The dog and I spent many a happy summer morning sitting under the walnut tree, watching the sprinklers run on the back lawn.
Watching sprinklers makes people feel good.
The previous owners of our house dug in that sprinkler system themselves. When they came to visit, a year after we bought the house, the four of us had dinner on the back deck. My husband ran the sprinkler system to demo that it was still working well. “Oh, that’s nice,” she sighed. We all sat smiling at the lawn.
That was 13 years ago. The lawn grew tired.
Mr. Daffodil Planter and I learned about dethatching lawns (fun!) and toiled in various ways on each inch of turf: kneeling with dandelion forks, spreading compost, pacing back and forth cranking handles of seed broadcasters, hoping each time that the gods of gardening would reward our efforts.
Last month we took a long look at the tussocky, patchy quarter-acre of turf. The only one really enjoying it was our galloping dog. And she didn’t have to mow.
Fate intervened. One sprinkler head refused to cooperate. “Let’s stop watering the lawn!” we said in unison.
And we have lived happily ever after.
We don’t know what we’re going to plant instead. Henry Mitchell would tell us that an open central area in full sun is perfect for a lily pool.
He’d be right, and then we could invite Animal Planet over to film all the mule deer, mountain lions, raccoons, and probably black bears who would stop by for a sip. So, short of opening our house as a nature-watchers' bed-and-breakfast, that idea is out.
We’re counting on the "no lawn" before-and-after photos at Blue Planet Gardening to inspire us.
In the meantime, the dog and I sit under the walnut tree in the morning and watch the Steller’s Jays.
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People who have lovage are wonderfully generous about giving hunks of it away, and once you have acquired it, you see why. Full grown, it is five feet tall, self-sows liberally if the birds don't get the seeds first, doesn't mind shade, is unkillable. Nobody needs as much lovage as, inevitably in a year or two, he has. It is true that it smells and tastes like celery, but it can't be eaten like celery--the flavor is too strong and the stalks are tough. A few leaves added to a soup or stew are sufficient to impart a celery flavor, and I prefer it to celery in a court bouillon. A friend of mine devours the leaves raw on sliced tomatoes in a sandwich. I keep it because I have it (it was, of course, a present), but given the amount I use in relation to the colossal size, I can't call it an essential herb.
My corner of New England happens to be well endowed with herb farms and my will power easily sapped by the sight of plants for sale. Surely a gold-leaved marjoram wouldn't be amiss? What about a Lavandula viris from the Canary Islands? And inevitably the car fills up with plants that will turn out to be too large, too small, or simply not as interesting as their history and provenance have made them sound. There is, I find, that drawback to herbs. No other class of plant bears such a weight of myth and symbolism, and it can be oversold. For me there comes a time when it isn't enough to know that a plant was sacred to Jupiter, used to ward off snakes, a symbol of loyalty or mentioned by Theophrastus, when all it looks like is a not very exciting wild flower/weed.
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