Saving Historic Plantings at Princeton Battlefield

Princeton Battlefield in early May, where patches of blue Ajuga sneak in some blooming time before the first mowing of the historically incorrect but pleasing to walk on lawn. Look across Mercer Street from Mercer Oak, Jr., and scan the wood's edge to the left and right of the pillars. This time of year you will see many flowering dogwoods living up to their name. It's an easy observation, but that doesn't necessarily mean anyone has noticed.

A closer look reveals a fairly regular pattern to the dogwoods--every ten feet or so. It's almost as if (which is to say it's almost certainly the case that) someone intentionally planted these dogwoods long ago to honor this hallowed ground.

Having worked as a horticulturist (during which time I learned many valuable things, including that horticulturist is not pronounced "horticulturalist"), my impulse is to make sure the dogwoods are not being overgrown by surrounding trees and vines. Here, a white pine branch is jutting out, stealing sunlight from the dogwoods. Cut the branch and the pine tree will be unaffected while the dogwoods will greatly benefit from the extra sunlight and room to grow.

And this black cherry really should be cut down, except for one small matter.

Ignore the young, reddish poison ivy leaves on the right, and you'll see a most unusual phenomenon. The black cherry tree appears to have borne the branch of a flowering dogwood.

On the backside, you can see how the black cherry, growing in intimate proximity to the dogwood, has completely absorbed the dogwood branch into its trunk.

I think I'll just leave them alone and take my horticultural proclivities elsewhere. These two trees look to be made for each other.


A couple notes:  

A post from 2012 includes photos of the porcelainberry vines that nearly smothered some of the dogwoods before I intervened with a pair of loppers.

Also, for anyone headed out that way, there's a great woodland display of flowering dogwoods along Cherry Hill Road where it crosses the Princeton ridge.

Sigmund Garden Lacks a Caretaker (and Harrison Street Park, too)

The passing of Paul E. Sigmund, a prominent scholar in the field of Latin American politics, prompts me to post about the park dedicated in memory of his wife and former Princeton borough mayor, Barbara Boggs Sigmund. The park's perennial plantings have long added beauty to a drive along Hamilton Ave., but are now at risk of going into decline. For years, Polly Burlingham led volunteer efforts to sustain the plantings, but she found it increasingly difficult to find volunteers, and so has moved on to other projects.

Currently, municipal crews do periodic cleaning of the park, but perennial flower beds require knowledge--or at least the sort of affection for plants that leads to that knowledge. Though Princeton has an arborist, there is no one on staff responsible for knowing anything about the kinds of plants that, through no fault of their own, don't happen to have trunks. The only tools Princeton wields to care for herbaceous plants, as far as I know, are a lawn mower and a weed whipper.

Well-meaning efforts to beautify Princeton with something more than trees and turf, whether at Sigmund Garden, Harrison Street Park, or elsewhere, are therefore threatened the moment they are planted. Without knowledge and t.l.c., the intended plants get pulled out along with the weeds, leading to steady attrition until the whole thing gets mowed down and returned to lawn.

Here's one of the flower beds at Harrison Street Park, several years after some $30,000 worth of perennials and other native plantings were installed. Some of the wildflowers, like the woodland asters in the back left, are hanging on, but moving in on the lower left is the dreaded mugwort, and the white in the middle is garlic mustard beginning to overwhelm the intended species.

The plantings are still at a stage where they could be rehabilitated relatively easily. When I alerted town officials last summer to the sad state the plantings were falling into, a private landscaper was brought in to do some rehab. But that was a temporary fix. The Harrison Street Park neighborhood was originally expected to tend to the plantings, and there are many residents there who would be willing to help. But they'd need to be organized, and led by someone who can point out what to pull and what to keep, and it's asking a lot for someone in the community with the necessary training and organizational energy to step forward year after year and donate leadership, expertise and commitment.

The underlying problem, plaguing society far beyond the plant world, is a misapprehension of maintenance. People believe that creativity ends with installation, but most anyone who gardens understands that maintenance itself, like parenting, is a creative process. Plants are shifted to better locations, new species are added to fill gaps and add new colors. Judgements are constantly being made about what to pull and what to leave. Invasives--the bullies of the plant world--are caught early on before they take over. All of this requires knowledge, experience, judgement and persistence far beyond the design/install stage. And yet its the initial design and installation that get the funding and recognition, after which people walk away, ribbons cut, awards given, thinking their job done. Unlike a newborn baby, plants don't have the vocal chords to make a commotion every time they need attention, and this seems to be their undoing. The woodland asters at Harrison Street Park suffer the deepening shade and underground chemical warfare of garlic mustard in silence. Empathy--the capacity to intuit and respond to what is not being explicitly stated--is as important with plantcare as it is with people.

Come to think of it, the word "character" sounds a lot like "care-actor"--someone who not only cares but also acts--a useful thought when considering citizenship in general, and the caretaker's role in particular.

It would, of course, be great if someone in the community stepped forward to take the lead on caring for these plantings, just in case this post doesn't prompt immediate institutional change in how parks are managed. Princeton Recreation would be the department to contact.

To read about the Sigmunds, here are some links:

Barbara Boggs Sigmund
Paul Sigmund
Pam Hersh's column on Paul Sigmund

Wild Tulips

Here and there in Princeton, you'll find populations of wild tulip. That would be the yellow one on the right in this photo. Though it's called wild, it's not native, and only grows in "wild" areas of people's yards. What it lacks in flamboyance it makes up for with an elegance and grace not always found in the more domesticated forms.

Here's the big show that the more common tulips provide, at a church across from the high school, like a cheering section for the Magnolia grandiflora in the middle. (related post here)

And here's the more casual look of the wild tulip, which unlike other tulips can spread. These were planted along Nassau Street near the intersection with Harrison, and look a lot better than grass this time of year.

The tulips I remember from childhood were like neither the wild tulip nor the large varieties sold today. They grew along the driveway in my parents' garden, came back year after year like old friends, and had a poignancy that may have had to do with their smaller size, tight form and rich, subtle colors. Rather than massed, each tulip was an individualist, unique.

Climbing Baldpate Mountain

A friend turning 60 invited fellow nature lovers near and dear to join her for a birdwalk up wooded trails to the highest point in Mercer County, Baldpate Mountain. Located near Howell History Farm, it's about a 25 minute drive from Princeton.

The turnout on a glorious day was such that we split into two groups, with Sharyn Magee leading one, and Tyler Christensen leading the other. Tyler is featured in the documentary Field Biologist, which had its premier this year.

As we gathered in the parking lot, most eyes and ears were trained on bird life in the surrounding trees, but the pervious pavement silently holding us up caught my attention.

There's a lot of it, so to speak, and its installation is much more elaborate than its simple appearance would suggest. Pervious pavement--the sort that lets water filter through it--doesn't accomplish much unless the soil underneath is pervious, too, and that can mean bringing in a lot of pervious material to underlie the pavement.

The most striking feature of the forest this time of year is the lush layer of shrubbery greening up ahead of the trees. This is the ubiquitous "second forest", the layer of species--multiflora rose, barberry, honeysuckle, privet--imported from other continents that now dominates beneath the native trees. I bet the megafauna would have devoured it, but they're all gone, and all we have at this point is deer, and they aren't biting, so the "second forest" forms a largely inedible blanket over the land.

Here and there are toothworts, bellworts, rue anemones and other remnants of the glorious legacy of spring ephemeral wildflowers that would have once carpeted this slope. The way it worked was that the wildflowers would come up early and opulent in the spring, flower with abandon, set seed and store up enough solar energy for the next year, all facilitated by the trees' delayed awakening. By the time the tree leaves cast a dense shade, the wildflowers were already fading back into the earth to remain dormant until the next year.

It's a fine recipe for diversity, with the big, dominating woody plants auspiciously holding off on hogging the sunlight until the diminutive wildflowers get a good dose. The nonnative shrubs, having evolved a different timing on other continents, throw a wrench in the works by leafing out early.

But this was a bird walk, so even plant people like me eventually trained our eyes skyward, at first to see how the white oaks managed an uncanny imitation of shagbark hickories further up along the trunk.

Many kinds of birds were heard, and some seen, such as the blue-headed vireo and the black and white warbler, agile in their kinetic search for insects high in the canopy. Tyler turned out to be a talented imitator of birdsongs. Perhaps most talented of all were the birds themselves, using their small size to advantage as they maneuvered deftly from one twig to the next, snapping up whatever insect life the vaulted canopy had to offer.

My contribution was spotting a small, round nest of unknown make, about ten feet off the ground.

We took a right turn off the Summit Trail to visit the Welling/Burd homestead, with its springfed pond and

springhouse with richly patterned stonework

and a richly patterned view of the pond from the other side. What a treasured spot is a natural spring, and this one like others I've encountered was but a few hundred feet down the slope from the ridge.

The farm house, made of wood rather than stone, has suffered the usual double whammy of vandalism and institutional neglect. The farmstead and much of the mountain is owned by the county, which chooses which buildings it will put to public use and lets the rest go into decline unchecked, until they become hazardous enough to demolish.

This distant view of the farmstead would have included a big barn until a couple years ago. I've heard that the county tore it down without notifying those who had wished to deconstruct it in order to save and reuse its beams. Where some see history, value and opportunity in historic structures, a government tends to see liability and burden, and views demolition as progress.

The Ridge Trail took us past the last flowering bloodroot of the season, tucked away in its own microclimate at the base of a tree,

and finally to a view of the Delaware River.

Down the slope is a complex of buildings, including a lodge and visitors' center, into which public funds were poured for high end restoration, including a roomy patio overlooking the valley. The old cistern still holds water.

I had thought that black vultures perch only on neglected buildings, but these two prefer an upscale perch, at least on weekends.

While others sought a glimpse of the elusive pine warbler, I checked out the wildflower garden just beginning to awaken. It was a glorious day spent on high ground, and a fine way to celebrate 60 years filled with nature and friendship.

Callery Pear and Deceptive Appearances

Callery pear, widely known by one of its cultivars, Bradford Pear, is a good example of how appearances can deceive. People crave blooms after a long winter, and callery pear comes through with its masses of radiant white flowers that look like someone turned on a giant 100 watt lightbulb in the landscape. Though it originally was thought not to spread, callery pear has been popping up along roadsides across the U.S., looking as if someone strung masses of Christmas tree lights along the highways. The visual effect is pleasing at a time of year when most of the native species are just coming out of dormancy and the landscape still looks otherwise drab.

At that superficial level, which is how most people see the landscape, the callery pear seems an unmitigated blessing. People who plant it would seem to be doing everyone a favor, as the tree's beauty spreads far beyond the original planting. The specimens on Witherspoon Street in Princeton lift the spirits of passersby, and are celebrated as harbingers of spring by the local newspapers.

At a deeper level--if you take a look underneath the ecological "hood", peak behind the visual soundbyte--you'll find the story is the complete opposite. The rapidly proliferating callery pear poses a profound threat to America's landscape. Across the country, callery pear is spreading rapidly into forests and fields, displacing native species and steadily imposing a monotonous conformity. It was originally imported from China specifically for its adaptability to a wide variety of soil types and moisture and light levels, produces abundant fruit that starlings spread across the land, and so can quickly invade a broad spectrum of habitats. The website naturalbiodiversity.org calls it a "bio-bully". A county in Indiana suffering from an advanced stage of invasion calls the callery pear "a bad, bad plant with pretty flowers." This lovely flowering tree is like the celebrated town figure who, unbeknownst to the local citizenry, has been running a seedy operation on the outskirts of town.

Just to be clear, aspersions are not being cast on all non-native plants. Whatever you think of the exotic forsythia (this imposing hedgerow runs parallel to the American elms along the Washington Road entry into Princeton), it has not become a menace to woodlands and fields. It may offer little to wildlife other than cover, but it stays where its planted.

Callery pear, then, is a symbol of the time in which we live, when the present is in deep conflict with the future. This is a time when that which is much loved and enjoyed, and which appears on the surface to be completely benign, is quietly working beyond most people's awareness to dismantle our cherished inheritance. How does one convey this to people without seeming to be a killjoy? Such knowledge, by threatening our enjoyment of the world we've made, poses an emotional challenge that people are left largely unprepared to handle. Is there a way to still experience the simple pleasure of a callery pear's beauty while at the same time understanding that they collectively pose an extraordinary danger? The same challenge awaits anytime one climbs into an automobile, needing to get somewhere yet knowing that collectively the use of cars is destabilizing our climate. Some means of handling cognitive dissonance, preferably not complete denial, is necessary just to get through the day.

Only by making these connections, and coping with the responsibility they imply, can towns like Princeton step out of a pleasant bubble and begin to question the way we unwittingly contribute to massive changes underway beyond our borders.

As we collectively remake the world, there are other impediments to our understanding these connections between individual acts and collective impact. One is the notion that nature is in control, that if I plant an invasive species, anything it does after I plant it--spread into the neighbor's yard, or into the local preserves--is in nature's domain and not my fault. There is also the belief that nature will eventually mend itself--a capacity being severely tested. Perhaps the most interesting impediment is a skewed notion of what constitutes freedom. The increase in one freedom can lead to a precipitous drop in another. For instance, the freedom to buy and plant highly invasive species like callery pear essentially consigns the larger landscape to the tyranny of invasion, and deprives future generations of the freedom to enjoy the beauty of a diverse native woodland or field, and the wildlife that needs a diverse food supply to thrive. On a small scale, many of us are forced to deal with ongoing invasions of english ivy or bamboo from neighboring yards. What are the property rights of those being invaded?

This is the less than lovely backstory on a lovely display of flowers on Witherspoon Street in April.

Note #1: For alternatives, google "native alternatives to callery pear".

Note #2: A quick and fascinating primer on callery pear can be found at this link. There is also a very informative webinar that just came out, combining an appreciation of the callery pear's beauty with an objective discussion of how it is spreading, and why. Below are instructions on how to navigate to the presentation by researcher Theresa Culley:

"Last week, the Midwest Invasive Plant Network held our first webinar on Invasive Plants in Trade.  We had some technical difficulties at the beginning of the presentation, but we did manage to record Theresa Culley’s talk on Callery pear.  The recording is now available at the following link: https://gomeet.itap.purdue.edu/p67o689ypt4/. After the first minute, the recording goes silent.  Skip ahead to minute 15, and you’ll be able to hear the full presentation.  Make sure your computer’s speakers are turned on to hear the audio portion."

Upcoming Open Space Events

Today, April 27, Marquand Park's 60th year celebration, with a tour by the Macholds at noon, followed at around 1:30 with comments by town arborist Greg O'Neil and Mayor Lempert, and the planting of three native chestnuts. The park is located on Lovers Lane, between Mercer Street and 206.

Check out some events the next town over in Kingston, at http://www.kingstongreenways.org/, including a May 7 annual meeting featuring a talk on Somerset County parks by Clifford Zink.

Friends of Princeton Open Space is having its annual meeting Sunday, May 4, 3pm, at Mountain Lakes House, with Michele Byers as the guest speaker, refreshments, and a nature walk afterwards. Call to rsvp, 921-2772.

Birders speak of a resurgence in birdlife at Princeton's Rogers Refuge (just down from the Institute Woods) since deer culling has allowed the spicebush to rebound in the understory. As a member of the Friends of Rogers Refuge, I wrote an ecological assessment and stewardship plan for this beautiful marsh and floodplain at the end of West Drive. The annual birdwalks there are scheduled for May 17 and 18, beginning at 8am at the fork in the road on West Drive. These and other walks in the region are listed at the Washington Crossing Audubon website. 

Also, this from birder and leader of the Friends of Rogers Refuge, Fred Spar:

"Winnie and I will be leading a Birdathon walk there on May 10th. This is a fundraising event for WCAS, and the emphasis will be on broader participation, not just the number of birds sighted. For all of these events, all are welcome.

A May 4 call for volunteers from Canal Watch, to help with the first spring planting of native plants at Bulls Island where the invasive Japanese Knotweed has been eliminated. I mention it not knowing any of the details about place and time, but sounds impressive anytime this transition from invasive to native can be made.

Meanwhile, back at Marquand Park, here's a photo of the otherworldly threadleaf Japanese maple, its brilliant colors backlit by an afternoon sun, taken some years back before it was damaged in a storm.

A Springtime Walk Through Herrontown Wood

One of the prettier spots to take a walk in Princeton is Herrontown Wood, the original nature preserve from which all others in town followed. The parking lot is down a deadend street opposite the entrance to Smoyer Park on Snowden Lane.

Though long blocked by fallen trees and invasive shrubs, the trails were reopened last summer and fall by Kurt and Sally of the Friends of Herrontown Wood.

They continue to work to improve the trails where the many rivulets of spring runoff cross.

In spring there's good flow in the rocky streams,

and skunk cabbage makes ribbons of green where floodplains broaden.

Trees grow where they're self-planted,

trout lilies spread across the forest floor where plows didn't erase the soil's memory,

and a few patches of Rue-anemone survive along the trail edges.

With most native woody plants just beginning to come out of dormancy, the cliff is still visible from a distance. The "second forest" of non-native shrubs--mostly privet, multiflora rose and winged euonymus--is casting a diffuse green. The early greening of the non-natives has the unfortunate effect of casting shade on the native spring ephemeral flowers that need the spring sunlight to gather enough energy for the next year's growth.

Mosses decorate the boulders with their infinite patterns.

One thing that needed tending to was the propping up of one of the few specimens of native hearts a'burstin' (Euonymus americana) in Princeton. It's a favorite food of deer, but this specimen has survived because it is too tall for the deer to reach. Propping up will allow it to flower and set seed this fall. If only the deer would eat the many thousands of exotic winged Euonymus that clog portions of the park, there wouldn't be such an imbalance. But the wildlife's tastes don't seem to adapt to consume the introduced species.

At least the many exotic shrubs have helped out in one instance: We just found another hearts a'burstin' this past week, whose survival owes in part to the dense surrounding growth of exotic privet that has likely prevented the deer from discovering it.

On a recent outing, I met a woman with a beautiful reddish dog named Fred, whose high level of alertness suggested a closer connection than usual with ancestral wolves. As we talked, we heard birdcalls down the hill that later turned out to be three pileated woodpeckers.

This could be said to be where open space preservation began in Princeton, at the 1870s farmhouse that the famous mathematician Oswald Veblen bought in the 1930s for his study, on land he and his wife Elizabeth would later donate to the county as Herrontown Wood.

When a Coop Flew the Coop

The time came last week to move the chicken coop to the back of the property so that we could start beautifying the patio next to the house. The move came after months of careful planning and procrastination. The project was a good opportunity to use some of that used lumber scavenged from the local curbside kmart over the years. The chickens came over to check on progress, and to look for any grubs my large mammal activity might have stirred up.

Fortunately, the former owners had fashioned a platform of concrete blocks, used 50 years ago for a rabbit hutch.  We are simply carrying on an agrarian and can-do/do-it-yourself tradition established by the original owners. With serendipity as my co-pilot, I found that the pieces of the old coop could easily be unscrewed from each other and fit very well in the new location.

Even with serendipity, it took a couple days to make all the old coop parts fit together in a new configuration. It helped that the repurposed skylights didn't fall over and break, despite multiple close calls. Natural light is important in a coop, especially during winter when the chickens tend to stop laying if daylight isn't sufficient.

With most projects like this, there's a magical moment when the new space becomes real, when the end comes suddenly into sight, and all the hours spent feel worthwhile. Now all it needs is a few boards screwed over the openings, to keep any night predators out. With some interior decorating, what fowl could resist?

Well, the chickens and ducks were so habituated to the old coop that we had to carry them over to the new one each evening. After the third or fourth night, they finally bonded with the new coop and made the journey themselves. There's been a call for a coat of paint, though the weathered look has its charms.

Now, if we could only convince Buttons to lay in the coop, rather than hiding her eggs behind the hay pile. Sometimes we think one or another fowl has stopped laying, only to find a surprise somewhere in the yard after several weeks.