Disheartened. Discouraged. Dismayed.

Disillusioned?

Nah, but darn disappointed.

Years back, having taken one of our county’s fabulous and FREE extension workshops courtesy of the University of Florida – go ahead, Gator fans, give a smug smile – and successfully repaired a rental property’s weedy lot to a lush turf, I was ready to tackle the next level: a garden of my very own.

And not just any garden. Nope. This one was going to be in the front yard as the dogs’ domain would be the backyard. This vision of floral paradise would be, for the most part, dedicated to wildlife, especially our pollinator pals. As you may already know, both honey and native bees and many butterfly species, including the majestic monarch, are losing health and critical yardage as habitat continues to get devoured by agriculture and land development.

Like the words from the Wonder Woman movie’s opening, I too wanted to help save the world, this beautiful place, a land of wonder; but, how could I without the powers of a superhero do anything of real benefit?

The answer came in transforming a gently sloping suburban yard from the traditional St. Augustine grass lawn into one abuzz with life thanks to no pesticide or herbicide, multi-colored flowers and protective greenery from mostly local and native plants.

Admittingly, the first year or two was rough as some neighbors who prefer a golf course-type lawn were not reticent about their displeasure. And there were others who just explained me to their grandchildren as “the funny lady.”

But, after the third year of hard, continued work, a meadow-like garden emerged and when families would detour favorite pathways to walk or bicycle down our street and slow down to enjoy the house with all the butterflies, I felt like I had made a real impact on how we can live in harmony with the best of nature.

Then Hurricane Matthew hit in October of 2016. Most of my garden, including the young orange tree, survived and I felt grateful. The winter that followed was anything but cold so I worked the garden to expand it further. Early spring brought more oohs and ahhs from visitors and even some of those disapproving neighbors relaxed. All was well – or so I thought.

Late spring brought unyielding heat, followed by a bad wind storm (mini tornado as this Midwesterner would know), especially in northern Orange Park that included marble-size hail, and then rain. Lots and lots of rain, day after day. First, my happy garden was cooked, then it was blown to bits or pummeled, and if that didn’t end it, mother nature then tried drowning what remained. The final straw or needle, I should say, came when I recently noticed the long-leaf pine my daughter had been given at One Spark as just a tiny bundle of green needles and within two years had grown into a full six feet of stately conifer had developed little white globules and wasn’t looking quite as fit as “Captain Jack” (yes, apologies, we name some of our plants) had been looking a couple of weeks earlier.

Gasp! A bit of Googling told me that the captain had developed scale, an insect that can put him in the landlubber version of Davy Jones Locker. I hurried inside and grabbed a pair of old garden gloves, pulling each one of those insect balls off before nightfall. Since I had also read that certain wasps and milkweed assassin bugs – yeah, I know, cool name for a bug, huh – I was thrilled to see those insects the next morning with the hope of any remaining scale serving as breakfast, second breakfast, lunch, supper and as much leftovers as they can stuff themselves on.

But now what?

Do I give up on the idea of a garden more aligned with the needs of nature yet also vulnerable to nature’s shifting temperament?

Did Wonder Woman quit? Of course not – well, maybe for a few moments with the confusion about Ares but temporary doubt is allowed even in the land of superheroes. What about Captain Jack Sparrow – would he give up? Not if there’s rum involved. Or treasure. Or wenches. Or even better, all three.

And neither will this intrepid wildlife gardener. So, me hearties, bring me the green horizon. Yo, hoe, hoe …