price of--literally--two or three of them at my local nursery. A couple was moving and, rather than allowing the planters to stay with the new occupants of their 100-year-old-home, they placed the listing, snagged a few extra bucks for themselves, and gave me the deal of this century.

I am now the proud owner of seven cement window boxes of various shapes and sizes, three lovely cement basket-weave pots, five gorgeous, incredibly heavy urns, and a sore back from lugging them all home.
Yet, glancing at the beauty they add to my turn-of-the-century home, I feel it was worth the considerable effort to get them here. We're hosting the holiday gatherings this year, and although I haven't given a thought to the menu, don't have my shopping lists made or any pies ready for freezing, I'm more than ready.

Sky-scaping

I took this picture last week, a few days before Halloween. The vivid orange and gold, streaked across the sky in careless grace, appeared to have been randomly dispensed with a God-sized paintbrush. The watercolor glow was in such sharp contrast to the stark skeleton of the tree in the foreground, that I pulled off the highway, and nearly tripped over my own feet in an effort to reach the top of a knoll, and focus my smart-phone camera.

My clumsy efforts were rewarded: The interplay of shadow and light produced a chiaroscuro effect worthy of a Caravaggio painting, and I found myself gazing at it in awe. It's only natural to want to capture such beauty in our own gardens. When we encounter the evolving nature of sun rays and clouds above, there's a way to see it--if you'll pardon the pun--in a whole new light.

Artists are well acquainted with the concept of negative space: that gaping area between focal points in a painting (or landscape, for that matter). What the wide-open sky offers, far from what may seem to be negative space, is actually a positive contribution to the evolving beauty of outdoor (and indoor) areas. How to use the sky to make your own garden design more appealing? Remember, the ever-changing nature of the sky provides endless possibilities to enhance individual landscapes. Study the effects of light and shade on your landscape, and plant accordingly. Obviously, those areas that receive more sunlight require plants that soak up rays, while shade lovers thrive in the dappled light of woody paths and screening structures. But take it a step further: note the the sun's arc, from its rising in the East to its eventual departure in the West, and make the most of its celestial appeal.

In my yard, the sun's early morning appearance was filtered through an abundance of maple leaves from mid-spring through late summer. Clipping the bottom half-dozen branches enabled me to enjoy the way it fetchingly peeked through the neighboring pines, and spurred the struggling porch-side perennials into a motivating mood for budding.

And now the sky itself becomes vital to color and tone in my mid-autumn landscape. With flowers far past their prime, and the bright shot of leaves fallen onto my dulled grass, the sky takes center stage. My beloved perennial beds and treasured trees are cast into stylized shadow puppets, dark distractions to the drama unfolding around and above them.

And, if this picture is any indication of what's in store for us this season, I'd say there will be quite a few sights to see--and savor.

A (scientifically enhanced) tree grows in Brooklyn

Not since I was a kid, reading about the adventures of Alice in Wonderland have I been so intrigued by the fanciful ideas set forth by what I can only term "eco-innovators" in nearby Brooklyn, New York! These savvy scientists have actually devised ways to integrate houses into trees (rather than cutting them down to build abodes!) and create "edible" furniture! Imagine, Alice: a chair made out of mushrooms!

I know, the idea sounds like some kind of acid-induced delusion of Leary-esque proportions, what happens when New Age collides with science fiction, but the Harvard-educated creator of this innovation is far from a baseless dreamer. Harvard graduate, MIT PhD, and now NYU professor Mitchell Joachim is working on these environmental innovations at his "green manufacturing center" at the old Navy shipyard in Brooklyn.

"I think we are in a bit of a crisis when it comes to the climate," Joachim recently told Fox 5 news. "The way we make buildings today has to change.

Here, an excerpt from the Fox 5 interview, explaining one of his ideas: a living tree house:

"We don't chop the tree down. We move into the tree and we surround ourselves with woody plants and vines that help control the local geometry of a home."
Blending biology and architecture, scientists are genetically modifying wood to grow it in the shape of a house that allows people to live on the inside and animals to live on the outside.
"There is no distinction between your home and the landscape," Joachim says. "You can have entire villages grown in this process."

Another example of biology and architecture merging is a chair that's made of mushrooms. You could even eat it.
"When you are done with our chair you throw it into a garden and feed thousands of other organisms and life forms, and contribute to the Earth's ecosystem... that web of life as opposed to a chair from IKEA you chuck in a landfill and it's done," Joachim says.

And he has the support of city and state leaders, who've invested millions in tax dollars in the manufacturing center, all to make innovative ideas grow...where else? In Brooklyn.

Living the "Oscar de la Renta" life

Like people across the globe, I was saddened to hear that Oscar de a Renta died this past week. More years ago than I'd like to recall, I was a fresh-faced beauty editor just out of college, writing for women's publications such as Woman's World and Redbook magazines, and the iconic fashion designer was like a god to me. His creations were the stuff of fairy tales, and I hoped to one day just try on one of his gowns.

Now that I'm older, I still appreciate the allure of his designs, but having the chance to see a number of his interviews, I am actually more impressed by his outlook. He was, in my opinion, the epitome of style, not just fashion. He so often pointed out that style was not so much about what a person was wearing, as how a person was living.

To that end, it's important to note that he was an avid gardener. In fact he once said,

Gardening is how I relax, It's another form of creating and playing with colors.

He understood the interplay between the natural world and each individual's role in it, commenting,

I like light, color, luminosity. I like things full of color and vibrant.

I've often thought he was advantageously named: Oscar. The same name as the most honored prize we give iconic actresses, known for their soul-stirring performances, and their effortless ability to wear his creations.

If Oscar de la Renta is nurturing a garden in heaven, you know he's tending paradise.

Growing your own garlic

Nature has pulled out all the stops, making this season's autumnal production a showstopper. And as shimmering leaves in rainbow hues dance in the air like magical fairy dust, thoughts turn to pumpkins, apples, gourds...and garlic.

Wait a minute. Garlic? Yup. If you're like my father-in-law, this time of year--of mellowing, maturing, and gracious decline--is malarkey. It's growing season! As soon as October hit her stride, my dear ole dad-in-law hit the garden center, stocking up on all those spring staples: potting mix, a pot with premier drainage, and slow-release fertilizer. The bonus: Most of this stuff is on clearance this time of year.

The best time to plant garlic here in the Northeast is between late September, and mid November, but gardeners can "get their garlic on" any time after the first frost, and before the ground freezes. Planting is easy: Fill a pot with soil, halting about three inches from the top; mix in fertilizer, reading package instructions for amount needed; separate garlic cloves gently so you don't damage them; place them in the soil, pointy side up, about three inches apart; cover them with 2 inches of soil, and pat it firmly down. Drench them in water, and that's it! You are now a garlic gardener, ready to harvest your crop next summer when the green "scapes" above the soil surface turn yellow.

After planting his crop, my father-in-law, like any fisherman bragging on his biggest catch, is quick to share the particulars of his garlic's progress. After day one, garlic sprouts already appeared across the loamy surface of the pot, and by day four...well, the picture says it all:

In fact, his garlic story should one day rival his most famous veggie tale to date: that of the $100 tomato. But that's a story for another day!

Top tips for successful garlic growing:

1. Water regularly. A bigger pot with more soil will retain more moisture

2. Harvest garlic scapes in spring. Once they curl, they are ready for picking.
Not only are they tasty, adding zesty flavor to basil pesto or savory
seasoning to mashed potatoes, salads and veggie dishes, but removing them
helps the plant grow up to 35% bigger

3. Reduce watering a few weeks before harvest, when leaves begin to yellow.
Then pluck garlic from soil, bundle together loosely, and "cure"
it 2-4 weeks in a warm, darkish, well-ventilated area

Nature's cure for what ails us

“Silence was the cure, if only temporarily, silence and geography. But of what was I being cured? I do not know, have never known. I only know the cure. Silence, and no connections except to landscape."

- Mary Cantwell, Manhattan, When I Was Young

Have you ever felt this way? I think the late Ms. Cantwell, author and New York Times editor, touched upon something primal, and essential in most of us: the unspoken, but vital, need to turn away from the chaos (organized and otherwise) of the human community, and connect with the physical world.

During my customary dog walk this beautiful fall morning, I veered from the well-known streets of my neighborhood, and meandered through a woodland path up the mountain behind my home. I could sense the excitement of discovery in the eager way my pooches picked through piles of leaves, tails wagging, and noses close to the earth, scoping out new scents.

As the pups and I made our way through the woods, our only accompaniment was the swish of leaves succumbing to our footfalls, the gentle breeze rustling branches overhead, and the occasional call of a bird or insect. Absent was the hubbub of human activity: infinite cars and trucks competing for a finite amount of road space; chattering pedestrians looking neither left nor right, but straight ahead, issuing directives into cell phones; vendors frantically filling morning coffee orders in nearby cafes. As those noises had receded, I'd felt something give way inside me; a loosening of the seemingly omnipresent tightness in my chest.

The further up the mountain we got, the easier it was to breathe. Eventually we hit a summit, of sorts: a plateau with a little clearing. I watched the wind brush through the long grass like the hand of a great celestial being, giving the ground a gentle tousle, and I thought of all the times I'd done that: lovingly run my hands through my children's hair. The perfection of the memory echoed within me, resonating in nature's reassuring whispers around me. Up here, all was right with the world. There was no need to get caught up in the banal, the everyday worries, or my seemingly endless list of chores, and commitments. Like the leaves overhead, my concerns dropped off, and whisked away, caught on the tail wind of a gusty breeze.

Glancing around, squinting in the sunlight, and taking it all in, I felt a genuine connection. The complete absence of human contrivance allowed me to be my own, authentic self. And nothing more. A fleeting thought crossed my brain, like a current along a charged wire: we live for moments like these. Moments of pure connection. And during this particular moment, the connection I made was with myself. For this second of time I wasn't a mother, daughter, wife. I wasn't striving to reach goals, defending injustices, complaining about perceived slights, or engaged in any manner to the myriad human distractions so innate to my everyday world. I was in a new place, an exotic space without expectation. Just the perfection of life proceeding around me, and within me.

And the dogs liked it, too.

Leaf peeps

There really is no more beautiful time to live in the Northeast than in the autumn. The ever-changing vistas around my yard, as the varying trees show off their fall colors, dazzle the eye, and spark the imagination. Just when I'm lamenting the final decline of my flower garden, nature rolls out a magnificent leaf show. I find, once again, I'm a captive audience to her antics, and my camera is--yet again--working overtime.

Of course the inevitable decline is right around the corner, in the form of literally pounds of fallen leaves piling up all over my yard. What to do with them all? Each year I rack my brain, thinking there's got to be a better way to handle the overflow, and put these leaves to the best possible use. And the good news is, there is! So, this year, I will not only head outside armed with my rake, but with the knowledge that I will use rather than discard the riches that nature has literally covered me in.

Instead of carting leaves to the curb, I plan to recycle them the way nature does, by turning them into an invaluable soil builder, creating leaf mold. What's leaf mold? Leaves that have fully decomposed, and turned into the nutrient-rich, dark material known as humus. Leaf mold improves the water-holding capacity of soil. It also creates the perfect place for the community of beneficial organisms that inhabit soil. It's a super potting-mix component. I have a large area near the edge of my property which has an abundance of trees. I plan on piling all my leaves there, hence, starting my own composting pile. It's as simple as that. First, I'll spray down the leaves with my garden hose, because, according Abigail Maynard, Ph.D., of the Connecticut Agriculture Experiment Station, dehydrated leaves begin to lose nitrogen, and this hinders the decomposition process. Next, I'll pile the leaves together, and turn them over periodically. Within two years, I'll have a ready-made pile of nature-rich soil, and no need to ever buy potting mix again.

Adding leaf mold to soil will enrich it without springing for expensive prepared soil mixtures from costly garden centers. And leaf mold can hold up to 500 times its own weight in water, making it an excellent moisture-retaining mulch. Simply scatter it around (but not touching) the crowns of annuals, perennials, and vegetables to hold enough moisture to keep plants hydrated for as much as an extra two weeks without watering. But a word of caution: don't use leaves that have fallen on grass recently sprayed with synthetic chemicals. Grass clippings with chemical residues can get mixed in with the leaves, and contaminate them, says William Brinton, Ph.D., director of the Woods End Research Laboratory, in Maine. Similarly, don't use leaves that have been raked into the street for municipal pickup, because they may contain fuel or oil residues.

If you want to use your fallen leaves by spring, you can speed up the composting process. Make a 3-by-3-foot leaf mold "cage" from stakes and chicken wire--and hasten the leaves' rate of decomposition by running a lawn mower over the pile a few times. To ensure even decomposition, turn the pile occasionally. Your leaves will be ready by next season, rather than the requisite two years it takes to naturally decompose.

This fall, I plan on arming my plants against an impending winter. How? By actually arming them with leaves. I've plucked a role of discarded mesh fencing from my neighbor's trash pile (it's amazing to discover such gems sitting roadside), and I plan on caging my tender perennials with it. I'll stuff leaves between the mesh and the plants to insulate them, and coax tender buds to sprout. After last winter froze all the blossoms off my hydrangeas, I will target those plants first. All Hydrangea macrophylla (the ones with flowers that bloom pink, purple or blue) will be thoroughly covered, as will the oakleaf hydrangea (all these make buds on existing wood) and the 'Endless Summer' types of hydrangea (which make blooms on old and new wood). I need not bother covering my Hydrangea paniculata (which blooms white), since this type of hydrangea grows on new wood.

I need not start the process until the first hard frost looms. In the meantime, I'll sit back, and watch the show nature has prepared for me.

Bury me in the backyard

I always tease my husband that when I die I want to be buried in the backyard. And not only because I eventually want a peaceful return on the vast amounts of time and energy I've spent designing, planting, weeding and watering my little slice of heaven. The practical side of me sees it that way, but the dreamer in me has always gotten so much more out of the experience of gardening.

Gardening offers me a connection with nature that no other experience could. Nurturing my plants like small children, listening to the rustle and calls of the wildlife that has deigned to share space with me, losing myself amid the grandeur of sun-dappled leaves--then finding myself again when the wind whips around, and the clouds open up, covering me in cold, fat raindrops. I'm not merely a bystander to nature's majesty, after all. I'm participating in a meaningful relationship.

One day last week, as I wrestled with a particularly tenacious weed which staked a claim by my shed door, I heard a sad little cry on the other side of the garden path. Looking up, I spotted a small, battered, tortoise-shell cat crouched in the pachysandra, watching me warily. Something about the feline made me pause. I sat back, and made soothing noises to coax the tortie over, and tentatively she made her way to me.

She was in such bad shape that I caught my breath at the sight of her: no collar or tags, reed thin, missing a tail, matted fur, and green ooze in the corners of her eyes. Most disturbing of all were the omnipresent flies circling around her. As I slowly reached out to her, she so readily accepted me, basking in the gentle petting I offered, that I smiled in spite of my dismay.

I made chatty little noises, and asked how she got in such rough shape. Of course she had no answer, but her large green eyes looked back at me with such gratitude, that it brought tears to my own. I went in search of food for her. I scouted out some chicken from the previous night's dinner, and brought it out to her. She sniffed a bit, but quickly turned away.

Puzzled, I went back in the house, and filled a small plastic bowl with cold water, hoping that by the time I returned, she'd have eaten the chicken. Yet, when I made my way back out to where she sat patiently waiting for me, the food remained untouched. When I offered her the water, she checked it out, but barely lapped it. Confusing behavior for a cat who clearly looked to be starving and dehydrated. Then she snuggled up to me again, rubbing her frail form against me. I realized that the only thing she wanted from me was attention. So we sat in the dwindling sun, sharing pets and nuzzles.

My mind was spinning. What could I do to help her? I knew that I must do something, because the fragile little creature was truly on her last legs. I mapped out a strategy for canvassing the neighborhood in search of her owners, then wondered if I could locate and dust out my old cat carrier, and get her to my vet. She was in serious need of fluids and antibiotics. As I ran my fingers along her fur, I discussed my plans, which she seemed amenable enough to. I suspected that as long as I kept petting, she'd keep nuzzling. As the sun went down, I left her with promises of further action, and retired to the house for the night, careful not to let my frisky dogs out the back door to bother the poor old girl.

When I returned to the yard the next morning, she wasn't around. I searched the grounds for her, and called out, but she didn't come. With a sigh, I skimmed the first fallen leaves of autumn off my pond's surface, then began weeding around the back screened porch. Something caught the corner of my eye, and I looked over, seeing the little cat resting against the house, amid the last foliage of the day lilies. But she wasn't resting. She was gone.

It struck me then, with a poignancy that made me smile even while the tears brimmed my eyes: she'd come to me to die. The gentle old girl, who'd seemed to have so few choices near the end of her life, had chosen the terms of her death. And she'd decided that I was to help her on her way. As I dug her grave below a graceful maple tree, and eased her into the ground, I recalled all the times I'd joked about being buried in my backyard. I looked around, and nodded, listening to the trickle of the waterfall into the nearby pond.

That little cat had chosen well.

Prudent pruning

As the summer winds down--indeed, the last weekend of this glorious season is upon us--I glance around my property, and ask myself the question I seem to ask at this time each year: to prune or not to prune? I mentally sift through all the horticultural information jammed into my head, trying to recall exactly which plants need pruning, and at what time of year. Before I frantically reach for my myriad notebooks on the subject, I take a deep breath, and recall the "golden rule" of pruning: Plants flowering before May bloom on "old wood" (buds formed the previous fall); those that bloom after May form buds on "new wood" (this season's growth).

Recalling this, my panic disappears. I've made a note of the early bloomers in my yard: azalea, forsythia, spiraea, dogwood, and viburnum. All these I clip back after they flower. I also have a lovely Magnolia "Stellata," which gets little bursts of white flowers as soon as spring hits. It often blooms before the last frost, so every three-out-of-five years its delicate petals turn brown. Always such a bummer. But on the up side, this lovely early bloomer grows in such a well-mannered way that I think I've only pruned it twice in the past 18 years! Both times I trimmed after it bloomed.

After May, the heavy-hitters in my yard bloom out: the broad leaf and needle evergreens, the roses in June, butterfly bush, and rose of Sharon much later, in mid-summer. All these I can prune in fall, or anytime before new growth starts the following spring.

Always tricky for me: lilacs. I realize most people don't have much difficulty with this plant, but my ignorance of the lilac's propensities has resulted in meager blooming in the past, so I hasten to add this fact: prune lilac plants right after the last flowers have faded. This plant sets next season's flowers almost immediately, and delaying a trim even a week could result in chopping off the next year's buds. When giving a more substantial pruning, take out the entire cane of the lilac you aim to trim (but never more than a third of the plant in total). This is called 'thinning," and it helps strengthen the plant in the long run by encouraging the development of strong new canes.

As for perennials, my butterfly weed, coral bells, Chrysanthemums and perennial grasses get cut back in spring, and nearly everything else gets clipped in fall, including: peony, bearded iris, bee balm (crucial because foliage readily succumbs to powdery mildew), blanket flower, catmint, columbine, crocosmia and day lily.

Obviously, one thing you never want to do is cut off all the foliage, which I've done here:

I'm ridding myself of this plant for good. This weekend I'll take a chainsaw to its roots!

Everyday gems

I've never been a "jewelry person." Unlike my sister-in-law, who always knows exactly what gem to wear with what outfit, I tend to forget to accessorize, and habitually pair my diamond studs and engagement ring/wedding band ensemble with whatever I'm wearing, regardless of the occasion. Feeling frumpy, I recently decided to "glam up," delving into my meager stash of semi-precious bling, and retrieved two tennis bracelets--one in diamonds, and the other in rubies. Ahh, how they sparkled! Pretty!

But there's a reason I have so few of these baubles. After about 60 seconds, I forgot I was wearing the bracelets as I began mixing the grout for my latest project--tiling the screened porch! In fact, it wasn't until I was on hands and knees, spreading the sloppy, sandy-cement mixture that I remembered the rubies and diamonds encircling my wrist--as they draped gorgeously into the nooks and crannies between the tiles, and became encrusted in rapidly drying grout.

With little time to fuss over the gems, I quickly rinsed off under the hose, and continued grouting because, honestly, if you don't do grout the right way, the joints never hold the tiles properly in place. As I rubbed the haze off the last of the gleaming tiles two hours later, I reflected on the sad lack of glamour in my personal style (I won't even begin to describe the outfit I was wearing with these fabulous bracelets). And I felt a fleeting wave of hopelessness, recalling that when my husband married me, I'd actually been a beauty editor at a major woman's magazine. No joke. Yet when he recently asked me what I wanted for my upcoming birthday, I'd not thought of him spoiling me with an extravagant gem or a his-and-her spa experience. I'd replied, "a new garbage disposal." I realized that man of mine really does have his work cut out for him.

But, ever the optimist, he came up with a novel, romantic idea: to have a candlelit dinner on our new porch that evening! How lovely it was, sitting on our newly set tiles, our favorite wine in place, and overlooking our pond. The bracelets I'd never bothered to take off paired perfectly with the sundress I dug out of the back of my closet. There was hope for me yet!



I'm still wearing those bracelets. And how they sparkle in the sunshine on this cloudless September morning...as I push the lawn mower around the back yard!

Bringing nature inside

I'm such a nature fan that I know it wouldn't surprise anyone who knows me--even marginally--to discover that my interior design incorporates outdoor elements whenever possible. When we purchased our 100-year-old home nearly twenty years ago, I was determined to hit up the historical society in town, and scour the Internet for wallpaper patterns and paint colors popular at the turn of the last century. Hmmm...still haven't gotten around to doing that. A betting person (or anyone at all!) could figure that it's probably never gonna happen.

All my intentions for an "authentic" house went out the window when I looked out the window. What I saw was a bank of day lilies glimmering in the morning sun, and I realized I'd start life in my new home out in my new garden. I knew nothing about plants at the time, but I was armed with a lifetime of love for the great outdoors, so I fearlessly followed my heart around the yard, learning the rudiments of gardening by observing the plants already in place.

Each September morning of that first year, I'd walk my five-year-old daughter to the school bus, set up the playpen on the back patio for my infant son, and while away the day singing him songs and planting to my heart's content. The simplicity and naive optimism of those days still makes me smile. While I wouldn't trade that time with my son for anything in the world, I probably burned through a couple hundred bucks in dead plants. I planted sun-loving flowers in partial shade, and ripped out established plants (foolishly thinking them weeds) with abandon. By the end of my second gardening season, I realized I probably needed to learn a thing or two about horticulture. Thus began my education into the nature of the plant world. And the things I learned so enthralled me that it was natural that I'd bring my plant-passion indoors in every possible form.

What better for an historic home than the timeless majesty of botanical prints? In no time at all, I was covering the wainscoting with the floral illustrations. Next, I turned to the walls, coating them in sage green, earthy terracotta, and soft peachy-pinks in shades ranging from clotted cream to the sky at sunset. My husband had a brainstorm for our mudroom which borders the back patio: add lots of windows and a set of French doors, to flood the room with light. He built shelving at window bases to allow plenty of room for my beloved potted plants.

We apply the same rules to our summer place in the Adirondacks, though the effect is quite different. Up there, it's all about woods, water and rocks; and our interior reflects the ruggedness. Having recently torn down a wall to open up space and bring much-needed light into the house, we framed the revamped area in rough-hewn hemlock columns (on he right), much like the trees just outside the windows. The new columns also complement the original knotty-pine, hand-made doors, so prevalent in the Adirondack style.

Plans for the future include incorporating birch bark into the scheme. Birch trees are not only abundant in the finger lakes of New York, but their malleable bark is quite versatile, covering everything from Native American canoes two centuries ago to modern-day furniture. I'd love to cover an entire wall in the papery white bark, much like I recall at my friends' house, down the street. They had homemade birch-bark wallpaper, of sorts. When we'd hike up nearby Buck Mountain, part of the trek included keeping a sharp eye out for fallen birch trees. Once spotted, we'd disengage the bark with surgeon-like precision, bring home the bark and lay it out in the sun to dry. After a day or two, we'd jot down the date we found the bark, adventures encountered, and names of all the participants. Then the bark was pressed between two books for days, or weeks (each piece varied in the amount of time it took to completely dry out and flatten). Before long, we could tack the new piece of bark to the wall. There was something magical about returning each summer, and recounting past adventures together, reading about our lives on their wall.

Makes me want to drive up there right this moment, and knock on their door. I know that if they're home, they'll put some water in the kettle for tea, and we'll settle in front of the faded writing on that wall of natural parchment, content to relive all those glories of our shared past.

On the waterfront

I recently had the good fortune of experiencing two of my favorite things: spending a few days in the company of a nearly lifelong friend, and accomplishing our reunion in the peaceful setting of beautful Lake George in upstate New York.

This lake is special to me, since I have spent every summer of my life on its shores, in its refreshingly clear water, and hiking its surrounding mountains.  Nearly every excursion up to the lake involves some sort of activity, be it swimming, boating, fishing, gardening, or even renovating our modest lake house.  But this trip was different.  Reconnecting with an old friend was, for me, a time to look inward.  Rather than focusing on the area itself, and the myriad activities we usually engage in, the lake acted more like a backdrop to warm conversations, casual strolls in which we recounted times from our long-ago college days, constant laughter, and observations about our lives--and life in general.

Thinking back on our time together, exchanging family news, reminiscing, and sharing our plans and dreams for the future, I realize how vital our setting was.  How the sound of crickets lulled us to sleep at night, and how the early-morning call of birds gently woke us up.  The night sky, strewn with endless stars, and the sun setting spectacularly over the mountain range added a lovely dimension to our friendly retreat.

And while it's true that good friends can gather anywhere and enjoy themselves, there's something soul-satisfying to finding a place of natural beauty in which to reunite.  It adds immeasurably to the experience.  So, this Labor Day weekend, find a peaceful place to share with a friend, even if it's only a cup of tea while sitting beside your backyard pond.  Take the time--even a little bit of it--to savor the good things in life, like nature's bounty and the blessing of friendship.   Like the summer season itself, life seems to pass so quickly.  Enjoy the here and now.

The beast within this beauty

 



New York is among a handful of states experiencing a problem of expanding proportion: Heracleum mantegazzianum.  Hercules...what? What's that?  A lovely looking plant?  Well, what's the problem?  First of all, let's call it by its not-so-pretty name: hogweed.  Sounds nasty, right?  It is.

Hogweed is a plant of gargantuan size--8-14 feet tall--but here's the rub: it's pretty.  And beauty draws us in, summoning us to come closer.  A member of the carrot family, introduced here more than a hundred years ago by Europeans as an ornamental, it looks like a large version of Queen Anne's Lace.  It's impressive head of flat, dazzling white flowers, which can span two-feet across, paired with its mythical size, can easily entice.  But below this beguiling blossom is a thick stem chock full of toxins that can burn and scar skin--and even cause blindness to those unfortunate enough to get its sap in their eyes.  The burns are severe--causing painful blistering, and even blackened skin tone, leading to scarring. 

Don't be fooled by sweeter-sounding names, like the innocuous "cow parsnip," this plant embodies the stuff of childhood nightmares.  Think Snow White's evil queen--seemingly the "fairest of them all," yet, just like the poison apple concealed in her skirt, the tainted sap that seeps from crushed and broken stems, leaves and seed heads can be harmful to an unsuspecting visitor, plucking the plant.

If there's a moral to this cautionary tale, it's look but don't touch.  Not that it will harm those who accidentally brush up against it.  In order for the sap to do harm, it must have somewhat sustained contact with moist skin (such as a sweaty hand touching the stem), and an abundance of sunlight, which appears to trigger the devastating chain reaction.   If you do come in contact with it, wash thoroughly with cold water and dish detergent to get rid of the sap. 

By far, the worst thing you can do is ignore this plant.  From a safe distance, snap a few pictures, and send them to the DEC: ghogweed@gw.dec.state.ny.us. so they can send out a crew to get rid of the threat.  You can also call the "hogweed hotline" at 845-256-3111.



  

Where have all the flowers gone?

Those of us in the northeastern U.S. have suffered a noticeable void in our flower gardens this season:  the lack of colorful hydrangea blooms: those massive, vibrant blossoms of blue, pink, violet and purple seem to be missing from the landscape.  Ironically, the green foliage of these plants looks better than ever, but the buds have gone missing.

Sadly, our harsh winter is to blame.  Unfortunately, the unseasonably cold winter temperatures killed the tender buds of H. macrophylla, AKA bigleaf hydrangea, which produce the colorful pinkish-to-blueish oversize, ball-shaped mophead (Hortensia) or lacecap--airy, flat blossoms which lay like a delicate cap over the green foliage.  Winter's harsh hand also destroyed the buds of H. quercifolia--the Oakleaf hydrangea, with buds that turn from white to pinkish, to brown, and have foliage shaped like oak leaves--and the tender blossoms of climbing hydrangea vines.  Because these blooms are all produced on what is known as "old wood"--existing shrub branches--they can fall victim to killing frosts.

How I miss the billowy blossoms, and old-fashioned charm that hydrangeas add to the garden. I miss the beguiling blues, perky pinks, luscious lavender, and romantic rose shades—sometimes all blooming on the same plant!  As many of us know, the colors of  these showstoppers are produced as a result of the availability of aluminum ions in the soil. Acidic soils with a pH of less than 5.5 produce blue flowers; soils with a pH greater than 5.5 product pink flowers.


Since we can never know what next winter will bring, I'm hedging my bets--and taking extra care to frost-proof (or at least frost-protect) my plants this fall.  I plan on covering the ground around the hydrangeas with at least 18 inches of leaves (though pine bark, pine needles or straw also work well). If at all possible, I'll cover entire plants--tips included--in homemade cages crafted out of snow fencing or chicken wire, and loosely filling the cages with leaves (but never  maple leaves--they mat and hold ice in).

Another way to ensure our yards are graced with the enduring beauty of hydrangeas every year, regardless of the previous winter's weather, is to choose varieties that bloom on "new wood:" this year's stems.  Among these type of hydrangea are: H. paniculata (panicle hydrangea), hardy to Zone 3 and boasting plump, cone-shaped flower heads. The most common cultivar is 'Grandiflora', or P.G. (PeeGee) after its initials, a big old-fashioned floppy shrub that is 10 to 15 feet tall; and H. arborescens (smooth hydrangeas), which produce "snowballs" which flower reliably to Zone 3. The flowers look like oversized white-flowered pop-poms. The best cultivars include, 'Grandiflora' and 'Annabelle' which produce large blooms in late summer.  All these hydrangeas have white blooms.  Mine look especially lovely when paired with dwarf Buxus (boxwood) in front, and a privet hedge behind:

 

Dead in the Water

Looks can be deceiving. It's a well-worn phrase, but the reason it's so often used is because, well, it's one of those cliches that applies to many facets of life, in myriad forms. In this particular case, I use it to point to the beauty and breath-taking wonder of the waterways in my great state of New York. But looks can be deceiving.

How so? Because, the human quest for perfection is often counter to Mother Nature's. As I sit on my front porch, viewing the sparkle of a shimmering lake through the pine trees across the street, I am reminded of the sign I photographed at the end of my road:

We have all pretty much heard about how the universal quest for a perfect lawn is adversely affecting the health of the water we all admire and enjoy. How fertilizers drain into nearby waterways during rain storms, and somehow manage to do harm. Admit it, many of us say, “yeah, right,” or “whatever.” Maybe it's a bit of a problem, but it's not really our individual problem. Our grass looks great, while those tree huggers out there gripe about our Earth's demise. They bandy about words like algae blooms and organic alternatives. Blah, blah, blah. More lunatics on their soapboxes championing yet another environmental cause. Sadly, this attitude of “mind numb” has manifested itself in a new reality: dead water.

Did that term give you pause? I don't know about you, but anything that's supposed to be alive that is now termed “dead” usually makes me sit up and listen. So what is it...and what's the lawn fertilizer/dead zone connection? A quick primer: The nutrients in the synthetic fertilizers we've adored since the mid-twentieth century are chock-full of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium in just the right combinations to create the weed-free lawn of our collective dreams. Better living through chemicals, right? Yet the “nutrients” so beneficial to grass hurts the Earth far more than it aids grass. For anyone rolling their eyes right now, tired of hearing about how fertilizers are harmful and disbelieving all the bad press, here's the problem in a nutshell: all that “good stuff” in fertilizers, AKA those above-mentioned nutrients that make grass healthy and strong—do their job incredibly well. They are especially adept at feeding algae, which marine life feed on. But too much of a good thing...well you know how that goes. Algae blooms in every nook and cranny of the underwater world, thriving in far greater numbers than the underwater life that can feed on it. When the algae dies, it sinks to the bottom of waterways and its decomposition process actually removes oxygen from the soil. We all need oxygen to live, so no oxygen means no life. The result: dead zones.

The irony is not lost on me. Who enjoys lush greenery more than I, author of a gardening blog? Grass, like other plants, provides a wonderful addition to our lives. It filters pollution, prevents soil erosion, keeps the ground cool, and feels so darn nice under bare feet. But perfect, weedless lawns that look more like wall-to-wall carpeting are not only expensive and time-consuming to achieve and maintain, but tell me honestly: does it really look all that good to you? Or have you, like so many others believed the hype that this is what a lawn must look like...or, why bother? We upstaters are not the only ones facing this dilemma. The lakes, rivers, streams and ponds all throughout New York and every other state in this nation are facing this dilemma. An article last month in The New York Post highlighted the growing “dead water” issue, stating, “Those perfectly manicured, brilliantly green lawns that surround many Hamptons mansions are contributing to the destruction of marine life on Long Island.” It adds a quote from a Save the Great South Bay activist: “The polluted groundwater is systematically killing all our bays, ponds and rivers by triggering massive algal blooms...choking sea life, poisoning shellfish. The only thing left would be jellyfish.”

We need, if you'll pardon the bad pun, a sea-change in our thinking. Let's give all nature's plants a chance to astonish us with their intrinsic beauty. Do we need sweeping front lawns of grass? If so, why? What are we trying to prove to others—and--ourselves--by spending an abundance of our time, money and effort to produce spans of outdoor greenery that looks like carpet, and makes our blood boil when the neighbor's dog takes a dump on it?

When we bought a little Adirondack “camp” more than a dozen years ago, we had no front lawn. As I gazed at the expanse of periwinkle stretching along the entire front yard, where I deemed a healthy span of grass should reside, I immediately decided to have a ton of fill dumped over the area so I could spread my grass seed. Then spring came, and the periwinkle bloomed. I was surrounded by a field of vivid purple blossoms, making my jaw drop, and all thought of grass blades vanish. We've since planted perennial beds around the perimeter of the periwinkle, and I love the effect.

If you can't give up your grass addiction, take a few tips from the Scientific American: “Go organic, both at home and on the farm. According to the Organic Trade Association, organic farmers and gardeners use composted manure and other natural materials, as well as crop rotation, to help improve soil fertility, rather than synthetic fertilizers that can result in an overabundance of nutrients. As a result, these practices protect ground water supplies and avoid runoff of chemicals that can cause dead zones and poisoned aquatic life. There is now a large variety of organic fertilizer available commercially, as well as many ways to keep pests at bay without resorting to harsh synthetic chemicals. A wealth of information on growing greener can be found online: Check out OrganicGardeningGuru.com and the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Alternative Farming System Information Center, for starters. Those interested in face-to-face advice should consult with a master gardener at a local nursery that specializes in organic gardening.”

It's no longer difficult to find alternative options. We've got to band together on this one, folks. If each of us took one baby step--discard one bag of synthetic fertilizer or mix a few bags of compost or manure into the soil—great strides could be made.

Veggie tales

Nothing speaks to me of summer quite as resoundingly as a vegetable garden patch.  Be it humble or Herculean, there's just something primal and comforting about nourishment sprung from the ground--from nothing more than a scattering of minute seeds.  Those of us lucky enough to have our own vegetable gardens in the northeastern U.S., have enjoyed a season's worth of the best lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and corn I can recall in years.  The unique combination of abundant sunshine, fairly regular intervals of rain, and cooler-than-usual temperatures have provided the winning combination that farmers--pros and novices alike--spent the previous season praying for.  How nice when wishes are granted!

Don't have your own veggie garden?  No need to despair.  Enterprising folks have produced plenty of, well, produce for you, too.  And finding a stash of your favorite garden treats is as easy as checking out your local paper for a farmers' market near you.  Or go online, to www.localharvest.org/farmers'-market.  Incorporating maps into the site, users simply type in their home address, which directs them to the local map for their area.

According to the localharvest website, "farmers' markets are one of the oldest forms of direct marketing by small farmers. From the traditional "mercados" in the Peruvian Andes to the unique street markets in Asia, growers all over the world gather weekly to sell their produce directly to the public. In the last decade they have become a favorite marketing method for many farmers throughout the United States, and a weekly ritual for many shoppers.  In a farmers' market, a group of farmers sell their products once or twice a week at a designated public place like a park or parking lot. Some farmers' markets have live entertainment. Shopping at a farmers' market is a great way to meet local farmers and get fresh, flavorful produce."

A lot of businesses are getting in on a good thing, and booths for products other than produce are sprouting up. While strolling through my local farmer's market last summer, I actually met a representative from a utility company offering "green" energy (in this case, power derived almost entirely from harnessing the wind).  I decided to give the company a try, and am happy to report that my electric bills have decreased this year by about 13%. 

Innovation comes in many forms.  Some friends of mine have taken the farmers' market theme down a notch, infused it with some good 'ole-fashioned nostalgia, and a hefty helping of fun, to create their own roadside stand.  Complete with carved signs, an "honor-system" cash box like we recall from days (long) gone by, and the ripest, lushest produce in town, "The Stand" has quickly become my favorite hangout when I'm up in the Adirondacks.  Not only do they offer fresh produce, picked daily, but they make bread and mouth-watering molasses cookies "on the reg," and have a variety of unusual fare, such as maple syrup and butter (yup, they make it themselves), pickled relish and spicy salsa!  Up until last week they even had farm-fresh eggs, produced by chickens who resided down the road.  Unfortunately, a wily fox spirited a few hens away, prompting the owners to dispense with said fox--only to make conditions optimal for a hostile takeover by a gang of raccoons.  Now those hens are history, as are the fluffier-than-clouds eggs they produced.  The neighbors want to take up a collection to buy more chicks, and I'd personally patrol the coops for another taste of those farm-fresh beauties!  But that's a tale for another day.  Stay tuned!

New buzz about bees

In my ongoing effort to give bees (especially native bees) their due, I thought it might be fun to explore some little-known bee facts:

1.  Bees are excellent recyclers! Two species of leafcutter bee found a good use for plastic: as nest-building material. Bees in Toronto were observed using plastic bag pieces, and even bits of polyurethane sealant, to create their homes. As I've discussed, unlike some honeybees, North American natives, like leafcutters, don't build hives, but instead stitch their houses together out of whatever is available.  Plant material is their typical fabric of choice, but bees are quite resourceful, and when plastic is plentiful, they'll make good use of it--they even cut the plastic pieces differently than they would plant materials.

2.  Bees get a buzz from caffeine.  According to a study published in the journal, "Science," caffeine in the nectar of coffee and citrus flowers gives honeybees a jolt, similar to what we get after we drink a cup of java.  It also sharpens their memory.  A good way to remember which flowers are tastiest!  And that's important, because...

3.  Bees are suckers for sweets!  Like us, bees crave flavor, and their fondness for sweets can rival our own--particularly plants that are chock-full of sugar-laced nectar. But instead of a sweet tooth, bees have a sweet claw. Researchers witnessed the phenomenon when they applied sugars, salts and bitter solutions to bees' legs, and watched what happened.  Bees stuck out their tongues whenever their claws touched the sweet stuff (similar to us licking our lips when we bite into a piece of chocolate!).

"Bee" on the lookout for more about these phenomenal 'bee-ings" in upcoming posts--and follow my progress on "Project Pollinate," my grassroots effort to build and distribute nests for native bees.  Bad puns aside, I invite you to join me in a fictional account of these amazing creatures; I've just begun reading Laline Paull's "The Bees," about Flora 717, the bee version of "a dazzling young heroine who will forever change the way you look at the world outside your window." Sounds intriguing, right?  I'm drawn to it like bees to honey....

Baking soda: a key gardening ingredient

I've always found gardening to be very much like writing a novel: labor-intensive, a way to express oneself creatively, difficult at times, but ultimately rewarding.  So anything that pumps up the creative, fun aspect, and makes the process on a whole a bit easier, is always welcomed.

Like a rough draft of a manuscript that can get too wordy--a particular problem of mine--the work of art we create in our outdoor spaces can suffer from overabundance.  Sometimes we just have too much of a good thing.  Take moss, for example.  It can fill in moist, shady niches in the garden where grass won't grow well.  It not only stays green all summer, but actually deepens to a rich emerald and acquires a lush, wall-to-wall carpet-type of texture as the season progresses.  But who wants this "carpet" covering the stone and brick spaces of patios, walkways and driveways?  Not I!  Yet July's humidity pushes this producer into overdrive, prompting me to look for an editor to this story.

Baking soda is that editor, who cuts through the excess, but in a kind way that won't hurt too much.  I've talked about this substance in the past, touting its attributes much like a novelist thanks contributors at the back of a book.  It's non-toxic and effective, and I've used it for quite some time.  Yet the other day I began to wonder, what is this substance that I take for granted?  Besides being a kitchen staple, vital for baking, pot-scrubbing, tooth-brushing, fridge freshening, and the aforementioned garden applications, what is it?  Here, an explanation from the blog, Green Living Tips:

Baking soda, also known as bicarbonate of soda or sodium bicarbonate, is a very handy non-toxic compound that can be used as a more environmentally friendly replacement for many harsher chemicals.


How baking soda is made
It's not, for the most part, a naturally occurring product. The base substance, soda ash, from which sodium bicarbonate is extracted is usually refined in one of two ways:
a) The Solvay method. In this method carbon dioxide and ammonia are injected into a concentrated solution of sodium chloride. At this stage, some sodium bicarbonate is formed. It is then heated to form soda ash, from which a more pure sodium bicarbonate is extracted. The Solvay method does produce environmentally damaging byproducts such calcium chloride in a liquid solution that when discharged into inland waterways can increase salinity.
b) Trona ore. The world’s largest deposit of trona ore is in the Green River Basin of Wyoming and is extracted by underground room-and-pillar mining. There are over 62 identified natural sodium carbonate deposits in the world with supposedly enough raw product to satisfy the world’s needs for thousands of years. Once the Trona ore is extracted, it’s refined into a slurry of sodium sesquicarbonate that contains soda ash (sodium carbonate) and baking soda (sodium bicarbonate).
Soda ash can also be be manufactured from salt and limestone; practically inexhaustible resources, but synthetic soda ash costs more to produce and creates environmentally damaging by-products.

Refining soda ash
Once the soda ash has been created, the solution is placed into a centrifuge, separating the liquid from bicarbonate crystals. The crystals are then dissolved to form a bicarbonate solution  and filtered to remove any insoluble materials.
The resulting solution is then pumped up to a carbonating tower. Carbon dioxide is pumped into the base of the tower pressurized. The solution reacts with the carbon dioxide to form sodium bicarbonate crystals.
The crystals are collected, placed in another centrifuge, washed and dried to form a high purity baking soda.
Earth friendly baking soda
When choosing a baking soda and having “green” principles in mind; you’re somewhat caught between a rock and a hard place. The Solvay method has been known to ruin inland waterways and Trona ore means mining. Still, not everything can be manufactured from air. When you compare the production and use of baking soda with the effects on the environment of other chemicals used in products that baking soda can replace; baking soda is certainly the “greener” option, however it is sourced.
The only other comparable substance that is more earth friendly that sodium bicarbonate is probably vinegar. While vinegar is certainly a very versatile substance; it probably doesn’t have the range of uses of baking soda.

How well does it work?
See for yourself.  Below, I sprinkled baking soda on the top half of bricks.  The bottom two rows were left untreated.  Notice how the top section has yellowing--even blackening--moss.  The moss growing between the bottom bricks is still green and healthy.  For quickest results, sprinkle the baking soda on desired spot, wait a few hours, then take a watering can or garden hose, and spray a small amount of water to the area.  The water seems to activate the baking soda, and boost its power.

Hard-scaping

We all appreciate the beauty and usefulness that plants bring to our gardens.  They create warm spaces in otherwise barren stretches of land.  They nourish us with vegetable, herb and fruit offerings--and even those that don't, utilize the carbon dioxide we aspirate, miraculously exchanging it for life-giving oxygen.  No one (except perhaps those with severe plant allergies) can really make a case against greenery, AKA "soft-scaping."

But equally enticing is the creative use of hard-scaping in our garden beds: the fences, stones, brick, sand, shells, trellises, arbors, gazebos, and other non-living additions to our landscapes that give them depth, texture and the ability to enhance and complement all the growing going on around them.  After all, what plant can't benefit from a well-placed pergola or pot?

Part of designing a garden space that's attractive as well as functional is the ability to make clever use of non-living materials.  In the photos below, I explore different ways that hard-scaping will help create artful outdoor spaces--and a soft spot in your heart for every one:

Pair perennials with a perimeter of picket fencing, and you've got yourself an old-fashioned love story, worthy of the ages.  Time and place fall away with this affair to remember, which seems modern, but could just as easily have been found in your grandmother's garden beds.

Window boxes and decorative hangers provide twice the impact when used in tandem.  This dynamic duo softens the very linear lines of boxy windows, clapboard and the rectangular patio bricks.

 
Plant stands are great for a garden on the go, or to lessen the effect of less-than-desirable features on a building (like the gutter leader in the photo here).  The best thing about these decorative dynamos?  You can pick 'em up and plop them down wherever you like--whenever you want to.