Box Unpopular
To celebrate the arrival of kudzu in New England--- it was spotted in an alley behind a health food store in New Haven not long ago---
I’m conducting my own biological experiment. I’m trying to turn raccoons into porcupines.
The procedure is simple. I’ve planted prickly pear cactus in all our flower boxes, outside several upstairs windows, to discourage the masked creatures from parking their fannies on them.
This experiment grew out of owning a cedar-sided house. Some diplomatic advice about cedar homes: don’t buy one.
Don’t misunderstand me. There’s nothing wrong with cedar homes per se. They’re distinctive to look at and relatively maintenance-free. The problem is that their rustic character encourages you to do cutesy things like planting English perennials that fry in hot weather and adding window boxes that require more attention than a herd of Cheviots. Better to stick with more conventional housing and buy a border collie.
When we put up the boxes not long after moving in, they came under the heading of ‘home improvement’--- something that makes your house more pleasant
to live in and adds to its value. Which shows just how much fantasy and reality can diverge. Far from adding a chalet-like touch, they’ve been
decadent to the point of outdoor plumbing (more on this later). Being so exposed to the elements, they tend to incur:
Yeah, right. Did I mention our roof has a slope right out of Vertical Limits? Or that the ladder must be positioned even more acutely to clear the shrubs and perennials below? You get the idea.
So we tried more creative (i. e., chicken) irrigation methods, such as dousing the plants with a long-handled window washing brush. This proved useful in rinsing off dirt splashed onto windows and screens. Balancing it so as not to drench ourselves, however, though highly aerobic, made us feel like the Flying Wallendas.
Needless to say, our irrigation resolve waned every year to where we had dried flower arrangements by midsummer. And that was before the raccoons showed up.
Two years ago we started hearing all sorts of footsteps on our roof, accompanied by piles of the proverbial between the fizzled geraniums and vincas on high. Squirrels? Cats?
No, raccoons, a neighbor said. Mature coons evidently like to frequent the same spot for latrine duty. With trees at every corner providing access, our house may as well have had COON COMMODE stenciled on it.
Adding insult to injury, they’d been feasting on grain from our bird feeders, so maize lusher than our lawn now was sprouting outside our windows. We couldn’t grow squat up there, but the squatting raccoons, depositing fertilizer and seed like seasoned horticulturists, could.
Trapping several of them helped. But this spring there was so much activity aloft we expected them to rap on the skylight for Charmin. By June the boxes were rank as a pasture. We’d had it. Heidi never had to deal with this. And goats, unlike raccoons, give milk.
But before I could reach for a crowbar...
While pruning a rose bush one day, and losing a fair amount of blood in the process, a thorn stuck in my brain.
‘Cactus?’ the man at the greenhouse said. ‘Sure; I’ve got a few around back.’ I asked him what sort of care they required. He looked at me like I’d wandered in out of the desert myself. ‘Oh, they just sit there, basically, and once in a while I repot them.’
Sold.
I’ve never been through basic training, but slithering up a ladder and roof in bulky sweaters and welding gloves with flats of prickly pear--- which must be the heaviest plants for their size on record--- then balancing those flats with one hand as you plant while trying not to slide off the roof into a juniper bush, I suspect, comes close.
But now they’re in, and alive--- I think. With the fall chill the cacti look like wrinkled Mickey Mouse ears. Next spring, I’m told, they’ll sprout little yellow flowers. I’ve noticed a little dirt scratched up around them, but that’s it. The raccoons may prefer the compost heap from now on.
The procedure is simple. I’ve planted prickly pear cactus in all our flower boxes, outside several upstairs windows, to discourage the masked creatures from parking their fannies on them.
This experiment grew out of owning a cedar-sided house. Some diplomatic advice about cedar homes: don’t buy one.
Don’t misunderstand me. There’s nothing wrong with cedar homes per se. They’re distinctive to look at and relatively maintenance-free. The problem is that their rustic character encourages you to do cutesy things like planting English perennials that fry in hot weather and adding window boxes that require more attention than a herd of Cheviots. Better to stick with more conventional housing and buy a border collie.
When we put up the boxes not long after moving in, they came under the heading of ‘home improvement’--- something that makes your house more pleasant
to live in and adds to its value. Which shows just how much fantasy and reality can diverge. Far from adding a chalet-like touch, they’ve been
decadent to the point of outdoor plumbing (more on this later). Being so exposed to the elements, they tend to incur:
(1) Moss (spring and fall). With a few stones and some tiny decorative lanterns we’d have aerial Zen gardens.In fact, the degree to which our Alpinesque vision neglected vertigo still astounds us. The soil in these boxes, we soon learned, dries out very quickly. Flowers planted in it should be spritzed daily to survive. Ideally, by climbing on the roof with a watering can.
(2) Peeling paint (year-round). Cosmetic surgeons must have studied these boxes for the laser peel. They’re flakier than Courtney Love, and being precariously situated, tend to discourage touching-up.
Yeah, right. Did I mention our roof has a slope right out of Vertical Limits? Or that the ladder must be positioned even more acutely to clear the shrubs and perennials below? You get the idea.
So we tried more creative (i. e., chicken) irrigation methods, such as dousing the plants with a long-handled window washing brush. This proved useful in rinsing off dirt splashed onto windows and screens. Balancing it so as not to drench ourselves, however, though highly aerobic, made us feel like the Flying Wallendas.
Needless to say, our irrigation resolve waned every year to where we had dried flower arrangements by midsummer. And that was before the raccoons showed up.
Two years ago we started hearing all sorts of footsteps on our roof, accompanied by piles of the proverbial between the fizzled geraniums and vincas on high. Squirrels? Cats?
No, raccoons, a neighbor said. Mature coons evidently like to frequent the same spot for latrine duty. With trees at every corner providing access, our house may as well have had COON COMMODE stenciled on it.
Adding insult to injury, they’d been feasting on grain from our bird feeders, so maize lusher than our lawn now was sprouting outside our windows. We couldn’t grow squat up there, but the squatting raccoons, depositing fertilizer and seed like seasoned horticulturists, could.
Trapping several of them helped. But this spring there was so much activity aloft we expected them to rap on the skylight for Charmin. By June the boxes were rank as a pasture. We’d had it. Heidi never had to deal with this. And goats, unlike raccoons, give milk.
But before I could reach for a crowbar...
While pruning a rose bush one day, and losing a fair amount of blood in the process, a thorn stuck in my brain.
‘Cactus?’ the man at the greenhouse said. ‘Sure; I’ve got a few around back.’ I asked him what sort of care they required. He looked at me like I’d wandered in out of the desert myself. ‘Oh, they just sit there, basically, and once in a while I repot them.’
Sold.
I’ve never been through basic training, but slithering up a ladder and roof in bulky sweaters and welding gloves with flats of prickly pear--- which must be the heaviest plants for their size on record--- then balancing those flats with one hand as you plant while trying not to slide off the roof into a juniper bush, I suspect, comes close.
But now they’re in, and alive--- I think. With the fall chill the cacti look like wrinkled Mickey Mouse ears. Next spring, I’m told, they’ll sprout little yellow flowers. I’ve noticed a little dirt scratched up around them, but that’s it. The raccoons may prefer the compost heap from now on.