Distance Makes the Meadow Greener
Thoughts of spring at Puddock Hill.
It’s spring in the desert where I’m still ensconced—mountaintops less white each day, wildflowers abloom in hills and sand.
In our yard, the native desert willow (Chilopsis linearis) we planted this winter has finally started to green up. The Baja passion vine (Passiflora foetida spp.), a regional native, turns out a flower every other day. Yellow flowers of native brittlebushes (Encelia farinosa) maintain their show in the hills and the yard. And in the air hangs the scent of citrus trees in flower—in our case, an old grapefruit tree (from which we’re still eating last season’s sweet pink flesh), a Meyer lemon, and a Mexican lime (also known as key lime) that we planted last year.
But my thoughts turn east, where the main event pends.
On social media sites, a friend in a neighboring town posted a picture of a young cherry tree flowering in the woods. Others have posted shots of crocuses, hellebores, and daffodils.
There are a few crocuses about Puddock Hill, all legacies of prior owners, none native, so far as I know. Still, they’re fun to see and I do miss them.
Hellebores are native to Europe and Asia. We don’t have any at Puddock Hill and likely never will. But they are a nice sign of spring renewal—Lenten-rose.
The daffodils we’ve planted over the years are a bit problematic. They are of course an early sign of spring in the Northeast, famous for naturalizing in well-drained soil, but they are native to the Old World, not here, not a single species in fact. I thought I’d read somewhere that they are beginning to be considered invasive, but a quick Google search finds nothing definitive. Still, while I miss the sight of them, I can’t help thinking they are displacing other early native choices that may support wildlife, such as Virginia bluebells (Mertensia virginica). I hope to return home in time to see those in bloom on the woodland side of the barn meadow path.
Meanwhile, unable to be in two places at once, I must imagine Puddock Hill springing back to life. No doubt the peepers are singing on warmer evenings (my first Backyard Stewardship post was about the peepers). I must imagine the painted turtles in the big pond crawling from their watery slumber to bask on warming rocks. I am left to wonder whether the pickerelweed we planted in the pond last year has begun to send up shoots.
I see on security cameras that onion grass (considered invasive but not too much trouble) has begun to assert itself around the lawn. I will likely miss the pungent smell of the first cut. I hope not to miss the cauliflorous redbud flowers, however.
Okay—I’m showing off using “cauliflorous,” a word I recently learned. It describes the phenomenon of flowers growing directly from the main stem of a plant rather than the ends of twigs. This fact, easily observed whether you know the word for it or not, makes native redbuds extra special in my opinion. (Cauliflower, by the way, is not cauliflorous. Go figure.)
No doubt buds have begun to show on many native trees at Puddock Hill, and I get most excited at the thought of our youngest trees recovering from winter, most of all the volunteers we transplanted last fall. In fact, I spend an inordinate amount of daydream time imagining the growth of the hundreds of trees we planted. I picture the microbial life they promote beneath the soil restoring a healthy biome. I wonder when they’ll produce enough leaf litter to create a more robust forest floor. I can’t wait for when their canopy will be substantial enough to alter the mix of understory plants, perhaps in favor of more natives.
The things I block from my imaginings are the invasive plants whose names I will not speak today. One secret to their success is the early start so many of them get, sprinting out ahead of natives. The landscaping service will soon be out hunting them down, I hope, setting them back enough so we won’t be overrun too soon.
But that’s a worry for another day. Right now I’d rather picture the native herbaceous sprouts and softening trees we’ll see when we get home, the bracts of flowering dogwoods, the ephemeral spring flowers along the ground in woodlands, the chlorophyll seeping back into the landscape.
It’s an idyll, I know. I’ll no sooner set foot on Puddock Hill than have to get back to work helping along my native friends. But why not indulge this dream right now. Distance makes the meadow greener.
Spring sprigs prove our native desert willow survived transplanting:
Flowers have opened on the non-native jade tree:
Our non-native Mexican petunia (Ruellia simplex) has flowered all winter:
Native brittlebush flowers rock on:
