Sugar maples ablaze between the orchard, gardens, and barns. What a season! Thanks, Pam, for capturing the autumn vibes from this fun vantage point in the nearest of Rosslyn’s meadows.
Although leaf peeping fiery fall foliage is inevitably and justifiably the cynosure this time of year, autumn vibes are aroused insubtler ways as well.
Ripe apples and pears in the orchard. Grapes trellised along the fence line. Blueberry bushes blushing crimson. Squirrels hustling acorns into their winter larders. Deer, emboldened, arcing easily over the fence to forage the gardens and orchard. Canada geese chattering south in protean Vs, settling onto the lake or into the fields for the night…
And this year we have a new ritual this year: re-covering the high tunnel after months of open air gardening. New scissor doors will make air circulation and cooling convenient in the coming weeks when daytime solar gain can still be significant. And with a hint of good fortune we may even extend our growing season later than in the past. New experiment. New territory. New optimism. And the always new but familiar autumn vibes of light frost followed by heavy frost — gentle warning followed by mortal barrage — whittle dramatically away at the vegetable garden’s viability. But with the high tunnel it just might look a bit different this year. We hope so.
Autumn Vibes Haiku
Early the ash turns, now maples and blueberries, succession of leaves. — Geo Davis
So recently I shared a still-ripening vision of autumn, similarly infused with lyric longing and luminescence, but less resigned, less resolved, perhaps less poignant. In “September Twangs” the micro poem wasn’t puerile, but it did sing with the intoxicating twang of exuberance and curiosity. The poem above, though a mere sliver of a season, nods to the inevitability of fall’s flourish fading. If the earlier haiku was a ginger, matinal perspective, a youthful perspective when autumn was just arriving, this October haiku is less twang and more the sound of fireworks fading. Perhaps a sonic boom echo-doppling into the forests and hills, perhaps a casdade of delicate cracklings decaying downward, twinkling sparks like celestial petals falling free of their blooms, bending toward gravity’s seductive beckon, then fluttering toward the placid lake’s watery mirror.
There is much to admire in a mulberry tree. The handsome habit and height. The luxurious leaves. The shady canopy. The concentrated blackberry-esque burst of inky sweetness.
While you may have a fuzzy notion about mulberry wine, there’s a fairly good chance you haven’t actually spied — up close and personal — a mulberry tree or mulberries. So I find when I walk family and friends through Rosslyn’s orchard this time of year, stopping to point out the ripening fruit. If ripe enough to eat, and lately the mulberries have been perfect, almost everyone who tastes the fruit loves the taste. And yet these delicious tree-grown raspberry impersonators are unfamiliar. I wonder why…
I’d like to revisit this perplexing situation in in the future. But now a look at our three trees and a mindful mulberry meditation of sorts. First let’s stand a while beneath one of the mulberry trees, and lifting our gaze up into the shady foliage, our eyes will begin to spy the mulberries hanging like miniature clusters of grapes.
Although I shared this Instagram post yesterday, most of those photos actually date back a couple of weeks. Now the third and last of our mulberry trees is ripening. And it’s raining. So I harken back to sunnier days.
The first two Hardy Mulberry (Morus nigra) trees ripened roughly concurrently. Their fruit is slightly smaller than the Illinois Everbearing Mulberry (Morus rubra) which we (and the birds!) are harvesting now. Despite some potential color confusion with Morus nigra (aka black mulberry), Morus rubra (aka red mulberry), and Morus alba (aka white mulberry, common mulberry, or silkworm mulberry), both of our varieties are ripe when they appear shiny black. The juice within is actually somewhere between scarlet, violet, and midnight. Lips and fingers quickly stain dramatically and persistently, so don’t expect to sneak a snack without getting caught!
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Carley, our year-plus old Labrador retriever manages to stealthily Hoover fallen fruit from the grass, at once an efficient and stain free means of harvesting. I’ve yet to master this technique myself, so my fingertips often belie my gluttony for the rest of the day.
Mulberry Maturation
Our mulberry trees are about nine or ten years old at this point, and they’re growing tall enough to actually evoke treeness rather than nursery stock or dwarf stock. As the trees have aged they’ve set heavier and heavier crops of fruit each summer. Given the approximately 15-18′ height of all three trees, the birds are the primary beneficiaries. We harvest what we can reach and leave the rest to our avian neighbors.
When the fruit first emerge from the mulberry flowers, they are green and covered in small black “threads” left from the blooms. These fall off as the mulberries ripen first to white, then pink, then red, then purple, and finally a deep lavendar-black. At this point they are plump, glossy, and 100% ready to eat!
It’s time for my mulberry meditation, but first a gallery (in case the Instagram post isn’t working.)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation (Source: Geo Davis)
Mulberry Meditation
At the outset I mentioned a mindful mulberry meditation, and I hinted at the vague familiarity that I and others might have with wine fermented from the juice of this beneficent tree. That time has come.
“I put everything I can into the mulberry of my mind and hope that it is going to ferment and make a decent wine. How that process happens, I’m sorry to tell you I can’t describe.”
John Hurt
“Huzzah!” I’m grateful indeed to Mr. Hurt for bundling up such creative cleverness. Both bacchanalian and theatrical, Dionysian and persistently mysterious… I’m struck by the many ways this metaphorical explanation approximates the whimsical adventure of redacting Rosslyn. I’ve turned often enough to my own compost and gardening metaphors to obliquely and insufficiently describe my own process. I’m essaying — albeit in unpredictable fits and starts — to distill our wonder-filled fifteen year affair with Rosslyn into the sort of package that might be handed on to others.
What in the world do I mean?
Good question. And if the answer were as good, as tidy and clear, I’d have wrapped up and ventured on to a new quest long ago. I haven’t. Not yet.
However I am feeling closer to clarity, closer to a tidy conclusion in recent years. Even recent months.
There’s much to unpack here (to borrow a euphemism from contemporary talking heads), and I’m doubling down on my resolve to package Rosslyn and pass her on. The property. The experience. The story.
It’s premature to say more now, but know that Susan and I have begun to wonder and daydream about a future in which Rosslyn has been fully fledged. It’s complicated. It’s bittersweet. And it’s still premature.
We’re not quite ready to say goodbye to her yet, far from it actually, so our leave-taking is not imminent. But it’s out there on the horizon, and together we’re brainstorming and beginning the process of letting go, of passing her on. Some day. Concurrently I’m revisiting the images and notes and sketches and letters and poems, allowing them to ferment and hopefully made a decent wine from a decade and a half of life and memories and artifacts.
Before my words wander too far afield, I will close this wayward reflection with my mulberry backstory.
A long, long time ago, at least four decades, maybe more, I first tasted mulberries at an auction. It was midsummer, just like now, and my family was attending an outdoor auction on an old farm that might or might not have been abandoned at the time. I don’t recall for certain, but I suspect the property had been vacant for a while.
I actually don’t remember much about the day except that I came across a grade school classmate who lived in the town nearby. She introduced me to mulberries.
A towering tree stood at the gabled end of an ancient barn, and the ground beneath was covered with fallen fruit. In short order we’d climbed up into the branches to feast on ripe mulberries. We spent the rest of the afternoon high in the mulberry tree savoring (to the point of achy stomachs) the jammy black mulberry deliciousness. With the auctioneer’s singsong soundtrack and enough mulberries to bloat our bellies and stain our clothes, the hours melted deliciously into the sort of nostalgic motherlode that still brings me contentment in midlife.
My decision to plant mulberry trees at Rosslyn half a lifetime later was rooted in that sweet syrupy memory.
Recent nights are feeling more September than August, and even some of the days. Dry heat (trending cooler) during the daytime, and crisp-to-chilly at night. This bodes well for apples, pears, grapes,… And so my mind is in the orchard.
Orchard Harvests (Source: Geo Davis)
Holistic orcharding has forged a gradual, intimate familiarity with my trees and with their habits. Harvest time offers confirmation and encouragement, but also occasional frustration and puzzlement. A bountiful harvest. A meager harvest. Coloration. Flavor. Texture. Orcharding and gardening hone appreciation for seasonality, serving is delightful reminders to remain humble and grateful, but also to aspire and stretch and explore. I am struck by the fact that no to harvest are identical. We cannot map one growing season onto another without blurring the picture.
Orchard Harvests Haiku
Orcharding seasons overlaid year upon year, harvests offset, fugue. — Geo Davis
What if? Wondering what life would be like living full-time in the Champlain Valley…
Within minutes we were tripping over each other, drunk with excitement, imagining one whimsical “What if…” scenario after another. No filter, no caution. Our reveries flitted from one idyllic snapshot to another.
“What if I finally sat down and finished my novel?” After dawdling self indulgently for a dozen years – writing, rewriting, discarding, rewriting, shuffling, reinventing – my novel had evolved from failed poetry collection to short story collection to novel to a tangle of interconnecting narratives that loosely paralleled my life since graduating from college. Too much evolution. Too little focus. But what if I made time to sit down and knock it out? Reboot. Start over. Find the story. Write it down. Move on.
“What if you weren’t sitting in front of your computer all day? Every day?” Susan asked, returning to a common theme. “What if you went outside and played with Tasha? Took her swimming or hiking or skiing every day?”
“What if all three of us went swimming or hiking or skiing every day? What if Tasha and I went jogging along Lakeshore Road instead of the East River?”
We could waterski and windsurf for half the year instead of just two or three months, starting in May with drysuits and finishing in the end of October. We could sail the Hobie Cat more instead of letting it collect spider webs on the Rock Harbor beach. I could fly fish the Boquet and Ausable Rivers in the afternoon while Tasha snoozed on the bank. We could join Essex Farm, the local CSA, supporting a local startup while eating healthy, locally grown and raised food. I could grow a vegetable garden, an herb garden, an orchard. Susan could work for an architecture firm in Burlington and volunteer at the animal shelter. We could buy season passes to Whiteface and downhill ski several days a week. We could cross country ski and snowshoe and bike and rollerblade and kayak and canoe and hike, and maybe I would start rock climbing again. And how much more smoothly the Lapine House renovation would be if we were on-site every day answering questions, catching mistakes before it was too late.
“I could interview candidates for Hamilton!” Susan said. She had recently become an alumni trustee for her alma mater, and her already high enthusiasm had skyrocketed. She had become a walking-talking billboard for the college. “You know how much more valuable it would be to interview candidates up here? There are tons of alumni interviewers in Manhattan, but in Westport? In Essex? In Elizabethtown?”
Suspended in lukewarm bathwater, our collective brainstorm leap frogging forward, it all started to make a strange sort of sense, to seem almost logical.
Over the last two weeks I’ve observed two young Pixie Crunch apple trees in our orchard succumbing to cedar-apple rust. Or so I suspect. (Rosslyn Redux)
So what do you think? Cedar-apple rust? Something else? Although I dread admitting it, I’m fairly convinced that we’re battling a light invasion of cedar-apple rust which has undoubtedly evolved quite happily, unimpeded in the old meadows, volleying back and forth between the native cedars and old abandoned apple trees.
Cedar-apple rust (Photo: photoholic1)
To brace myself, I’m digging into the nitty-gritty details, learning what I can about organic cedar-apple rust treatments, and culling the Eastern Red Cedars (Juniperus virginiana) growing nearby, the very ones upon which I’ve detected the telltale galls and gelatinous orange horns ever since we started landscaping, gardening and recovering the back meadows.
When I have time to thumb through old photos from the spring/summer of 2008 or 2009 I’ll dig out some of the photographs I took. At the time I was fascinated with the colorful fungi that emerged after wet periods. I snapped images to help me identify what I took for an innocuous parasite.
Symptoms of Cedar-Apple Rust
In my opinion, the symptoms of cedar-apple rust are most evident on the cedar trees, especially during the brightly colored phase visible in the photo on the right.
On the Eastern Red Cedar host, the fungus produces reddish-brown galls from 1/4 to 1 inch in diameter. These galls can be mistaken for cone structures by the uninitiated. After reaching a diameter of about 1/2 inch, they show many small circular depressions. In the center of each depression is a small, pimple-like structure. In the spring these structures elongate into orange gelatinous protrusions or horns. The spore-bearing horns swell during rainy periods in April and May. The wind carries the microscopic spores to infect apple leaves, fruit and young twigs on trees within a radius of several miles of the infected tree. (Wikipedia)
[pullquote]In midsummer, these rust lesions develop hairlike, cylindrical tubes (hyphae), which release spores into the air that are blown to the juniper host.[/pullquote]
Perhaps because my apple trees afflicted with cedar-apple rust are still small, the fungus is less apparent. But closer examination of the leaves (no fruit have set on the pair of young Pixie Crunch apple trees yet) reveal the signature markings.
The most conspicuous symptoms on apple are bright orange, glistening lesions on the leaves. Lesions which are not inhibited chemically may form small tufts of spore-producing structures (aecia) on the lower surface of the leaf by July or August. Cedar-apple rust appears on fruit first as bright orange, slightly raised lesions, but may take on a more brown and cracked appearance as the fruit enlarges. Usually some of the orange color remains at harvest as evidence of the early season infection… Stem infection causes a slight swelling of the stem and may result in abscission of the young fruit. (West Virginia University, Kearneysville)
Bright yellow/orange spots develop on the upper surface of the leaves in late spring. These spots gradually enlarge, becoming evident on the undersurface of the leaves as small bulges. In midsummer, these rust lesions develop hairlike, cylindrical tubes (hyphae), which release spores into the air that are blown to the juniper host. Infected leaves of apples and crabapples may drop, with defoliation more severe in dry summers. (The Morton Arboretum)
Disease Cycle of Cedar-Apple Rust
Cedar-apple rust (Photo: photoholic1)
I’d like to dive a little deeper into the complex relationship between cedar-apple rust (Gymnosporangium juniperi-virginianae) and the two host species – apple trees and eastern red cedar trees – that sustain it.
Operating well out of my arena of even nominal knowledge, I’ll continue to defer to the experts as we examine the 2-season life cycle of cedar-apple rust.
I apologize for redundancies, but as a non-expert I feel better include too much rather than too little information, even at the risk of overemphasizing some aspects of the condition. If you’re a quick study, scan and move on.
The rust organism spends one full year of its life cycle on junipers. During the second spring… the galls become rain soaked and swell, producing jelly-like tendrils (spore horns) that project out of the galls. As the spore horns begin to dry, the spores are released and carried by the wind to young, newly developing leaves of hawthorns and other susceptible plants. Dispersal of spores can range up to 5 miles from a juniper but most infections develop within several hundred feet. (The Morton Arboretum)
Cedar Apple Rust is most easily identified by the appearance of small yellow to orange lesions that will appear on the top of leaves, petioles, and even on young fruits. Depending on host susceptibility, these lesions can increase in size at varying rates, with faster enlargement on more susceptible cultivars. These lesions can occasionally be surrounded by a red band, but this is not the standard. After this, small brown pustules will develop that are no larger than 1mm in diameter. These will produce watery, orange drops. Next… comes yellow brown lesions up to 15mm in diameter on the underside of leaves. From these, dark tubular structures are produced; these will release red brown spores. (University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign)
Cedar apple rust is caused by the fungi… Gymnosporangium juniperi-virginianae that spend part of their life cycles on Eastern Red Cedars growing near orchards. The complex disease cycle of cedar apple rust, alternating between two host plants… [starts when] at the first warm rain of spring, the spore horns become gelatinous masses and produce their teliospores.
[pullquote]Wind carries the spores to apple leaves… [where they] attach themselves to the young leaves, germinate, and enter the leaf or fruit tissues.[/pullquote]
Wind carries the spores to apple leaves at about the time that apple buds are in the pink or early blossom stage. Upon reaching apple buds or leaves, the spores attach themselves to the young leaves, germinate, and enter the leaf or fruit tissues. Infection takes place in as little as four hours under favorable conditions. Yellow lesions develop in one to three weeks.
In July and August, spores from the apple leaves (Aeciospores) are produced. The wind carries the spores back to Eastern Red Cedars, completing the infectious cycle. The spores land on cedar needle bases or in cracks or crevices of twigs. There, they germinate and producing small, green-brown swellings about the size of a pea. Galls do not produce spores until the second spring. However, mature galls usually are present every year… (Wikipedia)
Plenty of overlap between these three sources (or should I say “millions of sources” since Wikipedia is a gargantuan, open source collaboration?) A pretty clear picture is emerging, and a none too enticing picture at that!
Prevention & Treatment of Cedar-Apple Rust
So for a gardener who avoids non-organic pest control, cedar-apple rust appears to be a rather formidable adversary. And yet, I’m hoping to bypass the threat without resorting to harmful chemicals. As I mentioned above, I’ve already begun to eliminate cedars within the immediate vicinity, and we’ll continue culling all withing a quarter mile or so of the orchard. This is an especially reasonable preventative measure because we can sue all of the cedar trees as naturally rot-resistant fence posts, and we can chip the branches into mulch. This is known as “cultural control”.
The easiest (or maybe just most successful) practice would be to remove all the galls from Eastern red cedar trees in the surrounding areas. This rust does not overwinter on any of the hosts mentioned in this article, and instead overwinters on nearby cedar. Midway through the growing season, the yellow orange spots release spores that will infect cedar to ensure the pathogens winter survival. The cedar galls are bright orange in color, and look like strange masses of jelly tendrils. These should be removed in early spring to prevent summer infection, and then removed once again in the three to four week blooming period.. (University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign)
Because this disease requires two hosts, the separation of the hosts for a distance of one mile will help reduce infection. Ideally, to minimize disease host availability, plant trees and shrubs that are resistant to rust diseases. (The Morton Arboretum)
Interruption of the disease cycle is the only effective method for control of the cedar apple rust. The recommended method of control is to “remove cedars located within a 1-mile radius” of the apples to interrupt the disease cycle, though this method is seldom practical… [Planting less susceptible apple tree varieties is prudent, because] resistant varieties are less susceptible to attack, but that does not mean that they are free from an aggressive attack. (Wikipedia)
While a mile radius is challenging, I am removing all red cedars with open lawn or meadows allowing easy spread of the cedar-apple rust spores. And I will ensure that all new apple trees planted this fall and next spring are not overly susceptible to the affliction.
Sometimes the simplest solution is best! I will follow this advice going forward, even though I am also hoping to eradicate the cedar host. And with a stroke of luck I’ll be able to avoid the most frequent treatment solution proposed: “chemical control”.
Protective fungicides can be applied to help minimize infection. A minimum of three applications should be done. These applications protect the new leaves from spores that are dispersed from the juniper host in mid-spring. Spraying apple… foliage after symptoms develop has no controlling effect… Begin spraying when new growth appears and flower buds show color but are not yet open (balloon stage). Repeat three to four times at 10 to 14 day intervals. (The Morton Arboretum)
Fungicide sprays applied in a timely manner are highly effective against the rust diseases during the apple cycle… If cedar apple rust disease is diagnosed on apple fruits and leaves it is far too late to spray.
Application of fungicides to the junipers before and while they are in the infectious orange gelatinous state seems to reduce the severity of the outbreak. (Wikipedia)
To date I’ve been unable to identify any truly organic fungicides guaranteed to treat cedar-apple rust. They may exist, and despite my optimism that I’ll overcome the threat posed by this fungus, I would be interested in hearing from you if you’re aware of a proven organic treatment. Thank in advance for your assistance.
A new perspective is emerging as Hroth frames my future office window (from the icehouse loft). Looking east (actually southeast in this photo), this will be my morning view. Panning to the left 10 to 15° the view will be filtered through the enormous American Linden (basswood) tree and across the upper lawn, through the ancient ginkgo tree and across the front lawn to Lake Champlain.
If this morning view seems a significant spoil, looking west (featuring prominently in yesterday’s blog post) will offer a similarly breathtaking afternoon view. Across gardens, orchard, meadows, and woods the end-of-day drama will be captivating as sun settles into Boquet Mountain and the Adirondacks beyond.
It’s worth noting that there’s a dash of creative mischief in this snapshot. I’ve described it as the “morning view” from my loft office, but the butterscotch light bathing Rosslyn and the lawn in this image is unmistakably “afternoon light” emanating from the western sky as the sunset nears. An amalgam of morning perspective and late afternoon lighting, almost (but not quite) too good to be true.
Much thought has gone into framing the views in this small building. Although historic rehabilitation and adaptive reuse are the defining DNA in the icehouse project, the challenges and restrictions that inevitably arise with an historic property in an historic district allow ample opportunity for aesthetic fine tuning that will ultimately contribute to the lifestyle rewards when the conversion and renovation are complete.
These little glimmers of the future fuel my enthusiasm, and as I remind our dogs, anticipation is half the fun!
An early and mostly temperate spring has given us a jump start in Rosslyn’s gardens and meadows. The new orchard behind the carriage barn, already planted with plum trees and pear trees, has almost doubled in size over the last couple of weeks with the addition of apricots and peaches.
Doug Decker, our carpenter-turned-jack-of-all-trades-handyman who diligently caretakes Rosslyn, has planted eight new trees in the orchard, and last week’s rain, rain, rain will help the young trees overcome transplant shock. The new additions include two each of the following:
Peach Reliance
Peach Contender
Apricot Sugar
Apricot Harlayne
Despite the fact that many people opt for dwarf trees nowadays, all the the trees in our orchard will grow to full size. Full sized trees tend to be more cold hardy than the dwarfs, they don’t require lifelong staking to stabilize the trunks and they place the fruit high enough that the deer pose less of a threat.
In the image above, Doug heads out of the barn — cell phone to ear, cruising on the John Deere Gator — to plant the newly arrived fruit trees. Susan jokes that the reason many of the fellows like to work for us is that they can ride around in the Gator. She may be right. I’ll look for some fun photos to pass along. And I promise to post some orchard shots too!
Although the fruit trees in the new orchard have been our fruit tree focus over the last year, I continue to prune and restore the old apple trees. And last fall we planted some new apple trees too. More apple trees will be planted later this spring and fall.
An early and mostly temperate spring has given us a jump start in Rosslyn’s gardens and meadows. The new orchard behind the carriage barn, already planted with plum trees and pear trees, has almost doubled in size over the last couple of weeks with the addition of apricots and peaches.