June Brings Whimsical Summer Planting

Summer in the gardens–Shasta Daisies.

There is a time of minor decision-making breakdown in my gardening life—each year when the local HyVee Drugstore puts its perennial plants on sale.

I went there earlier this week to pick up a prescription refill, and noted the plant sale sign. Like catnip to a feline, I found it irresistible. To mix the metaphor, I was like Pavlov’s dogs, salivating as the bell rang.

That day, my wife and I were watching two grandsons, and I went home and told my wife the news.

“Do you want to get some plants?” she asked. It was a silly question, because she is subject to the same whims as I am, in this case. What she really meant was: “Should we drop everything we are doing at the moment, pack up the grandsons and immediately drive our old van to the store to grab as many plants as suits our fancy?”

Summer Solstice fireworks–actually a few days before–Common Milkweed has pretty, sweet-smelling pink blooms.

Iowa Tiger Lily in bloom–a very sunny looking summer flower.

Well, yes.

And so, we did.

I am not a careful garden planner, I’ll admit, but I do try to remember some basic rules. I do not just plant the pretty that appeals to me, but try to plant some intentionally beneficial plants, too.

Yet, I was after Hollyhock, because I like Hollyhock and in recent years haven’t had any in my gardens. So, yeah, pretty does matter. But I was also after Butterfly Flower, a variety of Milkweed. I had several of those plants growing in my gardens in recent years, but for whatever reason, they failed to reappear this year.

I do have plenty of Common Milkweed, which to my mind is an attractive garden flower, too—but Butterfly Flower is different, orange or yellow instead of pink, a slightly less aggressive plant. It’s a bit smaller, a nice comely garden flower, while I like Common Milkweed, I would say that Butterfly Flower is a little prettier. Apparently, slightly less hardy, too.

Our annual haul of on-sale plants.

Anyway, I only found one Butterfly Flower, but I grabbed it, along with two Hollyhocks. The sales price was five plants for $10, and my wife and I limited ourselves to a total of 10 plants so our garden excess wouldn’t mean blowing much more than $20.

Between the two of us, in addition to the two pink Hollyhocks and the orange Butterfly Flower, we chose:

• A Gold Gazania.
• A Petite Purple Butterfly Bush.
• A Dragon’s Blood Tricolor Stonecrop Sedum.
• A Leopard Spotted Hawkweed Hieracium.
• A Birch Hybrid Bellflower Campanula.
• A Morning Star Deep Rose Thrift Armeria.
• A Black-Eyed Susan.

We have had Sedum for a while, and it looks nice, but it was crowded out of the garden where it was sited. And we already have Black-Eyed Susan, but not many. We’ve had Butterfly Bush in the past, but although a perennial, it seems to last for two or three years—none are growing in Joe’s gardens right now.

Anyway, there was a little method to our feverish mania. My wife last year cut out part of an aggressive bush in a front garden, creating a bare patch there. She planted it with spring blooming bulbs last fall, and we had some nice daffodils and tulips there this spring. We’ve also attempted to establish some Common Milkweed there, but there seemed to be room for the Hollyhocks, Butterfly Flower and Butterfly Bush.

The remaining plants all went in various other front gardens—two by the mailbox, two under the Birch Tree and two in the front rock garden by the front stoop.

The June plants I planted this week.

So once again, as in years past, plant sale time at our local pharmacy again enticed us into unplanned planting. It was very hot, and the ground very dry, when I dug holes the next day and put the flowers in place, but I watered them well, and today, finally, we had a good soaking rain.

Will we finally get some kinds of Milkweed going in that new side garden? Will the long-departed Hollyhocks (we had some two decades ago planted by the previous home owners that gradually petered out) return to grace future summers? Will I be making images of pretty butterflies on the Butterfly Bush in August?

I don’t know. I never know.

If I was a better gardener, I’d have it planned out. Honestly, I am not much of a planner, either in life or in the garden—but being a bit spontaneous seems to serve me well. Sometimes you lose, but you also often win. And there can be some joy in enjoying the wins and the whims.

Feeling Like Summer in the Lusty Month of May

Dandelion seed on May 4, before the first mow of the year, which was May 9.

May 15—it’s not exactly halfway there, what with 31 days an all, but we’re about that far into May.

And today feels a bit more like June than May. My phone says 73, but it’s a bit humid and mostly sunny, so it’s a warm 73.

Usually, by June, I’m getting anxious to see the first Monarch Butterfly. Not this year. I turned in grades yesterday, so today felt a bit like the first day of summer break for me—and I was doing a summer thing, trimming some bushes and mowing the lawn.

As I gathered debris from the lawn prior to mowing, I noticed a quick flit at the corner of my view. Something settled on a 6-inch Milkweed plant by my mailbox—and I quickly went inside to grab my camera. I didn’t see her wings very well, so I can’t judge her gender by the usual test of looking for wing spots (spots=male, no spots=female). But I will call her “her” because I think she was doing a very she-butterfly thing.

Laying eggs. And inspection of the images I made confirmed her as female.

About 11 a.m., May 15, 2024, first Monarch arrives on my Milkweed.

I’m used to recognizing when girl butterflies are laying eggs because they fly more and flit quickly from leaf to leaf. They also seem distracted—Monarchs are normally not the shyest of butterflies, but a laying female doesn’t give a hoot. Her tiny brain is not occupied by hairless apes in proximity making images of her intimate life moments. My wife enjoins me sometimes to leave off the photographing females laying their eggs—child birth not being the most public of activities for us humans.

I do use my long lens and try to avoid getting closer than focal ranges when photographing butterflies, about 9 feet, but the attitude of a laying girl Monarch is quite clear. “Frankly, my dear,” she says, probably in Rhett Butler’s voice, “I don’t give a damn.”

Three views of the same butterfly lady. Lay lady lay. (No brass bed)

At this time of year, the land in Iowa cities is taking on its early summer hues. Grass grows quickly after spring rains, and the early spring warm days with no shade are being replaced as nature’s parasols appear in the trees and there is some blessedly refreshing shadows.

Before (right) and after (left) of the lawn, day of first mow, May 9.

Mowing does make me feel like it’s summer. I let the lawn grow rather shaggy in spring due to early flowers planted in the grass—I want them to fade and have a few weeks to gain strength.

Well, today most of the early Peonies are past their prime, as are the regular Lilacs. The Apple trees have quickly transitioned from blooms to young fruit, and there is a lot of that this year. The Dwarf Lilacs and Honeysuckle have taken over the yard perfuming duties. I’ve seen Iris and regular Peonies in bloom in town, although neither is yet blooming in my shady late spring gardens although they are getting ready.

May 15–One of the early Peonies. Some have faded and gone but others are still in bloom.

Today, May 15–A second Clematis vine is now in bloom.

For me, my plan is to treat May as a work month, at least part-time. I have a few projects from the spring semester to finish up—student videos to edit and get ready to post, and a faculty summary report to complete. I was, honestly, very late with my summary report last year, but next year is my final one, and rather than slacking off, I’m hoping to finish things on time and have as stress-free a final year as possible. We’ll see how long that attitude lasts, but it’s how I am feeling today on this warm, sunny, summer-like day of mowing.

I checked online—Monarchs are usually expected to arrive in Iowa in April or May, although I don’t usually see my first one until June. So, the appearance of our egg layer this morning, while a surprise to me, is not out of the ordinary.

Well, I plant Milkweed in the hope that it will be eaten. Many several of her eggs sprout wings as summer, for me, begins.

May 15–Apples trees seem to have a lot of fruit this spring.

May 15–Tiny bee visits Prairie Onion flower in back garden. It’s summer for bees, too.

Enjoying the State’s Official Dinosaur and Others

April 21–Song pauses as singer grabs some fuel.

I went out to get my newspaper Sunday morning, and there was a nice chittering chatter, a busy, boisterous loud bird song that sounded familiar.

There was no mystery. I’m not an expert in bird calls, but this is a tune I’ve heard many times before in exactly this place. About 15 years ago, my wife and I planted a Birch tree in our front yard. And, singing his heart out, was a male Goldfinch near the top of the tree. I know that the state bird of Iowa is a seed eater—it especially favors thistle seeds—but what I didn’t know is that it can enjoy a snack of Birch seeds, too.

It seems like an appropriate time for a joyful noise, as spring enters a new phase. Suddenly, the Crab Apples are in their prime, and both the front and back yards are sweet to just stand in and inhale the scent. The traditional Lilacs are adding their own sweet scent to the mix, and although they don’t contribute much in the way of odor, Redbuds are clothed in their finest spring pink finery. They bloom just after their crabby cousins, although their bloom time largely coincides—our two Apple trees are also in flower.

April 7 in Magnolia in backyard.

It’s a good time to outdoors on a cool sunny morning, listing to the song of an avian dinosaur in between his pauses to for a quick Birch seed snack.

Happily, the Goldfinch is not alone. We’ve long overplanted our property in flowers, trees and bushes—and in recent years have emphasized more native plantings. It wasn’t a deliberate strategy to draw in the descendants of the small dinosaurs who survived the asteroid disaster that killed off their larger, earthbound relatives, but it seems to be having that effect.

It’s been common, in recent years, for cardinals to take up residence in our area. Robins are also usually around. This year, both species seem to have nesting pairs either nearby or concealed in a Trumpet Vine or some other shrub in our yard. Add to that the Goldfinch, and also the appearance of a Red Winged Blackbird.

That latter one is, as any Iowan knows, a mixed blessing, as such Blackbirds are notoriously aggressive during nesting season. Still, I enjoy seeing the bird. And I can wear a hat, which pretty much is an effective Blackbird defense.

Woodpeckers and Chickadees, Sparrows, Doves—the variety of birds that is often around is fun to watch. The Blackbird may be grumpy and the Robin definitely thinks it owns the backyard, but I’m still glad they are here. As I enjoy the spring air that will be especially sweet for a few weeks, they’re fun to listen to and to see—definitely makes planting all of those trees totally worthwhile.

The Sudden, Dangerous Explosion of Spring Colors

April 15–Tulips have joined daffodils in my backyard gardens.

There I was, between the heavens and the earth, perched and pulling on an object that looked like it could take me out.

It was Saturday, the second Saturday of April, a spring day that was giving Iowa a taste of summer. Temperatures that seem normal in the first week of June, with the thermometer flirting with 80, bright sunshine—all in all, a pretty day.

Almost four years ago, a derecho storm blew through Cedar Rapids, wreaking havoc with sustained winds over 100 mph. We lost a giant ash tree, a magnificent old maple and much of the wooden fence the prevents deer from consuming our gardens.

Branches from a neighbor’s willow tree and mulberry tree ended up ensnared in a tall, younger maple.

There, way up there, in the fork of the Maple, a pile of other branches that has been wedged there since they were gently tucked in by a 100-mph breeze in August 2020. JK. Nothing gentle about it.

In the days following the storm came the big cleanup. One of my sisters came over with a chainsaw to help remove many of the large branches, and we cut and removed what we could—but about 15 feet up in the maple, too high for us to reach easily even using a stepladder, there were several long branches stuck in a crook of the maple.

Saturday was one of those pretty, warm spring days that calls for some lawn work. With the help of a grandson, I planted some Aster seeds we had gathered in the fall in our gardens. And my wife had ordered a 2-pound bag of clover seeds, which the grandson and I sprinkled in barer areas of the lawn.

We also did some warm weather enjoyment—taking the grandson’s bicycle and ours to Lowe Park, where we rode and them played for a while.

The final summer-like day, April 15, many flowers in my backyard gardens, Lilac, Redbud, Crab Apple, Rhododendron, Daffodils and Tulips.

And then, the trees. Some of them were, post derecho, leaning, and I had thus staked them. After almost four years, it’s past time to release the trees. I have a better, taller ladder now, and I started with an Oak in the upper yard. After four years, the cord tying the tree to its fence-post stake had started, on one side, to be surrounded by tree tissue, so the removal took some time. At first, I was going to untie, but after 15 minutes or so, I gave up, climbed down the ladder and went to get scissors and a knife.

Which worried me. Joe and sharp tools—we’re never a good combination.

But it worked, with no blood spilled and no slips off the ladder (which, honestly, was my major concern—your amateur gardener is not fond of heights). I had to use a pair of pliers and work for some time to extract the cord from the tree. But I got the job done.

It took some time. I had thought this would be a quick project, but 30 minutes at the first tree suggested I was in for a long haul. So, I carried the ladder down to the Linden tree in the lower yard and climbed up. This tree was attached to two stakes, and I was anticipating twice the fun.

Luck was with me. The expected catastrophe, as so many expected catastrophes do, failed to materialize. I did end up cutting rather than untying, but extracting the two cords took, in total, maybe 10 minutes, most of that time just spent cutting the ropes.

Well, cool.

Yet, I wasn’t sure if I was done yet. There was that Maple. There were those branches stuck in it. Here I was with a ladder—and a hoe I had used, earlier in the day, to plant clover.

I think of this Robin as the backyard boss. He often is keeping an eye on me.

Could I use this taller ladder to get close enough to snag those stuck branches and bring them down, hopefully not bringing myself down in the process? Was this even a wise project to try?

Well, heck. One way to find out.

Yeah, a sort of “hold my beer” moment, but I had no beer and it turned out to be much, much longer than a moment.

There’s a reason those branches had been stuck up in the Maple for four years—they were truly, well stuck. I ascended the ladder, hooked with my hoe (please, no double entendre intended) and went to work wiggling. Push and pull. Hook and reel in. The branches could be rocked, but seemed very, very at home up in that maple.

It’s a nice to be or bee in the garden.

And, after a while, I grew to appreciate that stuck cord in that Oak tree—at the time, it seemed like the complication of the day but no. Also, I could not help but imagine what would happen when I finally loosed these rather substantial pieces of tree that were above me—me between them and the ground, gravity waiting to assert what can happen when the planet grabs an object and an old man’s noggin is in the way.

Too often, the noggin doesn’t win.

After a long, tiring half hour or so, I got the idea of, instead of trying to pull the branches down, to instead wiggle them sideways. The first fairly substantial limb started to fall—directly at me. At least at the start of the fall it was traveling slowly, and I was able to grab and guide it. To my surprise, based on its size, the branch was fairly light—I guess if you let dead wood sit up in the air for four years, it dries and gets lighter.

Next, the white whale, the big one, the long branch—a 10-foot-tall branching limb the size of an adolescent tree. As I wiggled it out, I could not help but notice that it was moving to a position even more directly above me, ready to swat me like a fly once it was free. As I worked with it, smaller side branches would break off, but the big one just moved and inch or so at a time.

Finally, its center of gravity approached a place to the left of the Maple. It began to tip and then to slide towards me.

And I died. This post is ghost written.

Second Magnolia to bloom, the lemon-colored one in the lower yard.

Just kidding! I was able to reach up with my left hand and grasp the end of the slowly tipping branch, and again guide it so that it didn’t make contact with the Joe between it and planet Earth. It was still quite a large limb, and not trivial in weight, but like its smaller cousin, turned out to be lighter than I had expected.

In fact, I had anticipated at least minor injury, maybe some arm scratches, but other than some tired arms, suffered to ill effects—no blood was spilled. Sadly, no drink flowed, either, but whatever. If the boys want to fight, you better let them.

But if they want to climb ladders and removed limbs, perhaps remind them to be careful.

April 15–Daffodils blooming behind Warde Hall, the building where my office is located. Blue sky, last really warm day before a dramatic change in the weather.

The day of lawn work was, overall, a success. And, meanwhile, the backyard has become a true slice of paradise. The run of warm days brought on the second phase of spring, where we move from daffodils and other early flowers and suddenly there is a more diverse, promiscuous explosion of colors. The yellows of daffodils still are everywhere, but now is punctuated with the more diverse hues of Tulips. The second Magnolia, the first Lilacs, Bluebells, the Dogwood, a Redbud, Crab Apple—suddenly flowers and sweet smells are everywhere. Like an old man on a ladder, spring seems to ascend slowly from the ground upwards, and the bushes and medium trees have all shaken off their winter slumber.

In the past two days, we’ve had thunderstorms and cooler, windier weather. We’re dropping back down to more normal temperatures, which is fine with me. It’s the second half of April—a slight chill in the morning and a sweater day is OK with me. The warm days were nice, but in April, they arrive sans the advantage that June will have: Shade.

Well, all in good time. I’m just happy to be here, un-speared and unbroken with a young maple unobstructed with dead derecho wood.

Bluebells!

What’s the Buzz, Tell Me What’s Happening

March 30–Dandelion in bloom on back wall, visited by small bee.

Little call back to “Jesus Christ, Superstar,” which we used to watch every Easter season. What with one thing and another, we didn’t get the movie watched this year—but there was still some Easter buzzing.

On Thursday, a daughter’s family made the drive down from the Twin Cities. The weekend was a bit of a pleasing whirlwind—family outings, two bike rides with a Tag-A-Long seat for a young grandson, an Easter egg hunt in the backyard. On Saturday morning, we went to Monticello to the Creative Adventure Lab–worth the drive if you’re in the Cedar Rapids area, a modest fee for kids to play and inexpensive ceramics for painting.

An otter at the Creative Adventure Lab, Monticello. Will be painted by one of my granddaughters, other grandchildren and children in background getting their paints to decorate their ceramics.

And bees.

Hence the buzz. More flowers are popping as the days slowly warm, and although there are still some frosty nights ahead and we had quite a bit of snow last week, it’s looking and feeling more like spring.

March 30–Another bee. Saw numerous ones on this slightly warm spring Saturday.

As a gardener, I do plant native plants and flowers that will benefit pollinators. True, the gardens are mostly for my benefit, but still—March 30 was the first really bit “B” day in the gardens, with numerous bees on the early flowers and even a bonus appearance by a butterfly.

Well, happy Easter! It was nice to see the bees and even nicer to see the family. Below, eggs in backyard for hunt, butterfly that showed up Saturday.

Consider the Not-So-Humble Daffodil

March 6, 2024–first Daffodil in my garden in bloom.

I know many gardeners in the Midwest are going gaga over native plants, and in recent years, I too have shifted my focus in that direction.

I plant many more native flowers, now. To be honest, it’s partly because the Indian Creek Nature Center in Cedar Rapids, at its annual Monarch Festival each summer, gives away native flowers—and “free” is a pretty good bargain. But it’s my choice, too. The most common flower I’ve probably planted for the past three years or so are varieties of Milkweed. They are hardy, pretty and do a service in that that they directly support a beautiful, endangered, regal butterfly.

Past images of Milkweed and Monarch Butterflies, mostly from my garden, all images made in 2022 by me.

However, I’m not a purist. I’ll plant what I like and not feel too guilty about it. Gardens exist to please the gardener—and while I think some attention to what benefits the environment and native pollinators is a good thing, I honestly admit that the main benefit I see in my gardens is that I get to see them.

So, in fall, I plant spring bulbs—in this case, daffodils. I thought of using the “humble daffodil” in the title, but frankly, daffodils aren’t very humble, in my mind. They are loud and colorful and showy—which is the point, frankly. They come in many varieties, and are early among garden flowers, providing a splash of cheery yellow as winter is losing its grip and spring is finally arriving.

Whatever else the daffodil is, in a strict sense, it does not belong here. Like my lineage, it was brought from the “old” world to the “new” world (quotes because both worlds are the same age). Unlike my lineage, which displaced what was “native” on this continent (again, quotes, because humans didn’t evolve on this continent either, and if daffodils aren’t native, neither are any of us), daffodils are at least less harmful to what is already growing here.

March 5, 2024–first Daffodil in my garden, the afternoon before it bloomed.

They may come from another continent, but once settled here, according to various gardening sites I consulted, they are content to stay where they are planted. They’ll live for years (daffodils are sometimes used to identify old homesteads where the house and other buildings are long gone—the plants clearly say “some human once had a garden here”). But they don’t displace native plants.

They also, honestly, don’t do much good. While they provide nectar, their bloom time doesn’t seem to be a busy time for any native pollinators, and they aren’t very attractive to those insects, anyway. They’ve also evolved with a nasty chemical makeup that makes them unpleasant for most animals to consume (they are related to onions but will make your stew nasty and dangerous to eat, not tasty). They provide no food for wildlife and not much in the way of pollinator aid.

So, they just exist for humans. Supposedly, the volatile chemicals that make them not-great-to-eat may have made them useful as natural medicines in the past, which is one reason humans planted them so far and wide, but in my quick research to see if Narcissus were evil, I didn’t encounter what those medical uses might be.

In sum: Daffodils, the scorecard. Pretty: A+. Invasive, A (not being invasive scores higher). Useful or helpful to nature: C (no harm, little help). In Joe’s Garden: A, strong A. Maybe it’s just self-love, but the plant named after Narcissus still makes me feel good about myself.

Early March images–early spring in Iowa in 2024.

I love these cheery signs of spring. This year, they started blooming on March 6, which is freaky early. In a normal year, they would bloom either in the last few days of March or early in April (unscientific finding, but based on checking my Facebook galleries for several years to see when I posted my first daffodil image).

Thus, I am a bit conflicted, this year.

Hi, Daffodils, nice to see you. But WTF? (Why the flower?). It seems a bit cognitively dissident. I both like these early signs of spring and feel out of sorts that spring is arriving so shockingly early.

April 2, 2023

April 10, 2022

March 9, 2023

March 19, 2023 (crocus, no daffodils yet)

March 31, 2022 (bloomed 2-25-24 this year)

March 31, 2023–day before bloom.

Spring Comes Early to Dry Iowa

First flowers at Mount Mercy Campus, which I saw coming home on a bike ride Feb. 25.

Will there be spring rains? I’m not asking for a flood, but the ground is pretty dry, and we need more moisture from the sky.

Spring came early this year to Iowa. In this time, as February has turned into March, you can already see some insects active on warm afternoons. The snowdrops and crocus are in bloom, and I’ve even seen the first dandelion.

Tulips are showing and daffodils are pregnant with flowers that look like they could bloom any day now. Trees are mostly still asleep, but I have seem some maples that are getting fuzzy with early flowers. Lilac buds are swelling and turning green—the tiny first leaves have not yet opened, but we’re getting close.

Images of spring, from top, let to right: March 1, MMU campus; Feb. 29, MMU; Feb. 25, MMU, Feb. 26, MMU; Feb. 27, MMU; Feb. 27, MMU; Feb. 22, my yard; March 2 my yard; March 2, my yard.

Well, it’s March. Usually it is the transition between winter and spring, and has elements of both. This year, that transition was in February.

I have several new trees in my yard, and for their sake and the sake of all the land, I do hope that, as spring gets going, the weather patterns can shift and more moisture from the gulf can quench our thirsty land. Still, if one were to pick a month when a drought may not be consequential, March may be it—even in this warm year, the early flowers don’t use a lot of resources and the trees aren’t awake enough to care much about less dew in the dirt.

So for now, I’ll try to just be happy with the first flowers. Here comes the sun and I say, it’s all right.

Magnolia buds on Feb. 20 at sunset.

Searching for Hope in the Time of Worry

Sunset at Cedar Lake Dec. 19, 2023. It was starting to turn cold for a few days during a very warm month but Christmas would bring 50 degrees and rain.

The year 2023 is ending soon, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. Partly, there’s an odd sense that this December foreshadows increasing weirdness in our climate and our politics, that that leaves me uneasy.

While we had some chilly days, and the day after Christmas we finally got some light, fast-melting snow, this was definitely a year of a brown Christmas here—brown and muddy, as it rained much of Christmas Day.

Snow falls on Christmas decorations in neighborhood yard Dec. 27. We didn’t have a white Christmas, but at least it started to look and feel a bit more like the appropriate season in the days after.

Well, thanks, Baby Jesus, that was a great birthday gift to share with drought-stricken Eastern Iowa, but still—an all-day rain and 50 degrees on Dec. 25? Something is afoot, and I’m not all that comfortable with it.

Christmas Day, a Cardinal visits my warm, wet backyard.

Meanwhile, in the lunatic land that our politics has become, wars rage, Congress idles and one of our two major parties is poised to support an insurrectionist for president while the other is standing firm behind an ancient president.

I don’t recall anybody dreaming of a Joe Biden v Donald Trump rematch for 2024, but 2023 seems to be dealing us those cards. There may yet be time for that dynamic to change, but who can look at the sorry state of our democracy and say that they look forward to 2024 being anything other than a crazy time?

Dec. 7–Hawk watches over Mount Mercy University campus on a warm December day.

Christmas decorations and a scarf for Sister Catherine Dec. 8, MMU. For much of this warm month, she really didn’t need it.

By Dec. 8, my wife has decorated our house for the season. Our tree-top angel, which I named Buffy, watches over us.

Both our world and our leadership seem out of whack, and if we met the enemy, it would be us. We worry about being supplanted by AI, but our NI (natural intelligence) hasn’t exactly been shiny lately.

Yet, just before it starts snowing again Thursday, I’m hoping to get in a little gardening. This weirdly warm December has left the ground yet unfrozen, and I have some seeds of a new species of Milkweed—a climbing variety from my youngest son’s Des Moines garden—that I was too busy to plant during the recently concluded fall semester.

So, Dec. 28 may be planting day.

Putting seeds in the ground is an act of hope. I’m not the world’s greatest gardener, and any plant under my care faces an uncertain future. But don’t we all?

An example of marcescence, a tree holding onto its leaves over winter, on a young oak in our backyard seen Dec. 11. It is not related to the odd weather–it’s a strange thing some oaks, particularly young ones, and other trees do even as most trees are bare.

It’s easy to see the storm clouds on the horizon. But the future is the future—an existence as yet not revealed. I worry, of course, that in our unheedful headlong dash into a post-literate, post-thinking society, we’ll be unprepared to deal with the big issues that face us.

So, as we draw near to the end of the month and of the year, I guess I would say my mood is mostly “worried.” But underneath, at least, a little glimmer of hope.

I will plant my seeds and await my fate. May it and the fate of my fellow hominids on this planet turn out better in 2024 than I could dare to expect now.

Dec. 23–My bike on a trail, cloudy but warm.

Dec. 26–Rode bike to my office. A little afternoon snow fell.

Dec. 27–Snow falls on Magnolia buds.

Dog on a walk Dec. 27 watches snow fall. Frankly, he would prefer more–this dog likes to play in snow.

A Quick Change to the Next Phase

Oct. 23–Morning sun shining through Oak leaves in my backyard. The leaves are turning but there is a lot of green. I think that may change this weekend.

As sometimes happens in Iowa, the shift from one weather pattern to another is a bit abrupt. We’ve been very dry this year, but that pattern started to shift this week with some welcome rain.

But early in the week, the rain felt summery, with warm days causing night storms to fire up. We were lucky this week—we got a fair amount of rain without any terrible winds or dangerous storms.

Thursday was wet, with rain falling most of the day. But the night was rather warm, and we kept some windows open.

Water dripping off Crab Apple on a rare damp day Oct. 26 in Iowa. Rain! Good to see you.

Oct. 26–More Oak leaves, a different, younger tree holds a puddle in one green leaf while another has turned fall red.

Friday was a different story. In the morning, after the warm night, it was in the 60s. It was misty, but not a particularly cold mist.

I was teaching, so I was largely indoors in the morning, but during an early class, I could see out of a window that it was getting windy. Walking across campus late morning was a bit bracing—as the day went on the temperature was dropping.

The mist cleared and it became mostly cloudy. And breezy. And chilly. Not a terrible day, but our faux summer seems to be a memory.

Golden leaves on Birch tree in my front yard, Oct. 26.

And there was that number in the forecast for tonight—a temperature that begins “2.” The temperature tonight should drop to 28, a hard freeze.

We’ll have such freezes for several nights in a row.

It’s been looking much more fall like in recent weeks, trees finally turning shades and dropping leaves, but fall 2023 has been slow to kick in. Here, just in time for Halloween, we’re finally seeing our first big chill.

It might snow Sunday.

On a bike ride Oct. 21–day ends earlier as fall advances. Still some warm days for bike rides although that’s changing. This is a new bridge east of town on the Grant Wood Trail.

The onset of the brown time is a little sad. I’ll miss the foliage. And though I have no fondness for those that bite and suck blood, I’ll miss the annual dance of life that some bugs put on. Bye bye, TTFN, butterflies and bees and (yes, I actually have a fondness for them) outdoor spiders.

But there are rewards, too. We’ve just planted some new trees which no doubt are benefiting from the shot of H2O as they’re going dormant. My wife has started planting some fall bulbs, and we’ll probably try to get most of them in the ground Saturday. I have a stockpile of Milkweed seeds to put out so they can overwinter and, hopefully, germinate in spring.

As a Midwestern gardener, I don’t hate the cold, dark months. They’re part of the cycle of life in these parts, and help control insects.

Above and below, new trees planted at campus of Mount Mercy University. There was a terrible storm that destroyed many trees in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, in 2020 and there have been many tree replanting projects since them. The pine above is nice to see–there used to be pines in front of Warde Hall that would loudly howl as wind passed through them on windy days–I miss the pine song. Grow, pine, grow, you have some years before you start that old song again.

And many trees were planted on the campus of the university where I teach. The same program that allowed the university to share some trees with me apparently brought lots of planting in campus.

I’m ready for the biters to be gone. I’m ready to do the fall planting. When spring comes, I’ll be impatient for it, but for now, I’m getting ready to enjoy the coming new season.

Winter is coming. May it not be a dry one.

Sunset seen on my bike ride home from work Oct. 23. Fall is a good time to see pretty Iowa sunsets.

Turning Former Enemies into Friends

Oct. 8, 2023–Bee on Aster in my garden. Welcome, ma’am. I’ll try to give you space.

I was recently watering my gardens during this severe drought, and enjoyed seeing several bees on a New England Aster blooming in front of my house.

I got that plant from the Indian Creek Nature Center during Monarch Fest two years ago, and this is the first year it has bloomed. In fact, I had forgotten exactly what I planted where, and wondered at this tall weedy plant—I posted a bud picture and my brother-in-law said it appeared to be a New England Aster.

And it’s not alone—I have several Asters in back, too, although this is the largest plant. And the bloom confirmed it, Eldon was right, it’s an Aster. And during this autumn watering session, I was careful to run my hose at it’s base but not at it’s top.

I didn’t want to disturb the bees.

I do have a fondness for bees, which is a little weird because they are one of the few insects that has directly done me harm. We had clover in our yard in California when I was a boy, and one of my enduring early childhood memories is the mistake I made trotting across said lawn in bare feet, when suddenly.

Sharp pain. Tears. Yelling. A young Joe had no appreciation for stinging insects, and was particularly disturbed, not just by pain (yes, lifelong low threshold for that), but also the sight of a stinger and some guts sticking out of a toe.

I didn’t stop to think that my pain was the bee’s death. At the time, I would have thought the bee deserved it.

Bee stinger, scary looking barbed weapon, image from Wikimedia Commons by Fernando da Rosa.

I am not Agustin in “Encanto.” I’m sensitive to bee venom and get a lot of swelling and pain from a sting, but, knock on wood, not to his extent—and I’m blessed not to be one of those particularly sensitive persons for whom a sting is truly dangerous. Still, I’m not a fan of bee stings.

My most recent sting was as an adult. I don’t recall exactly when, except it was in this century because it took place in my own current backyard. It was a case where I was not barefoot, but wearing sandals, and the hapless bee somehow got squeezed between little toe and sandal.

Again, ouch. Less tears and freakout, but no less pain.

And yet, here I am, deliberately trying to benefit the bees (and other pollinators, I’m even more fond of butterflies and hummingbirds). I planted those Asters. I plant a lot of Milkweed (great for the Monarch caterpillars, but also flowers that draw many nectar-hungry creatures). I’m not one of those gardeners who is strictly a native planter, but I am leaning more and more to plants that both evolved here and that benefit the wildlife of this place.

And I am willing to risk bee stings. Partly because, over time, I have learned the easy lesson—they don’t want to sting you. The will fly at you and buzz if they’re scared, but frankly even the native ones with smooth stingers who don’t sacrifice their life with a sting still strongly prefer to leave you alone.

Crab Apple in my backyard. Fruit ripening in fall, leaves starting to change color.

Because, in the man vs bee battle, bees don’t usually win.

Yes, yes, I know. There are lots of exceptions—species of particularly aggressive bees or people with venom allergies. Nonetheless, in general, for most of us, bees are a benign presence at worst, and a benefit that we don’t’ always appreciate. Such insects are a key part of our food web, and much of what we eat depends on these busy ladies who spent their lives collecting nectar and thereby aiding the key sex lives of plants whose flowers we enjoy and whose fruits we ingest.

It’s fall in Iowa, and finally is starting to feel it. It’s a dry fall so far, following a drought summer. You can almost hear the trees sigh in relief as they are starting to give up and drop their leaves—no more struggle this dry year to grow, I hope they managed to store enough energy to try again next year (I’m sure most did, trees know their business). Asters and other late flowers are in bloom. I saw a Monarch the other day on campus (feeding on an Aster), but mostly I’ve seen them flitting across campus, as they do as they start their journey south.

Once, bees, were my enemy. They are now contentious, grumpy friends to be given their space and to be respected, but still friends.

Maybe that’s a larger rule. As you grow in understanding, what were once enemies can become contentious friends. May it be so.

Seen at Pumpkin Fest Parade in Anamosa Oct. 8. At one time, as a boy, I didn’t like dogs, either. They’ve grown on me, too. Today, I like bees, spiders, dogs, red-winged blackbirds–most of my critter enemies are at least frenemies now. But not you, mosquitos.