Almost 4 years ago, when we began house-hunting in Chattanooga, David asked me what tree I wanted at our new house. "A Japanese maple," was my easy and immediate response.
See, we're yard/plant/tree people. Sure, we had the regular checklist of 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, and plenty of counter space in the kitchen, but we also wanted a vibrant yard with plants and apparently a Japanese maple tree.
When we walked into our soon-to-be-new home for the first time, it was the built-ins in the kitchen that stole my heart, the large front porch and even larger bedrooms that sealed the deal, and the relatively young Japanese maple already thriving in the front yard that was the cherry on top. We'd found our dream house.
The bright red leaves of our Japanese maple during our first Spring together, April 2016.
Though that Japanese maple was present, along with a sugar maple in the front yard and a Eastern redbud in the backyard, our new yard was devoid of any kind of landscaping. And so we've spent season after season in our home turning it into the sanctuary we always wanted it to be, slowly but surely, and we were excited to see what this year, the rewarding fourth summer in such a project, would bring.
Our new hügelkultur and green bean teepee, April 2017. We learned about hügelkultur gardening in The Garden Awakening, one of my all-time favorite books.
Our fully-loaded green bean teepee, woven with volunteer Morning Glories, August 2017.
That is until we got a letter a few months ago from the EPA saying that our yard was heavily contaminated with lead, and it required immediate remediation - which meant it would be dug up and removed. ASAP.
What.
We went through all the stages of grief, which we luckily had a few weeks to do as the last of the Winter rains passed through.
First, we considered getting tested again, because "that dark, sandy soil is just nutrient-rich, right?" Nope - it was toxic.
We were reassured that as long as we weren't eating dirt or growing root vegetables, we were likely fine. The first thing we grew in our yard were these beets, July 2016. [facepalm]
We were mad. All of our hard work was literally going to the dump, and not by any fault of our own, but because at some point it was common to backfill lawns with loads of lead-filled sand from the local foundry. Talk about paying for the sins of our forefathers.
The thought of losing my trees - yes, that Japanese maple tree in the front yard - had me making decisions about what I'd do if worst came to worst and my trees had to go. My conclusion: I'd move. I didn't know if I could love this house any longer if I had to watch every living thing be ripped up by the roots.
That anger easily led into depression about the whole process, and our decision to buy this dreamy house in the first place. Every Winter since we've moved in has brought some sort of unexpected catastrophe, and though the hot water heater and immediate roof replacement felt necessary and just part of the expected responsibilities of home ownership, this yard thing was next level ridiculous.
But soon we began to accept what needed to happen. Once we found out our kid didn't have lead poisoning, that the contractors would prioritize saving my trees, and we made a plan to dig up and preserve some of our most beloved plants, we started to see the silver linings of the entire process.
By having our yard dug up we were receiving a remarkable opportunity to start over. We were being given a clean slate from which we could reimagine our outdoor living spaces and gardens anew, but this time with the experience of having watched and used these spaces for years already.
Saving the heirloom daffodils that came with the house, March 2019.
And, most importantly (as I've had to remind myself over and over) it would be safe for us, for anyone who visits, and for anyone who might call this house and land their home after us.
By the time the contractors arrived to dig and remove, we were honestly excited.
David and I took off work to watch the excavation. With two diggers and a dump truck in our tiny yard, they got to work, and within a few days the lead was gone, my trees remained, and new clay and topsoil were being put back in our yard. Within 2 weeks, our new lawn was lead-free and seeded, with almost 100 plants living on our front porch - some saved from before and others new to replace what was removed, waiting to be put in the ground.
But I won't lie, it was gut-wrenching to see our once-lush yard look like this. Clay layer complete, top soil to follow, April 2018.
For a few weeks before, during, and after, we contemplated our new yard. We made diagrams and lists and plans. Once we dared to begin walking on our baby grass seedlings, we started putting our gardens back together, starting with raised vegetable garden beds and my kitchen herb garden. We've spent weeks planting, planting, and planting - and now that they're all in the ground, we begin the careful waiting and tending that is gardening - the co-creation of us and nature.
New milkweed and a salvaged violet living on the front steps, waiting to be planted, May 2019.
It's not how we'd planned to spend our Spring - starting fresh like this - but it feels aligned, as unexpected upheavals often do. And though it's wasn't the dreamiest project I could have come up with for this season, I am grateful that it was the best case scenario, given the situation.
And I'm grateful that we're healthy, that my trees are safe, and that we can walk around barefoot and eat from our land without fear of harm.
I'm eager to share as we've started over, as our yard is one of my greatest sources of joy. So, welcome to my field notes, stories and observations of a nature lover with a little piece of land. It's time to start over.
Emily is the co-founder of Almanac Supply Co., where she loves curating products for Nature Lovers and crafting content to help folks connect with nature. Her favorite season is Summer, when she can visit her favorite creeks and spend long days on her front porch.
