One autumn day many years ago, while I was engaged on a routine task in the garden, agitated sounds lassoed my attention. I was kneeling in front of a bush of lemon balm, cutting off the seed heads. Birds near by were causing a commotion. At that moment I had no idea why they were in an uproar.
I’d been removing what I considered useless vegetation, as many people do when tidying their gardens. And just like those many people who tidy their gardens, I viewed the garden as existing for my personal pleasure and benefit. I’d sowed plenty of wildflowers because their colours and variety delighted me.
I grew lots of herbs because as a historian I liked the idea of having my own medieval herb garden. Initially I hadn’t made the connection between my biodiverse garden and pollinators or other wildlife. They benefited, even as I was blind to the role my garden was playing in their lives.
The birds’ clamour at my treatment of the lemon balm seed heads turned out to be not just a noise that went in one ear and out the other. It registered. I quickly realized the birds were distressed because I was depriving them of one of their essential foods. I stole from them, and they protested.
My attitude soon changed. I began to think of my garden as a kind of theatre. I became a spectator intent on learning the (seasonal) plays and picking up on the cues.
First on the program was the performance of the birds – because they’re the easiest to observe.
The juncos and sparrows are often on the ground, scratching in the dirt and among the fallen leaves. In the spring I see them pecking at the wildflower seeds I’ve strewn in the garden – the simple fix was to increase the amount of seeds to increase the chances of germination. But I also get wildflowers growing in unexpected places, thanks to birds dropping seeds wrapped in fertilizer.
In early autumn, when the many chicory plants in my yard have bolted to a height of six feet and their blue flowers have finished blooming, the juncos and finches are pulling at the dried flower heads for seeds.
They also have a taste for kale flowers and fennel seeds. Whenever I see stalks swaying in my garden on a windless day, I know the birds are feasting.
Among the biggest attractions for them are the seeds of lemon balm and Greek oregano. These two herbs bloom in late June, at which time they’re a gift from the gods for the bees.
A couple of months later their flowers have turned to seeds and are being plundered by juncos, finches and also bushtits, who always travel in troupes 12 or 15 strong.
Once I’d started paying attention to what the birds were up to in the garden, it wasn’t long before I also saw the tiny creatures that flew and crawled among the plants.
From late spring to late summer, when the wildflowers and herbs start to open their flowers and reach their climax, the pollinators and other beneficial insects are working tirelessly.
There’ll be more bees than I can count criss-crossing my garden at any given moment. If I could trace their flight paths graphically, the result would look like an airy but complex tapestry.
As the days get shorter and the supply of nectar and pollen diminishes, the bees are tapping all available sources. Even flowers that are few and far between, which would have been overlooked in the summer, are now eagerly visited.
Fortunately, many herbs and wildflowers have a second blooming period when the weather is right. This autumn I’m seeing flax, fuchsias, larkspur, borage, calendula and nasturtiums reappearing on stage in a grand encore. Even my ancient rosemary bush is taking another curtain call with a new burst of flowers.
And of course there are the plants that simply carry on, weather permitting, through the final months of the year – hot lips sage, evening primrose, cosmos, coreopsis grandiflora, sweet peas, marigolds, cuphea and alyssum are still blooming in my garden. The hummingbirds are spending more time sipping at these flowers than at their feeders.
The most magnificent autumn flowers have to be the asters. After waiting in the wings for months, come September they’re fully in the spotlight. I had no idea they were so popular with bees until a few weeks ago.
The day after a strong storm I noticed the wind had tossed around an eight-foot long stem of my New England asters. It had become entangled and looked in danger of breaking. Setting it free involved shaking various aster stems, a disturbance that sent about a dozen bumblebees rising into the air.
They quickly returned to continue their meal. At night they’d shelter on or under the flowers – bed and breakfast.
It was the autumn garden that taught me the most important lesson – pay attention and you’ll see that the garden never dies, so let’s not bury something that isn’t dead.
Gardening is all about timing. But it’s nature’s timing, not ours. We owe it to nature to respect that.
Sabine Eiche is a local writer and art historian with a PhD from Princeton University. She is passionately involved in preserving the environment and protecting nature. Her columns deal with a broad range of topics and often include the etymology of words in order to shed extra light on the subject.
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