How my visit to Orange County inspired one of my New Year’s resolutions

Jill Severn

We are lucky to live in a land where Christmas trees – which is to say evergreens – grow all around us, to sizes that must impress Santa as he and his reindeer fly overhead.

I’m especially grateful for all our trees this week because I spent last weekend in Orange County, California. Its iconic palm trees are, to northwest eyes, pathetic. I realize that’s a harsh statement, but face it: they’re tall, gangly bare stems topped by meager tufts of fronds. And they’re not even native.

It’s true that Orange County does have other species of palms that are more attractive. Some people even grow a few of the smaller ones here – possibly homesick people from California or Florida.

And the scarcity of what we regard as real trees is one of Orange County’s smaller problems. The bigger problem is that the county is a miasma of unchecked suburban growth, unaffordable housing, endless pavement and nearly complete estrangement from the natural world.

Orange County has 34 incorporated cities and towns, many of which have grown together (like Lacey, Olympia and Tumwater) into a gigantic mass of tightly packed single-family housing developments and strip malls with enormous parking lots. Especially when viewed from the air, the vastness of the sprawl is breathtaking.

The relative I visited rents a room in a modest, smallish house, probably built about 1970. He estimates this house would sell for about $800,000. The median house price in Orange County is $1.3 million.

Across the street, several of these older, smaller houses have been torn down and replaced with much bigger, fancier ones. All of them are on small lots, with tiny yards. And most of the space in those front yards has been paved to create more parking. Most of the back yard at my relative’s house was paved, too. Why on earth would anyone pave their backyard?

My visit to an alien planet

Pavement is a cruel ruler. Streets and freeways are clogged with cars at all hours, and it’s extremely rare to see a pedestrian or a bicyclist. Buses are rarer still. For someone from our damp, verdant homeland, it looks like an alien planet.

When asked about parks, trails, or natural areas, my young relative only knew of one: a park mostly dedicated to ball fields, acres of lawn, and a couple of playgrounds with slides and monkey bars. The wildest it got was a duck pond.

Yes, it is sunny there. But what’s the value of a blue sky if the sun shines only on pavement?

Surely there are gardeners around somewhere. But if there are gardeners, they hide their private Edens behind backyard fences, and you’d have to be taller than Brittney Griner to see over them. For most people – the landless ones who can’t afford those $1.3 million houses – a life of rented rooms, cars and strip malls is the norm.

Nature-deficit disorder

If my young relative and his friends are typical, the county definitely suffers from an epidemic of “nature-deficit disorder,” a term coined by Richard Louv in his 2005 book Last Child in the Woods.

His original concern was for children who spend little or no time playing outdoors and spend too much time in front of screens. But the malady is rampant among adults as well. Its documented results include higher rates of obesity, aggression, and depression; shorter attention spans and less ability to cope with stress.

Its corollary is “place blindness” – that is, a disconnection from the specific natural habitat, climate and biological diversity of a person’s home territory. (This idea is not the same as a neurological condition that is also sometimes referred to as place blindness.)

In the paved Orange County town ironically named Garden Grove, place blindness is inevitable because there is no natural habitat or biological diversity to see. It would make Richard Louv weep.

Fortunately, Louv’s writings have inspired national legislation, a broad national coalition, a Washington state grant program and activities in our state parks.

And fortunately, in our corner of the world, it’s the rare window that doesn’t look out on one or many real trees – trees whose branches provide habitat for birds, insects and the occasional squirrel family. It’s the rare street that doesn’t see an occasional deer, and the rare backyard that is not visited by raccoons or possums in the night. It may also be the rare neighborhood that has not lost a cat to a hungry coyote.

Our county is rich in parks – not only ball fields and play equipment but trails and parks with real forests, streams and wetlands. In five minutes, we can leave whatever town we are in and drive or bike past pastures on quiet, two-lane roads.

The peril in this

We take all this for granted at our peril. Having fir, hemlock, cedar and maple trees rather than spindly palms is good fortune; planning for a future without endless suburban sprawl is good governance.

It’s not enough to be good gardeners; we need to be vigilant citizens too. It’s not enough to learn to grow the best tomatoes or the most beautiful flowers; we need to learn how to grow communities without losing the legacy of the natural world entrusted to us.

Paying close attention to local land use issues should be among our new year’s resolutions.

Jill Severn writes from her home in Olympia, where she grows vegetables, flowers, and a small flock of chickens. She loves conversation among gardeners. Start one by emailing her at  jill@theJOLTnews.com