In a small town near Philadelphia I held a shrub trial of grand proportions. Or at least it started out that way. Fortune, for a shrub in my trial, was fickle, their most universal attribute being eventual death. My story is of the survivors, those hardy species which, though dealt the blows of capricious climate, were able to eke out a living under the vicissitudes of my premeditated culture. And all of this took place in that little town near Philadelphia, more known for the devourers of the dead[1] than horticulture village known as Kennett Square.
My intentions were admirable. Scientific progress would be made; the knowledge of mankind would be increased. The goal was simple – to determine the hardiness and ornamental performance of diverse shrubby plants. Hundreds were to be planted and observed, and manpower[2] was summoned. Into the deep my research subjects went, half-buried in the crumbly soil of an old cornfield, their verdant exterior at times muddied with that grime which makes agricultural livelihoods. ‘Twas no small task, my shovelbearers strained to thrust yet purer iron into the already iron-rich soil, pocking the ancient grounds with their implements. When all were planted, diverse species were arrayed in threes, huddled together, each with their own kind, each sharing the same future. As one entity the subjects of my noble experiment aspired to scientific relevance, and, unified, the toil of my project’s initiation was completed.
The subjects were watered in for the first year, I looked kindly on them in their youth. After this first year, however, my compassion dried up. The flush of youthful vigor which had flown into each tenant seemed a dim memory of a vibrant past, and the field now slowed in phenological pace, stepping in time with the rain and sun nature saw fit. The peaks of color now segregated and the species emerged from deliberate cultivation distinct in form and seasonal pace. I now traversed the meadow regularly, no longer searching for the pangs of transplant stress, but for the seasonal vapors of botanical attraction. Initially I noticed an abundance of brightness, but with each passing season the remnant, incrementally weaned of runts, developed a habitual seasonality and consistent genetic identity. What had been a vast plain brimming with diversity was now a desolate desert lodged with the carcasses reaped of my insufficient care. The sole survivors were cultivars of Japanese Meadowsweet, Spiraea japonica, which hid in the crepuscular shadows of overgrown weeds. Spiraea japonica, with the hubris of a woody perennial, stood unrivaled in a field of invasive annuals. Some sixty individuals of indomitable spirit persisted, detailing the conclusion of my monument to horticultural trial. I remembered the dead properly, each memorialized in sporadic notations; each observed in the height of life and in the acme of vigor. My record, now and forever, details too the decline and demise of each individual, and of the unique struggles of each with the droughts and bracing winds of Kennett Square’s meteorological penury.
I rambled through the grounds of the trial in recent months, touched by the utter absence of cultivation. All the unworthy plants, those whose independence from culture could not be maintained, expired long ago. Their skeletons litter the field in the rows they were confined to. Occasionally I chance upon a set of fresh dug holes, also in neat rows. These voids mark the absence of a survivor – a specimen which has been paroled from the yard, given to a friend. Each has a new master and a new purpose. Having paid its debt to me, each individual is now laid to rest in a more permanent and hospitable landscape. In this way the field becomes holey ground, a hazard for sandaled feet and weak ankles. Soon my plough with erase all memory of the trials, blotting out my toil of years forever. All that is left to me is the data, the ghost which haunts with tales of seasonal variation and growth. It will be sufficient.
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