In the normal course of the year -{volcanic eruptions and nuclear fallout notwithstanding}- Plants at this latitude and elevation turn brittle and dry and low on sugar. The sugar is returning the roots.
the most important equation you learned in college chemistry is this:
water (H20) + carbon dioxide (C02) =
C6 H12 06 (Sugar, etc.) + 02 (Oxygen)
In a nutshell, this is called photosynthesis--what plants do-- and the inverse of this equation is called respiration--what humans, animals, insects and protozoa do. In the northern hemisphere right now, the ubiquitous carpet of plants are pancaking their buttery and syrupy sweet sections under layers of weeks and months and weather. Having been rooted in their immobility, night and day blown, thrashed and cut, grazed and stomped, misted, rained, soil-saturated then baked in day-long heat and weeks-long, insect-buzzing drought, now finally they're getting cued into the diminishing daylight length and prepping for a different kind of the same rough treatment.
A cattle farmer once told me while we inspected cow pats for soil macro biota (beetles and worms) that the locusts and grasshoppers come out at this time because they thrive in the low-sugar environment of autumn. All the photosynthetic parts of plants--leaves & grasses-- are withdrawing their carbohydrates and sugars to roots. Because of special enzymes in their stomachs, locusts--a general term for an adult grasshopper-- are able to digest the dry roughage of grasses and trees that are transitioning into winter. These guys are the clean-up crew, sweeping up the un-digested litter of what summer's vacillating mood swings have sprouted and spawned over the landscape.Autumn, then, is the colorful and still-alive transition into what one may call the more skeletal season of winter. Sure Autumn is beautiful, yet I like to think that each season has it's own severe beauty--even soft and succulent spring can bring heavy rain and a piercing-damp cold, or a sudden unexpected heat--but what I enjoy most are the spaces between the definite peaks of a season. The transitions of autumn and spring.
A season is like a breath, winter a breathing-in and summer a breathing-out. The Solstices are pauses in the movement between two extremes of distance from Sol, ('the sun', and stice, to stand still). Therein is an unremittingly flow outward and inward with indefinite points in between where opposites merge and flux for a period of dynamic intercourse. In Autumn, we see nature's final show before the contraction of winter, characterized by the cold and the dormant, a kind of shut-in tightness that is yet alive, ready to emerge and spring into summer's expansion.
I'm suddenly reminded of part a Rumi poem:
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There is a shimmering excitement in
being sentient and shaped. The
caravan master sees his camels lost
in it, nose to tail, as he himself is,
his friend, and the stranger coming
toward them. A gardener watches
the sky break into song, cloud wobbly
with what it is. Bud, thorn, the same.
Wind, water, wandering this essential
state. Fire, ground, gone. That's
How it is with the outside. Form is
ecstatic. Now imagine the inner:
soul, intelligence, the secret worlds!
And don't think the garden loses its
ecstacy in winter. It's quiet, but
the roots are down there are riotous.
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What Autumn means for trees is that their invisible vitality is going subterranean, while above, the leaves are shedding and --if they're fruit bearing-- plenty of sugar has concentrated in a round receptacle of seeds ready to drop. Leaf and flower buds that remain are the last impression, an imprint made from this year, made for the next.
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My last post was in January, and so in this one I must document spring, summer and autumn, but instead of cramming all that business in, i will instead segway into something I have wanted to share for quite some time:
how to plant a tree:
1.) Dig a hole. Seems pretty easy, but…what's the moisture of the soil? I like digging in winter and spring when the earth is perfect! at least the soil moisture is just right. if you have sandy soil, the day after a rain is great. the soil should not stick to the shovel, but should slide off. It's the same with tilling or plowing. too wet and it'll lose all it's pore space when it dries, turning cement-like. Too dry and it's hard to gain purchase with the implement and it can blow off and get powdery and likewise with wet soil, lose good soil structure, or tilth.
Dig a hole for your tree, shrub or bush that is approx. twice the size of the root ball. you don't have to go too deep, but at least break up the soil below where a hardpan may have formed from plowing or where the good topsoil meets the subsoil. Even so, roots will penetrate these layers.
2.) putting the tree in the hole.Make sure you set the plant on loosened soil with few or no big spaces that might attract voles or gophers that eat tree roots (especially apples and pears). Make VERY sure that the top of the root ball or the portion of your plant below ground parts is HIGHER than the earth. It's a big mistake to plant too low, forming a depression--but most trees and shrubs like a well-drained soil, not one where water collects and dampens the roots.
So, If you plant with the top of potted plants' dirt portion/rootball 1" above the native soil it's good. If your hole is on sloping ground, and it looks like following this practice will allow too much of the roots to actually be up out of the earth--do it anyway! you can fill in around the roots with dirt and mulch later on, just don't let a low-spot form on top of the roots!
3.) filling in soil and soil amendments
The big question: put only compost in the hole or mix it halfsies with the soil or simply apply it on top as a mulch? there's been some back an forth in the landscape and growing world on this one... The main reason to avoid improving soil inside the hole is to avoid stress during drought, because too-rich soil may encourage laziness and shallow-rooting, whereas applying soil on top mimics the stratified soil of a forest (infertile subsoil, rich upper "duff" layer). Likewise, overwatering can lead to limited rooting.
So many variables are at play…the best i can say is to study & research just a little, then go to the field, employ your intuition and experiment! If you never make mistakes, your successes will only be half-hearted!That said, I like to take the middle path: fill in half the hole with native dirt, then mix a shovel or two composted cow manure with the dirt, then mulch on top with 4-5 inches of leaves, hay and wood chips. In nature, diversity--not uniformity--is the law :) In between the layers i add AZOMITE (volcanic ash--fulla minerals!), BONE MEAL, and either PLANT-TONE (chicken manure with calcium and others) or HOLLY-TONE if it's a blueberry, because it has the sulfur pellets to aid acidification for this Erikaceae family plant (think: azalea, laurel, rhododendron, sourwood, blueberry, dog-hobble)
Finally, i would like to say that I rarely give water. If the rainfall can't support the crops, forget about it! the self-proclaimed "do-nothing" farmer Masanobu Fukuoka was adamant that rain does not actually fall from the sky, but that plants attract it and man's ignorance is responsible. Frankly, and with utmost respect for the late Fukuoka-san, I must say he is wrong. Japan has consistent rainfall year round, perfect for agriculture, but certain areas dry out and we're in one of them all over the USA, incl. east coast.That said, I will be connecting my 500 gallon water tank to the Cabin at the top of my ridge this winter to water during very dry spells this coming summer. Thanks to the Late L.D. "Buck" Fender for accepting a $100 dollar bill, an apple tree, and a 1/2 gallon of Fresh Jersey milk in trade for that fine rain barrel. Buck features in 3 pages of Tim Barnwell's "Faces of Appalachia" picture book, taken almost entirely in Madison County back in the 70's. Buck is shown pressing sorghum with a horse and turnstile, then boiling it down. As I would drive up to visit my cousins, he'd be setting in a rocker on his stoop at the beginning of Jass Cove Road always kind, quick-witted and laughingly funny. He'd often make fun of himself for never keeping animals around for very long. Which is to say he'd soon be giving legs of goat to friends…
