Bidens in Bloom

One of the roadside yellows this time of year, other than goldenrod, is tickseed sunflower (Bidens), so-named because the seeds are dark and--prepare for unflattering comparison-- the size of wood ticks. It's a native annual, though I notice it's considered invasive in Canada by the USDA site. This is an example of an attractive wildflower that in a garden can start to become too much of a good thing, overgrowing everything else in late summer. It's tempting to oblige its exuberance for the big show of color, but with some species of Bidens the "big show" never materializes.

One common Bidens hereabouts, typically called Beggar-Ticks, turn out to be devoid of the colorful ray flowers.

Rain Barrel + Workshop for $20

(Previously posted at princetonprimer.org. Might still be time to register.)
Princeton Township will be hosting a workshop by Rutgers on rainbarrels. Looks like it's open to all Princeton residents--township and borough. $20 registration fee gets you a 50 gallon rainbarrel, which they'll show you how to assemble. Go to this link and scroll down to the info on the workshop to be held Sept. 29, 9-11am in Princeton.
http://www.water.rutgers.edu/Stormwater_Management/rainbarrels.html#home

Some things to keep in mind about rainbarrels: A roof can shed a couple thousand gallons of water in a 1 inch rainstorm, so capturing 50 gallons is a symbolic gesture. Even less will be captured if the rainbarrel still contains water from the previous storm. One approach is to hook the rainbarrel up to a soaker hose so the barrel will consistently empty out inbetween rains, but then you don't have any water available for watering the garden during dry periods. Provision for overflow is important, lest the excess water simply spills out next to the foundation. After experimenting with rainbarrels long ago (with barrels donated by a local CocaCola plant), I ended up foregoing rainbarrels altogether and instead directed water out into areas of the yard where it can soak in and create an underground reservoir to sustain plants through droughts.

Still, they're worth considering. In particular, they serve to make one aware of where water is flowing. It's appealing, also, to fill a watering can with rainwater captured from the sky. The Rutgers link may offer some convincing success stories, and the price is right.

A Taste of Taiwan in a Neighbor's Garden

Every now and then, walking the streets of Princeton, one encounters a yard devoted to growing food rather than grass. Many are in keeping with the Italian custom of treating a neighborhood like a matrix of minifarms, often with small fruit trees and handmade arbors growing behind a high fence.

An elegant nearby example with Taiwanese origins often gets worked into the evening walking-of-the-dog. Passing by last week, I introduced myself to the owner and got permission to take some photos. He told me about his lima beans, which he says are the most nutritious kind of bean to be had.

Also hanging down from the well-tended arbors, like Charlie Chaplin's vision of paradise in Modern Times, is something I didn't catch the name of, but may be Chinese melon.

On a small tree grow "Chinese dates", which turn out to be jujube--latin name Ziziphus zizyphus, in the buckthorn family (Rhamnaceae). Usually, the family name Rhamnaceae strikes fear into my heart, having experienced the extraordinary ecological mischief caused by Rhamnus cathartica in the Midwest. Web posts carry warnings that jujube can send up suckers in nearby flower gardens, which may be why this benign-looking tree was growing between a driveway and a mowed lawn. It tastes reminiscent of an apple.

The arbor is made of electrician's piping, galvanized to prevent rust, with some portions connected with metal joints, others hand-tied. Stems of cherry tomatoes too are tethered to these pipes, their growth carefully directed until they can head horizontally, occupying a parallel universe with the beans and squash six feet above the lawn. This double decker yard makes maximum use of space.

Having once again this year let my squash and volunteer gourds run rampant over my visions of backyard order, with regular pilferings by squirrels and catbirds, it's a relief and inspiration to see what a little more planning, vertical training and steady effort could yield. All it takes is a modest bit of ground, sun and water, add equal parts tradition and devotion, and the result can be a dream serene of order and easy pickin's.

Goat Patrol Cleans Up Invasives

Speaking of kudzu and its local imitator (see previous post), I witnessed a novel approach to controlling invasives during a recent visit to Durham, NC. A friend has gone into the goat business, herding them into a small trailer for a ride to clients' backyards and parks beleaguered by an onslaught of invasive plants. Across the street from the baseball stadium made famous by the movie Bull Durham, the city's Central Park has a ravine filled with kudzu.

Installing the temporary fence is the hardest part for these modern day goat herders, and it's sometimes necessary to remove plants that could prove toxic to the goats, such as pokeweed.

The goats cleared this bank the previous day. They do their job well, but now the question is what to plant, and how to keep the kudzu from growing back.

Kudzu-Like Vine Surrounding Princeton Battlefield

This is a followup to a previous post about the Princeton Battlefield grounds. The vast mowed lawn gives the impression of order at the battlefield, but along the edges, there's a different story.

In a closeup, it's possible to see the reddening foliage of flowering dogwoods spaced along the woods' edge.

Likely planted many decades back to grace the battlefield's borders, those along the left side are now completely overgrown by vines.

Here, one dogwood branch (slight burgundy color on the right) is all that can be seen reaching out of a stifling blanket of exotic porcelain berry vine. (Porcelain berry is short for Ampelopsis brevipedunculata, a name as sprawling as its growth form.)

In addition to ornament, the dogwoods have traditionally provided abundant berries for migrating birds. Some internet research has yet to reveal whether the porcelain berries provide an adequately timed and nutritious substitute. Lipid (fat) content in the berries is important for sustaining the birds' energy, since lipids provide more energy than an equivalent weight of sugar. The shade of the vines will also limit dogwood blooms next spring (note the flower bud on the left).

All around the base of the dogwoods, a tangle of vines reach upwards--porcelain berry and oriental bittersweet, along with the native wild grape.

It's easy to liberate a tree from vines. Simply sever the stems of the vines and leave the top portion to die. No need to pull anything down.

Elsewhere at the battlefield, on the south side of Mercer Road, more advanced stands of porcelain berry demonstrate the plant's kudzu-like capacity to overwhelm trees and shrubs.

These three trees and the surrounding landscape behind Clark House have completely disappeared beneath a blanket of porcelain berry. The one native seen was jewelweed, somehow able to poke a few of its orange flowers up through the enveloping vines sprawling across the ground.

Princetonians may want to develop a taste for grand-scale topiary, because the battlefield and the local birds are serving as a seed distribution service for this highly invasive species.

Brushpiles as a Backyard Bonanza

The term "yardwaste" makes little sense, because everything that falls in the yard is useful. Nature has been in the recycling business for a few billion years now, give or take, and has in that time figured out how to convert all its spent products back into the building blocks for new life. But nature goes beyond simply dismantling structures as quickly as possible to make something new. When one of our products, such as a TV, stops functioning, its useful days are considered over. But when a tree limb dies, it becomes a perch where birds can have a commanding view unimpeded by dense leaves. When the limb falls, it becomes cover for animals, a place for a butterfly or firefly to rest. The legacy of a tree, or parts thereof, is not only as food and fertilizer but also the structure it leaves behind.

A naturalist friend of mine, Joshua Rose, who now lives in Amherst, MA, wrote an article last winter about the utility of building a woodpile in the backyard. Though his PhD focused on dragonflies, he has gained in-depth knowledge of plants, birds, herps, and all other manner of life, to the point that he could more appropriately be called a supernaturalist. These supernatural powers allow him to perceive and convey an understanding of how woodpiles benefit the lives of a broad range of creatures, including us. The article can be found at this link: http://www.gazettenet.com/2012/01/07/brush-piles-a-backyard-bonanza-for-wildlife.

Face Recognition and Tree Identification

Some faces I have trouble attaching a name to. I know I've seen this face somewhere before. Maybe he's the namesake of Murray Place.

Pokeweed

I suspect most people develop ambivalence towards pokeweed over time. With thick annual stems rising as much as eight feet up from perennial roots each year, pokeweed (Phytolacca americana) can become a striking specimen if given enough room, with flowers and berries that hang like elaborate jewelry from purplish stems. And yet its elegance tends to be ragged around the edges, and its admirable capacity to fill voids in the garden quickly segues into a realization that its many offspring are leaving no room for anything else to grow.

One approach to managing its exuberance is to dig out most of the volunteer pokeweeds each year, leaving one or two in an out of the way spot where they have enough room to reach their full size.

The berries are poisonous for people but not for birds, and were once used for dyeing clothing. The only current application of the berries as a dye that I'm aware of happens accidentally when a robin eats berries from one yard, then dive bombs the neighbor's laundry hung outdoors to dry. A land manager I know relishes telling this story, while asserting that the neighbor could easily avoid the consequences by putting her clothes out closer to midday, after the birds had already processed their early morning feast.

Here's an example, sent by a friend, of the berry's use in colonial days to dye uniforms the color of garnet.

"Check out this interesting use of pokeweed berries, at Hampden-Sydney College in Virginia which was founded by the son-in-law of John Witherspoon:"
http://www.hsc.edu/About-Hampden-Sydney/History-of-H-SC.html

Sometime I'll find a photo of my daughter standing on the trunk of an ombu tree (Phytolacca dioica), a close relative of pokeweed that grows in the pampas of Argentina. It grows like a tree yet has no wood. The swollen base of the trunk provided gauchos with a shady spot to sit down and play guitar.

Tomato Thieves

A neighbor who lives close to Princeton Shopping Center was erecting a high fence around the attractively designed vegetable garden he planted in his front yard. After several weeks worth of tomatoes kept mysteriously disappearing overnight, he finally spied a deer nibbling away in the wee hours.

Two blocks away, I have no deer to eat tomatoes growing in our fenced in backyard, but the squirrels are happy to oblige. My theory is that the squirrels took to eating tomatoes several years ago during a horrendous drought, and have made it a habit ever since.

A Gentle August, For a Change

It was a gentle August, in contrast to the previous two years, when the month brought torrential flooding. Those who remained in town during this month of traditional exodus have not had to play heroes--rescuing basements from flooding or helping neighbors clear fallen debris--but instead could enjoy relatively cool weather. Cool nights allowed the house to release heat, and shade kept it cool enough during the day to maintain comfort without air conditioning. With the window open at night, I sometimes awoke early enough to hear the neighborhood screech owl's soft trilling call, cast over a creaky bed of crickets and katydids.

Several nights ago, walking the largely abandoned streets, I felt sporadic drops of moisture falling from a clear sky in late evening. Though there are street trees elsewhere in the world whose resident aphids drop honeydew on pedestrians, these drops were falling directly from the sky above. Sweat from migratory birds, migrating dragonfly droppings? I looked up and saw nothing but feint stars peaking through the glow of a Jersey sky. The universe, it seemed, was shedding tears--one for every star blotted out by the manmade haze.

Sassafras Leaves' Three Forms

One day, in a parking lot just up from Princeton University's football stadium, a sassafras tree presented on one branch a nice demonstration of its three kinds of leaves. A close look reveals that some have three lobes, some have two (like a mitten), and some have a simple, unlobed shape. They all, however, smell the same when crumpled up--a hint of root beer.

A Late Summer Visit To Mountain Lakes

Though still undiscovered by many, Mountain Lakes Preserve is Princeton's "Central Park", located surprisingly close to the geographical center of the soon to be consolidated Princeton. A walk down the driveway at 57 Mountain Ave, leading into Mountain Lakes, reveals it's been a good year for spicebush, whose abundant, lipid-rich berries should provide lots of energy for birds this fall.

The berries are just starting to ripen. It all seems natural, but these berries might not be here at all if volunteers hadn't cut down the invasive honeysuckle shrubs that were competing with the spicebush.

If you haven't been to Mountain Lakes in awhile, you'll find that it has its lakes back, now that the dredging and stonework is done.

The stone wall that makes a sweeping curve along the front of the lower dam is completely new, though built to imitate the old one now buried a couple feet down after they added extra height to the earthen dam.

The back side of the dam is less scenic, but includes a seepage whose steady moisture provides perfect habitat

for the phantom craneflies described in a previous post.

Across the dam separating the upper and lower lakes can be seen Mountain Lakes House, which has become all the more popular a spot for weddings and other events since the dams were restored and a new permanent roof was built over the patio.

If you continue on the driveway past the Mountain Lakes House and head down the hill, you'll find another newly restored dam. The anonymous donor provided additional funding to restore this third dam, built around 1950 (the other dams were built around 1900). In addition to being as beautiful as the others, it serves to catch sediment that might otherwise begin filling in the two main lakes. Dredging this little pond also served to get rid of an infestation of Phragmitis, a highly invasive grass of freeway ditches and wetlands. It cannot be overemphasized just how extraordinary was the generosity of the donor, who provided some $4 million to make these three dam restorations possible.

The raingarden on the side of Mountain Lakes House, which catches water from the driveway and roof, has filled in nicely with native plants.

Mountain Lakes is one of the finer examples of how human intervention can work with the natural energies of plantlife and water flow to create attractive and productive landscapes.

Ants in the Pantry, or Dust With Legs

About a year ago, our house underwent a serious invasion. Tiny ants began to show up here and there inside. I had heard of tiny Argentine ants having invaded California, forming super colonies that somehow communicate across vast distances. I guessed that these were those, and felt strangely ready to surrender without a fight.

After repeated pressure from family members, however, I finally found the bottle of ant poison that had disappeared into the fabric of the house's disorder since the last invasion of (larger) ants. The new invaders took to the ant poison, though not as avidly as could be desired, and there was this sinking feeling that these highly successful creatures would quickly evolve a biochemical way of turning the poison into fuel to further energize their expansion into new spaces.

Soon thereafter, a new thoroughfaire of ants was discovered leading to a stronghold in a spider plant sitting on a metal stand in the dining room. The ants had apparently decided to make our house into a medieval landscape dotted with kingdoms.
By this time, my youngest daughter had already abandoned the upstairs bathroom, unable to coexist with such creepy creatures.

Unlike ants in the past, which would pick their spots and stick to accustomed routes, these tiny ants would spread out across the kitchen counter and into other rooms. They seemed determined to explore and ultimately occupy every square foot of surface area--walls, family room chairs, the piano. In the study, one crossed the computer screen while another did a high wire act on my glasses.

Sweeping the guest room one day, I looked down to find that the dust was not staying swept, but instead scampered off in all directions. At that point, the ants were christened "dust with legs".

It was time for action, but I was still preoccupied with the deeper meaning of such tiny creatures having their way in a house of giants. If they were larger, I would have taken action weeks ago, but their smallness, the certainty that squashing any one of them, or even a dozen, would be meaningless compared to their infinite capacity to create more, left me paralyzed. I had become like one of the philosophers in the Monty Python soccer game that pits the Greek philosophers against the Germans, all of whom stroll about the field stroking their beards instead of kicking the ball. The ability of the ants to so thoroughly invade without triggering action correlated with my observation that climate change works similarly, baffling humanity with even smaller malefactors, operating at a scale below our perception, tweaking the atmosphere and ocean day by day until we wake up to a permanently altered world.

Finally, my spouse decided to take matters into her own hands. Where, she must have wondered, was the man who had saved her from an infestation of cockroaches, early on in a cramped Michigan apartment? She took emphatic action, dumping borax copiously along edges of counters. I searched labels and the internet for evidence that this lavish spreading of chemicals was putting us at risk, but found little beyond warnings for pregnant women. Interestingly, the ant poison that I had taken great precautions with turned out to be nothing more than dilute borax in a bottle.

The borax did suppress the ant presence, though not completely. Fortunately, I happened to talk to a friend who suggested a poison available in a gel form. I found it at the hardware store, with the endearing name: Combat Source Kill Max, which comes with a syringe applicator. We dabbed some in just a few strategic spots, and the ants promptly disappeared, without any further applications necessary. As Archimedes said at the pivotal moment in Monty Python's soccer game, Eureka!

Beavers At Carnegie Lake

Thanks to Melinda Varian, who sent these photos taken by her husband, Lee. Some beavers go searching for breakfast, while others have breakfast thrust upon them, as when this oak tree fell into Carnegie Lake.

Here is Melinda's description of the encounters:

"As Lee and I were doing our pre-breakfast walk along the DandR towpath this morning, Lee spotted a beaver gnawing on a tree in the water. It was content to let us watch for quite a while before it finally swam off to its lodge. We could hear the gnawing quite plainly. We went back another morning with a better camera and found two beavers gnawing on the fallen tree. As soon as Lee began photographing, one splashed its tail on the water and yelped a warning, which caused the other to depart, but the big one stayed and calmly chowed down on the delicious wood."

My Summer Vacation

For the requisite August venture, my older daughter and I jumped into our relatively clean machine and hit the open road,

which periodically became less open as road construction and an overturned truck intruded on the American ideal and our projected time of arrival.

In Ann Arbor, we toured the University of Michigan campus, where I had collected a couple degrees back in the days when tuition was $350 a semester. Since I had the camera, we ended up with a plant-centric pictorial, of landscaping using only scouring rush,

and of a sculpture made entirely of grass.

It's entitled Wave Field, by Maya Lin, who designed the Vietnam Memorial.

We visited the site of my first vegetable gardens, planted back in the 70s on the extension because that was where the sun was, at least until the city's trees grew up.

My first native planting on public land, a circle of prairie species at the County Farm Park, still endures,

with nearly all the original species still prospering twenty years on, likely receiving no more attention than an annual mowing. Our visit happened to be timed with the rosinweed.

Back then, we were living on Easy Street (literally), where neighbors have since talked the city into laying down pervious pavement along the edge rather than customary curb and gutter, and the neighborhood trend towards prairie landscaping continues.

A neighbor has led the effort to shift the local park's turf to native wet meadow plantings to capture runoff, feed pollinators, and show what might have been growing there in pre-colonial times. The city does a contained version of a prairie burn on these plantings each spring, a horticultural ritual of cleansing and renewal for which neighborhood parents and kids gather to watch at a respectful distance, then scatter seed in the ashes. The ash after a prairie burn always reminded me of the fur of a bison.

On the drive home,  I sought relief from the boredom of I-80 long enough to happen upon bison at Black Moshannon State Park,

and experience, ever so briefly, the profound, forgotten silence that comes when all machines within earshot are turned off. At such times, relieved of the burden of screening out incessant background noise, the mind can open up to the world, relax in a way it may not have in months or years, and take in the crystalline sounds of the forest, deeply rooted in the underlying silence all around.