Extension News: June 2009 Archives

I don't mind picking berries alone.

When my children were young, we’d take an annual field trip to the local strawberry patch. They started off crawling on the matted straw between the rows. I quickly picked berries while their attention focused at their handfuls of straw. When they crawled towards the strawberry plants, I watched them explore, making sure they didn’t eat any leaves or moldy berries. The few berries they picked left red juice dripping through their chubby fingers.

As they got older, berry picking became an adventure. We'd wait for the hay wagon to take us to our pick-your-own row of strawberries. When the wagon arrived, passengers holding their brimming baskets of berries took a big step down from the wooden cart. I looked enviously at them and thought, "Did they get all the good ones? Were there any left for us?” My children were more interested in being the first ones on the wagon.

Once everyone was seated, the tractor bucked into gear and slowly pulled us towards the picking area. We lurched back and forth as the wheels dipped into the pot-holed, dirt road. We passed several rows with people picking, but didn’t stop until we reached a strawberry sign with the number 5 on it. The kids bounced up and down anxiously waiting to get off the wagon. We jumped down from the wagon and were directed to our designated row. The treasure hunt had begun.

I usually walked down the row about half way before starting to pick. I wanted to be immersed in the patch rather than sticking to the edges. As she found her first berry, my Kelly would boast, “Look at how big this one is!” My son, Casey, would retort, “I found the biggest, bestest one of all!”

Sometimes the berries were right on the edge of the row and easy to find. But the best ones often hid in the center of the plant under the leaves.

I loved gently brushing the leaves and stems aside to see what treasures were hidden. When I found the perfect berry, I cupped it in my hand with the stem between my fingers and gently pulled. The berry snapped off the stem and made a crisp, pop sound. Perfect berries had a squeaky, red shine and were evenly speckled with seeds. The caps provided handles to hold onto as you bit into the garnet delight. The warm red juices burst into your mouth and left your fingertips stained with precious memories.

I knew the treasure hunt was over by my children’s pinkened lips and face, filled baskets, and whines of “I’m hot!” As I slowly stood up, my back also creaked it was time to go. So, we started walking back to the farm stand in our red-blotched sneakers.

As we walked down the row, I inevitably spotted another strawberry that I had to pick. So I stopped and picked it. Even though my tray was full, I thought, “Just one more.” The strawberry fields bedazzled me, and I was addicted. That was it-the last one. But then it happened again. I had to pick another strawberry. I averted my eyes, looking toward the farm stand, trying not to look down. I quickened my pace and finally exited, leaving thousands of unclaimed jewels behind.

Now my children are older, so I go picking alone.

Occasionally, I eavesdrop on child-parent conversations. “Look Mom! It’s two strawberries stuck together.” I continue to listen as the mother gives instructions on which ones to pick. “Now Zachary, make sure you pick the nice red ones. The green ones aren’t ripe and the black ones are rotten.” As the children emerge from picking, they remind me of my children with red-stained lips and red smudges on their white tee shirts. I remember that I usually had Kelly and Casey wear red tee shirts when we went picking.

One June day in the strawberry patch, I wasn’t quite alone. I walked to the end of the row, close to the edge of the woods. I’d never seen a snake while picking berries, but this day I heard a rustling under the strawberry plants. Scared of snakes, I feared the worst and quickly hopped back from the row. I watched and waited for my nemesis to slither out from beneath the plant and onto the straw.

The leaves rustled again. I prepared to run. Then out popped the furry, striped face of a chipmunk with a huge strawberry in its mouth.

It looked side to side as if checking to make sure all was clear. As it hopped off into the woods, I compared his booty to the strawberry I’d just picked. He picked a good one, but I smiled and thought, Mine was the biggest, bestest ever!

By Alice Mullen, Family & Consumer Resources Educator

People who run over turtles were to me nothing but cold-blooded killers. I took their inattention for indifference to the world around them. Until I became one of them.

My hubris was brought up short the day I ran over one. I was driving a busy state route, when I was distracted by three children on bikes riding on the shoulder. I swung out to give them a wide berth, only at the last minute seeing the small black shape between the double yellow lines. The sickening pop under my tire sent a jolt through me. Returning, I saw the crushed body and the woodland stream flowing under the road where the turtle had emerged. From then on, I held my anger at the operators of turtle-killing cars, chastened in the knowledge that I had joined the criminal element.

Turtles, more than any other New Hampshire animal, are most affected by our roads, our cars, our pets, and our subdivisions. Low, slow and driven by ancient impulses and long-imprinted navigation cues, they follow the same routes year after year, regardless of the changes in the land around them.

So precipitous has been certain turtle species’ demise that the state of New Hampshire recently upgraded the Blanding’s turtle status to “Endangered” and the spotted turtle to “Threatened.”

For many years, I had a front row seat to the diminishment of these two turtle species.

Our house and small lot was bounded on two sides by a large marsh and a country road on the front. At the end of our property a small pond, a dip in the road, and an active vernal pool on the opposite side, made for a turtle super highway as turtles began to wander to feed or lay eggs in May and June.

Painted and giant snapping turtles were the primary travelers, but the delicate and beautiful spotted turtles and the rare Blanding’s were also there in notable numbers. I was raised an outdoor kid on the rivers, ponds and lakes of New Hampshire, but I had never seen a spotted turtle until we moved there. Smaller and slightly flatter than painted turtles, these black and yellow turtles are celebrated in New Hampshire naturalist David Carroll’s Year of the Turtle. The contrast of their yellow spots and orange skin patches on their ebony shells make them the most beautiful of all turtles.

The shy spotted turtles spend most of their time hidden among the grass humps and the sloughs of marshes, except in the spring when they come out of hibernation and make for the vernal pools to recharge their batteries with wood frog and salamander eggs and again later, when they emerge to lay their eggs.

It is during this time that they are most vulnerable to natural predators­ and automobiles.

Fast and fluid in the water, most turtles are as slow and cumbersome on land as piano movers. Except for the spotted turtles. The little turtles seem to realize that their time on the asphalt is deadly and move quickly.

I learned to recognize their sprints from my home and quickened my own step to try to save them.

Many were the times I sprinted down the road to help them complete their perilous crossings. I saved many. But as the number of houses on my road increased, so too did the traffic and the body count.

The final death sentence for the turtles was a 60-home subdivision. Construction vehicles first and then cars were a constant on the road. I was gladdened by those motorists who stopped to let the turtles pass, but they were far outnumbered by those who did not.

Short of quitting my job for two months and keeping 24-hour vigil, there was little I could do to stop the slaughter.

But I persevered. I marked their nesting sites, mowed my lawn cautiously as I watched for them in the grass, and tried to educate my neighbors on the turtles’ ways. I even attempted a clumsy Caesarean on a dead spotted turtle, thinking I could salvage her eggs and be a surrogate parent.

But every year the number of dead turtles increased, annually including two or three spotted turtles.

When we sold the home after nearly 30 years, I wondered who would watch out for the turtles. I left the new owner a carefully written instruction sheet on where the turtles nested in the yard, when the quarter-size hatchlings emerged, and the care to take when driving on the road. I hope she’s paying attention. I know I am.

More so than ever now when I drive roads near water, I take care – my eyes always on the road surface for the glint of sun off wet black domes or the dusty gray of a basking turtle. It is the most penance I can do.

By Greg Lowell, Coverts Cooperator

Photo taken by Jack Gleason, Master Gardener and Tree Steward

My jaw dropped the first time I saw an Eastern Bluebird. Wow! The male boasts an iridescent royal blue unlike anything else in nature. Many backyard birdwatchers, myself included, are rendered inarticulate whenever one comes into view.

I’m fortunate enough to have an occupied Audubon Eastern Bluebird nesting box. Since last year when the bluebird couple set up housekeeping in the box, I’ve become obsessed with watching their every move.

Each time I walk past a window or glass door, I pause to see what’s happening at the box. Are the birds perched on top, clinging to the side and peering in, or out of view? My obsession, fueled by the birds’ spectacular appearance, has matured into respect for their parenting style and admiration of their playful family traditions.

Last spring after the birds built a nest in the box, they waited patiently until the New Hampshire weather was warm enough for the female to lay her eggs. Each day at sundown, one of them would bed down with the clutch to keep the eggs warm and safe through the night. During daylight the pair lingered nearby to keep watch, dive bombing those they viewed as threats, such as Grey Squirrels, Blue Jays and Brown headed Cowbirds. Amazingly, they would allow Chipping and Tree Sparrows to rest on top of their box without a second glance.

Through either intuition or learning, the pair also knew they could trust me to inspect their box. And perhaps because my Labradors are ever present, the birds tolerated the dogs as they ran, played and barked only feet from the nesting box. Even after my male yellow Lab marked the nesting box post, the birds carried on with their business without a pause. With this risk management policy in place, the pair raised three healthy broods last summer.

After each clutch hatched, I watched as the real work began for the pair. Both the male and the female bluebird were busy gobbling up worms and insects and returning to the box with a high protein meal for the hatchlings. Sometimes, the father or the mother sat on top of the box, waiting for its mate to exit after completing a feeding session. This alternating method seemed necessary to feed the youngsters.

The hatchlings fledged from their box when they reached approximately 20 days old. One morning last June I witnessed one of the hatchlings fledge. Its panic was apparent: it flapped its wings hard and fast but it wasn’t getting far, reminding me of a single engine plane barely keeping out of a tailspin.

So, when I read that bluebirds don’t return to the nest they were born in, I wasn’t surprised. They don’t appear to have the flying skills necessary to get through the nesting box hole. When they first emerged from their nesting box, the juveniles were a dull blue and their reddish brown breasts mottled with buff color. They were round and fat, not at all like sleek adult bluebirds. I estimated that each day a bird would fledge until the box was empty. It was then that I removed the old nesting material from the box and swept it clean.

For a week or so after they left the box, the juveniles waited in trees for their parents to bring them food. But the parents knew it was time for their offspring to feed themselves. There was no parental angst about their babies’ sudden independence and maturity. The elder birds let the young fend for themselves and occupied their time building a fresh nest in the now empty box. 

As the bluebird parents cared for their next brood, the juveniles remained close. Sometimes they jockeyed for position on top of the box to watch the parental feeding parade. The temptation to peer inside was overwhelming for the young bluebirds, especially during a commotion for food or a skirmish over space in the nest.

When they were not loitering by the nesting box, the birds were exploring their surroundings in a large troop. They were like the Von Trapp Family Singers: eating, chirping, and traveling with a sense of urgency and danger at every stop. And the singing group expanded after the second clutch fledged, and again when the third clutch fledged. By Labor Day there were 12 juvenile bluebirds following their parents from tree to tree, from fence to fence.

Just when I figured the bluebird parents reached exhaustion from their summer of reproductive success, they disappeared. The family had moved on together. 

This year, on the last day of February, a pair of bluebirds appeared in our backyard. Although I can’t say for sure whether they are the same couple from last year, the way they knew their way around the nesting box made me think they are.

By Donna Jensen, Master Gardener and Community Tree Steward

I was four when the neighborhood association in our suburban Boston community decided to take advantage of a large donated pasture by encouraging member families to transform it into Victory Gardens. Enthusiasm ran high. Visions of shelves lined with freshly canned produce beckoned.

My dad wasn’t sure he wanted a bigger garden. He had his plot of six tomato plants, a lattice supporting cucumbers, hills of corn interspersed with green and yellow beans that twined their way up square wooden poles. Standard operation for our neighborhood, except for the trellised cucumbers, bird houses around the garden, and interspersing pole beans with hills of corn.

Odd also was our agreement with the cats. They ate the fresh beans as far up the poles as they could reach. In return they kept the squirrels out of the corn. Neighbors shook their heads, but they continued losing corn to the squirrels.

Dad did take a plot. To the vast amusement of all, he decided he would grow peanuts. What folly. The men chuckled and made surreptitious bets. It occasioned almost as much discussion in our neighborhood as a Red Sox/Yankees game. When told he couldn’t possibly grow peanuts here in the north, Dad would respond, “Oh, never can tell.”

On the appointed weekend Dad and I went to the pasture to be given a garden site. Then the sod had to be sliced and removed, stacked in neat rows delineating each plot. Dad sliced and carried, stacked, raked and planted.

Dad worked nights, getting home around one in the morning, but he only slept a few hours. In the pink light of the summer dawn, Dad would take his hoe and pail and head to the Victory Gardens.

I missed a lot of those mornings. The intervals when I missed out meant that I could usually see a change. Tiny green shoots, small plants, then bushy plants, but no berries, no peanuts.

In other plots, corn tasseled. Puffy green marbles turned into red, juicy tomatoes. Green beans scurried up poles. Squashes, even a few pumpkins, spread long octopus arms with bulbous fruits, but we just had green bushes. Mr. Mathews would look over to our plot and josh, “No peanuts yet, Frank?”

August sweltered past. Our plants weren’t impressive. No silk tassels, no yellow flowers. Summer melted into an unusually warm autumn, and still nothing on our plants. Not even very small green marbles.

The Neighborhood Association set the date for a dinner to celebrate the end of the growing season. Members of the Victory Garden Committee asked Dad if he had given up yet. Another round of betting swept through the neighborhood. My mother tried to put a brave face on it, but when Dad asked if I wanted to bet one of my precious quarters, I imagine Mom’s explosion was heard clear to Belmont. The next morning, I gave him my quarter before Mom got up.

Then one morning Dad said I had to stay home. He was going to harvest, and I would have to wait to see the crop. He came home with burlap sacks full of roots and greenery, which he took to the big soapstone set tubs in the cellar. There he washed the roots clean.

What were those bumps, those funny shapes on the roots of the peanut bushes? But, how could they grow on roots? We had picked hickory nuts and walnuts from trees. Nuts don’t grow on roots. “Never can tell,” said Dad. Mom laughed and laughed and went upstairs to get pans ready with oil and salt.

We went to the harvest supper with whole peanut plants, unshelled peanuts, and a large serving bowl of greasy, salted peanuts. My four-year-old concept of where nuts properly grew was echoed by a room full of adults.

They examined the plants. Thoroughly. They sampled the peanuts. Then in corners of the room, in the parking lot, and from time to time in the front yard the following weekend, men came to Dad, shook his hand and paid their bets.

On Monday morning, Dad called me to come join him at the fence with our Scots neighbor, his gardening buddy, old Mrs. Lang. Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out dollar bills, giving a folded wad to Mrs. Lang and two, real, green, paper dollars to me.

I was stunned to speechlessness. Mrs. Lang, with her hands behind the hedge, counted out her money. Then, in a rare burst of emotion, she patted Dad on his shoulder saying, “Ah, Frank, yer Victorious Garden has grown the best crop of all. A fine cash crop!”

By Carol White, Master Gardener