Decades-old plant lists remind me that before social media and instant communication, there was real conversation and connection and community. There still is, but you have to cultivate it.

Journalists often ask for my origin story. I’ve learned to respond with quick, digestible answers, rooted in certain revelatory experiences about interdependencies of native plants and wildlife.

But the truth is less straightforward. Many of the decisions we make and the paths we take grow from the accumulation of countless small moments that settle down into our lives as randomly as wind-blown seeds landing on fertile ground. One that comes to mind is the time I chose to grow butterflyweed not for its value to monarchs—I didn’t even know about that connection yet—but because the color of the flowers on the seed packet was irresistible to my orange-loving sensibilities. Another is the time our contractors opened up a wall in our cramped ’70s-era kitchen and, in the process, revealed a hidden horticultural world for me.

As they wandered out to the driveway to measure and cut studs, Mark and John initially stayed focused on the task at hand, offering only small pleasantries while I put some new plants in the ground nearby. At some point, Mark ventured a little further.

“I see you like Liatris!” he piped up from his sawing table.

His words felt like a gift. Not many visitors had shown interest in the plants, let alone been able to name them. I responded enthusiastically. “I’m really trying to add more native plants here! But they are so hard to find.”

By the end of the day, Mark and John had knocked down most of the wall separating the kitchen from the front hallway. They’d reframed the entryway and filled in the tile, covering the threshold with cardboard decorated in hand-drawn pawprints to let our pets know where they should walk until the floor dried. Light poured into the back of the house and onto our chalkboard, where Mark had written, “Audubon Society of Central Maryland” and “Adkins Arboretum.”

From Favorite Contractor to Favorite Contrarian

Thus began decades of happy native plant sale-ing, starting the next spring on Saturday, April 24, 2004. I know the exact date because I recently unearthed a plant inventory printout I’d taken with me to the Audubon event, covered in names and initials indicating who wanted which plants—“N&W” for Nancy and Will and “J” and “Jeff” for my brother-in-law. Cryptic questions were scrawled across the top: “tall plants or small – combo”? “How big an area?”

Was I asking myself? Or maybe advising Jeff on his selections? The intervening years have blurred the details. It was so long ago that retail native plant nurseries didn’t exist yet anywhere in my area. DNA sequencing techniques were so new they hadn’t yet affected the taxonomic classifications of white wood aster, Joe Pye, golden ragwort, senna and dogwoods. (Or if they had, the hort world was still catching up). There were no native plant gardening groups on social media because social media had barely been born. The Internet was past its infancy but still a toddler—only mildly helpful. And when I went to the local Barnes & Noble to try to find books on native plants, there weren’t any; it would be another three years before Doug Tallamy’s first book arrived on the scene.

At the plant sale, I was excited to run into both Mark and my friend and colleague Richard, an avid gardener whose job involved advocating for wildlife in zoos, circuses and other captive environments. He was crusty, funny, and sometimes crass, but he was also the kind of person who lovingly cared for pet geese and cats and a room full of orchids, with a deep and relentless sense of justice for animals. He’d taught me a lot about wildlife, and I turned to him repeatedly for help with plants. I once asked for tree and shrub recommendations and received a list of nine species. Only one, winterberry holly, was native, and he enjoyed his role as Resident Contrarian in arguing with me about the rest. But thanks to his advice, I planted the winterberries—little bareroots that, nearly 25 years later, form a grove in the side yard.

Planting Common Ground

Standing behind a table at the Audubon event, Richard was sorry to inform me that, though I had arrived just minutes after the start of the sale, most of the plants on my wish list were already gone. Native plant sales and giveaways are no longer rare, but back then the atmosphere was as frenzied as Black Friday.

Richard had an idea: Why not try some green-and-gold instead? There were plenty left, and he liked their sweet little yellow flowers. While I was at it, and based on either his or Mark’s advice—another fuzzy memory—I picked up golden ragwort too. Just one, since my flats were getting full. But as it turned out, one was enough.

Looking at other writings and receipts from those early years, I’m reminded of plants I’ve loved and lost: the early Virginia pines, cranberrybush viburnums, American bittersweet vines. While tending this habitat I’ve grieved even greater losses of people I shared it with: my father, Roger, my nephew Ryan, my Aunt Sharon, my friends Adam and Marty.

During the pandemic, Richard died too, of cancer. But the green-and-gold he introduced me to lives on. The ragwort has gone forth and multiplied thousands of times over and probably populated half the gardens in Howard County, Maryland, as I pass their babies on to friends, who pass their grandbabies on to more friends, and so on. Growing among the splendid patches of ragwort in my own habitat are most other species on that original Audubon list—plus many more. Some are ones we planted. Some are volunteers. All are welcome here.

All are also welcome in Jeff’s garden, where the plants grew peacefully for more than a dozen years before his and my sister’s HOA came knocking with a violation notice—a move that ultimately backfired and sparked a state law aiming to safeguard against such nonsense in the future. It also lit a fire under me to step up my involvement in my local community. My journey came full circle when I joined a native bee advocacy group, Howard County Bee City, and had a chance to work with a county natural resources manager named Cheryl. Cheryl happens to be married to Mark, the sweet contractor whose gentle encouragement led me to my first native plant sale (which, it turns out, Cheryl had helped coordinate) all those years ago.

In the coming weeks, months and years, these kinds of human connections will become even more meaningful as we navigate a burning, drowning planet that is too hot and dry in some places and too wet and flooded in others. In a world of extremes, both real and manufactured, we can look for common ground, where conversations lead to ideas and ideas lead to action and action leads to change. Some of the seeds of these blooming connections may be random, but where they land doesn’t have to be. We all have the power to make sure they find a welcoming space, where small moments still matter.

(All photos by Nancy Lawson; featured images, top: Woodland phlox (Phlox divaricata) and Allegheny spurge (Pachysandra procumbens)

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