Tearing paperbacks and raiding raccoons

… this may be a traumatic read for authors of pulp-fiction

Fall is the most beautiful time of the year in New England. Every year in October I drive up to Maine and then through to New Hampshire, my camera fully charged, leaf-peeping (I give my favorite places to stay at the end of this). There were years when I thought I would faint at the beauty of shimmering gold, glowing magenta, and the vivid vermilion leaves, a dramatic scene around every corner. I’d often stop on narrow verges of scramble down river banks to photograph the remarkable reflections of the leaves in the still water.

I once met a large, shy Texan truck driver who had traveled all the way up just to see the leaves. “Is it amazing traveling the country?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “it is boring; after a while, you stop seeing anything but the endless road.”

Today, he was seeing.

He had paused.

We lifted our cameras, amazed by the beauty before us, at peace within ourselves.

            Climate change is reversing the spectacle – fall is still beautiful, but erratic weather: too much rain or too little is stressing trees. We’re not seeing the dramatic foliage of past years. Some trees lose their leaves too early, and stand naked, while others wear flouncy robes of regal maroon, glistening gold, and triumphant purple. A friend who has maple trees on his property says climate change is affecting production, too, and not in a positive way. The forests are muted and struggling.

            A biologist I chatted to recently who is an expert on controlled burns: important in the forest canopy of New England, said tree species like balsam fir, red spruce, black spruce, and eastern hemlock may disappear entirely in the state. He said we could see them replaced by more red maple, northern red oak, black cherry, and American basswood. Mother Nature is determined to persist in new forms, it is we, humans, who may not survive these changes. In the same way that moose are moving further north seeking cooler climes, birds, insects, and plants are experiencing similar ecological shifts.

            The world our children and their children will live in will look significantly different. We can say it has always been so: I don’t entirely buy that argument because the changes we are seeing now are the result of rapacious, unthinking, human harm.

            In my small way, with my tiny allotment, I am trying to figure out how I can be a small agent of positive change by trying to respectfully work with Mother Nature. After back-breaking hours pulling out weeds in the cold, this first year, I’d retreat to my warm apartment and began reading about the biology and botany of Massachusetts, and how to make the renovation of my plot harmonize with the woods and wetlands around it.

            My first discovery, that made weed removal so much easier was a hori knife. I once lived in Japan and retain a great love and respect for that country, its people, and its innovation, past and present so invested in a hori knife after reading about it in a magazine. I wanted a real Japanese knife, but that was too expensive, so I got this Chinese knock-off; it has measurements on the blade, which are useful when planting bulbs. If you ask for a gift, get one of these knives; they will change your gardening life. Instead of breaking my back trying to pull out weeds or using the rusty fork my predecessors left behind, this is faster and significantly easier.

            I was determined that I would plant vegetables, flowers, and indigenous plantings that didn’t mind moist or the occasional flood. I love elderflower products and was thrilled that elderberries tolerate damp.  I ordered two tiny bushes for the front of the allotment; when I planted them, the soil was already cooling, and I feared they might die, so I gave them large coir collars and lots of compost. Here, I made a rookie error. I buried peelings from the kitchen near one plant, hoping they would rot, become lovely compost, and feed my new shrub. Instead, that night, a raccoon sniffed out the peelings, ripped yet another hole in the fence, and gobbled up most of the peelings. Lesson learned. I went and bought a section of steel fencing and, with icy fingers, tried to straighten it out and patched the area of torn plastic fencing.

            Fencing is not for sissies. It is hard work.

            I also ordered and planted irises, tulips, and daffodils. I’d heard that bunnies love a gourmet dish of tulip bulb but hate garlic sauce. I planted organic garlic cloves among the flower bulbs – this is one of the few natural remedies that work. Your flowers are bloom uneaten in their chilly soil havens. As the weather warmed in spring the following year, first came the daffodils, then the tulips, then the irises. My garlic fronds grew tall and straight until they turned brown and started wilting in June and July, and viola: fantastic homegrown garlic, which is unlike anything you buy in stores. There is a delicate milkiness that seeps out of homegrown garlic and the flavor is exceptional, but more about that when I get to discussing spring and summer.

            I bought winter rye and tossed it over the whole allotment because I read that it would pull carbon and nitrogen into the depleted soil.

            I wanted to create a large bed next to the front fence, a flood-prone area with heavy clay soil. I’d read about no-dig gardening methods and its guru, Charles Dowding, but was unsure how to do that on the weed-covered plot I had. I improvised and got it completely wrong and yet absolutely right. I marked off the bed area, then went to a recycling center and got the junkiest, oldest, discard paperbacks they had and filled two boxes. Back at the allotment, I tore the books up – an astonishing act of sacrilege for a commercially published author, and yet one of the most climate-friendly acts I’d done in ages, and perhaps a fitting demise for books. I carefully lay out the torn chapters and pages on the area I’d marked for a bed. The ground was almost frozen by then and still infested with weeds, so I didn’t toss over any soil. I covered it with black landscaping cloth held down with rocks, a few shovels of soil, and discarded landscaping pins I’d collected around the allotment.

I did the same in half of the area where I’d planted flower bulbs and garlic.

            Would it work? Who knew, I didn’t.

            I bought a paving stone to prevent my feet from sinking into mud every time I moved the two old bits of plastic white picket fencing to enter my allotment. It wasn’t enough; as winter progressed, the area of squelch increased. I bought two more and, this time put them on discarded frisbees I’d cleared from the lot. I began tearing up cardboard boxes and laid them first to create a walkway for me, and then, bit by bit, over the whole lot to try and suppress weeds and stop the backbreaking chore of kneeling and pulling out weeds with my now beloved, hori hori. This I would come to discover was a genius move, it looked like hell, but by spring, very few weeds emerged.

            The days got colder, and I retreated to my apartment, cleaned my broken, mud-blackened nails and began reading books on gardening and gardening brochures, which I now know is as lethal as a camera fanatic reading about new lenses or me walking into a bookstore. You start spending more money than you ever intended. Fortunately, seeds tend to cost $3 for a packet, while lenses cost hundreds or thousands of dollars, and a pile of books can cost double and treble figures. Next week, I’ll share my list of favorite books of 2024, some new, some old, and a recipe - the first of many to come - to accompany them.

And what you want to know more than anything, I hope, is whether it was worth collecting and tearing up pulp fiction? Absolutely. I highly recommend it. By late February when I eased back the landscaping fabric after five months of the books being rained on, experiencing frost, and snow, there was no evidence that any books had ever been there. Instead, there was thick, fluffy soil. I was astonished. I’m going to do it again this year on other patches that need love and intellectual nourishment.

Favorite Hotels Maine and New Hampshire

Kennebunkport, Maine: I used to love a hotel with small, beautifully furnished rooms and comfy beds across the road from the beach. At 4 pm each day, they would have high tea, British style, with small sandwiches and cookies. At 6 pm, the fire was lit, this in fall, when I would visit, and port and sherry would be served with small cubes of cheese and crackers arrayed on boards.

If it was warm enough, we’d sit on the porch or gather on comfy chairs around the fire or at small tables in nooks. The breakfasts were simple but delicious. Sadly, new owners took over, created an ugly reception area, got rid of the small delights that kept the regulars coming back, and so we don’t. For my birthday one year, my daughter and I went to the Cape Arundel boutique hotel on the headland opposite the hotel I’d once liked. The dinner we had was spectacular. The restaurant is enclosed with glass, and our table had a good view of the moon tiptoeing across the ocean on silver slippers.

Squam Lake, New Hampshire: I used to visit this area often when a friend lived in Laconia. I discovered Squam Lake Inn on one of our explorations. New owners transformed the inn and served wonderful meals. However, their season ends early, and by the time I go up – mid-October – they have stopped serving meals, which means it is not really an option anymore unless one travels to some rather good restaurants 30 minutes away, which is easy enough, but the dark and narrow country roads on the way back, make the journey a little perilous. We once dined at the Canoe Restaurant and Tavern, and rather enjoyed it, so if you’re up that way, give it a try.

***I get no commission or gifts or any other favors for anything I recommend.