Goodbye, Tree

 

As many of you already know, I’m not exactly Nature Girl. I have an extremely limited vocabulary to describe the natural world, mostly due to  . . . let’s face it, not really caring. I divide the green stuff I see around me into the loose genres (is that the right word?) of “grassy”, “bushy”, “flowery”, “treelike”, and “snack”. Within these groups I can identify a handful of individual specimens. For instance, I know a rose when I see one. Also a dandelion.  I can correctly name a weeping willow, a maple tree (thanks to the Canadian flag) and staghorn sumac (gardenworld’s “Walking Dead”). In the “Snack” genre, I can recognize a cornstalk and several types of berries (assuming they are ripe and ready to pick). But that’s about it.

So I am at a loss to identify the tree in our garden that was destroyed in last week’s wildly raging storm. It was our biggest tree and a rare type – or so I was told by a visiting botanist about 15 years ago. I immediately forgot what he said the tree was and have been meaning to find out. It was very shapely and tall. It was very good at providing shade and privacy to my favorite spot on the screen porch. But half of its huge branches (– tree-sized themselves) were lying on the ground after the storm and the remaining half of the tree threatened to fall on our neighbor’s roof. It had to go.

Before After the Storm:                      After the Chainsaw:

               

I spent a good ten minutes today on the internet trying to identify the tree based on its leaf. The closest matches were “Norway Maple” and “Canadian Hawthorn” – both of which can’t be right. The tree has no flowers or nuts or four-inch, fatal-looking thorns. I was sort of hoping one of my many greenthumbed blog people could identify it. Thanks in advance! And while you are at your research, I will be out on the porch with my Kindle and glass of Coke, feeling ever-so-slightly more exposed.

Blackthumb’s Annual Garden Report

 

I recently noticed that among my blogging homies – the reciprocal ones – there are a lot of avid and competent gardeners. This probably has something to do with Ly. It certainly doesn’t come from the content of my blog or my own interests. Over the years, my gardening activity has slowly been reduced to about once every 365 days. In fact, I now recognize the official beginning of spring as that one day in April or May when I suddenly get the urge to venture out into the mysterious world of green things and take a few whacks at stuff. For the year 2017, today was that day.

Here’s the blow-by-blow.

I set out shortly after noon with trowel in hand and the best of intentions. First task: sumac removal from my flower beds. Unfortunately, one of the sprouts – now tree-sized and requiring the use of a saw – was growing up in the middle of thorny and uncooperative rosebush. Before going at it, I donned a jacket, put the hood up and tied it tight around my hair. For some reason, doing this always makes me want to bop my head around and sing “It’s raisins that make Post Raisin Bran so wonderful . . .” – so I did that for a while first. I then crawled into the rosebush and got sawed by thorns as I sawed the sumac. After it toppled, I got my revenge on the bush by whacking off one dead branch after another from the bottom up. About halfway through on one side, I realized I probably should have done that first – before tackling the sumac. I surveyed the bush, which was now sort of lopsided, but somehow, viewed from a certain angle, reminded me of a 1960s hairstyle. The theme song of “The Brady Bunch” started playing in my head. I decided to leave the rest of the pruning for later. It was time for a break and some regrouping.

 

 

I joined Cat Five on the screen porch and we watched the husband and Hayez working on the dream coop. I yelled down that it looked slanted, prompting my affronted husband to immediately prove me wrong with the level and then gesture his superiority in Usain Bolt style. Then I headed back to the flower bed for more sumac removal, getting sidetracked along the way by some moth porn going on right outside my front door:

After the second sumac was toppled and second rose half-pruned, it suddenly seemed like a good time to inspect our cherry tree. I wanted to see if it had suffered the same fate as our walnuts in the early April freeze. But first I needed my camera because, firstly, a new blog post was starting to take form in my mind which I would need some graphics for and secondly, because my husband refuses to believe that a single cherry has ever grown on this tree which is why he refuses to help me hang old CDs on the tree to scare away the birds who are obviously eating all of our cherries. It has been a two decade long debate and after the level incident earlier, I wanted to win an argument. I needed photographic proof. So I went inside to get the camera. While I was at it, I checked MSNBC to see if anything had been happening while I was away.

 

About a half hour later, I found a total of about 10 cherries on the entire tree.  Here is a challenge for you – can you find three of them in this picture?

 

 

Seeing as how I had my camera in hand, I also decided to document the progress of my husband’s other new garden project – a straw bale vegetable patch. He had heard about this somewhere and promptly decided to try it out. Supposedly, the straw starts to ferment, creating heat which makes the plants grow better.

“Doesn’t that stink?” I asked.

“We’ll find out,” he answered.

I suddenly wished he had set it up a bit farther away from the house and not right below my sacred screen porch where I spend half my time in summer.

By the time I reached the flower bed for the third time, I could feel that my enthusiasm for gardening was waning. I halfheartedly raked some dead leaves out of it here and there and pulled up a few green things which I hope were weeds. My stomach started grumbling and I remembered that there was a package of chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen cabinet. I dropped my garden tools and went back inside only to discover that SOMEONE had gotten to them before me. I wandered out onto the porch and saw my husband just standing down there in the garden, contemplating his coop. He was dreaming of the poodle chickens in his future, I assumed.

 

If only that were true.

I called down to him, asking where the fencing would go once he was done with the coop. He pointed to various dead-blossomed trees as the general boundary markers of our future free range. It was only about a third of the area he was tired of mowing (the original impetus for the whole keeping of chickens idea). I pointed that fact out to him.

“What we really need,” he said, “is a sheep.”

 

And thus ended my gardening fervor for 2017.

I’ll go out sometime next week and pick up the gardening tools. The rosebushes can spend the year in Florence Henderson style. Any flowers too wimpy to push their way up through those remaining dead leaves and weeds don’t deserve any special attention. And who likes cherries anyway?

 

Master Whacker Returns

I have bragged before about my skills in gardening – there is hardly a plant that I can’t kill off within one or two growing seasons. I say “hardly” because of that one pesky exception. My nemesis. My yucca plant. The declaration I made last fall of his imminent demise was premature because I hadn’t calculated in the visit from Lyart and her notorious green thumb. She took pity on him and seemingly that one watering was enough to get him through the long dry winter. (Thanks a lot, Ly.) I dragged him back outside today, but didn’t water him because . . . you know . . . rain. It’s the same logic I use to justify never washing my car.

Anyway, this act of mercy was a part of my spring gardening binge. It is a yearly event on the first day of spring when 1) winter coats are not necessary, 2) the sun is shining, 3) it’s the weekend, 4) there is some other work I should be doing that is even less appealing – like, say, ironing, and 5) I can’t think of anything to write about. This year’s binge consisted of halfheartedly raking some of the leaves out of one of my three flowerbeds and cutting back about 2/3rds of what the google tells me is called “staghorn sumac”. I saw it somewhere in fall a few years ago when it had turned brilliant orange-ish red-ish, so I took a little plantling and set it on the edge of my lawn near the driveway. The following year in fall, this is what it looked like:

staghorn sumac

And now, of course, it is everywhere! These things are coming up in every flowerbed, ten, even 20 yards away from the original invader. If I had done a little research before planting the first one, I might have reconsidered: Wikipedia tells me that they are “most often found in dry and poor soil on which other plants cannot survive”, i.e. a fairly accurate description of my garden. I also learned that they have a “vigorous suckering habit” – which I don’t understand, but boy is it ever true! They keep me clipping and whacking and sawing and hacking all summer long. By now I would need a small nuclear bomb to completely rid my garden of them and all their underground tentacles. If one of these things ever sprouts through my basement room floor, I am selling the house and moving.