A skunk, red-tailed hawk,
rabbits, squirrels, robins — all have dined in my city yard,
within sight of Wyoming’s Capitol dome. But when we moved to this
corner of a busy one-way street in Cheyenne, Wyo., 15 years ago,
the yard was a mess. The parkways, those supposedly green spaces
between the street and sidewalk, were covered in black plastic and
gravel, a tangled mass of prickly foliage.
After we
hacked away the muddle, the soil was gray and hard as concrete. I
managed to dig in lawn clippings from friends who didn’t use
poisonous chemicals, and added dried cow manure from my South
Dakota ranch. Then I scattered seeds collected on walks or bought
from catalogs. Walking my dogs, I pinched slips from plants in the
neighbors’ yards. More than 200 species went into that
ground, though not all survived — even with doses of nourishing
“manure tea.” Some folks want me to poison some of these plants
that are considered invasive in some places; instead, I exercise by
pulling excess foliage. Anything green can provide mulch and
shelter for insects and birds — especially in August, since I
refuse to use precious water for plants I can’t eat.
Within three years, I’d established a healthy assortment of
perennial native grasses and flowers, beautiful as well as useful.
Flax, chicory, larkspur, and Centaurea montana matched the
house’s blue trim. Purple coneflower — echinacea, helped
prevent colds. Among columbine blooming in a dozen colors, I picked
gaillardia and shasta daisies for bouquets all summer. Evening
primroses snapped open at dusk, attracting large, lime-green luna
moths.
Eventually, I began growing my own herbs for
cooking. Evenings we sit in a homemade arbor breathing perfume from
thyme, tarragon, horehound, sage and oregano. Tomatoes, basil,
salad herbs, and rhubarb replaced sand and playground equipment in
the back yard.
Each spring, as the blooms begin, their
fans gather. Cars pull over at any hour of the day, and from my
study window I can hear excited debates about species. We’re
near the state Capitol, so government workers change their
power-walking routes to include our corner. Evenings, dog-walkers
come from blocks away to ask questions. One woman drives from
outside town every spring when the pasque starts to flower. Another
woman pulled up, snatched open her car door and called, “May I let
this butterfly loose in your garden?” She’d driven blocks out
of her way to reach a place she thought the insect would enjoy. Two
children who’d picked flowers without my permission were
ordered by their mother to sing a thank-you song. One night the
headlights of two police cars aimed at a 6-foot primrose also
illuminated two officers staring at it.
Everyone is
invited back in autumn to collect seeds, and told the plants are
native to this arid region, and require almost no water or care. So
I reasoned that a sign or two would allow me to inform even the
folks who didn’t stop. One friend said she’d gotten her
city yard certified as wildlife habitat by the National Wildlife
Federation. Just join, she said; fill out the form.
I’ve sometimes been frustrated by organizations that seem to
exist only to urge me to send more money. The wildlife federation
is different, she said; the habitat sign would encourage other
people to help animals and plants, and save water at the same time.
Sadly, six months later, my junk mail file is three inches thick,
but I have no sign. Twelve mailings have brought note cards, gift
wrap, a children’s magazine, promises of more free stuff, and
a notice that the sign would cost another 25 bucks. All this
clearly cost more than my membership fee, but no one answered when
I wrote to express my disappointment.
Meanwhile, the
critters in my yard thrive, thriving, gobbling seeds and nectar,
dancing in the water bowls, hiding among bushes and rocks. Food,
water, shelter: That’s what wildlife needs in the city.
I’ll continue as I always have, encouraging folks
to appreciate this Great Plains country, its native plants, its
wildlife, and especially its water. You might want to do the same
in your yard – with or without a sign.
Linda M. Hasselstrom is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a
service of High Country News (hcn.org). She lives in Cheyenne,
Wyoming, and conducts writing retreats on her ranch in South
Dakota.
Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.
