Weeding Sounds

It's a difficult thing to put into words, but you've heard it too, haven't you?  The distinct noise, a screech really, made when one successfully tears a weed whole from the earth, intact roots sliding from soil in a grating exasperated sigh?  A gasp really, a scream of indignation at the gardener's audacity, our murderous intent; the shriek of defeat heard, yes, by the ear, but also transmitted through touch and sight and empathy. To a gardener, no sound is more satisfying to our souls, no human symphony can match the finality, or provide the sheer release of tension  as that resulting from the surrender of a weed to our will. 

A daylily overwhelmed by native Goldenrod 

The pleasurable wail of a weed is a quite different noise and feel and emotional outcome than the sharp snap of a weed as it breaks off, root still nestled in soil to grow another day, this sound a musical phrase ending in notes of laughter rather than lamentation.  The crack of a weed stem is a herald trumpeting the gardener's defeat, an abrupt notification that one has won a tactical victory but lost the strategic skirmish, desired ground still occupied by the enemy, sure to regroup and renew the assault, a Pyrrhic victory and an uncertain future.

  

Wild Lettuce removed with intact roots!

Weeding, to me, is an immersive act, a retreat from the greater garden into the smaller world and environs of the plants.  ProfessorRoush rarely stands above the foliage when I weed, bending to the earth like other gardeners; I crawl instead, a predator at ground level stalking the prey, the unwanted and unloved interlopers in the garden.  I also prefer to weed with bare hands, tactile senses on full alert as I search among familiar textures and shapes, identifying and removing the aliens in a subconscious dance of mind and limbs and fingers.

Barbs on Wild Lettuce

It's a rare Monday morning when I'm not removing barbs from my fingertips or nursing inflamed skin after a weekend of weeding.  Wild Lettuce (Lactuca canadensis), rampant this year, is a particular problem to bare hands, its stem studded with awl-like barbs that I've learned will yield to slow pressure and a brave hand without piercing skin.  Bare-handed weeding is an act of faith, a concession of a little extra pain in exchange for admission to the Weeding Plane, the spiritual space of gardening where hands do the work and the mind is free.    Occasionally jerked back to awareness by a thorn or unexpected nettle, I happily trade the risks of sore hands and splinters for the improved outcomes as my fingers follow the weed to its base, instincts finding the right grasp and angle to wrest the weed from the ground.    

I had a full afternoon of weeding last week, a chore too long-delayed for a garden bed verging on chaos.  I seem to have a bumper crop this year of both Goat's Beard (Tragopogon dubius) and the Wild Lettuce, both deep-rooted and determined to grow, solely intent on forming seed and world domination.  So I dove in among the daylilies and iris, steadily advancing as I grasped and pulled, placing the weed corpses back down among the daylilies as mulch or casting them to the beds edges.  I didn't take a "before" picture, but you can view the aftermath here, the bed rimmed in weeds torn from the soil.   I finished the day by running the lawn mower around these edges, chopping the full weeds into smaller pieces to prevent a dying weed from focusing its last energies on seeds.

I should feel guilt as the weed gasps, more sorrow at the weed's mournful admission of its demise, more regret at glimpsing intact roots exposed to air, but I am remorseless, a machine intent only on my own goals, my own control. The daylily at left, the same one as pictured above, looks much happier freed from the goldenrod and I'm sure if it could talk it would approve of my methods.  I slept soundly that night after weeding even while the music of the displaced weeds replayed in my dreams, content and relaxed in my momentary mastery of this garden bed.  But I also recognize that somewhere out there, on the prairie in the darkness, torn roots are plotting revenge and beginning regrowth., the never-ending dance of the garden and the forces of chaos starting anew. 

Maximum Sunflower Power

 Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, dogs and bees, I give you the crowning glory of the Kansas fall prairie, the Maximilian Sunflower (Helianthus maximiliani).   On the prairie near me right now, one can see lots of yellow flowers blooming, foremost being the light-yellow green of the native goldenrods, but nothing outshines or is taller than the Maximilian sunflowers.   Standing out hundreds of feet away, each clump betrays the location of a site of disturbed earth, the sunflower a sure marker of soil chaos.   Bees and humans alike are drawn to it, the screaming color calling across the ocean of drying prairie grasses.

This clump came up near my burn pile.   There's a smaller group in the middle of the unmown area of the back yard (my so-called "rain garden"), but it is this plant at the back edge of the garden that begs for attention.  And, as you can see above, it got attention from this very busy bee photobombing the flower.  It also got attention from Mrs. ProfessorRoush, who posed with it for me, but I will not share the beauty of the former in this blog, Internet privacy and all being what it is.  I found it interesting that the sunflower and Mrs. ProfessorRoush are almost identical in height, 5 feet tall or so.

The bumblebee that attacked these members of the Aster family was fortuitous for my camera, arriving just as I moved in to photograph the flower closely.  In a month these flowers will be bountiful seedheads, full of energy and a good forage crop for livestock and deer.  

You can see here what I mean about the goldenrod.  I'm not good enough at quick identification to tell you if this is Prairie Goldenrod or Canada Goldenrod or another species, but this is as yellow as it gets and the brightness fades quickly like the plants in the background here.  

Between the bad press given to goldenrod, and the happy beaming face of the Maximilian Sunflower, I've got to choose the sunflower every time.   And so, it seems do the bees.  The only insect I've ever seen on goldenrod around here are the goldenrod soldier beetles.

Summer's End, Spring's Promise

I was mowing yesterday, wilting on the John Deere seat in the summer-like high 90's temperatures and seared by the blazing sun, but the garden was whispering to me a different story, a story of nearby endings and further beginnings.  Hot though it was, the lightened foliage of the garden hinted everywhere at change, lush deep greens of spring and summer yielding to the lighter yellow-greens of fall at a frantic pace.  These warm days will doubtless soon end, the summer of 2020 passing away at the speed of dying light. 








Clues of change are evident everywhere I look now; roses on their last legs, like 'Snow Pavement' pictured at the left, blushing deeper pink with the onset of cooler night air and hastening her hip formation, seeds and stored life created to bridge past the long cold days to come.  Other rose hips turn red and vibrant, tempting animals to consume and spread the seed, enticement enhanced with color, sugars, and vitamins as rewards for service.  Who cultivates whom?  The plant enticing the birds and mice to distribute its genes, or the fauna that benefits from consuming the fruit? 




We are perhaps biased by Linnaeus, captive to his branching diagrams of phylogeny.  Is the intelligence really in our higher branches or is the higher intelligence in the roots predating our arrival?  Or maybe my thoughts are just influenced today by a recent read of 'Semiosis', philosophy and ecology disguised in the veil of science fiction.




This is the time of goldenrod and grasses, seedpods and tassels everywhere in the landscape of the deciduous climates, each grain a bid to the future.  Even as I mow, this red Rose of Sharon fades in the foreground, blistering under the sun while the goldenrod behind it gathers and reflects the yellow sun, relishing its highest moment.  I despair at the loss of these delicate August flowers, unrelieved by the few that struggle to blossom, false idols of beauty in the midst of a dying landscape.  The goldenrod, too, will brown and pass on, leaving behind its brittle stems and summer's growth.


I couldn't ask for a richer tableau than these last clusters of 'Basye's Purple', and yet with their glory comes sadness at their hopeless future.  A few more fleeting weeks of moderate temperatures and one night all the new pointed buds will inevitably be silenced in a freeze, the annual slaughter of innocence by ice.  I grow tired and discouraged, the gardener reflecting the weary garden, a summer of toil behind and colder days ahead.






And yet, mowing further, I'm encouraged by hope, buds of tomorrow hidden deep in the shrubbery.  The fuzzy promise of Magnolia stellata tells me a different story, that spring is just around the corner and life is waiting, ready to bloom with vigor and fragrance, seeds of another spring hidden from the eyes of winter.  I rested well last night, tired by the sun and work and quieted by the Star Magnolia, dreaming of her heavy musk and waxy petals, calmed by the sure knowledge that the Magnolia believes there will yet be another Spring.

BumbleBee Harvest Time

Ornamental grasses are all the rage in the fall garden these days and gardeners also crave any shrub whose foliage turns red, orange, or yellow to light up our fall landscapes.  As we design our landscapes solely to ease us softly into bitter winter, however, we should not forget that while it's harvest time all over Kansas and the Midwest for the grain needed to sustain mankind though the winter, it's harvest time for all the other creatures of Earth as well.

While fall gardeners still value flowering plants for adding color to the garden, there is no better reason to keep fall-blooming plants in your garden than to provide that final fall burst of energy for the many creatures who need nectar for winter stores, whether it's the hummingbirds migrating south for the winter or it is the bumblebee at the right, sipping at the 'Blue Mist' caryopteris.  In fact, take a closer look at that blue-collar workaholic bumblebee; covered in pollen from the many visits, it doesn't have time for a shower or a deodorant spritz, it's just buzz buzz buzz till the cold saps its energy.  Bumblebees store only a few days energy in the nest and each individual must reach a certain weight before entering their hibernation state if they are to survive the winter.  Astonishing efficient and cooperative, they leave a little scent deposit on every flower they visit, a gentle way of communicating to the next bumblebee to come along not to bother wasting time at that particular blossom.  In the fall, they benefit most from lavenders, asters, sunflowers, hyssop, sedums, goldenrods and salvias, which accounts for the activity around my lavenders and for all the Blue Sage (Salvia azurea), goldenrod, and sunflowers blooming all over the Kansas prairie right now.  I've not had a lot of luck with heather here in the Flint Hills, but a dense patch would help shelter the bumblebees in inclement weather so it might be worth a try in a sheltered area. Several sources noted that honeysuckles are also valuable in fall as a rich supply of nectar for bumblebees.  And I noticed just this weekend that my 'Florida Red' honeysuckle was blooming again.  Smart vine, that honeysuckle!

Of course, other flowers and plants are useful for these and other visitors.  The  Buddleia sp. keep up their display to attract butterflies like the late season Thoas Swallowtail pictured at the right.  The milkweeds sacrifice themselves for the greater glory of the Monarch.  And of course, nothing likes the honeysuckle better than the migrating hummingbirds.

Every plant has its favorite pollinator, every insect a favored plant, all synchronized to mix and mingle just at the right time to keep them all going, year after year, eon after eon.  Seems like there's a Grand Plan to all this, doesn't it?