Written on Earth Day, 2009
As you crest a hill on Old Susanna Road just before it drops down to our short side road, the horizon stretches before you. In the distance the hills march westward. Most prominent is Smith Mountain, with its abandoned fire tower still standing watch over the lake.
From this vantage point you see more shades of green than the vocabulary can name. It is worthwhile to pull to the side of the road and drink in the scene.
On our half hill spring is rampant. Last week, I prepared a two beds for some flowers that I had started from seed a couple of months ago. I was beginning to think that the plants would become root-bound before there was enough of a break in the cold, wind and rain for me to set them out.
At last, though, sun appeared, the soil dried and the thermometer climbed, and I carried the tray of fledgling flowers down to the beds by the seawall.
The planting went quickly. When I finished, I stood erect and stretched and let my eyes wander. The native azaleas are past their prime, and the winds have stripped the flowers from the dogwoods. But the oak leaf hydrangeas have fresh green leaves, and wildflowers abound.
Violets are still blooming, and the flowers that look like tiny asters – according to Joab Thomas’ excellent wildflower book wild asters should not be blooming, so perhaps they’re daisy fleabane – abound. Small yellow flowers – I think they are eared coreopsis – abound on the hillside and on the flat path along the seawall. One of these days I will have to run the string trimmer along the path, but not until the flowering is past.
The attention getters, though, are the wild irises. They are small, even delicate. It seems impossible that they would thrive on their own, but there they are. I am reminded of one of my favorite Kate Campbell songs: “He used to call her Wild Iris; if you said don’t, she would.” Which in turn reminds me of my own wild iris.
All of these wildflowers and more are around the beds into which I’ve prepared.
I confess that I am only a semi-skilled gardener, and I don’t know whether any of the seedlings I set out will survive, much less thrive. My success or failure in this particular venture doesn’t matter, though. In the riot of shapes and colors around me, I recognize that God is a lot better gardener than I am.
Perhaps my – our – greatest contribution to our beautiful planet would simply be to avoid messing it up.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
