The Heirloom Orchardist

Hoe Time!

After having established what a weed is (my last post), it seems appropriate now to discuss that quintessential fruit and veggie garden implement, the hoe.  I think the hoe is a forgotten tool.  Or at least, the use of a hoe is a forgotten task.  But the Heirloom Orchardist knew his hoe quite well.  "Oh yeah," you say, "The hoe!  I know that tool.  I've even got one.  It has got a long handle, with a flat thing on the end that's bent.  It looks like this:"

Yup that's a common hoe. You've got one, I've got one.  And a few of us may even have a prong hoe:

Funny thing is many of us don't really use our hoe properly, or to its full advantage.  I think this is a factor of the busy lives we have nowadays, because to take advantage of this useful implement you've got to time it right.  You need to start when the weed seeds are just germinating; when they are showing green on the surface of the soil.  In my hardiness zone, that's now.  And once the hoe is out, it stays out.  You'll be hoein' all season (unless you mulch).  But if you don't start using it now, if you wait another few more weeks, forget it.  Leave your hoe in the shed.  Because then you're gonna be on your knees, pulling weeds.  And that takes a lot more effort than hoeing.

In the May 28, 1853 issue of the New England Farmer, we find this instruction:  "The clear hot days are the days for hoeing; leave the weeds on the surface a few hours at such a time, and they will trouble you no longer...No weeds should be allowed to grow among your hoed crops; and the ground ought to be stirred once in 10 or 12 days, if there are no weeds!"

What's the New England Farmer saying?  We should hoe if there are no weeds? What's that all about?  Well, I go back to my contention that hoeing is a lost art. I'll delve into my old book "Gardening for Pleasure: A Guide to the Amateur in the Fruit, Vegetable and Flower Garden"  (there is a reprint available) to figure this out:

The Common or Draw Hoe - Its principle (use is) to clean the surface of the ground from weeds...
The Prong Hoe - This is one of the most useful of garden tools for stirring and pulverizing soil.  It cannot, it is true, be used where weeds have been allowed to grow to any considerable height, but then we claim that in all well regulated gardens, weeds should never be allowed to grow so large that they cannot be destroyed by the prong hoe.

Ah...now we understand.  Hoeing is a method of getting weeds before they become established plants; before they become a problem.  By occasionally stirring the surface of the soil, we're disturbing those infant weed seedlings just enough to cause them to desiccate.  The New England Farmer is giving us a rule-of-thumb (of sorts).  It's telling us that if we can see the weeds, it may already be too late to affectively use a hoe.  And that would be our first sign of a not-so "well regulated garden."  Hoe wants that?

So, What's a Weed?

What’s so wrong with weeds?  Here’s one old-timer’s opinion:

The New England Farmer
May 21, 1853
Vol. VIII, No. 21
WEEDS.
Weeds, it should be recollected, are always more exhausting to soil than either roots or grain crops.  They are indigenous, consequently gross feeders, and abstract from the soil only those elements of fertility which are essentially and indispensably requisite to sustain the more valuable and cultivated crops.  It should ever be a rule with the farmer, to allow no plant to perfect its seed on his premises, that will, in anyway, diminish the productiveness of his soil.

As you know, I have a lot of respect for the old timers' opinions.  But this time, this Heirloom Orchardist disagrees with the above writer, who was probably one of the editors of the New England Farmer.
First, we don’t really know whether the above writer's “weeds” are more exhausting to soil than root or grain crops.  That’s a pretty broad opinion, particularly since we don’t know which weed we’re talking about, and also because both root and grain crops themselves are pretty darn exhausting to soil.
Second, we know that (of course) not all weeds are indigenous.  And many of the worst weeds, the most invasive types, are aliens.
Third, maybe it’s not so bad to “allow plant(s) to perfect their seed(s).”  Maybe that’s part of the surprise of gardening….hmm…it all depends on what you consider to be a weed…

So, what’s a weed?  Well, here’s my definition…and I immodestly take complete credit for this definition, ‘cause I thought it up.  But I understand that it’s so darn obvious, that someone else much smarter than me, probably thought it up first:

A weed is any plant, growing in the wrong place.

This definition allows me multiple options on what to do with that weed…that plant…that thing growing in my garden that I know I didn’t put there.  Not all weeds need to be pulled up, and placed in the sun to desiccate.  I can transplant a weed!  I can leave it alone!  It’s up to me.  Here, take a look at my patch of Bleeding Heart (Dicentra spectabilis):

This early spring bloomer always cheers me up in May.  Sure, it disappears in mid summer, and might leave a void in the garden. But there are so many other things going on by that time, that I hardly notice.  Look closely at the ground in front of my Bleeding Hearts….what’s all that green fuzz?  Those are seedlings.  Weed seedlings?  Maybe, I didn’t plant them.  And they’re just the right size to get with my hoe.

But I’m not gonna get them with my hoe.  I’m gonna let them stay.  There’s a good chance these seedlings are little volunteer Bleeding Hearts .  We shall see.  If not, well then, I’ll declare them to be “gross feeders” taking from my soil “those elements of fertility which are essentially and indispensably requisite to sustain the more valuable and cultivated crops.”  And those more valuable and cultivated crops would not be weeds, of course, they’d be my Bleeding Hearts.

Compost Happens

Spring is the season that we start thinking seriously about soil amendments.  Organic matter.  Black gold.  And now, when "green living" has become the trendy flavor of the day, this topic inevitably turns to composting.  Everywhere, you can find information about how to do it right, opinions on the best way to speed-up the process, the best way to keep the microbes and worms happy, the best way to keep you happy.  But I'm going to give you the Heirloom Orchardist's instructions on composting.  Here we go:

Pile up all your organic material from your lawn, garden and kitchen in one spot.  Watch it decompose.

Done.  That's it.  You're composting.  Detect a little sarcasm?  Yup, it's there.  But my point is not to cast aspersions at composting.  Today, composting is a critical part of gardening.  I just don't think the process needs to be so darn involved.  Sure, my method is going to result in a much slower decomposition rate (I don't recommend you hold your breath while you watch the stuff decompose).  But I've been using this method for years.  It works.  Compost happens.  I've got so little time, and so much to do in my garden, that creating an intensively managed compost pile has never been a priority.  Here's what my passive compost heap looks like:

One purpose of this blog is to present an interesting perspective.  I like to analyze the methods of the 18th and 19th century farmer/orchardist, and compare them to today's organic/sustainable farm and garden methods.  Did the 18th or 19th century farmer think about composting?  Well, yes...kinda.  He knew it was important to mix some types of manure (such as chicken or hog manure) with dry bedding, straw, or sawdust, and to let the mixture sit in a pile to "mellow" before using it in the field.   That period of "mellowing" was a form of composting.  But the procedure applied only to those very rich manures.  Mostly, the Heirloom Orchardist amended the soil in his fields and orchards with common barnyard manure.  You know, the kind that comes from the back ends of cows, horses, or oxen.  This stuff was plentiful, even if you didn't own livestock.  Take a look at this passage from an 1884 issue of "The Cultivator and Country Gentleman:"

"I am now drawing to my farm from the city fresh horse manure...There is quite a large quantity of rye straw in the manure, which rapidly rots by forking over the pile two or three times."

So why did we (Not you and me. By "we" I mean the early 20th century farmer/gardener/orchardist) start using synthetic fertilizers like there was no tomorrow?  Is it because the stuff is so much easier to use?  Well, yes (in part), but that's not all.  The other reason is because of Henry Ford.  Yup, you read that right.  It's 'cause of Henry Ford, and his Model-T.  Read this, from my 1921 issue of the Garden Guide, The Amateur Gardener's Handbook:

"Owing to the almost universal use of automobiles and motor trucks, the rapidly increasing demand for farm tractors, and the consequent enormous decrease in the number of horses employed on farms and elsewhere, the supply of stable manure has diminished to such an extent that it is all but unobtainable for gardening, or even farming purposes."

There ya go.  After the Model-T, there just wasn't that much sh-t to spread around.  Don't blame the prolific use of synthetics on their obvious effectiveness.  Don't blame it on their ease of use.  Blame it on Henry.

Here's our conclusion: Now-a-days, if you want to feed your garden and orchard without using synthetic fertilizers, and you don't have a cow, you're probably gonna have to start composting.  And the process doesn't have to be a fancy intensive affair, unless you want it to be.  Because, as I've said, Compost Happens.

White Winter Pearmain: Like a worthless friend?

In my last post, a book review, I mentioned the differences in how writers describe fruit.  Sure, the older descriptions are adequate.  They do the trick.  But in my opinion, they are flawed by their accuracy.  Here’s a sample piece of Charles Downing’s (The Fruits and Fruit Trees of America) description of the White Winter Pearmain, ca. 1881:

"Basin uneven.  Skin pale yellow, with slight blush or warm cheek, thickly sprinkled with minute brown dots.  Flesh yellowish, tender, crisp, juice very pleasant subacid.  Very good."

Okay, Okay.  Downing is trying to be objective.  He knows that beauty (and flavor) is in the eye of the beholder.  He’s describing the characteristics of hundreds of fruit varieties in his book, and he must use uniform terminology.  But I’d like to know something about the life of this apple!  The personality!  Give me some metaphors!  Consider the following, written about the same time,  by J.M. Hasness, the Secretary of the Holt County Horticultural Society, for the Report of The Missouri State Horticultural Society, 1884:

"Some varieties, like men, start off well, make a brilliant record for a few years, than so utterly fail as to disgust their warmest friends and admirers.  Of such is the White Winter Pearmain, famous in Northwest Missouri fifteen years ago, and at that time really a fine, delicious variety, but now I pronounce it worthless."

Now, there’s an opinionated comment. It sounds as though Mr. Hasness has been let down a few times by the people in his life.  Poor guy.  He then got an axe, went out to his orchard, and took out his frustrations on his worthless White Winter Pearmains.

Of course I’m not being fair.  These two writers were trying to accomplish two very different things with their words.  As I said, Downing’s words are deliberately dry, in order to give an objective description.  But in doing that, he doesn’t express the passion in horticulture.  This time of year, I find myself every morning walking into my backyard garden simply to see what may have popped up from the soil.  I’m checking the buds on my pear trees every day, to see if they’ve opened.  Whether you grow fruit or flowers, there’s too much emotion in horticulture to ignore.

Apples, by Roger Yepsen

With Apples, writer/illustrator Roger Yepsen has created my kind of coffee table book. Although you may mistake this quaint 5x6 inch manual for a coaster, it will never overtake the space that should be utilized for a tankard of fine cider. And when the conversation lulls, you can easily set down your tankard, read one apple description, and your friend won’t even know you briefly left the discussion.

Yepsen’s quick essays on the history of apple cultivation, buying and eating apples, and the methods of making cider are interesting short reads. But what we come for are his colorful descriptions and vivid illustrations of ninety different classic apple varieties.

Yepsen’s bio identifies him as a freelance artist and writer. But he must be an apple fanatic too, because it takes passion to create ninety individual, intriguing passages about the same type of fruit. Readers of this site know that I like to draw from old periodicals and books to describe heirloom fruit varieties. But the old writers described apples in a mechanical, textbook-like fashion, as though the fruit had no life. Yepsen’s descriptions tell you about the personality of each apple; its heft, its texture, fragrance, and subtle flavors. He accompanies these descriptions with histories, to give us a setting for each variety.

Despite the quick concise title, which may imply to some that this would be an all-encompassing manual, it is not.  This is not a book for someone who wants the whole story of apples. It’s a tasting-plate. It’s an apple appetizer. Your palette will be pleased.

Protecting Fruit Trees from Mice

This time of year, after the snow has receded, The Heirloom Orchardist will sometimes discover damage caused by mice at the base of his/her fruit trees.  The little critters seem to enjoy the nice juicy cambium layer, where all the active growth takes place.  Often the damage completely encircles the trunk, girdling it.  To avoid this devastation, The Heirloom Orchardist needs to place protection around his/her trees before the winter sets in.  What should be used?  Here’s some advice from an Orchardist who signed his name “H.”

The Genesee Farmer
Rochester, Saturday, April 14, 1832
Vol. II, No. 15
In the season when bark peels easily, I took the bark from forest trees of equal size with the fruit trees, as nearly as possible, by splitting it upon one side and turning it off whole, or in one piece, about two and a half or three feet in length.  These pieces I preserved until the millers, worms, &c. had disappeared, (that they might not seek shelter behind my barks) and then I applied them round the trunks of the trees to be preserved.  The tougher kinds of bark will usually spring so as to pass them round the tree.  The lower end, being square will come fully down to the ground, and a little earth raised outside of it will exclude the mice.  The bark should be tied so as to draw the opening together, and in this way I avoided he depredations of that mischievous little animal. 

There you have it:  Go into the woods when bark slips easily and remove it from existing trees to use as tree guards.  This seems like a lot of effort to protect ones fruit trees.  Couldn’t The Heirloom Orchardist have wrapped his trees with something else?  Somethimg more readily available?  Well, let’s think of what else this Orchardist had at his disposal in 1832.
Newspaper?  Perhaps, but it wasn’t very plentiful.  In 1832, paper was high quality, expensive stuff made from cotton (often recycled cotton rags).  It wasn’t the cheap acid-rich wood pulp stuff that’s so ubiquitous today.  If an Orchardist was fortunate enough to subscribe to some sort of periodical, such as the Genessee Farmer, the issues were often saved, then sent to the local bookbinder at the end of the year.
Rags?   Nope.  These were much too valuable than to wrap your fruit trees with.  Any fabric was saved, used for mending, making rugs or other domestic articles.  Plus, I’m sure a cozy rag would attract the mice.
Leather?  Much too expensive.  And leather articles were used, repaired, used and repaired, year after year.  Unless the Orchardist lived near a tannery, there wasn’t going to be much leather scrap available.
Anything else?  It’s an interesting question.  Put yourself in the shoes (or boots) of the 1832 Orchardist, and ponder this a moment.  Leave a comment below with any ideas you may have, ‘cause I’d enjoy pondering with you.  And while you ponder, get tree guards made from plastic.  Get them now, while mice damage is fresh on your mind, and you won’t be scrambling this fall.

"36"" Tree Bark Protectors"

Oiling Fruit Trees

The Cultivator and Country Gentleman
Albany, NY
April 14, 1881
Vol. XLVI, No. 1472

Oiling Fruit Trees.
      Please state what is the proper time in this latitude for painting apple trees with linseed oil, to destroy lice.  Also whether it should be raw, or boiled oil.
     A Montreal Subscriber
     It is safest to apply it before the buds of spring begin to swell, and as much before that time as practicable, or late in winter.  It would probably be safe at any time on hardened bark and with drying oil.  We should regard it as accompanied with danger if applied to the tender bark of young trees while in a growing state, unless the oil is well prepared by boiling or otherwise for drying soon.

Wow!  Linseed oil is a renewable resource!  It comes from the seed of flax (Linum usitatissimum), the same plant that our ancestors grew and processed to create long silvery strands of fiber.  This material was then woven into linen.  Could I have stumbled on a forgotten formula for an organic, renewable horticultural oil?  Perhaps…Let’s see what this oiling-fruit-trees thing is all about.

There are several destructive insects that are particularly frustrating to orchardists.  Among these are mites and scale (not lice, but we’ll give A Montreal Subscriber a break on that one).  These insects are small, with a hard exoskeleton that protects them from the elements, as well as some pesticides.  Just like you and I, insects require some method of drawing oxygen from the air in order to survive.  We breathe with lungs, and insects “breathe” through spiracles, a series of “holes” (if you will) along the sides of their abdomens.  So, the method by which oil kills insects is simple.  It clogs up the spiracles.  The insects can’t get oxygen, and they die.  Yahoo!  (Entomologists will tell you there are also some insects that have a protective waxy coating that gets dissolved by the oil, which then kills them…but for my benefit, I’ve got to keep this simple).

So, linseed oil should goop-up those spiracles, wouldn’t you think?  It should kill those nasty bugs.  Sure, but let’s look at the tree before we start slathering the stuff all over the orchard.

As we know, trees have to “breathe” too.  Of course, trees don’t call it breathing, they call it “transpiration.”  But the point is that trees need to exchange gasses too, and like insects, they do this through little “holes.”  Trees call their holes “stomata.”  So, here’s the problem:  If linseed oil can goop-up the spiracles of an insect (thereby leading to its demise), well then, it can goop-up a tree’s stomata too.  So, what can you do to solve this problem?

You change the volatility of the oil.  You mix up different batches with some special stuff that leaves the oil thick (Dormant Oil) or thin (Horticultural Oil).  You conduct trials with your mixture, and you figure out that generally…and I stress generally…the tree can tolerate a longer period of having its “holes” clogged, than the insects can.  This is particularly true in the winter season, when your trees aren’t doing a lot of transpiring.  The idea is to devise a formula that allows the oil to stay around long enough to kill the bugs, but not so long as to kill the tree.  A thick oil works better during the winter season, when the tree is dormant.  Hence, it’s a “Dormant Oil.”  Thinner, more volatile oils can be used during the growing season. 

So now we come back to linseed oil.  Will it work?  It just may!  But just like A Montreal Subscriber, we don’t know how volatile linseed oil is.  Therefore, we don’t know the best time to apply it to the tree (and the information given by the Cultivator isn’t any good.  In fact, it stinks.)  All dormant oils should be applied before the tree’s buds have broken.  But I don’t want to test linseed oil on my trees.  I’ll let someone else test it on their trees.

Flit about the internet, and you’ll find some home recipes for oil sprays made with vegetable oil.  But I wouldn’t recommend them.  I think we’d be better off with products that have been through trials, and come with specific instructions.  Gardens Alive! has some good ones.  But hurry up, because the dormant season is ending soon.

A Baldwin Graft Experiment by P.L. Converse

On March 21 (“Ira’s Columbian Pippin”), I explained that many heirloom apple varieties were biennial bearers.  That is, they don’t fruit heavily every year, but tend to alternate years.  If the Heirloom Orchardist could figure out a way to trick half of his trees to produce on the odd years, and half on the even years, he could plan his production (and cash flow) a lot better.  Here’s an observation from a Mr. Converse, published in 1851:

New England Farmer and Boston Rambler
Boston, Saturday, April 5, 1851
Vol. VI, Number 14

Grafting in Odd and Even Years.
Mr. Cole:  In looking over the 2nd vol. of the N.E. Farmer, I noticed at page 30th, a call for facts in relation to the year of grafting having an influence on the year of bearing of apple-trees, and as I have a little practice in point, it is at your service.
In the spring of 1845, I took scions from a Baldwin apple tree that bore invariably in odd years and inserted them into a standard.  The next year I took scions from the same tree as before, and inserted them into another standard.  The result is as follows: The tree first grafted bore fruit in 1848, '50.
On the second tree about one-half the scions bore fruit in 1849, the other half in 1850.  The trees grafted were natural fruit of the same variety, and great bearers every year.

Yours, P. L. CONVERSE.
Woburn, MA, March 21, 1851.

So, what’s the conclusion?  Mr. Converse seems to imply that by grafting the odd-year bearing Baldwin on its bearing year (1845), he’d managed to switch the Baldwin’s timing to that of an even bearing tree.  Then, when he grafted Baldwin scions on the even (non-bearing) year, he produced both even and odd bearing trees.  Got it?  My slow brain had to think about it a couple times.  In the end, I think P.L. Converse needs to give this more time.  He should've reported back every year.

Grafting and budding are at the heart of growing heirloom apples, since no apple comes "true to seed."  That is, if you grow an apple seed that comes from a Baldwin Apple, you're not going to get a tree producing Baldwins.  To get that, you need to graft a piece of a tree (a scion or a bud) that you know produces Baldwins, onto another apple tree.  Grafting is a fun craft, and it's easily done...with practice.  Here's a link.

Catching Curculios

While we’re on the topic of organic methods of pest control, here’s an Heirloom Orchardist suggestion for battling the dreaded Curculio:

The Cultivator & Country Gentleman
Albany, New York
April 21, 1881
Vol. XLVI, No. 1473

Catching Curculios.
After trying several different contrivances for jarring down curculios from plum trees, the mode represented in fig. 1 proves the most convenient for moderate sized orchards.  Buy stout muslin two yards wide or more, or else sew two narrower pieces together, so as to make a piece about two yards square, or two by three yards, or of any other convenient size for handling.  Stiffen it with light rods across the ends, and with one rod at the middle, to keep them apart, and to serve as a handle, as shown by the figure. 

Let it be a little slack, so as to give a slightly concave form to the sheet.  Iron plugs having been previously inserted in the tree, or into each main branch, the operator holds this sheet in his left hand, under one side of the tree, and with a heavy hammer in his right hand, strikes the iron plug, which brings down the curculios on the sheet, and rolling down to the concave part, they are quickly crushed with thumb and finger, if few, or dumped into a pail of hot water or a pan of kerosene, if many.  If oilcloth was substituted for the muslin, it would not become wet on dewy mornings, and the "bugs" would roll freely down its surface.  The only trouble we have had with this catcher, in connection with the iron plugs, is that it has made such a clean sweep of the insects that the trees have been badly injured by overbearing.  It was of course unremittingly and daily used.

To add to those detailed instructions, my only suggestion would be to make sure you wear your sunbonnet, as shown by the figure.  Such a contrivance would ensure that the operator would not result in a head full of insects.

Professor Mapes's Tobacco Insecticide

Here’s an affective insecticide for all my organically-inclined readers.  It comes courtesy of Professor Mapes:

New England Farmer and Boston Rambler
Boston, Saturday, April 5, 1851
Vol. VI, Number 14

TOBACCO DUST,
As a Protection against Insects.

We last year procured from a snuff mill a barrel of dry, but damaged snuff flour, and prepared drudging boxes, covered with a fine bolting cloth, with which we sifted it over the surfaces of any plants attacked by insects, and with most signal success.  The snuff should be applied, if practicable, while the plant is wet with dew, and repeated after every shower.  If the boxes are properly made, (like a common flour drudge) and the snuff is perfectly fine and dry, but little time is necessary to go over an acre of plants.  Even the rose bug, cabbage louse, thrips on grape vines, &c., all yield to the influence of snuff, and the most delicate plant of the hot-house is not injured by its application.  For field vegetables, caustic lime, made into a fine powder while dry, and applied before slaking by contact with the air, will produce similar results.

Prof. Mapes.

Tobacco-based insecticides have been around for hundreds of years, so it’s unlikely that Prof. Mapes’s readers of 1851 thought this was a miracle treatment.  My suspicion is that he was providing a method of applying tobacco in a form that was readily available to the mid-nineteenth century farmer.  He even noted that he used “damaged” snuff flour, which may have occasionally been available very cheaply in his day.  Snuff is still available today, but it’s not half as popular as it was in the days of the Heirloom Orchardist.  So, if you want to give a nicotine-based insecticide a try, and you can’t procure a “barrel of dry, but damaged snuff flour,” here’s an alternate recipe for you:

Nicotine Spray:
All you need is:
1 cup of tobacco
1 gallon of water
Combine the two, and allow the mixture to steep for approximately 24 hours.  After it has stood for a day, you should find it to look like weak tea.  Strain it, and apply the liquid with a watering can, or sprayer.  This mixture is for use on foliage feeding insects, or those that may suck plant juices (such as aphids).
I’ve read reports that you shouldn’t use this solution on peppers, tomatoes, eggplants, or any other member of the solanaceous family.  Apparently, tobacco chemicals can hurt these types of plants.  This is ironic, because tobacco itself is from the Nightshade (Solanaceae) family.