The natural house

Despite more than a century of change, the natural order that had existed for millennia sought to return

By RICHARD WALKER

Moving from Cape San Juan, a neighborhood on Cattle Pass on the southern end of San Juan Island, Washington, was not easy. We were awakened every morning by oystercatchers. Deer regularly napped in our yard. Nootka roses scented the air. Seals bobbed their heads up near the shore, seemingly as curious about us as we were of them. The eagle’s cry and raven’s call were our music during walks on the beach, which had once been a village where my wife Molly’s Samish ancestors lived.

This is not a knock against Poulsbo, where Molly and I lived from 2011-18. Every Salish Sea community is unique in ways that make each so special. But we hadn’t found that specialness yet when we bought our house in this city of 11,000 people on the Kitsap Peninsula west of Seattle. And Molly was having San Juan withdrawals after we moved in.

“Don’t think for a minute that this is going to be my forever home,” she said one morning while in the kitchen. “And …”

She stopped, then exclaimed, “Oh, my, that’s a spotted towhee!”

Indeed it was. Turns out, our property was near the end of a tree line that begins in a forested area of the city, and we would soon discover that our quarter-acre at the end of a cul de sac was habitat.

Our hearts, influenced by years of island life, began to soften toward our suburban home as we received regular visits from hummingbirds, Steller’s jays, ravens, robins, and towhees; raccoons, opossum, rabbits, and red squirrels. Just as we had on the island, we committed ourselves to caring for this place employing values influenced by Molly’s indigenous heritage – reduce and reuse; no fertilizers, herbicides or pesticides. Our emphasis was native plants: they tell the story of a place and are suited for the climate and soil conditions.

As we embarked on our new adventure, this place would regularly reveal something about its true nature.

Surprises at every turn

The house was nondescript — a single-story, 1,600-square-foot rambler built in 1989. In preparation for being placed on the market, painters had painted the house the color of … well, if you miss the Seattle SuperSonics, you would have liked the color selection.

The roof needed replacement. So did the crawl-space vapor barrier and insulation, thanks to rats or mice that had made their home there. Window screen frames were off the windows, and several were missing screens. Inside, the carpet had pet urine stains and needed to be replaced. The interior would have to be repainted.

Outside, graveled areas were weedy. Fence panels were missing. A pond, which a neighbor said had been filled with koi until raccoons feasted on them, was muddy and devoid of life. A forsythia hedge had gone wild, tearing up fencing and the roof over the firewood storage area. A fir had been so invaded by blackberry vines that it appeared to be a fruit-bearing tree.

On the northern property line, Photinia × fraseri had been maintained as a hedge; on the southern property line, Photinia × fraseri had been allowed to grow to tree height.

The seller, who had rented out the house for several years, reportedly cried when she saw the condition of her once well-maintained gardens. Blackberries, dandelions, ivy and vinca reigned.

We consulted our niece, an architect and landscape designer, who worried about the work that lay ahead of us.

And yet, of the houses we looked at possibly buying, this one seemed to speak to us. It had, as they say in real estate, “good bones.” The house had been sited and built with care, with maple doors and maple trim throughout. The layout was simple and sensible, well-designed for aging in place. The neighborhood over the fence is served by natural gas; the builder of our home paid to connect to that line, and our home was the only one in our neighborhood with natural gas.

The property gets plenty of sun and the west-facing front offers a partial view of the Olympic Mountains. A steep forested slope to the east means the immediate neighbors over the fence would be wildlife.

I thought of the scene in “Grey Gardens,” when Little Edie Beale sold her neglected home in East Hampton to The Washington Post’s Ben Bradlee and his wife, Sally Quinn, exclaiming, “All it needs is a coat of paint!”

We made the jump.

We didn’t have a lot of extra money; DIY on a tight budget required patience and a commitment for the long haul. But the rewards were worth it.

First, the exterior paint: Molly chose earthy colors that blended in with the surrounding natural elements.

Getting to work in the gardens, I found a boat anchor in an overgrown shrub. My niece painted it to look like bunny ears – our first whimsical outdoor art. A newspaper tube, long hidden by overgrown shrubs, found new life as a holder for garden tools and gloves. Rebar, stakes, surplus posts and other reusable objects were collected from around the property and stored for later use.

I removed vinca from the southern side of the house, unknowingly setting free a bank of orange-yellow irises. 

We filled in the pond — shaded by a large, fruitless-plum tree — and planted a garden of grasses that our cats loved to play in. Rocks from the pond were used to make a border for a native-plant garden on the north side of the property, with currants, Indian berries, honeysuckle and lupine.

Cedars, blue spruces and pines were limbed up, creating a healthier understory for woodland plants.

Grass was cut back, revealing stone edging around a back lawn. In the front, ivy was removed, revealing rock borders and a rock retaining wall. Ivy removal freed wild roses and other plants that had been choked. Wild crocus, columbine and roses made their appearance, seemingly welcoming other native plants we added.

Learning about the history of this place helped me understand why the life outside my door was meant to be there.

The natural order returns

Until 13,000 years ago, this region was covered in ice. Retreating glaciers left deposits in their wake, and various trees and vegetation flourished in the glacial till. That explains the large glacial rock I struck while digging a post hole for a fence.

The south fork of Dogfish Creek springs out of the ground nearby, winding its way to the creek’s main stem and what was, during the time of the grandparents’ grandparents, the Suquamish Tribe village of ho-cheeb. Then as now, the estuary is habitat for juvenile chum, coho, and cutthroat that are preparing for life at sea.

The land was altered beginning in the 1880s. Trees were felled, land was cleared and tilled and graded. Homes and farms came and went (only three homes from 1912-16 remain in the neighborhood. Introduced plants — Himalayan blackberries, Scotch broom — choked out native vegetation.

My house was built on what was the Gust Alness farm in the early 1900s. Alness sold a portion of that farm to the city for a cemetery. “The cemetery property is very gravelly, so it really wouldn’t have been suitable to grow much of anything … as anyone who has tried to grow grass up there knows,” Poulsbo historian Judy Driscoll reported. Like me, Alness had encountered the area’s glacial past.

For many years, land development in Poulsbo meant clearing the land of all trees and vegetation, building the structures, then replanting — a practice Mayor Becky Erickson sought to end with the requirement that a certain number of trees remain during site preparation.

And yet, despite more than a century of change, the natural order that had existed for millennia sought to return.

Native plants were thriving on our property when we sold it in 2018. Nootka roses scent the air on warm spring and summer days, and produce shoots that I potted and transplanted. Camas and chocolate fritillaria and huckleberries thrived. What had once been a secondary gravel driveway and parking area for an RV was reclaimed by grasses and plants that I, a former city dweller, once considered weeds. I once had to postpone mowing because the clover was abuzz with bees. And I learned to appreciate dandelion and purslane; more on that in a bit.

The property evolved into a veritable “store outside our door”: cucumbers, edible flowers, grapes, kale, lettuce, potatoes, radishes, spinach, sugar peas, tomatoes, tomatillos, zucchini, as well as different types of native berries for jam, rose hips for winter tea and chocolate mint for summer tea. (In spring, I often snacked on fir tips, which are rich in Vitamins A and C.)

Our back yard became a nursery for seedlings that sprouted in places they were not likely to do well. A couple of young evergreens were dug up, potted, nursed and, when healthy, donated to the city parks department. A hemlock that sprouted up through the gravel next to a garden fence was replanted in the grove behind our property. Rather than install a gate behind our house, I installed a removable fence panel that provides easy access to that line of firs, pines, hemlocks and madronas – much easier for removal of invasive species such as Scotch broom.

Everything had a purpose. The property generates plenty of plant stuff for compost. Rain catchment supplies a season of water for plants that must be watered by hand. Dandelions? Sure, I deadheaded them. But I appreciated how those strong, rat-tail roots dig deep, breaking through gravelly soil so other grasses could grow. (According to the Jamestown S’Klallam Tribe, dandelion — edible from blossom to root — is high in calcium, iron, magnesium, potassium, and vitamins A, B and C. Also edible: Purslane, plantain and mallow.)

We had help from some unexpected partners. Moles did a great job breaking up that tough, gravelly soil. Wasps ate aphids that would otherwise harm our plants.

I grew up in a Southern California suburb where fertilizers, herbicides and pesticides were considered as necessary to yard care as a mower and edger. But I’ve found that by working with the land rather than against it — allowing it to be what it was intended to be, rather than trying to make it be what I want it to be — the natural order will return.

I am grateful for what our Poulsbo home taught me — and for the rewards that came from working as a partner with the land. 

Richard Arlin Walker is a journalist and merchant mariner living in Anacortes, Washington.