in my own backyard

Dorothy said it best, "... if I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard ..."

I was recently inspired by an issue of Garden Design Magazine. It's not a magazine I often pick up and I only happened to glance at the latest issue because it was the topic of discussion in a work meeting. I thumbed through an issue while visiting my local independent bookstore. The pages showed ubiquitous modern architecture with polished metal accents, pristine pools, formal plantings and artistically placed palm trees ... nothing that pertains to the reality of a front lawn trodden by bovines and perennial beds ravaged by rough-and-tumble neighborhood dogs. But then ... daylilies.

My front lawn features a hillside with swaths of orange daylilies ... or "ditch lilies" as one website described them. An invasive plant that shouldn't be sold at garden centers because anyone who has them will gladly give them away. I started resisting them with Roundup early in the spring. They completely overpowered the stairs leading to my front door and the short bloom time of only a few weeks in July rules them out as an option for total occupation, the way I see it. But what could be paired with these behemoth plantings ... aha - more behemoth plantings of hardy cultivars that will duke it out with daylilies. Thank you, Garden Design!

If you can't beat 'em - join 'em. I started thinking about how I could extend the season of orange blossoms atop lovely arching stems. There must be ditch lilies, or hybrid cousins, that bloom later in the season. I started researching - only to discover a hatred that exists for the plant and its invasive attitude. I decided that the Helenium Mardi Gras would have to carry the burden when ... this morning, I walked into my backyard to discover a mound on double-petalled ditch lillies just starting to bloom. Eureka! The solution was right there in my own back yard - literally.

Fred's Old Mare

The Fourth of July was a perfect summer day. The cast of characters behind the line at the chicken barbecue were all classic Vermonters, and the flavor of the meal was enhanced by every aspect of the friendly, bucolic setting. A dozen picnic tables positioned in a grid across the expanse of sunny lawn were nearly full and I found a place to squeeze in between a middle aged couple sitting across from each other on one side and on the other, two more pairings - one younger and another much older.

The clopping of horses' hooves sounded on the pavement behind us. Fred had been providing horse drawn wagon rides all morning. A friend had told me that Fred is a charmer - a real talker. I overheard a woman asking him how much it cost to take a wagon ride. Fred just looked down at her from his wooden bench and without missing a beat said, "It'll cost you a smile."

The man to my right at the picnic table suddenly decided to share a story with the impromptu group as we slurped fork fulls of baked beans and licked barbecue sauce from our greasy fingers. He told us how he lived a little ways up the road, not far from Fred's farm. He walks past Fred's horse pasture every day and puts a few carrots in his pocket before leaving home. He told us that the young draft horses always run over to the fence to meet him but he had to toss a carrot to Fred's old mare because the young horses wouldn't allow her to approach the fence. The man said he shared his observation with Fred one day and asked him about it. Fred told him it was the same way with hay. The young horses would chase the mare away from the hay whenever she got close enough to grab a mouthful - and that she was getting her comeuppance, since she did the same thing to them when they first arrived and she was the queen of the pasture. We all chuckled and the man went on to tell us that Fred lost his old mare last spring - she was 30 years old. He buried her in the pasture with a full bale of hay.