LINCOLN SQUARE — Two summers ago, I plucked an unlabeled seedling from a grouping of "native plants" at Kilbourn Park's annual sale.
Yep, like a lot of urban gardeners, I've drunk deeply from the trough of native plant Kool-Aid, convinced they're pretty much the key to halting global warming.
I exaggerate. Sort of.
Minimally, natives are promoted as part of the solution to urban flooding, their roots drawing water deeper underground and keeping it out of our streets and sewers — so the theory goes.
They also provide a diverse habitat for butterflies, insects and bees, aka, pollinators, without which we would all starve to death.
I exaggerate. Sort of.
Millennium Park's Lurie Garden and the Chicago Park District have been on the forefront of the native movement (take a stroll through Winnemac Park), restoring acres of grass and traditionally manicured landscaping to prairie.
Over the past several years, I've followed suit to the extent our condo association's budget would allow, gradually swapping out yews, day lilies and rose bushes in favor of bee balm, asters, black-eyed Susans and coneflowers. Just doing my part to save the planet.
Not everyone appreciates these heroic efforts, though.
Compared with the formal gardens that most people are familiar with, native landscapes look, shall we say, less than tidy, like the difference between a dining room table set with grandma's good china and a spontaneous picnic on the living room floor.
Oh, why beat around the bush — some people think natives look like weeds.
The native vs. non-native camps, while not as contentious as Chicago's car vs. bicycle factions, have differing visions of what constitutes a garden. Where the native practitioner sees an eco-friendly habitat, their neighbor sees a swath of unruly there-goes-my-property-value overgrowth reminiscent of the scruff you find on the side of the highway.
I exaggerate. Sort of.
Natives' untamed appearance is exacerbated by their propensity to spread aggressively when left to their own devices.
This summer, my coneflowers jumped the curb that separates our yard from an adjacent park, taking root in the slim patch of dirt between concrete and fence. Azaleas don't pull that kind of crap, but dandelions do.
The city, in its role as mediator of the is-it-or-isn't-it-a-weed debate, has responded with mixed messages.
On the one had, rebates are available to homeowners who send in receipts showing the purchase of native plants, part of a program that also supports "green" efforts like planting a tree or setting up a rain barrel.
On the other hand, folks are being slapped with fines for "weeds" when in fact they're growing nothing of the kind.
At a recent community forum, Charles Williams, commissioner of the Department of Streets & Sanitation, clarified the city's position.
"We encourage you to plant native plants, but it has to be maintained, it has to be trimmed," Williams said.
Too many people misinterpret native plants' low maintenance as no maintenance, and that's where they run afoul of the city, he said.
"Some say, 'OK, now I don't have to care for them,'" said Williams. "Then neighbors complain. If you're allowing it to take up half the sidewalk, that's encroaching on the public way."
The distinction the city draws is between going native and going wild. Examples of native done right can be found at River and Legion parks, where the Park District maintains a mowed border between its prairie plantings and a bike path that runs parallel. Waters Elementary, known for its ecology program, also does an excellent job of keeping its natives contained.
Vigilance and education are key.
Got asters? They're either going to need staking to keep them from flopping onto the sidewalk or "pinching" to produce a bushy, less stalky stem. Fond of goldenrod? Be prepared to thin it to keep it from crowding out everything else.
My own Unidentified Native Kilbourn Plant, which I found a home for in one of my smaller flower beds, multiplied like crazy in its second year, going from a single stem to at least a dozen (and that was after regenerating following a decapitating weed-whacker attack back in May).
I figured it might behoove me to learn what kind of monster I had on my hands, so I finally cracked open the copy of "Taylor's Guide to Perennials" I picked up at a used bookstore last winter.
The guide, bless its anthropomorphized soul, is organized by color of flower. I flipped to the yellow pages, which is what the UNKP produces, and discovered to my surprise and semi-horror, that I had unwittingly planted a perennial variety of sunflower, likely to achieve heights of 6 feet or more. Not remotely what I had in mind, or the least bit appropriate for where I placed them in the yard.
I'm going to have to move them. Something tells me they'd be really happy in that scrappy patch between curb and fence.
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