The Heirloom Orchardist

You're Never Too Old to Plant an Orchard!

Nowadays, with the availability of dwarf and semi dwarf trees, we think nothing of setting out a small orchard and expect fruit within a few years.

This wasn’t the case for The Heirloom Orchardist.  To him, an orchard was an investment.  The site was chosen wisely, and the trees were planted carefully.  Of course The Heirloom Orchardist wanted to benefit from his efforts, but he was also thinking of the many generations of Orchardists that would follow.  His trees took a while to get to a bearing age.

Does this mean that an elderly Orchardist might have thought twice about investing his limited time to planting a new fruit grove?  Perhaps.  Thomas Close, of Port Chester, NY felt strongly against that sort of thinking.  So strongly, that he wrote to the editor of The Cultivator, on January 3rd, 1846.  His comments were published in April of that year:

“Nothing is more common than to hear a man at the very period of his life when he is best capable of doing the thing well - from 50 to 60 - excusing himself from putting out fruit trees upon the plea that he is too old to be benefited by it.  The two following instances will show at how late a period of life a fondness for the cultivation of fruit has been practically manifested, and at how much later a period of life has been prolonged, as if in reward of the deed.”

“An aged lady, in the adjoining town of Greenwich, not many years ago, planted a peach in her one hundredth year, and lived to eat the first fruit the tree produced.  The Rev. Mr. Cobb, of Braintree, Mass., set out an orchard at the advanced age of 77, and was laughed at by his neighbors, who were much too wise to plant frees for posterity - he lived thirty years afterwards.  These it will be admitted are extreme cases, and yet many not very dissimilar ones could easily be collected, were due justice done to the scattered individual enterprise of the nation.”

Indeed.  Thomas Close was right!  Plant a fruit tree!  If not for your descendants, than do it for yourself!

Dormant Oil Spray - March in the Orchard

I chuckled when I found this old turn-of-the-century postcard.  Imagine promoting the use of sprays in such a proud fashion!  “It’s this special care that makes our fruit so good.”  Ha! The fruit looks so beautiful, getting a liberal application of pesticide.

Well, I’ve got to go easy on the Heirloom Orchardist.  Sure, the chances are pretty good that this old orchard (probably located in Oregon?) was using a noxious insecticide.  But some sprays, such as a horticultural oil spray, aren’t so bad.  Horticultural oil, used by itself, poses few risks to the environment.

Now is the time to plan your application of a dormant horticultural oil spray.  In his 1918 book, Orchard and Garden, here’s what Benjamin W. Douglass suggested:

March in the Orchard - This is the best of all winter months for the application of the dormant spray.  Every twig and branch must be well covered with the spray solution.  Those portions of the orchard that have been found to be infested with scale insects or with the eggs of plant lice should be given extra attention.  The trees should be examined a few days after they have been sprayed and if any exposed areas of bark are found, the work must be done over in these parts of the orchard.

Horticultural oil spray is a high grade oil used to control insects such as scale, whitefly, mealybug, thrips, aphids and codling moths.  The oil interferes with gas exchange, and thus, simply suffocates its victims.  The timing for an application of dormant oil is critical.  It must go on in the late winter, or early spring, before bud-break.  The entire tree must be coated.

What happens if the oil is applied too late?  Well, your fruit tree is a living organism too…one that also partakes in gas exchange.  So, after the tree comes out of dormancy, you don’t want to gum up all the pores (stomata) in the newly unfurling leaves.  You could kill the tree.

Horticultural oils pose few risks to people or to beneficial natural enemies of insect pests.  This allows the responsible Heirloom Orchardist to integrate the use of oils with biological controls.  Toxicity is minimal, at least compared to alternative pesticides, and oils quickly dissipate through evaporation, leaving little residue.

Various oils have been used for centuries to control insect and mite pests (“plant lice” as the Heirloom Orchardist used to say).  Here’s what one Heirloom Orchardist discovered in 1865:  "I applied common neats-foot oil to a couple of espalier fruit trees, the past spring, which had become very badly infested with lice, and with the best results.  I used an ordinary paint brush in applying it, and the oil in moderate quantity.  Passing the trees a day or two subsequently, I found the pests all dead, and the trees soon resumed a healthy appearance, and have grown finely through the summer, and with no further trouble from them." Waterville, NY, Country Gentleman, November 23, 1865

Typically used as a conditioning agent for leather, this Heirloom Orchardist probably had a convenient supply of neats foot oil for boots or saddles.  He was successful, because it wasn’t sprayed on…he applied it carefully, with a brush.

Today, we’re fortunate to have horticultural oils, specifically manufactured with the proper viscosity, for use on our precious fruit trees.

Purchase a Horticultural Oil spray

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Winnowing Beans; James McKenney & Lena of Readfield, Maine

One hundred years ago, James McKenney lived and farmed with (his wife?) Lena, in Readfield, Maine.  I'm fortunate to have found his ledger at a flea market.  Occasionally, we’ll look back at James's notes to see what he and Lena were up to, one hundred years ago to the day.

Sunday, March 3, 1912:
"Fair I worked on the road to day
And went over to Maces with
the cream"

Monday, March 4, 1912:
"Fair I went up to Town
Meeting with Charles to day
F. Tibbetts came down to
Winner some beans this P.M."

James put down few words, but there’s a lot to comment on here … winter road maintenance, bringing cream to the market (Maces), and Town Meeting (that all-important event).  But let’s focus on the beans.  I love that James writes “winner” rather than “winnow.”  If we imagine hearing him say it, his downeast dialect would probably have it sound more like “Winnah.”

James doesn’t tell us how much winnowing he had to do.  But there's nowhere in his ledger that I find any mention of bringing beans to the market, so I’m guessing he grew beans only for his own use, and stored them in his barn.

If he had a lot to thresh, he may have hired someone with a “beaner” to help him out.

“As soon as the vines are dry, they should be removed carefully to the barn, where the beans may be nailed or thrashed out.  The modern bean thrasher (beaner) removes the beans much more quickly and cheaply than the flail.  After the beans are thrashed, they should be cleaned and graded, and the good beans placed in sacks for marketing.” (Field Crops, Wilson Warburton, 1912).

I suppose it’s possible that F. Tibbetts owned a beaner.  If he did, Tibbetts “came down” to lend James use of it, and help out.  James does not mention that he paid Tibbetts for the help.

But there were problems with using a beaner.

“Threshing is usually done by special machines called "beaners," which go from farm to farm for hire as do ordinary grain threshers.  These beaners sometimes split so many beans that the old-fashioned flail is regarded more economical in spite of its slowness.”  (USDA Experiment Station Work, 1911).

If James grew his beans solely for his own use, it’s likely he simply used a hand flail to release them from their pods.  Then he set to "winner some beans."

“They are then further cleaned by running through a fanning mill, after which all discolored beans, as well as stones, dirt, etc. are picked out by hand.  This latter work is usually performed by children, women or other cheap labor.”  (Farmers Cyclopedia of Agriculture, 1904).

I’m pleased to see that James doesn’t delegate this task to Lena.  He knew she already had her hands full.  If he didn't, I'm sure she let him know.

(Ambrose Sanderson using a flail, courtesy of the National Education Network)

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Read more!  The Heirloom Orchardist has prepared

A Page on Heirloom Beans.

The Wrong Time to Spread Manure

It’s well into February, and like every good Heirloom Orchardist, I’m thinking about the most important stuff on this wonderful earth: Manure.

Not too long ago, manure was the lifeblood of the farm.  It still is on many farms (thankfully).  But due to synthetic fertilizers, it isn’t the absolutely necessary material that it used to be.  Furthermore, thanks to Mr. Ford (and the ubiquitous internal combustion machine), there just isn’t as much of the stuff being produced.

Think about this for a moment:  to the Heirloom Orchardist, manure wasn’t just some wonderful material that was spread on the field whenever it was convenient to spread.  No, this stuff had to be managed.  Try putting that on your “to do” list for the month.

And the cold, slow winter month of February was a month during which manure management was pretty important, because by now the crap was really starting to pile up.  It’s no wonder that when we look through the old farming papers, there’s all sorts of discussions about manure…ways of covering it...how to best use it…whether it’s better aged, or fresh…when to apply it...

“Often in February there are many days when there is little or no snow on the frozen ground. This is a good time, then, for spreading manure which will be soaked in by later snows.”

I came upon the above statement in a February 1917 issue of The Countryside, and it got me thinking about a comment made by one of my college professors (many years ago).  He said that it was not uncommon for old-time farmers to spread manure during the winter months.  This was a seemingly productive way to get it out of the barnyard, and on the fields.  By February, it was accumulating in the yard.  Since the fields were frozen, it was easy to run the manure spreader over the ground.  Then, the melting snow would leach the nutrients into the soil.

But in many areas, this is flat-out wrong.  The problem is that in cold climates, February is probably one of the worst times to spread manure, because the nutrients don’t efficiently leach into the soil.  The soil’s frozen!  The snow melt, or late winter rains aren’t very affective in drawing the nutrients (or “life giving properties” as the Heirloom Orchardist would say) into the soil.  The nutrients just wash downslope…off into the brooks and streams.

So, we should continue to respect the old farming methods, and the greater use of organic fertilizers over synthetic ones.  But apply some modern sensibilities too.

November in the Garden

Here are some November garden tasks from the New England Farmer and Country Rambler of November 1, 1851:

November is a good time clean out and manure strawberry beds. Cover them, if convenient, with coarse herbage or brush of evergreens.  Give the asparagus beds a rich coat of manure. Currants, raspberries and gooseberries may be transplanted this month with success if the work be well done. The red and white Antwerp should be protected. Throw out a spade full of earth from one side of the plant near thee roots, and this will enable you to bend it down over the hole without injury, when it may be covered with straw, or such other materials as can be spared. This may he omitted until near the close of the month if the weather is mild. Trim and tie up native raspberries. Cut out all of the present year that bore fruit, shorten in the tops of the new plants: and tie the hills to a stake or trellises.

This month affords favorable opportunities to layout the garden - that is, to arrange your beds, paths, make hot-beds, and decide where your young trees, shrubbery, beans, peas, early potatoes and other vegetables are to be placed. This may all be arranged upon paper during the winter, and thus give you a map of garden operations. This map will be found of service in the hurrying hours of planting and sowing, by showing at a glance the spot selected for the various trees and seeds it is intended to plant.

These are but a few suggestions or catchwords.  The systematic farmer or gardener will find plenty of employment in all seasons of the year.

Yup, plenty of employment...You thought you'd pack it in for the year?

The (Un)Common Milkweed Plant

There's a native perennial that grows at the fringe of the orchard, out there with the wild raspberries and goldenrod. It intrigued me as a child.  I'd search its leaves for a plump black and yellow caterpillar, that I'd raise (in a mayonnaise jar) to an adult monarch butterfly.  My  fingers became sticky from the plant's opaque white sap.

As an adult, I appreciate its waxy rose-pink blossoms in July.  These give way to big puffy seed pods.   Split one of those pods open.  This month,  you'll reveal a dense packet of tan seeds, arranged like fish-scales.  Each seed is attached to a cluster of moist silky threads.  Next month, the pods will crack open, the threads will dry, and carry the seeds away in a breeze.

Sounds pretty magical, doesn't it?  Well, it is.  But the Heirloom Orchardist was a practical sort.  When he came upon the Common Milkweed, he tried to find uses for this interesting plant.  Consider the account given by General Henry Dearborn, who died in 1829, while residing in Roxbury, Massachusetts. His comments were published in the Massachusetts Horticultural Register sometime during the late 1820's, and reprinted in 1835 in the Yankee Farmer:

"The silk, when taken from the pods, and being freed from the seed, is hung up in thin bags in the sun, and when perfectly dry may be used without any further preparation, instead of feathers, horse hair, wool or cotton, for cushions, bolsters, pillows, mattresses; and coverlets.  From eight to nine pounds is sufficient for a bed, bolster, and two pillows.  It is lighter and warmer, when used in forming coverlets comforters than cotton, or wool, and nearly equal to eider down."

The problem, I suppose, was gathering the stuff.  One could put a lot of work into growing and harvesting milkweed silk, and end up with only a handful of sticky fluff.  So, I go back to the aesthetics.  This curious little drawing entitled "Milkweed in the Garden" shows up in my 1936 issue of the "New Garden Encylopedia".   It displays the caption: "This common roadside plant can be brought into the wild garden or border to create striking mass effects."

So there you have it.  When practicality cannot be found, there's always beauty.  And milkweed, a perennial, is very easy to grow.  Consider these two varieties for the sunny, moist areas of your "wild garden" or perennial border:

Cinderella Milkweed  (Asclepias incarnata 'cinderella')   This leafy perennial matures at about 3-4 feet.  It has an upright spreading habit.  The beautiful pink flowers are fragrant, and reminiscent of vanilla.  They're excellent for cutting.  It's good to combine this plant in the garden near another having a finer texture.  It is native to moist soils, but like its cousin (the common milkweed described above) it'll adapt to average garden soil moisture conditions.

Usually growing 18"-24" high, Butterfly Milkweed (Asclepias tuberosa interior) attracts numerous butterfly species for nectaring.  In late June through July you’ll find bright clusters of orange flowers adorning this plant.  Unlike Cinderella Milkweed, Butterfly Milkweed must be planted in a soil that provides excellent drainage.  Also be aware of its taproot.  Where you plant it, is where it should stay.  Deer resistant.  It’s also known also as “Pleurisy Root.”

Plant Patents Enrich the World

Seventy-nine years ago, President Herbert Hoover signed into law a legal mechanism that allowed anyone to lay claim on a new type of "invention": the US Plant Patent Act of 1930.

What was the purpose of the law?  Those of you that recall a post I wrote last year already have a good idea on the answer (See The "Honey Heart" Cherry Tree of 1851, and Plant Patents, March 31, 2008). The law was (is) intended to protect proprietary rights of the developer of a new plant.  A plant patent allows only one person to grow that new patented plant: the person who holds the patent.

Why did the federal government think this was important?  Well, just as conventional patents on new inventions (coupled with our capitalistic economy) encourage the development of new helpful gizmos, plant patents encourage the development of new beneficial and enriching plants.  These plants could be improved food crops with a new disease resistance, or a trait that eased the work for a grower.  For example, on March 9, 1943, inventor M. B. Crane received a plant patent on his new thornless long-bearing blackberry plant (Plant Patent #571), which made harvesting the fruit a lot easier.  Plant patents were determined to be good for society, good for the economy, and good for the nursery industry.

I recently stumbled on a 1948 issue of National Geographic with an article that gives an interesting glimpse on how the "new" plant patent law was being received, only 18 years after it was adopted.  "The only way a grower could make a profit on a new (plant) before 1930 was to build up, as secretly as possible, all the stock his capital permitted, then throw it all on the market at the top prices people would pay"  the article explains.  "In a year or so, competitors would be building up their own stocks, grown from the no-longer-secret variety, now widely distributed."  To make matters worse, in the days of the Heirloom Orchardist many growers would simply rename the new plant, call it their own, and introduce it again as another "new" introduction.  That's one lousy way to run an industry.

Perhaps it's needless to say, the 1948 article praises the new law.  It ushered in the start of a real honest, and economically viable plant breeding industry. So let me ask you a couple interesting questions:  First, by 1948 how many plant patents do you think had been issued?  The answer is 750.  That's a remarkably low number compared to what is received by the patent office today on just an annual basis.

The second question is: What type of plant had been issued the most patents by 1948?  Was it corn?  Apples?  An important disease resistant potato?  Nope....It was the rose.  By 1948, "about half" of the 750 plant patents issued had been on roses.  Hmm...it seems the heart may be more important than the stomach.

The Simplest Rain Gauge

Wow. This has been a very rainy season in New England.  Soon after I returned from vacation last weekend, I heard reports on yet another incredible downpour received while I was away.  How much rain did we get?  The reports vary, so I don't really know.  What I need is a rain gauge.

So, I turned to my 1869 issue of Rural Affairs and found this:

"The simplest rain gauge is a square or cylindrical vessel, open at (the) top, with a scale marked inside to show the depth of the water as the rain falls.  The depth of rains may be nearly measured by simply placing out, on an open piece of ground, a tin pail with parallel sides, and then measuring the depth with a small, thin rule."

Yup.  That's gotta be the simplest rain gauge ever created.  One would think (I'm sure you do) that one doesn't need The Heirloom Orchardist to tell you to stick a tin pail in your back yard and measure the depth of rainwater collected to determine how much rain fell...But there you go, I've done it.

The key of course, is that the tin pail (the vessel) must be "square or cylindrical."  It must have "parallel sides." Otherwise, you won't get an accurate reading. Quite simply, a rain gauge measures the amount of water that falls from the sky onto a defined area of ground.  That area can be any size; one square inch, one square foot, or an acre. No matter how big your vessel is, as long as the sides of it are parallel, and the same distance apart as its opening, you should get the same water depth reading for any area.

But The Heirloom Orchardist can't leave well-enough alone.  He continues to perfect his rain gauge:

"It is more common, as well as convenient and accurate, however, to make the top of the gauge somewhat in the form of a hopper, throwing the rain together down a graduated tube.  The depth being thus multiplied, the amount fallen can be more perfectly measured.  If, for example, the tube is one tenth the area of the hopper, a fall of one inch will show ten inches in depth; or if the tube is a hundred times smaller than the hopper, a tenth of an inch of rain will give a ten inch column."  (Yeah, Yeah...we get it).  "In all gauges of this kind, which multiply the depth, it is safest to have a small cylindrical vessel attached to the side of the instrument to show the fall in case of a great storm, which might more than fill the narrow tube."

  "There are various modifications of rain gauges.  One is made by using a funnel placed in the mouth of a jug or bottle, into which all the water immediately runs.  It is then poured into a graduated tube and accurately measured.  If the quantity will more than fill the tube, it may be measured by successive portions.  The most convenient way of placing this gauge, is first to sink a small barrel into the ground (sink a barrel into the ground?!  You're kidding, right?),  cover it with a wooden board so made as to throw the rain from the centre, where a hole is made just large enough to receive the funnel.  The bottle or jug for holding the water is placed in the barrel below the funnel.  (Wait.  I'm confused.  You got a diagram of that?)   In the accompanying figure 1, “a” represents the barrel, “b” the board cover, “c” the funnel, “d” the bottle, and “e” the graduated glass tube, which may be kept when not in use within the barrel."

"Fig. 2 represents a modification of the gauge already spoken of, having the tube “a” attached to the funnel “b,” both of which may be made of brass or tin plate."  (Hmm, well if I'm gonna put this much work into it, I'm going with brass).  "A convenient mode for setting this gauge is to set a short, wooden post into the ground, projecting a few inches above it, and then bore a hole on the post the size of the funnel, an inch or two downward to receive it, and then another hole, a little smaller, deep enough to….."

Hold it.  Stop.  I’ve had enough.  I’m just gonna put a tin pail in my backyard.  Or maybe I’ll just get a fancy-shmancy frog rain gauge from MasterGardening.com .