the Personal blog of DJ Wilson
Native Witchhazel
Not as showy as its Asian counterparts, Hamamelis vernalis or vernal witchhazel brings its subtle charm and fragrance to an early February day. The blooms are a nice contrast to the brown, shriveled leaves, holding on since last fall.
Off Into the Skies
The road at the top of the rise
Seems to come to an end
And take off into the skies.
– from “The Middleness of the Road” by Robert Frost
Magnolia stellata 'Royal Star'
Every year around January, buds of this ‘Royal Star’ magnolia start opening at the NC homeplace. Evening temperatures are still below freezing and snow could fall at any time, but the buds –plentiful and slightly pink — appear nonetheless.
I planted this tree (a three-foot young’un then) years ago, behind the old greenhouse at my childhood home. It’s now mature and about twenty feet tall. Until recently, it had a rounded, shrub-like form, but we removed the lower limbs and thinned out some of the others, so now Royal Star looks more like a small tree. It’s a wonderful, reliable plant, and cheers me up every time I see it.
Wild Turkeys: Headed for the Road
There were fifteen or so wild turkeys in my neighbor’s yard as I was driving out yesterday. When I stopped to take a picture, most of them ran across the road (bringing various”Why did the chicken cross the road?” jokes to mind). It used to be rare to see turkeys around here — the flock has definitely multiplied.
Recently, I watched an engaging, beautifully-filmed special on PBS called “My Life As a Turkey”. It’s about Joe Hutto, a naturalist in Florida, and his experience raising wild turkeys hatched from a basket of eggs left on his porch. For months, Hutto was mother to sixteen imprinted “children”, showing them the land and protecting them from predators. He marvelled at the birds’ innate intelligence, curiousity, and often playful way of interacting with nature — and with him.
The full version of “My Life As a Turkey” is here. Sit down, prop your feet up, and enjoy!
Now, for the first time since 1990, gardeners have an updated, comprehensive climate zone guide for plant hardiness. The U.S. Department of Agriculture has just released a new interactive map based on weather data gathered from 1976 to 2005. The map proves what gardeners have long suspected: there has been a warming trend in many parts of the country, affecting plant variety, range, and adaptability.
Since the average minimum temperature has gone up in many areas, spring comes sooner, fall lasts longer, and winters are often milder. Many parts of the country have gone up half a zone, based on 10 degrees Farenheit for each latitudinal zone. My zone, for example, had been 6b; now it’s 7a.
You can enter your zip code here at the new USDA map to find which zone you’re in, and to learn more about the USDA’s research process.
You’d think I’d remember that my Amazon lily (Eucharis grandiflora) blooms about this time every year. I never do — instead, I’m taken aback (in a good way) when the large, fragrant flowers cross my line of vision amidst the swath of greenery I usually see when watering the indoor plants in January.
Amazon lilies are dramatic: flowers are 4″ wide and look like very large daffodils. The leaves are dark green and shiny; they resemble those of hosta . The plant has its own Facebook page, although the description “It produces a bunch of white flowers ” is not exactly inspiring. Nevertheless, You can go to the page and “like” this plant or ask it to be your friend!
I don’t recall where I got my lily, but I’ve had it a long time. Last year, in a simplicity- seeking frenzy, I gave it and some other plants to my son. The light conditions at his house were challenging and the lily languished. I brought it back home, cleaned the bulbs with soap and water and a bit of clorox, then re-planted them in fresh dirt and a new pot. This year: rewards in the form of blooms and robust foliage. If this is clutter, I’ll take it.
Behind the House: Muddy Creek
The creek behind our house is not what you’d call pastoral. It’s recessed fifteen or twenty feet below the back yard and its banks are steep and hard to navigate. It’s normally about five feet wide, unless it rains all day like it did today. The water drops from a culvert near the road, then flows to a basin below the hemlocks before it narrows along the back of the property. There are no ferns or other wildflowers nearby — just privet and honeysuckle shrubs and spindly stands of ivy.
Once an old dog in the neighborhood walked (or fell) down to the creek and couldn’t climb out. Inside the house, I kept hearing the weak cries of what sounded like an animal in distress. It took a while to realize that the muffled sounds, distorted by the bank and water, were coming from a sweet old dog that had expended most of his energy trying to get back to safety. I was able to find the animal’s owner, who came and rescued him. I never saw either of them again.
My creek may not be pretty, but it sounds as wonderful as any vernal, pristine one in the mountains. If I sleep with the windows open or work outside in the yard, I can easily pretend I’m beside one of those more picturesque ones, taking off my shoes to wade in and look for tadpoles.
From New Hampshire Friends: Icicles and Sun
One of my mother’s favorite sayings is, “If wishes were horses, we’d all ride”. Growing up, I heard that phrase often, though I mostly ignored it — my wishes seemed perfectly reasonable to me. I didn’t crave material things like clothes and gadgets. Instead, I wished for experiences: a puppy, more visits to the bookmobile, or just one day of having a bedroom of my own. As I got older, I wished for bigger things, like a trip to France to see my high school pen pal, or a chance to study literature in England with my college class. Some wishes came true. Some did not.
Last winter, I was missing good friends in New Hampshire and wished I could sit down in their cozy home for a long afternoon of conversation and tea. Instead, I settled for emails, and photos they sent of views from the windows of their newly-built house.
My wish for today and the new year: less wishing and more contentment with things the way they are.
Male Mallard in December
THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water,
and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
