Hooray!

I received an email from an apple grower colleague asking if I’d mind if he read a poem I had shared with our holistic apple growers group. He will be speaking at the UU Church in Lincoln, Massachusetts on Sunday, April 25th.  I imagine he is speaking for their Earth Day service because of his long history of caring about apples and in particular, the heirloom apples of Maine. John Bunker is not only an apple grower, he is an apple sleuther. He has made it his life’s work to identify as many old apples in Maine as possible. People bring him apples, send him apples, email him photos of apples, and stop him on the street to tell him of old trees they know of and want to identify. John published a book in 2019, Apples and the Art of Detection: Tracking Down, Identifying, and Preserving Rare Apples.

The poem he was referring to in his email was one by the great 14th century Persian poet, Hafez.  

An Apple Tree Was Concerned

An apple tree was concerned 
about a late frost and losing its gifts 
that would help feed a poor family close by. 
Can't the clouds be generous with what falls from them? 
Can't the sun ration itself with precision? 

They can speak, trees, 
they can say the sweetest things
but it takes special ears to hear them,
ears that have listened to people
with great care. 

Indeed, this poem feels quite timely given wintry weather we experienced here in New England on Friday. 

I wrote back to John saying, “Of course! I think Hafez would be delighted.” And I was grateful to be reminded of it, because I, too, will be speaking on that same Sunday at our UU Church in Harvard with good friends, Piali De and her mother-in-law, Marion Stoddart.

Marion Stoddart is well known to many because of her groundbreaking work to inspire and lead the restoration of the Nashua River, at one time one of most polluted rivers in America. Piali De is a brilliant scientist and the CEO of Sensio Systems, an innovative company leading the way to support healthcare at home. We’ll be speaking about lessons learned from restoring the Nashua River, bringing back an abandoned orchard, and raising questions about ownership of land and the importance of ‘common’ land. You can go to the website for the UU Church in the Town of Harvard if you would like to join us next Sunday.

Cultivating Love is part of my new installation for Studios Without Walls exhibit, The Light Gets In, opening on May 28, 2021

Though the Apples, Art, and Spirit blog has been silent in recent months, things are changing. My family has gone through their share of both life and Covid challenges. But we’re coming out on the other side. We’re turning our attention to reopening the farm, taking care of the perennial crops, and planting annual vegetables and flowers.

While weeding the rhubarb I grabbed this fellow. But it did not glide away!

Now we need some cooperation from the weather gods.

Apricots are the earliest blossoming of our fruit trees.

Our apricot tree is in full bloom as are early peaches. It’s likely that we have lost the fruit from these trees. We hope the apples are fine. I’ll be checking on them, and definitely listen to what they have to say.

At the end of my note to John Bunker, I wrote, “Thanks for the reminder. We need each other!”

John quickly wrote back, “Not only do we need each other... we HAVE each other! Hooray!

Yes, we need each other! And we have each other! 

Farm Moments

We hear the earth’s joys and sorrows . . .

Sweet Peaches

Red Bartlett Pears

Passion from River Stones Installation, LH

Japanese Bell

Cocoon from Anne Eder’s Boneyard

Peering Around the Corner, Joseph Wheelwright

Wildflowers, detail, Zach Gabbard

Lovely Apple

Giant Broccoli

Tempo, Arial Matisse

Queen of the Prairie, Red Monarda, and Cattails near the Pond

. . . within our own heart.

The Birth of Fruit

May we spread the seeds of true justice across our nation.
May we water them with our grief, and tend them with great love.

Spring’s robe swishes as she walks through the rows of apple trees, the small fruit now covered with white clay to protect it from the egg-laying stings of the plum curculio beetle.

On the high-bush blueberries, the white bell-like corollas dry, then fall, exposing small green fruit.

The mulberries pop out from smooth branches like furry caterpillars,

 and the husks of the peaches fall to the ground revealing first fuzz. 

Fruits are ovaries, designed to protect the all important seeds. Peppers, tomatoes, as well as squash are technically fruits, but we think of them as vegetables. Asparagus aren’t fruits, but because they are a perennial crop, we give them two long rows in the berry patch. The stalks shoot up overnight.

Rhubarb is technically a vegetable, but it’s most often cooked in pies or with sugar to sweeten its tart taste, and therefore, is often thought to be a fruit. Our favorite recipe for rhubarb is stewed with strawberries and a bit of honey or maple syrup.

Not far away, the blackberry buds entice as if there weren’t hiding sharp thorns.

Blackberries ripen well before the red raspberries whose canes are mowed to the ground in early spring. Fall raspberries grow four to five feet high, bud, flower, and bear fruit all in one season.

Seedless table grapes are a new crop for the farm, the vines are only beginning their long climb to maturity.

Finally, spring embraces summer, and the strawberry ripening begins.

Photos: Linda Hoffman and Ariel Matisse

An Artist in the Orchard

Usually I carry a spade, loppers, clippers, a weeding tool, a basket with rubber ties, and wire into the orchard. But like a plein air painter who leaves the studio and brings paints and brushes to the subject, I bring a notebook and pen, and sit in a patch of purple violets under a Golden Delicious apple tree.

Along with the violets, two varieties of clover are growing—mammoth red and white Dutch. I love clover under my apple trees—and daffodils and dandelions, mountain mint and comfrey, iron weed, valerian, St. John’s wort, bee balm, even stinging nettles. The more companion plants, the richer the soil.

Notebook page 5/16/20

Most people don’t realize that one apple bud opens to become a cluster of five or six flower buds. The king blossom is in the center; it’s the first to grow and the first to open. It’s surrounded by the harem waiting to take over if anything should happen to the king.

In a stellar pollination year, most of the secondary blossoms will be pollinated and the tree becomes a cloud of delicate wings. The downside is too many children. The apples will be small, with more disease and pest pressure, and less air circulation and sunlight, not beneficial for the crop. 

On this particular Golden Delicious tree, I see only a few blossoms. Golden Delicious have a propensity to be biennial—a riot of blossoms one year, and the next only a scattering. Orchardists can control this tendency by “thinning” the trees, removing a portion of the young fruit. As an organic grower, I don’t have an array of chemical thinners to choose from, but I can hand thin. On our youngest trees, we pluck off all the blossoms, discouraging such precocious behavior; these trees need to focus on growth, not reproduction! On the younger trees, we remove some of the fruitlets, leaving a few inches between apples. But on the mature trees, when the fruit set is crazy-good, our feeble efforts to thin hardly make a difference. One tree alone could occupy an afternoon, and we don't have a month to devote to thinning. I leave the Golden Delicious to do as they are inclined. Other trees, like the newer varieties of Liberty and Honey Crisp, are bred to discourage this trait.

The upside of this off-year is all energy goes into growing large and shiny leaves—optimal photosynthesis. A time of repose, a sabbatical to recharge. As I sit in its shade, I think about what the tree offers other than fruit. Maybe nutritive support to other trees and to the soil around its roots? Maybe sequestering more carbon? Maybe that strange notion, self-care?

This Golden Delicious tree is over 45 years old, and some orchard experts say it should be replaced because it’s old and leaning too far south. But I’m enthralled by its wayward slant, its zig-zag desire to find equipoise. In the photo below you can see the young branch I’m training to become a new central leader if necessary. 

Being both orchardist and artist is at times contradictory. Should I spray a particularly nasty, but approved organic material like lime sulfur to thin the Golden Delicious so they don’t fall into biennial production? After all, we have 28 mature Golden Delicious trees with no fruit, and that’s a lot of real estate in a small orchard. The truth is I appreciate the gnarly old trees and the young slender spindles, the trees with no apples and the trees loaded with fruit.

I finish taking notes and gather violets to put in a jar of olive oil for next fall when we will make salves and balms. A pair of cedar waxwings are courting in one of the Gala trees, and two orioles sing from high in a Summer Sweet. The woodchuck peeks out of a nearby hole, and upon seeing me, ducks back down. The geese hiss. On my walk back to the house, I snap off two fat purple asparagus no doubt planted by some robin scratching for worms near the trunk of a Cortland in the first row. Today I’m an artist in the orchard. Tomorrow I’ll return with other tools.

Apple Tree, Watercolor and Pencil, 2020, Linda Hoffman