On my way to the last Heronswood Nursery west coast open house for 2011, I paused at a red light and waited to turn left. Coming from the opposite direction, I saw a motorcycle. It was very early morning, Saturday. There were few other vehicles on the road. The motorcycle was coming fast, accelerating hard down a hill, maybe a quarter mile away. Even at that distance I could see that it was a sport bike with the driver practically lying on the seat.

Virtually all motorcycles are quick these days. Generally, they go from 0 to 60 miles per hour in about 4 seconds. The fast ones do it in less than 3 seconds. And unless they are large cruisers, most will do a quarter mile at well over 120 mph. This particular one was hitting the mid 120s. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t be able to stop before the light. Then I remembered how light the bike must be and what great brakes it no doubt had.

The driver began slowing. I imagined the satisfying feeling of force shoving him forward as the brakes caught and held and him bracing against the handle bars and gripping the seat with his knees. As he approached the stop light, there was a dip in the road, and from my perspective all but the top part of the driver and the bike’s wind screen disappeared. Then that too was gone. Like slowed frames of film, I saw for an instant his legs in the air and then maybe the bike’s wheels as it flew up and over. It all happened lightning fast and seemed rather like the ultimate goal of his unconscious mind: instant death. “I do not like my life; please remove it immediately.”

I drove a motorcycle when I was 20. It was a well-used 1967 BMW R69S—a fine machine. I weighed about 110 lbs; it weighed 450 lbs, so we were a bit mismatched. There was a rhythm to getting it on its kick stand. I perfected that because not to do so conflicted with my image of myself at that time. Once or twice, on soft ground, the bike fell over. It was a struggle to get it up again. Once I ran out of gas late at night; I couldn’t very well leave the bike by the side of the road, and I was far from a gas station. So I pushed. While pushing up a long, steep hill, I had to lean into the bike and move it little more than 20 feet at a time before breaking and resting. After the hill, it was easier, but I pushed most of the night.

That bike made me feel exceedingly hip and cool. It was very fast and powerful. Of course, by today’s standards, it was a dog with a maximum speed of only 110 or so. Who knows what its 0-to-60 statistic was? But speed wasn’t entirely the point—it was smooth, comfortable, and easy to ride. In one 24-hour period, I rode it over 1000 miles. A mythological creature. But I drove that bike for half a year only before I wrecked it as I was approaching an interstate entrance.

I still don’t know what I did. I was going maybe 50, my attention wavered, and then I simply drove off a gentle curve in the road. “Ride it out,” I thought. But the bike hit the ditch, went sideways, and down and over. I was hurled off. My helmet had deep gouges on one side, and one of the bike’s valve covers was torn off. I was otherwise unhurt, although I had a stiff neck for a month afterwards. It all happened so fast.

I don’t know what caused this kid last week to crash. But before he crashed, the bike had almost stopped; then it violently pitched up to its right and over, its driver catapulted and flipped over onto the ditch. Mechanical failure is not likely; maybe he caught a right-side foot peg on the concrete of the curb. If so, there should be tell-tale scratches on the curb. I meant to go back and look, but I never did.

I could see him getting up, and by the time the light had turned green, two cars had stopped. Their drivers had already reached the kid and his wrecked motorcycle. He was on his feet now, standing still and maybe trying to figure out what had happened. For him too, it had all happened so fast. I wanted to stop to see if he was OK, but with the other drivers there, I figured I could do nothing more than they had already done, so I drove on to Heronswood and the Garden Conservancy-sponsored open house.

In gardens, the world is controlled. It seems nothing “happens so fast”. You know, more or less, what to expect. Time in a garden is almost time outside of time. Gardens hold the security of the past and the promise of the future. You proceed with certain thoughts or impulses, and only later are you certain where you were headed. In gardens, we overlook motorcycle wrecks, the gyrations of the stock market, and the intractability of society.

Sure, the sense of control and timelessness are an illusion. Precipitous things happen all the time in the garden. Small or large, calamity strikes: vermin, deer, disease—you name it. All damage or take plants and fruits before you can stop them or even know enough to try. Certainty and control are not assured. Plants fail to thrive or die often for reasons unknown. And there’s weather—wind, heat or cold, floods, hail. But for us, these are not life and death issues.

The gardens at Heronswood are a fine example of a controlled world that can seem outside of time. Unique patterns or combinations of plants in different stages of growth appear fixed and controlled—like three-dimensional snapshots in time. But, simultaneously, Heronswood is changing, always different, from week to week and year to year. Currently, fall is coming on, and things look a little drab; chlorophyll is breaking down and other pigments showing: some brighter, most duller. The summer composites are in full display, and a few of the small fall blooming plants such as cyclamen are showing. A few of the hydrangeas are absolutely spectacular, while others look a little faded.

It has been a treat for me to attend these open houses at Heronswood and to see the progression of the seasons through the lens of the plants at Heronswood. If you missed them this year, watch the website for coming events in spring, and enjoy your fall.

End of the day. Heronswood parking lot ringed by Douglas fir.

Giant Gunnera.

Australian tree fern at bog.

Stachyurus ‘Magpie’

Cyclamen

Crocosmia

Ferns and cyclamen.

Hydrangea aspera

Hydrangea paniculata ‘Grandiflora’

Hydrangea paniculata ‘Grandiflora’ panicle

Hydrangea macrophylla ‘Taube’

Impatiens omeiana from western China.

Phlox paniculata

Daphniphyllum macropodum subsp. himalayense leaf cluster.

Blue Aster

Fuchsia ‘Rose of Castile Improved’

Kitchen garden in morning.

King slaw hybrid cabbage

Cardoon

Teddy Bear sunflower

Heliopsis scrabra

About 35 years ago a gardening campaign called “Fall Is For Planting” began. It was okay, but just okay. Nice title, but it didn’t go anywhere, much less take you along for the ride. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great – no “wow” factor, not even a smile.

In fact, it described work.  Planting is a bit of a chore, so no point in reminding people of the labor. That was its biggest mistake. Another is its length – five syllables are two too many for a slogan or title. Finally, one should avoid using the word “fall” in an ad or slogan. There are so many negative associations with “fall”, it’s impossible to count them all. Trees fall, empires fall, grandparents fall…you get the idea.

I believe this campaign was adopted by the woody nursery industry and picked up aggressively by the Dutch bulb industry. Fall, or autumn as we here at the old bloggie prefer to call it, is an ideal planting time for many diverse cultivars. It can be called a “second spring”, or a “second summer”, since it is some of both! Keep on growing!

Let me tell you why. I was driving down the road last week – that’s Monday, August 29th – and over the radio Dunkin Donuts announced that it was “Fall” and that I should hurry on in for “Fall Cider” served piping hot, etc. Sugar water, maybe with a bit of apple and cinnamon flavoring. But “Fall”?  Summer lasts until September 23rd.

Here’s the way it happened: first came the Labor Day holiday (which I love since I was born that day). The industrial base of the Northeastern US drew people like a giant magnet and soon Labor Day became “the last holiday of summer” for working class people – which is most of us.

Then schools and colleges followed suit and late September – the actual end of summer – was replaced by the week following Labor Day. However, recently, as in the last 20 – 30 years, schools have begun in late August. Why? To get orientation out of the way, I was told, so that families may enjoy a “final” summer holiday weekend and then, theoretically the kids would knuckle down to work the following week. This convoluted explanation explains little, to me at least. Maybe, since I have no family, I shouldn’t speak much about it.

It gets better. The media began to respond to the new opportunities to distract idle youth from doing very little (they used to do farm work, but not generally for almost 100 years), to preparing for school by purchasing new gadgets and fashionable clothing. Don’t study – buy!

Plus, the retailers fell into line by ignoring the typical sweltering heat of much of the US in late August and early September and stocking silly things like Halloween costumes. God!

Football – that great Romance of Death – became extremely popular as the last century ended, resulting in hordes of people sitting indoors on perfectly wonderful days watching pre-season games, while the regular season broadcasts – both NFL and especially college began feeding on folks’ brains earlier as well over the past few decades. Now, Monday Night Football, that destroyer of many pleasant fall evenings, has new competitors such as “Thursday Night Football”.

So, what is my point? It is that ever since the beginning of humankind, we have celebrated the autumn with autumnal crops. And, recently, here in the US, the population has slowly expanded into the southern states for the two main reasons of the energy crisis and the gentleness of the climate for the elderly and soon-to-be elderly.  Why not? During summer the South may feel like a pizza oven, but during the rest of the year the climate is very pleasant. The only obstacle to gardening year ‘round is the short day. This affects some crops, such as a few temperate (Northern) annuals, but certainly not all.

Then, as I continued driving, I began to ponder how miserable the summer just ending has been, capped off recently by Irene. The record-shattering heat wave simulated a cold snap for such tender annuals as peppers and tomatoes. The heat was so intense, many plants recoiled or withdrew their metabolisms from exposure, just like they do in an unseasonable cold snap. They stop flowering, stop fruiting, stop ripening. They freeze, so to speak, wait for the heat to pass, and then resume normal growth. Only problem is that this summer, for most of the US, the extremely high heat persisted for nearly 6 weeks, dead in midsummer. This is normally when gardeners enjoy their outdoor chores, and spending time with their “second family” of garden plants. Not this year! Most folks peered out at their garden from inside what the writer Henry Miller called “the air-conditioned nightmare”.

So, we at both Heronswood and Burpee – as well as The Cook’s Garden? suggest you break out the garden tools anew; the “second summer” is in full swing and will last throughout the US until mid-October in the northern tier states (and even late October if you are on the water, as in Boston), and well into late November in the mid-South and as late as mid-December in the Deep South, including South Texas, Southern New Mexico and Arizona, and Southern California. Of course, altitude plays a big role, so I generalize about these areas at below 2-3,000 feet elevation.

Why “green autumn”? I was sitting on my porch last Sunday morning during Hurricane Irene, wondering where she was. As I waited and drank my coffee, I noticed swirling eddies of green leaves stripped by the previous night’s high winds. It was a surrealistic image: piles of fallen leaves that were perfectly green. I love the word “autumn” and so I thought “Second Summer”, which I have been preaching for years, might be conveyed more effectively by the term “Green Autumn”. It brought smiles to people’s faces, unlike the other titles and slogans, which provoked mostly quizzical looks or blank expressions.

What to do? Well, a lot. Imagine a summer-long season (three months) from early September to early November, at least where we are in Zone 6B.

First, check your soil’s health. Then, if all is good, sow or plant and expect full crops of the following:

Vegetables:

Brassicas:

Collard Greens-Georgia, (south)

Mustard-Florida Broad Leaf,(south)

Brussels Sprouts-Dimitri, (north)

Cabbage Caraflex, (north)

Cabbage Kalibos, (north)

Kale Redbor

Kale Blue Vates

Spinach:

Harmony Hybrid, Salad Fresh

Turnip:

Oasis Hybrid, Tokyo Cross Hybrid

Lettuce:

EZ Serve, Burpee Bib, Green Ice, Salad Bowl

Mesclun Mix:

Green Party Mix

Finally, there is the “dream summer”. This is what the nursery folks referred to with the 40 year old  slogan, “Fall Is for Planting”. You should consider fall as a pre-emptive spring. Plant the following for over- wintering to enjoy in both spring and summer of next year:

Garlic:

Chesnok Red, Early Italian, for spring harvest

Fruits:

Blackberry:

Triple Crown, Chester

Raspberry:

Heritage (red), Anne (yellow)

Strawberries:

Tristan, Yellow Wonder, (alpine)

Grapes:

Seedless Grape Collection, Concord

Blueberry:

Pink Lemonade, Bluejay

Ornamental Plants:

Spring Flowering Bulbs:

Tulip:

“Ice Cream” and “Insulinde”, Bulb Blend “Cool Blues”

( blue Muscary and white Tulip), Daffodils and Hyacinth.

Pansies:

Panola Sunburst, Plentifall Lavender

Ornamental Kale:

Glamour Red, Redbor

Echinacea:

Bubble Gum, Double scoop, Pomegranate

Hellebore:

Double Fantasy

Hydrangea:

Double Delight, Jogasaki, White King and Pinky-Winky

These are just the tips of the iceberg, so to speak. Dozens more worthy cultivars can be grown in the pleasant days of “green autumn”. Consult your Heronswood Catalogue or

www.heronswood.com, as well as the recent Fall 2011 Burpee Catalogue, our first in over ten years, as a response to the strong interest in fruits and vegetables over the past years. Or, of course, www.burpee.com, as well as www.cooksgarden.com

In coming days, we shall email you more culture tips and special projects you can do easily to keep your “second summer” going.

Happy Green Autumn!

Until a few years ago, the only plant I ever had under my care was a small cactus. To be sure that it survived, I went so far as to put it in my carryon bag when I moved from New York to Wisconsin. I think that cactus lasted about 5 years until somehow it died. I don’t know why, maybe I loved it too much and overwatered it. Maybe the sunlight that it got from my apartment window was not quite enough to keep it going. Whatever the case, it was the only gardening success story that I had to share.

My career has been in illustration and design. I recently worked on a project that took every free moment I had, a challenge with two small children. When I was done with the project, I was burned out. I couldn’t focus on anything creative. While driving home one day, I passed a house that until recently had been very dull looking. It was a small 1970s tract style house with a flat roof, inexpensive windows, and faded stucco façade. I had stopped noticing it when I passed by. But this time I actually stopped the car to look at it. Seemingly overnight, it had been transformed into an absolutely fantastic house. It looks like it belongs in the countryside of Provence. The front is covered in stone and the windows are framed by age worn periwinkle colored shutters. It has a peaked roof covered with old clay tiles. Mature olive trees now line the front yard, and the garden is a collection of purple and white flowers. It is heaven. It is perfect. It completely inspired me.

I would love to be able to hire the designers who reworked that house, but I know that I cannot afford them. So after staring at my front yard for an excessive amount of time, I decided to take a shot at it myself. I have always been afraid of gardening. To be honest, I really don’t like worms and snails. I have a fear that everything I plant will die and that I will accidentally plant bulbs upside down. But the image I have of the house nearby got me to pick up the shovel and dig.

My approach has been to see the garden as a blank canvas. I decided to start with one main element, hydrangeas, and then figure it out as I go. I had pictures stuck in my head of some amazing hydrangeas that my husband took at a Heronswood Open House. Some are white and look like fireworks. One is a midnight purple and unlike anything I had seen before. Until seeing those pictures, I had not cared much for hydrangeas, but as I viewed his pictures, my attitude instantly changed.

My newfound enthusiasm for gardening comes from mixing colors and shapes together that make each other stand out. I have planted chocolate cosmos next to white roses and framed the pale green Limelight hydrangeas with cornflower blue bachelor buttons and lavender. I love adding little dots of color to jump out and break up the color scheme. I think of it as weaving colors and textures, and I am hooked.

My husband is away. My children have patiently visited nurseries with me and played in the yard while I have dug. They don’t know it yet, but tonight they are having a picnic outdoors that will allow me to keep digging into the evening.

When my husband returns, he will see a very different front yard. I am taking advantage of these days when I can plant with abandon. When he returns, I’ll be under the eye of a horticulturalist, and it will not be so easy to make mistakes. I think the mistakes are sometimes the best part. I was told once in the beginning of my design career not to take any design classes. The reason being that it was best not to learn someone else’s style. I am using this approach with our garden and having a huge amount of fun in the process.

Much has been made in the news about the heat this summer. No wonder. Nobody needs much reminding, with large swaths of the country sweltering. There’s been drought too. This weather is tough on our infrastructure and most living things—plants are no exception. How does heat affect them, and how do they adapt to it?

Different types of plants differ in their sensitivity to high temperatures. Cool-season species are more sensitive to hot weather than are warm-season species. Some plants are most affected by high daytime temperatures, others by high nighttime temperatures. High temperature affects plants throughout their development and life cycles. Depending on the type of plant and the intensity of the heat, seed germination may be slowed or inhibited entirely. And the effects of heat vary with developmental stage. At reproduction, high temperatures can suppress flower development; or if flowers are produced, they may set no seed or fruit. The rate of reproductive growth can be increased and the period for photosynthesis so shortened that the amount of sugars contributed to fruit or seed production is severely reduced, a disappointment for the gardener to be sure but a crop failure for the farmer with a few hundred acres of soybean.

Plants that live in such places as the Mojave Desert, one of the hottest and driest places on Earth, have evolved ways to help them survive extreme heat (and drought). Features such as small, waxy and/or hairy leaves help reflect high light levels and retain water, and the ability to convert carbon dioxide to sugar at night allows these plants to live and grow in such environments.

But these are exceptions. Most plants grown in North America suffer irreversible damage when high temperatures continue long enough and absolute temperatures are high enough. Plants cool themselves, but a plant’s temperature is generally only slightly above the air temperature. The principal way they do this is by transpiration (water loss mostly from leaves). In addition to transpirational cooling, plants shed heat through air circulation (wind) and direct heat radiation, neither is much help at high air temperatures.

Transpirational cooling is similar to our sweating. Water absorbed by the roots is translocated to the plant vascular system (xylem vessels) and transported to specialized pores (stomata) on plant surfaces; there it evaporates, cooling the plant as well as the surrounding air. These stomata are a remarkable evolutionary adaptation; their function is dependent on one of the many remarkable properties of water—its high surface tension, the attribute of molecularly clinging to itself. You can see water’s surface tension at work in water drops that form on nonabsorbing surfaces or in the drinking glass filled with more water than its total volume.

Stomata are at one end of a continuous column of water that reaches down to the plant roots. Water’s surface tension makes possible this water column that can be as much as 360 feet long in the tallest of the coast redwood (Sequoia sempervirens) trees. Water evaporating at the stomata, creates a negative pressure differential that “pulls” more water from the soil and moves it to the top of the plant. This is the “transpirational stream”, and it ultimately drives and controls all water movement in vascular plants.

Stomata are flanked by a pair of “guard cells” that respond to water pressure inside plants and control whether stomata are open or closed. This allows plants to breathe—exchange the carbon dioxide and oxygen used in photosynthesis and respiration—as well as cool themselves.

Plants grow best at temperatures that we find comfortable—roughly 70 to 85° F. Within this temperature range (and with adequate soil moisture), plants will thrive and efficiently shed the heat that they absorb from their surroundings. But the warmer the air, the more water evaporates; as air temperature rises, plants lose more water from stomata. On warm, sunny days, leaves can easily lose water faster than roots can absorb it. Guard cells then lose turgor pressure, the plant begins to wilt, and stomata close, effectively limiting water loss—but also limiting transpirational cooling and photosynthesis. With adequate soil-water content, these daytime water shortages are minimized by water uptake at night, driven by the negative pressure within the transpirational stream.

But under high, persistent heat and drought conditions, things get bad for most plants. If you’ve got hundreds of acres of unirrigated crops, say in west Texas this year, you’re probably in trouble. Most gardens can be watered, though, and absolute temperatures are rarely high enough to kill plants outright.

A couple of simple tips when you water: do it slowly, deeply, and regularly. Recently planted (two growing seasons or less) trees and shrubs need lots of water. Deep irrigation will ensure that water gets to the root zone, and it will promote deep root growth and development. The amount of water needed will vary with soil type, environmental conditions (air temperature, wind, sun or clouds), and how big your plants are. If you water a plant and it still appears dry or is wilted the next morning, it needs more water. Trees and shrubs can be misted during the day. This will increase ambient moisture and clean the foliage in a dusty area.

Lawns of course suffer too. I’ve always thought of hot, dry summer conditions as a good reason not to mow them. Lawns in temperate regions are often composed of bluegrasses and fescues and ryegrasses; these stop growing during hot, dry periods. But they will green up and begin growing again when temperatures cool and rain returns. If a brown, dead-looking lawn bothers you and you want a green lawn, water it. But, again, water it slowly, allowing the dry and often water-repelling soil to be wetted and the water to soak into the root zone. Don’t water sporadically but keep watering regularly throughout the hot, dry period. And don’t cut your lawn as often or as short as you might normally.

Let’s hope that the extreme heat is pretty much over for this summer. But it will be back, maybe next year, maybe the year after. One last simple suggestion: nearly everyone uses mulch in winter to protect plants from freeze–thaw cycles, frost heaving, and the like. If you’re not already using mulch in summer, it’s just as useful as in winter. Many municipalities convert their green waste to mulch and deliver the finished product for a nominal charge. Garden stores have it too, as do independent suppliers who can be found in phone books. A few inches of organic mulch in your garden and around perennials and shrubs during hot weather will inhibit soil water loss and insulate the soil so that its temperature is reduced and does not vary much.

Mid-summer—before kids start football, soccer, or whatever practice—is vacation time. And for us, it’s no different. Agree with me or not; I think California’s a great place to visit. But as with any visit, the best part often is going home again. So that’s what we did for our summer vacation.

We went to Chicago and Michigan to see people and sights. Botanical, pathological, horticultural, and gardening interests were for the most part forgotten. So please forgive or ignore the off topic, non gardening photos that follow.

Chicago skyline from Shedd Aquarium looking north.

After arriving in Chicago, the outside temperature reading in our rental car was 106° F. It’s true that this temperature was measured immediately over radiating pavement, but—whatever—it was plenty hot. Later in that evening, along Michigan Avenue, we passed an Apple store that flooded the surrounding pavement with cool air as patrons walked in and out. We stepped inside to experience it, and with the 20° or so temperature differential, it was like walking into a refrigeration unit.

Shedd Aquarium.

Amusing t-shirt in aquarium gift shop.

The next morning after watching a weather report to the effect that it would remain hot forever and never rain again, we went to the Shedd Aquarium. The Shedd currently has an exhibit of jellyfish; it ends 28 May 2012. Our past experiences with the Shedd have been that you simply walk into the aquarium, pay your fee, and see what you want to see. But be warned. Whether it was the special exhibit or not, on the Thursday we visited, we spent roughly 90 minutes in line, and the weather people were right—it was still very hot.

Jellyfish

Jellyfish

Jellyfish

Jellyfish

Jellyfish

The exhibit is worth the wait though. I know nothing about jellyfish, and watching and following little children in a crowed space, I was unable to read most of the display information. But I had come somewhat prepared, having read an account of the exhibit 2 days earlier in the Wall Street Journal. (Unfortunately, the article is available through the following link to nonsubscribers for 7 days only— http://online.wsj.com/article_email/SB10001424052702303812104576439860779713324-lMyQjAxMTAxMDAwMTEwNDEyWj.html). If you’re not a subscriber, read it while you can. That afternoon, driving east out of Chicago, it began to rain, and for us anyway, the heat broke.

Rolling on the river.

Crystal clear river.

Small small-mouth bass and river stones.

Marsh milkweed (Asclepias incarnata).

Cattails (Typha latifolia).

Eastern hemlock (Tsuga canadensis).

Cattails and white pine (Pinus strobus).

The rest of our trip was mild and pleasant. We spent our time in western lower Michigan with family and friends. One morning we took a float trip in a canoe down a shallow, crystal clear river. We figured our children (3 and 7 years old) were too young to paddle, so they sat amid ships and watched the passing scenery. By the time we were half way done, they were bored. The old school, Dickensian method of child rearing is almost certainly best for keeping children’s minds focused.

Evening at the lake.

Evening at the lake.

Evening at the lake.

Evening at the lake.

Storm clouds.

Traffic on the lake.

Nice windows and nice hydrangea.

For ourselves, we adults spent an inordinate amount of time looking at the sun going down or at nothing much at all. All in all, it was a pretty good vacation.

High above the Wabash River with night falling, it was still almost as hot and humid as it had been all the way across Missouri and Illinois. Now with the flat tire, it seemed unlikely that I’d make it the remaining 330 odd miles home that night.

As I removed the jack and straightened up, the earth moved. I blinked and looked again. It was not an effect of my inner ear adjusting from a prone to an upright position but ticks. There were hundreds of them moving from the tall grass at the side of the road and across the pavement toward the car but specifically toward me. Those that I saw were the main body; the vanguard had reached me before I saw the others and were already crawling on my clothes and body. I threw them out of the car as I found them as I drove.

Those ticks were relatively large and probably the common American dog (or eastern wood) tick (Dermacentor variabilis), but conceivably they could have been any of the other 15 tick species found in that part of the country. In the USA, there are about 80 tick species; worldwide, there are about 865.

Ticks are arachnids, as are mites, spiders, and true scorpions. Arachnids have eight legs, two body sections, and no antennae. Almost all extant arachnids are terrestrial, and almost all are carnivorous, mostly predigesting before consuming their food.

Ticks are great vectors for disease transmission; they are obligate blood feeders that require an animal host to survive and reproduce. They parasitize a variety of mammals, birds, reptiles, and some amphibians. They transmit a mix of human and other animal pathogens such as bacteria, protozoa, and viruses. Sometimes they carry and transmit more than one pathogen at a time. Of the 80 tick species in North America, 12 are associated with at least 11 discrete human diseases, both infectious and toxic.

The American dog tick carries the organism that causes Rocky Mountain spotted fever, one of the most commonly reported and most fatal tick-borne diseases in the USA. But Lyme disease is what’s on people’s minds; and for good reason–it’s the most common vector-borne illness in the USA with 29,959 reported cases in 2009. About 95% of Lyme disease cases are from 12 states (http://www.cdc.gov/lyme/stats/index.html), but Lyme disease is found in 49 states, parts of Canada, and across Europe and Asia.

Lyme disease is caused by the corkscrew-shaped bacterium Borrelia burgdorferi. It is transmitted primarily by blacklegged (or deer) tick (Ixodes scapularis) but also by some other Ixodes species. Blacklegged tick is most common in the Upper Midwest, Northeast, and mid Atlantic region. On the Pacific coast, it is the western blacklegged tick (I. pacificus) that spreads the disease.

Blacklegged tick has a 2-year life cycle (Fig. 1) that includes four stages (eggs, six-legged larvae, and eight-legged nymphs and adults) (Photo 1). In spring or early summer, the larval ticks hatch from eggs that were laid in the soil that same year in late winter or early spring; larvae attach themselves to small animals, feed, molt, and become nymphs.

After hatching and before feeding, blacklegged tick larvae are not infectious. The larvae must acquire the Lyme disease bacterium from a mammal host that acts as a reservoir of the Lyme disease bacterium, and white-footed mouse (Photo 2) is the main reservoir of that pathogen. But even after feeding, no more than 40% of them are infectious.

The nymphs rest during winter, often in white-footed mouse burrows, become active the following spring, and seek a new host. After nymphs feed, they again molt to become adults. Adults can live a year or more without feeding, but when they feed, generally on large mammals such as deer (Photo 3), they then mate and the cycle begins again with females laying eggs.

The probability of getting any tick-borne disease, especially Lyme disease, is relatively low. Ticks transmit infection only after they have attached to and fed on a host. To transmit the Lyme disease bacterium, a tick must carry the bacterium, bite, and feed on a host for more than 36 hours, generally about 2 days. The probability of acquiring Lyme disease after having been bitten is less than 2%.

Most cases of Lyme disease, though, are contracted from nymphs, largely because nymphs are so small (less than 2 mm, about the thickness of a U.S. penny) and easy to overlook. They are also most active in late spring and summer when people tend to be outdoors. Adult ticks are most active in fall, warm winter days, and early spring when outdoor activity is more limited.

The low probability of contracting a tick-borne disease is cold comfort though to anyone who’s gotten one, but there are lots of ways to reduce the chances further. It’s most effective to implement an integrated approach that involves personal protection, tick habitat modification around your yard or garden, and perhaps preemptive pesticide spraying or other methods of controlling local tick populations.

Begin with yourself though. If you’re going out where there are ticks, use tick repellents. DEET-based products will repel ticks, but they will not provide complete protection against them. Permethrin is a synthetic pyrethroid that kills ticks. EPA lists it as a potential carcinogen, but when used on clothes only, it poses little risk: it is not readily absorbed through skin and is quickly metabolized and excreted. There are a number of permethrin-based repellents on the market.

Wear light-colored clothing and long pants. Tuck pants into socks. This makes it easier to see ticks and tends to keep them from getting inside clothes. The bite of ticks is usually painless, so after being out where ticks are present, check yourself (and children and dogs) well, being mindful of the size of the tick you’re looking for and where they like to hide–hair, waistband of clothing, armpit.

Modify the area around your house or garden to make it less hospitable to ticks and their hosts. Keep your grass well mowed. Ticks don’t fly or jump but rely on catching hold of a passing host. If you have pathways through a garden or yard with overgrown bushes or shrubs, prune or remove them. Prune or remove trees to increase sunlight and air circulation. Remove ground covers and weeds that border your lawn. Woodchip or gravel walkways or barriers between a wooded area and the yard reduce tick movement. Consider locating children’s playsets within an island of woodchips.

Tick pesticides (or acaricides) are effective at reducing tick populations. In most areas where ticks are a problem, there are commercial services that will apply these. A service is probably easiest for most people, but it is possible to do it yourself. A typical program consists of spring, summer, and fall acaricide applications. Application times and frequencies can be modified as needed. Both organic and synthetic acaricides are available. Consult garden centers and/or county agricultural agents for more information.

The Lyme disease bacterium is transmitted to larval and nymphal blacklegged ticks in eastern North America mostly by white-footed mice. There is a commercial product (Damminix Tick Tube) targeting ticks associated with white-footed mice (and other small rodents) that utilizes a cardboard tube containing permethrin-impregnated cotton balls. The tubes are distributed throughout the mouse habitat (your garden and/or yard) and mice collect the cotton balls for nesting material. The permethrin then kills the tick larvae and nymphs overwintering in mouse burrows. Permethrin has essentially no effect on the mice. My understanding is that this product has shown only mixed success in reducing tick populations.

White-tailed deer is the major host of adult blacklegged ticks in eastern North America. The USDA-ARS has developed a device that treats deer with an acaricide. USDA-ARS calls this device a “4-poster”; the device consists of a bait (corn, for example) to attract deer and four paint rollers that apply an acaricide to deer while they feed. Bait can, in addition, be laced with a systemic acaricide that is not harmful to deer but kills ticks that bite them. This apparatus or its modifications is commercially available from several sources. It is probably not appropriate for a small lot but may be a good alternative to broad, nontargetted use of acaricides or drastically reducing deer populations by culling.

Finally, there are several insect-pathogenic fungi (such as Beauveria bassiana and Metarhizium anisopliae) that also parasitize ticks. Laboratory and field studies suggest these fungi may be effective in controlling nymphal blacklegged ticks. These fungi occur naturally in soil and pose minimal risk to nontarget organisms such as bees and butterflies. Commercial products that can be applied as standard pesticides are currently being developed, and these may become important options in future tick management programs.

So, did I get home that night? No. I arrived some time before dawn the next morning. During the day, I found several more ticks still clinging to me–at least one pressed close against my scalp along my hairline and one that I initially took for a scab over my ribs under an arm. None of them had bitten me.

Two-year life cycle of Ixodes scapularis. Source CDC.

Left to right—larva, nymph, and adult male and female I. scapularis. Source CDC.

White-footed mouse. Source CDC.

White-tail deer in fall (Doylestown, PA).

Fagus sylvatica ‘Pendula’ Weeping Beech

Fagus sylvatica ‘Pendula’ Weeping Beech

Pseudotsuga menziesii (Douglas Fir) ‘Graceful Grace’

Pseudotsuga menziesii on the left and at front right is Taxodium distichum (Bald Cypress) ‘Cascade Falls’

Taxodium distichum ‘Cascade Falls’ with Seed House roof

Another view

‘Graceful Grace’ again

Pinus parviflora ‘Glauca Nana’, a rare cultivar of Japanese White Pine

Pinus parviflora ‘Glauca Nana’, closer view

Picea orientalis ‘Skylands’, unusual cultivar of Caucasian or Oriental Spruce

Especially handsome is Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Confucius’, a rare cultivar of the Hinoki False Cypress

Opposite view of Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Confucius’

Close-up of Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Confucius’

Picea orientalis Skylands

Close-up of Picea orientalis Skylands

Cedrus deodara (Himalayan Cedar)

Opposite view of Cedrus deodara

Cedrus deodara with ‘Weeds’ by Steve Tobin

Dramatic angle of Cedrus deodara

Here is Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Crippsii’, another cultivar of Hinoki Cypress. Isn’t she lovely?

Picea orientalis ‘Aurea Spicata’, a rare cultivar of Oriental Spruce. The name means “golden spiked or tipped”, referring to its unusual color.

Closer view of Picea orientalis ‘Aurea Spicata’

Picea orientalis ‘Aurea Spicata’ closer still

Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Split Rock’ another Hinoki Cypress. What a beauty!

Close up of Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Split Rock’

Cryptomeria japonica ‘Black Dragon’, a rare, visually piquant cultivar of Japanese Cedar. Form, color, shape, unique features—‘Black Dragon’ has it all. Very memorable.

Cryptomeria japonica ‘Black Dragon’ close up. I think of this as “the anchovy of rare conifers”.

Here is Picea engelmannii ‘Hoodie’, an odd little bird. Behind are from left to right Pinus densiflora ‘Soft Green’ and Abies nordmanniana.

Picea engelmannii ‘Hoodie’ again, but at a 90% angle from the previous photo, with Abies nordmaniana. Folks make flat-top guitar tops out of the wood of this species, but certainly not this rare and charming cultivar.

Same in a moody light.

Pinus pumila ‘Yes Alpina’ Siberian Dwarf Pine with Pinus (back left), Cedrus atlantica ‘Fastigiata’ Atlas Cedar next to it and Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Pygmaea Aurescens’ Hinoki False Cypress in the middle.

I love this photo. The tree is the fairly common Silver Willow in a somewhat rare semi-dwarf cultivar form. It has been with us for almost 12 years, since it was small. It is Salix alba‘Sericea’, erupting from the center of the Happiness Garden, our full sun perennial plant and shrub display area.

At the southeast corner of the Fordhook parking lot grow these three rare conifers: Juniper chinensis ‘Mac’s Golden’ Chinese Juniper, Picea abies ‘Pendula’ Weeping Norway Spruce and the very large Cedrus deodara.

Closer up and with parking lot cropped out.

Focus on Juniper chinensis ‘Mac’s Golden’.

Pinus thunbergii ‘Thunderhead’ a remarkable habit that is very rare in a spruce.

Close up Pinus bungeana—strong character. Also called Lacebark Pine. That is Tobin’s ‘Sprouts’, and Tobin’s first bronze root sculpture in the faint background.

Closer still.

It is a bit strange that a few folks think the sculpture is weird. This, too, was Picea pungens ‘Pendula’ selected and tenderly cared for—crafted in a sense—to perfection by its breeder. How odd is this? Very!

But no more odd than this, which reminds me of an alien in a cheap sci-fi movie. In other words, I really love it. Behind Picea pungens ‘Pendula’.

Taxodium distichum ‘Cascade Falls’ close up. Exotically beautiful.

A close-up of Taxodium distichum ‘Cascade Falls’. Beyond words!

Ditto

Taxodium distichum ‘Cascade Falls’ in close-up.

For a long time, I used to say that crows like nothing better than pizza crust. But that’s not strictly true; crows seem to eat and to enjoy most table scraps. They don’t obviously roost near our house, but they must watch us because when we put out stale bread, old pasta, or anything else that’s edible, they descend within minutes. Sometimes you hear a call go out, and a group arrives; other times a single one arrives, but usually he’s soon followed by more. Often there are as many as 10 in our yard. We don’t tell our neighbors that rotisserie chicken leftovers are given to the birds.

I’m talking, of course, about the ubiquitous American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) here. They are large, fully black birds that range over most of North America. There are two other North American crow species that are virtually identical to the American crow but that have more limited ranges–Northwestern crow (Corvus caurinus), found in the Northwest, and Fish crow (Corvus ossifragus), found along the south Atlantic coast.

Crows are intelligent birds who have as many as 250 unique calls and make and use tools. They are highly social, live in close-knit family units, and are rarely alone. Crows take mates for life. They are highly adaptable and will live almost anywhere in natural or human-shaped environments, but they prefer open spaces or the margin of wooded areas; they don’t like unbroken forests or deserts. When not feeding from dumpsters or my backyard, they eat earthworms, insects, seeds, snails, small rodents, and song bird eggs and young. They eat most anything. They also help clean up road ways of smashed squirrels, rabbits, and whatnot; crows are not specialized as scavengers, though, and carrion is a small part of their diet.

I have always liked crows because they seem to have a strong sense of themselves and always seem to be having a good time. A group of them regularly gathers in my yard, sitting in various trees and calling to each other in their characteristically raucous way. I assume they’re swapping stories of food finds or maybe just wasting time.

A group of blue jays (Cyanocitta cristata) also gathers here. They too are social, intelligent, travel in packs, and seem to enjoy life. Jays too are omnivores and their choices in food and the source thereof is much the same as those of crows; so they’re competitors of crows. And they don’t like crows, and crows don’t like them. I often see groups of jays dive bombing the larger, less agile crows.

Sometimes, both crows and the jays will assemble and vie for our trees and lawn. They call to each other, likely insults and threats. When jays try to take a spot claimed by the crows, they are forced back. Then the same happens when the crows try an offensive. After a while, the conflict loses energy and individuals drift off until there’s no one left.

These crows seem to think my yard is theirs. Either that or they have a simple abiding hatred of turkey vultures (Cathartes aura) as well as jays. Twice a year turkey vultures migrate through in small groups, going south in October and back north in March. We have several mature Douglas firs that the vultures like to rest in and spend the night. If the crows discover the vultures, though, they go crazy, making a tremendous din, calling in reinforcements, and dive bombing the vultures; there will be as many as 25 crows. Finally, the vultures take wing, the band(s) of crows trailing after them. How far the crows follow I don’t know.

But not all is well with crows. West Nile virus, first identified in North America in New York City in 1999, is a threat to them as well as humans. The virus is effectively spread by mosquitoes, which carry the highest virus concentration in fall. Crows are very susceptible to it and were among its first casualties. So susceptible are crows that they function as a reliable biological indicator of the human disease potential.

In the initial onslaught of the virus and as it spread, crow populations were devastated–overall, somewhere in the neighborhood of 45% of the American crow was killed. A laboratory study showed that 97% of crows infected with the virus die. Another study of captured, live crows found that only 3% of those crows had antibodies to the virus in their blood, confirming that not many infected crows survive.

Nevertheless, crow is not considered an endangered species. Crow deaths from West Nile virus seem to be declining with time and the rates have leveled off. In some cases, crow numbers have increased. Nationwide, by 2006, surveys of crow numbers indicated only a 13% decline relative to 1999.

Several factors are responsible for these trends. Among them are increased resistance to the virus within crow populations and an apparent loss of virulence by strains of West Nile virus. But the most significant factor is probably the structure of crow society. Crows are among a small minority (about 3%) of birds and mammals that breed cooperatively. Their small family units include nonbreeding “helpers”. These are both young male and female birds who are generally offspring of the breeding pair and who contribute to caring for and rearing young. Helpers will delay moving away and starting their own families in response to the needs of their parental group. This intragroup cooperation provides a safety net for crows, without which the loss of one of the breeding pair would probably mean the loss of the entire next generation.

I know that some of my neighbors find the crows annoying. Crows make lots of noise, and they certainly cannot be considered “song birds”. On trash day, they tear open garbage bags and strew the refuse around, never picking up after themselves. But they also have a function as Nature’s garbage collectors, eating road kill and old pizza. They contribute to our well being by thinning the numbers of rats, mice, and rabbits that plague our homes and gardens. And they provide a consistent source of entertainment and theater in your backyards.

Recent history books such as ‘Founding Gardeners’ by Andrea Wulf have revealed the botanical, horticultural and agricultural enthusiasms of the Founding Fathers and signatories to the Declaration of Independence, who recognized the most valuable assets of the colonies were diverse economic plants. In time, their experiments became passions. For Washington, Madison and Jefferson they became also metaphors for democracy. Most of the creators of our Constitution were keen gardeners—no “Golf Summit” for them!

Before and after the American Revolution, European immigrants feasted on the sheer volume of light, space and soil to cultivate. I imagine the impoverished peasants from dark and crowded lands hallucinating after discovering one long, vast, richly fed river valley after another, gleaming in the sun. Part of Northeastern Pennsylvania was called “The Endless Mountains”. Folks quipped that a squirrel could scamper from Appalachia to the Atlantic and never touch the ground.

The aptly labeled New World was fresh, clean and sparsely populated. Virtues, as well as crops, flourished here, free of the “dead hand” of history and stale traditions. The hardest, riskiest work was done by thousands of families of small scale farmers: people renowned for simple virtues.

Today’s political life in the US –and on Independence Day no less – is fraught with Biblical allusions, much as it was in 1776. But wearing religion on one’s sleeve is not a virtue. The Founding Fathers did not talk it; they walked it or, more precisely, rolled up their sleeves and “grew” it. The essence of virtue is evident truth, such as that revealed in a harvest or the promise of a seed, to paraphrase Henry David Thoreau. God was behind the scenes, not center stage. Our nation was a Creation myth.

The seeds that sowed the American Revolution were embedded in a peasantry from whom most of us descend. Like the farmers and gardeners then, those of today face a new burden—not only of fertility, weather and labor, but also of reinvention. We are cut off, abstracted from the natural world. We must not only reconnect but also recreate. Call ours a Recreation Myth.

What do we do with ourselves as we age, staring at the future? Our ancestors discerned reality in a tapestry of meadows, streams, and mountains; we flip through our remotes and retreat to Facebook. We must revolt against ourselves.

No longer fresh or clean, America remains fertile and vast. Time outdoors working the soil, sowing the seed, cultivating a “weather eye”: these should be the new technologies of the 21st century. The Revolutionary Era is the avant-garde.

We may never solve the puzzles of global economics or “foreign entanglements”, in the words of Gardener-In-Chief, George Washington. However, we can reconstitute ourselves as a people by heeding the example of 1776’s Greatest Gardening Generation.

Amid the noisy coverage of high cost health care and high-tech medicine, one inexpensive, low-tech therapy has received scant attention. This approach has proven a highly effective adjunct therapy for a broad range of conditions: mental illness, disabilities, AIDS, autism, orthopedic recovery, brain injuries, substance abuse, depression, cancer, Alzheimer’s, attention deficit disorder, obesity and burn victims.

Horticultural therapy represents a green revolution in medicine, one that policymakers, the public and a certain green-thumbed First Lady should give their full attention. Right now there are more than 500 healing gardens at U.S. health facilities, and the number, you might say, will only grow.

This “revolutionary” therapy has been around since ancient Greece. In the days before antibiotics and sterile conditions, fresh air and natural surroundings offered patients welcome respite from crowded and unsanitary conditions. Dr. Benjamin Rush, the country’s first Surgeon General and a pioneer in the treatment of mental illness, was convinced that gardening speeded the recovery of asylum patients.

In the 1950s, the psychiatrist Dr. Karl Menninger introduced gardens and greenhouses to the renowned Menninger Clinic in Topeka, Kansas, an institution that emphasized concern for the patient’s total environment. Dr. Menninger believed that working in the garden evoked a work ethic among patients, and enhanced their social and cognitive skills. Kansas State University soon introduced the first graduate program in horticultural therapy, and a new field was born.

The power of horticultural therapy offers a unique array of benefits to patients. Gardens represent a fresh horizon: a realm of sensory stimulation in welcome contrast to regimented clinical facilities. In the tranquil, soothing realm of the garden, patients become participants, rather than passive objects of medical scrutiny.

The garden awakens all of the senses: visual, tactile, olfactory, kinesthetic. In tending a plant the patient is engaged with daylight, air, water, earth, the seasons, the rising and setting of the sun—reconnected to the natural world. These senses are not abstract.

Plants are egalitarian, non-judgmental partners, providing patients with a sense of purpose, self-reliance and accomplishment. As one tends the plant, the plant responds. Every bit of love is reflected in the plant’s health, beauty and productivity.

If this sounds touchy-feely, well, it most wonderfully is. But the fuzzy feelings inspired by horticultural therapy are bolstered by a growing body of scientific research. The researchers’ findings substantiate green therapy’s extraordinary health benefits.

Thanks to biofeedback measurements, researchers know that, within minutes of stepping into a garden, a patient—or non-patient, for that matter—experiences positive changes in stress level, heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature. By working with plants over time, patients demonstrate enhanced mood, improved coordination, and reduced pain awareness (requiring less pain medication). Best of all, active garden participants recover more quickly.

How can you explain these extraordinary results? Richard Mattson PhD., Professor of Horticultural Therapy at Kansas State and a pioneer in the field, cites three factors that help account for plants’ healing powers.

Professor Mattson, who worked alongside Dr. Karl Menninger, and developed the nation’s first horticultural degree program at KSU, says that plants are in our DNA. Over a few hundred million years, man co-evolved with plants, using them as shelter, protection and sources of nourishment. A dynamic mutual relationship with plants has long been necessary to human survival.

The second factor, also rooted in evolution, is nurturing, an activity ingrained in who we are. The will and ability to bring a plant (or child) to life, nurture it into growth, and helping it survive is an indispensable human endowment. In nurturing, we ourselves are nurtured, and help promote our mutual survival.

When he comes to the third factor that might explain plant’s healing properties, Dr. Mattson confesses, “This one drives people a little crazy.”

Plants radiate what he terms a “halo effect.” In effect, the stored energy within the plants—the conjunction of sunlight, air, and minerals is felt and absorbed by humans. Just as we absorb the stored energy of plants in eating them, we also do by interacting with them.

Skeptics may scoff at such notions of plant energy—How pagan! How new age! Show me the data!

I feel sure, however, that patients engaged in plant therapy and most home gardeners have first-hand knowledge of the “halo effect”—the glow when you grow.

Curious? Embark on an experiment in your own laboratory: your back yard.