My chicken tractor is currently in the front garden. Hens may look mild-mannered, but their scorched earth policy is extreme and effective—they have done a fabulous job taming a campanula infestation. At least one of my older neighbors disapproves, but aside from the obvious weeding benefit, birds in the front also attract visits from the neighbor children. The toddler who lives two doors down, Huckleberry, generally comes over every evening before bedtime. And during pandemical times, I’ve enjoyed chatting with the children and their parents. So. In the front they remain.
This morning when I went out to feed the hens, only one came tumbling down the ramp in her characteristic state of discombobulation. I tossed in their breakfast and turned to admire my pumpkin patch in the area formerly infested—which I weeded yesterday and which, despite the cool wet spring, is coming along nicely. And then I noticed movement, dark, out of the corner of my eye. It was the other hen, silently sauntering up the front walk from the street. Evidently she’d escaped last night and had a walkabout. (Which probably accounts for my doorbell ringing after I was in bed. I did not get up.)
The cat, half the size of that bird, was supervising my morning rounds per usual. She disapproved of this scenario. So did I—although I was also astonished that this sweet ridiculous wanderer survived the coyotes and raccoons. How the hell am I going to get her back into the coop? I opened the hatch, anticipating a big stink, but she casually walked right in. I found a rock to stop up the escape route and went in for coffee.
I prefer less excitement in the two minutes after I wake, but, hey, crisis averted.
Several weeks ago I bought a persimmon tree. The restoration of the dust bowl situation of 2019 is coming along nicely, but there are a few little spots that could use verticality. Also, I love persimmons. So yesterday I went on bindweed patrol and cleared a small wasteland area and finally dug the hole for that gorgeous tree. Bonus: I found a fork, a potato, and a shard of what I think is called jadeite. These projects I think will take an hour typically eat up the entire day. Or, in the case of this persimmon planting, the entire season eleven of Coffee Break French.
In the last year or so since my city began changing rules and codes and whatnot to pave the way for more housing, I have occasionally felt defensive about having so much space, a small house and large garden all to myself. With the new zoning, three living units could be built on a parcel the size of mine. I haven’t seen green space as a high priority in any of these new development plans. On the days I work this little rectangle of land, I think about this. Do I want everyone to have a home? Yes. Do I want to give up this space? No. But for the first time yesterday, I considered who might come after me on this plot. Would they value this garden, this oasis of plant and bird diversity in a sea of lawn? Or would this be merely an investment?
Through an accident of algorithm and chance, I’m connected more to the UK gardening scene than the US. I didn’t understand the point of Instagram until I happened across several British garden accounts. And my pal Lawrence turned me on to the BBC’s Gardeners’ Question Time, which is a Friday afternoon treat every week. Notably, there is a mention of climate change in every episode. I sure hope gardeners in North America are also tuned in, but if they are, I haven’t heard.
While I worked yesterday, at the back of my mind, I was turning over the question of carbon sinks, wondering about the value of this space, which is not an investment but a home. I was thinking, too, about an article my friend Alison sent, about the deracination of literature. (Deracination! What a fabulous word.) I’d just finished Ali Smith’s brilliant Winter on Saturday, and it features a scene in which we learn that the blog, Art in Nature, is run by a guy, Arthur, who does not actually enter nature but explores from his computer using Google Maps. The articles and the book and my gardening toil—a confluence I could not have scripted.
So. That was my weekend, exhausting and satisfying. Yours?