Oh, Deer

Well, it finally happened - that thing all local gardeners have been warning me about, that which I’ve avoided thus far: our new gardens have been broached by the deer that proliferate nearby. Since moving here, we’ve enjoyed the occasional sighting of a family in our small woods (sometimes as many as six gamboling among the trees), but we have taken heart that even as I planted young and delicate seedlings in spots nearer the house, the deer seemed to have other yards, other more interesting beds than ours to feed on. And while we fenced off the tomato patch early on, we’ve counted on our good luck and naivté to get us through the summer without damage to the rest.

No more. For the past few weeks, come sunset, a young buck has wandered ever closer, stopping mainly to graze beneath the old crab apple tree outside our window, his progress followed closely by the cats. Sometimes he’s ambled on and down the lane, chomping on the day lilies that line the neighbor’s fence until we shout and shoo him back to hiding. But then, this weekend, the damage came much closer. I awoke on Saturday to find my young, unprotected peonies chewed to nubs, the baby redbud tree minus at least half its growth since planting, and a small rosebush on garden’s edge made budless overnight. The new apple trees have, so far, been spared, but it’s just a matter of time.

The damage, of course, could have been much worse and probably will be as winter comes and the deer have less abundant pickings in the woods. And it’s not like we weren’t warned not just about the deer population so much larger than when we were kids, but about our local hedgehog and abundant rabbit friends as well. We see them all from the patio as we sit out in the evening light.  It’s time, I guess, to drop the pretense that our yard, our woods are special, and that we can live among our wild neighbors without consequence or conflict. Time to fence the youngest, most vulnerable tree trunks, and maybe the brand new shrubs. Time to redouble efforts to plant only things that the deer don’t especially like or hearty ones that will grow back. Time to accede to the inevitable loss or think of this as an opportunity to share our bounty with our wildest of friends.

Honey, It’s Only Breakfast

Our little American Redbud has doubled in size since we planted it in May, but it has a long, long way to go.

I have a reputation for making decisions fast. Too fast, maybe. Big decisions, at least. Like buying my first house after only a day of looking, and this house overnight after a single video tour. Like organizing concert tours, or ordering airplanes to rescue dogs in a blizzard, and putting people’s lives and thousands of dollars on the line.

But put in front of me a little decision and I am sometimes paralyzed. Once, as I floundered over an over-ambitious diner menu in Truckee, California, the waitress finally squatted on her haunches to meet me eye to eye. “Honey,” she cooed, “it’s only breakfast,” and took the menu from my hand. Shorthand advice I’ve tried to live by ever since: don’t sweat the small stuff; go with your gut; have faith you’ll always get another chance to try the other choices on the menu.

Yesterday, as I stood in the nursery trying to choose between several native shrubs for the front yard, I heard the Truckee waitress in my head. The shrubs were on sale, it would have been a good time to buy, if not to plant. And, after all, I’ve been studying our yard and the plant catalogs and native websites for months to narrow plant choices and locations. I’ve drawn maps. I’ve made spreadsheets. I kinda know what I want, it should have been a quick decision. And yet here I stood in the hot sun, unable to make up my mind, and unsure of the choices I’ve made so far. The thing is, I thought, it’s not only breakfast this time. These plants are going to live (and grow bigger) in our yard for decades - much longer than we will own this house or be alive. I want something that will look at least a little bit substantial while I’m here, but is the perfect choice for future owners, animal and human. I want to be glad five, ten years from now of the decision I made staring at those shrubs. It’s not breakfast, true. But neither is it life or death. It is a decision that lies somewhere in-between.

In the end, I let it go. Instead, I bought just what I came for (and a little more), and vowed to tackle the bushes later in the fall. There will be another day, I promised myself. I’ll get another chance. There will always be more shrubs to choose from, and time to get them in the ground.

It’s a Jungle

I’m getting used to the sound of crows in the surrounding pines as they rally the troops to chase away a hawk that’s come too close. I’m almost over the fact that the sparrows have pilfered nearly all of my thyme to feather their nest. I feel more generous than resentful when I see the catbirds have beaten me to all the blueberries on the bush that I just planted. I understand that when I dig a hole, I’m sacrificing precious garden earth worms unsurfaced to the voracious robins hovering nearby. But count me surprised when I saw two moths this side of tiny join forces, the other day, to chase away a hummingbird as it hovered near the feeder, ready to take a drink. That’s a first. Not sure what they were protecting, nor why the hummingbird didn’t give more of a fight. But it’s a jungle out there, and it’s hard to know who to root for or why.

A few days ago, I found a caterpillar inching down a parched dill weed branch and thought it might have been the larvae stage of a Spicebush Swallowtail like the ones I’ve seen hanging around that spot. I wondered briefly if I should move it to a safer place, but decided not to interfere. An hour later it was gone. Did it fall off the branch? Probably not. Did it turn into a butterfly? No, there is a chrysalis stage before the caterpillar gets its wings to fly. Did a bird pluck it from its perch? Probably, just when I looked away. I stared at the empty branch and reminded myself that it is the nature of birds to eat larvae and, in fact, I’m working hard elsewhere in my garden to make sure they have enough tasty seeds to munch on. But I’m also supposed to be saving the butterflies, aren’t I? And here is one that never made it long enough to fly. It is the ecosystem that wins, I tell myself, when we work to create a more natural, sustainable balance in our gardens - it is not the peaceable kingdom come to life. Birds are still birds, worms are still worms and larvae - well, sometimes a larvae’s fate is to become a tasty meal. It’s a jungle out there, and one that I can influence but never can control. Okay, I get it.

But then there’s this - the serendipity of nature, the little gifts. Within an hour of that tasty caterpillar’s disappearing act and ever since, two Eastern Tiger Swallowtails (not the Spicebush variety, but close enough), have been feasting in my garden and flitting merrily across the yard. A couple of monarchs, too. A coincidence? Of course it is, but their lovely dance reminds me that my efforts will be worth it if I can help even a few of my neighbor birds and butterflies survive.