A deer fence is back near the top of my list. The hungry herds have left me few flowers. They’ve eaten stuff they don’t touch upstate, including rugosa roses, astilbes, and evening primroses.
They’ve even munched the sweet potato vine trailing from my containers, leaving just sticks.The dappled willow I hopefully tried didn’t last, and I see my abelia is bare of buds and probably won’t flower this season like it did last. I had about four blooms this spring on the mature rhodies that were here long before I arrived in May ’09.
Please don’t tell me to use Irish Spring soap. I’d need a gross of it to fend them off.
Mere greenery is hardly the point of ornamental gardening. Still, I have a love/hate relationship with deer. They frustrate my gardening efforts, and I worry about Lyme-carrying deer ticks (I’ve only found one on myself this season, but who knows what goes on behind my back).
But I respect their wiliness and survival tactics. I’ve been reading Dominique Browning’s wonderful dropout memoir, Slow Love (and following her related blog with great pleasure). In the book, she reveals how nature and gardening — and baking muffins, and other simple country pleasures — have been a tonic for her following the stunning loss of her job as editor of House & Garden magazine. In one passage, she sees some mollusks on a rock, and briefly considers moving them out of the sun so they won’t dry out; then she realizes they “know what they’re doing.”
I figure the deer know what they’re doing, too. Lately, in this unusually dry weather, I’ve worried about their finding enough water in these streamless, pondless woods, and it crossed my mind — fleetingly — to put out bowls of water. But that would be ridiculous. I’m doing enough by providing midnight snacks.
So I’m re-thinking the deer fence question, and may go for it after my deck and bathroom are done (I’ve been gathering estimates on those and will soon make a decision).
Meanwhile, the deer remain my frenemies, and I don’t even dream of planting hydrangeas.