A Bit of Wilding Going On

Putting a garden to bed for the winter means more than cleaning up the debris. It's preparing a commodious place to shelter our neighbors.

As of today, I'm proclaiming my garden work for 2023 finished, put to bed, done. We piled leaves for composting. Jeff sawed and hauled the line of lilacs and today … or tomorrow…will finish planting the hundreds of bulbs he bought. Somehow his visions extend far longer than mine. Next weekend, should the weather open a window, he'll harvest the onions and potatoes. Then he can rest, too. I'm already pouring another cup of coffee and putting my feet up on the footrest. I am, as I said, done!

It was quite a workout for my aging joints, some of which have already been replaced. The effort will pay dividends, though, not only in the general cleanup, but also preparing the gardens to shelter our many neighbors. After the pollinators including Jeff's bees from his new hive, supped the blossoms dry, I hacked the five-foot Russian sage to a few centimeters high. The asters, which gloriously invaded the garden, joined the wheelbarrow full of debris, leaving thousands of seeds behind them. Last of all, I chopped my perennial snapdragons to encourage them to spring forth next May. Haircuts like that always bring them back bigger and hardier than ever.

The garden appears neat and tidy from our window, but a closer look will show a jungle of grass smothering the plantings meant to replace it. Hummocks of the stuff persist every summer. I wish I could poison the entire mess, but those hummocks also shelter a host of tiny critters. After retreating from the heat of summer, mice, lizards, and others snuggle in for the winter.

That's why I hesitate to weed-whack the grass as well as resort to the evil Round-Up. Grass simply sneers at the vinegar and salt solution; and even Round-Up takes a week or so to turn the skinnier vegetation to a deathly yellow. I suspect it's taunting me, however, and the roots are very much alive and diving deeper into the soil. They'll be back.

I spare other plants from the blade, too. Birds feast on the yarrow and other flowers that have gone to seed. I'll prune those after the banquet is consumed. Cutting back the wisteria robs LBBs of places to rest during storms. Winds are fierce in our valley, sometimes reaching Cat 1 hurricane speeds. One night, I discovered a sparrow sleeping in one of the birdhouses during one such storm. I must buy more of those little unpainted wooden boxes. Anything plastic goes unused. BRRRR!

Leaves and algae are scrubbed from the birdbaths. These bowls service migrating flocks as well as those staying the winter and the wee critters living under the shrubs. Jeff's farming efforts in what we lovingly call "the north forty" have attracted lots of cottontails and cheeky little ground squirrels that defy Jeff's attempts to fence them out. Cottontails can slip through chain link fence as if their molecules dissolve and reconstitute on the opposite side. I've watched them do this and still can't believe it. Squirrels are master climbers and diggers. There has been one effective weapon though. A growing population of hawks patrol the skies over our little acre. The number of garden guerillas has declined in just a couple of months.

More owls hoot for love in the elms and firs these days.  I love hearing their calls to each other. It used to be we'd hear a Great Horned owl once a year or two. This summer, we've heard their serenades nearly every night. Sometimes they perch on the power pole that would make some folks burst in protest that the million-dollar view is ruined. I consider the pole a concert venue for doves, pigeons, and, my favorite, the sage thrush, our desert nightingale. One night, I heard an owl that was so loud I went outside to see where it was. There on the pole, backlit by brilliant full moon light, stood a barn owl. It was magic.

All these wild neighbors and more are returning to our yard. The previous owner spent his weekends nurturing impressive lawns throughout the property. It made for a magnificent curb appeal. Jeff decided he didn't want to waste his free time slaving over a mower; so, he turned off the sprinklers in most areas. In these now-barren places, dandelions and wild lettuce grow undisturbed, tempting us to fry their leaves in a dollop of bacon grease. After spending an afternoon being tutored on foraging with a friend, I now look for wild things for the table. Mallow took hold in one garden and became a potherb like spinach or collards. Mushrooms harvested near the patio beef up soups and stews.

We've allowed a patch of grass to grow unmowed, but hundreds of bulbs and bags of wildflower seeds will replace even that last bit of urban blight next spring. A sprinkle of wild seeds last year blessed us with a stunning primrose. As if the gods knew I needed an emotional lift recently, the primrose blossomed twice, leaving scores of seeds on its limbs.

It really takes no effort at all to return Nature to a lawn, especially in the Great Basin. Our yard has been wilding quite well under its own power. Each year, a new invader soars over the Sierra Nevada and Carson ranges to find a home in our yard. Mallow filled gaps between lavenders and Shasta daisies. Salsify's starflowers form huge fluffy seeds that float across the land, increasing their kind every season. Flixweed fools us with its golden glory, only to turn into ugly, inedible straw in July. Elm seeds blanket the earth like snow, sinking roots that require a trowel.

Plants whose names slip our minds invade, crowd out, and establish themselves in any bare spot. Even tendrils of periwinkle are sneaking over Buda's grave in the corner of His Garden. Some volunteers thrill me with their beauty and earn a place in my Eden. Others, like the noxious flixweed and foxtails, move me to tears with their treachery.

All flowering plants feed an increasing number of butterflies. When I discovered the lilac leaves edged with a lacy border of caterpillar nibbles, I had to remind myself that the swallowtails lay their eggs on the leaves, feeding their huge orange larvae. From a distance, the lilacs look just fine thank you. As we knitters say when someone points out the imperfections, "your're standing too close!"

And then there's the majestic mullein, whose giant fuzzy leaves brew a tea that subdues respiratory maladies. I dry a few of its leaves each autumn to get through the bronchitis season. Mullein is prolific, however. When Jeff and I wrenched a hedge of it from our front garden, it punished us with a choking clog of its dander within minutes. Ironically, a tea made from its leaves cleared our lungs after only a few sips.

Once we decided to allow Nature's Will into our slice of desert, it has become a paradise for all who've come to live here. It may look a bit ragged from the road, but we're pleased with the way it has all evolved and continues to delight with little surprises. New plants and animals find welcome refuge in this space. There's even a little tree frog chirping from inside the sprinkler control box. I hope it stays the winter and attracts its friends. I miss the frogs that used to live in a pond just a block away from us. Their chorus of rapture sang through the nights for several summers before dying off in a winter freeze. Maybe this little one is the scout for others to follow. I hope it finds Rancho Pequeño commodious for its new home. Welcome to Buda's Garden, little songster!

You can’t really tell where the domestic flowers end and the wild things begin. Buda didn’t seem to care. I do hope he appreciated our stewardship of his private jungle.

Obviously these fuzzy photos were taken by the author.