bewitched by a dead hedge

Sneezeweed blooming in The Meadow

expert norm breaker

Several years ago, I made the decision to let our front yard grow up into a meadow. I’d been tossing the idea around for a while before I finally took the plunge (or rather, gave my husband the green light to do so). The decision was made for several reasons and, in the end, it just made far more sense to stop wasting precious daylight hours mowing an area we never spent any time in ourselves and instead leave it to the critters who did.

Sure, it meant broadcasting—yet again—a new level of my weirdness to the world, but my life has been a series of unconventional choices, so what was one more? While I’m not one to break laws (prison is scary, man), I’m quite adept at—and take great pleasure in—breaking norms. Letting our unused lawn space grow into a meadow would benefit our planet, the birds, and all manner of creatures who call our land home, so despite the grumbling of a certain busybody neighbor, let it grow we did.

As we’d fervently hoped, the space has proven to be a bird magnet and one that has far exceeded our expectations. Each year, birds wage war over the right to claim one of the three boxes located in the prime habitat that The Meadow provides. Once the winners have been declared, the victors then settle down to the hard and busy business of parenthood. This year alone, our Eastern Bluebird couple (John-boy & Jenny) raised three successful broods, and the Tree Swallows (Dolly & Carl) successfully fledged their one. The House Wrens relocated to the smaller backyard meadows this spring, but between the two feisty couples fledged another four broods (Donkey & Dragon; Shrek & Fiona). As the years slide quickly by, each marked by the frenzy of nesting season, I’ve become entirely comfortable with our unconventional front lawn and the criticism I expect it brings. What looks unkempt to others, however, looks like a natural and flower-strewn masterpiece to me.

The Meadow

a dead hedge arrives

But while I truly love our Meadow, there were never any future plans beyond it. Sure, I was positively delighted with how the experiment was/is playing out, but it wasn’t “just the beginning” of anything. In fact, I’d been forced to call a truce with the rest of our property many years prior. Up against the full force of Mother Nature, I’d wearily waved the white flag. Poison ivy had been steadily conquering new ground, killer bittersweet vines crept up many of the trees, and our two acres developed an unkempt and untamed look to it (and not at all in a good way). There were whole areas so overgrown with deadly rose thorns and brambles that I could no longer safely walk through them—not that I much cared to anymore. The terms of my truce with our property were these: I get to keep my manicured lawn while nature reclaimed everything around it. I wasn’t entirely pleased with the terms (and our property most definitely reneged on our contract), but what could I do? I was no match for the sheer tenacity of it all.

Unbeknownst to me, however, I had a silent ally in The Meadow. An ally that clearly had plans of her own—plans that involved no truce. She’d been an ember, quietly burning. Patiently biding her time and showing me, through our entertaining bird friends, what could be possible. What could be mine to thoroughly and endlessly enjoy in all seasons. That ember finally burst into flame this past March when quietly—unobtrusively—in sauntered…

a dead hedge.

dead hedge #1

witchy sticks

For those of you who haven’t yet had the privilege of meeting one, a dead hedge is a tidy fence of tree and/or yard debris. Basically, a glorified brush pile. They make a super habitat for bugs and small animals like chipmunks, toads, and snakes, and the birds also love them—both for the shelter they provide and the endless bug buffet they bring. This first dead hedge appeared on my property all thanks to my youngest daughter, an avid bird enthusiast, who asked if it would be all right if she built one somewhere on our land. I gave her a thumbs up because it seemed like a good idea to me, especially since it would be a convenient place to stash all of the sticks that endlessly litter our yard.

So all winter—a winter which was especially snowy and stormy—my daughter collected fallen sticks, fallen branches, fallen trees. By the springtime, she had quite an impressive pile—a pile substantial enough that I felt it was time to start building. The project was rife with surprises right from the start, the first of which was how quickly the dead hedge came together. The second was how beautiful and pleasing it was to look at. The third was the hedge's uncanny ability to voraciously procreate (seven months later and we somehow now have four). But the biggest surprise of all was how this silent wall of twigs held the power to mysteriously bewitch us while we built.

It's true. It must be. I don't pretend to understand it, but those sticks, limbs, and trees cast an obvious spell over us as we worked. What they whispered in our ears I haven’t a clue, but it was clearly powerful stuff. How do I know this, you might wonder? Well, the evidence is undeniable: during the course of constructing that wall of branches, we somehow came around to the decision that we were going to clear our entire two-acre property of invasive plants and create a native wildlife habitat. Seriously, what were we thinking? You have no idea how ridiculous that idea sounds from where you sit, but just trust me when I say it was clearly a moment of insanity. Almost instantly, we leapt from a simple two-day job to an enormous two-year one. Like I said, definitely bewitched. Somehow we managed to build ourselves a magical dead hedge, just don't ask me how. I'm fairly certain, however, that she's in cahoots with The Meadow.

I have no recollection how the conversation even started, but once the seed was planted, there was no turning back. Looking around at a property that was being literally overtaken by Oriental Bittersweet vines, Buckthorn trees, Japanese Knotweed, and Multiflora Rose was overwhelming. Devastatingly overwhelming. And don’t even get me started on the poison ivy. It’s so thick in spots that it makes a gorgeously green and deadly carpet. Like, we have a stone wall under that mess, I promise you. But you’d never know it to look at it.

More about this stone wall my daughter built coming with Goldenrod Meadow!

the energizer bunny

My youngest had been happy enough to finally have her dead hedge, but she was thrilled to see what it was spawning. She’d been secretly harboring a plan to eventually do this very thing to our property. Of course, she anticipated doing it alone and so thought the work would span a lifetime. Anytime you involve yours truly, however, the pace really ramps up. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your perspective), I’m like the Energizer Bunny. I just keep on working and working and working long after everyone else has called it quits. You know what that translates to, though? We really get things done. In record time, too. So what my daughter thought would take decades, should be complete in just two or three years, provided we can continue on at the pace we are. Of course, I say that while sitting on the couch wrapped up in a heating pad for my sore neck and nursing a painfully injured finger; I'll be the first to admit that this project hasn't been without its fair share of injuries. Respect to the invasives, though, who generally don't like being uprooted without a fight.

In each space we tackle, one of the first things we do is to identify any unknown plants (the Seek app is awesome, y’all), pulling many of them while nurturing and protecting others. From the get-go, I feel like our property has been thanking us. Not only does each cleared space give me the sense that it can now take a deep and satisfying breath again, but it also always (always) offers us a gift of thanks in return for our labor. A gift that presents itself as a native treasure buried somewhere in the unruly tangle of invasive plants. Like the Winterberry Holly that my daughter is completely gaga over. Or the area of baby Hazelnut shrubs—one ripe with hazelnuts as we speak. Or the Arrowwood Viburnum that’s already three times taller than the one I purchased this spring. Or the newly discovered patch of baby Elderberry bushes. So consistent has this gift-giving been that I now eagerly await whatever will be offered to us in exchange for our efforts. It’s a little bit like a treasure hunt that never (ever) gets old. Or perhaps, more accurately, it's like dangling a carrot in front of a rabbit. This Energizer bunny just can’t get enough of the treats. Ditto on the treasures.

The goldenrod is in bloom!!

non-negotiables

In the early days of our habitat work, we realized we’d each encountered a nonnegotiable. A "something" that we couldn’t personally tolerate, and so we laid down a set of rules. It’s a short list, only two in number, but those two are firmly set in stone.

Rule number 1: nothing with thorns

Rule number 2: no poison ivy

Rule no. 1 is my doing because even when the thorns are adorning a native plant, they make clearing any area physically painful. Multiflora Rose is invasive and so must go regardless, but its dagger-like thorns actually create painful sores that can take a week, or often more, to heal. We also had to clear a huge area of native raspberry bushes to free the glorious dogwoods beneath, and it too was endless, painful torture—our work peppered with frequent yelps of pain and muttered curses. For the sake of the greatest good, my No Thorns rule stands strong. My deepest apologies to the raspberries.

Rule no. 2 is my daughter’s firm declaration, but I’m in full and hearty agreement. Even though poison ivy is native and provides many berries for the birds, it’s terrifying in its capacity to incapacitate. Before we’d even really begun the clearing this spring, I purchased a weed wrench to assist us in our efforts. As soon as it arrived, we eagerly ran outside to give it a go. This was very early on in the season and so the poison ivy vines that my daughter grabbed with her bare hands had been cleverly hidden amongst the bittersweet. A day later her hands exploded in the telltale rash and gigantic blisters, and the reaction was so severe that she couldn’t use that hand or bend her fingers for almost a month. Carefully covered from head-to-toe, we have since cleared enormous areas of the deadly stuff and will continue to do so until we can freely walk our property. The No Poison Ivy rule is as rigid as the thorn one is. It’s a beautiful plant, I just wish it didn’t hate humans so.

It's October and our yarrow flowers are still in bloom!

a wee bit dramatic

If I tried to showcase all that we’ve accomplished in the past seven months in just one post, this would turn into a novella. Instead, I’m going to walk you through each area in smaller, separate posts—with as many before-and-after pictures as I can find. You’ll get to see our recycled boardwalk that travels through the new grapevine arbor. Our Monarch Garden. Our Dogwood Grove and our Goldenrod Meadow. The 100+ new native flowers, shrubs, and bushes that now pepper our property. Every space we clear earns a name, many earn a sitting bench complete with plaque, and all are sources of continual pride and joy. One of my favorite things to do is to walk the property after dinner, admiring all that we’ve accomplished, while struggling to keep a blind eye to all that still remains. The completed areas are just so beautiful and inviting—to the critters and humans alike—that I get wildly impatient to see every last space/tree free, clear, and breathing easy again. But even the Energizer Bunny needs to rest sometimes, I suppose. Even if it's done so reluctantly.

(excuse me while I notch up the heating pad...)

We’ve each suffered with a bout of poison ivy or two, sore muscles, aching backs, small injuries, and bug bites of all kinds, but I can assure you that I haven’t regretted our spontaneous decision even once. Okay, upon typing that, I realize that’s not entirely true. One might even call it a blatant lie. While I don’t regret anything we’ve already cleared, there have been some days when I’ve boldly declared (with all the drama I can muster) that I can do no more. Like, no. more.

This time I mean it, I firmly announce to my family who only roll their eyes in response. I simply cannot carry on.

Like every time I look at the sea of poison ivy that cloaks the stone wall bordering The Meadow, edged our "nicely" with bittersweet-clad trees. Or during the days following my first ever chigger bite(s) when I thought I might scratch all my skin off. My daughter made her acquaintance with the chiggers at the same time that I did and while her bites were itchy, her body didn’t overreact to them like mine did. A line of them marched up my neck, causing the area to swell to three times its size and itch beyond all reason. They sent me into a temporary tailspin and had me questioning the sanity of our project, as did the most hellish area we’ve cleared to date. This area had virtually every single invasive plant on it, and they were all thriving. THRIVING, I tell you. The space almost reduced us to tears on several occasions and spanned weeks of hard, hard work. After that nasty job, my team of three was reduced to two. But in the end we eventually emerged victorious, battle-scarred and weary, but with a renewed determination to evict every last bit of poison ivy, bittersweet, and rose. Actually, it might be more accurate to say we emerged weary with a dash of rage. I remind myself it isn't the fault of the rose that she's adorned with vicious thorns, but still. Ouch.

4.9 tons of yard waste

We’ve already filled a 30-yard yard-waste dumpster with debris, and there’s still so (so) much more to be done. Even though we initially decided it would be utter foolishness to work through the humidity, heat, and bugs of summer… we did so anyway. Continually spurred on by our progress, I found it impossible to stop. Looking around now at what we managed to accomplish, I’m glad we powered through. But I’m even more glad that the cooler, drier days of autumn loom ahead. I both dread and relish the winter weather that's surely headed our way for it means that our work will temporarily be put on hold. On the bright side, at least the cold temps will temporarily strip the poison ivy and bittersweet vines of their leaves, rendering them unable to taunt me so. Or taunt me so blatantly, anyway.

For the past seven months I've been held spellbound by a dead hedge. It's true. It must be. Don’t ask me how but those sticks, limbs, and trees cast an obvious spell over us as we worked. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't grateful, though, because all of those many hours spent outside in nature have been wildly restorative. Laboring out there under the trees, I feel like I've reclaimed a vital part of myself. A happy part of myself. Interestingly enough, my daughter feels the same. Which has me thinking: could magical dead hedges be the answer to some of our collective woes? Personally, I don't doubt their power for a second. My suggestion?

Let's get building...

Our second large dead hedge