Dr. Leda -- Louisiana Is Not For Sissies

It was five and a half years ago that I moved from Berkeley, California, to a small rural town in south Louisiana, right smack in the heart of French-speaking Cajun and Creole country. Needless to say, I was in for a heavy dose of culture shock. I'll never forget the very first time I ventured into the local Wal-Mart. Being a typical Berkeley person, I had never set foot in one of these behemoth box stores in my life.

I wandered around like a lost soul for what seemed like hours, searching the vast sterile boxiness in vain for a simple box of laundry detergent. This super-store was so expansive it comprised four zip codes, six area codes, and at least three USDA climate zones. And yet, it seemed that all I could see, for acres on end in every direction, was mile after mile of aisle after aisle of shelves containing only two items: hair spray and fire ant poison.

What was left of Dr. Leda's rose beds after Hurricane Lili in 2003

Good grief, I thought as I stared dumbfounded at the endless array of these two alien products that are virtually unknown (perhaps even legally banned) in Berkeley. Is this all they ever do down here, subdue their coifs and murder ants? There can't possibly be a hair on the head of a single female in this town that has moved since the Summer of Love. And what is that strange whirring sound I hear? Could that be Rachel Carson spinning in her grave?

Clearly, I muttered to myself as I valiantly pushed my cart off towards a distance horizon that had a slim chance of being home to the elusive cleaning products aisle, the people who live down here in south Louisiana spend an inordinate amount of time arm-wrestling with Mother Nature. I wondered why.

Yeah, well. The very next day I opened my back door and stepped right in the middle of a fire ant nest. And thus began my extensive education at the Louisiana Is Not For Sissies School of Learning to Coexist With Nature.

A huge pecan tree crashes onto Dr. Leda's house in 2004

More fire ants, the hard way. Kudzu and other carnivorous killer vines. Blackspot. Mold. Rattlesnakes in the floribunda beds. Ruthless weeds that are armed and dangerous. Staggering heat, sweltering humidity. Accidental afros, the kind where you wake up in the morning looking like O.J. in Naked Gun 2 1/2. Roaches the size of Buicks that scuttle across the floor at night, leaving you clinging to the chandelier.

More blackspot. Tornadoes. Sink holes. Parasites. Rabid armadillos. Formosan termites. Fire ants. Stink bugs the size of ping-pong balls. Electrical storms that sound like World War III and fry the electronics. Voracious carpet moths that destroy obscenely expensive handwoven Turkish wool rugs in less than an hour. Freezes. Floods. Fire ants.

Trees crashing dramatically onto houses during the night. Militant wasps. Rats the size of Great Danes. More blackspot. Oh, and fire ants. Have I mentioned the fire ants? Those blasted things are guaranteed to alter anybody's attitude about Mother Nature and her benign and bountiful generosity.

A statue of the Greek god Pan supposedly protects Dr. Leda's garden from panic and pandemonium

And, of course, hurricanes. Yes, I've learned an awful lot about hurricanes down here.

Many, many heartfelt thanks to all you dear kind readers who inquired about my safety in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. I was deeply touched by your concern, but rest assured, I am fine and my roses are unscathed. I got lucky this time around. My intrepid little town, which is about 150 miles northwest of New Orleans, managed to dodge the Cone of Doom. But even if we had been directly in the path of Katrina's brutal destruction, we have an advantage over New Orleans in that we're perched high atop a ridge 75 feet above sea level, which by Louisiana standards is practically nosebleed country. We all but prance around in lederhosen and yodel our lungs out way up here in the Cajun Alps.

Which means that now, like every place that's high and dry in this neck of the world, my little town has become a haven for thousands of newly homeless, jobless, and often penniless hurricane evacuees whom we're frantically trying to house, feed, clothe, and comfort. The town's population literally tripled overnight, and the infrastructure is groaning. But so far the disaster has brought out the best in everyone. And believe me, all of us down here are grateful to all of you out there who have contributed to the hurricane relief fund of your choice. Even though the horrifying headlines are slowly beginning to fade from front pages, there are unimaginable numbers of desperate people who still need all the help they can get and probably will for many months to come.

Mother Nature decorates Louisiana at sunset

Meanwhile, I have tentatively opened my door a crack and peeked out into the yard. She's still lurking out there somewhere, I know she is, that crazy violent psychopathic witch, Mother Nature. Part of me wants to never set foot in her domain again, just lock the doors and never go outside. I could send out for pizza for the rest of my life, like Boo Radley. But another part of me craves the therapy. There's nothing on earth like working in the garden, restoring a little order and cultivating some beauty, to calm the frazzled nerves we inevitably develop every time Ms. Nature reminds us of the Noble Truth of Impermanence.

The very act of making a garden—or building a house, or a town, or a city—is an act of hubris, a rebellious thumb of the nose at Nature. And sooner or later, she will remind us, gently or not so gently, that We Are Not In Charge. Should we just give up? Or should we call a truce and keep trying? This is something we each have to decide for ourselves.

And here's what I've decided: pass me another can of hair spray, and get out of my way. I'm going out! The shelter down the street needs another pair of hands, and my roses need watering and deadheading, and there's way too much to be done to even think about giving up. I hope you'll all join me.

September 2005

Annual Rose 50% off Sale!

Harvest of Roses