All gardens recall the original garden we were cast out of eons ago, and prefigure the one we may return to in the not so distant future. Our humble horticultural efforts prepare us body, mind and soul for that long hoped for destination. Or, for the more secular minded, our efforts help lay the groundwork for a garden we can bring about here on earth, through a judicious application of socialism, political correctness, and ever more centralized government. Good luck with that! For Nature, even the small part of it we can sequester within our yards and parks, is forever “red in tooth and claw”, as Tennyson put it.
My wife
and I have been avidly cultivating the same postage stamped sized yard for
nearly three decades. Our front yard is
not a lawn but a mass of native plants mixed with some invasive ornamentals:
butterfly weed, coneflower, yarrow, bee balm, and daisies, but also day lilies,
hostas, peonies and lavender. From time
to time I also allow interesting weeds—brought in by the birds and mice from
our next door neighbor’s generous bird feeding—to flourish for a time if they
spark my interest. (A fair amount of
wheat and corn has also sprouted in our yard as a result.) We get many compliments from passersby, but
also worried looks. The rain this year
has brought especial lushness to the garden.
Our
back yard is much the same, though a small lawn of diverse grass and clover species
separates the vegetable garden from a similar mix of natives, ornamentals and “guest
species”. More pristine gardeners, those
with emerald green lawns devoid of all but just one species of puny, fertilizer
dependent grass, would be horrified at what we have allowed to thrive and
multiply in our yard. It’s not that we
have any great ideological commitment to preservation; Nature is quite able to
preserve itself. We have achieved
biological diversity from sheer lack of effort and lack of time.
Still,
we don’t use pesticides of any kind, which allows a considerable variety of
small organisms to exist in close proximity to the house. My granddaughter is assisting me in
systematically inventorying these, using an essentially binary classification
scheme: “good” and “bad”.
Unlike
some of the more zealous organic gardeners in my town, we do not annually set
fire to our yard in imitation of Nature’s lightning strikes or the Native
Americans, who supposedly did this to rid their fields of annoying insects or
invasive weeds. The People’s Republic of
Ann Arbor provides permits for this activity.
Around here it is not uncommon in the early spring to find the occasional
front yard or wooded park blackened
by eco-pyromaniacs. (My preference would
be to set neighbor’s yards on fire and then watch innocently from the front
porch as nature—human nature at least—unfolds. My wife does
not share this enthusiasm.)
Alas, a
wild aster I have successfully cultivated for over a decade is succumbing this
year to an attack by members of the Tingidae
family. Until this week, I did not know
they even existed—forgivable because they are quite small. Years ago I had moved this plant from the
very back of the yard. The neighbor
behind our house had created the equivalent of a small duck pond and marsh by
damming the flow of water down the hill from our house. The micro-environment of my aster changed
from “dry prairie” to “lowland swamp” or even “rice-paddy” in a season. To save it, I had to move it.
I know
that my neighbor created her small earthen dam as revenge for my cutting down of several young spruce trees that
lined the berm separating our properties. The previous owners of our house had planted them, so we
claimed them as ours, but she believed
that her property included the berm itself and everything growing on it. Her duck pond project caused a spectacular
increase in mosquitos, rendering our back yard uninhabitable all summer. Balance was somewhat restored by clouds of
hungry bats that circled overhead at dusk, attracted by the unusually high
concentration of mosquitos. Bats are
cool.
I
considered fighting bio with bio, and thought about setting up bee hives—also legal
within the city limits and a big craze not long ago—orienting their entry ways
towards my neighbor’s back yard. I knew
from the movies that bees could be weaponized, as in the 1967 under rated
classic The Deadly Bees, (“Hives of
Horror!”). However, a local beekeeper informed me that
bees are not easily aimed, which was
a disappointment and a setback.
Because
we live in a horribly small world, I learned too late that my neighbor was also
vice president of a local hospital system where I applied for a position back
in the 90s. I had made the short list,
and was excited at the prospect of a new career opportunity. I arrived for my second interview, and as she
turned around at her desk we instantly recognized each other, the amateur
mosquito breeder and the novice lumberjack.
We exchanged awkward pleasantries, but our mutual landscaping prevented any future together as close colleagues.
We have
since achieved a level of peaceful coexistence along our shared border: she put in a drainage pipe to siphon off the
stagnant water and even gave us a compost bin she no longer needed; I hacked
down some invasive buckthorn trees for her and rerouted our gutter drains to reduce
the inundation of her property during the rainy season. Symbiosis
is sometimes possible among humans.
I moved
the wild aster to the front yard where it thrived for many years, until it was
recently overwhelmed by an invasion of Tingidae, specifically, Corythucha marmorata, the Chrysanthemum
Lace Bug or Goldenrod Lacebug. The
insect resembles a tiny moth in form, but with magnification displays a
spectacularly ornate wing form. Female adult
Lacebugs guard their eggs and herd their offspring away from potential
predators, which would be quaint and appealing if they had fewer legs. Pictures of the creature that is eating my
aster are available at:
Akin to
aphids, mealybugs, and scale insects, the Lacebug feeds by sucking on plant
juices. Different species, of which
there are around 150 in North America, are “host specific”, that is, assigned
to decimate a particular plant. There
are Oak Tree Lacebugs, Eggplant Lacebugs, Rhododendron Lacebugs and so
forth. Oak Tree Lacebugs occasionally
fall on people and attempt to resume feeding, resulting in mutual frustration
and dismay.
As is
typical with learning new names and new facts, once my attention had been drawn
to the Tingid family, I began seeing them everywhere. Last night, while strolling a local nature
park, my wife and I found a beleaguered thistle, about as tall as I am, with
the telltale stippling and discoloration of the leaves. Sure enough, I saw numerous adults,
differently colored from the ones in my garden, but with the same shape and habit. A thistle is a pretty tough plant ordinarily,
but its spines were a useless defense against the insect.
Which
made me wonder about the thousands of organisms we walk by or step on or even inhale in the course of our daily
meandering—unnamed, unknown, relentlessly busy and focused, just as we are in
securing our livelihoods and raising our offspring. My four year old assistant and I will
continue our inventory in hopes of learning the names and habits of at least a
few of these.
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