I shared my prairie with a four year old this weekend. We took about five steps down one of the wood chip paths I’d created and he exclaimed, “It’s a jungle!”

“Yes it is,” I said. “Can you find the way?”

Without hesitation he said, “I’m Tarzan. I have a knife. You follow me.”  And he was off.

We explored every trail, backtracking on dead ends, forging ahead when the path disappeared in the undergrowth, searching with equal enthusiasm for butterflies and snakes. My young Tarzan’s imagination was in full flower.

I was as excited as he.  This was exactly how I had imagined children responding to the prairie. Even though I laid these paths only a month ago, they have almost been consumed by the rapidly growing vegetation.  It is a jungle in there! With plants reaching six foot tall or higher, a youngster who stands only three foot tall could easily lose himself in the jungle and the adventure.

‘Tarzan’s’ grandmother who followed along on this prairie jungle trek commented that she’s been told children lose that active imagination by the time they reach third grade.  The structure of our educational system takes it out of them, she said.

If true, that’s sad. But it makes me even happier that I created this prairie. Happy that I let a child’s imagination run wild for one afternoon. Hopeful that the prairie planted a seed of memory that child may return to as he grows up. A memory of a prairie jungle where he and his imagination could run free.

The prairie popped with new flowers this week. Many  sent me scurrying back to my Tallgrass Prairie Wildflowerbook for help with identification.

This lilac beauty is one I knew – Wild Bergamot, Monarda fistulosa. Wild Bergamot bloomed in profusion along the trail I often walked when we lived in West Des Moines. It’s a member of the mint family. Good for making tea.

This exotic bloom – a triple decker that looks more like a Carmen Miranda hat – is Spotted Bee Balm, Monarda punctata- a relative of the Wild Bergamot.  The colors will be more intense as the flower matures and I’ll post another photo as it happens. For now, just know that the true flowers are the pale yellow petals with purple spots that are tucked under the larger leaves, which are the flower bracts.

Canadian milk vetch, Astragalus canadensis, looked a lot like Partridge Pea before it bloomed.  Not surprising since they’re both in the bean family (Fabaceae). The leaves are fern-like.

Just as a reminder, here is a Partridge Pea. These delicate little annual plants grow in abundance throughout the prairie and this week have come into bloom.

Another plant that is showing it’s color is the Gray-headed coneflower, Ratibida pinnata.  This flower caused me to question my first identification. The cone is definitely gray at the outset, but as the seeds fill in, it becomes more brown. You can see this phenomenon on the flower at the bottom. There is a Yellow coneflower, Echinacea paradoxa, so I wondered.  At least one difference, though, is height. Yellow coneflowers are 2-3 ft. tall. Gray-headed coneflowers are taller. The book says 4 ft. The ones in my prairie are 5ft.+. So I’ll keep looking for Yellow coneflowers.

Sweet Black-eyed susans are also blooming this week. In a photo, you can’t tell them from Black-eyed susans. In person, the Sweet variety is much taller – 6 ft. – and the blooms are much smaller – less than 2 in. across.

With all these new blooms, the prairie is well on its way to showing all its color, but there’s much more to look forward to. I’ve identified only 9 of the 37 species I planted last year.

I took my husband with me when I walked out to the prairie this morning. I couldn’t resist having a photo to mark brilliant sunshine on such a mass of yellow flowers. And they are gorgeous!

“Are they all yellow?” David asked.  Sure looks like it, doesn’t it? So far, they’re all Black-eyed Susans, but more types of plants are close to blooming and they all look to be opening up yellow, too.  Or so it seems on first glance.

Just this week, I spotted the first Purple Coneflower. A single purple bloom standing amidst all that yellow. How brave. How beautiful.

Since most of the plants are quite tall – at least the ones that appear close to blooming, I pick my way through the prairie, generally looking up. I look down in a sometimes futile attempt not to step on plants I’ve been trying to nurture.

On one such downward glance, I spotted another dot of purple. A plant I had not seen before and did not know by name. The distinct blossom of Purple Prairie Cover was easy to identify in my prairie flower book. Tucked in amongst the taller prairie plants (look closely; can you see it?), the clover – only a foot tall – would have been easy to miss if not for its purple flower.

This walk in the prairie reinforced an axiom I learned about nature during a walk in Alaska: it pays to look up, look down, look all around. The walk in Alaska involved a moose. But that’s another story.

On Memorial Day weekend 2009, I planted a prairie.  It’s custom to give presents to the one having the birthday, but in this case, the gifts I see as I celebrate my prairie’s first full year have all come to me.  Gifts like patience, time with nature, and an understanding of who’s in charge.

Crab grass abounded last year. I attempted to control it. To no avail. In spite of all that crab grass, prairie plants are everywhere this year. My anxiety about what was or was not growing mattered not in the least. My efforts to identify each plant gave me something to occupy the time while I waited and watched, but for a novice like me, truly identifying a plant will have to wait until I can see the flowers. Maybe this year. Maybe next.

Go away and come back in three years.  This was the advice of a prairie veteran.  As spring unfolded this year and I watched the prairie emerge, I have thought often of the wisdom of his words. A prairie takes time. A prairie can look pretty messy in the process. A prairie may arrive in a way we don’t expect. Just like people. Just like me.

Some of the plants are getting ready to blossom. Some are still very small; they may or may not blossom this year. Where are my seven-foot prairie grasses? I haven’t a clue. 

Ultimately, the prairie is going to do what it is going to do. And I can be patient, watch and learn. Or if that’s not possible, I can go away and come back in three years.  Even though in year one, the prairie revealed my tendency to obsessive-compulsive disorder, I’m going to enjoy year two. The gifts my prairie is giving me are just too good to pass up.

What a delight to see Partridge Peas in my prairie this week!  Partridge Peas were the first plant to bloom in my prairie last summer – the only one, really, if we forget the one sunflower that bloomed late in the season.  Partridge Peas were the only plant I could, without any doubt, name.

Seeing the fern-like leaves of Partridge Peas this spring is like seeing an old friend after a long absence.  I am excited to renew the acquaintance, eager to learn how things have gone since we last met, keen to see what is new.

Compared to some of the other forbs that  populate the prairie this spring, some standing more than a foot tall, I am surprised the Partridge Pea is so tiny. Apparently, Partridge Peas start anew each year. But, plants – like people – can be surprising. Though it looks delicate, I know the Partridge pea will persist against pervasive crab grass. It will flower throughout the season. It will grow tall and strong in a single season. It will hold its own. Plus, this little plant alone gave me hope last summer, hope that my prairie would take hold, would become something.

It is important to me to be able to call the plants by name. To recognize them for who they are, with their unique attributes. I imagine they like it when I do.  Just like people. It is an honor to be called by name. It shows respect to remember and call others by their names.

As the summer progresses, I trust I’ll learn the names of other plants in the prairie (like these plants – what are they?!). And they’ll become friends I welcome back year after year.

The lawn is emerald green. The trees leaf out. Violets dot the lawn with splashes of lavender. The inevitable dandelions bloom. But from a distance, the prairie is brown.

It is only 11 months since I prepared the land and seeded this prairie. So, this is my first spring and I don’t really know what to expect. Snow blanketed the prairie from early December until mid-March, leaving me to wonder what happened to tender seedlings under all that cold. Did anything make it?

From a distance, it’s brown. A closer look reveals something quite different. A vole tunnel proves that even under the snow the prairie was alive. Plants of all sorts are forcing their way through crab grass residue. Camera in hand, I snap photos of each different seedling, hoping to know now what flowers I may see later this year.

Some of the plants are robust, clearly in their second year of growth. Some are tiny, first-year babies. All that I see so far are ‘forbs,’ ‘a herbaceous flowering plant other than a grass.’  I have yet to spot any prairie grass but trust these species are coming and must assume they emerge later.

Back in the house, I sit with photos and a prairie seedling identification guide in hand. (Tallgrass Prairie Wildflowers) It is a tad disappointing to find that the best I can do is say that a plant is an aster of some type or a cone flower of some type or a sunflower of some type. In some future year I may be skilled enough to recognize the differences at the seedling stage, but for right now, no.

Because I am me, I am overly eager to do something to curtail the dandelions in the prairie. I can hear one of my brothers in law already, “Aren’t dandelions a native plant?” Ha. Ha. I know not to talk with them about the challenge with dandelions, crab grass and barnyard grass!

It’s a delight to find that my baby prairie is back and thriving. Already I can spend hours walking around and through, watching as new seedlings emerge.  Discovering, learning, experiencing something new every day.

An editorial by Dick Doak in the Des Moines Register suggested ‘painting Iowa’s landscape’ with prairies. Establishing native prairie as a botanical signature for Iowa in the same way saguaro cacti are for Arizona. Restored prairies across Iowa would invite everyone to discover, learn, and experience an amazing piece of nature.  I’m all for it.