Anthropomorphizing Anna’s Hummingbirds

Posted on Published by Eugene Eric Kim
Photo by Sujean Kim

I visited Seattle last week with my sisters and my younger nephew, Benjamin, who lives in Cincinnati. On one of our walks, Benjamin saw an Anna’s Hummingbird, and pointed it out to his mom as excitedly as a chill teenager might. We saw a few over the course of the week and always stopped to watch them flit about.

My friend, Aaron, lives in Michigan and is another hummingbird fan. When he and his family came to visit a few years ago, his enthusiasm made me realize that I take them a bit for granted, as we have them here year-round. We have at least two who live near our backyard. I’m watching one now, out my office window, darting between blossoms on our Meyer Lemon tree as the last remnants of the summer light fades away.

I try not to anthropomorphize animals too much, but it’s hard. Hummingbirds seem adorable, but they have a mean streak. Often, when I’m in the backyard, they will swoop nearby and hover, sometimes just a few feet away. I usually hear them before I see them, a steady stream of clicks and the telltale hum. I used to think they were just being curious or were coming by to say hello. I think it’s more likely that they’re being territorial and are making it clear to me that I’m not wanted.

Last Friday, I saw through my window that one of the hummingbirds had flown through a gap through my enclosed raised bed and was struggling to get out. I immediately went outside and opened the door so that it could escape.

It could be my imagination, but I feel like that hummingbird has made it a point to visit me every day since. This morning, I sat on my bench examining one of my unfinished projects, when the hummingbird flew a foot away from me and hovered. I looked at it and said hello. It looked at me calmly for several seconds, as if it were returning the greeting, silent except for the steady vibration of its wings.

I like to think that it’s decided that I’m its friend and is easing up on its territorial ways. It’s also possible that it’s still irritated that it got trapped in my cage and is making a point of letting me know.

It doesn’t matter. I think it’s wonderful. I feel very lucky.

Forsythia, the Stories Plants Tell, and the Bonds They Forge

Posted on Published by Eugene Eric Kim

Overcoming nature blindness does a strange thing to you when you travel: You start to pay an inordinate amount of attention to the local plants, sometimes to the annoyance of the folks with whom you’re traveling. When I was in upstate New York last month, I couldn’t help but notice the forsythia.

They were everywhere. You couldn’t miss their abundant yellow blossoms amidst the mostly barren branches, as Spring was just starting to emerge there. I saw them by the Finger Lakes, off the sides of the roads, and in just about every garden I passed. Much to my partner’s chagrin, every time I saw one, I would point and exclaim, “Forsythia!”

It turns out that this was no accident. In the early 1950s, the Ithaca Garden Club embarked on a major campaign to plant forsythia all over the region. They planted over 10,000 of these beautiful shrubs, earning the city the nickname, “Forsythia City.”

Last week, I was in Southern California visiting my parents. My Dad asked me how my bonsai dabblings were going. I pulled up photos of some of my projects, including some cuttings I had taken from my parents a few years earlier. My Mom quietly listened to me talk, then asked, “Do you know what 개나리 (gaenari) are?”

I shook my head.

She started telling me about these shrubs that were harbingers of spring in Korea and how her father (who died when she was 11) used to plant them around their garden. As I listened to her stories, I looked them up on my phone, then laughed, “Oh my gosh. They’re forsythia!”

I told her about my adventures in upstate New York and pulled up photos from my trip to show her. Then I asked, “What made you think of them?”

She replied, “Listening to you talk reminded me of my Dad.” Then tears started welling up in her eyes.

Later, I searched for “forsythia” in my photo album to see if it would be smart enough to find my photos. It not only found several, it also pulled up a photo and video of a bouquet I had taken almost exactly nine years earlier with my parents at a coffee shop in Newport Beach.

My Mom had spotted the bouquet and asked me if I knew what they were. Her reaction to the flowers moved me enough that I asked her to let me record them on video. She even sang a Korean children’s song about them.

Apparently, I quickly forgot about this encounter and about forsythia in general. I don’t think I’ll forget this time.

Pruning Downward Branches

Posted on Published by Eugene Eric Kim

I recently dipped my toes into the world of bonsai. It all started last spring with Sammy the Squirrel, my frenemy and garden nemesis, who planted a Coast Live Oak acorn in a potted mint plant that I was going to give away. I have no room to plant a full-sized oak tree, but I couldn’t bear to kill it, so I decided to re-pot it with the intention of raising it as a bonsai. I didn’t know this at the time, but this essentially means keeping the tree alive and thriving for the first few years of its life until it’s ready to start shaping into a miniature tree. In the meantime, I wanted to start developing my skills so that when my little oak tree was ready, I had some idea of what to do with it.

I decided to join the East Bay Bonsai Society, which is a wonderful community of bonsai enthusiasts and an amazing resource for beginners like me. At the first meeting, I met another beginner who had started a little rosemary bonsai. “Ingenious,” I exclaimed! Rosemary is a woody herb that’s plentiful and hardy, and it seemed like the perfect practice vehicle. It just so happened that I had a spare pot of rosemary that I had grown from a cutting, so I decided to convert that into a bonsai.

I brought my plant to the East Bay Bonsai Society’s annual re-potting party. Folks there were incredibly generous, and they walked me through the necessary steps to fit my rosemary into a tiny bonsai pot. Part of the process consisted of doing some initial pruning so that the rosemary could focus its attention on regenerating its roots rather than on supporting excess foliage. One of the members, Ian, offered some basic rules of thumb to guide me through the process.

One of those guidelines was to trim branches that were growing downward. Those branches were shielded from the light, and they likely were going to grow weak and die anyway. I found a stem that had a branch growing up and a branch growing down, and I said, “So do you think I should trim this downward branch?”

Ian paused. “Maybe,” he said. “But, you could also trim the upward branch, which would expose the downward branch to light and cause the branch to curve upward again. That might give you an interesting shape in the future. It’s up to you!”

Ian didn’t realize it, but he had cemented my faith in him as a teacher. As a beginner, I found the idea of pruning even a small herb overwhelming. I had no idea what I was doing, and no vision for what I wanted it to eventually be. I needed guidance, but I didn’t want to blindly follow a set of rules without understanding their intent. I didn’t want to know what to do, I wanted to know how to think about it. Ian provided that for me and then some. He offered a rule, then gave me permission to break it and explained when I might want to do that.

I chose to prune the upward branch. I want to see what happens for myself, and the cost of “failure” is small right now. Maybe the downward branch won’t turn into anything interesting. Maybe it will end up dying anyway. Maybe I’ll end up pruning downward branches 99 times out of 100. It doesn’t matter. I won’t learn unless I try.