Beyond the backyard is the … beyond
My landscape thrives while the outside habitat shrinks
Maybe Shakespeare had it reversed. Maybe it is the summer of our discontent.
A summer when Mother Nature (climate) and Father Time (war, peace, and politics) conspired to make a season best left to relaxation and contemplation (even some poetic thoughts) assume an urgency it was never meant to have. Temperature-wise, August arrived in July; other-wise, what was once known as the doldrums asserted itself in historic and mind-boggling ways, both domestically and globally.
I am writing this in my downstairs office, glancing out the window periodically to take in the reassuring sight of the backyard landscaping — my own landscaping, as imperfect as it may be — a visual and psychological pushback against the truly seismic and unprecedented events that seem to make every previous day part of the before times.
Instinctively, my eyes are drawn to a row of hostas on the eastern fringe of the backyard. Their white-bordered leaves provide welcome contrast to the golden cypress and emerald arborvitaes behind them, forming a tiered natural wall from our home atop the Second Mountain in West Orange.
I’ve written about these hardy little leafsters before, as they defy the stress of too much or too little rain, extreme shade or sun, less than ideal soil, and the indignity of being uprooted periodically for propagation. They yield only to the predations of nibbling deer and rabbits, and then only for the remainder of the season, rebounding in full circumference the following spring.
(Memo to myself: I feel the Elmer Fudd rising in me. It’s time to buy several more containers of non-toxic deer and rabbit repellent. The smelly secret sauce works well, except I have to be vigilant about regular applications, especially after rain.)
The black-eyed susans, echinacea, and cone flowers seem to be doing nicely, thank you. But the forsythia I planted on the south side of the backyard last spring continue to struggle, in contrast to the lush row on the north border. It’s strictly a matter of sunlight, nestling as they do in the shade of the pines and fir trees my parents planted nearly 70 years ago. I’ve just troweled in starter pachysandra to try to extend the existing groundcover, and I hope to buy several variegated boxwoods or golden holly in the fall to round out the beds.
Our front and rear lawns continue to fight valiantly against brownout, depending solely on the fickleness of rain. The soakers from Tropical Storm Debra and afterward restored the turf to a currency-toned green, but another dry spell would pose a significant setback. My resolve not to water the grass remains strong, although I do use a drip irrigation hose periodically for the front beds of azaleas, holly, hydrangeas, and mountain laurel.
(Full disclosure: I did not participate in No Mow May; I do apply chemical fertilizer to the lawn in the spring, and I’m still somewhat of a stubborn suburbanite in wanting that 1960s velvety carpet look.)
Just a quick word about the marigolds, bless ’em. They’re standing tall and assertively, brilliantly orange, and giving off the distinctive peppery aroma that helps keep critters at bay. A pity that they’re annuals, but I’ll be sure to buy even more next year. From little planter trays robust flowers do grow.
Sorry I can’t say the same about the lilies of the valley. For the second year in a row, the deer struck early and surgically. These white-tasseled transplants from my in-law’s garden thrived beneath our stately oak tree for decades. But the last few seasons have been unkind. The deer used to turn up their noses at them, but now chew rather than eschew the plants. And those not consumed are trampled beneath their hooves.
Another loss keenly felt are the hummingbirds. We’ve tried to coax their return to the backyard with pollinating shrubs and a nectar dispenser, freshening up the red-colored ambrosia and keeping our fingers crossed. But to no avail. Several months ago, my wife, Gail, did spot one hovering a few feet above the front lawn and called me in enough time to see its furiously beating wings and glistening green underbelly before it darted off, but there have been no sightings since then.
Also gone are the goldfinches who used to be regulars at our feeders and built their tiny, tidy nests under the eaves of our deck. Could these two species be the canaries in the environmental coal mine, casualties of shrinking habitat resulting from the dizzying pace of development in my township and the overall effects of climate change in the great beyond?
West Orange, through its zoning and planning boards and town council, is currently pursuing a spasm of construction. Apartment complexes and assisted living centers are being built or proposed in environmentally sensitive areas (mountain slopes, woodlands), while in-your-face commercial developments, such as a massive self-storage complex now unfolding at the base of the Second Mountain, are greenlighted.
And as development surges, the township continues to lose vital tree canopy, now estimated by the town forester at 27 percent of land mass, down from 33 percent. He and other experts agree that it should be maintained at 40 percent. And yet dozens of evergreens were just leveled at the site of the famed Manor restaurant, which recently was sold and will become an event venue. Will they be replenished?
The forester also announced that 50 mature growths would be felled throughout the township due to disease or because they posed obstacles to sidewalk and street reconstruction. His timing was somewhat inauspicious, as the town had just enacted a tree protection ordinance with less squiggle room for developers but lacking the full-throated safeguards sought by environmental groups.
Private crews showed up quickly and toppled three mature firs on the street feeding our cul-de-sac and 10 pin oaks two blocks over, virtually denuding the cover in that area. Opponents of the decision, including homeowners and Our Green West Orange, of which I am a member, contend that the action was taken to make it easier for contractors to repave streets and repair sidewalks, even though workarounds are readily available.
Yet still more trees are at risk locally. Not dozens, not hundreds, but thousands — 5,830 to be precise, if the town approves the West Essex Highlands mega-development of 496 apartment units in West Orange’s last significant woodlands concentration. No replacement or replenishment effort can match the original growth that will be lost to bulldozers and construction crews.
At the moment, our cat, Tuxi, is scrunched in a windowsill, motionless and alert to anything that moves in the backyard. Tuxi lives to escape outdoors, where she cavorts for hours, until hunger pangs force her into prancing on the sill of our picture window in front, as close as she ever comes to asking for a favor.
Her view of the neighborhood is not so different from that of the two grownups she lets live with her. Tuxi deals with a shrinking habitat that funnels racoons and their kits, wild turkeys, bucks, does, and fawns, a fox or two, and a semi-feral striped tom that prowls with yearning and determination into our backyard. Tuxi tenses as each visitor appears and instinctively goes into a stalking crouch. Several months ago, we had a bear sighting confirmed in our usually calm environs. Fortunately, she didn’t spot it.
My ability to oppose or influence excessive development and questionable environmental decisions diminishes considerably beyond my property lines. But I do put great store in treating my tiny speck of the planet with almost sanctuarial respect, especially considering the messy state of the world out there. And I expect my town to do the same within its borders, instead of recklessly pursuing tax ratables that actually lower the quality of life.
Gail and I will head for Long Beach Island shortly and enjoy the waning days of summer during the liminal month of September. When we return, on the cusp of October, our expectations about viewing autumn foliage will be less than last year’s, because there’s just less to view. It doesn’t have to continue this way.
Jonathan E. Lazarus is a retired editor of the Star-Ledger and a copy editor for the Jewish Standard/NJJN. He’ll use his beach time to write another open letter to his grandchildren about the presidential campaign.
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