by Eileen Brodie

Created on: February 20, 2009   Last Updated: March 01, 2009

My Campaign to Save My Garden From Myself

The time had come to raze the garden. Looking east from a towering cedar tree, I could see the remnants of cedar fence posts. Virginia creeper climbed around them, competing with thorny blackberry canes. Patches of wild grass sprouted here and there. The perimeter of the garden was completely encircled by mature ceanothus; tall woody shrubs with gracefully arching branches, sometimes called wild lilac. The shelter they made was home to many birds, and their small white blossoms sent a mild sweet fragrance over the breeze. From time to time, deer crossed the property, using the ceanothus for cover as they took a well-worn path to the thick forest to the west. In an open knoll in the center were a number of raised garden beds. The former gardener had labored to create flowers and food crops over several years before we took ownership.

We had so enjoyed the fruits of her labor. Tender asparagus shoots threaded their way through yellow straw we had placed over the soil in the winter. At first the excitement of their arrival led us to snap off the pencil-sized shoots right there in the garden, eating them wonderfully raw. We learned to hold back until a tiny forest of aparagus stood ready for harvest, soon to be steamed and served on a plate. Tomatoes weighed down pungent stalks, making us race to support them with whatever came to hand. Bamboo rods, strings stretched between uprights, metal cages, we tried out various methods. A row of wine grapes were strung on cables, their green canes shot out in the spring. Nearer to the dirt road grew sunflowers, nodding their heads with the changing light of the day. Flowers were abundant, including bright orange coreopsis. Butterfly bush, or buddleia, grew back faithfully after being coppiced at the end of the season. We learned a lot in our first year.
We were fortunate to have almost two acres of property, spread over mostly level terrain. The upper foothill climate was more forest than field, and similar lots were characterized by unusable sloping terrain. Our greatest good luck was that the property had once been the site of a small sawmill, sometime in the 1950's. I had found a rotted wooden sign buried in vegetation, declaring that fact. Over the years of its operation, the sawyer had cut a large percentage of the immense incense cedar and oak trees that were typical of a Sierra foothill forest. We later had an unexpected visit from the sawyer's daughter, who pointed out favorite

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