If there is one feature of my garden that I despise, it's the ugly red porch that in part frames the space. Eyesore would be a gentle word to describe it and I cringe at the very thought of the thing. It's also unhelpful that the wood is in poor shape so painting it feels a waste of time since *one day* we will build our dream porch. Oh, *one day.* We all have those, don't we?
So, the moment I started to plant my goal was to cover as much of the splintered, crimson wood as possible. Clematis, climbing roses, jasmine, butterfly bushes, sweet peas, pumpkins, runner beans (the irony, I know), honeysuckle, giant lupins. If it climbed or grew big enough to disguise, in it went. And mostly, out they died or barely survived.
The space has been a learning curve, and a steep one at that. It is south-facing and the soil is very, very sandy. As in, all sand. On a slope. And San Francisco is a coastal city so the winds blow in forceful gusts nearly every afternoon. Even for the scrappiest of plants, it's difficult to get enough nutrients to the roots for them to thrive, or create enough shelter so they can hang on to their leaves. The porch proved difficult to conceal.
And then, sometime in the late winter of 2023, a Cup and Saucer Vine's (cobea scandens) roots broke through their pot which, placed against the wall of the neighboring house, enjoyed just enough of a wind-break to allow for the vine to TAKE OFF. And TAKE OFF it did. That thing grew thirty feet in one season, completely covering one side of the long, hideous staircase, covering it in bell-shaped flowers that slowly turned from the palest green to the deepest purple. And they fucking fruited. I was in heaven.
By October though I was in tears. In SF these plants are often perennial because we do not have the frost that quickly kills them in other parts of the country so I was envisioning the plant growing and growing until not only the red porch would be covered but the house itself. And I was fine with that. Whatever this vine wanted, I would give it. The vine was boss.
But unfortunately, it wanted scale. In just, a really gross kind of way. And by the time I noticed the nasty things, the vine was in trouble. The leaves were badly mottled, or simply dropping off. It wasn't cute, and wasn't helping the red staircase situation. I patiently waited for most of the fruits to form seeds which I gleefully harvested before one cool Fall day, I tearfully cut the plant back. Way back. Against my better judgement I hoped to see it try again in the spring but I was not surprised (although still saddened) that it did not.
But the story does not end with this vine, I regret to say. The vine debacle continued.
While the cobea was rambling up one side of the staircase, a Cape Sweet Pea vine (dipogon lignosus) was taking its sweet time (ha) establishing on the opposite side. Am I describing this well enough? No matter, there are pictures. It took two years but once its' footing was found, it was off. It leapt with FORCE to the top of the staircase, taking the steps with it and entwining itself through the climbing roses and a purple clematis (I don't remember the name so purple clematis it is).
It felt like my birthday every day this summer as I watched the dreadful red disappear, replaced by a charming (albeit non-fragrant) pea with happy little pink flowers. Blessed indeed. For a moment.
Enter Mrs. Brisby. And a short trip down memory lane.
Remember The Secret of NIMH? I'm going to pretend you do and that you rooted for the little rat family on a quest to outsmart the farmer in order to save their home. Mrs. Brisby was brave, clever, and determined. She took on a farm cat! And we cheered for her and her adorable small child that kept referring to their crow friend as a turkey. They were wonderful. That farmer was lucky to have them.
In a change of heart that will surprise no one, when the Brisby family moved into the pea vine, I became the farm cat.
Now, I'm very okay with the wildlife using our shrubs, hedges, etc to nest. They need the protection and considering they tend to do us favors by eating unwanted bugs and the like, I let them have it. But this family got a little too comfortable, and quickly. I'm now thinking they may have been cousins of the dreadful Jenner (you really do need to rewatch this movie) and let me tell you, they were NOT on board with my attempt to cover the red staircase. They liked the vine, sure. But could care quite less if it was happy.
I need to wrap this up quickly: they thrashed it. And the climbing roses (thorns like dragon hooks be damned) and the purple clematis they defoliated in a heartbeat. Their own climbing was to the detriment of the plants. And I decided (after much hand-wringing) that I was having none of it.
The red staircase is exposed once again. And *next year* I hope what's left of my vine will feel compelled to climb once more. Hopefully it fairs better than *one day.*