Extension News: September 2008 Archives

The swamp is quiet now. The great nests high atop the dead trees stand empty and silent. The 18 young great blue herons and their parents have all left. Quiet reigns where once there were raucous cries.

The red-winged blackbirds and grackles have also left, as well as the tree swallows with their iridescent blue wings. The very air seems empty, bereft of their brilliant colors and acrobatic swoops. The deep-throated croaks of the bullfrogs have disappeared. Once the night was filled with their symphonic calls. I look in vain for the four young mallards that swam along so comically behind their mother. She and they have left. Where are they now? Have they joined a group on a larger body of water or have they already begun the great trek south to warmer weather?

The crickets still grind out their evening songs, but slower now, as the cooler nights lessen their enthusiasm. Sometimes a blue jay will squawk about something as it flies over, but mostly, there’s a sense of waiting, a pause in time between the noise and exuberance of summer and the slumber of winter. It’s like the time in the evening when you lie in bed, waiting for sleep, and you listen hard for sounds. Each seems magnified against the empty background.

After clear skies for much of the summer, we’ve had thick gray clouds and heavy precipitation. The rain has brought a new sound, one missing for most of the summer: water running over and through the beavers’ dam. I expect the beavers hear it too and are working to shore up their construction before the winter ice appears. I like the sound of the running water. It’s a soft sound, a background sound, a soothing cadence to the soft rustle of dried grasses.

A swamp maple is already showing off its new garment, the first of many to add a final burst of color before the bare starkness of early winter comes. Soon the sound of wind in the trees will change from a whisper of moving foliage to a rustling of desiccated brown leaves.

Up in the evergreens, the squirrels are busy and not as quiet. With self-important chirps, they dash from limb to limb, out to the very end, knocking off seeds and pine cones, then quickly scurry down the trunk to the ground to gather up all they can. Last fall they must have buried some sunflower seeds in the area behind our shed, for now tall sunflowers nod their heavy heads there like small giants asleep on their feet. How many other plants have begun life thanks to the squirrels’ need to stash food away for colder days?

Suddenly, the winterberry has erupted in brilliant red. One day the berries were a subtle green and the next, scarlet pearls shone out from the leaves. How did it happen so quickly? Nearby, the goldenrod is flaunting sunny hues to light up the shortening days, while the asters add soft shades of purple to the final hours of summer. The elderberries too, are rich in color now, the deep purple looking luscious enough to eat. A small cluster of black-capped chickadees flits from branch to branch, calling as they go, while searching the bark for insects. They let me stand close by, still and silent, and eavesdrop on their conversation.

Evening slips in earlier now. The air is different­crisper, sharper. The sun, already lower in the sky, begins to sink down behind the tall pines long before I’ve finished my twilight walks. I watch the bats dart about overhead. Flit, flit­and gone, lost against the darkening trunks. Only when they fly above the treetops can I see them silhouetted against the sky. Feast now, I tell them, winter is coming.

Everything is in abeyance, waiting, waiting. Standing here, I feel as if Mother Nature is holding her breath, stretching out the last, lingering days of summer while she gathers her energies for the great burst of autumn and its riotous exuberance of reds, oranges, and yellows. And then, at last, the deep rest and deeper quiet of winter.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Dancing with the weeds,
Swaying in time to nature,
Try a step, you’ll see.

"Why aren’t you out dancing with the weeds?” asked my husband.

Still embracing sleep, I lay in bed and took a few seconds before mumbling, “Too early. Later. Did you make coffee?”

It had been a few days since I'd begun weeding with a passion, and this day in particular, I had planned an early trip to the garden to really muck about. Weeding in cool fall weather is so much better that in the heat of summer.

And so, a few hours later than was my plan, there I was, involved in a sultry tango, with all those invaders of my perennial beds. As I pulled and clipped, my mind debated the relative virtues of the lively common vetch, the not-so-obedient plant, and the volunteer brown-eyed Susans. How were they different from the wild goldenrod I had saved from the lawnmower a few days before, the ox-eye daisies my husband always insists on avoiding as he mows, and the lush purple clover I just couldn’t find the heart to pull out from my beds early in June when they framed the volunteer Gloriosa daisies so perfectly? These weeds are all beautiful even though they don’t have the fancy breeding and pages in a plant catalog to laud their many good qualities. This year especially, fields and meadows have overflowed with goldenrod. Whether due to all the rain we had this summer or to some other unknown variable, they’ve been lovely and abundant. Considering that goldenrod is an under-appreciated native wildflower many regard as a weed, it’s no surprise that we still don’t see it in many gardens. This may be due to the old belief that goldenrod causes autumn hay fever, when in fact the culprit is usually the ragweed blooming at the same time.

But our native goldenrod (solidago) has been taken abroad and cultivated as a garden flower in Europe for many years; a few of those relatively new cultivars have come back to America. ‘Fireworks’ and ‘Golden Fleece’ are two varieties of cultivated goldenrod that pair up especially nicely with blue or purple asters. The former grows to four feet tall and the latter is a dwarf variety of 18-24 inches. There’s even a white form of goldenrod called silver rod, which blooms in August, though not as prolifically as its golden relative. These cultivated varieties have been bred to stay within the confines of our garden beds.

Speaking of asters, these native wildflower/weeds were cultivated in Europe before becoming popular in gardens and nurseries here. Close relatives, goldenrod and asters can also hybridize; varieties of these hybrid “Solidasters” have been around since the early 1900s. You may have seen them in florists’ bouquets and not even realized their true identity.

Another weed/wildflower of European heritage, common chicory (Cichorium intybus), deserves a place in our gardens. I happened to notice its clear blue flowers alongside a country road one fall. That cerulean color continued to dance in my mind’s eye until I knew I had to grow it. Chicory grows to three or four feet tall and blossoms from spring through fall. You can purchase seed from wildflower catalogs, or just go out and find some in bloom and save the seed. It's easy to germinate and never tries to spread itself about.

Finally, who can dance with the weeds in their garden without joining hands with common milkweed as it sends up its stems with sturdy green leaves? I certainly can’t, and so allow them to dance and sway in the wilder parts of my garden, where the taller, woody perennials grow.

Later in fall, I do-si-do from plant to plant looking for tattered, munched-upon leaves where I might find a Monarch butterfly caterpillar or two to put in a bottle. I'll feed the tiny creatures milkweed leaves until they burst out of their striped yellow, black, and white skins for the last time and move on to the next stage in their metamorphosis, forming green-and-gold chrysalises.

I give these precious packages of life to the children in our family, or neighbors who work with children, so others can witness this small miracle. I recently brought one to my 90-year old mother who doted on it and shared the experience with others in her assisted-living facility.

To watch the chrysalis open and a monarch butterfly emerge is gratifying, to watch it propel itself from its self-made container and glide confidently south to the mountains of Mexico gives me goosebumps. I have danced with weeds, and now we have come full circle.

By Helen Downing, Master Gardener

Half a century ago, my father took me walking in the woods. Not a huge wood by New England standards, but from a six-year-old’s viewpoint, three feet above ground, it seemed to go on forever.

We worked our way along a deer path, through laurel and spindly undergrowth until we came to where the ground grew green again, all the brighter for our having last passed beneath a covert of hemlocks, where dirt, dry leaves, and shade mixed with dappled sun to make a deep, yet bright and shimmering brown. It hypnotized and held me captive until my father, calling my name, broke the spell.

Here the woods surrounded and kept secret another world. The long, splayed roots of fallen trees stood tall, forming castles and villages for (I hoped) gnomes and fairies. Pedestals of mud and grass rose among them, and thin bands of water ran between them. Atop the pedestals grew sculptured vases of mottled purple and green (which would later become recognizable as ordinary skunk cabbage). Wood ferns, preened and plumed, formed circles­graceful green dancers, holding hands, backs arched, waiting for the music to begin, their dainty toes hidden in the earth-tone carpet of the forest floor.

“Now sit and be still.” Dad squatted down and led me by example looking from ground to treetop, side to side, moving only his eyes. “If we don’t move or make noise, we might see something!”

I chose a nearby patch of moss growing close enough to the shell of an old oak to lean my back against. Dad stood and started to move away.

“Where are you going?” I whispered.

“There.” He indicated a direction with his chin. “Right behind you. I’ll pretend to be a rock, you pretend to be a stump.” I thought this was a fine idea. Maybe we’d see elves.

The memories of that six-year-old child are now encased in a 56-year-old body. Where I now sit is many miles and a lifetime away from that place, but much the same: a rivulet, just outside the shade of hemlocks, a stone's throw from a magic village made of plant and earth and fallen trees. I come here often, but now instead of sitting cross-legged, I hug my knees, thereby reassuring them that I have neither forgotten nor taken them for granted.

Here I always feel my father’s presence sitting quietly behind me. This place centers me. I come here knowing I will return home wet and muddy and bug-bitten, because the closer I can get to the earth, the more grounded and alive I feel.

A Blanding’s turtle joined me here once. I was sitting as still as possible considering the sign over my head, written in mosquitoese: “Free Food Here.” For whatever reasons, the turtle considered me harmless, settled in, and we sat in companionable silence. Too soon, sufficiently rested, he rose and strode forward until his front legs stood in the gently running water. He submerged his head and drank for so long I thought he’d drown. Once sated, he lifted his head from the water stretching his neck towards the sun, his beautiful golden-orange throat seeming to glow. He appeared to be considering the world around him, and smiling.

We both enjoyed the scenery for a while, neither of us in a rush. The pale white spots on his shell became clearer to me the longer I looked at him. It struck me that perhaps this was a descendant of the turtle in the Iroquois creation myth that once carried the earth upon his back, his carapace­high, rounded and elongated like the milky way­a map of the heavens, its throat the color of a sunrise or sunset. Perhaps he is still holding up the earth, keeping it in place as long as he is on it. Lose him, and we’ll all be lost.

The turtle made an almost imperceptible movement, and I knew he was ready to travel on. I closed my eyes because I didn’t want to see him go. The temptation to follow would have been too great.

By Lynn Quinlan, Volunteer

A Chinese philosopher developed the concept of “cup gardens.” The idea is similar to that of haiku: Using just a few words to capture an image or emotion, the poet leads the reader to a wider understanding of the universal aspect presented by the lines of the poem.

The purpose of a cup garden is the same. By placing a particular group of plants in a particular place, the landscaper or gardener seeks to arrest the viewer’s attention at this moment and spot. By focusing on just this one small garden, one begins to comprehend the larger world of nature.

Of course, the originator of the cup garden concept is Mother Nature herself. Take a walk in the woods or along a stream or near the wild shore of a pond or swampy area, and you’ll find a host of cup gardens, each one capturing in microcosm the universal truths of nature.

Over here, there’s a large, long exposed stone, green with vibrant moss. Look closely and you’ll see the moss has layers and variations of color. Run your hand over the top of the moss and feel the soft tickle of its elements.

The moss is the undergrowth of a miniature forest living in a cup garden atop this stone. Next are blue bead lilies. In spring, the wide, tapering leaves erupt from the moss, forming a circle around the stem, which holds small, bobbing yellow flowers. Later in the summer, through the miracle of fertilization, the flowers have become stunning blue beads of seed, reflecting the sky down here just above the forest floor.

Only a foot and a half high, a young hemlock towers above the moss and lilies, a giant compared to the life beneath it. Its branches sway in the gentle breezes and cast a moving shadow on the plants below. A dragonfly rests briefly on the top branch, its wings held open and ready for resumed flight, blue body brilliant against the clear, cellophane wings. Below, smaller insects scurry over the moss, searching for food, mates, or shelter.

Here on this one hard stone, the entire universe of nature throbs, its vastness compressed into one small cup garden.

Further on, there’s a small rise partially open to the sky. Moss and partridgeberry provide a colorful and textured surface, the round partridgeberry leaves contrasting with the upright stature of the moss. Growing through the ground cover are bunchberries, those miniature dogwoods. Only four leaves and a stem, their tiny flowers of spring have turned to brilliant red berries, giving Christmas coloration to a late July afternoon.

Several evergreens have begun the long, slow growth to become the “murmuring pines and hemlocks” of Longfellow’s famous poem Evangeline. You can’t simply pass this cup garden. Your senses are captured by the colors and sensuousness of the greens and red. You must stop and contemplate the whole of nature in this one small area.

A cup garden can also be temporary. Walk along the edge of a stream in the fall. The water is flowing now with autumn rains, gurgling over rocks and fallen branches. Trailing moss streams out with the moving water. Here in a quiet pool, a single red maple leaf floats. Nature has gently dropped it down for you to examine. A close look at the leaf reveals the color variations. What at first appeared to be simply red is really one color gently blending into a darker hue on this edge, while at the other end of the leaf, the shade is more orange. The brilliance is like a shaft of sunlight on the dark stream. Flowing water, rocks, leaf ­ all life encapsulated in one scene.

Even in winter, you can find cup gardens to delight and educate. Walk onto a frozen pond, and there you’ll find, standing all alone and surrounded by ice, a little island, a clump of last summer’s grass gently swaying with each soft breeze. It grows out of a hollow tree stump.

The edges of the stump are uneven, with hills and valleys, ragged evidence of years of decay. The sides of the stump still retain some bark, much of it covered with lichen, gray-blue and rough to the touch. It’s clear where insects have bored into the wood and left perfectly round tunnels behind.

Life and death, coinciding in the same substance, a lesson from one of nature’s cup gardens. Step outside and look around. You’ll find beauty and understandings to last a lifetime.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener