Going Native!

"I'm going to buy native plants for our garden," I said sipping a crisp Chardonnay.

"Good," Mr. Wonderful said popping an olive into his mouth.

"At a nursery specializing in natives."

"Good."

"In San Diego."  

"Good--huh? WHAT?!"

I didn't blame my husband for being shocked at the prospect of me driving four hours--round trip--to buy plants. Personally I thought I had reached a new level of koo-koo because on this beautiful spring day--one that I did not have to work in the office--I would willingly hole myself up in a space smaller than a cubicle and go inland (read: scorching heat) where it would feel like the air conditioner had broken down 10 years prior. It was craziness! 

The only thing that made me stick to my plan was the manzanita tree. After reading up about the gazillion varieties of manzanitas, I'd decided we needed the Dr. Hurd manzanita variety, better known by plant people as: Arctostaphylos manzanita. I know, the name just rolls off the tongue, right? After calling nurseries in 26 different area codes, this San Diego spot was the only place east of the Sierras that had a 15-gallon (read: big) Dr. Hurd manzanita.  So I packed my music, maps and snacky-snacks and drove south, young man! 

This nursery was located 20 minutes northeast of San Diego in a place called Escondido, which is Spanish for "hidden". Driving to it proved my fears had been well founded--the car was small, the sun was hot and the nursery in Escondido was very "escondido". I followed my map's directions but after driving up and down the same road for 30 minutes without finding the street that the nursery was located on, in complete frustration, I turned into a street that didn't have a name, a street sign or any sign of life. Of course this was the street of the nursery--Las Pilitas. 

Once parked I approached the two Las Pilitas nursery workers, who both wore cowboy hats. 

"It's hard finding your nursery without a street sign," I said stretching my legs.

"Someone stole it," the woman with the tan hat said.

"Why don't you get a new one?" 

She shrugged, "Everyone knows where we are." 

Not me or the other 349 million Americans who don't live in San Diego! You've added even more time to my drive, which means I'll be stuck in L.A.'s rush hour traffic going home--is what I wanted to say. Instead I smiled because I was here to buy plants, not cause trouble.

According to the woman's name tag she was "Liz" and after talking to her for six seconds I discovered she was an expert on natives. I showed her a picture of a California native and asked for its genus and species, with one glance at the photo she said it was a Verbena lilacina "Paseo Rancho". I asked about salvias and she gave me a 40 minute treatise on how bees, hummingbirds and every person on the planet--which included me even though I didn't know what they were six weeks ago--loved verbenas. When I asked her for the 15-gallon Dr. Hurd manzanita trees, she marched me to their spot. 

"They're small," I said trying to mask my disappointment at how the 15-gallon pot was bigger than the 12-inch plant.

"They'll grow," Liz said. 

"I'll take two."

"No," Liz said putting her hands on her hips. "You can't buy two manzanitas."

"But I want two."

"I don't care."

"I'm paying you!"

"I don't care."

Not only was this nursery "hidden" but so was its capitalistic nature. I'd never heard of an American businessperson not selling anyone what they wanted. Usually my problem was buying too much. Today Liz was going to ensure that I bought too little. 

"Look," she said locking her eyes with mine over her reading glasses, "You don't have the space for two manzanitas in your garden plan, so I'll sell you one."

"But it's so small," I whimpered.

"Natives don't like being in pots. They dislike being bound. But you put them in the ground and wham-o they'll take off." 

I took her word for it. But as we loaded the plants in my car I looked at my natives--an unassuming collection of small pots holding smaller twigs. My husband already thought I was crazy to drive all the way down here to buy plants but if I came home now with a couple pots of soil and twigs he would completely freak out.

I shared my concern with Liz. She said to get the natives in the ground and take a picture of them. Then one year later take another picture of them and then we'd see how much they'd grown.

A year?! 12 months?! 365 days?! Nooo! But what else could I do except believe her? 

That night I greeted Mr. Wonderful with a carful of plants.

"I'm home," I said.

"Good," he said.

"This is what I bought," 

"Good."

"It'll take a year for them to grow."

"Good--huh? WHAT?!"

I told you.

Imported VS. Domestic

"What beer do you want?" Mr. Wonderful said pushing the shopping cart.

"My favorite: Stella Artois," I said grabbing a 6-pack. 

"Bread?"

"A baguette."
"Cheese?"
"Brie."

Apparently I preferred my dinner imported over domestic. Perhaps this was because I wasn't born and bred in California but moved to the Golden State as an adult. In other words: Imports liked imports, which was my rule of thumb on the inside of the house. But as far as the outside of the house went--I declared publicly--I was going native! 

"You're taking your top off?" our 86 year-old neighbor said hustling across his lawn to get a closer view.

"No, Harold. I'm not changing my clothes."

"Oh," I heard the disappointment in his voice.

"I'm going to plant California natives.

"Oh," his disappointment increased.

"In my front yard."

"Ohhh," he sank into his lawn chair deflated. I explained that California natives were plants that grew naturally in California, on its wind-swept ocean coasts, in its hot, dry deserts, along the slopes of Mount Hollywood--"

He rolled his eyes: "You mean: weeds." 

Harold didn't mince words but he did raise a point that many shared. Many domestic products were dismissed just because they were local, such as: 1) American beer; 2) American cars; 3) Americans in America.

As a Proud American I had to admit that while I couldn't change people's minds about all things American, I could try to inform them about the benefits of plants native to their region, namely: 1) They grew well with little water; 2) Had a long blooming season without pesticides; 3) They spoke with your same accent.

After months of reading up on California natives and criss-crossing the city photographing them like an Ansel Adams of the Suburbs, I made a short list of some of my favorite natives, like: the Manzanita Tree;

Verbena;

and a Ceanothus tree with an American Agave.

After our imported dinner, Mr. Wonderful perused my native photographs. "These plants look good," he said. 

"You don't think they're weeds?"

"No way."

And that's why I married him not the neighbor.

March in L.A.

Think you know Los Angeles? Here's a Pop Quiz to find out!

You can tell it's March in L.A. because:
1) The sun is shining.
2) There ISN'T a Hollywood awards show.
3) California poppies are blooming.

ANSWERS:
1) WRONG. The sun shines throughout the year, therefore it's not unique to March.
2) WRONG. The Humane Society hands out its Genesis Awards on March 23 to animal-oriented movies and TV shows.
3) CORRECT! California poppies are blooming. Or at least the one in my yard is!

Last winter I planted Eschscholzia californica from seeds purchased from the Theodore Payne Foundation for Wildflowers and Native Plants. This spring fringe-leafed poppy plants have sprouted en masse.

One of the highlights of Los Angeles is seeing entire fields and hillsides blanketed in these golden wildflowers. A great place to see them at their most impressive is at the Antelope Valley California Poppy Reserve. However due to minimal rainfall this winter, Antelope Valley's poppies will only reach full bloom in late April or early May.

Until then I'll enjoy the ones blooming in my yard!

Deleting the Lawn

“Your lawn is so lush,” our nosy neighbor said adjusting the baseball cap on his bald head.

“Thanks, Harold,” I said sweeping the driveway.

“It’s like a putting green.”

“Thanks—”

“You must be proud of it.”

I shrugged.  “We’re ripping it out.”

“What?!”

Before Harold collapsed from shock, I grabbed his 86 year-old elbow and steered him into his lawn chair.  He shooed me away cursing “these days” and “idiot young people.”

I think he meant us.   

As first time homeowners, Mr. Wonderful and I were learning about our suburban neighbors’ fascination with The Lawn.  In a nutshell: 1) Grass ruled and 2) The greener, the better, which was great if you lived in Scotland where it rained 490 days a year.  But we lived in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley best known for its hot, dry, desert-like conditions where people had to morph into snakes to survive.  This climate explained why Hollywood thrived here and nowhere else.  It also explained why green grass was hard to grow and even harder to maintain. 

In retrospect maybe it was this difficulty that made grass so desirable because our neighborhood was full of verdant front lawns fed by sprinkler systems that were more complex than NASA’s Mars Rover Program and dispensed more water on a daily basis than Hoover Dam, most of which flooded the adjacent streets and sidewalks.  If concrete grew with H2O, our street would be as tall as Universal Studios’ Black Tower skyscraper.  Now wouldn’t that be awkward: driving up to the 30^th floor and taking the elevator down to the entrance—

But I digress.

Mr. Wonderful and I could do a lot of things, one of which was doing without the lawn, and its requisite watering, mowing, fertilizing and bragging rights.  With all the work we had to do on the house’s inside, we didn’t need any more work on the outside.  After a few inquiries with the County I learned they were actively encouraging homeowners to rethink the lawn. 

“What do you mean?” Norma said as she handed a glass of water to Harold sprawled prone in his lawn chair.

I shrugged, “They want us to remove our grass.”

“What?!”

As Norma fell over I slid her 85 year-old frame into a lawn chair next to her spouse.  In unison they clutched their hearts.  I was ready to dial 911, ready to follow their ambulance to Burbank Hospital where they’d be treated for dual quadruple heart attacks.  I was ready to explain to their doctor: “All I said was we were removing every blade of grass from our lawn when—boom!—their hearts stopped—” 

Thump!

“Doc?  You’re on the floor clutching your chest.  I’ll call 911!”

Luckily none of this happened because Harold and Norma were vigilant about following a strict vegetarian diet meaning that, with my stress and arteries, I was imminently closer to a suffering a heart attack than either of those octogenarians. 

But I digress.

“Remove your lawn?!” Harold said fanning himself with the newspaper. 

“That’s madness!” Norma said fanning herself with the business section.

“We want low maintenance,” I said.  “So we’re replacing the grass with—”

“Concrete?!” Norma gasped.

“Over my dead body!” Harold said struggling to his feet.

I ordered them to relax or I would give them a heart attack with a free knuckle sandwich.  I proceeded to explain how Mr. Wonderful and I were planning to remove our thirsty green turf and replace it with California native plants indigenous to Los Angeles like: Manzanita, Toyon, Ceoanthus, California Poppies and Cacti.  These natives had spent thousands of years adapting to the unique climate of Southern California, so they were prepared to thrive in our blistering, dry summers right along with Hollywood’s cruelest snakes.

“Sounds nice,” Norma said.

“Thanks—” I smiled.

“It’s… different,” her spouse said.

“...Thanks?”

“These days," Harold said "you never know what idiot young people will do.”

This time I knew he was talking about us.  But I didn’t care.  I did not digress from my water-wise plan for a grass-free yard.  Come summer I’d have a beautiful garden and he’d be watering the street.

Ha!

Next Step: The Inspection

P.S. If you’re interested in deleting your Southern California lawn, click here for more information!