The bees don’t need my Pollinator Habitat sign from the Xerces Society to find their way to Lonicera sempervirens. Its vibrant colors and champagne-flute flowers already put out the red carpet.
Listed as a plant of special value for bumblebees by the Native Plant Information Network, this tropical-looking vine, commonly known as trumpet or coral honeysuckle, also attracts hummingbirds. Its thick, winding foliage provides nesting sites for songbirds, and its autumn fruits feed finches, thrushes and robins. As if all that weren’t enough, the deep green leaves serve as a larval host for the spring azure butterfly and snowberry clearwing moth.
Though wildlife clearly value this plant, humans have been harder to persuade. Trumpet honeysuckle’s lack of use in landscaping has long been a mystery to me, given its many attributes for both animals and gardeners: It blooms prolifically as early as April here in Maryland and as late as November. Its leaves hang on so long it is practically evergreen in milder years. It’s a strong grower but not invasive. It’s not just low-maintenance but no maintenance at all.
Contrast that with the many flowers from far-flung lands that fill the shelves of big-box home improvement centers, and you may start to question the ability of our species to behave in a logical manner. Appreciating what we already have has never been our strong suit. Making more work for ourselves unnecessarily seems to be a common fatal flaw. I know because I used to do it. Looking back at photos from my early gardening years this week, I was struck by the intensity of the plantings—how much water, weeding, deadheading, fretting and fussing I did to keep alive wildflowers from other countries, rather than planting more of what would really thrive and feed the animals in my own backyard.
As many native plant enthusiasts know, the quest for something unusual and exotic—at the expense and neglect of so many things so close to home—is sadly ironic: Now many of the plants that truly belong here in our landscapes are rare and becoming rarer. This has a ripple effect on our native wildlife, who have co-evolved for millennia with local flora and often rely on specific native species for their survival.
A recent conversation at a party with a young man working his way into the sustainable agriculture industry highlighted how little our education system addresses these critical connections, even for those who actually pay money to learn about it. Expecting to have found an ally once I learned of his background as a plant science major, I told him of my endeavors in my own garden and the broader community. But he looked skeptical, asking in all earnestness whether I considered this little plot of land a “conservatory” rather than a necessary habitat in what I hope will become a long line of habitats in my neighborhood for permanent and migrating wild residents. And my new acquaintance already seemed defeated, saying we couldn’t possibly push back the inevitable force of supposed progress, resigning himself to believing that the best he can do is live simply and make wise choices in the marketplace.
An admirable goal, but those wise choices include proactively purchasing and planting trumpet honeysuckle instead of its nonnative, invasive cousins that rob our diminishing wildlife populations of their habitats. They include growing milkweed and Joe Pye weed and oak trees and Virginia creeper and allowing them to proliferate. And when nature begins taking over and ecosystems start coming back to life, they include leaving well enough alone.
I tried to discuss this with the defeated environmentalist, but he said he’d have to see my landscape first before he could really draw an opinion one way or the other. He said he likes things neat, automatically assuming that native gardens equal hoarders’ dens. He seemed to struggle with a dim view of the future: either continuing his path of trying to avoid a job in the segment of the landscaping industry dominated by mulch volcanoes and petunias and indifference or giving in to the chemical-laden path of least resistance toward the only place he saw any money to be made.
Whether he’ll ever see this blog post or not, I’ll probably never know. It was a chance and brief encounter that may not be repeated. But if we do meet again, I hope these photos of just one of our many “exotic” native plants will help him see that nature’s greatest wonders are often right outside our doors—if only we’d take the time to look.
