Ever since I moved to this house 13 years ago, I envisioned a yard filled with native plants. I don’t mind the soft touch of bluegrass under my feet, but why do we need so much of it?
I started small, filling the small spaces with buffalograss, planting side-oats grama, mountain mahogany, but I wanted a native meadow. Out came the garden beds. Out came the turf. In went the butterfly garden, only to die in the drought that turned the century. I may put a vegetable garden in its place.
Scattering yarrow seeds years ago, I didn’t imagine the weeding I do now, the struggle with the invasive roots.
Five species of penstemon out of three hundred.
I’ve just started.