| 008 | Spring Begins in Autumn
I’m sure you know the feeling.
It’s one of those first warm days in spring. The air has softened just enough that you leave your jacket unzipped, and suddenly every neighborhood seems transformed. Daffodils spill over garden edges. Tulips stand at attention in impossible shades of pink and orange. Flowering trees that looked lifeless only weeks ago are covered in blossoms.
You walk past someone’s front yard and think to yourself:
“Next year, I’m planting bulbs.”
Then fall arrives.
Life gets busy. The evenings get darker. You tell yourself you’ll do it next weekend. Before you know it, winter has arrived, and you’ve once again missed your chance.
Two years ago, I didn’t miss my chance.
That autumn, I tucked more than 200 bulbs into the ground, each one carrying a piece of the spring I imagined.
And yet I only managed to grow two tulips.
The squirrels, on the other hand, were absolutely thriving.
Around the center of my garden, I had carefully planned a ring of purple crocuses that I imagined would become a halo of spring color. Instead, every single one disappeared. The tulips fared little better, and although Narcissus (daffodils) are generally avoided by most mammals, the squirrels seemed determined to investigate every flower pot I’d planted. They dug them up repeatedly, apparently convinced I had buried something more palatable beneath the soil.
Eventually, I gave up on replanting them.
The moment that still haunts my thoughts occurred a few weeks later.
One of my very few surviving tulips had finally formed a flower bud. I happened to glance out the window just in time to watch a squirrel trot across the yard, stand on its hind legs, and casually stuff the lone bud into its cheeks before scampering away.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so thoroughly outwitted by a rodent.
Last year, with a limited budget and little confidence that any bulbs would survive, I decided to skip spring flowers altogether.
This year, however, I’ve been plotting, planning, and preparing.
Fortunately, nature has already done much of the work for us.
Narcissus (daffodils) contain lycorine, a naturally occurring alkaloid that makes the bulbs both bitter and toxic to most mammals. Curious squirrels may still dig one up or take a tentative bite, but they generally decide they aren’t worth the trouble. Allium (ornamental onions) rely on a different defense. When their tissues are damaged, sulfur-containing compounds, including allicin, produce the unmistakable onion-like scent that many mammals find unappealing.
This year, I’m hoping to recruit these allies. The Narcissus and Allium will serve as the knights of my garden, standing guard over the tulips tucked between them. If a squirrel samples one daffodil or catches the scent of an allium, perhaps it’ll decide the entire planting isn’t worth the effort.
The alliums standing strong behind their fallen tulip companions
I’m also planning to protect newly planted containers with wire until the soil has settled and hide my plantings beneath a thick layer of mulch. Freshly disturbed soil is practically an invitation to every squirrel in the neighborhood. Once they’ve investigated and found nothing appealing, they’re usually much less interested in returning.
Will it work?
Honestly, I have no idea.
Gardening has a remarkable way of keeping us humble.
Every season begins with a plan and usually ends with a lesson you weren’t expecting to learn. Sometimes those lessons come from late frosts. Sometimes they come from drought. And sometimes they come from an overconfident squirrel with excellent timing.
But I suppose that’s part of why I enjoy gardening so much. You don’t just learn about plants; you learn to observe, to notice patterns and to ask why something failed instead of simply replacing it. And every so often, you find yourself locked in an entirely one-sided rivalry with the local wildlife.
This fall, I’ll be planting bulbs again. The squirrels are welcome to believe they’re winning. We’ll see what spring has to say about that.