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.