Blog

Sustainability

After discovering so many new varieties of milkweed, my newest obsession for the spring season is to start a butterfly garden in my front yard that features a variety of milkweed plants. I think that it would not only be a great stopover site for migratory monarchs but would also nurture dozens of other pollinators as well. As an added bonus, it will blend perfectly with the “little patch of prairie” we put in a few years ago. 

Last Saturday, I spent the afternoon reading picture books with my granddaughters. One we read was called  Home Is Calling by Katherine Pryor,  about the migration patterns of monarch butterflies. (It’s a beautiful book filled with gorgeous illustrations and factual information woven together in lilting prose. The teacher in me was impressed!) Ironically, the very next day I happened upon a report from the World Wildlife Fund in Mexico stating that the eastern monarch population in central Mexico has nearly doubled this year, occupying twice as much forest land as last year. According to researchers' estimates, that means that approximately 28 million monarch butterflies are currently overwintering on about four acres of forest. (A number to celebrate, but nowhere near numbers from the late 90s when butterflies covered over 45 acres of forest.) While the number of butterflies in Mexico may not seem pertinent to us here in the United States, it actually is encouraging news for us too. It could be a sign that we can still save this iconic species from extinction  –  if we understand them and purposely work to help them..

Yesterday, while I was browsing the web, I ran across a relatively obscure article that started me on an unexpected tangent. The headline read: California’s monarch butterfly population plummets; fire wipes out Topanga habitat. The destruction of a prime butterfly habitat, to me, just added another victim to the life-changing tragedy that so many Californians have suffered. 

My “outdoorsman” son-in-law asked for a book on foraging for Christmas. Since my perception of foraging is tramping through the woods looking for either mushrooms or other obscure, supposedly edible plants, I didn’t really give much thought to the book. Until today, that is, while I was reading an article about the top new landscape design ideas for 2025. There it was… number 2 on the list: Hunt-and-Gather Foraging Gardens:  A Feast for All Ages.  Now I wish I had at least leafed through that guide.

A few years ago my husband and I took a short vacation in Arizona. While we were there, I fell in love with the desert and with desert-inspired landscapes. Rather than seeing a barren wasteland of rock and sand, which is what my preconceived notion was, I saw a place filled with unexpected beauty and an overwhelming sense of tranquility. Life seemed totally in balance there, taking and giving in equal measures. Earlier this year we talked about going back there to tour the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix before the hard winter set in, but we just didn’t make it. Snowmaggedon hit first and trapped us here. 

We have a nearby neighbor whom we affectionately call “Blower Man.”  We don’t actually know him – he lives directly across the quarry from us – but we definitely know when he’s outside doing yard work. The deafening sound of his enormous leaf blower drones on hour after hour, often chasing us inside until he finishes. As annoying as it is to be sent into retreat mode on a picture-perfect fall day, I find it heartbreaking to think about the environmental impacts of stripping a property bare of every fallen leaf. Autumn leaves are, I believe, Mother Nature's gift to the earth. 

While cliff golden rods and rough blazing stars are vying for attention in my front garden, my third, and unexpectedly new fall favorite, quietly fills a shady corner of my backyard with tall stems covered in soft rose-purple flowers. At a first, quick glance, the plants could be snapdragons revived after the heat of summer or digitalis giving one last burst of color, but a closer look reveals an entirely different plant, rose turtlehead, or more precisely Chelone oblique.   It’s a plant whose blossoms bring to mind dozens of small turtles raising their heads to see if anyone is looking for them and whose name recalls a long-ago story. 

I love bright yellow flowers in a fall garden. Against a vivid blue autumn sky, they give off an incredibly cheerful vibe, marking a positive, happy end to another growing season. It’s like they revive my enthusiasm at a time when it’s so much easier to avoid fall gardening tasks. This year, Cliff Goldenrod has been my spark of sun and burst of energy in the fall landscape.