Living off the land...in luxury

There was a time when nearly everyone had a garden.  During WWII it was called a "Victory Garden," which encouraged American citizens to band together for a common cause: patriotism.  And "patriotism" in the early 1940s could be seen--literally--as rows of vegetables and fruits dotting the landscape.  The cost of transporting produce during wartime was prohibitive, and rationing was in full swing, so 20 million Americans contributed to the war effort by growing their own food--anywhere they could, be it back yards, empty lots or city rooftops.

Of course, farmers had provided for themselves and others in this manner for centuries.  It's the cornerstone of civilization--necessary, often backbreaking work.  Yet along the way, people started realizing the important life lessons that could be coaxed from the soil.  Communes sprouted like bean plants in the 1960s, as the era of "free love" took root.  These "intentional communities" were filled with "back-to-the-land" utopian principles of equally shared economies, non-hierarchical structures, group decision-making and ecological living.  Although communes are often thought of as an American phenomenon of the Vietnam era, they actually popped up all around the world, and many still exist today.

Here in America, where capitalism is (rightfully) king, hippie-era notions no longer hold sway.  Or do they?  Let's face it, many of us yearn for the "good old days," when we recall running, as children, through mazes of corn in our grandparents' gardens.  Who among us doesn't have happy memories of accompanying friends and family members to the local farm for berry, apple and pumpkin-picking excursions?  Yes, my friends, we yearn to be a part of nature.  It's in our DNA.

Yet the truth of the matter is this: we require that nature be on our terms.  Our homes should be set on rolling green hills, but NOT include actual wildlife in our intimate living spaces.  Grass has always been thought of as good, (hence the reason for our homes set on golf courses) while dirt is bad.  Just watch a Tide commercial from any era, and you'll be reassured of the collective American consciousness toward the great outdoors.  We want to interact with nature only to the degree that we can control it. 

There are arguments for and against this kind of thinking; it's a topic that should be explored by environmentalists far more knowledgeable than I.  Suffice it to say that this "is what it is," as they say.  So how do we reconcile it all? By going back to our old ways--with a new twist.  A modern way of living among the green hills, but without all the weed-choking, wildlife-endangering chemicals that ensure the green-carpet golf course look: welcome back to the farm.

This is not your grandparents' idea of home-grown living.  The new-and-improved farm communities boast ritzy state-of-the-art houses around multiple green spaces.  Many of these spaces are honest-to-goodness farmland.  These professional plots are not tended by residents, but by paid staff who toil for the visual and culinary pleasure of community inhabitants. 

Residents pay a premium to watch from their front porches others weed, gather and harvest the goods that they will purchase around the corner at the development's very own farmer's market.  Think aristocrats and serfs--if the serfs actually got paid to feed the rich.  Some think it's an excellent idea, others tout it as the perfect blend of old school and innovation.  The "agrihoods," as they're being touted, capitalize on this extreme farm-to-table trend, and they're popping up all around the nation.  Places like Prairie Crossing, just outside Chicago, The Cannery, near Sacramento, California, and Willowsford, just beyond the borders of Washington, D.C.

I think the idea has merit.  In an era of increasing isolation (people sitting at restaurants paying attention to their smart phones rather than their dinner partners), an attempt is being made to reconnect people with the land, and with each other.   I'm sure the irony is not lost on anyone; the idea of dishing out dollars to live the same simple existence as our struggling ancestors smacks of an infinite cosmic jest, yet if the concept flourishes, who knows...maybe it will trickle down to the vast majority of Americans, becoming an economically viable way to enjoy nature, and a revitalized sense of community.  

Urban gardens

When most of us think of gardens, we envision rolling hills of flowers and greenery surrounded by the sounds of stiff breezes swaying through the trees, and far-off bird calls.  We may not envision rumbling engines, blaring car horns, and the chatter of multitudes of people within a relatively confined space, but this is, increasingly, the environment that matches many of our agricultural spaces.

Why is this?  With seven billion people to house and feed, agriculture takes a tremendous toll on a planet with decreasing space.  Competition arises for water and energy, and pollution is a nasty side effect.  Hence, the need for creative solutions.  Urban farming is at the forefront of the problem-solving.

Rooftop and balcony gardens around city dwellings have the potential to make our food as "local" as possible. By growing what we need near where we live, we decrease the "food miles" associated with long-distance transportation. We also get the freshest produce money can buy, and we are encouraged to eat in season.

Another benefit of urban farming is that it adds greenery to cities, increases shade, and reduces harmful runoff. Garden plots can help people reconnect with the earth, and gain a greater appreciation for where our food comes from.  They also play a crucial role in supporting urban biodiversity, and residential zones can account for more than 60% of urban land area. Consequently, private gardens may represent a significant proportion of green space in a city, enhancing the natural world around us, and our own mental and physical wellbeing. 

Urban gardens will never act as substitutes for many semi-natural habitats, however, neither are they 'wildlife deserts'. Gardens can offer a rich variety of resources--a broad range of microclimates, plant species, and vegetation structures. They can also provide habitats, such as ponds, that may be increasingly rare elsewhere. The potential diversity of wildlife is illustrated by the long-term study of one suburb in Leicester, England, in which a city garden was designed with wildlife in mind: more than 2200 animal and plant species were recorded. Another study recorded more than 95 species of wild plant in a single garden. And gardens are not inhabited only by common species. The juniper pug is an example of a scarce moth whose natural food source is rare, but which successfully exploits ornamental junipers in domestic gardens. 

 

Then there's the most enjoyable aspect of urban gardens: they create peaceful places for relaxation and contemplation--a haven from the everyday hustle and bustle of city life. This is true for not only residents, but for visitors.  Well-planned garden spaces can attract tourists—(see my previous post about New York City's High Line Park), providing urban farming jobs to underserved and depressed urban areas.

Perhaps one day we will see soaring vertical farms that will eventually produce most of what we need within a short walk from home. According to Brian Clark Howard's article in the National Geographic, "The downside is that land in cities is often expensive, especially since gardens tend to contribute to gentrification and rising rents. Urban soils can be loaded with lead, arsenic, and other toxins, requiring remediation or replacement before planting can be done safely. Cramped conditions can limit yields, and getting enough water and sunlight can be concerns. Still, if the right combinations of new technology, community support, and economic incentives align, it's possible we may soon be munching on skyscraper scallions and avenue arugula. An early example is the rooftop garden on the InterContinental New York Barclay Hotel, which includes an apiary. The Midtown bees produce honey used in the hotel's kitchen, and they fly to pollinate plants as far as five miles away."

Working with nature for individual profit? Now, that's what I call "going green" in every way possible.

 

 

Welcome winter

After all the leaves have dropped, and the Northeast settles into muted November, most gardeners around these parts will admit that this time of year is their least favorite.  I used to feel that way, too.  I'd look around my yard with a mixture of relief (that all the leaves were finally cleared away) and depression (will it really be four long months before I see the first daffodils popping up through the snow?).  I'd wander the stark paths out back, somberly noting the stick-like appearance of lilac and magnolia trees, and recall a time when they were in full bloom, dripping lush leaves of green and blooms of purple and white, like wealthy ladies adorned in jewels.

As the years have passed, I've learned a thing or two about gardening, but I've discovered even more about myself.  Somewhere along the way, I had an epiphany, of sorts, which gently nudged me toward appreciating each day as it comes, no matter what the weather.  Some days dawn on soft breezes and buttery yellow light so enticing that you feel like sticking out your tongue to taste it.  Other days bring drama: the crackle of thunder and hot strike of white lightning making us jump in fleeting fear.  There are gentle-rain-pattering-the roof mornings, and leaf-swirling, wind-swept afternoons.  Some days smell of moss and growing things.  Others carry the sharp scent of wood smoke. But we never know quite what each new day will bring until it comes, and that's where the magic of weather never fails to entice.

This November morning wears a coat of foggy gray.  Most would say it's a lackluster day, in a dismal time of year, but I choose to recall that we are only two weeks from Thanksgiving, and I'm appreciative.  After a very dry summer and fall season, my plants need the drizzle saturating the soil around them, and I need the time, sitting amid the hushed morning air, devoid of chattering birdsong and scurrying squirrel activity, to think.

I will try to use the time allotted me during this "off season" to revise my planting strategy.  I'll recall what worked especially well in the garden last season, predict what new items may grow well in future, and devise a planting plan for spring.  I'll also relish the physical break.  As every gardener knows, tending a landscape can be hard on the joints and muscles.

Since we have had an unseasonably warm autumn, with nary a hard frost, I even have time to get some evergreen plants into the landscape.  Among the best things to plant right now for winter interest are:  yew, boxwood, holly, rhododendron, arborvitae, pine and cypress (if you have plenty of room), spruce (also requires lots of space unless you opt for the dwarf varieties), and juniper.  If flowers in winter are what you yearn for, try hellebores, also known as Christmas roses.  H. niger macranthus will be in bloom for the big day, with large, pure white flowers.  Most other varieties bloom after the new year.  Pair Christmas rose with Christmas fern, which truly does keep its color through the season, and the effect is a bit of a tease, but lends a taste of the warm-weather glory that we call the growing season.

Autumn's last gasp: why leaves haven't all fallen yet

When it comes to living in upstate New York, people find a lot to complain about: the taxes are too high, it's so cold here in winter, it too hot and humid each summer, we get a heck of a lot of snow.  Blah, blah, blah.  Drive along a colorful stretch of highway in the fall, and all the griping recedes into the back of the mind.  Autumn in New York--in all its yellow, gold, red, burgundy and orange-leafed glory--is a sight to behold.  This year has been especially gorgeous, because by early November, the leaves are still brilliantly holding court.  In some spots near New York City, the trees are just hitting their stride.  Why is this?  To fully understand it, let's take a quick refresher on the leaf cycle.

As we all know, leaves change color when chlorophyll production--necessary for making leaves green--halts. As summer ends, the days get shorter, and nights get colder, signaling trees to begin getting ready for winter.  During winter, there isn't enough light or water for photosynthesis, so trees take a break, and live off the food they made in the leaves, and stored during the summer.



As the bright green fades away, orange and yellow hues emerge. What's incredible --and often not realized--is that small amounts of these colors have been in the leaves all along. We just can't see them in the summer, because they're covered up by the green chlorophyll.

The bright reds and purples we see, on the other hand, are made mostly in the fall. In some trees, like maples, glucose is trapped in the leaves after photosynthesis stops. Sunlight and the cool nights of autumn cause the leaves to turn this glucose into reddish, purple and burgundy hues.

The brown color of trees like oaks is not due to any defect in the trees (no, your oaks aren't diseased or dying).  It's created from wastes left in the leaves.

Why does the foliage seem to have hung on for so much longer this year?  It's not our collective imaginations--leaf-peeping season has been delightfully extended due to a few key factors: a dry summer, and warmer-than-usual fall.

Fall foliage is most vibrant when summer is moderately wet, autumn days are warm, and fall nights are crisp and cold.  This year, the northeast had drought during the height of the summer season, so leaves actually started changing earlier, but because the days have been unseasonably warm, and the nights not quite as cold, leaves aren't getting the message to completely cut off chlorophyll production.  The result: it takes longer for leaves to reach the colorful change--hence, the lingering hues, and extended "rake time" for us all.  The tradeoff: the leaves aren't quite as bright as in year's past.

I tested this theory in my own backyard, and documented the results.  Most seasons, my backyard trees have all leafed out by late October, and have begun the shedding process just as my Japanese maple begins its glorious transformation.  This year, the Japanese maple changed color right alongside the other trees (top photo), and the effect was a magical potpourri of hues ranging from palest yellow to deepest burgundy.  A sight to be seen!!