On being a verger

 I think of myself as a verger, a person who lives in The Verge, the edge between city and forest.

You can see what I’m talking about at this time of year. The trees in all the gardens say it’s spring. The Atlanta area is covered in white and pink blossoms. The white blooms are Bradford pears, Pyrus calleryana, and the pink flowers are Magnolia liliiflora. Both are from Asia, but every yard in the Atlanta area seems to have at least one.

In the forests, red maple, Acer rubrum, and Eastern redbuds, Cercis canadensis, are blooming, but the hardwoods have yet to put out leaves.

The invasives say spring is here, while the natives say spring is coming.

The natives are pretty, but the invasives are spectacular.

I’m aware of the havoc invasive species can cause on fragile ecosystems. I also find the concept of “invasive” troubling.

When the Mayflower landed in Massachusetts, the pilgrims, an invasive variety of an established species, brought seeds for corn and other things they planned to eat. In those days, “purity” was a casual idea in handling seeds. A lot of English wildflowers came over in sacks of grain.

As invaders, the Englishmen did a lot more damage than the bluebells.

I’m interested in why some invaders thrive while others don’t. The hordes of starlings we see are the descendants of a birds introduced in New York in 1890. But the Eurasian skylark, a bird whose songs are so lovely that all the poets of Europe write about them, just doesn’t do well in North America.

• Note: For an older note, see “Living in The Verge,” Sept. 23, 2024.