Mulberry Jam

Don’t give me the blame for calling this storm “the snowpocalypse”. The media have been calling it that since Thursday, before it even took shape. It’s still snowing heavily right now (11:20AM on Saturday). I took some video this morning when the snow was light enough to see out. Right now it’s coming down too hard for video to really show what’s going on. I’ve no idea how much we’ll have by tonight, when it’s finally supposed to stop!

What’s wrong with this picture? I’m sitting outside with my laptop on the patio at 3 in the afternoon on July 14, and I’m comfortable! So far we are enjoying that rarest of seasons here in Washington, a mild summer. While I could ask for some rain right now, the mere fact that I’m able to sit out and enjoy the back garden without melting from high heat and humidity is worth celebrating.

To add to my happiness, my little patio fountain is burbling away making a cheerful splashing sound. I’m pleased to have it back up and running after a one-year hiatus. Three years ago I first assembled the little home-made spout in a pot that Mark grandly christened ” the water feature”. The basin is a blue-glazed Vietnamese planter and I placed a tiny pump inside set up on stacked bricks. Last summer we went without it after the original pump died. Now I have a new and better little pump powered by an unobtrusive solar panel just five inches square. The panel has a rechargeable battery pack so you can even run it in the evening or on a cloudy day. I’ve been very pleased with it and would recommend you check out the Silicon Solar website I ordered it from.

I know we enjoy it, but so do the birds. The fountain sits beside my two burdbaths, and the sound of the splashing water helps attract the birds to the bathing station. There are many nests around the garden, and I saw baby birds become so enthusiastic about playing around the edge of the deep pot that I was worried I might have a drowing victim if I didn’t do something. For my peace of mind I cut a piece of chickenwire and set it inside the pot just below the water level. Sure enough, I’ve seen clueless young birds standing on it, unaware they’re walking on water!

I thought I’d write a bit about a new neighbor who’s taken up residence around here. Since April, Mark and I have noticed a young rabbit who moved into the garden and made himself at home. We’ve christened him with the not-too-original moniker of “Mr. Bun”. He’s clearly a youngster, and was tiny back in April. By this time he’s grown to nearly full size and filled out a lot, thanks to the rich crop of clover in our grass.  Thankfully, he hasn’t done much damage to my mesclun lettuce. Maybe the varieties I planted this spring are too bitter for his sensitive palate.  However he has turned out to be quite fond of my Siberian Iris, which now look like a weed-whacker has been at them.

I’m not sure why I have such a soft spot for the little guy; early exposure to Watership Down, I suppose. And he was pretty darn cute back in April. Now he’s more handsome than cute. His grown-up body is rangy rather than round, with a beautiful dappled brown coat. He’s quite unafraid of us, and seems very comfortable hanging out in a front corner of the vegetable garden to catch a few rays. He washes and grooms himself just like a cat, stretching out those long back toes to clean in between, and licking a front paw to clean behind the ears.

Years ago, I fell in love with a short cartoon from the comic strip “Mutts”. This is from a series the strip’s creator, Patrick McDonnell, developed about adopting animals from shelters:

From "Mutts", by Patrick McDonnell

Poor, doomed tulips

So here we are, it’s April 28, and the forecast high today is… 93 degrees.

What’s wrong with this picture?

My tulips, which just came into full bloom on Friday, are frying in the heat. Mark and I are running around with garden hoses as though it were July. We’re running the air conditioner around the clock with the shades drawn to keep out the hot sun. I have such a sense of dislocation as I look out the window. Experiencing this heat when the leaves aren’t even fully out feels very strange.

I distract myself by watching the birds, who are deep into their springtime dramas by now. Who needs a soap opera or reality TV show when I can watch the daily action of the birds?

The House Wrens arrived last week, and a male has already claimed our garden as his own. Not without a fight, I’m afraid. On Sunday he had to battle with a late arriving male. The two of them chased each other around and around, whizzing through shrubbery and circling the tree where the little Wren house hangs at top speed. Because all Wrens look alike to me (sorry), I’m not sure who won, the original bird or the latecomer. But now there’s a solitary male once more singing his lungs out throughout the day. I’ve seen one female check out the house so far, but she was non-committal. Very cool, these House Wren females. I can’t tell yet whether she’s decided to take up residence or hold out for a better offer.

The Catbirds moved back into their summer quarters on Monday. I was delighted to see their sleek Cary Grant selves hopping around in the vegetable plot, eating ants. And we have also welcomed our usual spring migrants. The White-throated Sparrows and Eastern Towhees visit every April, but move on by the end of May.

I saw an interesting bit of courting behavior among the Cardinals a few days ago. A young male who’s moved into the garden was singing to a female on a fence line. As I watched, a second female darted down, swooping close to the male and perching on a post just above him. She began to sing a song I’ve only heard males sing before. Then she enticed him to a nearby tree, away from the hapless first female. As he watched, the new female sang softly but continuously while gracefully stretching out first one wing, then the other. Then her tail feathers. The whole performance reminded me of an alluring fan dance.

Things are hot around here in more ways than one!

I had a fabulous weekend. Well, half fabulous. Sunday I worked an eight hour day, but Saturday! Saturday I got out into the garden for the first time. The photo beside this post is me, out raking leaves off the bulbs. My tulips and daffodils were starting to smother under their winter blanket, and I have definitely been smothering after a cooped up winter. I spent a happy day cleaning things up and finding out how my plants have come through the winter. Mostly it seems they’ve done very well, after a mild winter.

My spring nesting impulses come out in gardening. Other creatures are also feeling the bug. I had been out working for about an hour and had left my garden shed open as I went in and out to get various tools. At one point I stepped into the shed and was startled by something flying around my head. I backed out quickly and then peered into the gloom of the small shed. Two pairs of black beady eyes peered back at me– a pair of Carolina wrens. They were perched on the edge of a basket hanging from a nail on the eaves. I think they had just discovered the nesting spot of their dreams in that basket. Can’t you imagine? “Look honey! It’s high and dry, out of the weather and up away from cats. Let’s move in right away!” I felt terrible to dash their hopes but I had to shoo them out, poor dears. They didn’t shoo easily. They thought they’d hit the jackpot.

My mother thinks if I really loved the birds I’d hang the basket outside for them, but I use that basket myself so they’ll just have to make do with one of the shrubs this year. Sorry.

Every place has its spring rituals. A few days ago I read about the spring ice lottery in Nenana, Alaska. Since 1917, each year this town has held a lottery to bet on exactly when the Tanana River will “go out”, or melt. In early March, townspeople erect a tall tripod of painted spruce logs, attached with a guywire to the shore. When the ice melts enough to topple the tripod and snap the wire, that’s the official time. I read about it in connection with a study of climate warming, since this precise timing of the ice melt has given climatologists an almost 100-year record of conditions at this far northern town. When I went to the town’s official site, I was charmed by all the photos documenting the event. Putting up the tripod is a big festival in Nenana, marked with snowmachine and dogsled races, dances and big parties. Last year the winning time was 3:47PM on April 27, and 22 winners split $303,273. Big money is this small town I’m sure. I love that they’ve developed their own holiday tradition here. Maybe the world isn’t yet completely uniform and predictable, with a single global culture created by Madison Avenue. I hope not.

Here in Washington, this week has been full of signs of spring. This daffodil was the first to bloom in my garden. I thought for a moment about leaving it, but decided I’d enjoy it so much more if I brought it inside. The weather has been alternating between days warm enough for a top-down convertible and days so cold and raw all I want to do is stay inside under a blanket and a cat. The birds are beginning to sing more each day, and as I stepped out several mornings this week I saw large flocks of geese heading north. I wondered what it must look like to them, flying over a metropolis like Washington.

Our February weather roller coaster continues. Monday it reached 70 degrees, today it is snowing lightly. No doubt about it, today feels like winter. But the signs of spring are out there. My snowdrops are blooming, and tulip and daffodil foliage is starting to peek up. Robin flocks have already been passing through, though I don’t believe they’re the most reliable harbinger, since some of them overwinter here. More exciting is the fact that yesterday I heard a cardinal singing, a sure sign he’s beginning to think about staking out nesting territory.

The photo is a closeup of one clump of snowdrops that I naturalized years ago among the roots of the mulberry tree. Now they come up faithfully every spring, usually in early to mid-February, and I don’t have to do anything. Bulbs are so great for the lazy gardener!

My beloved mulberry tree had another gift for me this week.

This blog, of course, owes its name to the mulberry in front of my house. (See “Why Mulberry Jam?”) The masthead on this page is a photo of the tree in autumn. This fall my mulberry faithfully turned its usual spectacular shade of gold. You would laugh if you saw my photo library because it has WAY too many pictures of this tree. Every year I can’t resist taking another series of shots trying to capture the evanescent beauty of the turning leaves.

As it happens, this year we’ve had a very warm fall, with only a few light frosts all the way up through mid-November. As a result, the leaves have hung on much later than normal. Up until Saturday the mulberry held all its leaves, hovering protectively over the house and lighting up the whole street with the brilliance of their yellow color.

Finally on Sunday morning we woke up to a heavy frost with temperatures well below freezing. A light coating of silver lay over everything. From my kitchen window I looked out and saw the morning sun beginning to strike the tree. And then it started. As the sun warmed the leaves that were made heavy by their coating of frost, they began to fall. At first just a few here and there, but in a few minutes, the tree was creating a rain of golden heart-shaped leaves. There was no breeze, so the leaves fell straight down to the ground, fluttering gently and turning over in the sunlight on their way.

I ran out in my bathrobe and stood beneath the tree. The sound was incredible on a quiet Sunday morning. Without the usual sounds of traffic I could clearly hear the leathery rustle of the leaves as they fell past their fellows and landed gently on the ground. I was surrounded by bright fluttering coins that brushed my head and shoulders as they fell. I ran back in for my camera and attempted to capture the image.

There is no word in English to describe that feeling of mingled joy and sadness at the beauty of fleeting experience. The Japanese have the concept of “mono no aware,” or the sadness of things. It’s very much connected to a Buddhist sense of the brevity of life and the transience of beauty, summed up in the old Japanese phrase “swirling petals, falling leaves.” It’s partly that spirit that encourages the entire nation to turn out for cherry blossom viewing or hanami, during the brief days when the sakura are in flower.

On Sunday morning, the rain of leaves continued, until within an hour the tree was almost completely bare. By afternoon on the same day the formerly brilliant leaves had faded to a dull brown that thickly carpeted our front walk and yard. Now the tree stands with naked branches, waiting for spring.

We’re now coming into the toughest part of the summer here in Washington. Days are a monotonous stretch of the triple H – “hazy, hot and humid”. August makes you understand why British embassy staff got hardship pay for being stationed here all the way up to the mid seventies. Longtime residents dread this month and do all they can to avoid it by fleeing to vacations at beaches and northern lakes. It’s the only time of the year that beltway traffic is bearable, because so many people are gone.

My garden is showing the stress. We’ve had a very dry summer, and after a certain point even faithful work with the sprinkler just doesn’t cut it anymore. I think I heard we’re down about 8 inches this year compared to average rainfall so far. My tomatoes have suffered from blossom-end rot, which is no surprise. Blossom-end rot is a very unsightly softening of the fruit that makes the tomatoes inedible. It comes from calcium deficiency brought on by uneven or inadequate water. Leaf feeding helps, and eggshells dug in near the plant roots help, but it’s tough to avoid with no rain at all. Even worse, the spider mites lo-o-ove this hot dry weather. They’ve managed to just about kill my beans and tomatoes, and even the zucchini are showing the telltale bronzing on the leaves that means mite trouble. Weekly sprays with insecticidal soap have failed to stave off disaster. I won’t show you photos because it just makes me ashamed. I’m a bad gardener to have tomato plants so sickly.

But we’re still getting enough tomatoes to keep us in insalata caprese, so I guess I can’t complain too much. Thank goodness for the cast iron plants at this time of year. My coneflowers and black-eyed susans still look surprisingly good, considering the conditions. And this morning I walked out to a lovely surprise. My Resurrection Lily popped up and bloomed, seemingly overnight. Two days ago there was no sign of it, or at least none that I noticed. Today, there it stands in all its glory.

Lycoris squamigera in catalogs nowadays is usually called Surprise Lily, but I prefer the old-fashioned name, Resurrection Lily. That’s what my grandmother called them, and mine came from her garden. It’s a good name for a plant with this kind of life cycle. The leaves that appear in spring die back and completely disappear by mid summer, so when the lily blooms in late summer it seems to rise up out of nowhere, coming back from the dead. I planted these early last summer, which is not a good time. Lycoris don’t like being disturbed at any time, but usually it’s best to transplant in the fall. Last summer the broad strap-like leaves seemed to take the move fairly well, but later when the plants should have bloomed, no dice. Nothing came up. I just crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. To be honest, by now I’d forgotten all about them. Still no sign of the other five, but I consider it a hopeful sign that this one seems to have taken to its new spot.

Mark and I maintain a small but intensively planted yard of about 1/3 of an acre with lots of flower beds and a 10×20 foot vegetable garden. Every year in early spring we have a five-minute moment of thinking, should we do something about our lawn this year? Should we put down some turfbuilder, or some weed-n-feed? But then we wake up. Nah. We’ve gone thirteen years doing nothing to the grass, why start now?

Besides, it looks great right now. Mind you, it isn’t exactly ready for the Scotts commercial. It has a lot of clover, and okay, we have a few dandelions. Maybe more than a few. But really, dandelions get an undeserved bad rap—it’s all in how you spin it. Are they menaces to the well-kept suburban lawn, or bright harbingers of spring that bring color to the garden? The clover isn’t technically a grass, but it’s green and soft underfoot and the honeybees love it. Same with all the buttercups that grow at the bottom of the yard. Are they broadleaf weeds that should be eradicated? Or naturalized flowers that add interest to the lawn?

And even better, they’re naturally naturalized. I never did a thing to encourage them except ask my lawn care service (i.e., long-suffering Mark) to mow around them. After 13 years in this house I’ve had plenty of time to add lots of things for him to mow around. He is very sweet about this—I know it is a pain in the neck to carefully avoid these random clusters of flowers out in the grass, but he does it without complaint. I love the cheerful look of the bright yellow blossoms. “Why honey,” I tell him ingenuously. “Lots of people pay landscapers plenty of money for this effect!” And I got mine by practicing my favorite gardening method: doing nothing. I like to think of it as the Tao of gardening.

I’ve found over the years that the best way to handle many garden problems is in fact to do absolutely nothing. You could call me lazy, but I prefer to think of myself as practicing Green methods. I mean, look at what happens when an insect pest hatches out in my vegetable garden, like aphids or worms. Sure, you could pull out the heavy duty chemicals, put on the haz-mat suit and go spray. Or you could follow my method and just wait a couple of days; see what happens. Lots of times the infestation gets knocked back just as quickly as it appears by natural predators of the insects. In my garden that would be birds or ladybugs. I have plenty of both because I don’t spray and I keep lots of shrubbery at the edge of the garden for bird habitat. The few pests that can’t be managed by doing nothing I can often avoid by putting floating row covers over young seedlings. No poison necessary and it’s pretty quick work to just lay a lightweight cloth over the ground. I’ve lost a few delicate plants over the years through my laissez-faire methods, but on the whole the system works very well for me.

Isn’t it great when doing the easy thing is actually good for you? Maybe this is a lesson I can apply to other aspects of life besides gardening. After all, doing nothing is absolutely organic and completely chemical free!