A Native Son's Complaint

It's come to my attention that I complain a lot about the place I live: Palo Alto, the Bay Area, California. Actually, I love it here. I was born here — Stanford Hospital, that is. Yep, that makes me a “California native,” just like Eschscholzia californica. It also makes me a “Native Son of the Golden West,” even though I’ve never really considered joining that club.

I was moved from our Portola Valley home at the ripe age of 3 and raised in a desert. No, really, a real desert. Las Vegas. A real real desert, both culturally and environmentally. (Ironically, California hit a drought shortly thereafter, and the grove of Monterey pines hugging our old back yard dried up like so much tumbleweed.)

Being a smart child, as soon as I was old enough I moved back here — Stanford University, that is. I can’t quite say I sucked the marrow out of my time there, but I do still bleed Cardinal red. I fell in love with the palm trees, the redwood trees, the eucalyptus trees; the vernal sunlight glinting off of Lake Lagunita (yes, children, once upon a time this lake contained water!); the morning fog, and the evening breeze that rolled in reliably enough to make the 4pm windsurfing class legendary. 

When it was time to leave The Farm and ply my trade in advertising, I was advised to "move to New York." "Or Chicago." But California poppies don’t do well in urban jungles or subzero gales. So I moved to San Francisco. I learned a little more about fog there; but all my complaints about Winter in July were forgotten once October rolled around, with its miraculous Indian Summer that lured me — and the rest of The City — out to stroll and dine and people-watch and generally do what young urban professionals do on balmy autumn evenings. 

SF was perfect for me: diverse but not overwhelming. Class without mass. And, a seemingly infinite reach with virtually no sprawl. Just 49 square miles, if you believe the guidebooks, yet just outside my door I discovered unbelievable food and wine… unreal beaches, forests, parks and islands… and unimaginable art, architecture, and artifacts from a very young state’s very rich history. I surfed the tidal wave of the dot-com boom with one foot in the past and another in the future. My journey had taken me from the desert to an oasis.

I was married in Sonoma, amidst grape vines and blue oaks and cattle, the scent of sage scrub blending with the sea air. Later, the urge to spawn brought a salmon-like pull back to my own birthplace, and I became a homeowner right back in, yes, Palo Alto. One and a half blocks from Stanford, in fact; close enough to hear The Band rally Branner or stroll over to Sunken Diamond for an evening game. And here in Palo Alto I’ve not only made my homes and raised my children, but also built my landscape design business, which connects me intimately with all the natural wonders of the place I live. 

I tell you about my history and love affair with the Bay Area for no other reason than to help you understand why I am so cranky about living in the Bay Area. It is precisely because I love it here that my heart breaks to see companies along California Avenue overwatering their oversized lawns in the midst of our worst drought ever, threatening to turn us into the desert I thought I left. My soul aches as old buildings — not glamorous, perhaps, but undeniably full of character — are ripped down and replaced with yet more glass and steel shoeboxes. My old office was in one such building, with a violin teacher for a neighbor. The building is gone, as is Larry. Tech offices. We — the people who live here, who love it here — are losing our home. Foreign investors pay ungodly amounts for properties they don’t live in and couldn’t care less for. Our Golden State is shriveling and browning just like the raisins so famous in my advertising days.

Lake Oroville, pre-drought and now (credit: Getty Images)

And the worst part? The worst part is that we are doing it to ourselves. We remain silent while our city officials permit the so-called “development” of generic office buildings even as existing structures sit vacant. We plant sprawling, gratuitous lawns no child will ever play on. We hire garden janitors who blow away all the nutritious organic matter our plants drop, then scatter fertilizer on the naked ground, then irrigate until water and fertilizer run off the soil and down the gutters. We drive too much, spend too much, use too much and think too little. We are making our Bay Area — the one we love, the reason we moved here, the only one we’ve got — extinct.

In younger years I happened to visit Los Angeles — okay, Santa Monica, but really, it’s all L.A., right? — on a day the winds were blowing just right and you could see the  mountains risen against a blue sky while standing on the beach. I was stunned. And I realized, this is what the earliest generation of Angelenos saw; in fact, it’s probably why they moved here. I would have. But then they brought their cars; and their neighbors brought more; and soon, the very thing that drew the crowds became shrouded in smog, almost a myth: the thing everyone believed was there but had never seen, except on those rare days when the winds blow just right.

And so, it’s precisely because I love the Bay Area that I am scared that if we don’t change our ways, we will become Las Vegas, or more likely Los Angeles. A place that people speak of in the past tense, with a certain reverence but also resignation: “Remember when we could see the foothills from here?” “Once upon a time, this lake used to contain water.” 

But we don’t have to live out that fate. We can change our ways. And I love my home enough that I’m going to continue complaining when we don’t.

Massive Water Discovery Ends California Drought

SACRAMENTO, Calif. - April 1, 2015 - Governor Jerry Brown and the California Department of Water Resources (DWR) today lifted the state's drought State of Emergency on the news that an enormous water reservoir has been discovered along California's western border.

Although the exact size of the aquifer has yet to be determined, reports indicate it may be hundreds of miles across and more than 10,000 feet deep, billions of gallons in total. "We are delighted to say, the drought is over," Brown proclaimed at a beachfront press conference, a gleaming drinking glass on his podium. "This discovery will provide enough water for every man, woman, child, farmer, rancher, business, school and park in our great state to live the California lifestyle without ever again worrying whether there is enough water to waste."

California's $36 billion agriculture industry applauded the announcement. "Our crops, orchards and ranches have been in decline for well over a decade now," said Andrew Morse of the California Department of Food and Agriculture (CDFA). "This [discovery] means we will be able to get back to our business of feeding the world."

Indeed, the state's farmers may be able to not only regain lost ground, but even expand into new markets: low lending rates, coupled with property foreclosures throughout the state, are fueling a new era of agricultural expansion as farmers buy entire subdivisions and convert them to arable land. "We're processing a record number of loan applications," said banker Toiya Dobrov, whose clientele includes family farms throughout the Central Valley. "Water is going to be the new gold."

The newly discovered reservoir

Gov. Brown said the state will petition the federal government for funds to develop filtration, conveyance and distribution systems throughout the state, a further boon to California's economy. "Investing in our infrastructure will produce exponential returns when we give people jobs and deliver water to where they work and where they live." The state already is in discussion with neighboring Nevada and Arizona to export its newfound bounty to those parched regions, and plans are under study for a "main vein" pipeline to route water from California east through the entire country. "This could be the next transcontinental railroad," said Brown, announcing that project bids will be solicited within weeks.

The California Landscape Contractors Association (CLCA) and state chapters of the Association of Professional Landscape Designers (APLD) and American Society of Landscape Architects (ASLA) also welcomed the news. In a joint statement, the groups say they "look forward to creating landscapes that can gulp rather than sip, that evoke Shangri-La rather than the Sahara. For too long we and our clientele have endured the constraints of a Mediterranean climate; now, with our abundance of sunshine matched only by our access to water, we can live in any garden we desire." No comment was available from the Synthetic Turf Council, one of the few industries analysts expect will not profit from the discovery.

Ironically, the aquifer was discovered by two recently unemployed construction workers, Eric Lucas and Dante Sievers, both of Palo Alto, Calif. Although neither has a background in hydrology or environmental science, both knew immediately they were on to something big last month while visiting the nearby coastal town of Pescadero. "We were just chilling on the beach," said Mr. Lucas. "The next thing I know, Dante is shouting 'Water! Water!' First I called 911," he said, "but we got disconnected, so I called the newspaper" who in turn called the state water agency. Neither man is aware of any plans to name the body of water in their honor.

The sheer size of the reservoir has made mapping of its boundaries tedious, which in turn has inflamed long-simmmering tensions between California and its neighbors. The states of Oregon, to the north, and Hawai'i, to the east, both claim the water reaches into their territories. And in what could turn a domestic dispute into an international incident, Mexico also contends that a portion of the water is theirs, a claim Gov. Brown downplayed. "The proud nation of Mexico and the great state of California have a long and rich history of sharing resources," he said, "and we certainly will work together to ensure an equitable distribution of this resource as well."

The discovery has raised almost as many questions as hopes. One story circulating the Internet claims the volume of water actually could increase over time due to factors related to climate change, to which a DWR spokesman responded "we can only hope." Other critics have noted the water's purity is unproven, and it may be polluted by vegetation and animal waste.

The DWR spokesman refused comment on another allegation, that extreme salinity in the water makes it unfit for drinking or irrigation. "This is a proud day for our state and our nation" said the spokesman. "Let's not let irresponsible rumor-mongering dry up our celebration."

It's Raining! (Now What?)

A reprise of a post from a few years ago seems appropriate given today's welcome visitor… I originally wrote this on January 18, 2010; and while some names and statistics may have changed since then, the core message remains the same.—JB

It's been hard to miss the message over the past year that we're in a drought. And Californians have responded remarkably well: residential water use was reduced by 9.4% in Santa Clara County, 12% in Los Angeles County, and up to 25% in San Diego County from previous periods. I still see far too many gratuitous lawns, thirsty "exotic" plants and wasteful irrigation systems. But on the whole, we're at least trying to handle our water.

So the next place to look is, naturally, increasing our supply. And on the cusp of a major El Niño week like the one currently forecast for the Bay Area, the opportunities seem abundant. So why isn't everyone harvesting rainwater? To understand why it's not quite that simple, let's do a little math:

First, let's assume we're in for nine inches of rain — that's 3/4 foot — over the next week or so.

Second, let's assume we can harvest that rain from the roof of our detached 2-car garage, which has a roof area (equals footprint) of about 20 feet by 20 feet.

So if we catch every drop that falls on our roof, we would harvest 20' * 20' * 3/4' = 300 cubic feet.

Using a handy-dandy volume converter, we find that 300 cubic feet equals 2,244.156 gallons.

Holy crap! Seriously?! More than two thousand gallons? That can't be right.

Well, actually, it isn't right. Because we won't catch every drop. Some will splash away, some will get trapped in the gutters, some will leak out. So a capture rate of 60% is usually considered reasonable, and our potential volume actually is 2,244.156 * 60% = 1,346.494 gallons.

Holy crap! Seriously?! More than thirteen hundred gallons?

Yep. And unfortunately, that huge number is less than 5% of the annual water needs of a 1,000 square foot lawn. Never mind that if you're serious about water conservation, you don't have a 1,000 square foot lawn; are you getting a sense of the quantity of water we're talking about? Say you did have a 20'x50' patch of grass: 1,346 gallons of rainwater would irrigate it for all of about two weeks. For the year you'd need twenty times that, or around 27,000 gallons.

Which raises another issue, specific to Mediterranean climates like ours where most of the rain comes in one season, as opposed to throughout the year: storage.

We get most of our rain during the winter, when plants are dormant and evapotranspiration rates are low. We don't need the captured rainwater now. We need it six to nine months from now, when skies are sunny and the ground is parched. Even if you have no lawn and your xeric garden only needs 1,300 gallons, where do you store what you've saved?

There are in-ground cisterns, which may be large enough but are pricey and complicated to install. There are classic, above-ground rain barrels, which are bulky and difficult to link together for additional capacity. There are interesting systems like the Rainwater Pillow which can efficiently store 1,000 gallons or more, but may not be ideal for exposed outdoor locations. And there are modern above-ground tanks such as the Rain Box and Rainwater Hog, which link together with slim rectilinear profiles that use space efficiently but can become pricey.

How pricey? The Rainwater Hog sells in the neighborhood of $500 per 50-gallon tank. To catch 1,346 gallons requires 27 tanks, or $13,500. The Rain Box is more economical, at about $250 per 75-gallon box. But that's still 18 boxes, or $4,500.

Even if cost isn't a consideration, space may be. The Rainwater Hog has such a slim profile — just 20" wide by 10" deep — that it can be mounted not only vertically against walls, but also horizontally, e.g. beneath a deck. But no matter how you set them up, 27 tanks would take a lot of room: far more than the 20' wide wall of our two-car garage. The Rain Box is bigger, about 24" wide by 20" deep, and not designed to mount horizontally; so 18 boxes would need at least 36', or almost two full walls of the garage.

I don't mean to discourage anyone from catching and reusing every drop possible. Even if your "rain barrel" is a garbage can, that's 20 or 30 gallons you don't need to draw from a reservoir. But it won't be your only solution, and in fact might raise more questions, e.g. what do you do with the overflow? We all can install green roofs, detention basins and porous paving, which will help the rain get into the groundwater where it actually can do some good. But these solutions aren't the same as storage; and they're not cheap, either.

I guess my point is that it ain't easy to save the world. It's probably not economical, and you probably won't get your money back. Serious rainwater harvesting requires some serious commitment, and we're not all there just yet. But even if you're not ready to shell out thousands of dollars to store thousands of gallons, you have plenty of other options. Maybe you can swap out your lawn for a delightful garden of unthirsty plants. Maybe you can mulch those plants with 3" of compost instead of leaving the soil bare. Maybe you can redo your driveway with pervious pavers instead of asphalt. Maybe you can take shorter showers or make other changes that reduce your water footprint.

Maybe you can't do much; but you can do something. And what better time to start than now — while there's a break in the weather?

Inside the Designer's Mind: Selecting Plants

A visitor to my Houzz.com page recently asked about one of my early, and still favorite, garden designs:

Cupressus 'Tiny Tower' behind
white spring annuals along a brick
and bluestone walk in Palo Alto

"I like [the] look of Italian thin trees… I have smaller house, would that look odd for privacy? Bamboo trees other option in my mind."

And it occurred to me that landscape designers have a very methodical way of determining the best plant for a given spot, which we take for granted but may not be understood by everyone. I answered:

"Well, 'odd' is in the eye of the beholder — for the classical style of this home, in my opinion bamboo would have looked odd. But your tastes and opinions may be different, and that's OK too! 

"There may be many different options to choose from to create privacy screening. A landscape designer would consider the specific conditions of your site before considering looks: sun/shade exposure, damp/dry soil, narrow/wide planting area, to name a few. Then within the set of plants that will thrive in those conditions, I would consider the functional attributes of the plants themselves: evergreen/deciduous, clumping/spreading, toxic/nontoxic, short/tall, fast/slow growth, high/low water needs, and so on. Finally, within that subset of plants that have appropriate features, I would choose the plants that fit the aesthetic look you prefer: the Italian Cypress used here work well with a formal, classic style, while bamboo species (and there are many!) may convey a more tropical or Asian feeling. Even the same plant could be used different ways: Pittosporum tenuifolium can be clipped tightly to create a formal hedge, or left loose for a natural, shrubby look. 

"While the aesthetic choice is purely personal, the site conditions and plant attributes are non-negotiable. Figure those out first, and you may find that your plant choice is made for you. Good luck!"

Summertime at the Home Office

At the heart of it, my job is about improving quality of life: whether it's "just" a garden that's pretty to look at, or a landscape that invites — or even compels — us to spend more time out in the fresh air and sunshine. And while spring and fall are particularly easy on the eyes, summer can't be beat for truly living outdoors.

Ironically, though, summers tend to be my busiest time of year, with work following me around like a hungry (but sooo cute!) dog six or even seven days a week. So I particularly cherish the days that I get to live in my own landscape; and today I'm looking forward to enjoying one of my outdoor kitchen's custom features: my built-in Big Green Egg smoker.

My BGE sits in a well I designed into the island. (Hey, at over 250 lbs the thing isn't going anywhere anyhow, right?) This gave my granite fabricator fits, but it's a great look and complements the fast-but-clinical cooking of my gas grill with the Egg's slow-n-soulful flavors.

Today's project: a couple of racks of St. Louis pork ribs snagged on sale from Whole Paycheck a few days ago, cooked in the "3-2-1" method that's popular among Big Green Egg enthusiasts ("Eggheads"). Last night I rubbed each rack down with a different rub: one with Bruce Aidells' "Spice Rub for Pork or Beef" from The Complete Meat Cookbook:

2 tablespoons paprika, preferably Hungarian 

2 teaspoons chile powder, preferably Gebhardt 

1-2 teaspoons cayenne pepper (optional)

2 tablespoons granulated garlic or garlic powder

2 tablespoons light or dark brown sugar [I use dark for its deeper flavor]

1 tablespoon ground cumin

1 tablespoon dry mustard, preferably Colman's

1 teaspoon ground sage

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1/4 cup salt [I use Diamond Crystal kosher]

1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper

I like this mix because it's low in sugar. The second rub isn't: this is the "Fullback BBQ Ribs" recipe I tore out of a "special advertising section" in an issue of Food and Wine (I think — I managed to leave behind all the credits, and can't find it online):

1-1/2 cups dark brown sugar

1/2 cup chili powder

1/2 cup paprika

1/2 cup cumin

1 tablespoon garlic powder

1 tablespoon dry mustard

1 tablespoon onion powder [this got left out because I didn't have any]

1 tablespoon cracked black pepper

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/4 cup olive oil [this got left out because it just seemed unnecessary]

After their little spice massage and an overnight nap in the fridge, the ribs came up to room temperature this morning while I fired up the BGE. For some reason, today that became a Thing: the lump charcoal got too hot when I wasn't paying attention, and I just couldn't get it back down even with the Egg's vents closed up tight; ultimately I had to kill the fire with wet paper towels and relight it.

The second time, now an hour behind schedule, I watched the temp the way the toy store owner watches my kids, and pinned it solid at 225°F, where it would hold for the next three hours with each vent open just a sliver.

The Egg uses a ceramic "platesetter" to create indirect heat, and I put the ribs bone-side-down on the cooking grate on top of the platesetter and said au revoir for a few hours. In the meantime, I prepared a little braising liquid for the next phase of the cook: a few unripe Pink Lady apples fallen out of my mini-grove, mashed up and macerated in bourbon.

Since the ribs had such a slow start, I left them on the grill naked for an extra hour (making this a "4-2-1" cook). Then I took them out, put them on a pan atop the macerated apples, wrapped the whole mess up in a foil tent, and put it back on the grill for two more hours to steam the ribs to a fall-off-the-bone consistency.

At this point the chef may be receiving queries from the other diners in the household, underscoring why we must plan ahead for these sorts of projects: no one actually enjoys waiting for dinner, no matter how promising the results or how lovely the evening.

However, a glass of wine or two later I unwrap this beautiful scene: The meat is pulling back from the ends of the bones, and the racks are getting floppy, so I goose the BGE temp up to 250°F and put the ribs back directly on the grate for the last hour of cooking. This, I'm told, will create a lovely crust or "bark" on the ribs. In the meantime, I return to my wine and compose a little blog post.


By the way, here's my office today. My soundtrack is the mockingbird next door along with the occasional whirr of hummingbird wings as they sneak sips from the Galvezia blooms behind me. My view is my apple grove, golden yarrow mingling with purple heliotrope, the setting sun washing the treetops around me in gold. The scent of those ribs wafts over on the evening breeze. And with another sip of wine I feel… joy.

And this is the heart of what I do: I create joy. Not only for me, and for the family and friends who get to spend time out here too and get to dine on the meats of my labors, but also for that hummingbird; for the honeybees hard at work on my lavender; for the squirrels waiting for more apples to fall; even for the oak tree that gets to grow in a naturalistic ecosystem rather than being drowned in a sea of lawn. This joy, this life is what landscapes facilitate that no other design discipline does.

Not bad for a day's work.

A Thing of Beauty

The most beautiful thing in my front garden this morning? That wet thing in the upper right.

How to Reduce Your Water by 20%

On Friday, Governor Brown declared a drought emergency, and asked Californians "to voluntarily reduce their water use by 20 percent". 

So how do you do that? It sounds intimidating — especially when you're already pretty water-conscious and already harvesting low-hanging fruit like fixing leaky faucets and using a broom rather than a hose to clean off your driveway. But it's actually not that bad when you remember a little math: namely, 20% of a big scary number is the same as 20% of all the little numbers that comprise it.

In other words, I don't have to know how many gallons my irrigation system uses every day. I just need to set my irrigation timer to run at 80% of normal (a 20% cut). Or, if I can't make that adjustment, then program it to run 4 days a week instead of 5 (a 1/5, or 20%, cut). (Or 3 days a week instead of 4: a 25% cut.)

If I normally shower for 15 minutes, shower for 12 (a 1/5 cut).

If I normally run the faucet for 30 seconds while I brush my teeth, run it for 24 (a 1/5 cut). 

I could go on, but you get it. Twenty percent is not impossible. It's not even hard. 

We can do this.

Climate Zones 101

Sandy soils, dry winters—we're not in Palo Alto any more!

This week I was down at the San Diego Botanic Garden, where the differences between the Encinitas climate and the Palo Alto one I live in were on full display. For landscape designers like me who grew up reading the Sunset Western Garden Book, the concept of climate zones is second nature. But for plenty of other folks, it's about as foreign as, well, another land.

Horticulturally speaking, a climate zone is simply an area where the growing conditions are consistently unique from any other area. Back in 1960, the U.S. Department of Agriculture defined 10 "plant hardiness zones" throughout the country, based mainly on winter low temperatures to help growers understand where crops would, and would not, survive the winter. Over time those definitions have been refined and the zones subdivided, and today there are 26 USDA zones. You can see a map online here.

Here in the West, Sunset Magazine took the idea a step further, defining "Sunset climate zones" that take into account not only winter low temperatures but also summer highs, wind, rainfall, humidity, elevation, latitude and ocean influence. The result is a finely detailed picture of where plants will not only survive, but thrive. From its original 13 zones in the western states, Sunset now has identified more than 50 unique climate zones throughout the U.S. and Canada. These climate maps have become indispensable tools for garden designers, landscape architects, builders, and of course homeowners. Plant growers, who want gardeners to have success with their products, routinely label their plants with the USDA and/or Sunset zones those plants are best suited to.

But why do zones matter, anyway? Because — whether for a budding home gardeners or a professional landscape architect — the first rule of planting design is "right plant, right place." So if you're designing a garden in San Diego, you can know that here in Sunset Zone 24, winters just won't get cold enough for most cherry trees to bear fruit. On the other hand, if you're designing for Palo Alto, you can assume that the Agave attenuata that thrives down here in the mild coastal desert will turn to mush during our freezing Zone 15 winters.

Subtropical trees thrive in a subtropical climate zone

Sure, plenty of people are in what I call "zonal denial" — gardening on the edge of reality, insistently planting frost-tender plants in cold-winter areas (and high-water turf grass in what's really a desert). They may skirt outright failure enough to be emboldened in their efforts, but their gardens aren't really thriving. And plants draped with flannel sheets and holiday lights probably aren't the curb appeal most people want.

So don't live in that state called denial. Know your zone and plant accordingly. Your garden, and your neighbors, will thank you!

Agave 'Blue Flame', hardy to 25°F — just on the edge of Palo Alto's climate

California's New(ish) Irrigation Laws

Although California has legislated landscape irrigation for a few years now, most of us haven't noticed it… until now.

But suddenly, homeowners applying for construction permits are getting the unpleasant surprise that a whole package of landscape documentation, including irrigation and planting plans and a slew of math, may be required as part of the permit submittal. What the…?!?

A brief history: way back in 1990 the state determined (wisely) that water is a finite and precious resource in this Mediterranean climate, and 16 years later managed to enact Assembly Bill 1881 to promote the conservation of water in the man-made landscape. (A much better history is here.)

As part of AB 1881, California drafted a Model Water Efficient Landscape Ordinance (MWELO), which defines maximum applied-water allowances and requires estimates of total landscape water usage based on calculations of plants' evapotranspiration rates and a few other factors. If that sounds complicated, it is; and a cottage industry of designers and auditors versed in not only horticulture but also irrigation principles and documentation has grown in response.

AB 1881 also mandated that by 2010, local governments adopt either the state's Model Ordinance, or a local landscape ordinance that is at least as effective as the state's in conserving water. Now, most local governments are not known for either their foresight or their ability to respond nimbly to a bureaucratic requirement. So, unsurprisingly, in 2010 quite a few cities opted to simply adopt the state's ordinance as-is; and because enforcement would require staff which would require money and perhaps cost (or at least delay) permit revenue, most were less than stringent in enforcing the new law.

The tide has turned, however, and now towns from Agoura Hills to Yucaipa have adopted local ordinances, and figured out how to enforce the requirements within their zoning permit process. As a result, many more garden designers and landscape architects have become conversant in acronyms like MAWA, ETWU, WUCOLS, ETAF, and ETo, and begun offering landscape documentation packages as part of our services. It's a lot of work — here's the MWELO submittal requirement:

§ 492.3  Elements of the Landscape Documentation Package.
(a) The Landscape Documentation Package shall include the following six (6) elements:
(1) project information;
(A) date
(B) project applicant
(C) project address (if available, parcel and/or lot number(s))
(D) total landscape area (square feet)
(E) project type (e.g., new, rehabilitated, public, private, cemetery, homeowner-installed)
(F) water supply type (e.g., potable, recycled, well) and identify the local retail water purveyor if the
applicant is not served by a private well
(G) checklist of all documents in Landscape Documentation Package
(H) project contacts to include contact information for the project applicant and property owner
(I) applicant signature and date with statement, “I agree to comply with the requirements of the water
efficient landscape ordinance and submit a complete Landscape Documentation Package”.
(2) Water Efficient Landscape Worksheet;
(A) hydrozone information table
(B) water budget calculations
1. Maximum Applied Water Allowance (MAWA)
2. Estimated Total Water Use (ETWU)
(3) soil management report;
(4) landscape design plan;
(5) irrigation design plan; and
(6) grading design plan. 

Additionally, the Landscape Documentation Package is usually required to be signed by a licensed landscape architect, licensed landscape contractor, or certified irrigation auditor. Which means that in addition to being a lot of work, it's not cheap.

Fortunately, WELO requirements do not apply to every project. If a permit isn't required, for instance, or if the total affected landscape area is less than 5,000 square feet, the state MWELO wouldn't apply. But since most cities have their own ordinances now, the only way to know for sure is to call your local building department and ask for a copy of the local WELO.

There are a couple of pieces of good news in all this. First, if you're clear on your WELO requirements at the outset of your construction project (i.e. at the beginning of design, not the day before you plan to submit your plans), there's no reason a qualified professional can't prepare your documentation well in time for permitting.

Second, the fact is that WELO requirements—although a bureaucratic tar pit—are saving water. They are forcing all of us to reconsider gratuitous lawns, to learn our water-thrifty plants, and to group those plants into sensible hydrozones, which is just good horticultural practice. As landowners and designers and stewards of the earth, we all are getting a little bit better in our roles.

Imagine that.

What Are We Doing Here?

The artful landscape holds surprises big and small.

I'm really not one to make new years' resolutions, but as I head into my tenth year of designing landscapes, I know there is an opportunity here to do a lot more than simply decorate people's yards.

Water management is something we all need to be thinking about, whether it's controlling winter flooding or surviving summer drought. The last ten years have seen a remarkable increase in awareness of permeable landscaping as well. From interlocking paver systems to poured-in-place pervious concrete, products are available now that will lower the impact of our development in almost any application. There also has been a vast increase in the number and diversity of native and adapted plant species available, as nurseries realize "low water" and "low maintenance" are more than just a trend.

These are all strategies to make the earth happier, and that's important. But it's also important to keep the spirit happy. The landscape isn't just a place we happen to walk through; it's where we live. It's what we come home to, where we relax, where we entertain our family and friends and the people who aren't yet friends but will be soon. The landscape not only inspires us, but also invites to to take part in its beauty, and by extension, the beauty of the surrounding environment: our world.

When we are sensitive to our landscape, we notice the little things: the morning frost, the autumn foliage, the summer sunset. We notice the long winter shadows, and appreciate the long summer days that much more. And, even as we become attuned to the regularity of the days and the seasons, we are also more open to the surprises that await us everywhere we take the time to look (or smell or listen or touch or taste). And this, this brings us joy.

I coined the name "Verdance" to convey what I hoped to offer every client: the artful combination of "green" (verde) with "joy" (danz, or dance). That's still what I'm doing here, and I've been lucky enough over the past ten years to work with a few clients who want to do it together.

Who's next?

Why Blueberries Are My Favorite Landscape Shrub

Harvested 2 pounds today. From two plants.

Nuff said?

Backyard Solutions

I'm pretty excited to have my work featured on the current cover of Backyard Solutions!

Several more of my gardens are featured inside this issue as well. It's nice recognition, and nice confirmation that some other folks think my "babies" are beautiful, too.

The Garden in May

Spring in the Palo Alto garden

It's been an interesting Spring, filled with April showers and mini-heat waves. We should be past the coldest nights here in Palo Alto, though, so I finally felt safe pruning my grapes and hydrangeas. (Although I was a bit late cutting down the grasses, so I won't be expecting great things from them this year.)

Those late rains gave us a nice extension on getting woody perennials, shrubs and trees into the ground; the soil moisture is still good but not so mucky that it's difficult to dig. But don't get complacent! Check now to be sure your irrigation system is functioning optimally — the soil dries out quickly and you don't want it to go hydrophobic while your new plants are establishing.

I failed to keep pace with the weeds this Spring. I'll be hoeing out as much as I can over the next couple of weeks, but I think my negligence has earned me seven years of weedlings. It's incredible how long those seeds can stay dormant in the ground, then pop! as soon as they get a bit of sunlight.

This is a great time to get all sorts of color planted: annuals such as impatiens and marigolds, long-blooming perennials such as Achillea, Coreopsis, Echinacea, Gaillardia, Limonium, Rudbeckia and Scabiosa, and even fall bulbs like Crocus speciosus and Colchicum autumnale. For the former, you simply can't go wrong with seeds from Renee's Garden, or young plants from Annie's Annuals; and for the latter, I have never had anything less than extraordinary results from Brent and Becky's Bulbs (who seem to be offering an early order discount at the moment!). 

It's also the season when the landscape designer's phone begins to ring again, with optimistic voices on the other end hoping for a deck by spring, a pool by summer. And somehow, with the sun shining on our faces again and last year's perennials resurging at our feet, somehow it all seems possible.

Water is Money. So is Time.

If you're considering updating your landscaping in Palo Alto, Los Altos, or for that matter any other town down through San José, you should know about the water conservation rebates available (up to $3,000!) from the Santa Clara Valley Water District.

I won't go into all the details here, except to note two extremely important qualifiers:

• Applicants must attain pre-approval by participating in a qualifying pre-inspection and submit a Request for Application Form to the Santa Clara Valley Water District.

• Projects that have been started, landscape that has died, or projects that have already been completed prior to the Notice to Proceed are not eligible.

In other words, don't do anything — don't even shut off your irrigation! — until you've requested an inspection from the County. Otherwise, even if you do the sensible thing and stop watering your lawn because you're just going to replace it with a lovely field of lavender and sage anyhow, you may be ineligible for the rebate. To schedule that all-important pre-inspection, call (800) 548-1882 or sign up online. 

Oh, yes, one other important asterisk: "Rebates are available until funds are depleted." In other words, don't wait to get started.

The list of criteria and approved water-wise plants and equipment is a bit mind-bending, so if you'd like any help navigating it all, call your friendly local landscape designer. 

Birth of a Landscape Designer

Over the weekend I stumbled across what I'm pretty sure is my earliest landscape design. This actually was a plan for my model railroad and dates back 30 years or so, long before I knew what a landscape architect was; and while it's not quite the rendering quality I strive for today, I'm pleased to see it includes several fundamentals: a drawing scale, dimensions, and a symbol legend.

Why do those matter? Well, because the purpose of a landscape design is to communicate an idea; and if you can't interpret the plan you can't get the idea.

A drawing scale, for instance, tells you whether what you're looking at is straight out of Stonehenge, or Spinal Tap. On my railroad plan, I noted 1"=1' : one inch (on paper) represents one foot (in real life). This scale worked because I was designing such a small area (9' x 4'), but it would be more typical for a detail drawing—for instance, to show the end cut pattern for an arbor beam, or a close-up view of an intricate tiling pattern on a patio.

For a full residential landscape, a typical scale might "zoom out" to be more like one inch represents four feet. This is too far away to show precise details like the end cuts on an arbor, but still close enough to show the overall idea with some specificity. By convention, you'll usually see this written as 1/4 inch equals one foot, or 1/4"=1'-0". Purists would call this "48 scale," because 1/4"=1' is the same ratio as 1"=48", or 1:48. Other common architectural scales include 1/8"=1' (96 scale) and 1/2"=1' (24 scale).

At 1:48 scale we can identify the table, plants,
seatwall, boulders, and paving patterns (here, 2' x 2')

For larger sites, the scale might zoom out farther, to an engineering scale such as 1"=10', 1"=20', 1"=100' or more. This shows more of our site in every square inch, which allows the full site to be documented on one sheet of paper, but at the expense of including detail. At 1"=100' you would know that an area is paved, but you would not see a 2' x 2' paving pattern.

A typical "bar scale" at 1:48

In the past 30 years I've also learned it's not enough to only write the scale: we should show it graphically as well. This usually takes the form of a checkered bar or a zigzag line, and it's included so that if the plan falls into the hands of someone who doesn't have a scale ruler—or if the plan gets reproduced at a larger or smaller size—the reader can still see how big a foot, or four or eight, should be, and interpret the design properly.

There's actually a lot more to say about scales: how to pick the best scale for your drawing, which scales to avoid and why, and how to switch gracefully between different scales. If you'd like me to write more about any of it, please chime in. And if you have a scale ruler of your own, check out this handy tutorial by FEMA.

I'll write more next time about dimensioning and legends. Or maybe legends of dimensioning…

Gardening in the New Year

I recently caught up with a friend from Maine, where the ground regularly freezes to 6' deep and footings for walls need to be poured 8' deep to get below the frost line. Makes our winters here in Palo Alto seem positively tropical, and even though the recent frosts are sending lots of things rushing into dormancy, there's still plenty to do in the garden.

Your roses may still look like they're ready to party, but it's really time for them to rest a while. Stop feeding and watering them in advance of pruning them next month.

Ditto your ornamental grasses, which will hold the frost and morning dew beautifully if you leave the seed plumes on just a bit longer. When you see them putting out new growth, that's your cue to cut them back "hard" — about 6" above the ground (till they resemble hedgehogs or sea urchins).

Your fruit trees should have lost most of their leaves by now. Once they're bare, it's time to prune them, remembering to leave plenty of fruiting spurs. If you're growing peaches, nectarines or apricots, spray with a "dormant season" spray while the weather is dry to prevent leaf curl and discourage insects.

Hopefully you got all your daffodil and narcissus bulbs in a couple of months ago; now it's time to pull the THC (tulips, hyacinths and crocuses) out of the fridge and plunk them into the soil as well. Because the Bay Area isn't Maine, these bulbs don't go into deep dormancy, so I like to treat them as annuals and pack them into pots.

Speaking of annuals, nurseries are brimming now with cool-season annuals such as nemesia, ornamental kale, and winter veggies. Now that the Christmas trees are gone, you'll also find a nice selection of camellias in bloom, and bareroot roses will be making an appearance shortly. For all of these I really like Regan Nursery, over in Fremont; Roger Reynolds (in Atherton) and Redwood City Nursery also feature excellent selections.

Finally, it's a prime time to lay down an inch or two of organic compost throughout the garden. I don't bother tilling it in, mostly because I'm lazy but also because I have faith that the coming rains will percolate all the good stuff down without my help.

Getting back to normal after the holidays can leave us a little time-challenged, but try to steal a few quiet, cool, sunny afternoons to spend in your garden before winter rains turn it into a muddy mess. Your landscape will thank you for it!

Branding the Landscape

Pop quiz: Is this my style, or my brand?

I was having an interesting conversation with a colleague the other day about "branding" in landscape design and architecture, from my perspective as a former marketing guy. "What's the difference between 'brand' and 'style?" she asked.

I opined that your style is the outward representation of your work, the "character" of your product. Most of us in the industry can describe the styles of our famous peers: Peter Walker's geometric rhythms, Andrea Cochran's juxtaposition of angled stone or steel against lush greens, SEAM Studio's outrageous artistry. Some designers' styles are so thoroughly and consistently expressed, they become synonymous with their creators: Piet Oudolf's all-season meadows, Oehme van Sweden's "New American Garden," Roberto Burle Marx's tropical cubism.

While there's nothing illegitimate about any of these, the problem with a style is that — although there's nothing like the original and none of us sets out to make a career as a copyist — they can be copied, albeit to varying degrees of success.

On the other hand, everything you do is your brand — not only your work product, but also your work process: your external and internal communications; your partnerships; your reputation (whether deserved or not). It's the culture of your company, even if you're "only" a company of one. Do you commit to delighting your clientele at every turn? Is it important to you to continually expand your knowledge of plants, technologies, construction codes? Are you as obsessive about spelling errors as you are about the angles of your lighting? These may not reflect your style, but they definitely define your brand. It's possible no one else will ever know whether or not you work with integrity and take personal pride in every single project. It's possible they will.

Because its constituencies are so varied and complex, a brand is a fingerprint — a personality. And as such, unlike a style, it cannot be copied. If you're interviewing designers, it may be worth asking them to describe their brands. And if you're a designer yourself, you'd better know what your own brand is.

Painting the Bridge

In case you've ever wondered: 

"Any Joe on the street can call himself a landscape designer. You don't need a degree. You don't need a license. That's a huge difference [compared to a Landscape Architect]." 

That's the wisdom of Dominic Zuccarelli, a 21-year-old landscape architecture major at Purdue University, as quoted by the Northwest Indiana Times. 

*  *  *  *  *

Bristle as I may at young Mr. Zuccarelli's assessment of my profession, I must admit (and actually have) that he's right. Which accounts for the volume of do-it-yourself advice out there… and the legions of disappointed do-it-yourself garden designers.

Another mess by some Joe on the street

Because as approachable as landscape design may be, it still is a process. To do it well one must digest lots of data and evaluate lots of variables. Getting to know yourself is a good, and necessary, first step; but at some point you also have to execute. And for most of us, a landscape renovation is a bigger undertaking than we can finish in a weekend. Oh, sure, it starts well enough: old plants are removed, new borders are marked out with a length of hose, deck boundaries are spray-painted on the ground.

Now, fast-forward a few weeks. Perhaps you've bought a carload of pretty flowers at the nursery, certain that would motivate you. But has your soil been amended? New irrigation lines installed? If you're anything like me, it's a good bet that length of hose remains unmoved, deck post holes undug. The new plants probably look about as bad as the old ones did. And worst of all, the rest of your life keeps churning along with endless distractions to keep you from completing this "simple" project.

I find landscaping can be a bit like the old myth about painting the Golden Gate Bridge: by the time you finish, it's time to start over. The "new" plants have outgrown their space or just plain died. You'd replace them, but you can't quite remember what you meant to do the first time around, and you really don't have the time or energy anyhow. So the too-big shrubs keep getting bigger, and the too-thirsty groundcover withers away, and your landscape never looks quite the way you imagined.

This is where the professional — whether landscape designer or landscape architect — comes in. Hiring a professional creates efficiency: they streamline your process, creating a logical roadmap from idea to execution. They also document the process, so you have a record of what should be done, where, and how. The documentation allows you to install your landscape in phases, starting and stopping the work as necessary and logical. It also allows other professionals — this time, the landscape contractor — to take on and complete your project in a timely manner, to a higher level of finish than most of us could dream of.

Yes, it all costs money. And it's anathema to the hardcore do-it-yourselfer, who would rather live with a half-finished (equals half-unfinished) yard than rely on someone else to uncover its potential. But frankly, I've got better things to do with my life than to keep painting that bridge. Don't you?

In Search of Greener Grass

The ASLA recently linked to the Synthetic Turf Council's new free guide, Synthetic Turf 360°, which promises "to showcase the numerous uses and benefits of synthetic turf [as] the first comprehensive, annotated tool of its kind".

As skeptical as I am of marketing blather, especially from corporate consortia in almost any industry, I've got to say that description is just about spot-on. The guide covers applications from residential to commercial campuses and recreation facilities; water conservation; safety; accessibility; and more. Unfortunately, the piece falls short on one of its promises: it does not provide a comprehensive perspective on the environmental impact of synthetic turf.

I've written a bit over the years about artificial turf and concluded that… well, that I'm still too ignorant to conclude anything. For every argument I can make in favor of real grass, there's another favoring the fake. Sure, at installation synthetic may cost 10x (give or take) what sod does; but factor in irrigation, chemical fertilizers, replacement, power tools and other maintenance costs, and the two come even surprisingly quickly. Sure, we cringe at the idea of AstroTurf, but today's synthetics look so realistic — right down to brown "thatch" woven in — that they can be indistinguishable from real grass. Synthetic turf is being made from recycled soda bottles and filled with rubber crumb from recycled tires, which diverts some particularly noxious waste from landfills; real turf commonly uses tons (literally) of nitrogen fertilizer, which devastates ecosystems and consumes tons (literally) of natural gas. And when grass clippings are sent en masse to landfills rather than grasscycled, Synthetic Turf 360 tells us, "they generate methane gas, an explosive greenhouse gas and acidic leachate." (Attributed to EPA.gov.)

So when my clients ask me about synthetic turf, I've been reduced to telling them the pros and cons and shrugging my shoulders. It's great for some applications: dog runs, small patches of front yard where no child will ever play anyhow, shady backyards where children will play, under native oak trees, and so on. Beyond that, it's a matter of personal budget and taste.

What would really tip the scales one way or the other for me? One simple, hard fact that I have yet to find: a direct comparison between the comprehensive, cradle-to-grave carbon footprints of synthetic turf and natural grass. Because for all the water and fertilizer it saves, artifical turf is still plastic, and the crumbs that prop up its blades are largely still rubber. Recycled or not, these materials originate from petroleum and require a nasty manufacturing process. And while natural grass simply biodegrades, artificial turf never does. It eventually will be thrown away, taking up the very landfill space those tires and bottles would have anyhow.

Synthetic turf may be more convenient and require less irrigation than lawn. It may be more predictable, safer, prettier and more versatile and have all the other benefits the STC claims. But every piece of artifical turf also has an ugly past that the STC conveniently doesn't discuss. And until I know more about that, I simply can't take their greenwash propaganda at face value or wholeheartedly recommend their constituencies' products to my clientele.

What about you? Do you know more about turf — artificial or natural — than I do? Please chime in and help educate us all.