At War With Weeds

As this coronavirus pandemic continues there have been many articles published about the medical, mental and culinary benefits of gardening.

The unidentified weed that is everywhere in
my garden in 2020. (Margo D. Beller)

No one talks about weeding.

At this time of year, after several heatwaves, there is usually a short spate of time when it is suddenly cooler and less humid, a time the media weathercasters invariably call "a taste of Fall." This is when I usually walk out my front door and around my property and see where the weeds are running rampant.

I write a lot about weeds, and that is because it is frustrating to deal with them year after year. It is a Sisyphusian battle because the types of weeds growing where I don't want them will continue to come back unless I do something drastic, and even then that will be only a short-term fix. I have one area where locust trees - actual trees - are growing from a long underground root (the parent plant is at the curb) and popping up under my andromeda shrubs surrounded by Sensitive ferns (that is their name, not their demeanor). I have neither the time, energy nor back strength to disrupt this area with shovel or backhoe so I must monitor it carefully and regularly use the lopper to cut the saplings to the ground and at least slow the growth.

This grassy weed gives me the satisfaction of
clearing a large area quickly, at least until it
grows back. (Margo D. Beller)

This year there have been other weeds that started popping up everywhere in profusion, perhaps because of the cooler, wetter spring. They are in all my garden plots, taking advantage of the deer netting, requiring me to make the effort to get behind or under to get at them. Lately, they've started looking like small trees. Worse, I can't even identify them. But to paraphrase what Justice Potter Stewart once said about obscenity, I know them when I see them and I've seen them off the paths I hike. If left unchecked they WILL become trees.

And then there is my balky back, which seizes up on me at this time of year because of the effort of battling weeds. 

Every year, I sit on my low bench, lean forward and pull. After a while I realize I can't sit up. This is when I usually stop and when I painfully rise this is when the spasms begin. A few weeks ago, when there was still light at 5 a.m., I worked in the area at the side of the house (where the andromeda shrubs are) and along the front garden plots (which are more difficult to get at because of the deer netting). After that I had to stop because of work but the rest of the week got hot and humid and then we were hit by Tropical Storm Isais, which brought down a lot of tree limbs. By the time I had collected and put them at the curb, my back was plenty sore. 

This area was cleared of grassy weeds but
I can only do so much. (Margo D. Beller)

That's how things stood until last week, when a friend sent me two of the exercises she does to relieve her back pain. It made a great and immediate difference. By the weekend, when I knew I'd have more than the short time between rising and work during the week, I girded for battle (or should I say "girdled"), warmed up my back and hips (something I should've been doing all along) and went out with my gloves, pail, pruner and my walking stick, which I found to be helpful in taking my weight as I stood up or bent forward to pull out the weeds, sparing my back.
Weeds are any plants that pop up in the wrong place. I've found some weeds pull out cleanly while others break at the top and you have to use both hands to pull the rest of it, with roots, out. Even then, there might be more below. Some weeds are grassy and can at least provide the satisfaction of clearing an entire area - for a time. Other weeds are vines. Ground ivy is a particular nemesis in my yard, as is the vine I can't identify that seems particularly fond of thorny wild rose bushes. However, lately I've also been seeing more wild strawberries, which provide smaller, drier versions of the stuff you get in the market. I can live with these, and the robins and other fruit-eating birds will enjoy those I don't choose to pick for my cereal.

Wild strawberries are a weed I tolerate. (Margo D. Beller)

I should also add even nonpoisonous weeds can have consequences. The plants have natural allies - the insects that use them for shelter. I was reminded of that when both my ankles suddenly felt as tho' they were on fire. I knew the cause - the flies referred to as "no-see-ums." I was not wearing ankle braces and the flies had free rein. I may have won the war but my ankles will now itch for days to come.

Ultimately I spent three hours, in several stages, to get around the areas I wanted to clear, pulling the weeds that were crowding the plants I want growing in the areas. As I worked I could hear chickadees, a Carolina wren, some jays and a catbird mewing. I was shielded from the sun by the trees as I worked, and there was a cooling breeze. Were it not for the physical effort of weeding it would've been an enjoyable time outside.

Everything I pulled is now atop the compost pile, covering the vegetable scraps feeding the worms. I have a feeling of accomplishment, and that should last at least until the next time I walk around the yard and see what has popped up in my absence.

Atop the compost pile. (Margo D. Beller)

At some point, as the days continue to get shorter, I will be cutting back the garden for its - and my - winter rest.  As usual at this time of year, I can't wait.

Midsummer Musings on Wrens

Feeding time at the wren box, July 5, 2020 (Margo D. Beller)

Today, as I write, it is warm but there is a breeze and the humidity is much lower than it has been in the last week. We were hit with several inches of rain from Tropical Storm Fay on Friday, which left little in the way of damage but dropped much beneficial rain for the lawn, my flowers and this year's vegetables: the four peppers (out of nine) I grew from seed, a large-leaf basil and a tomato that should be producing yellow cherry-sized fruit at some point in August.

The lower humidity is very important because that allowed me to pry MH out of the house for a long walk in a county park some distance from us. On weekends, when I am not working in my home office, I am stuck indoors and after a while the house (and I) start to feel stale. When it is not hot and humid on the weekend we can get out. But during the week, when it is seems harder to get up and out early in the muggy air, my birding is confined to my immediate property.

The vegetable plot thickens: tomato (with cage), basil (to its lower right), two pots of
peppers and (in red pot) garlic. (Margo D. Beller)

I sit on my porch; when I see a male cardinal in my neighbor's dogwood, I realize just how disassociated from nature I've been because of circumstances beyond my control. At this time of summer, the birds I'm not feeding are busy building nests or tending to young so they are not particularly visible. At the same time, I hate summer heat and humidity, which this year seems more oppressive than usual. Or perhaps that is because of the time we're in, this plague of coronavirus. It has made me fearful to even walk around the block for fear of crossing paths with someone who is not wearing a mask or does not want to give me space. Aside from the occasional errand I run when the pressures of work drive me out of the house (in my car), I stay indoors.

Still, I shouldn't complain. MH and I are healthy. Our home state of NJ went through hell during the early days of the pandemic and now cases seem to be on the decline. I am gainfully employed and can do my job from home.

And during the week I can watch the house wrens.

House wren about to fly out after feeding young, 2020.
(Margo D. Beller)

The fledglings are growing by the minute. The parents have been shuttling back and forth to the box, either bringing in insects or taking out wren poop to keep the inside of the box clean. At the time I took the pictures of the wrens you see in this post, the young were still small enough for the parents to enter the box and feed them. Now, a week later, the young are so big the parents must feed them from outside the box.

The young call loudly as soon as they can see one or both parents bringing the food. The parents are equally loud whenever I step off the porch and walk outside. This year's wrens are lucky, they haven't had to contend much with squirrels in the apple tree. But they seem more protective. When the wren parents see me when I come out to, say, refill the water dish, they scold incessantly to warn the young to stay quiet or drive me away or both.

I do not know how many chicks are in the box (there can be anywhere from three to 10 in a clutch, according to Cornell's Ornithology Lab) but, as with all birds, the ones that are assertive and push their way to the front get fed, those that don't get weak and die. However, at least once recently I've seen a parent get into the box, perhaps to feed one of those in the back. With this box the size it is, I can't believe there'd be any more than three in there.

(Margo D. Beller)

The nesting period is about two weeks, which means that if all goes well the young may fledge next week. That, however, will be about the time we travel to see another type of fledgling, our grand-nephews. I'll be leaving the box out all summer. The birds, including the house wrens, have other things on their minds than heat, humidity and coronavirus. There may soon be a second brood in the box. Stranger things have happened this year.

A Bird Walk of the Mind

I see again those myriad mornings rise

 when every living thing

 casts its shadow in eternity

-- Poem 19 from "A Coney Island of the Mind" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

It is hot as blazes outside today. The temperature is soaring to around 100 degrees F and the humidity makes it feel worse. The sun is not yet around to the part of the house where I am but I know it is coming and the AC will soon be have to be turned on.

I hate weather like this. It forces me to stay inside. The weather people say, those with breathing issues should stay where it is cool. And so I am. Early in the day I was on my porch listening to the cardinal, the catbird, chipping sparrow and distant Carolina wren. I would like to be walking but where? The bugs attacked my bare ankles just walking to and from the compost pile.

The Passaic River. Scherman Hoffman (Somerset Cty) on the right, Morris
Couny on the left. (Margo D. Beller0

It is depressing.

So I try to do other things to get out of this heat-induced funk. I imagine myself walking in a cool forest where there are no bugs, no people, just birds singing. Right now, I am imagining myself at the New Jersey Audubon center at Scherman Hoffman in Bernardsville.

Just about every Friday and Saturday morning, weather permitting, there is an 8 a.m. bird walk, and I've taken many of them back in the days when I would rise early on a Saturday and rush from my home to try and decompress from a week of stressful work in a city office. It is a peaceful walk that can have anywhere from two to two dozen people. One of the best things about this walk, besides all the birds I can find, is the walk is free.

I have been on the property enough times that I can sit on my back porch and visualize my own, ideal bird walk.

(Margo D. Beller)

I start at the education center. From inside the store I can see the Scherman feeders and a water source that attract the same birds I can see in my backyard, usually titmice, chickadees and chipping sparrows, perhaps a cardinal or a jay. There is a window feeder for the hummingbirds. (My feeder has drawn few of them this year.)

Next, I visit the observation platform. If this was autumn I'd be here watching for southbound hawks. In summer it's a good bet there will be chimney swifts flying about, looking like cigars with wings, hunting for insects in the heat. Below are the nest boxes for house wrens. A shadow passes and it is a red-tailed hawk.

I leave the building for the driveway, looking for slight movement in the leafed-out trees. Is that the breeze or a bird? It's a bird, in this case a black-throated green warbler just poking about for a meal. In the distance I can hear a Baltimore oriole with its melodious whistles.

Black-throated green warbler
(Margo D. Beller)

Where the Dogwood Trail (red blaze) meets the driveway I take a left and head down the hill to the open fields that were burned recently to get rid of the invasive plants and make room for natives. Along this hill I have found bluebirds, Carolina wrens and indigo buntings. At the bottom of the hill I have a choice: the Field Loop (green blaze) trail into an open field with its small pond and circular path, or head to the Passaic River (yellow blaze).

I take the left, letting the many dogwoods shade me. At any moment the silence can be broken by a number of birds such as American redstarts or ruby-crowned kinglets or catbirds. I keep moving to the river, the mighty Passaic.

This river is the border between Morris County across the way and Somerset County where Scherman Hoffman is located. It is nowhere near as wide as farther downstream when it becomes more polluted because of decades of abuse by chemical companies.

Ferns and dame's rockets, Scherman Hoffman (Margo D. Beller)

Flying to a low branch, bobbing its tail is a phoebe, one of the first migrants to arrive in spring. I see them often here along with Louisiana waterthrush and the occasional scarlet tanager. I have to walk carefully now because of the many exposed tree roots. Many plants I can't name but I do recognize ferns and dame's rocket. The monotonous "here I am, look at me, sitting here, in a tree" tells me a red-eyed vireo is nearby. In my mind there is no one walking a dog or fishing along the river, although I've seen both in visits here.

Eventually, I turn around and go back to the red trail, left on the green trail and then slowly up the hill to my car, listening to all the birds.

Time to put on the AC.