This isn't the first time I've had to face the woes of what I call natural gardening. As I was going back through my blog to see if I'd posted about this before, I was totally surprised to find that three years ago (almost to the day) I'd already written a post with the exact same title I had come up with for this one! But after skimming the previous entry, I can happily say that I have a somewhat different take on it this time.
Natural gardening means three main things for me: 1) I don't use serious toxic chemicals to either kill or enhance plant health, in part because 2) I'm attempting to provide habitat and food for beneficial insects and birds, but 3) I won't spend a lot of time and effort in general on babying plants to keep them thriving or even alive. Natural gardening means trying to establish an appealing and useful habitat, but only if it can adapt enough to take care of itself. I try to find the right place for each plant, and will try moving them if they don't seem happy. I only make an effort to water plants their first year (or after moving them) and then they are on their own. I occasionally try to build up my crappy soil with a little bit of compost, fish fertilizer, or other forms of organic fertilizer, but I don't do it regularly. Three years ago I had just started using Neem, and I still do. But I don't apply it regularly, and I'm not sure it even works against any of the problem bugs.
Part of the bug problem is that I don't even know which bugs are responsible. Not that knowing would help, I suppose; I'm still not going to start using serious pesticides. But I'm awfully tempted by this point in the year, because apparently this is when diggers and bugs start significantly threatening my plants. Certain plants have been victim to leaf biters all summer: the calendulas I started from seed, most of the dahlias I started from seed, a number of my QIS Orange gomphrenas, and my second try at physostegia plants are all virtually non-existent now thanks to leaf munchers. But suddenly all kinds of other plants are being chomped to within an inch of their lives.
The disappointment of going through all the work and expense of starting those seeds or buying those plants only to have them destroyed prompts me to pull the reins on myself a bit. (Whoa!) For a start, maybe I should stop trying to grow plants that haven't been successful after multiple attempts.
Or what about plants that haven't completely failed but aren't doing well, even after being moved? I see tall, thick stands of bee balm in other people's yards, but for the last two years my two pathetic Jacob Clines have only put up a few meager stems with a few tiny leaves. The leaves get nibbled a bit, but not enough to be the real cause of their failure to thrive. I planted some species variety from seeds years ago, and they're doing pretty well. Have I not found the right spot for the Jacob Clines? Do they just need longer to get themselves established? Is it some other aspect of that cultivar that makes them unsuitable for my garden? Do I try moving them again or do I give up?
But how do you know which species or cultivars to give up on? I've tried four different kinds of coreopsis with varying results. My three surviving Jethro Tull coreopsis, which I originally planted in 2011, have been going pretty well for 4 years. They've never gotten as big as the original plants that I divided them from, but they do all right for themselves and I like the way they grow where they are now. In 2013 I got an unidentified cultivar (possibly Route 66) as a rogue cohabitant in one of the Jacob Cline plants which I picked up at a local nursery. (I love "bonus" plants!) I slapped it into a spot on one of my front slopes, crossed my fingers, and figured if it died at least I wasn't losing a carefully chosen plant that I'd paid for. It has quickly established itself and is putting on a lovely, healthy show for the second year in a row. It has turned out to be a really great plant so far, and its red-spotted centers go great with the red daylilies in front of it (which I hadn't even planned when I stuck it there)! My Creme Brulee coreopsis were planted in 2012 and did okay for the first two years. Last year, though, the leaves ended up being devoured and it produced far fewer flowers than the year before. This year it was also quickly stripped of leaves and short on flowers. I had chosen Creme Brulee because it sounded like a better alternative to the Moonbeam cultivar I'd been wanting for awhile, but after last year's disappointment I decided that this year I would go ahead and get myself some Moonbeams. So far so good on those. But I'm keeping my fingers double crossed that these don't go the way of the Creme Brulees.
You just never know which ones are going to be winners. Sometimes the ones you choose prove to be worth every penny, turning out just like you'd hoped (if not better) and holding their own beautifully no matter what New Hampshire's weather and wildlife put them through. Once I'd found the right spot for my Dark Towers penstemons, they proved themselves gloriously. My Carradonna salvias start being de-leafed by insects this time of year, but they've already finished blooming and it doesn't seem to harm them at all. Sometimes, like the mystery coreopsis, you just luck into great plants. Select Seeds always sends a packet of free seeds with each seed order, and in 2013 they sent me something I wasn't familiar with called Calamintha nepeta 'August Clouds.' I started some seedlings, plopped them in various spots around the yard, and wondered if they would do anything or even survive our winters. By this time that year I had these wonderfully minty fronds of attractive foliage with tiny yet attractive pale purple flowers. And they've just gotten better each year.
It's disheartening to look around and see spots where nothing I've tried seems to do well or where once-happy plants are suffering. Those are the moments that tempt the ethics of a natural gardener. Maybe if I tried Miracle Gro and endangered the bees with toxic insecticides my plants would look like something out of a gardening magazine. Maybe if I spent all my time and money on mulching and weeding and drip irrigating and building the perfect compost pile my garden would look like everyone else's who can afford professional, conventional landscaping services. But my reason for gardening isn't because I want my yard to look like a magazine landscaper created it. And I don't make my gardening decisions based on what would be the quickest shortcut to impressing other people. I prefer to think of myself as sort of a combination of an amateur environmental scientist and a developing artist who lacks a good sense of artistic vision: I keep experimenting, trying to use what I've learned to make better choices each year and figuring out what looks good by trial and error. There are some dilemmas that never get any easier: should I give up and tear out all the stupid irises that haven't bloomed in years no matter what I try or should I let them have yet another chance to prove themselves until I've run out of room everywhere else? But with every wrong choice, setback, disappointment, or failure, there is not only the chance to learn but the chance to try again. And when you finally get something right, it's amazing how much one success can make up for an awful lot of Not-So-Great Moments in Gardening.
