Reclaiming the Valley of Death

Ten years we've lived in our house and all that time I've lovingly referred to our backyard as the Valley of Death.

The way my backyard once looked.

(NPS photo)

It wouldn't be fair to say nothing grows in the Valley of Death. There's sandy soil with good drainage. Half the yard is shaded by tall pines sprinkled around the periphery of our property. A few lonely bushes planted by the builder in 2005 had managed to muscle through.

Not the azaleas, mind you. Azaleas and I have never been able to reach a common understanding. My record of killing azaleas is second to none in North Carolina. In fact, if reincarnation is real, then all those poor azaleas I've tortured over the years must have committed some egregious sins in past lives for which they needed to atone.

In the interests of full disclosure, most things I've planted in the Valley of Death have withered and died primarily because I've consistently chosen the wrong kinds of plants. I would find myself roaming the garden section of Lowe's or Walmart, see something colorful and think:

"This looks pretty. I'm going to bring it home and watch it grow." 

Then I'd get it home, plant it, and watch it burn to a cinder in the high heat of summer because I neglected to read the informational card telling me the plant needs 17 hours of shade, several gallons of water, morale-building pep talks, and deep-tissue leaf massages three times a day. After years of this behavior, I finally learned to read the labels and, unknowingly, moved to the opposite end of the spectrum. Only those plants capable of tolerating full sun and requiring little to no water started making the trip home with me. It no longer mattered if they were pretty. The question I asked when wandering the garden section became:

"Can it survive equatorial solar radiation, desert droughts, and the occasional fire ant infestation?"

I wanted plants with a Dungeons and Dragons constitution score of 18, plus three for magical potions (fertilizer). The trouble with that line of thinking is you end up with a yard full of plants and shrubs that look scraggly, twiney and neglected even in the best of health and at full bloom. It's difficult to take pride in showing off a garden full of purposefully planted weeds and sticks that would make Georgia O'Keeffe long for the lush greenery of the New Mexican dessert.

Lately, it seems, I have managed to strike a balance between aesthetics and sturdiness. It all began with a blueberry bush.

I can't recall if I bought the bush or it was given to me as a gift. However it came to me, I planted it in the backyard in the one shady spot where things seems to grow. After all, I like blueberries. I like eating them. I enjoy baking with them. I wanted the bush to have the greatest chance of survival, and planting it where I did paid off. The bush produced approximately one dozen berries that first year, a few dozen the next, quite a few dozen the following year, and presently is poised to yield several hundred berries in the coming weeks.

I fully realize one bush does not the Garden of Eden make, but any sign of success was encouragement. So, this spring, I decided it was time for the Valley of Death to meet its maker.

My next project -- a simple, under-
stated water feature.
(NPS photo)

At present, there are five knockout rose bushes, the blueberry bush, two rosemary plants, several new crepe myrtles, two wildflower patches, two butterfly bushes (which were already there, but which appear to have sensed the enthusiasm), two lovely camellias (thanks Mom and Dad), one spindly grassy thing with long spikes topped by purple blooms, and a rapidly growing grape vine. I hadn't really intended to grow grapes, but Aldi had a rack of mismarked plants ("Grape Bush") near the checkout counter and I simply couldn't resist. Even the oregano I ripped out last year has sprouted anew.

With all this new growth boosting my confidence, perhaps it's time to take the yard to the next level. I've often thought it might be fun to install a water feature. Nothing too intricate, just a simple, understated cascading waterfall with mossy boulders surrounded by a fully matured natural pine forest. Piece of cake...



© 2015 Mark Feggeler

Feathery Fascist

Three feeders hang on hooks off our back porch. Each a different size and shape, holding roughly the same quantity of super-sweet red syrup.

You'd think forty-eight ounces of nectar would be more than enough for a gaggle of hummingbirds. After all, the buzzing little creatures are so tiny. Any smaller and they would be more a subject of concern for entomologists than for ornithologists.

I've always felt fairly sorry for hummingbirds, being so small. Despite their speed and precision maneuvering, it must be tough going through life knowing there are few animals and reptiles that would not consider you a snack to be swallowed whole, saving the long pointy beak to use for a toothpick when finished.

Were I in the hummingbird's position, I might be inclined to behave in a head-down, mind-my-own-business kind of way, hoping to avoid interaction with anything possessing a bite radius wider than my body. Turns out quite the opposite is true. Not only are hummingbirds highly inquisitive fellows, they are fiercely territorial. Take, for instance, little Benito.

Benito can regularly be seen fanatically patrolling the airspace defined by our white plastic backyard fence. Should another hummingbird enter his territory, the chase is on. I've seen Benito and his quarry pitch, roll, and bank in ways that would impress the most accomplished jet fighter pilot.

More often than not, however, Benito is perched atop one of the metal hooks holding the hummingbird feeders, puffing out his chest to declare his totalitarian manifesto to the world, or at least to that one rebellious bird from the wooded lot next door who persistently attempts to chip away at the rigid structure of Benito's authority.

If past years offer any indication of what to expect, before too long Benito will be fighting a losing battle. The single rebel from next door will be joined by two, possibly more, partisan freedom fighters. They will take it in turns to lead Benito away from the back porch so the others can raid the feeders during the chase. By the time he returns, weary and worn from yet another fruitless dog fight, his heart rate racing to over 1,300 beats per minute, yet another quarter ounce of precious nectar will have vanished from his supply.

It would be nice if little Benito would let down his guard and broaden his world view. Just think how much more pleasant life would be for all of them if, instead of ruling over the feeders with a heavy wing and unsuccessfully trying to keep them only for himself, he opened his borders and shared the wealth.

Imagine a seventeen-seat counterculture nectar bar full of feathery grooviness and free-form avian poetry readings with a hippie hummingbird manifesto posted for all to see: "Love is all you need!"

And maybe a little nectar, too.




© 2011 Mark Feggeler