My Pile: Starting Over

On the last weekend day of summer, a bright, sunny Sunday, I head outside to prepare my pile and backyard for the coming bounty of the fall harvest season.

I stop first in the vegetable garden, tucked between the back patio and corner nook of the house. Bound by two corners of the house and two sidings of 6 by 6 inch wood beams, along which I’ve strung a short wire fence, the vegetable garden is ringed by a two-foot wide border garden of flowers and bisected on the inside by a cross-shaped walk of beach brick. I’ve added so much compost to the vegetable garden that it is now bursting at the seams. The brick pathway and stepping stones within the garden, as well as the flagstone walkway along the outside, are now much lower than the raised bed of garden soil.

Building up the soil is one of the chief aims of the backyard composter, and this season it appears I’ve raised the vegetable garden so that it is now a platter served up for the deer, who, sadly, seem to have beaten me to the last tomatoes of the season. Whether they lean in over the short wire fence or hop it outright I don’t know, but the deer have neatly pruned the once-sprawling tomato plants, chomped the cilantro and nipped the remaining cukes. They seem to have no taste for collard greens, fennel or dill. The basil, now bolting, has grown too bitter for both them and me. Time to harvest the gains and add the season’s leftovers to my pile.

First, I pluck a ripening Big Boy tomato from inside its cylindrical wire cage. It’s neatly marked with a four-square pattern of bite marks, just the size of the narrow, overbite incisors on the deer skull I found on a walk in some nearby woods last year and brought home to show my son. The skull now rests in a flower box planted with pansies outside the kitchen-sink window, a Georgia O’Keefe still life I like to ponder when washing the dishes.

You'd think the deer wouldn't find the garden through the cleome flowers; at right are the flagstone steps sinking into the turf.

You’d think the deer wouldn’t find the garden through the cleome flowers; at right are the flagstone steps sinking into the turf.

I’ve scraped my pile to bare ground, save for a small pyramid of compost scraps off to the side. The log wall boundaries and improved fencing are now in place. Time to begin anew.

I pull the tomato vines and other past-due vegetable plantss and herbs out of the ground and haul several armfuls over to my pile, adding to it after a stroll around the garden beds to dead-head the most-tattered of the perennial flowers. They’ve grown tall and straggly through the summer, and now hang heavy with their seed heads. The stoutest I leave standing; the golden finches love to pluck the echinacea seeds from their perches on waving stems, and the dove flock to the coreopsis and cleome, which cast their spring-loaded seed pods across the ground. They grow nearly as tall as the sunflower, and their woody stems will make good, fibrous airways for my pile as well.

Each season the press of leaves squeezes air out of the heap of organic gleanings that is my pile; I’m hoping this early harvest of tangly stalks and stems and dirt-encrusted roots will serve as an airy foundation, a box spring of coils to the soft mattress of leaves to come.

I stroll back over to the vegetable garden and grip the wrist-thick stalk of a sunflower plant that had sprouted among the beach bricks I use along the walkway. Last weekend, I harvested the foot-wide bloom, which was heavy with ripened seeds. Each year my son and the girls next door harvest the seeds for a favorite “snack-tivity” – we wash and then soak the seeds in salt brine and roast them in a pan. If they don’t end up looking and tasting exactly like the sunflower seeds you get in a plastic pouch at the store, at least the kids enjoy the idea of fun food coming from the Jack and the Beanstalk plant in the garden.

Tugging the six-foot-tall stem this way and that, I wrest the sunflower plant from the ground. The root ball is the size of a melon, and even after flicking away the stray pieces of brick and dirt, the plant weighs a good 10 or 15 pounds. It amazes me how much a plant can grow in a single season.

I trundle the stout sunflower over to my pile and set it in the middle of the rest of the prunings. It will be the tent pole that stakes the heart of my pile. As the stalk decays, it will also serve as the conduit for air and moisture, from top to bottom. Around the base of the sunflower stalk I nestled more leggy stems of the fennel that has grown wild in the back corner of the vegetable garden. The hollow stems and fleshy branches gone to seed give my pile the smell of licorice.

Grown thick and stout (and mostly hollow) through the summer, this sunflower stalk will make a good 'tent pole' for my pile.

Grown thick and stout (and mostly hollow) through the summer, this sunflower stalk will make a good ‘tent pole’ for my pile. I later surround it with leggy stems of fennel, and fresh grass clippings from a neighbor.

The long, hot, dry end to summer has not been kind to the grass I sowed two weeks ago, though with stints of watering, the lawn overall has grown in nicely in all but the sunniest spots. Here and there a mushroom sprouts from the grass, which I take as a sign the compost I heaped upon it has spread its own fecundity down into the turf.

The grass will continue to grow on into November, and I’ll run the mower across the yard several times to mulch the autumn leaves and grass clippings to add to my pile. For the last mow of the season, I always try to leave a thick layer of chopped-up leaves and grass on the ground to break down over the long winter. By then, my pile will be overstuffed, as there’s always more than enough leaves and other brown material to go around.

Even with the moderate drought and hot dry days, the trees cling to their still-green leaves. As the nights grow cooler and daylight dwindles they will soon get the signal to put on their annual show of color, and then the annual gathering of leaves will begin.

In the meantime, I have more backyard chores to attend to, among them repairing the hole in my brick garden walk left by the sunflower plant torn from its clutch along the garden’s beach brick path. I’ve also been meaning to improve upon a set of flagstone steps I’d laid down several years ago along the outside perimeter of the vegetable garden, extending into the grass from the patio, four stepping stones in all.

Most evenings I stroll along this flower bed to strip the stems of cleome of their banana-shaped seed pods, to cast the seeds upon the flagstone patio for the mourning doves to flock to at sunrise. Each morning when I take the dog outside, we flush a flight of doves from the patio. Dove are very flabbable, and their wings beat noisily as they rise to take perch on the crown of the roof and nearby pine.

These tall, gangly flowers now lean far over the grass and the sunken flagstone steps. I decide to embark on a landscaping project to extend the patio along the flower bed and raising it to the same level. Next season, the seeds will fall upon this new stretch of patio for the dove to pluck at, and I’ll have fixed the sunken step problem. Even better, having deposited several loads of fresh compost on my neighbor’s newly renovated landscaping a couple weeks ago, I know he has a supply of flagstone that I can repurpose.

First I scrape away the sod along the flower bed, using some of it to fill a sunken spot of turf in the front yard. The rest I toss, turf-side down, onto my nascent pile. The sod, rich with worms and organic life, will make a fine base for the coming season’s heap of leaves.

To build up the base for the flagstone, I add several buckets of small stones I’d plucked from the yard this past spring, then spread a thin layer of remnant compost to the foundation. The compost is more ceremonial than anything, as it will compress into what I imagine as a conduit for earthworms traveling from the yard under the new flagstone walk to the garden. The stones I’m happy to find a collective purpose for other than to leave piled into a mound in the corner of the yard.

I enjoy how my pile and backyard functions as a closed-loop ecosystem — a stone is pulled from the ground, its vacated space filled with compost from my pile; the stone replaces spare turf to be recycled as compost, which will then fill new holes in the ground. I also enjoy enriching this backyard ecosystem from further afield (and office), especially when it means a trip to the seashore.

As fresh compost makes a poor base for a new flagstone walkway and would be a waste to put under the pavers in the beach-brick path within the garden, I head to the beach to fill a couple of large buckets with borrowed sand.

I pick the town’s smallest and rockiest public access, along a tidal creek. Besides its contributions of sand and seaweed for my pile and backyard, the local beach, called Burying Hill, also churns up a steady supply of polished beach brick.

Tumbled by the surf and sand into streamlined pieces of all shapes and sizes, the washed-up artifacts of fired clay make fine filler for the garden walkway. I like how the ocher hues contrast with the dirt. The bricks soak up water like a sponge yet drain like gravel. In the spring they absorb the warming sun; on frosty fall mornings the bricks are rimmed with a coating of ice from moisture sweated out overnight. They will last forever, more or less. Plus, they’re free for the taking – though I do have some guilt for excerising salvage rights over a more altruistic “leave things be.”

The look and feel and utility of beach brick makes it a prized find at the local beach.

The look and feel and utility of beach brick makes it a prized find at the local beach.

My favorite find is a pale yellow-orange variety flecked with bits of shell and straw. Surely these pieces date from the pre-Industrial, colonial era, when brick was formed of hand-dug clay and any old beach sand, then padded with salt marsh grass.

Who knows how long or far each piece has been tumbled by each tide, how whole it was before being ground down to a pebble, or from what man-made thing it came from. Some of the brick I find is charred on one side — the chimney from an old settler’s cabin? Is it from some seaside patio of a swanky estate that got sucked into the sea? Or is it just detritus from a load of fill dumped at the water’s edge back when we valued our beaches differently?

Sand from the beach provides solid footing for the “dove-walk” extension of my patio along the flower beds that line the vegetable garden.

But I digress. And that’s the thing that beachcombing shares with gardening and composting — it invites stray thoughts as I fill a bucket of sand or seaweed or canvas bag slung over the shoulder with a load of brick.

I return home with two plastic buckets heavy with beach sand and a new supply of beach brick, which I add to fill up the hole in the garden walkway made by the sunflower that had taken root there this past spring.

I want to plant a fall crop of lettuce, arugula and kale in the beds now cleared of the tomato plants and strawberries. Heaped with a fresh supply of compost, they need turning. The spadefuls of dirt spill over into the beach brick. That might suit the sunflower seed that takes purchase there next spring, but not my tidy gardener’s eye.

The solution is to tease out the concrete pavers that gird the brick walkway and reset them several inches higher. I use trowel-fulls of beach sand to nudge up the pavers, and add a few shovelfuls of compost underneath the stepping stones to keep them level with plumped-up garden soil. The higher border will not only allow me to keep adding top-dressings of compost to the vegetable garden but also create space to add newfound bricks along the walkway. What started out some years ago as a garden walkway with a single layer of beach brick is now six inches deep with round, ocher bricks.

I tamp down the rest of the sand along the newly etched “dove walk” and spend a happy hour arranging the jig-saw puzzle of repurposed flagstone into place. That’s the neat thing about tending my pile and backyard garden. Though the changing seasons and small projects mark moments of change, progress is always along a path that’s moving forward, growing, evolving.

 

 

 

My Pile: Cutting the Cord

Each fall, I gather a new mass of stored carbon in the backyard. No, not my pile, though it is also assembled from similarly recycled organic bits begged and borrowed and roughly matches the compost heap in both weight and effort. It’s wood for my fireplace.

From a purely environmental standpoint, it’s hard for me to justify burning through a cord or so of firewood each winter. Even the best firewood is relatively inefficient as a heat source, and all that smoke going up the chimney is far from benign. In fact, let me be clear on that last point:

“The smoke from wood burning is made up of a complex mixture of gases and fine particles (also called particle pollution, particulate matter, or PM),” I read on the EPA website. “These microscopic particles can get into your eyes and respiratory system, where they can cause health problems such as burning eyes, runny nose, and illnesses such as bronchitis. In addition to particle pollution, wood smoke contains several toxic harmful air pollutants including: benzene, formaldhyde, acrolein and polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs).”

“Smoke may smell good, but it’s not good for you. Both short- and long-term exposures to particle pollution from wood smoke have been linked to a variety of health effects. Short-term exposures to particles (hours or days) can aggravate lung disease, causing asthma attacks and acute bronchitis, and may also increase susceptibility to respiratory infections. Long-term exposures (months or years) have been associated with problems such as reduced lung function and the development of chronic bronchitis—and even premature death. Some studies also suggest that long-term PM 2.5 exposures may be linked to cancer and to harmful developmental and reproductive effects, such as infant mortality and low birth weight.”

Talk about throwing cold water on a warm and cozy winter’s fire… Even an article on woodheat.org, a website devoted to promoting wood heat, includes some major caveats: 

“Despite its considerable advantages, fuelwood is not a good solution for all households to the problems of high home heating costs and global warming. Fuelwood is not a suitable energy source in all locations, such as densely-populated urban areas, because its air emissions tend to be higher than other options, and the air is already burdened with pollution from industry and transportation. A winter’s supply of wood takes up a lot of space, and the price of firewood in urban areas is normally too high to achieve savings. Successful heating with wood also requires a level of physical fitness and the learning of a special set of skills. Clearly, wood heating is not for everyone,” I read in “The Argument In Favor Of Wood Heating.”

Still, there’s a case to be made for what environmental writer Marc Gunther  cites as “by far the most popular form of renewable energy used at home.”

“It’s a low-cost and low-carbon way to heat homes. It’s a ‘green’ technology that appeals to poor and working class people. And, because gathering and distributing wood is labor intensive,  it generates economic activity,” Gunther argues in “A Renewable Energy Technology that Gets No Respect.”

I moved into my two-bedroom cottage-style home a decade ago with my son, then 5. The main room had a small, narrow fireplace rimmed with ornate, cast-iron trim. It looked like it was designed to burn coal, and I considered it more of a decorative element than heat source. No doubt it hadn’t been used in decades, and in fact when I soon had to repair the Rube Goldberg fuel-oil furnace tucked into the closet-like crawl space tucked behind the chimney, I found that the furnace had been routed to vent exhaust up the flue.

It was only years later, after the furnace finally crapped out and I replaced it and the similarly ancient water heater with a much more efficient on-demand system, powered by natural gas, that I called in a chimney sweep to assess whether the fireplace could be used. My son had grown old enough for me to relax as a worry-wart dad, and I was pining to add some warmth and rustic charm to our living room. Besides, back-to-back stormy seasons, including Superstorm Sandy, had produced both a windfall of trees and a nagging fear of a loss of power over some cold, dark nights.

With a new cap and damper plus a plugged vent hole and sturdy new screen, my fireplace was back in business. The narrow but deep firebox with its cast-iron surround drew wonderfully and gave off blasts of heat that radiated across the living room. The long neglected fireplace has since become the true heart and hearth of our home.

Environmental qualms aside, the locavore in me likes the idea of burning wood gathered from nearby. There may be some cost savings, in terms of keeping the thermostat down, which appeals to my thrifty yankee spirit. The sensualist seeks the burn on the back of my legs, the pop and crackle in the air and the dance of flickering flames. I like everything about a fire, from constructing it just so to stoking and tending it through the night.

A fire is something special to gather around and keep company with; a magical presence in the room. A home fire sustains a gardener’s tinkering spirit the winter long. “To poke a wood fire is more solid enjoyment than almost anything else in the world,” said Charles Dudley Warner. (A close friend of Mark Twain, Warner also had a way with words; he’s the fellow who also said “Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it,” andPolitics makes strange bedfellows.” To have listened in on a fireside chat between those two!)

This affinity to fire may help explain why I smoked cigarettes for many years. It’s an addiction, I guess.

A cozy fire in the well used and loved fireplace.

Over the past five years, I haven’t had to pay for firewood, unless you count the cost of having several fallen or damaged maples taken down and chopped up by those I hire to scale trees with ropes and belts and chainsaws. Owning a chain saw is a manly aspiration I’ve always found reason not to fulfill.

Still, I very much like the idea of using every bit of a tree that has grown in my backyard, from adding its leaves and seeds to my pile, to spreading its chipped up limbs as mulch to the garden beds, to burning its sawed up and split logs in the fireplace. The wood ash that remains is sprinkled across the lawn and garden beds and my pile. The stumps, well, I just have to live with those until they rot back into the ground, like the bones of a bison fully consumed by a band of Plains Indians.

I’ve carted home cast-off logs of oak left by the utility crews working up and down the street. I’ve also helped myself to several loads of lumber from neighbors who have had treework done and have no need for firewood. In these parts, firewood is free for the taking, if you know where to source it and have the means to schlepp it home. My fireplace is more narrow than most, so I have to cherry pick logs of no more than 18 inches long, shorter than what most commercial firewood suppliers make.

Over the summer, I’ve assembled a stack of wood that stretches across the back of the tool shed and as high as I can sling them. Burning two or three fires a week, I figure I consume a little more than a cord of wood a season, starting around the first frost of the year in mid to late October and lasting until the final frost, sometime in late April, or when I run out of logs, which happened this past spring, a few chilly nights too soon.

I’ve long been intrigued by the word “cord,” used to define the size of a stack of firewood. Like peck or rod or even foot, it harkons back to an age about which we now have only a passing familiarity. Cord is generally meant to define a “racked and well stowed” wood pile that is four feet wide, four feet deep and eight feet long. It’s based on the use of a string or rope to define it. Whose string exactly is long lost to history, but I rather like how this man-made unit has stood the test of time. If you want a more precise measurement, figure on a volume of 128 cubic feet, says Wikipedia, or for a comparison, it’s calculated that a cord of seasoned oak, with its 22.1 million British thermal units (BTUs), has the heating equivalent of 159 gallons of fuel oil.

Now is the time to cleave these whole logs into slivered pieces and to stack them in sturdy rows against the shed and beside my pile. It’s a process, an exercise that’s near a sport, that I thoroughly enjoy. And though it took me a good long while before I could get myself to hand off the big-boy axe to my teenage son, chopping wood has also become a family enterprise. Together, we make a good team, taking turns with the maul, splitting wedge and axe to turn a whole log into fractionalized pieces in a few, well-measured strokes. This good ol-fashioned manual labor strikes my son as thoroughly exotic. It’s also a contest between old man and young buck; you can almost see the testosterone cursing up from the steel bit and wood handle into his sinewy young arms. I like being a father who has taught his son how to chop wood. Better yet, he still has all is toes.

I also like splitting the work. As Henry Ford said, “Cut your own wood and it warms you twice.”

Splitting and stacking firewood for the winter while my pile the drop of autumn leaves.

In addition to learning how best to chop wood — figuring out the grain and the knots and gauging the force of the blow needed — there’s some woods wisdom to be gleaned from carving up a log. These past few seasons, ash has been in abundant supply, courtesy of the emerald ash borer. An ash log is light and straight-grained and splits like a dream; there’s a reason it’s long been favored by baseball sluggers and why I give the ash to my son. I can talk baseball while he splits wood like a hall-of-famer.

“Although ash may produce slightly lower BTU’s than oak or sugar maple, it’s a popular firewood choice for many people,” I read on firewood-for-life.com. “Ash is known for splitting very easy and having a low moisture content. This allows the tree to be safely used immediately after harvesting.”

Beech is a breeze to split, and burns bright and fast, so, too, does birch, and we can tell when we’ve got a piece of black birch by the Wrigley spearmint gum aroma of its bark. I have a hard time telling my oaks apart, but when we split a piece of white oak, the grain looks just like the kitchen floor of a new McMansion.

Cutting wood benefits my pile, indirectly. When chopping a scavenged log, most of the time the bark cleaves from the wood. Some I use for kindling, but much of it I lay down as flat sections behind my pile, which backs up against what amounts to a drainage ditch for the low back end of the property.

The bark makes a sturdy, if temporary, flooring for me to stand on when I work my pile. The curved outer hide is a no-slip surface for my work shoes. The domed paneling laid end to end allows for the run-off to pass underneath, and as it rots in place I imagine the row upon row of small vaulted ceilings gives comfort to all manner of creatures. I tread softly upon them, for fear of squishing a rare native salamander or newt.

The stack of firewood is my pile’s doppelganger. They’re both pit stops for assembled loads of energy-rich carbon cycling through the circuit of life. One is on the fast track and will soon go up in smoke. Poof. Crash and burn.

My pile is taking the long way around the carbon cycle, a trip with a more lasting reward. Its stores of carbon and other turbocharged organic amendments and minerals are first going to ground, where they will dissipate over time before making their way back skyward, rising toward the sun, whether as a blade of grass, burp of an earthworm or, once more, first as a soaring tree then, burning bright, a crackling fire. After all, “ashes to ashes” covers a lot of ground.

 

My Pile: Empty Nest

I come home from work midweek and change into my outdoor clothes, still shorts and a ratty old t-shirt. The summer heat lingers, even as the days grow shorter.

Storm clouds gather as I head outside for my usual “compost hour” of unwinding and reconnecting with the yard that is my small patch of outside world after a day spent inside in front of a computer terminal. It’s still a surprise to see my pile now reduced to a remnant of its once-overstuffed self.

I’m an empty-nester, at least for the next few weeks. Still, there are other backyard tasks to tackle, like spreading a 10-pound bag of seed across the barest patches of my lawn.

I use a small hand-crank spreader, which flings the tiny seeds outward like sprinkles of rain. I grab a few handfuls to cast extra helpings of seed directly on the thinnest spots, avoiding the thickest patches of clover. Aside from tending my small plot of vegetables and herbs, it’s the closest I get to feel like a farmer.  I speculate on just how many new seeds I’m introducing to my yard; it must be in the hundreds of thousands.

I finish in the gloaming by roughly raking over swaths of the yard to scratch in the seeds with the compost covering the ground, scooting aside the sycamore leaves that are already beginning to dapple the ground. The lawn has received the lion’s share of compost this year, and I am eager for the old grass to revive and this new crop of seeds to find purchase.

At best, only a fraction of all these seeds will thrive, but I take some comfort in knowing that I’m adding to the diversity of the turfgrass that grows in my yard. I overseed each year, always buying perennial mixes, all kinds of rye, fescue and bluegrass, usually grown in Oregon. The tiny oblong seeds are indistinguishable to me, but the label lists such evocative names as Evening Shade, Brooklawn, Sierra and Frontier. There are 10,000 grass species in the world, and countless more slight variations from genetic tinkering. I like the fact that my small backyard has more than its fair share of such truly global transplants.

I crank out thousands upon thousands grass seeds to cast about the lawn.

I crank out thousands upon thousands grass seeds to cast about the lawn.

Waiting for the rain to arrive and break a long, hot, dry spell, I’ve spent the past several days wandering across the yard, picking out a surprising number of sticks, stones and shells that have cropped up as the compost bakes in the sun and crumbles into the turf. It’s like beachcombing, only in reverse. Using wood chips as a mulch for many of the garden beds and pathways, I’m not surprised that my pile harbors so many flecks of wood. The more surprising finds — the shells, the odd horseshoe crab tail or seagull quill, pieces of plastic, especially — are from the washed-up seaweed I heap upon my pile each fall and spring.

The largest shells I toss into the vegetable garden to bolster next year’s tomatoes; I pitch the slivers and chunks of wood chips into the perennial garden beds.

Those who tend and till the soil are accidental archaeologists, as Karel Capek elucidates in “The Gardener’s Year”: “The garden – or cultivated soil, also called humus, or mould – consists mainly of special ingredients, such as earth, manure, leafmould, peat, stones, pieces of glass, mugs, broken dishes, nails, wire, bones, Hussite arrows, silver paper from slabs of chocolate, bricks, old coins, old pipes, plate-glass, tiny mirrors, old labels, tins, bits of string, buttons, soles, dog droppings, coal, pot-handles, washbasins, dishcloths, bottles, sleepers, milkcans, buckles, horseshoes, jam tins, insulating material, scraps of newspapers, and innumerable other components which the astonished gardener digs up at every stirring of his beds. One day, perhaps, from underneath his  tulips he will unearth an American stove, Attila’s tomb, or the Sibyline Books; in a cultivated soil anything may be found.”

Although I worry about the mower spitting out a shard of wood or seashell into an ankle or worse, I rather like the fact that the yard is a repository for such odds and ends, originating from so many places other than my own property.

At night, the thunderstorms bring an overdue soaking, and set the new seed on its way to germinating as the lawn greens up through the fall.

The overnight rains release me from the need to water, at least for a day or two, and I spend the next evenings preparing my pile for the coming season.

My pile is now a dirt floor between two sets of upright logs, the right side still akimbo. I’d wrested several logs out of place to gain ready access to my pile, and now I need to reset them in place so that they can contain the coming deluge of leaves and seaweed and grass clippings.

One log, the skinniest of the lot, is rotted, so I set it on the dolly and trundle it over to my ever-growing refuse pile of tree branches and pulled groundcover. I reset the other logs, using small flat rocks to secure them in place so that I can safely walk across their tops to dump bedsheets full of leaves as my pile grows.

The log wall now has a gap, which I bridge with the handmade screen of small-gauge wire netting stapled to two sections of wood gleaned from my son’s long-dismantled play set. I fashioned it some years ago to screen compost but I haven’t used it for several years, finding the process too laborious. Even the roughest gleanings from my pile soon break down into bits and pieces, whether by rake or mower or hard rain.

I set the wire contraption on its end on the inside of the two flanking upright logs to create a side door for my pile. As my pile grows this fall, the leaves will press against it. I hope to be able to lift it out of the way when I need to work my pile on through the coming season. It’s a small bit of home improvement that I wish I’d thought of years ago.

My pile now has a side door, fashioned by repurposing the wire screen I no longer use to sift compost.

My pile now has a side door, fashioned by repurposing the wire screen I rarely use to sift compost.

Next I take the maddox from the shed and gouge out the surface roots of the two nearby maple trees. Each summer they infiltrate the bottom of my pile, and each fall I do my best to trim them back. I don’t begrudge them their efforts to tap into the rich supply of nutrients that annually swells beneath their canopies, but the network of tangly roots have an annoying habit of snagging the pitchfork I scrape across the ground to tidy up the edges of my pile. It’s a battle I will never win as long as the maples rise up over, and under, my pile, but each year I chop away at the invading roots to keep them at bay.

The renovations complete, my pile is now an empty vessel, ready to receive its annual bounty of a season’s growth. Like a chef planning a harvest menu, I begin to plot out the courses that I will soon heap upon it. There are two garbage cans brimming with a month’s worth of compostibles, the tangle of spent vines and stalks from the vegetable garden, and seaweed waiting to be gleaned from the nearby shoreline.

But first, the leaves must fall. For now I can only watch and wait.

My pile awaits its annual resupply.

My pile awaits its annual resupply.

My Pile: Labor Days

I need all three days of the Labor Day holiday to put my pile to work. It’s the biggest compost heap I’ve ever raised, and harvesting it to spread across my lawn and around my garden plantings will be a happy but sizable weekend chore.

My lawn – a motley mix of poa annua, perennial ryegrass, some bluegrass and fescues, lots of clover and all manner of plucky weeds – takes a beating each year. It’s heavily trafficked by me and my garden wanderings, by the dog chasing after and fielding tennis balls, by kid traffic and deer grazing. The sod must also compete with the superficial roots of the trees that surround and shade it.

Some modern garden writers knock the idea of a grass lawn, but in a most rewarding way, my backyard is used much like a ball field or golf course, and every couple of summers I follow the lead of the greenkeepers and turf-growing pros that tend those green wards by aerating my lawn with a rented plug aerator.

I start Saturday morning with a trip to Home Depot. Configured like a walk-behind lawnmower, the gas-powered machine features a cylinder of four sets of hollow steel tubes that rotate when the self-propelled drive is engaged. In front is large rubber wheel filled with water that, along with a set of detachable lead weights, help drive the hollow boring tubes into the ground. As they rotate, the tubes poke into the soil, with each revolution extruding a fresh plug of soil, each about the size of a finger.

Muscling the gas-powered beast back and forth across the yard is a workout, and I have my hands full steering it. But in the time it takes to run a mower across the lawn, the spiked cylinder punches thousands of four-inch-deep holes into the turf. Littering the ground are that many plugs of soil, each a cross section attesting to the health of turf and the earth that supports it. Most of the finger-sized cores are topped with a snippet of green grass above a crumbly layer of brown thatch; below is a tangle of roots still clutching a small cylinder of soil.

Within weeks the grass rebounds, spreading its roots deep into the newly made and freshly plugged holes. What’s more, the softer and thicker lawn is better equipped to soak up all the rain it can take, which in this vicinity is more than 50 inches a year. At times, especially after a fall Nor-easter, or with this year’s spring melt, the groundwater nearly rises to the surface of my property, with the lowest part of my yard covered by standing water that takes a day or two to drain away.

Soil plugs, and the holes they came from, pepper the lawn after aerating.

Soil plugs, and the holes they came from, pepper the lawn after aerating.

Most lawns get compacted by foot traffic, creating all sorts of problems in keeping grass healthy; aerating helps break up the soil for air and moisture to seep in. The thousands of holes will soon be filled with fresh-made compost, mixed with the aerated plugs when they break down, along with the grass clippings and leaf litter that have been accumulating over the past few mowings.

I’ve rented the machine for four hours, which gives me just enough time not only to aerate my third-acre of turf, but also the smaller lawns of two of my neighbors. They help keep my pile supplied with leaves, and grass clippings and other things throughout the year, so it is good to be able to return a favor.

My arms have hardly recovered by the time I get back from the return desk at Home Depot and get to work dispatching my pile. I scoop up heapings of compost wholesale with the hay pitchfork. Holding a loaded pitchfork over the wheelbarrow, I toss and shimmy each shovelful so that it filters through the wide curve tines into the barrow. I don’t bother to screen it other than to reach into the wheelbarrow every now and then to pick out a stray wood chip or sea shell that clangs against the metal or catches my eye.

The simple act of tossing the compost into the wheelbarrow breaks most of the clumps apart, though every so often I also stop to pluck away a not-quite-cooked fragment of compressed leaves. I toss it into the back corner, and after a few loads I’ve built a mini pile that I’ll keep in reserve to seed next season’s batch. Each clump of old leaves is a veritable Dagwood of bacteria, mold and microbes to activate the coming crush of fall leaves.

It takes a dozen or so scoops with the wide-tined pitchfork to fill the wheelbarrow, and an equal number of flings with the spade to disperse the compost in arcing swaths across the yard. It’s not heavy lifting, as each load probably weighs about 40 or 50 pounds. But it is repetitive, and I fall into an easy if tiring rhythm.

Digging into my pile, after 10 months of nurturing a simple yet complex mixture of organic indredients to fruition as humus, the best soil amendment there is.

Digging into my pile, after 10 months of nurturing a simple yet complex mixture of organic indredients to fruition as humus, the best soil amendment there is.

I can cover about a 25 ft. by 25 ft. stretch of ground with each load, and after a couple hours, most of my yard is covered by a scruffy patchwork of compost. A neighbor walks by with his young son on a tricycle, looks across the rough, coffee-dark mess littering the yard and asks, “what happened to your lawn?” I explain that it’s just temporary, and take a few minutes to rake in some of the heaviest patches.

If screened and sifted finished humus is the smooth variety of peanut butter, then my pile is very much the chunky style. But I will further rake and then mow over all that I’ve spread across the yard, and the berm of compost I lay down along the perimeter of the long, narrow bed of perennials will soon mesh and melt into the deep mulch of rotting wood chips.

As I excavate my way into the midst of my pile, unearthing richly dark, cold-pressed humus — the really good stuff — I begin making trips with the filled-to-the-brim wheelbarrow to each of my three neighbors, who have contributed to the fulsomeness of this year’s heap. My neighbors Craig and Sylvia have recently renovated the front walkway to their home, creating garden areas lined by granite pavers. The garden beds so far are empty, with dirt floors some six inches below the top of the pavers. They are perfect vessels for load after load of compost to mix in time with the hard-packed base earth.

My neighbors the Giaumes have started an in-ground herb and vegetable patch beside their house this year for the first time. On a bare patch of ground nearby, I dump four loads of compost into a long pile, for the wife to mix into the new and now weedy beds.

My neighbors across the street, Jean Luc and Claire, have long tended their garden areas, and for them I spoon out barrows of humus as top-dressing.

My pile yields a prodigious amount of compost to spread wholesale across the lawn and garden beds.

My pile yields a prodigious amount of compost to spread wholesale across the lawn and garden beds.

By lunchtime, I’ve covered all the sections of my lawn that I plan to overseed, hauled 10 loads over to the neighbors and still have a third of my pile left. I’ve lost track of how many wheelbarrow loads I’ve spread, but it’s at least 40. After every few wheelbarrows, I stop to rake in the thickest spreadings; the tines of the rake further tease the clumps apart, and most of the compost disappears down through the blades of grass. A ton or so of wet, crumbly bits and pieces of humus — newly minted living soil — is but a small deposit when spread thinly across a patch of scrappy turf.

Spreading finished compost by the wheelbarrow across my lawn and garden beds.

Spreading finished compost by the wheelbarrow across my lawn and garden beds.

I dig my way around and into this year’s batch of compost. It has distilled into a fairly uniform mix of crumbly dirt and bits of leaves. Shoveling through it is like flipping through a scrapbook of organic memories; I come across a tangled length of monofilament attached to a rusty hook; a petrified husk of an avocado shell. My pile coughs up a furball of matted dog and cat duff from the vacuum bag I’d added to the mix last winter. I fill more wheelbarrows and dump loads across the garden beds, flinging it straight from the wheelbarrow with a twist one way and then another.

Toward the end of the day, I’ve worked through the bulk of my pile. I figure I’ve spread about two cubic yards so far, or about as much to fill the bed of a big pickup to the gunwales. All that remains of my pile is a rough mixture of clumpy old matted leaves, a few seashells and a stray corn cob or two. Over the next couple weeks, as I do more fall transplanting and find more garden chores to do, I know I’ll sift through my mini pile further until its shrunken to a few shovelfuls.

On Sunday, I take a break from my pile. I need a day off, and use it to go for a hike with my son and neighborhood kids. It’s yet another sunny day, and I want to let the compost dry in the sun. I want the  tiny critters lurking within it to have time to find refuge by burrowing down into the turf before I mow the yard to finish up my weekend’s work.

I haul the mower out of the shed after a late breakfast on Monday and give the lawn a quick mow to further shred the last scraps of the compost top dressing. The hot dry spell has yet to break, and I decide to wait until mid-week, when thunderstorms are forecast, to spread a 10 pound bag of new grass seed across my yard, an annual replenishment of perennial rye, fescues and blue grass. The fruit of turf-grass farms in the Pacific Northwest, if some of it sprouts and takes root, my yard will have that much more genetic variation. Abetted by some slick aspirational marketing and the best biology Big Ag can buy, grass is a world-class colonizer. It also may be in man’s nature to cast seed upon the ground.

But there is a time for everything, and on a hot Labor Day afternoon I head to the beach my son and the neighbors. I can’t help but notice the ragged lines of seaweed washed up at the high-tide mark, and look forward to returning in a few weeks’ time, after the beach-goers have gone, to harvest the first batch of rotting green seaweed to add to the dead dusty leaves that begin my next pile.

We end Labor Day Monday with a backyard barbecue. My neighbor Don comes over. He looks across the back lawn to the empty space where my pile has resided for the past 10 months and asks, “where did the compost go?”

Something's missing from my backyard -- a ton or so of fresh compost ... but not really.

Something’s missing from my backyard — a ton or so of fresh compost … but not really.

My Pile: The Ant and the Grasshopper

I turn another page on the calendar tacked up on the back of my kitchen door and step onto the back porch with morning cup of coffee in hand to let the dog out. As is his custom, he sprints straight across the yard, past my pile, to patrol the back corner of the yard. Often, squirrels use the stockade fence that runs along the back property line behind my pile as a perch and a highway, and Miller is eternally vigilant in keeping them off his territory.

I take a seat on a porch chair to eye a cicada that’s fastened to the top of the front right leg. The thrum of cidadas lately is loud enough to drown out the sound of traffic on the highway that passes a quarter-mile or so from my house. The sight of the bulbous insect, with its iridescent wings and truly bug eyes, reminds me of boyhood summers in the Midwest, when we’d capture the flying beasts and tie kite strings around their legs to fly them in tight circles above our heads.

I leave the cicada to its perch, and plot out a busy week ahead. The Labor Day holiday comes late this year, at the end of the first week of September. I’ve set aside the three-day weekend for dispatching my pile, and I have work to do beforehand.

In this day and age, tending to a yard is a very much a lifestyle choice. Most people in this affluent, bedroom-commuter community outsource their gardening duties, to lawn-service companies with big, equipment-laden trucks or handymen driving old pickups. Others limit their chores to planting annuals or keeping pool and patio landscapes tidy. Actual manual labor is rare, and a benign disconnect from backyard nature, reinforced by central AC, is the rule. The fear of contracting Lyme disease, a bad case of poison ivy, or some malady like West Nile virus or Zika, is real; so are the many other options for recreation and release, from the virtual reality of video games, smart phones and TV to paddleboards, golf and Zumba class at the gym.

The backyard is my habitat of choice; it’s where I like to spend my free time. I see the stewardship of my property as not a chore but an escape, an indulgence. The work I put into it saves me a lot of money over the course of a year, and also yields all kinds of other rewards.

But still, there is work to be done, and this week is the time to do it. Sitting next to the lolly-gagging cicada, I plot out a daily schedule of projects to take care of before the Labor Day holiday.

The weather forecast calls for another week of hot dry weather. I read online that our region has set a record of 60 straight days of 80 degrees or hotter daily temperatures, with a prediction of an unprecedented string of 90-degree days to start the month of September. I’m comforted by the fact that my boss is out of town for the week, giving me the chance to take off work early each day. What’s more, my son is away on a vacation with his mother, leaving me plenty of free time to putter about.

On Monday afternoon while the sprinkler waters both the lawn and the section of garden bed where I transplanted the ferns and hydrangeas, I pull pachysandra from along the perimeter of my house. If left unchecked, the ground cover will snake its way up under the wood shingles. It rips up easily, and I drag three small tarps worth over to the refuse pile I keep in the corner of the yard by the road.

It’s messy work and I’m drenched with sweat by the time I work my way around the three sides of my house where the pachysandra grows. To cover the newly exposed roots of the pachysandra, I sling shovel fulls of compost from my pile up against the house. A flashing of compost against the newly exposed foundation looks tidy, and the new lining of fluffy humus will make it that much easier to pluck out the racings of next year’s growth.

With the work tools and such out and some daylight to spare, I tackle another garden project I’ve been contemplating. Some years ago I bought a Montauk daisy and planted it in a small garden bed along the street, tucked between the driveway and a maple tree, behind which the border of forsythia grows.

Each spring the plant grows thick, only to be pruned by the roving bands of deer that use the shady street and my yard as a nightly pub-garden prowl. It’s also stressed by competing with the roots of the nearby maple. I have yet to see the plant blossom with its signature daisy white flowers.

Just beyond my backdoor is a garden patch that has been overtaken by lilies of the valley. They are lovely and fragrant in the spring, but by mid-summer have gone wilted and tawdry. Hard by the flagstone patio, the plantings are in direct sun for much of the day. I dig out the lilies, which already cover other, more shady spots of my mulched garden beds around the yard, and in its place put the Montauk daisy. Perhaps its proximity to my backdoor will keep the deer away and allow it to blossom. It may be wishful thinking, but worth my while to try on a late-summer evening.

Like the pachysandra, the lilies of the valley have tightly bound, interconnected root systems, and if dug into deeply enough come out of the ground whole cloth. I shake as much soil as I can from each section, but digging them out leaves a hole in the ground, which of course I fill with loads of fresh compost  mixed into the tired old soil. The daisy’s root system was a stunted spiral, as if still constricted by its pot; it should thrive in its new privileged place just outside the back door.

The yard in late summer. The grass needs watering, the pachysandra pruning, and perennials transplanted to more favorable places.

The yard in late summer. The grass needs watering, the pachysandra pruning, and perennials transplanted to more favorable places.

Wednesday, the first thing I do after getting home from the office is wash down two Advil with a cold beer. My chore today requires a certain amount of heavy lifting: Last weekend, while watching my son and the neighborhood kids bounce on the trampoline, I notice that their feet nearly strike the ground underneath it.

My son and his friends have grown up on the trampoline. Years ago I set a basketball post next to it, and my boy’s backyard sport is jumping high and slam-dunking. On hot days, I set the rainbow sprinkler underneath it; the sprays poke through the netting and make great cooling fun for all.

I decide to dig out a foot-deep depression from below the center of the trampoline, to create more clearance. Even at its best – and ringed by a tall safety net, a trampoline presents certain dangers to springy children; the last thing I want to see is one of them hitting bottom and hurting themselves.

After getting help from one of the girls next door to drag the trampoline into the yard, I set about digging through the soft dirt underneath it. The sheltered soil is rich and easy to shovel. Within an hour’s time I’ve filled five wheelbarrows with dark, rich topsoil. I spread three loads around the garden bed where I’ve done my recent transplanting. Another two I dump next to my pile. I’ll spoon shovelfuls of the dirt onto my pile as I build it with loads of fall leaves.

Digging out from under the trampoline makes it safer, and gives me a load of quality topsoil.

Digging out from under the trampoline makes it safer, and gives me a load of quality topsoil.

Adding topsoil to my coming pile is sort of like bringing coals to Newcastle, but the weight of the dirt will help compact the airy leaves, and the billions of microbial critters within each shovelful will help kickstart the composting process.

Before long, I’ve scooped out a depression about 10 feet in diameter. It looks just like an old buffalo wallow I once came across on my grandfather’s farm; he’d kept the area untilled as a remnant of the prairie his farm once was. Sure enough, after dragging the trampoline back over the shallow pit, the dog took up residence in his cool new cubby hole. I’m too sore and tired to get in the car to drive to the beach, so opt for a long shower instead.

On Thursday I tackle another needed, if picayune task: While dumping the fresh dirt in heaps into my garden beds, I noticed how much of it was covered with a season’s worth of seedlings – the sproutings of young maples, sycamores and grape vines, from seeds blown or fallen from the overhanging trees and vines from my and the neighboring yards. They’ve found ready purchase in the largest of my perennial beds, which last fall I’d loaded with the lion’s share of my pile.

The year before I’d devoted my pile to the lawn; last year instead of aerating, I decided to give the compost to the flower beds, forsaking my annual resupply of wood chips. The garden is thick with flowers, but the compost proved fertile ground for unwanted plants as well. This fall I’ll cover it again with wood chips and give my pile over to replenishing the turfgrass. But before I do I need to handpick the stubbornly resilient seedlings, or else they’ll just poke their way through the mulch and begin the process of turning my cultivated gardens into overgrown wild spaces. Lesson learned: compost is not so good as a cover to prevent weeds. In fact, it has been a nursery bed for opportunistic, and mostly invasive, plant growth. I should have figured…

I work my way through the thick growth of the perennial blooms that now fill my garden beds, stooping to pluck out the spindly sprouts of weedlings, tossing them out onto the lawn to wither on the sun-packed grass lawn. It’s a hot, humid night, and I take frequent breaks to go inside to change out a sweat-soaked baseball cap and to wash my hands. I know from past experience that some of the sproutings I pick are young shoots of poison ivy.

As I labor, my neighbor comes by for her nightly harvest of fresh pickings from the vegetable garden. She also informs me that her pail of kitchen scraps is full. Happy to break from the drudgery of weeding, I follow her back to her home to retrieve both her small bin of kitchen recyclables but also a spare metal garbage can from her pack-rat husband’s stores of spare refuse bins.

I have a supply of shredded office paper in the shed, plus my own nearly full Hooch bucket of coffee grounds and vegetable peels. As with the first garbage bucket, I first add a foot-thick layer of shredded sycamore bark and white office paper, plus a smattering of compost from my pile. The neighbor’s bucket of kitchen recyclables goes in next, topped by more shredded paper. I add my own kitchen supplies, and finish with more paper and compost, filling the old-school metal can about two-thirds high.

I've added fresh soil to bulk up a garden bed; next is a close-crop mowing before aerating the yard.

I’ve added fresh soil to bulk up a garden bed; next is a close-crop mowing before aerating the yard.

I set the can next to the first one. They’re like IEDs, packed with a combustible mix of natural-born energy.

Friday, I haul out the lawnmower and set the blade down a notch. Even though it’s now set just on the middle setting, the mower scalps the parched grass, sending out plumes of brittle dust from under the carriage. The grass hardly needed mowing, but I want to crop it as low as possible before layering the lawn with compost. I’ll rake the top dressing in, mow again, and then reseed.

I finish my week’s worth of yard work to the hum of cicadas and the buzz of the few pesky mosquitoes that have survived the end-of-summer dry spell. I have been the ant industriously laboring to prepare for the coming change of season. As the First Book of Proverbs admonishes,  “Go to the ant, you sluggard! Consider her ways and be wise, which having no captain, overseer or ruler, provides her supplies in the summer, and gathers her food in the harvest.”

Or as the grasshopper in the Walt Disney cartoon sings,

Oh I owe the world a living….
You ants were right the time you said
You’ve got to work for all you get.

My Pile: Bottom’s Up

The last day of August, a Sunday, and yet another fine summer day to spend doting on my pile and other backyard gardening duties. This summer has been as delightful here along the coast of southwestern Connecticut as the winter was bad. The weather has been hot and dry, with just enough dousings from summer thunderstorms to stave off outright drought.

After setting the rainbow sprinkler to arc across the sunniest part of my flower bed, I head over to my pile.

It sits in patient, ancient repose, Sphinx like, its flanks covered by weathered, crumbly detritus. I’d gleaned from one side five wheelbarrows of raw compost for my vegetable garden, and from the other four for the recent transplanting among the flower beds. The rest of my pile will soon be broadcast across my lawn, following the aeration I plan to do over the upcoming Labor Day Weekend.

It’s been several weeks since I stopped inserting fresh materials into my pile. I’ve filled one garbage can with sandwiched layers of kitchen scraps, shredded paper and additions of raw compost, and have mowed the lawn twice with strips of duct tape that seal off the bag catcher to mulch the clippings back into the turf.

Today my goal is to get to the bottom of my pile, at long last. I want to see if it’s fully cooked and ready to be served. I’ve tried before, but my pile always collapses on and into itself before I can reach its epicenter, the part of it I first laid down last November.

Finding the very beginning of my pile is like tracing the precise source of a river. I may never be able to pinpoint the wellspring, for after 10 months of poking and prodding, my pile has morphed and moved in place. Through the winter and spring I excavated holes across its top, reaching deep with the pitchfork. Did I touch the core? Perhaps.

After working the right side of my pile last week, I know there are few places within it that I haven’t fully turned over and outward. I decide to dig into the left side, using the pitchfork to tease out tightly compacted dark earth from the bottom; it looks like the bricks of peat I’ve seen being cleaved from Scottish bogs.

The inner core of my pile yields a clutch of raw leaves, undisturbed since last fall.

The inner core of my pile yields a clutch of raw leaves, undisturbed since last fall.

The chunks of compost crumble easily, with a texture of spent coffee grounds. A few sea shells drop through the matrix. I pierce a shred of tightly bound Sunday insert newsprint, from the bottom of my neighbor’s Angora rabbit’s hutch, tossed into a hole in my pile sometime late last winter.

I dig into and under my pile, excavating a wide cavity below an overhanging ledge of compost that trembles with each thrust of the pitchfork. I uncover a clutch of maple leaves, glistening wet but otherwise pristine. I lift them up out of the burrow and set them aside just before my pile collapses back onto itself.

For the better part of a year, I’ve been a good steward of my pile. I’ve tossed and turned every part of it, or near enough. I’ve mulled it over, lavished it with copious amounts of offerings. Soon I will not only get to the very bottom of it but cast my pile wholesale across my yard and garden beds.

Sometimes, the end result turns out not to be as important or interesting as the process of getting there. I can’t quantify exactly how much my pile will add back into the biomass that is the suburban property I keep, but I know all that it has given me to date — a year’s worth of mental musing and physical effort — and a ton or so of the best soil amendment on earth.

I will miss my pile, this particular edition of it. But it’s time to let it go, to return it from whence it came. Besides, seeing the brown leaves that are now falling across my lawn of late summer, I know my pile will soon rise, phoenix like, again.

My Pile: Nip and Tuck

A bright and breezy Sunday morning in late August brings with it the first hint of fall in the air. There’s a crispness to the air, and looking out across the backyard toward my pile, I see a single maple leaf, tinged with gold, flutter to the ground.

That’s all I need to get started with one of the most pleasurable annual rituals of backyard gardening – transplanting perennials.

This year, I’ve had my eye on a patch of ferns that has overtaken a sunny part of the perennial bed. They’ve thrived since I moved a few sprigs from elsewhere in the garden several years ago, mostly to insert some spring greenery to the garden bed that doesn’t appeal to the deer. I’ve since trimmed back some overhanging privet bushes and crabapple tree along the fence that had provided shade – and copious amounts of fruit that the birds love. The ferns are now sunburned and a tangly mess, and I am eyeing several other, more shady spots in the garden for them to go.

Just down the way from the fern patch are two hydrangeas that I planted a decade ago, when I was first landscaping the yard. Over the years the plants have grown large and fused into one. Above them, a $10 pin oak I salvaged from the fall clearance sale at Home Depot has now grown thick and tall.

I decide to transplant one of the Hydrangeas to the sunny spot. It’s the outdoor equivalent of moving the furniture around. It costs nothing, and gives the yard a new look.

Plus, for a backyard composter, nothing compares to digging a hole in a garden bed, filling it a tender plant plucked from the earth or pot and then tucking it in with heapings of fresh compost.

For a new planting, compost is both an insurance policy and a deposit guaranteed to pay dividends. As long as I add water, virtually every transplant thrives. Compost is such a surefire potting-soil mix, I even have the confidence to begin the fall transplant season in August. There’s still the risk of a stretch of late-season heat, but with some extra watering, the plants will have plenty of time to properly root themselves before the frost and freeze of winter sets in.

I first fill the wheelbarrow with compost, scraped from the side of my pile. As with the supplement to the vegetable garden last week, I don’t bother to sift or screen. I fill half the wheelbarrow with the pitchfork, then shovel up the moist, loose compost that shags out between the tines.

Freeing a well-established plant from the ground calls for a tender hand. The ferns roots spread out shallow along the ground. Using the straight-tined pitchfork, I circle around the edge of the root mat, loosening its grip so that I can pull the roots up like a thick carpet. I toss it en masse onto the wheelbarrow, shaking some soil from the roots and untangling the piece into five separate, smaller clumps of shaggy fern.

Ferns culled from a now-sunnier spot in my perennial beds will do well in this rock-lined shade garden.

Ferns culled from a now-sunnier spot in my perennial beds will do well in this rock-lined shade garden.

Three plantings will go along a small rock wall that contains a small shade garden. Two Japanese maple trees, transplanted eight or nine years ago from coffee cans given to me by my neighbor Jean Luc, bookend the small bed. They are now 15 feet tall and now form a purplish screen between the street and yard. Between then is a rhododendron that blooms small fuschia flowers early each spring. A profusion of bleeding hearts fill the rest of the bed; their branches of dangly pink and white are another springtime show. The ferns will fit right in.

I plop the three ferns into their newly made holes, and surround their roots and stalks with shovelfuls of compost, emptying the rest of the wheelbarrow around the slender trunks of the Japanese maples, the rhody and the largest root balls of the bleeding hearts, which I’ve recently dead-headed.

The hydrangea, as big around as a Barcalounger, requires a gentler approach to extracting from the ground. After loosening the soil around it with the straight-tined pitchfork, I reach under the root ball to trace the largest roots by hand, following the tentacled threads with my fingers to pull them out in as long and full as I can. Usually one side of a plant’s root ball releases first. I pull the main stem to the side and straddle it between my legs to pull the plant out of the ground.

It’s too heavy for me to lift into the wheelbarrow, so I drag the hydrangea on the small plastic tarp to its new home. I widen and deepen the hole left by the smattering of ferns, and drop the hydrangea into it, twisting the stubby base of stems so it sits upright, with its fading bloom balls facing outward toward the yard.

I pour compost around the hydrangea and press the crumbly moist mix into the disturbed soil around it with my foot, creating a circular trench that I fill with water that soaks deep into the ground.

This big hydrangea will do well in this spot; later this summer I'll fill in the empty spaces with more transplanted perennials.

This big hydrangea will do well in this spot; later this summer I’ll fill in the empty spaces with more transplanted perennials.

The hydrangea blends right in with the rest of the perennials. I add a second wheelbarrow full of compost here and there nearby. I can afford to be generous with compost this year, and there’s no better use for it than as a security blanket for these perennials, uprooted or not.