Season? What season?

 

Our blank dirt slate of a backyard has been transformed. Water falls from a series of rocky ledges, sod has been unrolled and there are trees, trees, trees! It has the look of a too-perfect haircut straight from the salon right now – not grown in and not styled in a personal way. The shrubs hug the ground and the orange tree is all of two feet high.

After years away from California, it’s been difficult choosing plants for my new yard. My calibration is set for Idaho, which has a short and rather intense growing season, mid-May to mid-September.

Gardens shrivel in October and by November, shrubs turn brown and are hanging onto a few last crispy leaves. Lawns go dormant (no mowing til spring!) and my forest of a yard looks like a nuclear blast has hit.

Every January, I’m convinced -- every single one of my 13 years as an Idahoan -- that the entire yard is dead, only to wake up one May morning to discover the forest has returned.

It’s the annual miracle.

Not so in California. The landscaper laughs at me when I stop him over each plant decision with the question: What is its season? At first, he has no idea what I’m asking so I explain, as to a child: What month will it shrivel up and look like death and when will it come to life again?

He responds slowly, as to a younger and stupider child: It has no “season,” it stays green all year.

I can’t remember a yard that isn’t decimated in winter, that doesn’t have to be mowed at Thanksgiving, that won’t be covered in snow in January.

The selection process is slow as I revel in the choices. All these different plants that will flourish year-round? I happily choose an orange tree, something not to be found in any Idahoan’s backyard.

Azaleas, roses, leafy leggy grasses – a fern, for heaven’s sake. Perrenials here take on a literal meaning – they really will grow all year. The only thing I need to worry about is too much sun, not snow.

The crowning glory is a waterfall, something that will not drip icicles in February or need to be drained and wrapped.

We add in three vegetable boxes and I mull over winter plantings, practically rubbing my hands together in glee.

This morning, a week before Halloween, the roses were reveling in 80-degree days, exploding in new pink and white blooms. I thought about picking a couple and bringing a mini-bouquet inside, but I stopped because, what if this is a fluke? What if these are the only blooms til spring?

Even my usual autumn routine of planting a few more bulbs is different here. The ground is soft and yielding, making the process so much easier than cutting into semi-frozen ground. I have 100 tulips and crocuses to set and the task is done in no time. I’ll return to the store to get more before it’s too late in the season.

It will take me awhile to acclimate. But it’s a fun process.