kudzu

I am finally surfacing from the first half a year working at the new garden: officially, 'the Southeastern Horticultural Society's Community Learning Garden at Edgewood,' but known in the neighborhood simply as 'the garden,' or more specifically, 'the garden across from the red store.'

I have a lot of catching up to do. A semester of after school programs, installation of a water catchment system involving repurposed utility poles and highway signs, starting a garden from scratch, and neighbor relations.

I have little to no budget for programs, so we had to get a little extra creative for fall craft projects this year. One thing we have in abundance in Edgewood is kudzu. Much maligned for turning roadside forests into emerald oceans of vines with the hulking monsters of overcome trees, kudzu is a treasured resource in its home territory across the sea. Like poison ivy, it thrives in disturbed areas. Originally imported to prevent roadside erosion as highways started to creep across the South, kudzu reached its tendrils much farther than its keepers ever intended. Growing up to a foot a day, and free from the confines of pests and conditions that keep it in check in its native Japan, kudzu seems to be taking over the South.

Edgewood boasts some acres of unbuilt, unkempt lots where kudzu has made itself comfortable, covering trees, tires, mattresses and the other usual urban detritus. A field recently cleaned of kudzu unveiled a giant James Brown bobble head doll, old paint buckets and a squeegee. The long ropy vines reach up into the trees and run over the ground, thick and flexible and, we discovered, perfect for wreaths.

Kudzu is a prized basket-making vine, easy to work with, plentiful, and durable. IMAGE afterschool program helped harvest long vines, pulling them down from the trees and yanking them up from the earth. Dragging our harvest behind us like strands of seaweed we shaped the vines into wreaths and decorated them with holly leaves from Edgewood Courts Apartments and dollar store ribbons.

Not only useful for holiday decorations, kudzu is used medicinally to help overcome alcoholism, and its spring shoots, flowers and roots are all edible. Kudzu is one of a host of plants from other countries that most people lable "invasive," or "invaders." Or sometime "aggressive," "exotic," or, more generously, "introduced." Common in Edgewood yards, along with kudzu, are privet and English ivy.

A lot of energy and resources goes into controlling these species as part of 'restoration ecology.' The interesting thing about this is that there is no natural point to which to restore a natural system--systems evolve forward in time; they don't go back to a previous point. So by pulling out all the 'invasive' species, a restoration project may temporarily (until humans stop maintaining the restoration process) increase biodiversity, it slows down the system's own process of working toward equilibrium with a new set of species.

To borrow a phrase from Bobby Wilson, I said all that to say this: using conventional wisdom, Edgewood is a resource-poor neighborhood. That conventional set of lenses looks out at Edgewood and sees overgrown lots, trash, youth engaging in crime, and a shifting population trying to create a safe community. However, shifting perspectives, Edgewood offers up more useful treasures than sun-bleached plastic effigies of James Brown.

In addition to craft materials, the invasive species' provide healthy fodder to the neighborhood's small flock of goats, converting kudzu and privet into milk and meat. The garden across from the red store, as it gathers purpose, provides a community gathering spot as well as a place to learn, grow food, and spark the imagination of a neighborhood trying to become a community.

With the scent of pie wafting tantalizingly from the Edward pie factory, Edgewood even smells like hope and home on baking days. I'm not saying all we need is rose-tinted glasses and apple pie to make all the challenges disappear, I'm just thinking that a shift in perspective will help in working out creative solutions using the resources at hand. If life gives you kudzu, then there's nothing to do but make wreaths.

transition

I've missed a few months, it seems--so much has been happening at the garden and there's been no time. The corn was planted, grew tall, tassled out, grew ears, and the ears were prematurely eaten by squirrels and rats, as they are every year. I don't think corn is a good crop for the garden, as it takes up lots of space and nutrients, but rarely yields a harvest to us humans. The bees and the rodents may beg to differ though--the bees are still diligently collecting the pollen.

Bee camp came and went, two weeks of a garden drifting with smoke and sticky children draped in veils. The hives survived the daily poking and prodding, and the last group set up an observation hive with glass walls for viewing the inner activity. The frames of honey put up in this spring's good flow are almost gone now--we may have to start feeding that hive soon, or add it to our queenless colony.

The other camps have been running smoothly, with the help of a diverse team of interns, who come to us from as far as Bhutan and as close as a couple blocks away. This is my fourth, and final, summer at the garden. I will be moving to a new garden in my own neighborhood, doing very similar things. Except, no chickens, no beehives, no pond, no stream. Just the bones of a garden, planted 3 weeks ago, on the corner of a busy sidestreet across from the corner store.

I've been working at the new garden in Edgewood in the evenings after full days at Oakhurst. Mainly I've been spreading woodchips there, with a dependable team of 3 young boys who magically appear every time I'm about to give up on the never-ending chip pile. This corner was a patch of rubble left over from a tear down a couple years ago, but already there is a black swallowtail caterpillar on the one parsley plant, and little brown and orange butterflies and a variety of bees (even some honeybees! From whose hives?) visiting the echinacae, butterfly bush, and black-eyed susans so recently planted. What else will come with this garden? It is in a neighborhood on the cusp of gentrification, what some of my older neighbors who've lived here for generations ambivalently call "the change." Being in this new place reminds me that gardens can be so much more than they seem.

plants

I realize I've spent a lot of time writing about the animals here and have missed the less obvious goings-on of the plants. The peas bloomed, and then were laden with pods, and then were picked nearly clean and are now starting to yellow. With the Boys and Girls Club group we sauteed the peas with soy sauce, honey from the hives here, and some red pepper flakes. The week before, we picked the last of the pokeweed before it starts to flower and is no longer edible. We did the recommended boiling in two waters, and in the meantime made cornbread (with cornmeal from Riverview Farms and eggs from the chickens here). There was a small fight over who got to eat the last of the poke greens.

The cilantro and Paris Island romaine have been harvested and sold to Nectar. Just planted beans and okra between lettuces and the red mustard in preparation for the transition to summer crops. And we planted about 500 flowers--marigolds, zinnias, sunflowers, cosmos, quinoa, celosia, gomphrena, bachelor's button, calendula, coleus, strawflower and pincushion flower. Most of these had sat in their pots too long and are stunted, rootbound, and bolting. Hopefully they'll overcome this adverse beginning, take root and grace us with a very colorful summer.

The spring weeds are beginning to give way to warm season plants--the chickweed is yellowing and the ragweed knee high. And the bees are finally getting some good flying weather. Ok, a little bit about the bees, because a lot has happened. We've added 3 nucs, a swarm someone caught and gave to us, and a split with a new queen. A total of 7 hives now, one queenless, or at least, queen-not-right. One of the nucs came to us queenless, and they were raising a few new queens. When I checked this week, at least one queen had emerged but there were no eggs and the colony roared loudly, a sign that all is not quite well with the queen--either there's no queen, or a queen who's not laying yet. I'll check again next week and hopefully see eggs.

The elephant garlic, grown from seed passed on by Daniel, who got it from Omar, who himself passed this winter, is nearly ready to harvest. Its long scapes are starting to kink, with pointed buds on long graceful necks seeming to peer this way and that in the garden.

I have given up planting by the biodynamic calendar--I plant whenever I can at this point in the season, trying to get everything in the ground in time, and waiting impatiently for the garlic and potatoes to give up their space so I can plant more summer crops.

The push pull of the garden is at its highest tension right now. Wait to harvest cool season crops, but not too long or the bugs will get them, and not to soon or they won't be ready. Wait for space to open up to plant more summer veggies. Where to plant all the flowers? And the gourds and okra that need so much room? The garden is sometimes like an overcrowded closet, with plants thrown in wherever they fit, or even if they don't. And remember to leave room for the people...

i heart bees

I realize I need to witness some passings. The egg bound hen did eventually die, as did Alex White, the white chick, which was too white for her own good. The little Cooper's hawk had no problem picking her out from her brown surroundings and coop mate. Swingy Shark John is growing well. We're not yet sure if it's a hen or a rooster.

Curtis installed a new beehive a couple weeks ago with a class. We had decided not to use antibiotic treatments for the American Foul Brood, but rather use good sanitation and make splits from hives that survive in our colony to select for more resistant bees. The new hive made a this heart-shaped comb around the queen cage after she found her way out, I'd like to think in approval of our decision. This bit of comb, built in less than two weeks, is already speckled with pollen and nectar as the bees are taking advantage of a good flow from the tulip poplars.

Now we are one less tulip poplar in the garden from winter storms and just lost our hickory in Monday's winds. It fell away from the house, fortunately, but squarely on one of the art installations for tomorrow's earth day event. The elm that came down at the Decatur High School garden also fell on an art installation. The installations were designed to be temporary from the beginning, but I don't think anyone was planning for that short of a time. These were like cooperative mandalas with the earth--instead of the people building and deconstructing the art, the people built and the earth deconstructed.

The hickory that fell in the garden had a little fairy hole at the bottom that children were constantly leaving offerings of berries and small stones, like a shrine. It was protected by a sprig of poison ivy. I never put it together that the little arched hole indicated a compromised structure. I don't know if knowing would have made a difference, though.

In the trees that are still standing, I've noticed so many more little green inchworms dangling from the trees this year than ever before. My car is covered in frass. That's biologist-speak for caterpillar poo. Little dark specks. And yet the trees are still covered in leaves, with a few holes, but definitely more leaf than hole. Perhaps these luminous ornaments are the trees' collective contribution to the art show.

Death and life is a constant theme of the garden--not a big drama, but a matter-of-fact balancing of accounts. It is not all or nothing. The caterpillars eat and the trees survive and the birds feast. Some trees fall and space opens up for new growth. The chickens die and the hawks eat. Weeds get pulled and vegetables thrive. As we move into the busy gardening season, I try to remember to pause and give thanks to both life and death, and to pay attention to the garden's gestures.

garden heroes

This past weekend was a big one for the garden. The bloodroot is nearly done blooming. The trilliums are up, the mayapples starting to unfurl their umbrella leaves. The oakleaf hydrangea's fresh pale leaves are budding out in supplicating pairs. I didn't go in the woods for a week and missed the trout lilies' yellow blooms, but their leaves are there, like spotted green tongues. The wild ginger is sending up fresh green leaves, demurely covering its fleshy dark flowers. All these woodland ephemerals come from plant rescues over the past few years, dug up from sites about to go to 'development.'

We have 2 new chicks courtesy of a garden friend who hatched them out himself. The toddlers named the white one Alex White and the brown one Swingy Shark John. It was a collective naming effort.

Friday morning on my way to Agnes Scott for the Georgia Organics conference, a barred owl swooped close by me and perched quite near with a very intent look. It looked from me to a spot below it, where I saw its owlet hopping on a low branch near the fallen tulip poplar, trying to get back up its tree. For a baby bird, it was quite large, in that awkward stage between fluffball and adult. Mama kept a close eye on me till I was a good distance away.

That evening at the Slow Food cocktails event in the garden, mama owl was back watching the party at dusk. And the chickens, who were too hopeful for scraps from the partygoers to go to sleep at a timely hour. The brown-headed nuthatches scolded unsuccesfully as people paused too close to their new house by vegetable gardens. And I had the chance to spend time with some of the people that have inspired my work.

I chatted with Janisse Ray, author of Ecology of a Cracker Childhood, Georgia native, and humble activist, as well as Will Allen, founder of Growing Power in Milwaukee and expert on worm composting and many, many other things. Their work inspires me deeply because of their competence mixed with their understanding of how this work of agricultural revolution and ecological literacy is so intimately linked with people--it is not work that can be done by one person in a laboratory. Or one person on a tractor. It must be undertaken by communities. Unlike some agricultural and ecological activists, Janisse and Will will never be guilty of alienating anyone. Their warmth and love and vision are so clear, inclusive and inspiring. The garden felt very small after this event, and its potential very big.

spring

I spent some time this morning in Ox, the cob house, and caught the sun coming in the moon window, infusing the bottles, red, green and white for the full, gibbous and new moon, with bright light and warmth. This time last year we were putting the finishing touches on the building, desperately trying to engineer a roof and coat it with final layers of linseed oil and beeswax. No more blue tarp! No more piles of building materials!

Ox has held up beautifully during her first year; minus all the pretty bits and bobs that were so tempting for curious hands to tug out, she is remarkably intact.

The garden has seen a lot of changes since Ox's completion; minus one big tulip poplar, the Earth Goddess vine hut and the labyrinth. Plus new garden plots, new chickens, and a reconstructed and replanted woodland.

Amidst and among all these macro changes, spring is creeping up in its usual micro form. The maples bloomed a couple weeks ago, and the sap started running. The maple in back of the garden house had a sap popsicle hanging from an upper branch during one of the recent cold spells, with various sapsuckers and squirrels visiting to lick this icy treat. The magnolias have been testing the weather regularly for a month or so, allowing one flower bud to open at a time until last week, when they found it amenable to all come out.

The chickens have accepted their new rooster and all but our two old sick birds are laying about an egg a day now. I think the change came when I let them out one day to help me scratch up some beds for spring planting. Sir Half Pint, as he has come to be called, was desperately bobbing his head up and down in the vicinity of a couple of red hens. After being pointedly ignored, he picked up the fat seed he had been so vigorously pointing to, walked up to a hen, drop the seed, and kept bobbing and pointing until she picked it up and ate it. This worked much better than the physical intimidation tactics he came with, and the flock seems at peace and intact.

The egg bound hen is back in the yard, showing no improvements, nor worsening for having spent a week getting special treatment indoors. She's getting along ok back with the flock, spending her days in the sun with the other old sick hen. I don't expect they'll live much longer, but they seem peaceful enough for now.

The after school programs have planted carrots, radishes and peas, and are working on getting the hives ready for the spring nectar flow. Finally warm enough to enjoy being outside, it's hard to get some groups back on their buses to leave when it's time.

And the surest sign of spring yet, more so than the magnolias, daffodils and crocuses all together, is that cleavers has sprung up, seemingly overnight. I saw no little sprouts, just full blown plants. I'm sure they weren't there yesterday....but here they are.

chicken drama

Last Thursday we swapped out our big barred rock rooster for a little bantam less than half his size--the old rooster attacks people, so he had to go (not in anyone's pot, yet, unless he doesn't reform his manners out at Mary's farm). The hens are less than pleased with Half Pint (in the photo with Boss Hen). He didn't make a very graceful entrance--came in and started attacking the girls, flapping his little body high up to try to slap them in the face. Boss Hen gave him what for, tearing out a chunk of feathers and sending him after the meek little black hens. Whereas the old rooster stood watch while the flock pecked and scratched, Half Pint fights for his food. The girls probably wouldn't let him eat otherwise. I think he has a Napoleon complex--he spends a lot of time chasing the hens around and hopping up onto high places to crow his tinny wind-up toy crow. He was trembling as I held him and carried him into his new home; it took a lot of bravery for him to storm in and claim a place. I'm sure they'll get used to each other soon enough, and he is a beautiful little bird. Beautiful and hen-pecked.

When Mary came to swap roosters, I asked her about a sick-looking hen. Egg-bound, said Mary. The egg won't come out. Treatment options? Range from sitz baths to hysterectomy. Oh dear. I took her home for the weekend, gave her hot baths (which she seemed to really enjoy), got oil down her both ends (lubrication is a crucial component to this issue--one blog actually recommended KY jelly. I used sesame massage oil). My roommates thoroughly enjoyed having a chicken in the living room for the weekend, and she does seem somewhat better, but still has a swollen body and hasn't laid any eggs.

This weekend, the Georgia Aquarium vet operated on a penguin with the same problem. Maybe if our little red hen doesn't get better we'll dress her up as a penguin and leave her on the Aquarium steps...

oh death

This is the time of year when things that are ready to die go ahead and check out. A friend's dog went from happily cleaning the breakfast dishes to dead in the span of a short afternoon. Another friend's cat, also not too long after breakfast, passed in a similar way. Healthy, then just gone. In body, anyway.

Here at the garden we've been cleaning out old bee hives that had died out over the summer. We discovered American Foul Brood in some of them, which we know two of our hives had died from earlier in the summer. To prevent its spread in our apiary, we must burn all the old wooden frames and get rid of the leftover comb. We've been keeping our little chiminea going for the past week, and have melted down much of the old comb into wax for candles and salves. We'll have to blowtorch the old boxes to be sure that the disease does not carry on, and we'll also have to remove the comb and frame from the three hives that are still living. These means destroying all the brood (baby bees) and honey and pollen stores. Not good. But the only other option is treating with antibiotics for as long as we keep bees here. Not organic, nor a healthy way to manage the hives, in my opinion. It would be similar to the sub-clinical doses that most dairy cattle receive. The colonies might survive if we successfully transfer the queen and a good contingency of workers to new equipment.

After clearing out the last of the old bee equipment, this raccoon stumbled out near the compost piles and collapsed as I was getting some worms out of the bins today. Probably infected with rabies, too weak to get back up, it curled up in the sun, eyed me frankly for a moment, and put its head down. Later, another garden visitor spotted it and called animal control. I was hoping it would be allowed to pass peacefully overnight, but by the time I returned from my after school program, it had been collected. Probably the safer option, but not a graceful way to go.

So we'll start this spring with fresh bee equipment, and one less raccoon. The chickens will be safer I suppose. I wonder if it's the same raccoon that leaves tidy little tracks in the sand by the creek?

what a chicken knows

My nephews came to "work" at the garden this week. At 3 1/2 and 4 1/2, they are proud to help where they can. Digging holes in the sandbox is part of their job. We also spent some time digging up worms in the worm bins, marveling at the stink of the putrid bin with bad drainage, and the sheer masses of worms squirming within. After covering the worms back up, we harvested some chickweed to add to our leftover noodles and went to feed the chickens.

As we watched the chickens snatch up the noodles from the ground and each others' beaks, my younger nephew observed that the chickens must think the noodles are worms. Probably so. And the older one chimed in with the question: "Kyla, does a chicken know it's a chicken?"

Hmm. Good question. They know perfectly well how to be chickens--how to scratch, how to lay eggs, how to communicate in their own chicken way. And the rooster didn't need any lessons on his job--he stands proudly over the flock, making sure they all get to eat while he watches for dangers (among which I am unfortunately included--but that's another story).

The ego must certainly belong to humans more so than the rest of our animal family. If chickens worried about whether or not they were good chickens or bad chickens, lonely chickens or poor chickens, they wouldn't have time to eat and preen and sleep and cluck. Or they might preen when they should be eating, or eat when they should be sleeping.

I wonder if the chickens at the garden experience themselves not as individuals, but as part of the garden community. Not separate from the worms they tug out of the earth or even the humans that come to feed them and witness their antics, but of a piece with their small world.
Or do they think "I am a chicken, and I am eating a worm, and those people are watching me"?

I didn't get a chance to answer my nephew--by the time I finished thinking about the question, he had moved on to something else. But I think a chicken must know that it is a chicken, and also that it would mean nothing to be a chicken were there not also a world to live within, full of chicken food and chicken shelter, eggs and hawks. I don't know if this constitutes an ego, but if it does, it is ego in its most healthy expression--a knowledge of self in context of community.