A Wreath of Magnolia Leaves

Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings said "The individual man is transitory, but the pulse of life and of growth goes on after he is gone, buried under a wreath of magnolia leaves." I suppose that's one reason to plant a tree - we may not ever see it reach its fullest potential but we know, or hope, that others will enjoy their shade, their flower or fruit.

As a final gesture to 2013, our first year at Shared Plough, K and I planted a Southern Magnolia in the pasture. We'd like to screen the farmhouse from the road a bit and the large, slightly cupped leaves can soften traffic noise, not that we have much of a problem with that out here. Magnolias can be a bit of a mess. They shed leaves most of the year. We planted our new tree in the northwest corner of the pasture where it can spread out and drop all of the leaves it wants.

We planted a 'Little Gem' Magnolia. It's a dwarf but I've seen some mighty big ones. I imagine ours will top out around 35 feet or so. Considering the champion standard Magnolia is 122 feet, 35 feet is dwarf indeed.

Magnolias were among the earliest of flowering plants. Their flowers evolved before bees and butterflies existed so they rely on beetles to do the work. The seeds are eaten by squirrels, possums, quail and turkeys. We sometimes see the turkeys in the pasture so maybe they'll visit a bit more often now. I've heard that the bark is fire resistant - hopefully we won't need to worry about that - and that the taproot makes it less prone to damage by the hurricanes that can be troublesome in their favorite haunts along the gulf coasts. Sounds like a survivor, alright.

On an overcast and chilly New Year's Day, our new tree seems pretty much at home now. We'll look forward to watching it grow and mature and we'll certainly enjoy cutting some flowers for the house through the summer months. They smell like gin-and-tonics to me.

Who knows? Maybe one day we'll rest under a wreath of its leaves.

To the trained ear...

To the trained ear, there is much to hear.

When we lived in the city, we were immune to certain sounds like airplanes, buses and barking dogs [though we knew each dog in the neighborhood and if it was a bark to get back inside or to taunt the person walking with a stroller along the sidewalk outside their territory]. We followed the understood protocol to ignore the sounds of neighbors' voices in their yards, over the fence or on decks that overlooked our yard. The 'click-clack click-clack' of the light rail train sounded like a large clock ticking somewhere down the street, magnified in the winter when the leaves had fallen. The elementary school bordered our back property line, and the squeals and voices of kids on the playground, soccer field or bus stop were part of the sweet blur of city sounds. Even our chickens seemed to chatter in more subdued tones and find their place in the tapestry of sound around our little piece of paradise... the two yard fountains served as soothing vehicles to let the surrounding blend of noises just wash over us. It was never a cacophony of unpleasant sound; it was the way you live in a city when you are part of a great community with wonderful neighbors, a hive of active lives.

Moving to the country created a pleasant opportunity to retrain our listening skills. I grew up in the country in South Georgia on a tobacco farm but have been a city dweller for about four decades, so the transition for me was like seeing old friends after a long time and realizing how much you have missed them. I suddenly was able to recall the homecoming sounds of the whippoorwill, the yelping of the coyote [and being able to decipher the leader of the pack's bark from the rest of the pack's affirmation yelps], the owls... oh, the owls! It is a wonder to hear the parent owls teaching a newbie how to hoot the sound of their species... and during mating season it's a marvel to hear the males wooing the ladies with such serenades!

In the city, we could not have birdfeeders because there were too many rodents [think 'rats'] that would hang out under the feeders, smoking discarded cigarette butts, waiting for the seed to fall while taking a break from trying to find a way to the chicken feed! Here, we have bird feeders that attract so many different types of birds, and it is wonderful to sit on the front porch and see how different feathered friends 'negotiate' their way to a feeding station... each with a different sound for friends versus a sound to challenge the glutton who will not let the others take a turn at the feeder.

At the end of the summer, some city friends ventured outside the perimeter for a BBQ and some cool libations at The Plough. As we sat outside in the boxwood garden, one of them asked if we enjoyed 'that deafening chorus' of crickets. Of course, we love the concert. We told them how to differentiate the different songs between the crickets, cicadas and tree frogs. They looked at us as if we had unlocked some mystical portal to becoming 'whisperers' of nature. It's really not a mystical gift at all; it's the simple investment in knowing and listening to your surroundings. With a trained ear, you can learn a lot about the life unfolding and closing all around you, be it early morning when the first birds take flight or at dusk when the bats chase their meals against a backdrop of sounds that rise and fall with the crescendo of noises made by animals that roam their world in the country. It's a great symphony that somehow washes over you... and makes you smile.

Grow Where You're Planted

Inexplicably, I read the Travel section of The New York Times first on Sunday mornings. I like to travel. Or, rather, I like to be somewhere else. It's the preparation that I dislike. Anyway, I sit down with that section before any other.

This morning's paper had an article about Norman Rockwell's New England. I have lived in Atlanta for 42 years. I will never be a native, as the natives remind me, although I have been in Atlanta longer than most anyone I know. My very early years, though, were spent in the Mid-West and North-East. Mom and Dad took us to see Plymouth Rock and Sturbridge Village and every iconic New England site you can imagine. Mom, whose taste I have always considered flawless, instilled in me an interest in Colonial and Early American life and furniture. So much so that I consider myself a closet New Englander despite my locale. I love the architecture, the history, the landscape, the food. Everything except the weather. And even that has grown on me.

The article this morning made me long for Mr. Rockwell's home. I love the thought of a village green, the clapboard siding and covered bridges and Sugar Maples of the North East.

After our breakfast of Dutch baby, K and I took our walk to the park right across the street. Arabia Mountain is a monadnock, a great exposed stone mountain.

We have our own, almost private, entrance to the park. A long gravel path leads through acres of Switch Grass and brambles, sapling pines and towering Tulip Poplars. We nearly always see deer and wild turkeys and Coyote tracks. It's about a mile or so to a beautiful lake at the foot of the mountain. We've even seen Otters playing there.

It's gorgeous, really. And we are almost always alone there, though I can't imagine why. It's a perfectly beautiful wilderness.

And this morning, the Red Maples and Sassafras and every other native tree were ablaze with fall color. As pretty as any imagined New England landscape. The lake reflected the bluest sky and the creeks feeding it were clothed in fallen leaves and pine needles. The air was crisp. A perfect morning.

I'm sure that Mr. Rockwell's backyard is beautiful. No doubt there is somewhere in every state to covet. Our walk reminded me how lucky we are to have such an unspoiled landscape at our doorstep. I have nothing to envy.

Thanks, but I'm happy right here.

My Favorite

Say what you will, my favorite plant may be Boxwood.

Of course, ask me that when Gardenias are in flower. Or Tea Olives. Sasanquas in the fall. Lenten Roses in the early Spring. Hydrangeas in the heart of summer. All pretty, to be sure.

But would any of those be my favorite plant when not in flower? Not a chance. No, none have the presence or the personality, of Buxus sempervirens.

Predictable, you say? What's the problem with something that always looks good? Boring, you suggest? Reliable, I reply. But there's no color! No flower! No interest!

Go find your own favorite plant and leave mine alone.

The first Boxwoods on American soil were planted on Long Island, New York in 1653 at Sylvester Manor. The plants had been shipped from Amsterdam. The house still stands though I'm not sure the Boxwoods remain, never having visited. I have seen a photograph taken of the garden in the late 19th Century. Two enormous Boxwoods flank a white picket gate, each shaped like angry storm clouds, wild and untamable. Cuttings from these first American Boxwoods were spread throughout New England. Perhaps they still live on.

Boxwoods can live 600 years. They are a symbol of immortality, as all evergreen plants seem to be. But 600 years? That's as immortal as I need a garden plant to be.

Some people dislike the smell of Boxwood foliage. To them it smells like cat pee. I rather like the scent, though I dislike cat pee. To me, Boxwood smells like age or history. Like old books or faded cash or forgotten trunks newly opened.

This weekend, K. and I planted thirty American Boxwoods. We had already installed about 40 'Wintergreen' Boxwoods as hedges to define the garden. Those are Korean Boxwoods, though. They are great for hedges but are surely no one's favorite plant. Our American Boxwoods, though, are the punctuation at the ends of the hedges. They anchor our formal beds. To me, they ice the cake.

While they may be only 18" tall tonight, I've found that they grow quickly enough. Before we know it, we will be trimming them into big fluffy balls. I love their Muppet quality. Each seems to have a personality. I love to brush them while walking through the garden. I love the rustling sound of their foliage. I love the dark green color throughout the year. I hope to knock a light snow from their branches this winter.

If asked about my favorite flower or tree or herb or vegetable, I would offer a different answer.

But my favorite plant? Tonight, it's Boxwood.

Ancestors in the Pasture

K., who is part Cherokee, has ancestors that live in our pasture. Well, sort of. The Eastern Red Cedar was, and is, the most sacred of trees to the Cherokees. They have long believed that the Cedar holds the protective spirits of past ancestors. It's interesting that the tree has had holy significance to many people. Quakers marked their gravesites with them and they were also planted, many times, where civil war soldiers fell in battle. I suppose it's their long life and their pungent evergreen foliage that brings immortality to mind. The oldest known Eastern Red Cedar, in Missouri, was estimated to be 795 years old so I can see why they might be so well respected.

It is a noble looking tree. The dark green foliage is evergreen, of course, and to my eyes can look either fresh as the promise of spring or as broody as the bleakest winter day depending on the season, weather or time of day. They volunteer all over in the countryside and don't seem to mind our granite-studded soils. We have many scattered throughout the wooded slope behind the house, including one especially large, dark one that grows despite the shade of it's neighboring Pecan tree. They fare far better in sun. I suppose they come up beneath the branches where birds, who have eaten the berries, roost in the evening. It would seem that no two are identical, a thing that could be said about any tree, naturally. It seems especially true of Cedars. Some are as tall and pointed as a rocket on a Launchpad. Others are as short and contorted as wizened old immigrants made to carry too much for too long.

The Cedar-loving Cherokees were once plentiful here in Georgia. We live in the band of territory that acted as a buffer between them, in the north, and the Creeks who lived, mostly, south of us. This was their land for eons, really, and the expulsion of the Cherokees and the subsequent Trail of Tears, when they were herded west to Oklahoma, is a particularly shameful part of Georgia's, and America's, past. I prefer to think of their time here before they were disturbed by the unstoppable wave of frontiersmen and women.

As I understand the legend of the Cedar in Native American folklore, when the Cherokees were new upon the earth they decided that things would be better if the day wasn't divided into light and dark. They approached the Ouga, their Creator, to banish night and always allow them to live in light. The Ouga granted their request.

Soon, the woodlands grew thick in the luxuriant daylight, so thick that travel became troublesome and paths were obscured by their growth. The unending day became intolerably hot and sleep became impossible. The ancient Cherokees were soon divided by quarrels and fights and life became unbearable.

The ancestors went back before their Ouga and begged that daylight be ended so that they might live always in the coolness of night. And their wish was, again, granted.

The crops failed in the constant darkness. It was impossible to hunt for game in the night. Time was spent in a constant search for firewood. The people were always cold and they grew weak and sick without food and light. Many died.

Those who lived went back once more and begged their Ouga to restore the original order of things, seeing then that it was good. And it was made so. Once again, balance was restored. Crops grew in the light and night provided rest and the survivors grew strong. They were grateful for the Creator and the wisdom of the balance.

The Creator accepted their abundant gratitude but was made sad by so many of the people who had died in the hard times. The Ouga created a new tree, the a-tsi-na tlu-gv, the great Cedar, and in it's evergreen boughs the Creator placed the spirits of all of the ancestors who had perished. Now the Cedar is seen as their very embodiment. The tree is sacred above all others. Some Cherokees still carry a small piece of Cedar in their pocket for protection. A piece of it placed over a doorway ensures that evil spirits do not enter. I understand that pieces of the foliage were scattered in fires burned during sacred times. Although the wood was never used as a fuel, it was used for some ceremonial objects such as drums and also for canoes.

In the front pasture, we have a particularly pretty Eastern Red Cedar. It has been growing in morning and mid-day sun for, probably, twenty years. I have read that twenty or thirty year-old trees are suitable for fenceposts. Sixty to eighty year-old trees may be large enough for building timbers or lumber. Ours is well-shaped and symmetrical, like a huge Christmas tree. Noble, indeed, and beautiful in every season.

It's a fitting home for anyone's ancestors and I hope that K.'s are happy in it. I have a new-found appreciation for it and it's long history. And I just might hide a sprig above the front door. You can never be too sure.

... A Field Well Tilled.

I think the worst of our farm-building chores has been the vegetable garden. Perhaps the other Ploughman would answer differently.

The south-east corner of our farmyard was not my favorite. It sloped awkwardly and a large, old Walnut tree leaned precariously over it. The privet leaned over our new fence, dripping, it seemed, ticks. We have Housworth family pictures that show the area more open, sloping gently up to the old carriage barn. Evidently, Ed Housworth had several large bales of cotton that were stored in the barn for decades, he being too stubborn to sell it at the market price. The children would play on them and, I like to think, might have used them as stages for plays or as imagined Western boulders hiding little Indians from little cowboys.

After many plans, we settled on a terraced vegetable gardens with raised beds and stacked stone walls. Easier planning than realizing, as always. With help, soil was pushed and sculpted and removed. The low stone walls were installed. And we were left with a mess of slick mud in the middle of the wettest summers in history. The dogs were dyed the red of Georgia clay. Our beautiful wood floors were a matching hue.

A space can look quite level and be anything but level. Installing the beds and trying to keep them fairly even seemed impossible. We ended up using all of the rag-tag brick and stone left over from excavations and piles of forgotten foundations and pathways. It felt good to find a use for all of it and I feel certain that the Housworths would have done the same, though they may have been slightly less concerned with making anything level.

After several weekends spent on hands and knees, having consumed many bottles of pain relievers and reward-bottles of alcohol, we have our vegetable garden. There are a few nut trees to remove this fall or winter, shading the beds a bit too much for their needs. We'll get to that. The raised beds are full now of fluffy, good soil, awaiting their first cool-season vegetables.

We'll have room for our garlic, brought from Ossabaw Island off Georgia's coast. There is a bed for Asparagus roots, though not the delicious white German Asparagus that our friends, B & M crave. Strawberries will fill one bed. And there are already six Blueberries settling in. Fall vegetables will be arriving at work any day now. With a glass of wine in hand, I can already imagine them in neat rows, ready for cool nights and warm days.

Day by day, we are realizing our dreams for a gentlemen's farm. As with all of our projects so far, the trials and pains seem to dissolve when we stand back and look at what we've built together. Here, at last, is our 'field' well-tilled.

A House Well Filled...

We moved in to our little farmhouse in the third week of February, a year to the day when we nervously dropped off our carefully crafted offer for the place. Now, I'm sure that the staff of The Georgia Trust were giddy that someone had finally taken some interest in the dilapidated farm. It had been for sale for many years. I was sick with worry that our very low offer would be summarily dismissed. What if there were multiple offers? What if they did not like our restoration plans? So much fretting and so much worry. In another four months, after appallingly low appraisals and impossible bank negotiations, it was ours. I'd like to say they handed us the keys at closing but there was just an old combination padlock on the door. If you were too lazy to take the time to unlock it, you could always climb in through a broken window. I'm not sure that the side door even closed all of the way.

Then followed the seven long and trying months of contractors and additional expenses and missed deadlines. We've let all of that go now. A wound well-healed at last.

In the six or seven months we have lived on the farm, I think we've feathered it pretty well. We had been collecting furniture, quilts, oil lamps- well, you name it- since our offer was accepted. And somehow it all fit. The samplers hang next to 'Alma's' chair. The little rocker warms itself by the fireplace. The plantation desks await their next tasks. To us, it looks like we had imagined. It's how we thought it deserved to look, having offered shelter to a family for 170 years.

It's September. And now that the Walnut and Mulberry trees are fading to yellow, now that the sun is traveling lower through the sky and is rising later and setting sooner, now that Summer is waning and Autumn is waxing, there seems to be a bit more time to sit on the porch and recollect all we have been through. The last rays of sunshine get caught in the neighbor's Oak tree each evening. K. likes to sit on the front steps for the show. I light the oil lamps as the day dissolves completely to blue-gray dusk. The birds head to the treetops, the rabbits make blurred circles as they chase one another through the pasture, the deer graze contentedly across the road. The whole place seems to stretch and issue a contented sigh.

This well-filled house is a home again.