Extension News: May 2010 Archives

May is a frustrating month. So many things are happening, and there isn’t enough time to do them all. The yard seems to scream “Care for me!” The flowers appear as if by magic. All of my plant starts are getting anxious about just sitting there in their confining peat pots.

The dahlias especially need to go into the ground. Where should I put them this year to display their beauty to the world (or at least to 50 of my closest friends)? Just as I am about to release them to the outside, unprotected, the weather man says frost is imminent. Ah, well, I’ll pick some lettuce and put down some mulch instead.

My perennial collection is growing larger, not just in number, but in size. As I tour my acre, my eight-foot crabapple trees wave their blossom-laden branches. In the back I see the elderberries waving from their lofty 10-foot height. Closer to the house I am treated to the dogwoods getting ready to bloom.

Under the canopy of all that foliage the lilies and the ground cover are springing to life. The marsh marigolds have given way to the red and yellow osier dogwoods, which I have coppiced at the edge of a small bog. Fighting back the ferns begins in earnest, because they tend to overpower the striped grasses and turtleheads.

My ability to grow cardinal flowers is in serious question, but I have nursed one to life near my pond adjacent to the bog. It should be a nice contrast to the astilbes and lady’s mantle thrusting out of the ground with vigor.  

All this plant business is going on while I fight back the urge to go fishing. I keep hearing tales of fish jumping and big ones being caught. I give in (of course) and catch a few myself.

I come home tired, but happy and my wife says we need to take a walk. I clean the fish, take a quick tour of the yard, then off we go to some local trail to watch other like-minded people, many of them with their dogs and their clean-up tools.

I’ve outlived my need for pets, but I respect others who have them. Some of my best neighbors are dogs and cats. They keep the squirrels and chipmunks in line and discourage the deer from coming too close to my hostas and other prized plants.

I haven’t even gotten the waterfall pump in the pond yet. I always enjoy watching the first flow. The spiders and crickets race to higher ground and the resident chipmunk expresses some annoyance at his special area being damper than he likes it. So, just another job waiting while I go fishing or walking with my wife.

I must get it all done in time for my trip to visit relatives at the end of the month. I must take pictures of my environment to share at the reunion. My youngest sister lives in Corpus Christi, Texas, and she loves to see all the verdant growth I nurture.

Another May frustration concerns how early it gets light. We leave the window open a crack, and as the dawn arrives, so do the birds. Crows are better than an alarm clock. Add the jays and robins, and it becomes a veritable concert.

By: Bill Dawson, Tree Steward

The bright, sunny morning after the February wind storm, I arrived at my office. Lugging armloads of work, I never even noticed that anything was amiss. But as I entered the building I saw an odd darkness in the usual sunniest space.

Looking in at me through the panes of two windows was a tree the beautiful, full, healthy, blue spruce I planted 30 years ago.

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed out loud, even though I was the only one there. I ran outside and looked up. There it leaned, toppled over, all 40 feet in full glory, resting on my office roof.

I ran to its base. Half the root system was out of the ground. “Oh, no!” I exclaimed again.

I checked the status of the office roof and windows. Nothing seemed damaged. The tree itself wasn’t either. I’d always thought of it as a protector, shielding the back of the office building. It had also provided a shelter for years to a pair of mourning doves. I scanned for them no sign. What must they have gone through when this happened?

So there lay my beautiful tree. I wet a sheet and covered the exposed roots. Burlap and a tarp came next.

Googling “uprooted trees” brought me to a University of Florida Cooperative Extension article. There was hope it might be saved!

I immediately called UNH Cooperative Extension’s Info Line to see what they thought. They didn’t discourage me but suggested I contact an arborist.

I called Chris, the arborist who sprays my apple tree. After I explained the situation, making sure he knew how beautiful the tree was, he said quietly, “I love trees. I don’t like being a tree mortician. But she will never survive. She’s too big.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I’ll come and look,” he said, “but I don’t think she can be saved.”

Twenty-four hours later he called. “I stopped by and looked at your tree. I’m afraid she needs to be removed.”

“All right,” I conceded. “When will you do it?”

“Tomorrow,” he replied.

The next day Chris, two other men, and a bucket truck towing a chipper arrived. Branch by branch Chris sawed away, throwing the limbs down to the men.

I watched as he cut each piece and as workers dragged the blue spruce boughs past me and fed them to the noisy chipper, turning the tree into wood bits.

The freshly cut spruce made it smell like Christmas. It was cold like Christmas; even tiny snowflakes blew around. But it surely wasn’t a happy time like Christmas.

I had already decided that though the tree had to come down, it needed to stay. I motioned to Chris to bring the bucket loader down so I could speak to him.

“I want all the chips. I’m going to put them in the mulched area in front of the office. I have a large space, so I can use them there.”

“The needles will take a long time to disintegrate,” he cautioned.

“That’s OK,” I said. It was fine with me that this “mulch” was going to look different. It was different. It was my tree.

Once the deed was done and Chris had left, I examined the stump. It looked like an uneven star. I counted the rings. There were 35. The tree must have been five years old when I planted it.

Out front a massive pile of blue-spruce chips and needles had taken up residence alongside the road waiting to be transported to their final destination. The next weekend my landscape guy came and, wheelbarrow-load by wheelbarrow load, dispersed the remains of my tree across the 40-foot by 15-foot area I can see from my desk.

Now each morning as I start my work day, I look out at the chips. It makes me sad to realize that the towering presence of the tree is gone. Are the chips as beautiful as a 40 foot spruce? Hardly.

But, like the tree, I tell myself, the chips still provide protection to the property. And I can still look at my tree, just from a different angle.

By: Ann G. Haggart, Volunteer Writer