"The Bluebird carries the sky on his back" -- Henry David Thoreau

As I sat down to compose this post and confronted the unenviable, but necessary, business of coming up with a suitable opening sentence, the first idea that popped into my head was: "Who doesn't love Bluebirds?" Then, as is my wont, I consulted the writing of Edward Howe Forbush to see how he handled the task. I was gratified, and not altogether surprised, to see that he begins his entry on the Bluebird in Birds of Massachusetts (vol. 3, 1929) with the sentence: "Who does not welcome the beloved Bluebird and all that his coming implies?" I was even more pleased to read his lede for the entry on Bluebirds in his earlier work, Useful Birds and Their Protection (1907): "The Bluebird is perhaps the first of all birds in the affections of the rural population of New England." Most welcome affirmation of my own thoughts!

Confirmation that Forbush was on target in these assessments of widespread fondness for Sialia sialis can easily be seen in the writings of other ornithologists, as well as in the work of poets, songwriters, painters, and photographers. Their affection is manifest in the loving, often exuberant words, images, and music that Bluebirds inspire.

John James Audubon wrote of the Bluebird: Full of innocent vivacity, warbling its ever pleasing notes, and familiar as any bird can be in its natural freedom, it is one of the most agreeable of our feathered favourites. The pure azure of its mantle, and the beautiful glow of its breast, render it conspicuous, as it flits through the orchards and gardens, crosses the fields or meadows, or hops along by the road-side. 

Later in the 19th century, naturalist John Burroughs was equally fulsome: When Nature made the bluebird, she wished to propitiate both the sky and the earth, so she gave him the color of one on his back and the hue of the other on his breast, and ordained that his appearance in spring should denote that the strife and war between these two elements was at an end. (p. 61)

Thoreau conveyed much the same sentiment in fewer words in the line that serves as the title of this post: the Bluebird carries the sky on his back.

In addition to their prose writings about Bluebirds, both Thoreau and Burroughs were inspired to turn their hands to poetry in praise of the lovely creatures. Poets Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost are also among those who put their reflections about Bluebirds into verse. Bluebirds feature strongly in a couple of my long-time favorite country songs: "I Heard the Bluebirds Sing," and "The Bluebirds are Singing for Me."  Pre-WWII blues artist Sonny Boy Williamson had a good record in 1937 with "Bluebird Blues"--issued on Bluebird records, no less. Buffalo Springfield, the influential 1960s rock group that was the launching pad for the careers of numerous performers, had a bit of a hit with the largely allegorical song, "Bluebird," written by band member Stephen Stills. There are more.

So, to answer my own question--in a grammatically torturous way--it seems that nobody doesn't love Bluebirds. 

For one reason or another I have not been fortunate enough to have had bluebirds as a regular part of the avifauna in most of the places where I've lived. My recollection from growing up in western Massachusetts is that Bluebirds were fairly common around the farm when I was quite young (i.e. in the late 1950s), and then they weren't; they became very rare visitors. My bird-loving father attributed the decline of Bluebirds to the increasing population of European Starlings, a species introduced to this country in the late 19th century, and the ensuing competition for cavity nesting sites. Contemporary ornithologists confirm his belief that Starlings were the bad guys in the scenario, though the problem arose before I was born. Fortunately, programs that began in the 1960s to distribute Bluebird-friendly nesting boxes have been quite successful in reversing the population decline. (Alas, my father was always frustrated in his own efforts to attract Bluebirds to the farm, because Tree Swallows invariably took over any nesting boxes that he put out. Not that that's a bad thing in and of itself.)

In any case, I am pleased to report that here in southern Maine in the 21st century, people are now enjoying the benefits of these recovery efforts. I was utterly delighted when a pair of Bluebirds showed up at my suet feeders one cold, snowy day in February, 2019. An unprecedented occurrence! Bluebirds like a lot of open space and, although we have a sizable front yard, I'd always assumed that it was not quite large enough to appeal to them. Apparently not. They hung around throughout that winter, and when Spring came they set up housekeeping in the one nesting box that I had put out in the yard. They have been a more-or-less permanent, year-round presence around the place ever since. 

The new visitors hatched out one brood that year, but then got caught up in some turf battles with a pair of pugnacious House Wrens--Starlings and Tree Swallows aren't the only other birds that compete with Bluebirds for good nesting spots. At some point the wrens wrested control of the house from the Bluebirds and proceeded to fill it with sticks, as is their wont. They also produced one brood of their own. Once I was satisfied that all the young wrens had fledged, I cleaned out the jumble of sticks that passes for a nest in Wrenworld, and the Bluebirds soon re-asserted their rights to the house. They even re-built their own nest (see photo below) and raised a second brood that summer.

Squabbles between House Wrens and Bluebirds have been going on since before European Starlings entered the picture. Audubon said of the House Wren: "it makes war on the Martin, the Blue Bird, and the House Swallow, the nest of any of which it does not scruple to appropriate to itself, whenever the occasion offers." Forbush reported: "There is always a feud between Bluebirds and House Wrens, especially when they wish to occupy the same nesting boxes or are domiciled near each other." (1929, p. 420) My father's experience with Tree Swallows taking over houses he'd intended for Bluebirds was certainly not unique. John Burroughs observed: “The bluebirds, when they build about the farm buildings, sometimes come in conflict with the swallows.” (p. 68)

We can add English Sparrows, another introduced species, to the list of those who can make it tough for Bluebirds to find suitable nesting spots. Pictured above are two editions of the Bluebird trading card issued by Church & Dwight, makers of Arm & Hammer baking soda. The text on the card on the left includes a comment that English Sparrows are the "enemy" of the Bluebird, and the surprising recommendation that killing Sparrows was "the best encouragement to the permanent settlement of Bluebirds." This seems an unduly harsh solution, especially given that the purpose of the cards was to discourage such things--"For the good of all, do not destroy the birds." The text was amended for the later card on the right.

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Not only are Bluebirds more numerous than they were a few decades ago, but they are among the species whose migratory patterns have changed during my lifetime. A recurring theme with many of the writers whose work I've consulted is that Bluebirds, along with Robins, have been seen as traditional harbingers of Spring in New England and elsewhere in the north. Turning again to John Burroughs (probably writing from his home in the Hudson Valley of NY, north of Poughkeepsie): “In New York and in New England the sap starts up in the sugar maple the very day the bluebird arrives, and sugar-making begins forthwith.” (p. 62)  And again--in one of his most lyrical passages: “It is sure to be a bright March morning when you first hear his note: and it is as if the milder influences up above had found a voice and let a word fall upon your ear, so tender is it and so prophetic, a hope tinged with regret.” (p. 61)

Well, sorry John, but things have changed a bit since you penned those lines. As I write in early March, 2022, Bluebirds have been in my yard here in southern Maine throughout the winter, and the sugaring season has only just gotten underway. In fairness, very few species have begun their seasonal singing and, as far as I'm aware, Bluebirds are not among them; it may yet be a "bright March morning" when we first hear one. Even if he is not newly-arrived in the neighborhood. 

As far as I'm concerned, losing whatever buzz might be generated by seeing "the first Bluebird of Spring" with "all that his coming implies" in exchange for having some around all through the snows of January and February, is a trade-off I'm more than happy to make. Let's face it--as much as we love our Chickadees, Titmice, Juncos, small woodpeckers, and Nuthatches, they don't exactly brighten up the landscape. But seeing flashes of blue through falling snow on a gray, dreary, January day can do wonders for one's spirits. Because Bluebirds molt in Autumn, the males' plumage is at its best during the winter months. With all due respect to Mr. Thoreau, their hue in winter is not a sky-blue azure, but, rather a deep, almost metallic, cobalt blue. And, in the right light, their rusty-orange breasts seem almost to glow. From our breakfast table we have a view into the yard on the side of the house where we have our bird feeders. Many's the time I've looked up from the morning crossword and been rewarded with the sight of a handsome male Bluebird or two, perched in the branches of one of our oaks; a welcome splash of color in an otherwise drab vista. It invariably puts a smile on my face. 

It is not for their beauty alone that we humans hold Bluebirds in high regard. Their penchant for eating worms and insects that damage crops or are otherwise considered to be pests, earns them high marks with farmers. Bluebirds' predisposition for consuming large quantities of noxious small critters has long been recognized and celebrated. Alexander Wilson, in his magnum opus, American Ornithology (1808-1814) noted: "His society is courted by the inhabitants of the country; and few farmers neglect to provide for him, in some suitable place, a snug little summer-house, ready-fitted and rent-free. For this he more than sufficiently repays them by the cheerfulness of his song, and the multitude of injurious insects which he daily destroys."

Wilson also provided a charming account of parental tutelage in the art of bug-hunting: "The Bluebird, in summer and fall, is fond of frequenting open pasture-fields; and there, perching on the stalks of the great mullein, to look out for passing insects. A whole family of them are often seen thus situated, as if receiving lessons in dexterity from their more expert parents, who can espy a beetle crawling among the grass at a considerable distance; and after feeding on it, instantly resume their former position."

Modern Bluebird fanciers--like me--who want to encourage them to stay around have taken to buying dried mealworms (the larval form of darkling beetles) to appeal to their insectivorous nature; the worms serve to supplement the food that the birds can forage on their own. In my case this has been a great success. Every morning the Bluebirds hang around our feeder area, waiting for me to come out and give them their daily ration (about 1/2 cup) of worms. Not surprisingly, Bluebirds aren't the only ones who take advantage of my largesse; they often have to contend with Juncos, Robins, Blue Jays, and sometimes even Crows, for space at the breakfast counter. If you had told me 20 years ago that I would some day be buying bugs for birds...! The damn things aren't exactly cheap--a big bag like the one in the photo runs about 40 bucks at my local feed store. As much as my father loved Bluebirds, I really have to wonder what he, old Yankee farmer that he was, would think about me spending good money on dead bugs! Well, it matters not; I consider it money well spent. And, at half a cup per day, that bag will last a good, long while.

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A few months back I queried my cousins who now own the family farm about the current presence of Bluebirds there. "Oh! Do we have Bluebirds!" was the immediate, enthusiastic response. My father would be thrilled! I only wish he were still alive to be able to enjoy them.

Both beautiful and beneficial, there are few more desirable birds to have around yard or farm than the Bluebird. I remain as delighted as I was when some first showed up that they have chosen to stick around and grace my little corner of the world.

After all, who doesn't love Bluebirds? Well, maybe not House Wrens and Starlings...

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Bluebird lovers might want to familiarize themselves with the work of the North American Bluebird Society, an organization dedicated to Bluebird conservation. On the state level there is also the Ohio Bluebird Society. No doubt there are similar organizations in other states. The quotes from John Burroughs come from his piece, "The Bluebird," published in The Birds of John Burroughs: Keeping a Sharp Lookout, New York: Hawthorn Books, 1976, pp. 61-73. The full text of a different piece about Bluebirds by Burroughs is available online. Audubon's description of the Blue-bird was published in his Ornithological Biography. The excerpt containing the bit that I quote that can be found online, as can Alexander Wilson's entry on the Bluebird from his magnum opus, American Ornithology. See also Wilson's poem,"The Blue-Bird." The quote from Thoreau that serves as the title of this post is from his journal entry of April 3, 1852. It can be found in Thoreau on Birds, ed. Francis H. Allen, Boston: Beacon Press, 1910; reprint edition 1993, p. 449. The Forbush quotes come from his 1907 work, Useful Birds and Their Protection, and Birds of Massachusetts and Other New England States, 3 volumes, 1925-1929.

Good, helpful article about maintaining Bluebird nesting boxes: "To Clean or Not to Clean Your Nest Box."

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Apples in Winter

Orchard at Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village, New Gloucester, Maine, December 1, 2018

I grew up on a New England farm that, like so many others in the region, had an abundance of old apple trees. In addition to trees along all the stone walls that border the fields and pastures, there was, in times past, a decent-sized orchard on the property. This plentitude was matched by the diversity of varieties present. A map of the orchard (reproduced below), drawn by either my grandfather, Darwin, or great-grandfather, Alexius, indicates approximately 200 trees, of nearly 50 varieties. I shall return to the subject of the family orchard in a bit.

This strong presence of apples in my early life has given me a deep, sentimental fascination with apples and old apple trees. At times it seems as though the trees have a living spirit or personality of their own. They stand, silent and unmoving, as they have for perhaps a century or more, voiceless witnesses to decades of change in the social and economic worlds around them. Their character is especially revealed in winter when the leaves are gone and we see the venerable old things in all their crooked, twisty splendor. The fruit of some varieties clings to the branches well into early winter, as is the case with those pictured here that stand in the orchard at Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village in New Gloucester, Maine. This gives one the sense that the trees are refusing to yield to the change of seasons but want to retain the past summer's bounty for as long as possible. I take this as a lesson in persistence. How very Shaker-like.

I am far from alone in my fascination with old apples. In the past generation, as the number of varieties of apples readily available in American supermarkets has shrunk to a predictable half-dozen or so--and many of these either newish types (Honeycrisp) or imports (Braeburn and Gala from New Zealand, and Fuji from Japan)--interest in older, "heirloom" varieties has grown. One of the champions of heirloom apples is John Bunker, from Palermo, Maine. Bunker has established an orchard on his property and runs a CSA devoted to heritage apples. Bunker also founded Fedco Trees which has become a major source of trees for those--like me!--who want to try their hand at raising heirloom apples. The Fedco website is an important source of information about older apple varieties, one that I turn to frequently.

It's impossible to know just how many different types of apples were once grown in this country--I have seen estimates as high as 16,000--but the ±50 varieties in the family orchard is probably a fairly typical number for many older New England farms. A big reason for the bewildering diversity is the nature of apples themselves; if left to their own devices apple seeds don't reproduce replicas of the trees they came from. Apples are "extreme heterozygotes," meaning that they reproduce with unpredictable characteristics. If you have a type of apple that you like and want to be able to keep growing more with the same traits, you have to do so via grafting (i.e., cloning). But their heterozygosity(!) makes it possible to cultivate many different varieties, each with its own attributes. By the same token, if orchardists and nursery owners stop cultivating particular types they will become extinct. Hence the importance of the work of Bunker and Fedco.

While some Biblical scholars suggest that it would be more appropriate for the tree in the tale of Adam and Eve's expulsion from the Garden of Eden in Judeo-Christian mythology to be identified as a fig rather than an apple, the cultivation of apples is, in fact, thousands of years old. Apples may well have been the first fruit tree to be cultivated, beginning in what is today Kazakhstan. It is said that apples were introduced to England during the reign of Julius Caesar. Colonists from Britain brought them to the New World early in the 17th century. 

Orchard at Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village, New Gloucester, Maine, May 16, 2019

New England has, and has not, been a good home for apples. Apples' versatility made them a welcome and valued commodity to self-sufficient Yankees. They're great for baking, for making juice, cider, or vinegar, and--perhaps best of all--for fresh eating right off the tree. In addition to their value for human consumption, apples can be fed to livestock; cows, horses, and pigs are all fond of them. But with the rise of industrialization in the 19th century, and the concomitant migration of New England farmers westward in search of more fertile and less rocky farmland, hundreds of farms in the region were abandoned. Acres and acres of once-cleared land reverted to scrub and forest, effectively swallowing up the old stone walls that had formed the boundaries of hayfields and pastures. And, with the walls, the untended apple trees that grow alongside them. 

"Cider Making," William Sidney Mount, Metropolitan Museum of Art

Henry David Thoreau wrote eloquently about the apples of New England. He termed the apple "the noblest of all fruits," and felt that "the flowers of the apple are perhaps the most beautiful of any tree's, so copious and delicious to both sight and scent." However, old Henry was not a fan of the cultivation of apples; he much preferred those that grew wild:

Apples for grafting appear to have been selected commonly, not so much for their spirited flavor, as for their mildness, their size, and bearing qualities--not so much for their beauty as for their fairness and soundness. Indeed, I have no faith in the selected lists of pomological gentlemen. Their 'Favorites' and 'Non-suches' and 'Seek-no-farthers,' when I have found them, commonly turn out very tame and forgettable. They are eaten with comparatively little zest, and have no real tang or smack to them. 

He would not have been impressed by today's movement to save carefully cultivated heirloom varieties! Thoreau also had a fondness for apples that went unharvested:

Apples in overgrown orchard at Laudholm Farm, Wells, Me

The time for wild apples is the last of October and the first of November. Then they get to be palatable, for they ripen late and they are still perhaps as beautiful as ever. I make a great account of these fruits, which the farmers do not think it worth the while to gather--wild flavors of the Muse, vivacious and inspiriting. The farmer thinks that he has better in his barrels, but he is mistaken[.] 

But cultivate apples Yankee farmers certainly did. The orchard on my family's farm was probably fairly typical in terms of size and of the diversity of varieties grown in it. A treasure found among the stash of family documents that came to me when my father passed away and we dispersed the contents of the farm house, is a map of the orchard with a key to the types, location, and quantity of the trees it contained (a typescript of the list is included at the end of this post):

The map raises a few questions. The layout of the trees does not really conform to the configuration of the terrain. The back side of the orchard (the left side of the diagram) was defined by the stone wall that marks the boundary between our place and that of the neighbor's so it was, in fact, straight, as shown on the map. But the front (the right side of the chart) more or less followed the contours of a brook and pond; no straight edges there. A real mystery is the indication of a spring--barely visible on the image here--on the far left side of the map, between the 4th and 5th rows down from the top. There has not been a spring anywhere near that location in my lifetime. Did one perhaps dry up? Is that even a possibility?  One should perhaps view this not as a precise, literal map of the orchard but as a stylized representation of it, of the nature of a schematic drawing. 

I wish I knew more about when the orchard was created, and how much my ancestors might have worked it as a commercial enterprise, or about what other use(s) they might have made of its bounty. Did they make and sell cider? Was there a local market where they sold apples? Did they use any of them for feed for livestock? One thing I do know is that my grandfather exhibited apples at the local fair; I wrote about his produce exhibits in an earlier post. Late in his life my father, Francis, wrote a series of short reminiscences about growing up on the farm in the early 20th century. He included a bit about his own father's apple exhibits:

As our farm then had many apple trees and many varieties, my father spent much time getting ready to exhibit them. He would take many plates of them and also a group of 49 which were in a diamond shape. Some of the varieties were Baldwins, Russetts, Northern Spy, Sweet Russetts, Golden Sweets, Orange Sweets, Sops of Wine, Winesaps, Pippins (a very large apple), Seek-No-Furthers, Sheeps Noses, and a variety which we always called “Good Kind” for want of a better name.

I can remember only one year in which my father harvested and sold apples from the orchard, though my older brothers recall him doing so in earlier times. I was quite young the year I'm thinking of...maybe not even in school. One of my father's older brothers, my Uncle Carl, and his wife, Lucille, were on hand to help. The adults climbed up into the trees on special ladders to pick the ripe apples, or to shake the branches so the fruit would fall on the ground. The apples were going to be sold to make cider so a few bumps and bruises were not fatal to their marketability. It was the job of us younger ones to fill baskets with the fallen fruit, then carry the baskets to the truck where an adult would transfer them to a crate. Picking up apples was the first job on the farm that I ever got paid for--a whopping 10¢ an hour! 

When we had enough crates to make a truck load my father hauled them to a railroad yard in Shelburne Falls, about 20 miles away, where they were loaded into boxcars. It was a big treat for my older sister and me to get to ride along--quite the adventure! I really enjoyed watching the trains coming and going in the yard, and counting the cars on the ones that rolled on through. My memories of this are quite dim, but wonderfully pleasant.

A few years later, probably around the time that I was in 5th or 6th grade, my father had all the trees in the orchard bulldozed to make more open land for pasture and cultivation. This was a big disappointment to me as the orchard had always been a favorite part of the wonderful extended playground that was the farm. There was a bit of a trade-off however--the piles of trees pushed up by the 'dozer made a terrific fort/castle/jungle gym for crawling around in! They eventually rotted away, of course, but lasted just about long enough for me to outgrow the fun of playing in them.

Although the orchard at the farm is long gone, there are still quite a few apple trees standing alongside the stone walls. Age has claimed some, and those that remain have seen better days. But they persist. One venerable Gravenstein tree at the lower end of the field we call the Square Lot holds particular memories for me. Gravensteins are prized as one of the very best pie apples, and as such were held in high esteem by my father. (He was famous for saying "the only thing better than a piece of apple pie is two pieces.") Every fall he would come to me and say, "Paul, I have a little job I need your help with." He'd hand me a basket or pail and together we'd make the short trek across the pasture to the site of the Gravenstein tree; it was something of the nature of a pilgrimage. Pop would climb up into the tree, carefully pick the ripe apples, and toss them down to me to put in the basket. There was no shaking these precious fruits onto the ground!

One often-overlooked benefit of having lots of apple trees around is the recreational opportunities they provide for young farm kids. Climbing them is an obvious possibility. The low branches on most apple trees are not so high up that a kid can't grab onto one and pull himself up into it. Once up in the tree there are plenty more branches to sit on, swing from, or use as ladders to climb even higher.  

Then there were apple fights, the late summer counterpart to winter snowball fights! I can't begin to tell you how many pitched battles we had with friends, cousins, and siblings. We'd just gather up a handful or two of partially-ripe apples and peg them at each other. Yes, they stung when they hit--yeeeowwch!--especially when thrown by bigger and stronger older brothers. But nobody ever got seriously hurt. I don't think.

A more benign activity, and one that required a certain amount of skill, was Apple Throwing; i.e., using a supple stick as a quasi-catapult to hurl apples for distance. This is best done with apples that are about half mature. We'd go into the woods, pocket knives in hand, cut two or three small saplings, maybe 3'-4' long, and sharpen one end of each in order to impale an apple on it. Selecting a stick that was just the right thickness, with just the right degree of flexibility, and then trimming it to just the right length, was a bit of an art. Additional skill was needed to push the apple onto the sharpened tip just far enough so it would not come off prematurely, but not so far that it wouldn't come off at all. Then, using either an overhand or sidearm technique, you'd reach waaaay back, whip the stick rapidly forward, and, with a well-timed flick of the wrist, send the apple flying across the field. If all the variables of suppleness, stick length, apple weight, throwing power, and technical prowess, were in perfect balance, your apple would go whistling through the air at a great rate--far enough, one hoped, that it would clear the stone wall on the opposite side of the field. Or at least travel as far as your older brother's did. 

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Apples. You can eat them. You can grind them up and drink them. You can bake them in pies and other goodies. You can market them. You can revel in the beauty of their blossoms, with your nose as well as your eyes. You can burn apple wood to make other things taste and smell great. You can feed them to your livestock. You can play games with them. You can climb the trees. As Thoreau said:

"It is remarkable how closely the history of the apple tree is connected with that of man."

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The title of this post, and the photographs of the trees in the orchard at Sabbathday Lake Shaker Village that grace the top of the page, were both inspired by the traditional Irish jig, "Apples in Winter." This is actually a "floating" title--i.e., one that in oral tradition has been linked with several different melodies. I offer here notation for the one that in my experience is most often associated with the title. You can hear it played beautifully by my friend Fergal Scahill, of the group, We Banjo 3.

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List of apple varieties formerly in the orchard at the family farm. Numbers after the names presumably indicate the number of trees of each variety. Some of the handwriting is very difficult to decipher. I do not know who drew the map and compiled the list. The list is not in my father's handwriting so it probably was done by either my grandfather, Darwin Wells (1869-1948), or his father, Alexius Wells (1828-1909). Note that there are also two pear trees indicated (nos. 43 and 44). These were likely the source of the pears that Darwin is known to have exhibited at the local fair; see my earlier post about the Cummington Fair. I have added a few small annotations.

1. Greening -- 29 2. Roxbury Russett – 19* 3. Seeknofurther -- 5 4. Sweet Russett -- 6 5. Family Apple – 9 6. Vandiver – 3 7. Nursery – 3 8. Spitsenburg [sic] – 11 9. Sops of Wine – 2 10. Fall Pippin – 7 11. Lady Finger Pairmain [Pearmain] – 4 12. Juneating – 3 13. Baldwin – 23 14. Gravenstein – 2 3  15. Spur Sweet – 3 16. Lady Apple – 2 17. Esq. Packard Apple – 8 18. Fall or Winter Sheep – 2 19. Porter Apple – 2 20. Norman W Apple – 2 21. Orange Sweet – 5 22. Little Core – 5 23. Name unknown – 2 24. Reed cheack [sic] Russett – 1 *Said to be the oldest known variety in America

25. Robbins sweet Russett – 1 26. Early Bough – 5 27. Orange Sour – 3 28. N.Y. Pippin – 3 29. D Towers sweat [sic] Russett – 3 30. Monstrous Pippin – 3 31. Green Seeknofurther – 2 32. Bullock Pippin – 2 33. Loomis Sweet – 2 34. Summer Golden sweet – 3 35. Summer Pearmain – 2 36. Winter Sweet – 2 37. Barr – 2 3 38. Winter Pearmain – 4 3 39. Orange Winter – 1 ** 41. Richardson – 1 42. Jewits [Jewett's] fine Red – 1 43. Grandfather Cobb – 1 (Pear) 44. Howard -- 1 (Pear) 45. Winter Summer Pearmain – 2 46. Mother Apple – 2 47. Danvers Sweet – 7 48. Esopus Spitzenburg – [ ] 49. Northern Spy – 3 ** there is no entry #40

For my own small endeavor in growing heirloom apples I've planted one each: Golden Russet, Red Gravenstein, Westfield Seek-No-Further, Esopus Spitzenburg, and Duchess of Oldenburg. 

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References

The following were very helpful in writing this post:

     Sue Hubbell. "Of Apples in Heaven's  Mountains and in Cow Pastures." Chapter in Shrinking the Cat: Genetic Engineering before We Knew About Genes. Houghton, Mifflin Co., 2001.

     Howard Means. Johnny Appleseed: The Man, the Myth, the American Story. Simon & Schuster, 2011.

     Russell Steven Powell. Apples of New England: A User's Guide. Countryman Press, 2014.

     Henry David Thoreau. "Wild Apples," essay originally published November, 1862, in The Atlantic Monthly, November, 1862. Reprinted in Wild Apples and Other Natural History Essays. Univ. of Georgia Press, 2002.      

     Roger Yepsen. Apples. Countryman Press,  rev. ed 2017, p. 13.

In addition to the website for Fedco linked above, more information about heirloom apples can be found at: 

Apple Search: The Search for "Lost" Heritage Apples

New England Apples

Epic Gardening

A bit of judicious Googling will no doubt turn up others.

"You cannot walk too early in new-fallen snow” ~ Thoreau

Virgin snow lies before me.

Our weather this winter has been, well, quirky. Snowfalls have been sporadic, and have been followed by periods of weather just warm enough, and brief enough, to partially melt the new accumulation. But only partially. The inevitable return to cold weather then left us with ice-covered walkways and driveways when the snow melt re-froze. A white Christmas was followed by a couple weeks of brutally cold weather around the New Year. We take in stride the occasional dip into negative digits for a day or so, but this time the frigid air stayed and stayed. It was downright nasty. Not a good time for any outdoor activities. By mid-January I was firmly in the grip of an intense case of cabin fever.

A heavy snowfall on January 17 proved to be a blessing in disguise. It forced the cancellation of our plans to enjoy a night of good fiddle music in Portland by the Don Roy Trio, but adorned the landscape with a fresh coat of light, powdery snow. The sun came out the next day, giving us our first truly beautiful winter day. I threw my snowshoes in the truck and headed for the Kennebunk Plains.

It had been a couple of years since the stars and planets had all been aligned properly so I could get out for a little snowshoeing. It was always too cold, or too windy, or we had too much snow, or we had too little snow, or I had other things to do, or...well, you get the idea.
 
When I got to the small parking area on Maguire Road I was a tad dismayed  to see that someone had preceded me; I had hoped to be the first one on the trail. No other vehicle was present, however, just the tracks of one, and no other human being was in sight. Whatever. I'll take it. I strapped on my shoes, crossed the road, and headed north across the open country.

When I got about halfway to the woods on the far side of the field I was delighted to see that whomever it was who had beaten me to the punch had turned around. From then on I had the pleasure of walking on virgin snow.

There really is something special about being the first to walk a trail after a snowfall. There's a sense of elation that comes with being the first person on the ground in fresh territory. You feel as though the woods, the fields, the trail are your exclusive domain, at least for the moment. A selfish feeling, for sure, but so be it.

I recently ran across this gem from the journal of the estimable Henry David Thoreau in which he expressed, much better than I, his sense of joy about being out in similar conditions:

 You cannot walk too early in new fallen snow--to get 

the sense of purity, novelty & unexploredness.

It is always a real treat to encounter a passage from a great writer in which he or she puts their verbal finger on the exact concept I've been trying to get my head around. It makes it seem as though we've all been looking at something with the same set of eyes and with the same brain.* One thing I particularly love about this Thoreau quote is his word "unexploredness." I doubt you'll find it in any dictionary, but it conveys his meaning quite effectively.

I was out and about early enough that although the sun was shining brightly, and warming the air rapidly, the trees and bushes still wore the mantles of fresh snow they had acquired the night before. In addition to adding an extra dimension of beauty to the scene, the layer of snow also muffled much of the sound. State Route 99, a fairly busy road, runs parallel to where I was walking, but traffic that morning was sparse enough that for much of the time I enjoyed walking in relative silence--a state that is mighty difficult to experience these days. The distinctive WHUMP of snow falling on snow as the sun warmed the pines was the sound I heard most frequently.

 

By the time I got about three-quarters of the way around the three mile perimeter of the area my legs and lungs began to remind me how little exercise I'd had recently. I contemplated taking a bit of a shortcut and going cross-lots back to my truck, but talked myself into pressing on...although I will admit that I took more than a couple of rest stops in the final few hundred yards. I worked up a healthy sweat, but it felt good. Although later in the day my body protested a bit, the outing did wonders to refresh my spirits.

 

And I never did see another person. In fact, I saw no other living creatures. The one disappointing aspect of this outing was the total absence of bird life. I did not see Bird One. Not so much as a Crow or a Blue Jay or a Chickadee. Zip. None. Nada. Zilch. Nary a bird.

++++++++++

Just over a month later, on February 18, we had another smallish snowfall. It dropped 9" at our house, but later that same afternoon the weather turned warmer again and we lost a lot of the new accumulation. Unseasonably high temperatures were forecast for the middle of the following week so I again figured that I needed to grab the opportunity to get out for a bit of an expotition (as Pooh would say). This time I headed for the "For All Forever" Preserve, a newish property managed by the Kennebunk Land Trust.
 
The snow conditions were not as favorable for this jaunt, and this time I followed the tracks of a couple of other people for the entire walk. But I never did see them. Whereas the trek at the Plains involved making a circuit around a large, nominally circular open area (which is bisected by a road), the course at "For All Forever" is a balloon, or lollipop, trail. That is, the trail begins with a longish (half-mile?) straight section through woods, and then goes around the perimeter of a sizable (approx. 5-6 acres) field. The Mousam River defines the northeastern edge of the field (on the left in the photo below).

East Point Sanctuary, Biddeford Pool, ME, May 2016

In the spring this is a marvelous birding spot! On a couple of visits last May we were delighted with both the variety of species and number of individual birds we saw: Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, Cardinals, Scarlet Tanagers, Yellow Warblers, numerous other species of warbler, Bobolinks, Indigo Buntings, and more. The brushy border that separates field from river provides particularly good habitat for songbirds; on one of our visits it was alive with Common Yellowthroats. It is always a treat to get a decent look at one of these gorgeous, but often secretive, little buggers. Their "witchety-witchety-witchet" song can often be heard even when the birds do not reveal themselves to human eyes. They are endearing little guys; they're among our very favorite birds.

Unfortunately, the preserve is also badly infested with ticks! This keeps a lot of birders from going there, and keeps me from returning in warm weather.

In February, of course, not many songbirds were in evidence, and ticks were not a factor. Happily, the place was by no means devoid of bird life. Shortly after I began my walk around the perimeter of the field, a beautiful Red-tailed Hawk took off from the trees along the river. He flew across the clearing in front of me, moving to my right as he flapped his way towards the woods on the opposite side. I reveled in the opportunity to admire his beauty, if only for a matter of a minute or so. He soon disappeared over the trees, heading in the general direction of the parking lot where I'd left my truck.

Once he was out of view I turned my head to the left, towards the river, and was rewarded with an even better sight: a fully-mature Bald Eagle, flying just over the treetops. He was tracking the course of the river eastward, heading downstream; if he maintained the same flight path he may well have eventually cruised right over our house.

I had even less time to admire his beauty than I'd had with the Red-tail. I have long since learned that one must take these things as they come; any and all chances to view such marvelous creatures, no matter how brief, must be cherished for what they are. Even though I was again only a few hundred yards from Route 99, the area has a feeling of remoteness about it. Somehow this made the sightings even sweeter. I felt as if I had been granted privileged access to the raptors' world. It was exhilarating in the way that only close encounters with the natural world can be.


It had been mid-afternoon when I began this walk, and by the time I completed my circuit of the field the sun was lowering and the shadows lengthening. All good things must come to an end; with some reluctance I made one final check of the open field in the vain hope of seeing another raptor, then turned and headed back up the string of the balloon toward my truck.

++++++++++

Since taking these walks our quirky weather has continued. Two days after my trek at "For All Forever" the predictions of unseasonable warmth held true. Most of the new snow retreated in the face of temperatures in the high 60s. But March is not yet upon us. No doubt we will be graced with a few more snowfalls before spring truly arrives. I hope I might have another opportunity or two to heed Henry's good advice before starting to think about mowing the lawn or planting the garden.

---
*I explored this phenomenon quite a bit in an earlier post about the writing of Edward Howe Forbush.

The Thoreau quote comes from his journal of 21 February 1854. I found it in: Daily Observations: Thoreau on the Days of the Year, edited by Steve Grant, with engravings by Barry Moser. Published by University of Massachusetts Press, in cooperation with the Thoreau Society. 2005.