As I mentioned in an earlier post
– this year in Mars' and my garden is the “Year of Teasel and Hollyhocks” –
and now it turns out, to my dismay, Rose of Sharon. I came across the latter this past weekend
when I thought I would grab a quick half hour of easy pruning prior to heading
off on one of the Walking Tours at a local historic rural cemetery.
My
intended task was to quickly prune back the overgrowth from two sets of bushes
that demarcate the pathway to our compost bin along the south boundary of our
property. The branches of the shrubs had
grown long enough to create a green, leafy turnstile that I had to push my way
through on my evening foray to add to the fenced-in pile of decaying yard and
kitchen waste. It was annoying enough to
be scolded each eventide by the family of catbirds that nest in my nearby
arborvitae. But the thwack of the
whip-like branches on the backs of my bare legs as I retreated after quickly
tossing the collection of lettuce leaves (or whatever) onto the slow-cooking
heap was, unlike the silencing the meowing avians, easily solvable with a few
minutes of lopping.
The
compost bin itself is a hexagonal corral of wood slats, about three feet high
and six feet across, with a front gate held in place by an L-shaped metal rod
that inserts into the unhinged end of the front gate, and sticks into the
ground. No compost, as far as we know,
has ever escaped.
We
have lived here since 1977, and have had the container for at least twenty-five
of those years after purchasing it from what was, at the time, my favorite
garden catalogue to read, and perhaps order from, “Gardens Alive!”. (I was particularly fond of their
descriptions and pictures of nematodes and other such beneficial predators.) Over the years ivy has totally enveloped the
bin making it no longer possible to open the door but giving it an all-natural
look that would make the folks at “Gardens Alive!” quite pleased. This apparent lockout is not a problem for me
since, being 6’ 5” I have always turned and removed the compost from above anyway. Plus the green vines blend in rally nicely
with the increasingly woodsy background.
Which
brings me to the Rose of Sharon – one of the principal things that are adding
to the forestation.
The
compost bin is adjacent to what used to be our shade garden but now has become,
by default, a sun garden due to the unplanned and unfortunate demise of the
tall, noble trees that had previously provided the shadowy cover. In addition to the frying of the shade-loving
plants that had previously occupied the space, another surprising consequence
of the explosion of sunlight was the emergence of several flora which Mars and
I had no idea had roots in that area – Flowering Crab and Pokeweed for
example.
And
Rose of Sharon, which I now have to learn something about.
I
have found that reading the folklore associated with a plant can sometimes
teach you something about its horticulture.
For example, our hollyhocks, whose seeds we imported from the high
desert region of New Mexico, seem to react badly to an abundance of warm
weather Connecticut precipitation. I
figured this was probably due to its arid place of origin – but folk tales tell
a slightly different story.
Hollyhock
(mallow family Malvaceae) “…in Polish is called MALWA. There is a legend that
it’s favorite plant of ferries and forest flying creatures. There is also a
legend that once a girl name Malvina wanted to place some flower on the grave
of her loved boy that died tragically. The only flowers she could find was
these. She cried a lot by the grave and her tears was falling to the flowers causing
them to close. Now when ever it’s raining this plant will close its flower to
protect from rain. And many time it will loose flowers after one small rain,
because flowers are very delicate. Some of the type of this plans will also
close their flower by rolling them in to trumpet shape tube for night.” http://www.syldeleon.com/hollyhocks-love-legend/
And
Black-eyed Susan (Rudbeckia), which we grow and it does okay but not great, has
a backstory that is intertwined with that of Sweet William (Dianthus barbatus),
a flower that we do not plant. Apparently,
according to an old English poem by John Gay, the former would do much, much
better if we also had the latter.
"All
in the downs the fleet was moored, banners waving in the wind. When Black-eyed
Susan came aboard, and eyed the burly men. 'Tell me ye sailors, tell me true,
if my Sweet William sails with you.'’
So,
what of the Rose of Sharon? According
to paghat.com, "’Sharon’ means ‘Fruitful’ a word that Torah associates
with good pasturage for sheep.” There
apparently are more mentions of the plant in both the Old and New Testaments
such as within the Song of Solomon – "I
am the rose of Sharon, the lily of the valley.”
But “fruitful” was more than enough to tell me all that I need to know
about our newly arrived Hibiscus syriacus.
Prior
to the passing of the shade, and the rising of the sun on that part of our yard
we had zero/zip/zilch Rose of Sharon. This
time, when I went out to clear my path to the compost bin, I was immediately
confronted by two of the bushes – one at each side of the container. The tree on the right was slightly taller
than me, and looked to be within minutes of blossoming. I had been watching it for a couple of years
and liked both its location and its look.
The leftmost one was less fecund and half the height – but much taller and
fuller than I had recalled (if I even remembered it) – and was already
beginning to block access to my compostable matter dumping site. Its trunk was
thicker than my hand clippers could handle so I retrieved my Japanese pruning
saw and hacked it down. While picking up
that felled shrub I noticed another six inch tall R of S; then another; and
another… a whole forest of pint-sized products of (presumably) the progenitor I
had just admired and whose life I had once again pardoned.
And
each time I bent over to snip off one of the little intruders I noticed at
least two more. It was either an
arithmetic progression or a geometric one.
I once knew and cared about the difference between these two
mathematical concepts, but now all I cared about was losing control of my
property, or at least this section of it, to this invasive “fruitful”
Hibiscus. So I spent the next ten or so
minutes bent over in a u-shaped posture snipping off the invasive semi-triangular
serrated leaf holders until I was satisfied that, for the moment, my immediate
surroundings were clear of them.
A
small skirmish won. But the more that I
think about the fable of Rose of Sharon, I more I can foresee a long term conflict
of near Biblical proportions.
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