It’s a girl!

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For the last 20-plus years, we’ve referred to the eastern box turtle that visits our garden every June as ‘Ernie.’ (See my post about wildlife in the garden.) But last night we learned that Ernie is a female turtle when I discovered her laying eggs in the herb garden. And so, we have rechristened her ‘Ernestina.’ (‘Ernestine’ seemed a little dowdy for such a special creature, and she is certainly worthy of the extra syllable.)

Ernestina digging a nest.

Just after sunset yesterday, I found Ernestina in an empty patch of soil where I usually plant basil (haven’t gotten around to that yet). I missed her usual appearance last year so was glad to see her alive and well. I didn’t hang around long, she’s not crazy about people. When I checked on her later, I noticed something was different from all the other times I had come across her, usually looking annoyed or head-down, Greta Garbo-like in a shallow burrow of leaves, pine needles, or soil in the vegetable garden. This time she had dug several inches into the soft soil and her butt was in the deep end and her head and front legs were on the surface. She was making a slow rocking motion, and her back legs were pushing soil around. She did not draw her head and legs into her shell as she usually does when we meet. Clearly, eggs were happening!

I consulted various conservation websites and learned that Ernestina’s behavior was classic for a turtle of egg-laying age (typically not until they are 8-20 years old). She had dug two other shallow depressions nearby until settling on the final spot for her nest. She laid her eggs in soft soil near the top of a hill in an open space where they would be warmed by the sun (hatchling sex is determined by soil temperature–warm sites result in female hatchlings, cool sites males). I also learned that few box turtle eggs survive since they are irresistible to racoons, skunks, snakes, coyotes, and crows—all of which frequent our garden.

Ernestina’s beautiful finished nest.

I checked on her one more time around 11 pm and she was still in the nest. In the morning, she was gone, which wasn’t surprising since Eastern box turtles take a hands-off approach to parenthood. I was relieved to see her beautiful nest undisturbed—she had completely covered the eggs and topped them with a slight mound of soil and leaves. I knew I had to take it from here if Ernestina’s babies had any chance of survival.

Nest box in progress.

I found plans online for making a mesh box to protect the nest and eggs and quickly put one together (the plans I used are at https://wiatri.net/Inventory/WiTurtles/Volunteer/Images/ProtectingTurtleNests.pdf). As we carefully installed the box over the nest, we disturbed a large ant colony and a wolf spider carrying her egg sac on her back. This little spot was a hotbed of egg-laying! We put some temporary rocks around the base of the cage to discourage predators digging, but will remove them in about a month so as not to impede the baby turtles. With any luck, they will hatch in 45-90 days.

Finished nest box and once placed over nest. I’ll remove stones closer to the hatch date.

For more information about the Eastern box turtle, visit https://www.nwf.org/Educational-Resources/Wildlife-Guide/Reptiles/Eastern-Box-Turtle.

Garden hopes and dreams

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Spring crocus will be blooming soon.

We’re all feeling it—the need for spring.

One morning this week, shortly after dawn while taking the compost out, I heard a robin singing a spring song. It was sharp and clear in the cold air with nothing else stirring. Later I bundled up and poked around the garden, looking for more spring. I was not disappointed. The hellebores are starting to pull their green flower buds from the frozen earth and a scattering of snowdrop tips have appeared. I pushed a couple heaved heuchera back in the ground, gathered up some plant tags that were blowing around and headed back to the warm house and a cup of tea.

Gardeners always look forward to spring. Sure, I’m glad to hang up my tools in November and take a break, but by mid-January I’m cracking the seed catalogs and dreaming about what to grow. And this spring, more than almost any other, will be most welcome.

Our gardens provided so much in 2020, not the least of which a place to forget about the pandemic as well as political and civil unrest. Our gardens gave us ways to learn, share, observe and succeed. We found beauty, wonder and a connection to the natural world that was more critical than ever. Our gardens provided sanity and peace.

While I enjoy winter and a break from gardening, I have missed the garden. I welcome the lengthening days, the birds staking out their territory and the winter flowers starting to bloom. More than anything else, I welcome the hope of this spring: hope that the spectre of the virus will wane sometime this year, hope that political and civil unrest subsides and hope that we as a country can bridge our many divides and work together to make things better.

I wish you good health and a great gardening year!

What’s new in gardening?

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Last week I attended the 50th Mid-Atlantic Nursery Trade Show at the Baltimore Convention Center, the absolute best place to get a full-on view of what’s new in the green industry. The 30,000-foot exhibit space is jammed with plant breeders and growers; tool, equipment and apparel purveyors; resellers of outdoor furniture, pots, and statuary in every shape, size, and color; companies who formulate and sell soil amendments, mulches, and fertilizers; and much more. Here are a few of the cool things I saw:

‘HGC Jacob’ hellebore—IMG_3497If you’re looking to add some winter blooms to the garden, hellebores fit the bill, and this one blooms early: November and all through winter. I like the way its bright white flowers are held upright above the foliage so you can really see them in the garden. Dark leathery leaves remain attractive all through summer too. But this hellebore wasn’t the only new kid on the block. There were more new perennnials (and some terrific older ones) than you could shake a stick at.

Succulents and air plants—The succulent and air plant craze continues, and that’s ok by me. New shapes, sizes, and colors continue to hit the market. After all, there’s always room for one more on the windowsill, right?IMG_3499

Downy mildew-resistant impaimg_3541.jpgtiens—Shade gardeners have been subbing coleus, begonias, and caladiums ever since downy mildew flattened impatiens about eight years ago. While those substitutes are perfectly fine plants, we’ve missed our impatiens. Plant breeders came to the rescue and are now offering us a slew of mildew-resistant varieties, including this deep-red number called ‘Beacon.’

Blight-resistant boIMG_3535xwood—Speaking of devastating diseases, boxwood blight has been a doozy. It’s especially tough because boxwood has been a reliable and long-lived structural element in gardens for centuries. Once again, plant breeders have stepped up and introduced blight-resistant varieties like NewGen Independence® and NewGen Freedom,® which are set to hit the market this year.

 

Insect-resistant hemlock—Our majestic stands of hemlock trees have been brought to the brink by a nasty introduced pest, the wooly adelgid. Up to this point, chemical intervention has been the only effective way to save hemlocks in the landscape and in the wild. Thankfully, the scientists at the U.S. National Arboretum are getting ready to introduce an adelgid-resistant hemlock called ‘Traveler.’ A cross with Chinese hemlock, this variety has a slightly more weeping habit than our native hemlock, but to the average gardener, it looks pretty darn similar. You may not see this variety in the nurseries for a couple more years, so until then keep checking and treating your hemlocks.

IMG_3536Witchhazels and a tree-form winterberry holly—The best thing about MANTS is talking to the people you meet or reconnect with. Tim Brotzman is a wizard when it comes to tree propagation and I enjoyed visiting his booth and talking to him and his wife Sonia. Some of his 125 varieties of witchhazels were on display in full bloom, as was an interesting tree form of winterberry holly (usually this is a thicket of a shrub). Tim’s nursery in Lake County, OH is wholesale only, but you will find many of his creations at your local garden center.

IMG_3560The bougainvillea whisperer—After failing spectacularly with bougainvillea last summer, I was gobsmacked by the colorful display at the Topiary Creations booth. Claude was kind enough to give me a detailed rundown on how to care for them and, most importantly, how to get them to re-bloom. My good friend Mrs. Know-It-All captured his tutorial on video, and you can find it (and other videos from the show) at this link (be sure to scroll down): https://www.facebook.com/Mrs-Know-It-All-135749349792882/.

Vole King—No, this isn’t the ruler of those rotten little rodents that eat your bulbs, turf, and hosta roots. This is an innovative company that makes products to foil those pesky critters. Featured at their booth were stainless steel mesh ‘bags’ of various sizes in which you can plant perennials, shrubs, and even trees to put the ‘closed’ sign on your subterranean all-you-can-eat buffet. If you are plagued by these voracious vegetarians, head on over to voleking.com and pick up a few bags or even a roll of the mesh for your garden.

MANTS 50_Horizontal50th Anniversary panel discussion—I can’t close without highlighting the fact that this was the 50th anniversary of MANTS! We garden writers were treated to a special panel discussion by veterans of the show who shared how it has changed in those 50 years, what hasn’t, and their outlook for the future of the green industry.

  • How the show has changed (aside from getting bigger): More women in the industry; more colorful perennials and flowering trees and shrubs; the introduction of branding and marketing of plants; evidence of climate change (one panelist likened Baltimore to “frozen tundra” during MANTS, but now the days are usually above freezing).
  • What hasn’t changed: The common denominators remain the advancement of plants, gardening, horticulture, and people.
  • Panelists’ outlook for the future: The green industry has a critical role to play in climate change by offering trees, shrubs, and other plants that can be used for carbon sequestration. Labor will continue to be a challenge as long as restrictions on H-1B workers remain and young people do not see the benefits of a career in the industry. There are many new opportunities such as cannabis and hemp production, bioremediation, and new plant development to combat introduced pests and diseases.

 

On the wild side

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 When my husband and I bought our one-acre property 21 years ago, it was a sunbaked hilltop devoid of vegetation except for an ill-placed dogwood, an ancient smokebush, a couple boring big-box-store shrubs and a sea of scrubby lawn. Inside, we were amazed at the amount of dust and cat hair on our furniture now apparent in the bright house.

I approached the blank-slate property with its rich soil and abundant light as my canvas and it has become my laboratory where I test plants and watch what they do each season. Sometimes I move plants around or split them to share with gardening friends. Some, I dig out and throw away. I have a manila folder titled, ‘Plants That Croaked’ that is bulging with the tags of dead plants. The winners remain in the garden and are included in my plant lists for clients.

As a by-product of all this planting, our property is now an oasis for us as well as wildlife we never encountered when the landscape was barren. We love nothing better than spending an evening on the shady patio watching birds flit among the trees and shrubs, scrappy hummingbirds fighting over the feeder and rabbits nibbling and leaping.

The increase in birds is the most noticeable change. Their songs fill the air and they raise families in the dense foliage. I find their abandoned nests each autumn after the leaves fall. There is an astonishing array of bird species too. Not only the usual suburban wrens, sparrows, chickadees, jays, crows and cardinals, but bluebirds too, and cedar waxwings who descend en masse like bandits in their dark masks to gobble ripe fruits from the serviceberry, holly and dogwood trees. Red-tailed hawks cruise low and fast past the bird feeder, and often ride the thermals high above the open land of the lower yard. Sometimes a puff of rabbit fur tells the tale of a meal found. And climate change has pushed the range of the annoying mockingbird our way.

An eastern box turtle makes an appearance in the vegetable garden every June. I can tell it’s the same one because it has aErnie distinctive ‘E’ marking on its shell so I’ve named it Ernie. This year Ernie brought a friend, a smaller box turtle I saw just once nestled between the rows of garlic. I’m not sure if the scent of ripe strawberries draws Ernie from the woods several hundred feet away, but he always samples the bounty and I don’t mind sharing. Ernie hung around longer this year. From the vegetable garden, he relocated to the shelter of the fig and was last seen burrowed under the towering lovage in the herb garden. After all these years, I have never seen Ernie on the move (although my husband nearly ran him over with the lawn tractor once) and he seems to resent human contact. He slowly withdraws into his shell if I approach, and just our appearance is enough to make him disappear for days. Nonetheless, I feel I have been bestowed with a great blessing when he makes an appearance.

We have seen fox trotting along the woods line and one chilly Thanksgiving morning, I watched a beady-eyed mangy one catch a chipmunk outside the kitchen door and chomp it down in three bites. After its meal, the wretched thing ambled out to the back garden and curled up in the leaves to nap in the sunshine.

The other day I upended in my hand a small plastic pot containing a pepper plant and laughed when I spied a tiny toad butt. I turned the unpotted plant in my hand, and one sleepy eye of the toad stared back at me, looking somewhat annoyed at the disturbance. I gently set the plant and soil into the hole that I had dug and carefully patted soil around it. I hope the toad went back to sleep in its more spacious home.

There has been, to my dismay, the occasional snake. Many years ago on a hot afternoon, a long dark snake slithered my way across the lawn as I watered plants on the patio. I resisted the urge to drop the watering wand and run; instead, I trained the stream of water onto its back, which it seemed to appreciate. After a few minutes, I turned off the water, carefully set down the wand, scooped up the cat, who was staring goggle-eyed, and headed indoors. From the door, I watched the snake curl up in one of the pots I had just watered. A few minutes later it was gone and thankfully I never saw it after that. My husband dispatched a small garter snake who slithered into the garage on a hot day, seeking shade and the cool cement. Recently, my neighbor’s nine-year-old grandson saw a rat snake crawl up her chimney and into her house, no doubt to eat the starling chicks that were nesting in her siding. An hour later we saw the awful thing retreating under the hollies outside our kitchen door. I checked on a robin nest nearby and the lone turquois egg was gone that had been there the day before. I then realized there were far fewer chipmunks making holes in the garden this year and virtually no baby bunnies. Clearly, the snake was enjoying the smorgasbord around here. I know snakes are good and eat a lot of varmints, but I don’t want one nearby, especially one that climbs so well. So I spray a cinnamon oil concoction, which is reported to repel snakes, and keep a long bamboo pole handy to rustle and poke the shrubbery as I mutter “Go away, Mr. Snake.”

For better or worse, the gardens we make enrich our lives and support bugs and birds, mammals and reptiles. And these creatures become part of the story of our garden too.

 

In like a lion

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My garden stirs in late winter. I bundle up and venture out to witness the first faint pulses of change, looking for proof that spring is on the horizon. I quickly find the goods.

IMG_2022The air smells different now, no longer tinged with snow but with an earthiness brought forth from the tentative thaw. Hellebore flowers, from under their winter-battered leathery leaves, are dragging their fresh ruffled chartreuse blooms from the cold soil like tousle-headed teenagers trying to wake. Birds dart in and out of the viburnum hedge, noisily staking out their nesting territory. I round the corner and gasp, delighted as spring smacks me full force. Why am I surprised? It happens every year.

In all this hesitant spring business—the freezing and the thawing, the occasional teasingly bright warm day or half day—there it is: the black pussy willow, trumpeting spring and not pussy-footing around about it in the least. I stand marveling at its silhouette against the gray sky, a huge ugly hulking pile of sticks that are now dotted with inky tufts along their lengths. How long has it been in full bloom? It never says. But it might wonder why it took me so long to notice.

I admire these intrepid winter bloomers—the hellebore, the witchhazel, the pussy willow. What they lack in floral glitz they make up for in grit. Their sap stirs long before our sights are on spring and their curious flowers flex from within icy buds. These early risers seem impatient to get the business of flowering and pollination out of the way and, in the process, offer up life-saving nectar and pollen to woozy bees and other insects emerging on those first warm days.

I bought the black pussy willow (Salix melanostachys) as a mere twig in a four-inch pot decades ago from a long-defunct nursery. I remember seizing on it as a great prize, something unique. I planted the tiny stick in what seemed a huge area at the back corner of the garage where it would have room to grow and receive runoff from the downspout, since willows love water. I fretted when my husband ran over it with the lawn mower, twice. It must have enjoyed the abuse because it never looked back from that point, growing wider by the year. Its twiggy bulk now stretches above the roof gutters, trashing them with its slender leaves. My husband complains when he mows under it and the branches knock his hat off. Who’s getting the last laugh now?

For much of the year the black pussy willow is an unremarkable plant, save for its size. But as winter drags on and spring seems distant, I am always astonished when the glistening black catkins emerge amidst the unsettled throes of late winter. I clip a few of the red-tipped stems to bring inside so I can closely watch the black fuzzy flowers open further. Some are capped with shiny maroon bud scales that eventually litter the table, along with yellow pollen that dusts the tips of the shaggy flowers. Soon I will sweep up the mess and drop the spent twigs into the compost pile as the daffodils finally dare to bloom.