Naming The Trees

It is largely due to my Grampa Mac that I can identify the most common trees--maple, oak, shag-bark hickory, white birch, beech. These were the species that grew in the woods and along the hedgerows in my native Vermont. When it comes to more specific recognition--white oak, red oak, sugar maple, soft/swamp maple--I falter.

I came to know individual trees; the towering ancient maples that stood either side of the gravel driveway at Grampa's farm next door, trees from which dangled swings made with stout rope and sturdy plank seats.

There were graceful elms bordering each side of the dirt road, elms that even in my childhood were doomed by Dutch Elm disease.  The lone elm standing in the middle of the east meadow drew the attention of both amateur and professional photographers and artists. It survived for decades, long after others had toppled.

I knew the stand of shag-bark hickory that crowned the little ridge across the brook, the old butternut tree below the spring.

Each autumn I walked the rutted track that ran through the woods beneath a canopy of flaming maple and mellow golden beech.

When Jim and I married we lived for a number of years at the farm his parents had owned.

The dooryard there was dominated by catalpas with their fragrant spring blossoms and later clusters of hanging seed pods. We cherished the twisted Wolf River apple trees in the pasture beyond the pond, tolerated the thorny locust whose slender twiggy branches scratched at the side of the house in a storm.

Many of those New England species and their close relatives have appeared like familiar friends in our adopted Kentucky landscape. Others such as the towering magnolia, the sweet gum and the venerable 

Old-Timey pear at our first Kentucky property were new acquaintances.

At our current [dare I hope, final?] homeplace wooded ravines slope along the north and south boundaries. Trees are crowded, stretching skyward for available sunlight. Hickory abounds, as does tulip poplar, sycamore with its textured seedballs, spindly dogwoods and redbuds that disappear into summer anonymity when their spring bloom has faded.

I have been intrigued by a handsome tree which I couldn't name; not a huge tree, but shapely and eye-catching, standing solitary near the head of the gravel lane that connects us to the blacktop road.

Walking to and from the mailbox I notice this tree from the first hint of new leaves, the full green of summer, and now the brilliant red-orange shimmer that will soon give way to a stark winter silhouette. 

More recently I've discovered others of the same type, though less well grown, tucked into the east boundary hedgerow.

Several days ago a retired forester posted photos in the local online gazette of a glowing sassafras he had spotted. Cautiously excited, I googled 'sassafras' and found more photos, descriptions.

Of particular interest is the fact that a sassafras tree wears three distinctive shapes of leaves: a slender oval, a thumbed 'mitten' shape, a three-lobed leaf. 

Carrying my old Canon camera I strolled along the east boundary fence, snapping photos of smaller sassafras trees, then up the lane to the regal example decked out in its autumn glory of red-gold.

Learning the identity of  trees, being able to recognize and name them, is likely a bit of knowledge to be stored away as only of use or interest to myself.

Visual landscapes change with time; trees are cut down or succumb to wind storms, brutal winters, insect infestations. 

Those two sturdy maples from which dangled the swings of my childhood are long gone, as are the fence line elms which gave my grandfather's farm its name, 'Elm Row Farm.' 

The hollow-trunked Old Timey Pear has been removed from the Gradyville pasture by a subsequent owner.

In this place and in this time I look each morning from my bedroom window to enjoy the now familiar view of the tallest hickory; in summer I can follow the zooming flights of resident hummingbirds from the feeders on the porch eaves to their favorite refuge in the tulip poplar or sycamore. I know where to watch for the first flush of exuberant pink on the spindly redbuds and the froth of white on the dogwoods.

And now, trudging up the lane in all seasons I can name the sassafras tree.

The sassafras tree near the head of the lane.

Sassafras along the east boundary fence.

Glow of sassafras leaves with backdrop of the neighbor's pond and pasture.

Varied shapes of sassafras leaves.

Three-lobed sassafras leaf in red; below in yellow-gold.

 Papery seed heads of tulip poplar against October blue sky.

The sky has darkened this afternoon, wind has stirred the trees, leaves have whirled to the ground.

This evening rain has fallen, the first in the entire month of October.

As we turn the calendar page to November and the wheel of the seasons edges toward winter, I'll walk beneath bare branches marveling at their tracery against the sky, waiting for the return of leaf and bud. 

 

Mid-October Light

During the weeks following the summer solstice, dwindling day length is scarcely noticeable. 

Mid-August I become aware that the sun is lurking somewhere at the edge of the north-east boundary before appearing around the barn to spread a pattern of morning light through the east windows. It is still summer, hot, humid, heat and light with us through the evening.

By September the turning of the earth, the lingering morning dew, the exhaustion of the garden, announce change that can't be ignored.

As we approach the mid-point of October the chilly mornings and evenings, the lowered path of the sun remind us that we will soon be on the cusp of winter. 

I canned tomatoes today, getting down to it at nearly noon. [Sadly, not tomatoes from our own garden harvest, but good ones that Matt acquired at one of the local produce auctions.]

Only about half of the two cartons were ready to process--7 qts--so the project will be ongoing this week.

Jim brought in an old folding table to set up in the sunroom; I covered it in newspaper and carefully spread the remaining tomatoes in rows to gently ripen.

It was a day of scudding clouds, mostly sunny, but with a cold wind.

Pegging cotton sheets on the back porch lines, the wind snapped and pulled, billowing the fabric above my head and chilling my fingers.

Tidying the kitchen after the tomato project I admired the slanting late afternoon light, quickly gathered in the now dry sheets, went back outside with my camera.

Light and shade along the north edge of the ravine.

Another view to north and west. 

The hickory trees are turning rusty gold, but the branches are bare of hickory nuts. 

There have been blooms on clematis 'Dr. Ruppell'--this one lacks the distinctive white stripes.

Jackmanii, badly in need of pruning, sports a few blossoms swinging in the wind.

The white clematis, nameless.

Seedheads of clematis Candida clinging to the old fence.

J. suggested we walk the meadow loop at dusk. The wind had dropped and the light was fading. The tang of woodsmoke from our chimney floated on the crisp air; the three-quarter moon was already riding the sky. Fallen leaves scuffed underfoot; beneath the hickories the nubs of last year's nuts still crunch beneath our shoes.

Self-sown zinnias still blooming in the wild tangle of the west garden.

The rescued white buddleia in its third summer. Will it survive another winter?

Nasturtiums are among the first flowers to feel the frost. 

These were late starters.

A tangle of nasturtiums, propped with sticks in the old pot by the greenhouse door.

October--autumn at its best--with the lingering reminders of summer--and the hint of winter to come. 

 

Perfect October Weather

The turning of the calendar page to October brought an end to the days of intermittent rain, wind and fog that were our relatively mild share of Hurricane Helene.

Mornings have been cool, the temps hovering just above or below 60 F. Heavy dew clings to the grass until well after the sun comes round. Almost daily I forget this and make my morning ventures out with cat litter or to trudge around the meadow, coming in with the toes of my shoes wet through. 

It is 'two shirt' weather--at either end of the day there is noticeable autumn chill; by noon, walking or working in bright sun, the top shirt or jacket is shed.

The nearly perfect weather has been a blessing as we've had visiting family, Jim's twin brother and wife, their younger son with his wife and daughter. I created a meal to welcome them on their arrival: a hearty curried lentil/vegetable soup, freshly baked bread, apple pie, lemon meringue pie. After that we ate our main meals at various local venues with whatever of the area family could join us. 

It was a good time, a blending of nostalgia, remembering events and people from many years ago, as well as thoroughly enjoying pleasant 'now' day trips and 'in person' conversations.

I was running out of energy by Monday evening and my feet hurt. J. and C. wanted to visit The Ark Encounter and then spend Tuesday night in a motel near the airport to facilitate their early morning flight home.

Jim and I toured the 'Ark' several years ago--a two hour drive each way-- and opted not to go again.

Inevitably Tuesday brought a slight sense of let down [and for me, fatigue] after so much 'out and about.'

We puttered at small homely tasks on Tuesday, picking up the threads of what has become a rather unstructured routine. Tired or not, I knew I needed to keep moving.

The bright blue weather drew me outside, not yet ready to go on with fall pruning and tidying, 

In late afternoon I headed along the path we've worn where the lower meadow tips into the wooded edge of the north ravine. The grass had dried, a light breeze riffled through the trees, stirred the leaves blown down and already curling crackling brown. 

Suddenly above the shuffle of my shoes through the leaves I heard it.

'Whooo cooks for yoooo?'

I stood still, thinking that my faulty hearing had tricked me.

The call came again from deep in the ravine, the voice of a barred owl.

Why,  I pondered, was an owl calling in daylight? 

When I've heard barred owl conversations previously it has most often been at dusk, or a few times in the grey moments before sunrise.

Walking quietly along the path I heard an answering owlish voice, nearer, from the trees behind the old shed. 

For a month on fine days we've heard the snarl of a chainsaw as logging continues on property that lies below our 20 acres. Perhaps the owls have lost favorite trees or are agitated by the growling saws and the crashing down of timber.

Prior to the days of storm I began noticing the tips of oak branches littering the ground almost as though they had been snipped off. The ground underneath the oaks has been strewn with green acorns, the resident squirrels so busy in their gathering that several times I've walked within a few yards of their bustling activity before I was noticed. 

Three hen turkeys are spotted strolling about nearly every day. I suspect they too are enjoying the nuts.

Strangely, there is no evidence of a hickory nut crop this season after the thousands that dropped onto the meadow verges last year. 

The usual deer haven't been much in evidence during the summer; the resident foxes disappeared after our second year on the property.

Changes--subtle or sudden--following an expected pattern of the seasons or sometimes, taking us by surprise.