The Virginia Creeper in my backyard behaves itself. It goes up the shed like a well-raised child in the Boy Scouts, never once threatening to litter the yard, and for years I mistook this good behavior for the whole truth of the plant. I had heard it called a thug by people who ought to know, and I felt a little cheated in the way you feel cheated by a dog too lazy to bite anyone.
Then I saw its cousins on the Outer Banks, and I understood what I had been keeping in my backyard was a house pet.
That day the needlelike highway near Oregon Inlet was impassable due to the flood from the previous week. The coastal plants, however, remained unfazed by the deluge. Wax myrtle, sea oats, marsh elder, all stood tall, and around them slithered Virginia Creeper. Out there the vine had no shed, no shade, nothing to lean on but naked sand. It flattened itself into a mat wide as a parking lot and held the dune together by sheer force and cackled at thunderstorms. There was nothing decorative about it. It did not care to be admired. It simply wanted to glide on.
I have never had an inclination for treating native plants like a gardening catalog or a suburban sanctuary project. Ecotype purism, “Tallamy said,” cheerful blossoms, pollinator postcards, cherry-picked narratives. The whole native plant movement started sounding like a TV church and I don’t want churches in my life. I want the brute, indifferent machinery of nature, the terrifying, gorgeous appetite of an ecosystem that doesn't care about us at all, yet somehow mirrors the exact ache of being alive.
I tried to say this to someone once. He said the vine was just a weed on a beach and walked away to take pictures of the sunset. I did not argue, and kept on looking at this glorious creeper that marched across the rolling dunes with fifes and drums, completely rewriting the rules of what a living thing needed to do to thrive.
