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.
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.
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.
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, 2023April 10, 2022March 9, 2023March 19, 2023 (crocus, no daffodils yet)March 31, 2022 (bloomed 2-25-24 this year)March 31, 2023–day before bloom.
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.
June 1–Apple growing on one of the two apple trees I planted about 15 years ago.
June! This is my favorite month of the year—the one month I mostly ignore my job. Not totally—I’m going to clean my office this month, and I have to confirm and share the campus newspaper schedule for next year, and I have an annual state advisors’ meeting to attend—but, still. My favorite and least busy month.
And this June is a bit special. Despite the sucky news cycles we’ve been living through lately and an ongoing pandemic, I’m at least enjoying an unexpected bit of psychic relief courtesy of nature.
It’s been a bit of a dry spring in my part of Iowa. Oh, we’ve had rain, and the world looks June lush and green right now, but you can see, especially in the tired looks of some mowed lawns, that more rain would be welcomed by Iowa gardeners (and, now that most fields are probably planted, by Iowa farmers, too).
And yet there is some good news from my little corner of Mother Nature’s planet. This was the year that almost all of the trees at my house decided to bloom.
Magnolia in May.Apple blossom in May.Bee on redbud bloom in May.Crab apple.Young maple makes many helicopter seeds in late May.
Of course, many of the trees on my property bloom every year—I have numerous crab apples and enjoy the sight and scent of those pretty trees every spring. But I also have two apple trees, planted more than a decade ago. Last, year, they had a few flowers. This year, something unexpected—both trees burst into copious bloom. On June 1 of this year, they were both forming multiple fruits.
Before the derecho in 2020, my tulip poplar, almost 20 years old, had a few flowers. But in 2021, as it recovered from the shock and lost limbs of 2020 (and what living thing on this planet has not had a lot of self-work to do to recover from 2020?), the tree paused in its plumage. The pausing seems to be over, as this June 1, there are many pretty flowers to enjoy, if you have binoculars. This very tall tree seems to bloom mostly way high up in the canopy.
May 31–Tulip tree in bloom.
I have not checked out my linden tree. Do they bloom now, or is the linden flower season passed? It may be the one tree that has yet to flower as it should.
But I am pretty excited for other tree flowers coming later this month—I noticed one of the catalpa trees I planted in my yard is finally is producing buds. Catalpas make very large, pretty flowers, and this month I should see them for the first time in my own backyard.
June 1–buds on catalpa tree.
This was also the year that helicopters again flew in my yard. A very large maple was so damaged by the derecho that we had to have it cut down, but a child of that tree is planted in the yard, although it was, until now, apparently too young for tree sex. But, this child tree channeled its inner panda, bloomed this spring (although not as a red peony, although my most common peonies are red—OK, I’ll try to drop the Pixar references, forgive me) and in May produced its first large crop of seeds. I know maple helicopters are a pain, a surefire gutter clogger, but I can’t help but enjoy their random cascade in late spring.
And, by the stump of the old maple tree, a young dogwood tree this spring produced a few flowers. Not many, but it did bloom.
June 1–Apples forming.
June 1–Lady cardinal bird is not happy with man making apple images.
May 11-Apple blossoms.
May 11–Crab apple flowers.
Overall, linden possibly excluded, this was an excellent spring and early summer for flowering trees in my yard. I have a young grandson who is very excited for the apple trees forming fruits and is convinced he will consume an apple from my yard—I hope he’s right, although I’m also amused because he’s quite an apple sauce eater, and he drinks apple juice—but eating an apple? Not his thing. Yet.
Maybe his taste for the actual fruit will bloom this year. Like almost all my trees did.
Early in September, first day of classes at Mount Mercy University. New fashions for 2002 kind of suck, but are needed to keep us safe.
There’s plenty to worry about. The CDC just refined guidelines to indicate that “close” contact that can spread the coronavirus come from evidence that the virus can spread easier than thought before. Cold weather is upon us, we’re spending more time indoors. Trends are not good.
In Cedar Rapids, snow recently fell on tarp-covered roofs that have not been repaired since a devastating derecho storm in August. Our politics are polluted by negative noise, with candidates now using attack ads that used to be, in harsh tone, only used by PACs. And, of course, the yowling PACs are still around.
In a difficult time like this, there is a peace in gardening. We did two things big September: Got a large home equity loan to deal with expensive upcoming repairs from the derecho storm, and ordered a bunch of fall bulbs to plant.
In October, the bulbs arrived. We have daffodils and tulips aplenty. In addition, we’re going to inter grape hyacinth, crocus, snow drops and irises.
Too many to plant all at once, but my wife and I started digging holes Oct. 17. And on Oct. 18 and 19, it snowed.
We have planted only a fraction of the bulbs, so digging and putting in bulbs will be going on for a while.
There seems to be a cycle to our fall bulb planting. One year, we’ll do only a few, generally some tulips, daffodils and crocuses. The next year, we’ll do what we’re doing in 2020—order hundreds of bulbs online and plant and plant.
Somehow, 2020 seemed like a year to do that. I need the pleasure of extensive planning. We’re betting that, virus or not, we’ll be around in a few months to enjoy the beauty.
And even in the time of COVID-19 and in the post-apocalypse storm damaged landscape of east central Iowa, there is beauty to enjoy.
The first snow has fallen. Bulbs are going in the grounds. Flowers will bloom in spring. Repairs will be made. Our current bad times, sadly, may get worse before they get better—but I’m also sure there will be better on the other side of this hill.
I’m willing to bet on a better future, even if I am less clear about when. As a I result, I continue to put bulbs in the ground to make pretties for us to see in that future.
The first flowers to bloom early this March–the snowdrops I found when I raked the gardens.
Early March morning sun at MMU campus.
Earlier this month came the snowdrops. The first blooms were actually hidden in my gardens under last year’s leaves. On March 9, I cleaned the gardens in back off, there the first flowers were.
Tulips and daffodils have been emerging slowly, pushing their leaves above the thawing ground. No flowers, yet, but the plants are getting taller.
It was a while after the snowdrops bloomed before the first crocus in my yard flowered. I saw some first at Mount Mercy University, and for days the buds in my gardens almost seemed to be mocking me—there, ready to bloom, but not opening.
First flowers on Mount Mercy campus.
Now, on sunny, cool March days, there are pockets of colorful flowers. Hyacinth are starting to bud. I have not seen bluebells yet, but they can’t be far away.
And it won’t be all that long until the daffodils and tulips kick in.
I am running low on bird seed. I stopped buying it early in March—which is usually when I taper off feeding. The open ground, the return of insects, the first signs of plant growth—birds will find other sources of food. Still, it has been a comfort seeing them—one of my sisters once called them “winter flowers,” and as this slow spring wakes and yawns and stretches towards the green world that is coming, I’ve enjoyed watching the little dinosaurs.
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COVID-19 has robbed us of a lot. I’m lucky—my job is relatively secure, so far (knock on wood) I and my family are healthy. I can work at home, even if I’m not all that good at it.
But as we hunker down in this winter of the virus, which seems likely to be with us for some time, seeing nature go through her rhythms and begin to come to life. I like the coming of the flowers every year, but somehow, they seem more important in this weird spring.
Seeds purchased at a local store. My spring planting this year will be from what I find in town.
Iowa in February can be a cold, bitter place. We’ve been lucky in 2020. There has been plenty of winter cold, not but bitter arctic cold. We’ve not been exposed to weeks of harsh winds nor many temperatures with a hyphen before the number.
The month was a bit gray and dreary at times, but the final week was dry. There was also snow this month and nasty cold rains, but not oodles.
So, as Februarys go, this is not the worst one to have an extra day in it. Happy leap day, and a special happy birthday to all those who turned 4 today and are getting their driver’s licenses.
For Christmas 2019, my wife wrapped a seed catalog and told me I could spend $100 on ordering spring flowers. I never got them ordered—I’ve been busy. And we’re traveling over spring break this year, and worried a bit about the possibility of an ill-timed delivery.
Then, just a week ago, stopping at a local farm-and-home chain store that we call the “popcorn store” because it’s where we go after church for popcorn, we saw that seeds were on sale. On a whim, we bought a packet of climbing annuals. I am unsure about when exactly I am planting them, but I like all these flowers and will put them somewhere.
My wife reminded me this week that I had not ordered any plants yet, and she thought I had missed the deadline. I told her no, that I knew one catalog had a March 1 order deadline (and the same company just sent me another catalog with a later date), so time had not run out on my gift.
“Why don’t you just buy plants locally,” she then asked.
Hmmm. Well, I like pink lily of the valley and have not seen any locally—but honestly, beyond my yearning for that one particular flower, I kind of liked her thinking. I am not starting any new garden this spring, so I don’t need a bunch of mail order plans. And if we buy plants at local stores, we would be in total control of when the flowers were “delivered” and could plant them right after acquisition. We would also be putting actual plants in the ground and not hoping for results from mailed roots.
True, we’re also planting seeds. But for the spring plants, I think you see my point.
So, no online flower ordering for me this spring. We’ll instead wait to see what Mother Nature brings and when we have time to shop and plant.
I like that plan, or lack of it. I don’t always mind when aspects of my life are not mapped out. So I’m not sure what my garden plans are this year; they are more organic then they sometimes are. I’ll let them form on the fly.
Like a flower.
Happy leap day to you all, and it looks like March this year will begin on a fairly nice note in Iowa, too—the lion is being polite, at least for the first week.
We’re almost through with February. Moving into early spring. And I’m ready for the change.
In the garden area by the house yesterday. It’s on the south side, the warmest garden we have, and daffodils and tulips are starting their growth even while there is still snow elsewhere. It’s not really here yet, but spring is coming!
When I shot this image in June, this was a mystery flower–it’s swamp Milkweed.
It began in spring. I have for years planted Milkweed seeds in my gardens, with almost no results. Last year, I purchased some “Butterfly Flower” Milkweed plants at a local nursery, and at least those plants did grow. Also last year, for the first time, a few baby plants that maybe could be Milkweed were spotted in the garden, but didn’t grow much.
This winter was a bit mixed. We had some cold. It was not a particularly harsh winter, but it lingered and the spring that followed felt very truncated before hot weather suddenly appeared.
And somehow that odd combination—a chilly winter and quick spring, followed by Iowa hot—seemed to be what Milkweed had been waiting for. While in past years, results had been limited, suddenly in the front garden last year’s baby Milkweed sprang up like, well, weeds.
Final day of RAGBRAI, West Liberty, I stop to get some Milkweed seed balls to toss in ditches.
The Butterfly Flowers didn’t all come back, but the plants that did grew robustly and bloomed with pretty orange flowers. The common Milkweed didn’t bloom yet this year—but several of the plants grew to several feet in height.
And in the side garden, a tall spiky stranger appeared, an impressive, 3-foot plant with pink flowers. I didn’t know what it was until we attended the Monarch Fest at the Indian Creek Nature Center, where there were pictures of Swamp Milkweed.
And not only was Milkweed suddenly present in the gardens, but Monarch butterflies on whose behalf these plants were installed didn’t waste much time in finding my Milkweed patch. Suddenly, this year, there were those distinctive black, yellow and white caterpillars. Indeed, the identity of the Swamp Milkweed was confirmed by the presence of baby Monarchs.
Caterpillar on Swamp Milkweed this week.
Well, it’s August and the press of school work is starting. I have syllabi to prepared, a newspaper staff to help organize and a bike club to encourage. The end of RAGBRAI, in my universe, is sort of the unofficial end of summer.
And this summer, we adopted a caterpillar from the Nature Center, fed it and had the pleasure of watching it fly off.
Rosabelle in flight.
Rosabelle, named by a granddaughter, the caterpillar we adopted became a butterfly and in June left home.
My gardens had a few losses from the winter that have not been restored—my two Rose of Sharon bushes both died, for example. I like that kind of flower and eventually will replace them, although I didn’t find them this year. No butterfly bushes are growing in my gardens this year despite the welcome presences of many butterflies—that perennial is dicey in my region of Iowa and is really almost an annual.
But this was the first year the dogwood tree in back bloomed, and the first year in which Milkweed firmly took hold in my gardens. All in all, I’ll list it as a successful growing season.
And now summer is psychologically, if not physically, over, the fall bulb catalogs are arriving, and the year is marching onward.
Life musings ... My name is Joe Sheller and I'm an Associate Professor at Mount Mercy University in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. This blog is personal opinion and does not reflect the opinion of the university, its administration, staff or board. I love to garden and often find my mind wandering when I'm pondering weeds or flowers. This blog is a pretty random mix of those thoughts, some on gardening, many on life in general.
Life musings ... My name is Joe Sheller and I'm an Associate Professor at Mount Mercy University in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. This blog is personal opinion and does not reflect the opinion of the university, its administration, staff or board. I love to garden and often find my mind wandering when I'm pondering weeds or flowers. This blog is a pretty random mix of those thoughts, some on gardening, many on life in general.
CRgardenJoe's Blog 