The Greatest Show on Earth

You never know when it’s going to happen…that’s part of the excitement—will I see it? Will I be there at the right place, right time? Well, this year, I was at the right place and right time!

On September 20th at approximately 8:00am, I excitedly watched as a train of Broad-winged Hawks soared over my property. There were 88 that I could count directly---but there were easily 2-3 times that many visible as a broad ribbon of birds that stretched deep into the southern sky, barely larger than pin dots disappearing in distance.

Not many things give me actual chills, but seeing this breathtaking spectacle always does; it’s hard to witness this event and not be filled with awe and admiration. Their sojourn seems impossibly long and hard…a determined procession following the ancient path of their ancestors again and again. No compass, no map, no weather forecast, no guarantees…and for first-year birds (which are born here in the Northern states and Canada)—well, they’re flying headlong into the vast unknown. Just imagine it---you desperately need to go somewhere that you’ve never been, have never seen, with nothing to guide you…and there is no choice to turn back.  

Seeing them silently soar southward, I feel like I’m waving goodbye to a friend embarking on a dangerous mission. I admire their fortitude and resolve, but it’s still hard not to be wracked with worry about all the things that could go wrong. What these birds—and scores of other bird species do twice per year—is nothing short of miraculous. The more you understand about it, the more this statement rings true.

Many of these Broad-winged Hawks will travel 4300 miles, one-way, on their fall migration to Latin America and the northernmost part of South America; the breadth of it is simply astonishing. They will gather in such incredible numbers that people travel to Central America to view these kettles flying past on their route (known as “the river of raptors”), and where these birds can number in the hundreds of THOUSANDS!

To see even a small kettle of hawks as I did last September is exhilarating and inspiring, a spectacle as astounding to me as watching humans launch into space. Yet, as they vanish from sight, I can't help but feel dread for what awaits them – unforeseen obstacles, the harsh realities of a world transformed by human activity, weather that turns against them…perhaps a hurricane (or three) thrown in their path. But they will keep moving forward.

I am not so naïve to think they will all return.

As I stood outside, watching the last hawks disappear from sight , I was struck by how alone I was in my endeavor. How many people, I wondered, even took a moment to glance upward and witness this natural marvel? In a world that that is alarmingly self-centered, it’s a shame that the magic of migration remains a hidden gem for most, despite unfurling like a wave that rolls over our very heads.

THE LAWN GOODBYE...

houses in the suburbs with giant empty lawns

The lawn is one of the parts of American culture that persists despite all information and research which affirms and confirms its pointlessness. A placeholder for something more interesting that never materializes. Devoid of anything even remotely suggestive of life…and about as interesting as a butter knife.

A profound waste of space whose tiresome maintenance perpetuates an endless cycle of unmitigated pollution and expense. What does a lawn do for a homeowner?—well, it’s all for “the feelz” I’m afraid.

The lawn is a remnant of 17th century wealthy European landowners who could afford the manual laborers to keep their courtyards trimmed. The lawn was a means to telegraph their status and superiority over the plebes. It announces “I’m so rich, I can afford to not use this land for anything!”. A brag worthy of Scrooge himself.

And tbh, It’s not much different here…but can it really still be viewed as status when nearly every suburban house has one--regardless of whether the house is 250k or 2.5M? But if you were to ask people “why do you have a lawn?”, I’d bet more than a few would answer along the lines of “I don’t know—isn’t that just what you do?”

This reminds me of a dear friend I once had, who was struggling in a bad marriage. When I asked him why he married his wife (with whom he had absolutely nothing in common), his answer was “because I thought that’s what you were was supposed to do after college." What a common and avoidable tragedy! Doing something solely to satisfy some overarching social norm never does anything good for anybody.

 Knowing what we know about the environmental cost of lawns, that answer is just no longer acceptable.

What’s even worse, is that the lawn now comes with it’s own posse…the landscaping crew. It must have been sometime in the 90s when the lawn devil whispered into the ear of the  suburban bourgeoisie and convinced them they were too good for that nonsense…their time was too precious—they need a crew! And thus, the menace of the ever-present, any-day-of-the-week snarl of the commercial lawnmower and ice-pick-in-the-ear whine of the leaf blower were born. And suburbia has had a headache ever since.

I don’t remember when I saw the first lawn crew here in Bridgewater. In the 70s and 80s, nearly everyone still mowed their own lawn (and they had hedges! and gardens! and thick green landscape buffers too!)—those were the days, when people actually took pride in doing stuff. What little lawn remains on my property is still mowed by us, but ours is less of a lawn and more a mix of native “weeds” doing a bang-up job of crowding out the last vestiges of someone’s aspirational Kentucky-bluegrass dream of the past.

The near entirety of my lawn space has been either turned into densely planted berms or converted to paths of Dutch white clover (which only needs a trim a few times a season)—and is always actively abuzz with bees of every sort. These spaces are now filled with LIFE, wonderful, amazing, beautiful LIFE….life that sings…and chirps…and chitters…and croaks. When breeding season is on, this place is LIT!

Around here, I never see anyone in their front lawn…ever. Know why? Because it’s boring as hell!—what IS there to do there, other than stand there feeling like a ninny?  It’s like a room with no furniture—there’s no point in being there. An expansive front lawn is as warm and inviting as an exam room at the doctor’s office. It’s not a brag—it’s a scarlet letter. It’s a whole lot of nothing.

I’ve always seen the lawn differently. To me, lawn as a concept is done…over…kaput…passe… belly-up…exanimate.

A lawn is the mullet of the suburbs…the wall-to-wall carpeting of the landscaping world--every bit as ugly and way past it’s prime. It’s the cheap polyester leisure suit with wide lapels. It’s MC Hammer pants. It’s a sweater tied around your neck. It’s Ugg Boots. It’s Juicy Couture. It’s Lee Press-On Nails.

It stands as an outdated relic of the past…a selfish and staggering misuse of resources and arable land…a completely useless thing that benefits nothing. How useless? It’s so devoid of value that even a deer won’t eat it. That should tell you something. It feeds and serves nothing (well, unless you count chafer beetle grubs, but the lawn treatment will take care of them—and probably kill a few birds and loads of helpful insects, but hey, who’s counting?)

It’s high time the lawn is seen and exposed for what it is…tacky, frivolous, and wasteful. If we can make those words stick, we might have a chance. But I beg you…just leave your yard for what it does best: be a home to wildlife and plants…grow trees, fruits, berries, vegetables, flowers—you know, the good stuff of life. Share it. You’ll be happier.

For those who still voluntarily opt-in to this absurdity and dutifully signed their lawn service contracts for yet another year: you’ve been hornswoggled…sold a whole lot of hooey from companies that likely have some reference to the word “green” in their name, when the only green they care about is the type that grows in their wallet. There is nothing green about your lawn. If you truly care about being ‘green’, it’s high time to serve your lawn with divorce papers.

It’s something that should have been dead and buried long ago, with a tombstone that reads “Never did anything good for anybody”. And that’s the damn TRUTH.

Hello Zone 7a…I’ve been expecting you

Did anyone feel it? When we crossed over into an entire new planting zone? While many haven’t really noticed the changes, most gardeners have.

When I started gardening here nearly 25 years ago, we were zone 6a…and parts of my property on the down-slope and with winter shade were more like 5b. But now—7a, and I have very mixed feelings about this.Of course, on the one hand, there are now more planting options—but on the other, it’s just confirmation of that’s which we’ve known…we’re warming, and rapidly.

When you are a gardener and grower, you pay attention to weather and weather patterns, especially seasonal ones. Now, more than ever, when something gets planted may change from year to year, depending on the prevailing weather pattern for that particular season. I remember taking interest in temperature records and was noticing our lows weren’t all that low anymore and I watched this trend continue.

In the early 80s I listened to my sister and her husband (she a meteorologist and he an astro-physicist, both working for Goddard Space Flight Center at the time), talk about the knowledge that we would start seeing a warming planet in the near future and why. So, I knew it was coming.

In preparation, about 15 years ago I starting experimenting with zone-pushing (planting things hardy to a zone warmer than yours) and began my attempts at establishing zone 7 plants. Early attempts were failures, as I didn’t know what establishing a zone 7 plant should entail.But as my gardening acumen and interest in habitat gardening grew, I got more serious about WHAT I should be planting. I saw our conifers seemed to be dying all around us, and broadleaf evergreens were conspicuously absent in our area. Martinsville used to be filled with majestic Eastern hemlocks—now nearly all gone. White Pines and spruces were dead or dying everywhere you looked.

Conifers are important to birds  since they provide shelter (and sometimes food) but also are important to other trees and plantings as they act as windbreaks during the worst of winter. I needed something to replace a Blue Spruce that finally gave up its struggle and peacefully went to horticultural heaven, so I chose an Arizona ‘Blue Ice’ Cypress—a solid zone 7 tree.

My neighbor called it the "Dr. Seuss tree"…a comically gangly, spindly whip about 5’ tall when planted. It was meant to serve primarily to block an awful view to the road and muffle the street noise as well. Its planting location gets blasted with NW winter winds and was also too far away to consistently water. This type of cypress is accustomed to the desert southwest, so it seemed like the best option for the spot. And to my surprise—it took. And judging by the growth rate (10’ in 10 years), it was happy. The birds positively love it in the winter and American Robins are fond of nesting in it’s upper bristly branches in the spring.  Today it stands about 16’ tall and still going strong.

Emboldened by success, I added two non-natives, chosen for very specific reasons.

I chose Clerodendrum trichotomum, (Harlequin Glory Bower) for a very late season hummingbird nectar source--as well as the production of berries available during late fall bird migration. This tree was killed to the ground twice by exceptionally cold winters, but has re-sprouted from the roots each time and has now attained a height of about 12'.

I also chose Eleagnus ebbingei, which I believe is the only Silverberry species not known for invasive tendencies; this satisfied my need for an broadleaf evergreen for dry shade that was also highly resistant to deer (if you are a gardener, you know this combination is virtually non-existent). The fact it was known for fragrant fall flowers and sparse but edible drupes were a bonus.

It struggled for several years, then settled in and exploded in size…but the winter of 2013/2014 nearly did it in. It dropped its leaves in spring and I noticed a huge crack in the the largest base root. After sulking and limping along for a couple years, it rebounded and healed over the root crack. I got lucky with this one. If it hadn’t been establishing as long as it was before that polar vortex winter from hell, it most certainly would have died. Bees go gaga for the flowers, its fragrance fills my yard in October, and it’s hands-down a bird favorite for its density—especially when they’re trying to evade pesky Merlins and Sharp-Shinned/Cooper’s hawks. I often see Coops running in circles on the ground under this shrub, trying to flush out the sparrows (and if you’ve ever witnessed a Cooper’s Hawk running, you’d know it’s like watching a tiny, determined velociraptor run with all the finesse of a frantic chicken).

So why did I plant non-natives in the two cases above? While native choices are certainly preferable, sometimes there’s just aren’t any that fit the bill when you have highly specific site or wildlife requirements. My feelings on non-natives are: if they’re not invasive—and if they provide legitimate wildlife value—they’re better than having nothing in the same spot. If I need something that has to solve a problem for us, my rule is that it must also provide significant benefit for wildlife or pollinators—otherwise I’ll need to find something else.

I’ve kept adding zone 7 plants over the years and certainly lost quite a few (most often to winter wet, not cold)—but the successes began outnumbering the losses, and that makes sense now that we’ve crossed into our new zone. I am particularly fond of the Mahonia we’ve added, which provides evergreen leaves and sunny yellow flowers in either winter or early spring and produces chains of berries which are LOVED by birds (especially Gray Catbirds).

Most recently, I began experimenting with establishing Loblolly pines (a native south-eastern conifer), in hopes it’s southern heritage will help it survive our increasingly extreme summer humidity and frequent torrential rainfall events. A forester I follow on X (formerly Twitter) has mentioned many of the experimental agricultural stations are doing the same, and testing southern pine species here in the Northeast in hopes they can get ahead of the inevitable and revive our dying conifer forests.

So, if you’re thinking about adding some new plants to your central NJ garden, enjoy your new Zone 7a options---but maybe you should start eyeing Zone 8a specimens too…it’ll be here before you know it.