Woodland wake-up

This early in April, the little patch of open space across the street seems still asleep. But the morning knocking of woodpeckers in the tree canopy, the rumbling of passing trains, and the leaf-crunching footsteps of an occasional rambler suggest that spring has started to wake up.

 



On close inspection, early ephemerals can be spotted popping up on the forest floor.  Clutches of wild Northern white violets are scattered over the damper areas. Why are they so much lovelier than their invasive purple cousins?  Is it location (lawn vs parkland)? Or size (scrubby vs. robust)? Or just familiarity (ugh, another weed vs. native novelty)? 



Northern white violets (Viola pallens)



A bit distant and, thankfully, easier to spot, are several spreads of naturalized spring squills. Not native, perhaps, but most welcome during these chilly days.  Judging from the amount of territory that they have colonized, the first bulbs must have been planted decades ago.

 

Spring squills (Scilla siberica)

Of more recent vintage are the clumps of daffodils that my husband tends along the road verge opposite our house.  Late season purchases of discounted bulbs from the local big box store, augmented by a spring application of 3-5-3, help to spur these along. Every year that they return and bloom is an achievement given the onslaught of street salt, highway mowing, and flower pluckers.

 

Daffodil "King Alfred"

Perhaps rows and rows of yellow flowers will someday form an audience, like these springtime spectators watching crew races along the river. Ah, yes, it is time to wake up!


April rowers on the Charles

Bartram's Garden, redux

Back in 1980, I spent a chilly spring working on an archaeological excavation at the home of John Bartram (1699-1777), the father of American botany. After prior summers laboring on militarily precise excavations of medieval bishop's palaces, late Roman cemeteries, and Iron Age villages in England and the Netherlands, to suddenly be mucking around somewhere in southwest Philadelphia in search of a few greenhouse foundation trenches and sherds of glass and flowerpots seemed quite a step down. The Bartram's Garden excavation was woefully ill-equiped: no field notebooks, inadequate hand tools, and a total lack of heavy machinery. And how ridiculous we must have looked when, lined up like dancers doing the Hustle in silence, we stamped down the back-filled site at the excavation's close.

At that time, I knew nothing about John Bartram--and, in yet another failing of this silly project, which was part of a university class, there was minimal information provided about the property owner, why he was important, and how the excavation contextualized his personal history and that of the American landscape.

In the years following, I'd hear references to John Bartram: how he collected seeds and plants from the southern colonies, how the many species that he sent to Europe became part of our common plant vocabulary, or how his Latinized name was incorporated into various plants' Linnaean nomenclature. But not until this spring, armed with a greater interest in all things horticultural, did I return to Bartram's Garden.

The place had been totally rejuvenated since my dreary days there.  A new information center, knowledgable guides and gardeners, and a renovated garden added up to a terrific afternoon. 



Well-tended and clearly-marked stands of plants, like this false indigo (Baptista australis), sparked me to consider experimentation in my own garden. Upright blue-flowering plants always deserve attention.

 

In another area, carnivorous plants were enclosed in this most appropriate cage constructed from thorny branches. What a whimsically menancing display! Bartram is credited with naming and introducing cultivation of the Venus fly trap (Dionaea muscipula).

The information center sold the best souvenirs: seedlings from the garden. In homage to Bartram's plant dissemenation ventures, a great blue lobelia (Lobelia siphilitica) and a sprig of intensely celery-flavored lovage were transported back to my Massachusetts garden.

Above the door of his greenhouse--perhaps that very same greenhouse that we so unsuccessfully sought to find in our excavation--Bartram carved a quote from Alexander Pope: "Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, but looks through Nature up to Nature's God."

Walking the woods

I wrote previously about our town's decision to preserve a small patch of park situated across the street from my house. Over the years, this land had been used to route utility lines, served as a surreptitious dumping ground for builders' debris, and provided a measure of privacy for teenage drinkers. The natural topography, an elongated hollow, is sprinkled with boulders. 

Our group of neighbors, in thinking about developing a plan for the stewardship of this two-acre parcel, realized that we needed to know more about exactly what it contains.  So this past rainy Saturday, we met with some members of our town's shade tree commission to walk the woods.

Our first discoveries were masses of Japanese knotweed (Polygonum cuspidatum) and oriental bittersweet (Celastrus orbiculatus), mixed in with some heathy servings of poison ivy. I know from personal experience how difficult it is to eradicate Japanese knotweed, and I saw some frighteningly huge clumps of the dastardly stuff.  The experts' advice was to try to contain it to the lower, damper area. Pull, pull, and then pull some more.  Pull early--before the flowers are set--and pull often.

Because this parcel lies in a residential area, a number of garden plants have been transferred by birds and animals spreading seeds: a solitary and singularly out of place barberry (Berberis sp.), for example, and a little line of lilies of the valley (Convallaria majalis).

Several groupings of crabapples (Malus sp.) reminded me of the very old tree that once grew in our backyard.  Could these be its descendants? Or perhaps it's the native species? I just learned that these crabapples were planted by our local garden club some forty years ago--and to think that they are still growing! 4/12/2012

This wash of blue and white squills (Scilla sibirica) was one of several well-established colonies.  They have clearly been flourishing here for decades.

We also encountered some native plants, like these Eastern skunk cabbages (Symplocarpus foetidus), battling for turf with Japanese knotweed.  

A copse of cranberry viburnum (Viburnum trilobum) should be beautiful when sporting white lace cap flowers.

Perhaps the hardiest natives were this mallard couple, who paddled their way around plastic bottles, crumpled bags, and other trash to loudly feast on duckweed. Hopefully, they are a nesting pair.

Our next step is an organized clean-up of plant invasives, building debris, and garbage, scheduled for later this month. No one ever said reclamation would be easy!

Preserving parkland

Running along the opposite side of our street is a stretch of wooded parkland.  This sliver of open space hosts native plants as well as, yes, some patches of invasives.  At its lowest point, a pond and surrounding wetlands support mallards and other birds. On the far side, the land rises sharply to a train bed.

Recently, our town had to vote on whether to sell a portion of this parkland so that an 18th-century  house could be moved on to it (and then vastly augmented so as to ensure financial feasibility for the developer).  As an abutter to this parkland, the idea of destroying even a single square foot was incomprehensible. Rule one of natural resource management: once open space is lost to development, it is gone forever. (I won't labor all the political back and forth but, in a nutshell, more suitable locations for the preservation of this house have been identified.)

At Town Meeting, where the authorization to sell was debated by the citizens, it was quite revelatory to hear other townspeople say again and again how much they valued this parkland--for its trees, its wildlife, its refreshing green stretch of open space. On voice vote, the potential land sale was overwhelmingly defeated.  Instead, a bike path may be set along the train bed. How wonderful if that project could be combined with a wildlife census and the removal of invasive plants. Anyway, happily, it now looks like this patch of parkland will be preserved for all of our citizens to continue to enjoy.