Modern life – meaning life in the
context we think of as modern, a distinction we are less and less
certain has any significant meaning, really – allows very little
time for reflection. As such, when we catch a hint of outside
perspectives, a word or two from strangers about the impact our work
has on them, it can tell us some very basic things about ourselves
which, frankly, we should have already known.
A recent example at Myrtle’s place –
a neighbor (probably a transplant from California) complimented us on
our young eucalyptus tree. This having been the second such
compliment received in a week… maybe we should pay attention, and
stop to consider what the presence of this one individual plant
amongst so many in our front yard herb garden might be trying to tell
us about ourselves.
A bit of back story – we planted a
couple of seedlings found in the discount bin at Farm Patch a few
years ago, with faded tags reading only “Lemon – Corymbia
citriodora”. And, yes, they smelled
faintly of lemons, and we are always game for trying new things, so
into the ground they went. It being a fall garden, and us not
knowing what they were (though fully intending to eventually getting
around to finding out), we mulched them, watered them, and then
promptly forgot about them.
Chores, kids, day job,
presidential elections, missing cat, found cat, oil changes on the
Toyota… think of a distraction that came before looking up what the
heck it was we had just planted, and said distraction surely took
place. And over the winter, one of our nascent corymbia
citriodora plants froze to the ground. The
other didn’t look happy… but then, winter here is just harsh
enough to kill lots of things that are tropical or semi-tropical, and
just mild enough that a handful of such plants occasionally make it
through. African basil, for example, will come back from its sturdy
roots every spring.
So, we left well enough alone.
We mulched it on a balmy January interlude between cold fronts, right
along with our hardier perennial herbs (notably rosemary and
oregano), and hoped for the best.
The best became apparent
that March, when “Lemon – Corymbia
citriodora” demanded to be upgraded to its
more common nomenclature, owing to the fact that it sprouted up to a
3 ½’ height, towering above its neighbors in the herb garden, and
threatening (if we were any judge of what the pinkish-green shoots at
the top of each of its branches might mean) to keep right on growing.
So, that’s when we finally gave in, and looked up what turned out
to be our lemon eucalyptus tree.
Native to Australia, and
not typically hardy below 30° fahrenheit (which explains why its
sister snuffed it), there are nevertheless plenty of anectdotal
examples of trees surviving frosts and freezes once they reach
maturity. There are several examples scattered throughout Northern
California, for example, where other varieties of eucalyptus thrive –
which is, presumably, where our complimentary passersby became
familiar with them.
And now, another winter has
passed, and another spring and summer, and it now stands at 8’
tall, and is unmistakably a young eucalyptus tree.
We have no idea whether
it will continue to thrive in the balmy Brazos Valley climate, though
we are hopeful. The long range forecast is for the El
Niño Southern Oscillation effect (ENSO) to
remain stuck in “neutral” through at least Spring 2014, and the
seasonal outlook forecast maps from the National Weather Service all
show expected above average temperatures until at least then, so the
odds of prolonged exposure to temperatures below 30° fahrenheit are
somewhat low.
Assuming it survives to
adulthood, this tree (which, remember, we thought was going to be a
modest bushy variety like basil or sage) could conceivably be 30-40’
high by the time our daughter graduates college. It would, if this
happens, tower over our driveway. Only a deep freeze, or an invasion
of koala bears, could keep this from happening.
And as we reflect on the
coming wave of unschedulable changes related to global warming, our
lemon eucalyptus serves as something of a bellwether. Happy
accidents of this sort will occur whenever and wherever folk are
prepared to experiment – not blindly, but definitely wildly –
with a wanton disregard for preconceived ideas about what must be put
where, and what grows, and what does not.
There are some rules, of
course, that will continue to be functional in the scary new world to
come – mulch, for example, is always a good idea, as it helps
plants retain moisture and self-regulate their tolerance to extreme
temperatures – but not every rule handed down from master gardeners
is going to continue to be valid, regardless of how “tried and
true” that rule might be.
And not every experiment will
end well. We are quite prepared for the possibility that we will
have a freak snowstorm this winter (it happens every few years here
in Bryan-College
Station, after all), and we will walk out to find an eight-foot-tall freeze-dried twig collection in our front yard, instead of a eucalyptus tree. We can’t count how many “fails” we have accumulated, in the form of plants that didn’t do well where we put them, or of arrangements that maximized thorns and fire ants and minimized fruit production and enjoyment.
Station, after all), and we will walk out to find an eight-foot-tall freeze-dried twig collection in our front yard, instead of a eucalyptus tree. We can’t count how many “fails” we have accumulated, in the form of plants that didn’t do well where we put them, or of arrangements that maximized thorns and fire ants and minimized fruit production and enjoyment.
We have also noticed,
thanks to a competitive spirit, that when we compare our own garden
to someone else’s, we are likely to notice only the flaws in our
own, and only the advantages in theirs. Self-deprecation aside, we
have met very few “proud” gardeners; they are generally sincere
in their worries about problems of which they may be the only persons
alive with even the slightest awareness. Yet, taken as a whole,
there will inevitably be people in the community whose tomatoes are
ripe when no one else can even get blooms, or who have pole beans so
verdant they make they make the ivy covered outfield fence at Wrigley
Field seem naked, or who in the midst of a valley-wide squash borer
invasion, can grow pumpkins to make Linus and Snoopy blush.
Our hope is that people
continue talking to each other, and listening to their plants – and
the animals who live in, on, and around those plants – and continue
adjusting as everything in that cluster of different entities
continues changing.
Our own conversations with the
admirers of the eucalyptus tree were short; they were, however,
representative of at least part of who we like to think of ourselves
as being. We are often out in the garden (though not as often as
we’d like), and we often have time to stop and chat with those who
are passing by. Our human neighbors know us, and some of them even
approve of us. We hope we can say the same of our non-human
neighbors.
It is the time of year when the
planting calendar approach to gardening has most folk in the Brazos
Valley scrambling to put in peas, and spinach, and broccoli, and
cabbage and the like… and we will undoubtedly be doing some of that
ourselves. Fava beans in particular are one of our favorites, as
they overwinter well, and if planted now can conceivably become a
forest of 4-5 foot tall heavy food producers (in addition to
providing plenty of winter forage for our bees).
But the thing about which we
want to be most aware is not anything marked on a calendar. We want
to keep our eyes peeled for that next weird discount-bin type find –
what is the next unexpected gem going to be? You can’t plan for
it… you can only be patient and open to it.
Here’s hoping you find your
own unexpected treasure this fall.
Happy farming!
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