The Winter Resilience of Boxwoods

Locals have now labeled it the “Boxwood Freeze.” The memory of December 23, 2022, still lingers, when while anticipating Santa’s arrival, a sudden icy gust reduced temperatures by 50 degrees within a mere twelve hours.

Gusting winds. Bone-chilling temperatures. Icy drizzles. The event left our beloved boxwoods either dead or gravely wounded. Across the Midwest and Upper South, countless boxwoods, spanning over 200 varieties, were devastated by this unexpected winter onslaught. These plants, once a landscaper’s favorite, now stand scorched, twisted, and shattered.

Now, in July, the remnants of that brutal day are still visible. Whether it’s banks, educational institutions, places of worship, fast-food outlets, shopping plazas – the scars are evident. But perhaps the most poignant are the front gardens of hopeful homeowners, holding onto the belief that those withering yellow-brown patches might spring back to life. All they need is a little time, they reckon.

Quite the festive joke, isn’t it?

Staring into the weary core of a wilting boxwood, I threw in the towel about four weeks ago. Initially, I considered salvaging those with minor injuries, thinking that a few barren spots in an expansive garden wouldn’t be too bothersome. Maybe there was a glimmer of hope they could recover. But then reality hit: “Considering my age, at 80, how much patience can I possibly muster?”

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We uprooted all of our 42 boxwoods, encompassing a variety of sizes, forms, and lifespans, regardless of their health status. It was a definitive decision; an act of closure. I was resolute not to replace these with more of the same, especially given the tangible effects of climate change we’re experiencing globally. I wasn’t keen on revisiting this heartache.

The initial batch to be removed were nestled in a space christened “Janet’s Garden,” a pristine, meticulously curated botanical haven amidst our sprawling eight-acre land. These dwarf boxwoods, rooted around two decades prior, had cozily enveloped the base of a gushing fountain. Their position was practical, functional, but admittedly, lacked excitement.

I hadn’t realized how monotonous they were until I ventured to find sturdy winter-resistant substitutes. Following the age-old wisdom, “When in doubt, Google,” I stumbled upon a suggestion under “cold-resistant, low-growth shrubs”: Aronia melanocarpa ‘Ground Hog.’

What a fitting name for a humble shrub that thrives in the soil! It was touted for its white blossoms and lustrous green foliage which metamorphoses into vibrant hues of red and orange come autumn. It might not be a staple at the renowned Longwood Gardens, but it’s a vigorous cultivar, likely demanding frequent trimming, but undeniably resilient.

And refreshingly unique.

Equipped with our new ground hogs, the void left by the 22 boxwoods was filled within a mere six hours.

And just like that, they faded from memory.

The next to be uprooted were three elongated boxwoods accompanied by five more spherical ones just by the side entrance. Over time, these had found themselves in increasingly shaded areas, obstructing our view of a blossoming side garden. One had already taken on a lifeless yellow hue. Their extraction transformed the vicinity, paving the way for vibrant begonias and facilitating the removal of a lanky cryptomeria tree. Furthermore, the absence of the boxwoods unveiled a quaint raised rock garden I had completely lost track of.

The change was remarkable. Brightness, space, improved view, and a newfound clarity. Not to mention, the spirited begonias and the revived rock garden. With thirty boxwoods already uprooted, a dozen more awaited their fate. The puzzle was starting to come together.

The subsequent batch of six boxwoods to be eliminated lined the pathway leading to our driveway. Their initial purpose? Now, that’s foggy. Perhaps it’s because traditional gardening wisdom often has us plant boxwoods bordering walkways.

Over the years, these plants had grown tall and ungainly, becoming a visual irritant. Upon their removal, it dawned upon me that they had been obstructing our sightline to a magnificent weeping redbud tree, a uniquely patterned viburnum, and a stunning day lily, christened in honor of Fred Wiche, a gardening icon known to many in the Louisville region.

With the boxwoods now part of the compost, it felt like welcoming an old friend home with Fred. Moreover, their departure revealed an elegant arbor draped with a blooming vine, previously overshadowed by the boxwoods.

The final set of boxwoods up for removal sparked some lively conversation with Janet Hill, my gardening companion for six decades. Our home, an 1860s-era farmhouse, boasts a wide, columned front porch. In the past, I had placed boxwoods along the walkway leading up to that porch – after all, it was the hallmark of a true gardener. Later, I was introduced to a striking arborvitae called ‘Morgan’, reputed for its purple-bronze-orange hue and an expected growth of three to four feet in height.

Though I adored its color, ‘Morgan’ seemed to have missed its growth restrictions.

I had envisioned the green boxwoods flourishing near the sidewalk leading to the front porch, with the shorter Morgans accompanying them. However, twenty years down the line, both the boxwoods and the Morgans towered at an impressive six to eight feet. This growth obstructed the view of our front porch, which was adorned with age-old deep green hostas, some of which were around 75 years old, presenting lovely blue blossoms atop three-foot stalks. All these treasures were obscured by our towering green barriers.

Janet proposed that given the abundance of gardens enveloping our house, perhaps our porch deserved some breathing room, a unique perspective for those both inside looking out and vice versa.

After a succinct deliberation and the intervention of a chainsaw-wielding individual, all the arborvitaes and boxwoods were laid to rest in mere minutes. This action rejuvenated our porch, revealing the space, historical essence, and the hostas, without prioritizing any.

Thus, all 42 of our boxwoods were dispatched. In their place, we’ve ushered in fresh, diverse, and improved elements and spaces. No emotional therapy needed, no lingering sorrow from the Boxwood Winter. Just forward momentum. At 80, this is the essence of gardening.