Land O'Milkweed

I will, one day, get to planting these. Just another day of siding, and another day of painting the siding, and then one more for the door, save at least another five for the deck, and just one or maybe two for the steps. Maybe then I'll get to planting these. But only after I dig around the outbuilding and install the groundhog barrier, and dig a trench for the drainage tile, lay the tile, and machine the fill until it slopes nicely, and once done I can excavate the gravel so it can be reapplied in layers, each compacted, so the concrete floor that also needs to be poured won't crack, which would be a shame because we cut two inch foam and placed it all around, or at least we will in August, but not before the exhibit is hung. I ought to make more work for that show, and I did say I would take my photos to the printer for printing, and there's framing, then, but after that I can plant these milkweed. Although it won't be in July, because the show, you know, but also the class I teach, in Vermont, and the lecture to give, and the prep for each. September is a good time to plant these, the fall -yes, but only after the electricity and heating is put into the outbuilding, because it wouldn't be sensible to frame for insulation in September if there is no heat to insulate, but after that I can get to planting these milkweed, well before it freezes. Could it wait just a bit more, because the brick walkway needs to be laid, especially before that freeze. Is it time to blow the leaves? Well that mustn't wait, and after all, with the cleared leaves there will be a clearing in which to plant these milkweed, so that will be a good time to get to these. Will there be a freeze? Oh, well I should get the garlic in, and wrap up the last of house painting, and who wants to work stiff-fingered in the cold? It'll best be done, as soon as can be, but first I need to put up the walls and install the lights, because what is a shop and studio without walls or lights? After that I can probably get to planting these milkweed. You know, it's been warmer, later, more often than not, so I'll get to these on a nice fall day, a warm afternoon, but only if there's nothing left to do that needed to be done, more so, anyway, than planting the milkweed.

Prairieside Goldenrod

This summer's Red Hook, Brooklyn transplanted seaside goldenrod, Solidago sempervirens.

Monarch and the Lilac

Choosing to take out a shrub, like this lilac, isn't easily made. 

 It's all the harder when it is graced by a Monarch butterfly.

But then, it also alights on my cutting tools. 

The Lilac

We have an aging lilac, probably twenty years old, in the path of some house repair. My hard edged assessment is removal. After all, it's running along the foundation, suckering as it goes. At some point it is a weed that is very hard, nearly impossible really, to yank. For what? Two or three weeks of lightly scented flowers? 

I am not a fan of shrubs up against a wooden house, if for nothing other than the inconvenience to repair and the humid environment they create near all that wood. So what is slowing me down? Shouldn't have this old, rangy lilac been cut down months ago? 

What would you do?

More information: the tree has a pretty sizable knot of 4" stems at its base. On the left is the septic electrical and the right the gas line. The septic electric wire definitely crosses the lilac without proper protection as I found when digging for the landing piers just a few feet away. Digging will be treacherous. Hmmm. I may transplant one of the many suckers and take it out without removing the roots. Too bad this has to play itself out with nearly all of the foundation plantings. 

The Notions

This is what a beginning garden looks like. A few old farm implements, an older garden overcome by the shade of growing trees, a tub of transplants waiting for human inspiration, a lawn overrun by creeping charlie, and a trio of notions about how things will come together in the future. The notions: grandma's tea, seaside goldenrod, and Heuchera of Brooklyn.

The Headwaters

Driven to rise early by force of street sweeping law, I headed south to my old place on Friel to see how things have held up. Little has changed in our old building. Still the disrepair and blandness, but now less a garden. 

In autumn of two thousand two this was the sunniest, most pleasant of all the apartment wrecks I had seen in several Brooklyn neighborhoods. I had never considered living in, where? -Kensington? Behind a chain link fence, under the blazing hot sun, there were telephone poles stacked in what would later become the garden.

With the arrival of three Russian Zelkova, sun had been replaced by shade -the light loving garden I had planted then stretched beyond its limit. Change was a force, plants groped for light or gave up, and when we chose to move, some of these plants were boxed for transport on a plane and a few others went to friends. I assume that the rest met a dark end by glyphosate.

The corner piece of a neighborhood has returned fully to the weeds, excepting a few daylily and phlox -stalwarts of the brown brick wall. Gardening is presence. We assert ourselves with the language of plants. For my old neighbors my presence is still felt, now in absence of flowers and a plethora of ailanthus, smartweed, and poke.

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Having made a quick peace with the old place, I moved on down Coney Island Avenue, Avenue J, Bedford Avenue, and the Belt, over the Gil Hodges to Fort Tilden, the beach.

To my eye, beach farm neighbor, Jimmy, has taken over the old plot. This pleases me. Jimmy's a good gardener, fun, conversational, and present.

 It is reassuring that the neighboring plot, adjacent to the west, is still as weedy as always.

And that Wolf has continued on with his tomatoes.

I was charmed by the sight of my old garlic signs used as stakes to support new beds.

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At the moment I have the sensation that this is all I miss of New York City -the ocean, its sandy buffer, the dunes and the salt-enduring flora.

I stood, I sat, for about an hour, alone, but for the gulls.

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I was reminded at Tilden that I wanted to bring Seaside Goldenrod back to Minnesota, yet I didn't want to risk taking a plant from the sandy roadside of Rockaway Point Blvd -outside the park (but why chance it). I headed to Red Hook, where the cracked asphalt streets and sidewalks can yield many clumps of S. sempervirens.

I found this cluster on a trashy, industrial block, growing below a security cam and above the asphalt. I grabbed my shovel and scraped its roots from the pavement.

I've grown one Seaside Goldenrod, pulled from a Red Hook pier, in my Friel Place garden. It did okay, suffering from an orange rust each year until, finally, it did not return under the shade of the new street trees. Of course, I like it for its air of the beach, its flowers well-loved by bees, and especially because I thought it may do well in a garden covered by sidewalk-salt laden snow.

I do not know how tolerant of cold it will be, after all it is a seaside plant, but indications are that it is growing along the Great Lakes. I am saddened to see it is listed as a non-regulated invasive species in states like Wisconsin and Indiana. Apparently it is making inroads along our salt-encrusted highways. Could it be that a coastal native is problematic, as much so as a day lily, queen anne's lace, and all the others along highways that are among the most highly "disturbed" sites we have? Am I at the forefront of an invasive wave of Solidago sempervirens? Will it be my fault?

In a case like this, I choose a source that supports my endeavor. From the USDA:
"Nevertheless, because seaside goldenrod has a moderate growth rate, a shorter life span than other Solidago spp., a limited ability to spread through seed, and produces seedlings with low vigor, it is not considered an invasive plant."

Additionally:
"It increases the value of wildlife habitat by providing food and shelter for butterflies, birds, and small mammals. The migrating monarch butterfly uses seaside goldenrod as one of its primary food sources in the fall."

This adaptive plant has the potential to spread itself along the corridors of our own ruination. It also provides an excellent bit of habitat in the difficult, salty locations we've demanded. I have attempted to walk the garden plant/native plant tightrope over the years and it appears that Seaside Goldenrod in a Minnesota garden is the net I fall into. A condition of native is always where one chooses to draw the line. At one end is purity (and Michael Pollan's take on nativism's racial and nationalist ideology) and the other end chaos (and the destruction of the beauty we perceive within ecosystems).

Solidago sempervirens, bagged and ready.

Travelers

Tomorrow I leave Brooklyn for Minnesota, early as my body allows and after a day's respite. These will travel with me: Grandma's tea, Rosa 'New Dawn,' a handful of Huechera, and some Red Hook sidewalk Seaside Goldenrod. 

The Transplant

There is a patch between the curving drive and the yard, on the north side, where Rex's dogs used to reside. The dogs, Trixie and Elmo, passed away years ago. Last autumn, Betsy flew out of LaGuardia with a box of bulbs, roots, stolons, and rhizomes in her carry-on. She planted them here, among the old dog pens. This spring we sold the chain link pens to a woman tending goats, or was it pigs? 

As it turns out, this is a very prolific location, maybe the most fertile in the yard. The plants that grow here are a hodge podge of Lamium, Creeping Charlie, Jewelweed, Milkweed, Bellflower, Virginia Wetleaf, and smattering of Lambsquarters, clover, grasses, and other weeds. These surround the remaining dog house, one that is hard to part with because it was so lovingly crafted to resemble the human house it shared land with at Rex's old place.

This is the canopy of a single Jewelweed, Impatiens capensis.  I say canopy because it is built like a tree and is beginning to shade out the transplants.

Just look at the size of that stem, maybe three or four inches in circumference. To the right is a Maximilian sunflower, Helianthus maximiliani, carried to Brooklyn from southern New Mexico, and now to Minnesota. To the left is one of two Bleeding Hearts, Dicentra eximia, holding their own under the shade of the giant Jewelweed.

I'm happy to see what I know is an aster growing among the Milkweed, but I cannot tell if it is the weakly growing Anna Potschke or the more aggressive New York Aster. I'll take either, but would love to see Potschke do well here since it suffered so much in Brooklyn.

The Milkweed, Asclepias syriaca, grows strong here and like common Milkweeds everywhere, it appears rather randomly wherever it prefers. I suppose that's what makes it a weed to the farmer or landscaper. I hope gardeners appreciate it. I've seen some spectacular specimens in yards here -they are quite sculptural, exerting considerable presence. We are planning on a wildflower meadow over the septic drain field and will likely transplant some of these to that location.

Each lily transported from Brooklyn have made this home. They are all doing quite well, as they had in Brooklyn (people's sticky or damaging fingers aside). I may miss the bloom, or part of it, as I will be away in New York City for a presentation in late July and then in Vermont for the first part of August teaching my course Landscape Into Art.

When I am there I will pot up some rather large specimens that could not be, nor should have been, crammed into a box. Roots trimmed, watered heartily, I will leave them for the week while I am in Vermont, and then, on my return to Brooklyn, pick them up for the return trip to Minnesota. I do not look forward to this drive, haven't for years now, but the plants, their care, and the stowaway creatures that will make the van a home for the trip will make it a more interesting ride.