The New York Times, April 28th, 2002

A Little Galapagos

I have two flower boxes hanging from safety guards out my kitchen windows. Each is like their own little Galapagos Island, evolving into separate Eco-systems, sown not only by me, but also by birds and small mammals. I'm never entirely sure what new sprouts are growing until they begin maturing. I'm not a patient person, so along with these random sprouts, I buy plants at the farmer's market. The sellers there have tailored their selections to urban dwellers. Rather than delphiniums, poppies or foxgloves, I have to opt for less ambitious choices, like impatience and petunias, ones that I don't tend from shoots, so their demise is not too upsetting.

One summer, squirrels yanked all of my flowers, while in full blossom, out by their roots and threw them to the ground, three stories below. They stashed acorns, along with curious bits of garbage like paper towels and receipts deep into the soil.

I replanted a few snapdragons, and again, squirrels tore them out to bury their cache. The man at the local hardware store suggested that I buy a live trap. He caught a squirrel in his garden this way, then drove it out to the country. I knew what that meant. My dad used to tell us that he was taking our senile old dogs "to the farm". There was no farm. Besides, running a trap line out my kitchen windows would derail the pleasure my diminutive gardens give and turn a pleasant hobby into a blood sport.

My landlady gave me some dried blood to sprinkle around the plants. The scent of death was ominous enough to spook the squirrels. But that wasn't the end of the predators.

I started planting herbs in my window boxes. I tried growing them in my kitchen, but to no avail. The basil just grew spindly and even pineapple mint, a weed, shriveled right up. Nearby, my indoor plants were growing into an intimidating tropical mèlange. The Hawaiian Tea Tree bounded in all directions and philodendron tangled with palm fronds and succulents' sprouts. But the herbs would only grow in the window boxes.

They did so well there. Thyme cascaded over the sides, purple sage flourished, and rosemary spread through and entire box. However, last summer, they started to thin. Not droop or wither, but each day, the stalks had fewer and fewer leaves, until just a few sad stalks jutted from the dirt. Then I saw the culprits. One morning a group of house finches lined the boxes and stared straight into my kitchen, eyeing my indulged house-plants with deadly intent.

As Darwin learned on the Galapagos Islands, finches are extremely adaptable birds. They'll suckle a cactus or pick at rocks; they nest just as easily in broken street lamps as trees. In1940, bird dealers in Brooklyn, learning that the caged house finches from California they possessed were illegal, freed them on Long Island. By the 1960's, house finches had been spotted in all boroughs of New York City.

I'm planting my new boxes for the summer now and I dream of smelling French lavender and moonflowers on warm summer breezes. Shoots are showing, and I've been perusing the farmers' markets, plotting out my small island gardens.

While fussing over my boxes, I watch the Starlings bathe in puddles on the rooftop of the cabbage-shredding factory next door. My landlady yells up from her backyard that she never buys plants, just throws out her garbage, and voila, an avocado tree is growing.

I wonder about the random elements of this peculiar little Eco-system. I might not get what I want from my window boxes, but I'll keep tending them, because they just might be epicenters of a very unnatural evolution.