How Does Your Garden Grow? (Hardwear Sessions)

Pale Pink Camellia Blossom

A Pale Pink Camellia sasanqua Blossom

View More Plants on Cynthia's Flickr Site.

By Cynthia Houng

We live in a small ranch house in the East Bay Hills. I've lived here for about three years, and it took me that long to tackle our front yard. (We must be very popular with our neighbors!) Rank with weeds, it is one of the ugliest yards on our block. This summer, after we returned from a long trip to the Sierras, I began to crave something more aesthetic in my immediate environment. Since our jobs are located in the Bay Area, we can't actually live in the mountains 365 days a year. We need some other way to integrate nature into our lives.

A typical suburban neighborhood, our area features blocks upon blocks of single-family homes, plopped onto skimpy lots. For such an artificial environment, our neighborhood is surprisingly rich with wildlife. Hummingbirds nest in both the front and back yards, and there are squirrels, chickadees, hawks, even deer.

During my first flush of enthusiasm, I bought a copy of Glenn Keator and Alrie Middlebrook's Designing California Native Gardens. I became obsessed with the idea of "restoring" habitat, or at least transforming our postage stamp lot into something wilder, more native, and potentially more inviting to native birds, bees, and other wildlife.

Like so many new gardeners, I picked my plants without much regard for planting schemes--or my local climate. I simply went to the local nursery and let my eye wander. I couldn't make up my mind and choose a garden theme. I wanted to grow the tropical plants that reminded me of home. I found myself admiring manicured Japanese gardens, with their tableaux. I also wanted a cutting garden filled with herbs and flowers. Before long, I'd abandoned my scheme to "go native," and purchased a truckload of exotics.

My first foray into gardening didn't go so well. The sage and viola plants attracted armies of aphids. The succulents rotted in our heavy clay. I watched a squirrel dig up my stargazer lilies and run away with my bulbs. Slugs attacked my Japanese anemones, and whiteflies fell in love with my fuchsias. The camellias and maples demanded more water, and more care, than I'd anticipated, and I frequently found myself out in the yard with a container of soapy water and a sponge, cleaning insects and other pests from individual leaves.

This January, I surveyed the front yard and took stock. Why aren't things working? What do I need to change?

Perhaps I should have gone with my initial instinct, and populated my yard with native plants. Somehow, a native plant garden just didn't feel "right" to me. The plants didn't quite look like garden plants, and they didn't promise to create the type of comforting green space that I crave.

As a gardener, I wasn't really interested in habitat restoration. I wasn't even interested in recreating an image of wilderness, whatever that might mean in an urban context. As a gardener, I wanted to create a groomed space that mirrored my interpretation of a green and "natural" place. I found myself more interested in creating an image of nature than truly going natural.

My image of nature, it turns out, has much more to do with certain deep-rooted--and sentimental--images from childhood, and bears little resemblance to the oak-grassland and mixed-deciduous forest ecosystems that once defined the East Bay hills.

I keep buying camellias, roses, and maples, because I grew up with them. Both of my grandfathers were avid gardeners, and grew these plants in their gardens. These plants take me home. Rhododendrons and azaleas remind me of springtime in Taipei, when the hills would blaze with color, and families would flock to the mountains to picnic and enjoy the blossoms. Now, given a blank canvas, I'm irrationally determined to bring those experiences.

There's quite a bit of romance--and a little bit of smugness--in "going native."Of course, the idea that one can restore habitats and ecosystems long gone by filling one's yard with native plants (often hybrid garden varieties, purchased from a nursery or garden center) is equally irrational. We can't really turn back the clock. Native gardens connect us to our local environment on a visceral level. They force us to learn our local seasons, our soils, even our local pests.

Garden design, it turns out, is trickier and more intellectual than I'd expected. I need to know what I like, but I also need to know what my space wants. The garden's purpose is two-fold: it serves me, but it also serves the local wildlife.

This month, I have to make some decisions.