It is a pleasure for me to be around birds—to experience their many fascinating ways. Those experiences, as I ponder them, come primarily through two senses: seeing and listening. The principal sense is visual: watching their many antics. I’ll address that next time, but for now I’d like to focus on the secondary—but not least—sense: listening.
Field guides can be crucial in visually identifying and learning about birds, but recorded birds calls are essential for figuring out what one hears. And learning the calls of some species may be the only way to know they’re around, since the shy ones may never be seen. I’ll divide the calls into three categories: the simple, moderate, and complex callers.
I use the term “simple,” both to describe the quality of the call, and also because they’re pretty simple to identify. Once you’ve heard the whippoorwill’s onomatopoeic call (same sound as their name), you’ll never confuse it with any other bird. Other types of birds with imitative names that we have are the phoebe and pewee—close cousins to one another. You can guess how their call sounds.
The simple song of the titmouse is easy to copy with a whistle (the only bird call I can replicate this way). I love to tease a male titmouse by imitating his call. He’ll fly in my direction, looking for his competitor—never able to grasp that the big hominid on the ground is toying with him.
Other simple callers are hawks (an intimidating screech), the melancholy calls of the mourning dove (“oo AHH cooo coo coo”), the barred owl (“hoo hoo ho-ho, hoo hoo ho-hoooooaawr”), and the screech owl (a haunting, whinnying tremolo). (The “hoo” and “coo” sounds are courtesy of the Sibley Field Guide to Birds.)
Skipping to the complex callers, there’s no way of adequately describing their songs—they’re just too intricate. I’ve written before (7/19/08) of the wood thrush and its incredibly musical call. Our other local virtuoso is the indigo bunting. His call is a rapid, random-seeming sequence of notes—almost like an accomplished flute player warming up. It took me many months to identify this bird, as it is very shy and nondescript looking, and by the time I could get the bird call CD out, I’d forgotten his intricate call.
Finally the callers in the middle: singing out with neither a simple melody nor a complicated one—but still too much for me to be able to copy with my puckered lips. These birds fill out the local avian chorus—sort of like altos and baritones in a human choir. Cardinals, robins, and Carolina wrens all have roughly similar calls, all are very melodic. Goldfinches sing out with a nonstop twitter and tweet, like a coffee klatch gossip group. Then there are the distinctive woodpeckers—pileated, hairy, downy, and red-bellied. They all utter a brief squawk, a loud drumming on a hollow limb, or a cackle—the latter as if they were splitting their sides after hearing a great joke. (Remember Woody Woodpecker?)
Yes, listening to birds is fascinating, but nothing quite matches watching the flash of colorful wings. About that next time.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Aristotle’s Science—Part 2
Aristotle had different scientific ideas than did his lesser-known contemporaries—and many of those ideas were simply wrong. He refuted Aristarchus, teaching that the Earth did not move and that the stars were permanent (the firmament). He badly misunderstood the motion of bodies and the influence of gravity. He taught that every body had a natural resting place and thus, for example, an arrow can keep flying only because the air it displaces moves behind the arrow and pushes it along. He essentially believed that scientific knowledge was complete at the time—that everything to be known about natural philosophy was in hand. He never put his scientific ideas to test by simple experiments, so they could not be proven wrong. The weight of their implied truthfulness, by the strength of his mind, carried the day.
Why did Aristotle’s erroneous scientific beliefs outshine and outlast the more accurate teachings of his Greek cohorts Herakleides and Aristarchus? Partly it was his gigantic reputation and partly the disciples who followed him. Aristotle founded the Lyceum, an academy that flourished for centuries and solidified his scientific ideas into rigid ideologies. Additionally, the Christian church later seized upon the Aristotelian dogma of an Earth-centered universe and added its weight to the belief. In contrast, Herakleides and Aristarchus were loners, whose more correct ideas died with them.
The result was that these erroneous Aristotelian scientific ideas got locked in for the next 1500 years. They held sway in Europe, into and through the Dark Ages—never getting challenged until Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo began to rediscover and bring to light the truth. But all three of them paid the price for their teachings, as both the established scientific and Christian institutions’ doctrine that an unmoving Earth is at the center of it all had thoroughly ossified.
It makes me wonder how history might have been written, were it not for Aristotle’s dominant views of natural philosophy. How might things have unfolded if open inquiry into the physical nature of the cosmos had continued from Aristarchus? Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo had to be extremely cautious about how they described their theories—lest the church lower its ecclesiastical boom. As it was, the first two deftly ducked, but Galileo got nailed.
It also shows that the history of science is not a logical, unfolding field of knowledge, which is tended by impartial, cool-headed people (sorry, Mr. Spock). It’s a lot more fascinating than that.
Why did Aristotle’s erroneous scientific beliefs outshine and outlast the more accurate teachings of his Greek cohorts Herakleides and Aristarchus? Partly it was his gigantic reputation and partly the disciples who followed him. Aristotle founded the Lyceum, an academy that flourished for centuries and solidified his scientific ideas into rigid ideologies. Additionally, the Christian church later seized upon the Aristotelian dogma of an Earth-centered universe and added its weight to the belief. In contrast, Herakleides and Aristarchus were loners, whose more correct ideas died with them.
The result was that these erroneous Aristotelian scientific ideas got locked in for the next 1500 years. They held sway in Europe, into and through the Dark Ages—never getting challenged until Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo began to rediscover and bring to light the truth. But all three of them paid the price for their teachings, as both the established scientific and Christian institutions’ doctrine that an unmoving Earth is at the center of it all had thoroughly ossified.
It makes me wonder how history might have been written, were it not for Aristotle’s dominant views of natural philosophy. How might things have unfolded if open inquiry into the physical nature of the cosmos had continued from Aristarchus? Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo had to be extremely cautious about how they described their theories—lest the church lower its ecclesiastical boom. As it was, the first two deftly ducked, but Galileo got nailed.
It also shows that the history of science is not a logical, unfolding field of knowledge, which is tended by impartial, cool-headed people (sorry, Mr. Spock). It’s a lot more fascinating than that.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Aristotle’s Science—Part 1
I’m reading a book entitled Debunking History: 152 Popular Myths Exploded. Its authors’ central theme is that commonly-accepted perceptions of historical events are often wrong. We come to believe a version of history that feels right—sometimes just because it’s been repeated so often. Or it is a simpler story of events than the complex reality. Or it fits the mindset of those who record history (which is written mostly by the winners).
Science is my background and I get fascinated by discovering the reality of scientific history—truths that either debunk accepted views or bring to light little-known incidents that steered science (and its part in human history) in the direction it eventually took. I also enjoy uncovering the truth about the foibles and humanness of well-known scientists of the past—people who are often misperceived as scrupulously ethical and dispassionate, as modeled by Mr. Spock on Star Trek; when they are often quite emotional and too often unprincipled.
An example of a revered ancient expert whose scientific contributions are often misunderstood is Aristotle. He is known and revered the world around as humanity’s first and greatest philosopher. He has often been referred to as simply “the philosopher.” No one’s reputation quite approaches Aristotle’s—and for good reason. The depth of his understanding in many fields of human knowledge was remarkable, and most of his penetrating insights into human behavior and conduct remain as valid as when he taught them, some 2300 years ago.
As a scientist, however, Aristotle’s legacy has been very problematic and even detrimental to our understanding of the natural world. In ancient Greece science (or physics) was called “natural philosophy.” Aristotle’s pronouncements on science were thus regarded as simply another branch of philosophy and his supreme reputation in philosophy brought unquestioned allegiance to his scientific teachings—most of which were simply wrong.
Prior to Aristotle’s entry on the Aegean scene (some 200-300 years before him), ancient Greece had been a thriving hotbed of learning. Pythagoras was at the center of the action then—achieving profound breakthroughs in mathematics and geometry. In fact, the word “philosophy” is Pythagorean in origin. Its archaic meaning is the love of and search for knowledge and wisdom. Pythagoras was the essence of a scientist: original in thought and meticulous in his observations. His ideas got exposed to experimental light, whenever possible. He laid the foundation for a rigorous kind of Greek science.
In the mode of Pythagoras, the duo of Aristarchus and Herakleides—both contemporaries of Aristotle—initiated the concept that the Earth and other planets revolved around the sun. This was a major departure from previous teachings of the Babylonians and Egyptians—whose more rudimentary observations and worldviews made them certain that Earth was at the center of it all. In contrast, Aristotle held to the older idea that we are at the center of the action and his reputation saw to it that his position prevailed.
More on Aristotle’s legacy next time…
Science is my background and I get fascinated by discovering the reality of scientific history—truths that either debunk accepted views or bring to light little-known incidents that steered science (and its part in human history) in the direction it eventually took. I also enjoy uncovering the truth about the foibles and humanness of well-known scientists of the past—people who are often misperceived as scrupulously ethical and dispassionate, as modeled by Mr. Spock on Star Trek; when they are often quite emotional and too often unprincipled.
An example of a revered ancient expert whose scientific contributions are often misunderstood is Aristotle. He is known and revered the world around as humanity’s first and greatest philosopher. He has often been referred to as simply “the philosopher.” No one’s reputation quite approaches Aristotle’s—and for good reason. The depth of his understanding in many fields of human knowledge was remarkable, and most of his penetrating insights into human behavior and conduct remain as valid as when he taught them, some 2300 years ago.
As a scientist, however, Aristotle’s legacy has been very problematic and even detrimental to our understanding of the natural world. In ancient Greece science (or physics) was called “natural philosophy.” Aristotle’s pronouncements on science were thus regarded as simply another branch of philosophy and his supreme reputation in philosophy brought unquestioned allegiance to his scientific teachings—most of which were simply wrong.
Prior to Aristotle’s entry on the Aegean scene (some 200-300 years before him), ancient Greece had been a thriving hotbed of learning. Pythagoras was at the center of the action then—achieving profound breakthroughs in mathematics and geometry. In fact, the word “philosophy” is Pythagorean in origin. Its archaic meaning is the love of and search for knowledge and wisdom. Pythagoras was the essence of a scientist: original in thought and meticulous in his observations. His ideas got exposed to experimental light, whenever possible. He laid the foundation for a rigorous kind of Greek science.
In the mode of Pythagoras, the duo of Aristarchus and Herakleides—both contemporaries of Aristotle—initiated the concept that the Earth and other planets revolved around the sun. This was a major departure from previous teachings of the Babylonians and Egyptians—whose more rudimentary observations and worldviews made them certain that Earth was at the center of it all. In contrast, Aristotle held to the older idea that we are at the center of the action and his reputation saw to it that his position prevailed.
More on Aristotle’s legacy next time…
Friday, April 17, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Swarm Intelligence Revisited
I wrote earlier about the concept of swarm intelligence (1/29/09, “Nascent Wisdom”), wherein I gave examples of how social creatures collectively exhibit far more skill and wisdom than any one of them would ever be capable of. I described some of the intelligent behavior that colonies of ants and bees demonstrate. I also described how flocks of birds and schools of fish cleverly avoid predators when their collective mass instantly changes shape and moves organically.
Audubon Magazine recently offered some gorgeous photos of flocks of starlings, as the cloud of birds undulates and assumes some fantastic shapes. Some of these photos can be seen at http://www.richardbarnes.net/ , the work of photographer Richard Barnes.
The Audubon article also described ongoing research that is exploring the dynamics of these clouds of birds—trying to understand what each bird must be doing, in order for the whole flock to act instantly as one organism. The researchers have been able to identify some of the basic parameters of the process, but seem stumped as to explaining the overall phenomenon. I believe that understanding the process of swarm intelligence is beyond us at this time, because it’s an emergent capability that cannot be anticipated or described by current scientific capabilities.
There are other examples of emergent qualities that science has as yet been unable to explain or comprehend. The major one is the emergence of life on Earth. Science is tantalizingly close to understanding that the advent of Earthly life was preceded by a crucial collection and mixing of what is called prebiotic compounds—certain amino acids, proteins, etc. But how the compounds interacted and why these complex chemicals suddenly sprang to life is another, far deeper story.
Another example of an emergent quality is the appearance of consciousness. Out of a complex collection of primitive brain cells in ancient animals consciousness arose at some point. Neither the emergence of life nor of consciousness (or the cloud of bird dynamics) can be explained by conventional science. It can be modeled by incredibly complex computer simulations, but that’s not an explanation, it’s just a recreation.
Of course, one way to answer the dilemma is by stating that God created life, and that may well be the case, but that’s also not an explanation of how. Suffice it to say that I’m content to live with the mystery. Someday down the road we humans may well come to understand emergent processes, just as we once came to understand that all the stars are suns, and that the planets revolve around our sun, not the Earth.
It seems as if Homo sapiens might be on the verge of yet another emergent quality: wisdom. We might be at the point when a sustainable, spiritual worldview emerges, replacing our current destructive, immature mentality. It needs to happen soon.
Audubon Magazine recently offered some gorgeous photos of flocks of starlings, as the cloud of birds undulates and assumes some fantastic shapes. Some of these photos can be seen at http://www.richardbarnes.net/ , the work of photographer Richard Barnes.
The Audubon article also described ongoing research that is exploring the dynamics of these clouds of birds—trying to understand what each bird must be doing, in order for the whole flock to act instantly as one organism. The researchers have been able to identify some of the basic parameters of the process, but seem stumped as to explaining the overall phenomenon. I believe that understanding the process of swarm intelligence is beyond us at this time, because it’s an emergent capability that cannot be anticipated or described by current scientific capabilities.
There are other examples of emergent qualities that science has as yet been unable to explain or comprehend. The major one is the emergence of life on Earth. Science is tantalizingly close to understanding that the advent of Earthly life was preceded by a crucial collection and mixing of what is called prebiotic compounds—certain amino acids, proteins, etc. But how the compounds interacted and why these complex chemicals suddenly sprang to life is another, far deeper story.
Another example of an emergent quality is the appearance of consciousness. Out of a complex collection of primitive brain cells in ancient animals consciousness arose at some point. Neither the emergence of life nor of consciousness (or the cloud of bird dynamics) can be explained by conventional science. It can be modeled by incredibly complex computer simulations, but that’s not an explanation, it’s just a recreation.
Of course, one way to answer the dilemma is by stating that God created life, and that may well be the case, but that’s also not an explanation of how. Suffice it to say that I’m content to live with the mystery. Someday down the road we humans may well come to understand emergent processes, just as we once came to understand that all the stars are suns, and that the planets revolve around our sun, not the Earth.
It seems as if Homo sapiens might be on the verge of yet another emergent quality: wisdom. We might be at the point when a sustainable, spiritual worldview emerges, replacing our current destructive, immature mentality. It needs to happen soon.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Barking Birds
We feed our cat and dog outside. Although they come in the house as they wish, they spend most of a day outdoors. That’s their half of the bargain: we feed them, they patrol the environs. A neighbor taught us years ago that if we feed our cat half of what we were then providing, he’d satisfy the remainder of his appetite (and even better, his nutritional needs) by hunting mice and voles. The dog spreads her scent around the area, hopefully deterring deer.
The dog gets fed pretty much what she finishes in a few hours, except in deer season, when the woods are full of remains that hunters leave behind. We quit feeding her entirely for a few weeks then, as she scorns our offering for those tasty venison parts she gleans from the woods. It’s a little messy having legs and other offal stuff lying around, but it’s better for her than store-bought, slaughterhouse food.
So the cat gets a little dribble of kibble in a dish, twice a day—hunting the rest for himself. Several months ago, however, we began to notice that his food was disappearing faster than usual. Even when he had been napping on a chair for several hours, it seemed as if his dish was emptying. A mystery. Another cat lurking in the woods? A squirrel sneaking in? The dog thieving cat food?
Then I caught a titmouse red-clawed, as I watched it swoop down, grab a kibble and fly off. Half an hour later, after watching other feathered thieves make off with cat food, the dish was empty. No wonder the cat had been pestering us for more food! That’s a fine development: feed those ungrateful birds with ever-present sunflower seeds and some of them will want to broaden their diets. Give them an inch of bird seed and they’ll take a mile of cat food.
Over the next couple of weeks I tried moving the cat’s dish to other, less visible locations, but those clever titmice quickly caught on. (Never did a sweet little chickadee steal food—just devilish titmice.) I eventually had to cut a small cat-access hole in the door of an outbuilding and put the dish inside. That finally foiled the birds—although I suspect a mouse inside that building is very pleased with its new windfall.
The birds went back to their feeder; all was honest and well in animal land. Then one day I looked out, and caught another titmouse, as it swooped down to the dog’s dish, picked up a soggy gob of dog kibble the size of its noggin, and triumphantly struggled into the air again—it’s head drooping slightly from the weight.
Well this time I’m gonna let the dog engage in her own food fight. She’s not going to starve. Maybe it’ll teach her to eat all her meal when I put it down, rather than walk away and return later. What’s the worst that could happen if I take a laissez-faire food attitude—will the titmice start barking?
The dog gets fed pretty much what she finishes in a few hours, except in deer season, when the woods are full of remains that hunters leave behind. We quit feeding her entirely for a few weeks then, as she scorns our offering for those tasty venison parts she gleans from the woods. It’s a little messy having legs and other offal stuff lying around, but it’s better for her than store-bought, slaughterhouse food.
So the cat gets a little dribble of kibble in a dish, twice a day—hunting the rest for himself. Several months ago, however, we began to notice that his food was disappearing faster than usual. Even when he had been napping on a chair for several hours, it seemed as if his dish was emptying. A mystery. Another cat lurking in the woods? A squirrel sneaking in? The dog thieving cat food?
Then I caught a titmouse red-clawed, as I watched it swoop down, grab a kibble and fly off. Half an hour later, after watching other feathered thieves make off with cat food, the dish was empty. No wonder the cat had been pestering us for more food! That’s a fine development: feed those ungrateful birds with ever-present sunflower seeds and some of them will want to broaden their diets. Give them an inch of bird seed and they’ll take a mile of cat food.
Over the next couple of weeks I tried moving the cat’s dish to other, less visible locations, but those clever titmice quickly caught on. (Never did a sweet little chickadee steal food—just devilish titmice.) I eventually had to cut a small cat-access hole in the door of an outbuilding and put the dish inside. That finally foiled the birds—although I suspect a mouse inside that building is very pleased with its new windfall.
The birds went back to their feeder; all was honest and well in animal land. Then one day I looked out, and caught another titmouse, as it swooped down to the dog’s dish, picked up a soggy gob of dog kibble the size of its noggin, and triumphantly struggled into the air again—it’s head drooping slightly from the weight.
Well this time I’m gonna let the dog engage in her own food fight. She’s not going to starve. Maybe it’ll teach her to eat all her meal when I put it down, rather than walk away and return later. What’s the worst that could happen if I take a laissez-faire food attitude—will the titmice start barking?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Apple Woes (and Hope?)—Part 2
So we were eventually reduced to one reasonably productive cherry tree and two pear trees that the local non-human mammals felt they owned. We’d pretty much thrown in the fruit towel and had turned to alternatives such as strawberries.
Then I read Michael Pollan’s The Botany of Desire. He describes the origin of apples to be Kazakhstan, where they still grow wild and bear large, tasty fruits. In contrast, America’s wild apples are usually crabby, little, nearly inedible things. Pollan also described a research program being conducted by Cornell University in Geneva, New York, in which Kazakh apples and their seeds are being introduced to an American environment, allowing them to cross pollinate with native varieties.
A peculiar quality of the apple is that it strongly exhibits a botanical quality called heterozygosity. (Hetero = different; zygote = a cell born from the union of two adult cells, i.e., cell sexual reproduction.) Heterozygosity means that every seed in an apple will bear a tree that is genetically different from either of its parents. So the only way to plant an orchard of identical apple trees (such as millions of Red Delicious) is to clone them.
This genetic variability is what has allowed the apple tree to mutate into so many varieties in America so quickly. Thus, if you plant some seeds the offspring will create wide variations—and some of those saplings will possess the qualities to prosper in that location. It’s a fine example of Darwin’s survival of the fittest. So if apples deliciously thrive in the wilds in Kazakhstan, why not some of their grandchildren in my backyard?
Maybe this was another chance for us to get fruit! I contacted Cornell and they were happy to send me a couple dozen Kazakh scions (of proven high-quality apples) to graft to my wild apple trees and 125 Kazakh seeds, from which I could try creating my own homegrown varieties. I carefully sprouted the seeds (getting 120 seedlings!) and grafted the scions. Just maybe this would lead some day to healthy, hardy apple trees that would provide the harvest I’ve been hoping for all these years—trees that could withstand the assaults of frost, bugs, and disease; if not marauding mammals.
As Mother Nature would have it, there’s no facile solution to my apple woes. Of the original 24 grafts I’m down to eight survivors. It’ll be another few years before they grow large and robust enough to bear fruit. I cross my fingers. Of the 120 seedlings I planted, I’m now down to 43, thanks to repeated attacks from voles and deer. Voles burrow underground and nibble off the roots, until the poor, rootless sapling topples over. Deer nibble leaves and branches—not killing the sapling as a vole does, but performing an overly enthusiastic pruning job. It will be several years before these saplings bear fruit—if I can hold the voles and deer at bay.
I hope to live long enough to see a hardy, tasty apple come from my experiments. I sure hope I’m not old and toothless by the time a fantastic, crisp apple grows in my backyard. In that case, maybe my grandkids will enjoy them.
Then I read Michael Pollan’s The Botany of Desire. He describes the origin of apples to be Kazakhstan, where they still grow wild and bear large, tasty fruits. In contrast, America’s wild apples are usually crabby, little, nearly inedible things. Pollan also described a research program being conducted by Cornell University in Geneva, New York, in which Kazakh apples and their seeds are being introduced to an American environment, allowing them to cross pollinate with native varieties.
A peculiar quality of the apple is that it strongly exhibits a botanical quality called heterozygosity. (Hetero = different; zygote = a cell born from the union of two adult cells, i.e., cell sexual reproduction.) Heterozygosity means that every seed in an apple will bear a tree that is genetically different from either of its parents. So the only way to plant an orchard of identical apple trees (such as millions of Red Delicious) is to clone them.
This genetic variability is what has allowed the apple tree to mutate into so many varieties in America so quickly. Thus, if you plant some seeds the offspring will create wide variations—and some of those saplings will possess the qualities to prosper in that location. It’s a fine example of Darwin’s survival of the fittest. So if apples deliciously thrive in the wilds in Kazakhstan, why not some of their grandchildren in my backyard?
Maybe this was another chance for us to get fruit! I contacted Cornell and they were happy to send me a couple dozen Kazakh scions (of proven high-quality apples) to graft to my wild apple trees and 125 Kazakh seeds, from which I could try creating my own homegrown varieties. I carefully sprouted the seeds (getting 120 seedlings!) and grafted the scions. Just maybe this would lead some day to healthy, hardy apple trees that would provide the harvest I’ve been hoping for all these years—trees that could withstand the assaults of frost, bugs, and disease; if not marauding mammals.
As Mother Nature would have it, there’s no facile solution to my apple woes. Of the original 24 grafts I’m down to eight survivors. It’ll be another few years before they grow large and robust enough to bear fruit. I cross my fingers. Of the 120 seedlings I planted, I’m now down to 43, thanks to repeated attacks from voles and deer. Voles burrow underground and nibble off the roots, until the poor, rootless sapling topples over. Deer nibble leaves and branches—not killing the sapling as a vole does, but performing an overly enthusiastic pruning job. It will be several years before these saplings bear fruit—if I can hold the voles and deer at bay.
I hope to live long enough to see a hardy, tasty apple come from my experiments. I sure hope I’m not old and toothless by the time a fantastic, crisp apple grows in my backyard. In that case, maybe my grandkids will enjoy them.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Apple Woes (and Hope?)—Part 1
In the quarter century that we have been occupied with our country living experiment, we’ve had countless failures and successes in the plant cultivation department. We’ve tried growing scores of varieties of vegetables, trees, bushes, flowers. Most of our failures can be attributed either to ignorance or arrogance—either by not knowing that a particular plant simply will not grow here or by having the impertinence to think that we could pull it off anyway.
In contrast, many of our successes have, in hindsight, been luck. Looking back, we can see, for example, that it was a serendipitous choice to decide to plant a particular kind of tree where we did. Last but hopefully not least, there’s also been a learning process: by dint of our mistakes (and prodigious reading), we begin to make informed choices. I’m convinced that, if we’re granted another half century here, we could cultivate an Eden.
One of our more consistent failures has been fruit trees. I’ve had more of them pine away or provide a miserable crop than I care to remember. Chief lesson: I’ve learned that attempting to grow an orchard in a hollow at our latitude is an exercise in perennial frustration. Early spring sunny days warm the fruit tree, enticing its buds to bloom; then an errant cold night sends its killing frost flowing down the hollow, ruthlessly slaughtering most every blossom. Without viable blooms, the tree will be fruitless, and so will we.
If it wasn’t the frost that stopped us, numerous varieties of insidious bugs would enjoy our fruit—either greedily removing leaves or invading the tiny fruitlets and rendering them inedible to humans. And if it wasn’t bugs, it would be some ugly fungus or disease that would transform a potentially gorgeous peach or apple into a gelatinous black mess.
And finally, if a tree happened to survive all these menaces, it was still vulnerable to the midnight invasion of larger beasts. The local deer and squirrels and raccoons seem to be in possession of this amazing psychic talent of knowing exactly when I consider pears to be harvestable, and then beating me to it by about 12 hours. It is demoralizing to watch a pear tree slowly ripen its crop of several dozen fruits over many weeks, only to go forth one morning with picking basket in hand, to be greeted by the sight of a completely fruitless tree. How did they pull this heist off in one night? Why didn’t they wait until tomorrow night?
Certainly we could have had more success in our fruit-growing endeavors if we’d opted to spray the trees with various chemical witch’s brews. The bugs and fungi and diseases could likely have been held at bay with the support of Dow Chemical. That would have evened the odds a bit more: just us against the invading fauna. Maybe it would have even tipped the scales in our favor, but at what cost to the environment and to our health? No, it’d be fruit without nasty chemicals or no fruit at all.
The one (the only one!) fruit tree that has been successful is a sour cherry tree. Is it the in-your-face tartness or the tree’s robustness that helps the cherry to do well? Even the birds—normally being accomplished cherry pickers—have left our cherry tree pretty much alone. We do lose some cherries to them, but are willing to share with these less greedy poachers. Maybe the local critters are having a little pity and allowing us a wee bit of success?
On to apples next time…
In contrast, many of our successes have, in hindsight, been luck. Looking back, we can see, for example, that it was a serendipitous choice to decide to plant a particular kind of tree where we did. Last but hopefully not least, there’s also been a learning process: by dint of our mistakes (and prodigious reading), we begin to make informed choices. I’m convinced that, if we’re granted another half century here, we could cultivate an Eden.
One of our more consistent failures has been fruit trees. I’ve had more of them pine away or provide a miserable crop than I care to remember. Chief lesson: I’ve learned that attempting to grow an orchard in a hollow at our latitude is an exercise in perennial frustration. Early spring sunny days warm the fruit tree, enticing its buds to bloom; then an errant cold night sends its killing frost flowing down the hollow, ruthlessly slaughtering most every blossom. Without viable blooms, the tree will be fruitless, and so will we.
If it wasn’t the frost that stopped us, numerous varieties of insidious bugs would enjoy our fruit—either greedily removing leaves or invading the tiny fruitlets and rendering them inedible to humans. And if it wasn’t bugs, it would be some ugly fungus or disease that would transform a potentially gorgeous peach or apple into a gelatinous black mess.
And finally, if a tree happened to survive all these menaces, it was still vulnerable to the midnight invasion of larger beasts. The local deer and squirrels and raccoons seem to be in possession of this amazing psychic talent of knowing exactly when I consider pears to be harvestable, and then beating me to it by about 12 hours. It is demoralizing to watch a pear tree slowly ripen its crop of several dozen fruits over many weeks, only to go forth one morning with picking basket in hand, to be greeted by the sight of a completely fruitless tree. How did they pull this heist off in one night? Why didn’t they wait until tomorrow night?
Certainly we could have had more success in our fruit-growing endeavors if we’d opted to spray the trees with various chemical witch’s brews. The bugs and fungi and diseases could likely have been held at bay with the support of Dow Chemical. That would have evened the odds a bit more: just us against the invading fauna. Maybe it would have even tipped the scales in our favor, but at what cost to the environment and to our health? No, it’d be fruit without nasty chemicals or no fruit at all.
The one (the only one!) fruit tree that has been successful is a sour cherry tree. Is it the in-your-face tartness or the tree’s robustness that helps the cherry to do well? Even the birds—normally being accomplished cherry pickers—have left our cherry tree pretty much alone. We do lose some cherries to them, but are willing to share with these less greedy poachers. Maybe the local critters are having a little pity and allowing us a wee bit of success?
On to apples next time…
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
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