Red fescue grass seed waiting to be planted in the orchard.

A good organic garden can sometimes fall victim to its own success. Plants that seemed manageably small when they were first put in become so huge they shade out their companions, or aphids descend by the millions to gobble up the fresh green growth that springs up from fertile soil, or one zucchini plant bears so much fruit that half of it ends up in the compost.

Each of these problems is fixable with time, know-how, and patience. Plants can be moved, ladybugs can be attracted to one’s yard (in fact, if enough aphids show up, the ladybugs will follow on their own) and, if all else fails, we can learn to make zucchini bread. Adaptations like these are part of the joy and pleasure of gardening—we should welcome them instead of fearing them, unexpected as they might be, because each is an opportunity to learn.

One such unexpected opportunity came to the orchard here at CCA in the form of dead grass in the pathways. Though human foot traffic has been relatively light on the eastern side of the orchard, rabbits have taken up residence there en masse, leaving enough of their damaging droppings to kill the resident grass. And though the winter rains and the grass’ natural adaptability would most likely solve the issue without any human intervention, we are taking the opportunity to overseed the paths with red fescue, a native North American grass that tolerates many soil types and grows into charming, wavy seedheads that will glint red in next year’s late-summer sun.

Before you overseed, dethatching with rakes is a necessary first step.

Overseeding is a simple enough process but must be done correctly to be really effective. Many of us overseed our lawns at home in the autumn but, unfortunately, most of the grass seed we use for such projects is non-native and laced with chemical fertilizers and broad-spectrum herbicides. As I’ve noted before, planting grass that requires chemical fertilization to flourish is a very bad idea, not only because of its huge watering costs, but also because the herbicides that accompany such fertilizers eradicate all life in one’s lawn down to the microscopic level. Far better to plant a grass like red fescue, which is happy without fertilizer, extremely tolerant of foot traffic, and requires little to no watering.

No matter what sort of grass you’re planting, it is best to dethatch the existing grass by raking away any dead material before you cast the seed. You’ll end up with big brown piles of spent grass that do excellently in the compost heap. After that, thinly sew your new grass. The timing here is important: you want to go for mid-autumn, when the earth has cooled enough that the seeds won’t instantly germinate, but the frost has not yet hit, rendering the earth too hard for the seeds to work their way in.

It’s also important not to sew the seed too thickly. We tend to assume that, the more grass seed we sew, the more likely we are to develop a healthy lawn. In fact, the opposite is true: if we sew too thickly, the seeds will effectively become their own competition for water and nutrients and, after a few days of lush green growth, they will starve and wilt, leaving us back at square one. Better to sew targetedly but thinly, then follow up with a second thin sewing in late March or early April when the ground has started to become warm. If done correctly, the autumn overseeding will foster a rush of healthy growth right when and where you need it.

Hand-sewing is more effective than a broadcaster for situations like these.

Not all phases of a garden’s life are pretty. In an age of refrigeration, preservatives, climate control, and extended weather forecasts, we tend to assume that we have the right and power to enjoy a sort of photogenic perfection from our outdoor spaces throughout the year. But, like people, plants have their weaker moments, when the colors fade, the seeds lie dormant and, beneath the surface, they take the necessary time to regather their strength. In a well-planted garden (or orchard), there will always be something lovely to look at. Our apple and pear trees, for instance, are currently clad in scarlet leaves that tear off slowly in the October wind. But we have no right to expect that every part of the garden will be beautiful all the time: the only way to guarantee that sort of perfection is to wrestle the earth into a chemically-induced obedience that is neither physically healthy for the soil nor spiritually healthy for us. As stewards of the earth, we need to learn to respect its various seasons. And, if we do so, we may also come to respect our own.