Seeing into - Seeing around

 

I thought I might try to write about the way one sees in a garden. Literally and metaphorically. I also want to address the elephant/solar panel in the room: The giant panels that block the primary view of our garden from the road. And then there's the question of who cares? Who is the garden for? For me? For my family? For others? For tours? Or for the frogs and foxes and ravens?

 

the veggie garden a few years ago

 

Seeing into the space is a complex concept with some very simple basic issues. Our garden sits adjacent to a rural road, where for the most part, people drive by as quickly as they can. Other than the spot that our house occupies (close to the road) and the driveway, the rest of the visible part of our property is our fenced in garden. Everything surrounding that perimeter is essentially wooded or at the very least a line of trees. All of our neighbors are within a few hundred feet. Across the road from us is a forty acre field, rented out for farming and bordered along the road by a mix of native conifers and hardwoods. The trees were planted the year we moved in, so we assumed it was because the owner, across the field, didnt want to watch us as we moved in. Still not sure it wasn't personally motivated... but how do you ask that sort of question? He didnt extend the line of trees along the entire perimeter... just in front of 3-4 of the houses. Basically, the far end of his view-shed. 

 

But back to the original question... about seeing into the garden. We have folks who walk up and down our road, sometimes with dogs or kid in tow. Cyclists bike past on the weekend. For the last few years, we have had folks stop and look into the garden and occasionally ask if they can come closer to take a look. Not many people have stopped for long. I guess that's the price of everyone wanting some crazy level of privacy. Folks are afraid to say hi... or to look too long and be perceived as nosy. 

Once the solar panel construction started, so did the questions. Overnight, I started getting Facebook messages asking about what it was going to be. After it was fully assembled, it was obviously right smack-dab in the middle of what used to be the lawn area where for eleven years we had kicked the ball for our doodle Georgia Rose. Everyone knew her (and through her, us). Georgia always needed to run run run around the yard, so for years, that was the focus. Before her... well, before Georgia was life before the coma. Let's skip that for now. Ancient history. 

 

Because the fenced in portion of the garden was completely open to the south and the road, we had a huge view. In many ways, it felt like the field was ours. The downside is that during the winter, the winds would whip through and come scouring across the yard. The garden sits below the height of the road, resulting in deep drifts of snow into the garden during the worst winter snows. I wish I could find some of the photos of the deep troughs through the snow we would make for Georgia Rose. When it was over her head, we had our work cut out for us. 

 

A few years ago, as the new incarnation of the garden was in its infancy, I realized (with some help from Leto and Nancy) that the section of the garden nearest the road was not thriving the way we expected. In fact, it struggled to survive. Seriously hardy plants in that spot died within a year.  I would plant things like irises and the next year, they would be close to dead. This gave rise to all sorts of questions. Was the soil okay? Was it tainted? Poisoned by road salt? The list goes on and on. All of which is to say, our neighbors saw us working in that area an awful lot. 

Bit by bit, as we laid down cardboard and wood chips, and built beds and paths, the garden started to take form. Even though some shrubs were planted at the outset, they weren't focal to the garden. Partly due to their immaturity but also because in some cases, they were just not the right plant for the space. Way back when, Leto planted over a half dozen climbing roses from Der Rosenmeister Nursery in Ithaca. Those were planted in a thin strip of dirt along the fence running north-south. Unfortunately, they had no friends at first. They withstood winter winds as best they could, but as once blooming roses, they didn't retain interest after early summer blooming was done. Maybe the immaturity of the shrubs was really my own immaturity/expectations? 

While Leto was in college, Nancy and I decided to start growing our veggies in raised beds made from old metal watering troughs. They gave the garden instant structure. It would take a while for the cardboard/wood chip combination to fully encircle the raised beds. Slow process, that's for sure. One wheelbarrow at a time!

About five years ago, when we were sent home during COVID, we discovered that ravens were flying over our garden multiple times a day. Our first pair of ravens nested in the huge tree beside our house and fledged one of the dorkiest kid-ravens I've ever heard. We named the parents Bob and Mike, because that was the sound they each made. Baaaahb, baaaahhhb. And Miiiike miiiiiiiiike. Easy. No mistaking them. Their offspring was funny. Turns out that raven teenagers have voices that crack too. And they complain about not having enough food all the time. All of this took place right outside Leto's bedroom window. Looking down into the garden and the driveway.

Now the ravens fly over, heading north in the morning, cawing incessantly as they call to others to join them. Then half hour or so later, they are returning, heading southward, mouths closed around baby squirrels or voles or chipmunks. Midday we'd see the ravens learning how to perform barrel rolls. This would come in handy fending off the red-tailed hawks and bald eagles that nested along the periphery of the field across the street. Every day, the ravens would call and call... inviting us to join the fun. Eventually Leto and I started to reply. I figured why not? If they can see us, and we can see them, shouldn't I say hi? Over time, this became enough of a routine than any time I have been unable to be out there in the morning, the ravens have made sure to let us all know. More on that another day.

Three years ago, when my congestive heart failure was diagnosed, I asked the cardiologist if I could skip the cardiac rehab since I pushed wheelbarrows full of compost and woodchips across the yard every day. Building more beds and paths became my way of staying in good health. Bending over to weed made me ruthlessly dizzy, so the more woodchips I put down, the fewer weeds we saw. Win win.

Concurrent to the heart failure was the discovery of irises. We had a small clump of the bog-standard dark purple Siberian iris, 'Caesar's Brother'. Since it had survived consummate neglect over the years, I figured Siberian irises would be a great place to start experimenting with irises. It didn't take long before I realized that we couldn't afford to be collectors of irises the way some gardeners do.  Being broke has been a constant driving force in the direction of the garden. Someone suggested seeds. Next spring we had gallon containers of all sorts of iris seedlings. Iris versicolor, iris sibirica, iris tectorum. Fun things! At the same time, I had no clue where they were going to end up. 

 

Figuring out where to put a few mature plants is one thing, but setting out 50-100 seedlings at a time is a VERY different proposition. Eventually that meant building more beds, more paths... you can see where this is going. By the time the solar panel was installed, last year, we knew we would need more space as the irises matured and we started our hybridizing process. We had a plan. It sounded like a plan. It rhymed with plan.

It was closer to hogwash. 

Early summer we connected with a local grower of Louisiana irises, who eventually gave us her legacy collection of plants... which took two trips to Tully to collect. While we were digging up Louisiana irises, on one of the hottest weekends of 2024, I also had COVID. Ended up with heat exhaustion, fever and complications from the heart issue. When the illness passed, I needed to get the dozens and dozens of Louisiana irises planted. While I'd been sick, they had resided in kiddie pools and mortar trays full of water. Perfect solution for a crazy time. 

 

But as soon as I was quasi-vertical, I started hauling chips and laying out cardboard and spreading compost to re-home these new-to-us Louisiana irises. Being bent over with COVID while planting all of these enormous rhizomes meant dripping snot and sweating my brains out. Why bother waiting to recover? Hogwash. Bananas. Bullshit. I think more than anything I was terrified of losing one more day. 

More on that topic some other time.

This year, in April and May, the fruits of our efforts starting coming up. Huge lines of iris foliage came jutting up out of the new beds. Everything looked perfect. And then they grew. And grew. And shit. Things were waaaaay too close. To anyone watching from outside the garden, it looked like we were moving small-ish plants... but within a summer, those irises would be getting established (and big). It was a race against time and heat. Leto and I got a lot of plants moved (many of which bloomed this summer)... but it wasn't nearly enough. More irises will need to be moved this fall. Partly due to overcrowding, but also because some of the irises aren't going to be used for our hybridizing plans. Some need to be moved so that like species are with like. No point overwatering irises that would prefer it a little drier.

And that's what things look like from within the garden at the end of June. Maybe next time I sit down to write (and avoid going to bed on a worknight), I'll actually address some of the things I said I wanted to talk about. 

I'll close by offering a link to my personal website full of images of flowers from the garden. https://alexsolla.com/flowers-2025   Yeah's it's a lot of images...