Old Gardener, New Deer Tricks- the REAL Story of Deer Resistance

Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn. 

Benjamin Franklin

Deer hoof print

I have had a great time gardening in my own garden in the last year. I am learning about perennials, salt tolerance, wind tolerance, rock gardening, storm surge, sand as soil, flowering rotations, and anger management. Yes, anger management. On any given day, I don't need the North Koreans, Democrats or Republicans to start my day off wrong. All I need to do is to walk out into my infant garden to see what was chomped the night before. Mind you, I have spent hours and hours choosing from "Deer Resistant" lists, although always noting the caveat that deer "might" nibble on just about anything with starvation pressures. But here we are in the middle of a lush summer, with the woods spreading out behind me for miles.
I have resorted to caging some plants, netting others, and even spraying the rest, all with spotty results at best.
My years in psychology push me to inquire....What do deer really want? Is it the tender leaf? Is it the newly planted gem? Is it the one that has gotten knee high, or those ground covers that can be hoovered up with a sway of the head? Psychology is perfectly subjective enough to answer this question. It seems that the deer only want what I want- nothing more, nothing less. They will bypass a large delicious place filler for the insignificant deer resistant gomphrena seedlings

Gomphrena globosa 'QIS Orange'

 I had nursed from their package to the "nip-it-in" the bud stage. I planted the deer resistant Scabiosa seedlings among the established Artemesia 'Silver Brocade'

Scabiosa atropurpurea and Artemesia 'Silver Brocade'

to protect them early on. That worked well until the monsters decided it was a delicious combination, and razed the entire bed. Last fall I had the brilliant idea of sowing poppies in the empty spaces I hoped to fill up in spring. Deer "never" touch poppies. Yet the "million seed" mix I purchased never produced one uneaten flower from any species but Eschscholzia californica- the California poppy- (hope it seeds in!!)
They'll wait until the night before I plan to make pesto for a company dinner to take every leaf of the sweet basil,

Sweet Basil

and, for good measure, pick most of the purple basil leaves off and spit them on the ground. They'll try to fake me out by just snipping off the new, very yellow tops of Sedum 'Angelina' or the red of

Sedum 'Sun Sparkler Firecracker'

Sedum 'Sunsparkler Firecracker', so as to make me wonder what happened to the color over night. And, hey- Martha Stewart, my Salvia elegans (pineapple sage)

Salvia elegans

was 2 1/2 ' when it started. Hasn't been over 5" since, and gets regularly mowed, leaves, stems and all. Yucca 'Color Guard', Hesperaloe parviflora flower stalk

Hesperaloe parviflora

, Sedum 'Sunsparkler Firecracker', Podocarpus macrophyllus 'Akame', Asclepias 'Gay Butterflies', Amsonia hubrichtii, Coreopsis 'Zagreb', Bronze Fennel, French Tarragon, Heliotropium arborescens....all mowed down; all "deer resistant". 

So I am making my own list, based on completely unscientific, but replicated trials of my own. That's the list I think we need.
I would love your feedback, too.


PLANTS DEER DO NOT EVER TOUCH

Shrubs

Buxus sempervirens ‘Variegata’

Cephalotaxus harringtonia ‘Duke Gardens’

Caryopteris x clandonensis 'Worchester Gold'

Cestrum parqui 'Orange Peel'

Edgeworthia chrysantha

Ficus carica

Illicium parviflorum ‘Florida Sunshine’

Juniperus virginiana ‘Hillspire’

Malvaviscus arboreus var drummondii

Michelia (Magnolia) figo

Olea europeaea

Spiraea thunbergia ‘Ogon’

Perennials

Acorus gramineus ‘Oborozuki’

Agastache rupestris

Ajuga reptans ‘Black Scallop’

Allium tuberosum

Amsonia hubrictii

Ardisia crenata

Artemesia x 'Powis Castle'

Carex elata

Carex glauca ‘Blue Danube’

Colocasia esculenta

Colocasia esculenta ‘Black Magic’

Colocasia esculenta ‘Mojito’

Crinum species

Crocosmia x ‘Lucifer’

Disporum cantoniense

Epimedium sulphureum

Euphorbia myrsinites

Euphorbia robbiae

Euphorbia wulfenii

Farfugium gigantean

Festuca glauca ‘Boulder Blue’

Iris germanica cvs

Iris louisiana ‘C’est Magnifique’

Iris tectorum

Juncus effusus

Molinia caerulea ‘Strahlenquelle’

Nasella tenuissima

Nepeta faassenii ‘Walker’s Low’

Osmunda regalis

Panicum virgatum ‘Shenandoah’

Phlomis russeliana

Rosmarinus officinalis

Salvia guaranitica 'Amistad'

Salvia greggii

Teucrium fruticans

Santolina rosmarinifolia

Illicium parviflorum 'Florida Sunshine'

 http://www.marthastewart.com/265284/deer-resistant-garden
http://deerresistantplants.com/cgi-bin/webc.cgi/st_main.html?p_catid=9

https://pender.ces.ncsu.edu/files/library/71/Deer%20Resistant%20Plants.pdf
http://pss.uvm.edu/ppp/articles/deerplants.html

Develop a passion for learning. If you do, you will never cease to grow. 

Anthony J. D'Angelo

I continue to trial plants to learn what really works. 
l hope this also means the plants in my garden will never cease to grow, too !

Just Ask Emily

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring –

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –

The Dews drew quivering and Chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses' Heads

Were toward Eternity –

 EMILY DICKINSON 

Our friend Charlotte died on Saturday. She was not terribly sick for very long, and walked willingly into the hands of God, as was her way. She spent the better part of the last year making sure that her friends and family knew that she was ready to go when she must. She pulled no punches.
Charlotte was a pistol - " a person with a lot of verve and personality, and the sort you don't forget."  She was an infectious gardener and plantswoman; a woman of both words and deeds; one smart cookie. She liked "pretty things". She loved to celebrate- she loved dinner parties, beer, wine, fancy hors d'oeuvres, candles and flowers, bourbon. She liked her food spicy, and her hugs big and tight. She was the driving force behind the Piedmont Gardeners Spring Garden Tour, held every third Saturday in April for the last 25 years. That tour not only encouraged the love of gardening in the Athens, Ga, area, but raised scholarship money to support horticulture and design students at UGA. And best of all, she was a beloved mother to her two girls, and dearest "Mimi" to her four granddaughters.

We got the news of her death on a visit to Massachusetts. We were there to visit our granddaughter Olive, but spent a little time doing other things while Olive was in school. One of those things was a tour of Emily Dickinson's house in Amherst. It has been a good long time since I have seriously read Emily's poetry, but there are a few poems whose first lines, at least, I remember. And it occurs to me now that the approach Emily Dickinson took with her poetry was much the same as Charlotte's approach to life and to death. She was straightforward, precise, directly to the point even on tough subjects, but with a creative flair, a lilt, maybe a sly wink.

The weekend would have been sad for us but for Olive.
Olive is a hoot. She's got a twinkle in her eye, and plan in her head. Her smiles and spark kept us energized, enthusiastic, swingin' and slidin'.

Olive is 21 months, but she can say most anything she wants. Her chatter is non-stop. If you say something to her, she'll repeat it. If you ask her something, she mostly nods and says "Yep". She loves reading, she loves puzzles, she loves being outside, she loves all sorts of food. She is pure joy to be with; a light touch to a heavy heart. I've spent some time mulling over the emotions stirred up over those few days. As it turns out, Emily had already figured it out for me, and put it in words that even I could understand.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

 EMILY DICKINSON

Lobal Warming

How about this weather? Everyone I know is asking that same question. Here we are at the end of February, and I'm in shorts and a T-shirt cutting grass and sowing vegetable seed outside. Something crazy is going on.

Some will tell you it's global warming. Maybe it is or maybe it isn't. But I am old enough to know that this isn't the first time we've had temperatures like this in  February.

It was a week at the end of February, 1974. We were all right in the middle of winter quarter, the horrible days of dark,cold, rain. Studies were going well, I guess, but who can remember that part? What I do remember is that the country was nearing a change in the Viet Nam war. College protests had really revved up just before I got to UGA in 1970. They still persisted thru the next several years, but nothing to the degree of those in the 60s. Even with the success of those protests, or maybe because of that success, college campuses like mine continued to look for a way to make a statement. But then, college students can have a bit of a short attention span. 

Apparently the idea of streaking had come from other college campuses here and there. http://www.history.com/speeches/the-streaking-phenomenon . It was probably a small but fun way to continue the thrill of civil disobedience. 

Spring break was weeks away at that point. It seemed like the sun never came out. Then, out of nowhere, it got warm. Not warmish....but hot warm, humid warm, summer warm. Kids got outside. Summer clothes appeared. The drudgery of every day college classes disappeared. Sex was in the air. Young brains were on fire. And the streaking began.

As with most social phenomena, it started small -just a few wacky guys, maybe on a dare. Then a few more, and a few more after that. The warm weather made it easier to do, and also gave the few an audience of the more since so many folks were outside enjoying the sun. Timing was random, but word seemed to get out. Campus was abuzz, distracted, seduced by the warmth and tantalized by the exposure. 

Spurred on by their peers, more and more joined the ranks of the naked. Fraternity brothers gathered in groups. Dormitories organized even larger packs of runners. The news was getting out to every student, then snowballing into the media across the Southeast. A little harmless fun was turning into a competitive sport across college campuses. Each day a new challenge was laid down and then met that night. By the end of the week, campus police had closed down whole streets because of the crowds. Thousands lined Baxter street, in the ultimate in food and drink tailgating, to watch the proceedings. The finale "big streak" produced 1543 bare bottomed beauties and a new national record.     http://www.redandblack.com/news/univ-cracks-streaking-record/article_83ee6175-ae24-517a-8157-f039dbd65197.html  

The next day, damp, gray, cold was back. 

Exams were looming.  The fever broke. As quick as it came, it was gone.

 But now, as the weather warms, we old folks can smile and remember.

“sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love

(all the merry little birds are
flying in the floating in the
very spirits singing in
are winging in the blossoming)

lovers go and lovers come
awandering awondering
but any two are perfectly
alone there's nobody else alive

(such a sky and such a sun
i never knew and neither did you
and everybody never breathed
quite so many kinds of yes)

not a tree can count his leaves
each herself by opening
but shining who by thousands mean
only one amazing thing

(secretly adoring shyly
tiny winging darting floating
merry in the blossoming
always joyful selves are singing)

sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love”

― E.E. Cummings

Back into the Fold

February 8, 2017. Noisy thunderstorms overnight, followed by a warm gentle rain most of the morning. Clearing skies around noon. Perfect time for a walk, followed by a little work in the yard.

We've had some cold weather this winter, for sure. But the temperature roller coaster has also crested over into the 70s several times, including today. I've been cleaning out the woods across from the house, mulching, killing weeds, all in anticipation of spring planting.

What's so remarkable is my overwhelming anticipation. No matter what other obligations and interests might be out there, no matter that the work is no longer a profession, I find myself pushing to get outside.. The first crocus flowers, the foliage of Tulipa clusiana, the Allium species showing buds..... all are due their close inspection, and  momentary appreciation, at least.

Really what I wanted, as the temperatures rose, was to put my hands in the dirt. It seemed cleansing, rejuvenating, and hopeful. But it was more than that. It was ritual, tradition, a solemn rite. Yes, the warm weather was welcome. True, the longer days were invigorating. But plunging my fingers into the cool, sandy black earth put me back into the fold; the order of the gardener. 

What makes this refuge so comfortable? In that sanctuary are gathered many souls, from then and now. We know the hour by the reach of shadow or the clench of petals; know the month by the swell of buds or the flourish of colors. We are immersed in the cosmos that is revealed moment by moment, plant by plant.

Those truest connections wash over us.

The work is hard. The harder the work, the more satisfying. The work is hot, or cold, or too dry, or too wet. We do what we can to mitigate. What we can't do, we yield to the great mother. It is a lesson in persistence, in humility, in optimism. And for me, it was always a lesson in finding the depth, the core, the bonds that make us a part of each other. 

My gardening friends know me, and I know them. There are few greater gifts than touching that knowledge every time you pick up a trowel.

May Sarton: "An Observation"

True gardeners cannot bear a glove

Between the sure touch and the tender root,

Must let their hands grow knotted as they move

With a rough sensitivity about

Under the earth, between the rock and shoot,

Never to bruise or wound the hidden fruit.

And so I watched my mother's hands grow scarred,

She who could heal the wounded plant or friend

With the same vulnerable yet rigorous love;

I minded once to see her beauty gnarled,

But now her truth is given me to live,

As I learn for myself we must be hard

To move among the tender with an open hand,

And to stay sensitive up to the end

Pay with some toughness for a gentle world.

Photography credit: Detail from "Farmer's Strong, Work Toughened Hands Planting in the Garden," by Ed Clark (originally black and white).

I Do Desire What I Have

Day 8. Still sick. After a visit with the wonderful but snotty nosed grandson two weeks ago, we have been going down the viral hill. Each morning since last Friday, I have been enthusiastic that today will be the day that I feel much better. After coughing and blowing my nose for the next two hours, I am exhausted, and not optimistic. It's only a cold, for goodness sake!! I should be able to fight thru it. So on a few warm days, I have taken my usual walk, only to end up in bed asleep in the middle of the afternoon. On the cold days, I don't even bother to walk to the mailbox.
Joe must have played 1000 Sudoku games. I stick to Solitaire. We started a jigsaw puzzle, but runny noses hinder the closeup work leaning over the table. We've monitored the march to Dow 20000, and sadly, the latest terrorist activities. We have quarantined ourselves from the rest of our wonderful neighbors. No need for them to get this bug. At least we got the benefit of the sweet snotty kisses that brought us down. Our neighbors would have no such "colds with benefits."
I am beginning to get a little cabin fever. I am missing our evenings together (without all the coughing, snoring, nose blowing, can't breathe, can't sleep hours) . I suppose I could go on and on. But really, I won't.

Instead of grumbling, I have spent some of my "down time" reflecting on and acting on small things as Christmas approaches. I not only made a picture Christmas card, but wrote individual notes to each recipient. I haven't even gotten around to Christmas cards for many years, much less had the presence of mind to write a personal note. I hope my friends and family enjoyed them half as much as I enjoyed thinking about them and wishing them well.

I spent about a day and a half making two photo books; one for each of the grandchildren. It was pure pleasure to revisit all the fun we had with each of them over the past year, and so I had one each made for us, too. It was so much fun that I plan to make one each year that recounts our visits and special times. I couldn't have been more excited to send them, except to get their precious feedback.

 I've done a little "experimental" cooking, with varying degrees of success.
I've done more house cleaning and decorating than I have done in years. I've taken more pictures, I've listened to lots of new music (see below) and even done a little painting.

And best of all, even when feeling crummy, I have watched the sky and the water, in all their subtle and glorious iterations.

I am lucky to have the time I have now; lucky to have the friends and family I have. If I am honest about it, I am lucky even to be sick in the most beautiful place in the world. I saw a little sign in a shop recently that said "If you are lucky enough to live on the water, you are lucky enough." Amen. Merry Christmas to me.

ONLY DESIRE WHAT YOU HAVE (K Rusby)

 https://soundcloud.com/purerecords/05-only-desire-what-you-have

I was not born a Queen or King, 

I have no house nor anything, 

In comfort none can equal me,

I'm what they all would die to be. 

  

CHORUS: Walk in the sun stay in the light, 

And when we're done we'll take flight, 

Only desire what you have, 

Only desire what you have. 

My altar is the breath of life, 

For wisdom grace and love I strive, 

While evil games the greedy play,

 There's only nature I obey. 

 Chorus

 I'll have no check upon my glass, 

Let the hours of joy and laughter pass, 

Let night into the morning fold, 

Let a whole new day of life take hold. 

 Chorus 

I'll journey on I'll sing and dance,

 And the greedy ones can make their stance, 

With pockets for souls they'll never fill, 

With happy heart I'm smiling still.

 

What Difference DOES a Rain Make?

WILD GEESE

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
In the family of things.

by MARY OLIVER 

Hurricane Matthew was here. Days stretching into weeks of predictions told us he was coming. And then he wasn't. Then he might be bad, then maybe not too bad. By the time the storm actually began to impact us, all bets were off. They just didn't know exactly what was going to happen, and they pretty much said so. 

Our preparations changed with every weather forecast. But mostly the planning was simple- stay or go.

The wind was pretty strong, and the water did breach the sea wall. My newly planted garden was partly washed out and into the yard, along with boards of all lengths from docks all around. Joe and I spent the days following Matthew's departure hunting baby plants like they were Easter eggs hidden here and there all over the yard. What we rescued were washed, re-potted, and heeled in for the winter. Apart from a day or two without power, we had no problems, and some fun times with neighbors during the lull. Friends from around the country asked if we were OK. It seems the news to the outside world was scary bad. Oh.... but then we found out where the real catastrophe was. Rain- not wind or storm surge- flooded into inland creeks and rivers and overwhelmed the little towns strung along their routes. A month later, businesses are still closed, debris piles of sheet rock, mattresses, furniture line the streets, waiting for pickup. The cleanup continues.

Meanwhile, my friends in Georgia prayed for any drops that could be blown their way. The drought continues there - now rated "extreme". What turns the storm finally took were away from inland Georgia. Only the dry windy ghost of Matthew blew against already withered leaves.

I've been thinking about this a lot- how little we were affected, how much more others suffered, how much others could have used some of that rain. Because of sadness or guilt or distraction, it has been difficult to get my mind around it.

While I've been thinking about this, I've noticed something else, too. The beach is as beautiful this fall as I've ever seen it. The soil in my washed out rock garden is now replenished, and rocks replaced. We'll wait to plant until spring, but we'll be ready when spring comes. Even where the cleanup is not finished, life is slowly getting back to normal. Pretty soon even there, the folks that lived thru it will tell the tales, but others won't be quite able to  imagine the water as high as they say it was.

From closeup, too much rain, too windy rain, too little rain generate hardships of many kinds. But looking from "high in the clean blue air", the globe is quietly readjusting. People step out of their distress to rebuild their lives, water recedes, rain finally comes again. Like the promise of the rainbow, the wild geese call "announcing your place in the family of things." In the midst of tragedy, sorrow, and disarray, it is something of a comfort to remember.

Labor Day

It's Monday. It's Labor Day. And it's my birthday. It happens like this often (although I haven't actually done the math to see how many times in the last 64 years). I have very keen memories about Labor Day during my childhood. Those days represented the close of summer, the return to school, the end of the luxury of unscheduled hours.
Specifically, I remember one summer that had been a very good, independent one. I was on the advanced swim team that practiced from 8-10 am and then again from 2-3pm. Yes, hard to get up and ride my bike to the pool. Hard to do all that swimming that I was not particularly good at. But the camaraderie around the swimming pool life was very comfortable, and the freedom of a full day at the pool was exhilarating. The last day of that pool season was Monday, Labor Day. My birthday. I just didn't want that summer to end, so I remember the day, the last hours, the final minutes where some kids tried to be the last in the pool. It was hard to give it up, so I hung on to every moment. From then on, the summer was the swimming pool, and I did whatever it took to assure it. The end of summer was a sad day for me, and one that I tried to stretch out as long as I could to soak up every drop. That made my birthday bittersweet. It was a little happy, and a little sad. But it was memorable because of that tug of war.
It is funny how that kind of feeling carries over even now. I just had a glorious weekend at one of my favorite spots with favorite folks.(http://www.buildsxsemagazine.com/2016/08/saultopaul-documentary-film-john-henry-summerour/) The weather was perfect, the conversation lively, the scenery spectacular. It was a blissful escape. But as time came to leave, I felt that old tug of war in me again. So I walked up to the labyrinth and paced off those last moments to seal them in; each step a twinge of pleasure and pain.

There's nothing remarkable or new in this realization. Many have written eloquently on the subject.

We never taste a perfect joy; our happiest successes are mixed with sadness. Pierre Corneille

The word 'happiness' would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. Carl Jung

 But the older I get, the more I realize it is those bittersweet moments that linger longer in my memory. Put them to music, and you'll never forget.

San Diego Serenade

Never saw the morning till I stayed up all night
Never saw the sunshine till I turned out the light
Never saw my home town till I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody till I needed the song

Never saw the white line till I was leavin' you behind
Never knew I needed you till I was caught up in a bind
And I never spoke I love you till I cursed you in vain
Never felt my heart strings until I nearly went insane

Never saw the East coast until I moved to the West
I never saw the moonlight till it shone off your breast
And I never saw your heart till someone tried to steal it away
Never saw your tears till they rolled down your face

I never saw the morning till I stayed up all night
Never saw the sunshine till you turned out the light
Never saw my home town till I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody till I needed the song

Songwriters

TOM WAITS

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3yeEvMEy1s