Twenty-foot-high arborvitae once towered over our side yard, shrouding it in shadows. Between the darkness and the tree roots, we couldn’t plant much there. Over the years, some of the arborvitae (a type of tall, thin pine) died.
I cannot stand to look at a dying tree. It erodes my soul. So we cut them all down, and completely re-landscaped the area, moving a waterfall, and adding a pond and creek.
The Backyard Science group features The Daily Bucket. You may lose, and you may win, but we’ll never ride this cycle of life again. Please let us know what goes on around you in a comment, or even write your own Bucket! Your weather, the birds at your feeder, a pretty flower along your favorite trail, how big that syzygy moon looked, and more, are all fine topics. Please include the general area where you are located. Each note records a reference for the future, as we admire the swirling intersection of time and space before us.
With the arborvitae gone, the area became a blank canvas. We expanded the water feature, replanted the area, and trimmed the Comice pear tree. The pear tree had grown too tall and spindly, as it competed against the arborvitae for a glimpse of sunlight.
Then we began serious landscaping, starting at dirt level.
With the arborvitae gone, the pear tree sidled into a more prominent position in the re-landscaped area, now dubbed the “Frog Mitigation Area (FMA).” We named the small pool “Pear Pond.”
I had assumed that the new pond, creek, and relocated waterfall would drive the revamped ecosystem of the FMA. Instead, the Pear tree stepped up its role.
I’d left Pear Pond fishless, so the local chorus frogs could raise tadpoles there. The pond contained duckweed, and I figured the tadpoles could survive on that. The second year, however, there were hundreds more tadpoles than the first year. But the Pear tree had responded in advance, by dropping leaves into the creek and pond for the tadpoles to eat.
The Pear tree, which in years past had produced just a handful of pears, when hidden behind the arborvitae, was now dropping dozens of pears every week as the summer began. The tadpoles gnawed hungrily on any pear falling into the creek. The squirrels even assisted, by chewing on the stems until the pears fell. Squirrels, raccoons, and skunks undoubtedly shared in the pear harvest.
And when the tadpoles morphed into tiny chorus frogs, the fallen pears attracted fruit flies, which chorus frogs love to eat.
We have bee-friendly plantings nearby, so the bees vigoriously pollinate the pear tree. Hummingbirds patronize the pear’s flowers also. These factors produced a bountiful pear harvest, and all that it brought, unexpectedly, to the Mitigation Area.
I also believe that the Goddess Pomona has intervened directly to bless the Pear tree. Her name comes from the latin word “pomum,” for orchard fruit.
The Frog Mitigation Area (FMA) is a known Energy Vortex, with only a gauzy barrier between our physical reality and the mystical world where some say legendary supernatural beings are waiting. Here is proof.
Extraordinary claims like asserting an Energy Vortex merit extraordinary proof. As further evidence, here is a picture of a pear so large that supernatural assistance is the logical conclusion. I am thinking that Pomona is always nearby in the FMA, just on the other side of earthly reality.
Actually, Comice pears (Pyrus communis “Doyenne du Comice”) are one of the largest pears. Originally cultivated in France, they’ve been grown in the US for over 100 years. Currently the Pacific Northwest provides most comice pears, which are sometimes called “Christmas pears.”
Pears are one of the oldest cultivated fruit, dating to before 5000 bc in China. Under Pomona’s supervision, Roman farmers developed extensive growing and grafting techniques. Pioneers in the 1800s brought pears to the Pacific Northwest.
I have a nice Bartlett Pear tree also, but it’s suffering from a disease called scab. I wrongly feared that fire blight, a different curse, afflicted it and I cut off a sick looking branch.
That weakened it further. The arborist says I can still save it with a toxic spray (probably copper and sulfur) to kill the scab. I am planning how to design a “tent” from plastic sheeting to prevent the spray from drifting into frog habitat.
I want to cover all my bases, just in case the spray doesn’t work, so I’m secretly worshiping Pomona, too, hoping she will spare the Bartlett.
I’m looking for a statue of her. This one would do nicely. Tell me if you see one of these in a yard sale.
She ultimately married Vertumne, formerly an Etruscan god. His name probably came from the latin vertere, meaning “to change.”
He appeared before Pomona in many forms, sometimes as a reaper, bringing her grain. Finally he appeared to her as an old woman, urging her to marry soon, look how the trees in the orchard pair up with the vines, and isn’t that Vertumne a wonderful guy, hint hint.
Still, she rejected him time and again, until he revealed his true self. So reveal your true self to your love, life will get better. Certainly your garden will perk up, anyway. That is what’s important.
I read about Pomona on the internet, every day. If only she was on Facebook, I could “like” her. Don’t tell my wife Salmonwoman I said that! Don’t tell Vertumne either!
NOW IT’S YOUR TURN
Any Goddesses helping out in your back yard? What have you noted in your area or travels? As usual, please post your observations and the general location in your comments. I’ll respond during the afternoon, in between working on an endless list of garden chores.
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