Man the Forager--Plants and Wood

It is rewarding to read an outstanding book about plants and one that is so well written as is John Wright's Hedgerow, number 7 in the River Cottage series published by Bloomsbury, London and New York. This 'Hedgerow' book has fine color photographs of the plants that are edible, and has excellent writing: intelligent, knowledgeable, and informative without being stuffy. He is a true a writer, not a 'garden writer.' Wright's book demonstates a long familiarity with the plants he describes. There are plant-fruit recipes, and even a short section on poisonous plants (no recipes) so that we will not get ourselves poisoned or sent to ER, and Wright understands how crucial this information is for children; I having had five, and he three, and he dedicates the book to his three daughters.
   But most of all, I like Wright's book for its Voice.  It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that Voice (i.e. swing), as Ella Fitzgerald sings. Voice is the heart and soul of  good writing. Otherwise one might as well read directions for assembling a bicycle.  You feel that you know Wright as a living person as you read his work. He has a vast reading background and includes allusions from English herbals which create a varied texture to his plant pages.  Best of all though is his wit and sense of humor, his subtle sarcasm that never hurts or stings, never belittles, and there are the funny, down to earth images, like how mallow soup looks like 'grass-cutting soup.' And, he dislikes herbal teas--a man after my own heart. If it ain't got that caffein, it ain't worth a thing. I think that only the English can pull off such witty sarcasm with aplomb (not a plum).  He praises various plants and fruits, but calls it honestly when he feels the stuff is insipid or over rated by know-it-alls. I only wish I could take one of his foraging outings on a clear, lovely English day.
   He emphasizes that man was first a forager. Homo forager, not homo faber. I suppose. He had to forage in order to survive. He got his food by wandering around, picking and collecting plants and fruits and learning the hard way. It is a very primitive (in the best sense of the word), simple, way of life. And, the finds are there for the taking (with permission nowadays of course). I got called a vulgar name only once (after asking permission) for collecting thrown away plants in a dumpster, and  even if you get that treatment you will be just fine.  Consider the source. I suppose early man had to keep an eye out for unpredictable, nasty animals. Anyway, foraging is so very rewarding, getting valuable things and getting them for free. Today, we checkout the cans on trash day or prowl bull dozed yards in suburbia. I have a small collection of orchids and many other plants retrieved from the "green" trash. Some of the plants and small trees are now moderately big shade trees.
   More significant to my collecting zeal, I forage for wood that I turn into carvings and sculptures that I create. That big one in the back yard was lifted as a giant log into my pickup by my kind wife and me. It is of Monterey cedar. One can find special woods that cannot ever be bought; olive, avocado, acacia, liquid ambar, orange, lemon, kumquat, macadamia, just to name a very few. The man down the street, Bob Diehl, a very accomplished wood craftsman and wood turner artist-friend finds all of his wood, and turns beautiful bowls from it. Now that the neighbors know of his talent, I and others are all always there (with ear plugs) at the wretched sound of a chain saw. He takes those savaged olive trees and "turns" them into fine formed bowls. They are exquisite.
   Another friend, Jim Gigler, has a lovely, paradisal garden barely a block away from me. It is a pleasure to see how much he truly loves and enjoys growing plants and trees. When he has to cut off a tree limb or take down a tree that just isn't doing well at all, he sends the wood over to my house via his son.  "Oh Dad, to La Rosa's place again?" I paint-seal the ends of the logs, date and name them with a tags, and I let them sit there to cure, all the while I meditate upon what mystery is in that log. Gigler also leaves plants that he doesn't want anymore out on the curb, which feeds my need for plants and satisfys my early-man,  foraging want. It's a terrific feeling to get a free plant. And, when I find damaged plants that some far less scrupulous others leave for the trash, I feel like a plant resurrector; after a while--weeks, months--or years--I feel a bit inflated that "I saved That!"
   So don't pooh-pooh it if you haven't actually experienced it, eh? Have you seen what foragers bring to The Antiques Roadshow? And some of them get it on trash day.
   Well, I only collect what I need or can use. It's like fishing. My wife keeps me in check there as well. But I must assert firmly, there is something authentic connecting me with my ancient ancestor of the deep forest that really gives me satisfaction and a thrill when I take off with a plant or a choice piece of wood. So there.

Grow-Blossom-Prune and Clip-Return to the Earth

Apropos of my last blog, I want to add some more comments on mulching. But first, I must say without being  too prissy that the word "blog" is an unfortunate one, vulgar sounding, as though connotative of some blockage for which one calls the rotorooter man.  Elemental, Eh? That said, however, without blogs, neither I nor you would be participating in this creative interchange.
   If you hear the sound of my clippers clicking off in my garden, it is a signal that I am grooming plants and shrubs and trees, and clipping up the twigs and branches into little piece that I in turn spread on the earth of the plant-island beds. I see now, in the midst of summer, that the beds are being fertilized naturally and holding water as a result of this. That which grows, blossoms and dies was nourished by water, fertilizer, and care, and why should the plant leafiage and such be dumped in the landfill?  It shoudn't! It is a Naural cycle that it be returned to the earth as the nourishing Mater that will always sprout grasses and flowers in spring, even after atomic disasters as occurred at Chernobyl and Fukushima. Have you seen the wonderful TV documentary about the vibrant (yet  still relatively radioactive) life that is returning ever more vigorously to the environs of Chernobyl?  Eight foot catfish breeding in radioactive sediment ponds and birds singing and raising young. It is a reassuring thing to see this ressurrection, and may we all hope and pray that mankind gets his act in order and that such destruction does not happen again. A lot remains to be seen in the future at these sites, but at least Nature is healing itself within the rich detritus of plant and animal life.
   Nature has a way of decomposing and regenerating itself into a fecundating substrate that helps seeds to sprout, and in the case of Chernobyl, for wolves to frolic and breed pups; a less chemical path than that of Miracle-Gro. This is the quintessential Eternal Return that I stand in awe of. It will take a very long time for all of Nature to heal at these places, and for mankind to return but in our own gardens we can mitigate the polluting dusts and gases and toxins by growing "Our Own Gardens" as Voltaire, that smiling philospher of wit, intelligence, insight and joyful irascibilty stated in the last sentences of "Candide." Both Voltaire's "Candide" and Leonard Bernstein's "Candide" are required for a possible but not probable short quizz on my next  ----.
  

The Forest Creates Mulch All Year Long

Creating and spreading mulches in our gardens is a continual all year-long process. Trees and shrubs in forests are continuously losing branches and twigs, and  shedding leaves. This process creates a mat or layer, a matrix (from the Latin for mother, 'mater,' as in alma mater) that holds in moisture, provides a substrate for germinating seeds, and decomposes into nutrients for existing plants. What will Mother N. think of next, eh? Well, the best part of it is that Mother N. doesn't think about it at all! No more than the birds do when they sing.
   In our gardens, we need first to lay down a layer of coarse mulch; twigs, rough-cut stuff, and rather short pieces of small branches. As you are pruning bushes and shrubs have a garbage can next to you into which you throw the cut up stuff which should be short, 3-4 inch pieces. Don't cut your fingers off--it is  easy to do with sharp pruners, so be sure that you know where the ER is in case of necessary stitches. Mine is only three miles away and I've never had to use it so far (for that), thank God.  After you have cut the twigs and branches into small pieces, which takes some time during which you can listen to the sweet birds, smell the flowers, and keep an eye out for rattlers (I killed one last week so please don't report me to the bleeding hearts--it was only 3 feet from an adjacent  day care center), then you can take this cut up stuff, detritus, and spread it very evenly in your plant bed and garden islands. Even, careful spreading is paramont. Next, take your grass clippings and spread those over the rough-cut stuff. Because I no longer have lawn, I get my clippings from friendly gardeners who cut my neighbor's lush, over watered lawns. It's good to chat with the gardeners and say "Ciao." As you spread these clippings, and some small leaves, this mixture will fall into the voids or interstitial spaces created by the rough-cut stuff. It will decompose and create molds and fungi which will in turn help to decompose the coarser stuff. You can even sprinkle on a bit of earth from time to time to create more bacteria.  Keep it all moist. It is suprising seeing how quickly ("quick" as in living, not dead) the coarse stuff and the finer detritus will create a lovely bed of mulch that holds in moisture, provides nutients, and smells good. Good mulch always smells good, like a forest floor. And if you have all of your fingers, the process will need to be started all over again when you have plant stuff, clipping and leaves. Several layers of this kind of mulching are needed to create a beautiful, green garden. People always ask me why my garden is so green and beautifully lush, and I say it is because the mulch that I help to create holds in the water longer than neatly raked up, hard earth upon which the water simply runs off pretty fast.
   I realize that chopping or cutting up that stuff takes time, but I feel that I would rather be outside for a couple hours than sitting indoors eating snacks, watching insipid-TV programs, or whatever. Now that I've told you about making great mulch and how cool I am, you can go into a forest somewhere and see exactly what I have described.
   The water scientists tell us that not one drop of water, like energy, is never lost. The planet has now all the water it ever had, and will ever have. So they say. I trust the mystics and poets (read Shelley's "Clouds") who have said this for many centuries. Because we are about 60% water, or thereabouts, I wonder if we humans get recycled into the watery universe of living things and water resources as do other living creatues. It is reassuring to me to think of myself as water, especially when I am contemplating the mighty Mississippi or the Sea. As Thoreau put it, fish are merely animalized water; is it that way with us?




  

Plant-Lovers All

I have watched a house remodel job for about a month or so now. All the former garden is bulldozed except for one sixty-year old (at least ) heavily-laden orange tree about fifteen feet tall. I managed to salvage some really attractive day-lilies, after asking permission of course. In about a month, if the orange tree doesn't get water, it will be either dead or beyond recovery. With August, September, October, and a little of November ahead of us, it will not make it to spring and blossom as it has for at least fifty years. Such a noble act for the powers that be to chuck all the rest of the garden and leave this token tree. Nice alliteration, eh? Being a true plant activist, or whatever, I've asked the workers several times to give it a soak from their on the premises hose, but they say "we don't know what THEY want to do with it." I keep wondering, who are THEY? And, can't you (plural) see what is happening above your heads, especially since you all sit under this tree (the only shade) while you eat your (plural) lunches? Well, if and when this tree dies, THEY can pop in another one. Only $23.95 plus tax and fifty years, at Home Depot!