Pack Rat Purgatory

(fair warning;  long and lots of pictures and links to previous blogs)

If there is a Hell, ProfessorRoush is convinced that it is populated primarily by pack rats, and somehow I must have gone on into the afterlife, because I am living right in the midst of it, a pack rat purgatory.  I know, I know, my war on these little furry demons is a recurrent theme on this blog, but this is serious, this is Armageddon with rats riding the 4 horses.   You all know that I nearly lost my farm tractor to the fiends, that I've burned out a juniper and a spruce and eliminated an entire hedge of boxwoods in major tactical moves, that my 'Red Cascade' was overrun by the vermin in one skirmish, that I've created an alliance with local rat predators in a failed attempt at pack rat genocide, and that, at times, the evil hellions even attempt to invade the house and porch.   Heck, I have had to cement the base of every downspout where it meets the drainage tubes because the little monsters were chewing into the plastic drains and ruining the runoff from the house!

A couple of years ago, I even allowed myself to dream that I was winning the war, but I either let my guard down recently or the malignant spirits of my garden have simply outflanked me.  It all started last fall when I noticed that my wire tower of Sweet Autumn Clematis, so beautiful in its youth, was looking, pardon the pun, a little ratty (top right).  It was evident that the pack rats had built a nest in it, hidden by the vining clematis and the wire, and had established a beachhead in my back yard again.   I resolved initially to deal with it this spring, plotting to burn out the nest at the time of our spring burns.

But I had not anticipated the damage they've caused this winter.   Just look, above left, at the damage the little bas@#$ds caused to the Juddii viburnum next door.   And look close, here, at the tunnel leading underneath the clematis tower, doubtless to an underground condominium filled with rat feces and urine and young vermin.

At the same time, last fall and all winter, small piles of rat turds began building up each week just to the right of the front door on the porch. It was definitely an "in your face" move if ever I saw one.  Mrs. ProfessorRoush and I were disgusted and angered. We tried traps and killed several, I have rat poison out everywhere, and I was spraying commercial rodent repellants in the area by the gallon.   And still the turds came, deposited at night, silently and blatantly right near the welcome mat.

As the past two days and one day last weekend were nice enough to work in the garden, I've been outside, clearing and cleaning the garden, planning a nice summer with flowers and calm.  Here, in a gentle scene, is the walkway leading to the front door, flanked by two 'MoonShadow' euonymus that I really adore.  Isn't it lovely, even before the growth flush of spring?

That euonymus on the left?   Here's a closeup.  Another new pack rat condominium, right under my nose and in one of my favorite evergreens!  Now I know where the rats were living!

Worse yet, this hole you see at the left  is just to the left of the last two stairs into the house, just a few feet from the rodent bathroom area and 6 feet the other direction from the euonymus.   You can't see it, but the hole leads right into the drainage tube from the downspout cemented into the stairs.   They not only created a tunnel from their house to mine, they connected the tunnel to the downspout, their own Autobahn in my front garden! 

The last thing I did today was tear apart the rat home in my euonymus, fill the rat hole with a plug and then soil (dumping a few cubes of rat poison in first), and then I doused everything with the rodent repellent and I added a special brew of my own that has been effective in repelling deer.   If they're going to pee on my house, then I believe I have the right to pee on theirs.   I feel that I'll win this round, but I'm reacting defensively and likely losing the war, like the Spartans against the Persians at Thermopylae, or, more recently, Ukraine against Russia.  I need to think about offense.   Miniature intelligent robots, or an army of hyperaggressive terriers, something has to work, doesn't it?

I will never surrender.  This is only a setback.  Keep telling yourself that, ProfessorRoush.....

Minor Miracles

It is, in fact, still a world where miracles can occur, as Spring has finally begun here in the Kansas Flint Hills.   A very late, dry, and windy spring, but still, I'll take it.   Yesterday, ProfessorRoush inhaled his first ever-so-faint fragrance of this Star Magnolia (Magnolia stellata), which finally began to bloom only 3 days ago and which is not wasting a moment of our temporary warm spell.   No redbuds, no forsythia, no other life out there in the garden yet, but where there are magnolias, there is spring.  

How late is it?  Well, this Magnolia stellata is two weeks behind 2015 and 2010, and almost a month behind 2016. On the other hand, it's about 4 days ahead of last  year so I suppose I should count it as a blessing.  At this point however, I don't care that its behind, I just want warm days this week to draw out that deep musky fragrance so that I can overdose while I putter in the garden proper.  And warm days to bring on the rest of spring. 

The Puschkinia have joined in at last.  The short white and blue flowers are one of Mrs. ProfessorRoush's favorites, so I'm adding this picture to send some love her way.   The poor woman is on extended grandmother duty this month, in Alaska, tending to our 1 and 5 year old grandsons and feeding chickens through 2 feet of snow and the under threat from moose that frequents my son and daughter-in-laws backyard.  Pray for her since she will miss spring in the Flint Hills completely this year.  Heck, perhaps pray for Alaska, which may never again be the same.

I witnessed a second miracle yesterday, as I shopped the local Home Depot to see what poor decrepit boxed roses they had shipped in.   No April Fool joke, I was surprised to find these badly-paraffined and undoubtedly rootless shrubs in stock there, terrible specimens, but important genetic varieties if I can nurse them into health.   Among all the doomed hybrid teas and floribundas were a few precious (to me) Canadian roses, 'Rugelda' and, low and behold, a 'Roseraie de l'Hay rugosa'!   Commercial big-box rose offerings are so strange in these days of post-Knock Out hysteria!    So I left with the rugosa, two 'Hope for Humanity', two of the aforementioned 'Rugelda', a 'John Cabot', a 'Morden Sunrise', and a 'Zephirine Drouhin', ten roses all destined to fill in some spots from my Rose Rosette losses.   I also spotted, for those interested, 'Morden Blush' and a Buck rose, 'Prairie Princess'.   So if you run quickly to your local Home Depot and if you know what you are looking for, you may get lucky.  Leave the hybrid teas and junk for the unwashed masses, but grab up those Canadian roses while you can!

P.S. Almost forgot, Home Depot also had 'Therese Bugnet'!!!   I left them for you since I have plenty!

Good Gracious, Still Winter

Perhaps, if ProfessorRoush teases the elements by stating Winter is never going to end, the gods of War will put down their lightning bolts and thunder, the Weavers will begin weaving their threads, and, in defiance, the world will throw Spring into my face.   Because it is all, in this alternate dimension of Roush-life, done because of, in spite of, or about, me.  Right?   That has to be it, doesn't it?   "Citizens of Roushopolis, do not fear, I will just go find the correct switch and we will begin Spring in short order!"

I ventured out today, a poor lost soul caught in winter, and finally, finally, found my long-awaited Siberian squill boldly blooming on a south-facing slope.   I've seen nothing else before this, no swelling of forsythia or magnolia buds, no cracking of redbud blossoms, no lilacs breaking dormancy.  Prior to this, I had lost hope for Spring and crawled back into Winter, a warm blanket and warmer dog my only solace.

A mere three days ago, on March 16th, the scene outside and the story headlines were still full of cold and wintery weather.  My back yard was a swirl of wind and flurries, imprisoning me within the windows.   I should find a way to enjoy them, these last few dribbles of snow, but I'm not a snow boy.   I dream of a world where the only boots I wear are to wade through a stream or a prairie just burnt, not one where the precipitation of the moment reaches ones hips.

The Scilla pictured above is a week later than last year, two weeks later than 2021 and 2016 and 2012 in the same spot.   Only a week, only two weeks late?   It seems like an eternity.  An eternity compounded by my very, very late and nonexistent to prepare the garden.   For the first time I can remember, I have not yet touched the garden by Spring Break, the latter a milestone on the annual calendar of any professor.  Work, trips, illness, and sloth have left the garden on the outside, off the to-do list and fighting for itself.  Too few moderately-decent Spring days have appeared, a scattering on the weekdays and none on the weekend.   Today, 48ºF, is still too cold for my old bones to lay on the ground, and I wonder if the frost is really gone from just beneath the crust.   Soon, I expect, the race will begin, but this year, I may see daffodils surrounded by brown daylily debris, or fighting through lily stems.  Que sera sera.

Oh, I almost forgot; on my walk, there was this strange flower growing near a clump of daffodils.   A mutant daffodil?   A fungus?   Nope, a styrofoam ball from some discarded Christmas wreath, a poor substitute indeed for the stirring of sap and growth that should be occurring here!

Still Life w/Surprises

There are so many ways to read that title, eh?  "Still Life w/Surprises" merely as the title of a captured moment in art, an assembly of natural things that aren't moving?  Or do we have a "still life" photograph that also has elements that don't belong? Or is the photographer (i.e. ProfessorRoush) trying to say that life still has surprises? Today, it is all of the above.

Take for example the photograph above, a simple iPhone capture last weekend of my back garden bed ringing the house.  In among the debris, the observer can pick out the dried remains of Morning Glory vines, the multiple seed pod remnants from a Baptisia that grows nearby, the rotting pieces of last year's hardwood bulk mulch, and some dried daylily leaves.   All the leftovers of last year's growth desiccated and done, beyond regrowth, it's stored sugars and starches and energy transferred back into root or invested in seed.  And yet, if one looks closely enough, among the shades of brown, gray, black and tan is the green of next year's daffodils, the first sprouts pushing up from the soil in the first week of February, 2023.   Life's promise to go on.

Or, beside this paragraph, the reigning clump of Calamagrostis 'Eldorado', the nicest green and gold form of Feather Reed Grass I can grow.  In a four season climate, every season has its place and value, whether it is the promise of rain with the coming of spring or the sunshine of high summer to provide the energy for food production.   Even winter, at least to a gardener, has value as it exposes the bones of a garden, the structure of a branch or a shrub, yes, but also the interlopers of the garden, vigorous natives and non-natives hell-bent on taking over the space and serenity.   Here, it's the short Eastern Red Cedar, Juniperus virginiana, that grew stealthily last season in front of the grass and right before my eyes, but is de-camouflaged and exposed by the cruel fingers of winter.  I've marked it now, marked it for destruction when I make a first secateur pass during Spring cleanup.

The most exciting display of hidden surprises in my garden, however, is seen in the photograph at the left, a full view of my almost-Jelena Witch Hazel backed up by the massive leavings of a white Crepe Myrtle.  Can you look closely and find it, the surprise jewel among the worn branches?  Look very carefully, look at the base of the Witch Hazel for the surprise here.  Look for red among the brown in the picture at the right and the one below.

Somewhere, somehow, a volunteer rose has sprung up near the Witch Hazel, standing over 7 feet tall and like no other rose in my garden.   This one has the appearance of a short climber at present, nearly thornless, and with delightful red stems.  In my garden, only a few roses, mostly Canadians, have red thorns in winter, foremost among those my multiple bushes of 'Therese Bugnet' but Trashy Therese, who is admittedly prone to sucker, is nowhere near this bed and would have many more thorns.  The canes of Griffith Buck rose 'Iobelle' resemble these in color at the moment, but 'Iobelle' is 40 feet away, only reaches 3 feet tall, and never suckers. 

So, I think I have a seed-derived new rose, planted here by birds as a gift to the gardener, and the excitement is rising in my deep rosarian soul.  Will it survive the remainder of winter, proving its hardiness in this harsh dry and cold climate.  Will it flower this season, white or pink, single or double?   Will it continue to grow, a new climbing rose of my very own?  Will the canes turn red again next season and will it stay nearly thornless or become more thorn-covered as it ages?

These and other questions are why I garden, for the calm of a good life lived with the soil, for the gifts of nature that grow my soul, and for all the surprises out there, in the garden, that keep life interesting.