Unlikely Eden – The Dispersal of Seeds

“Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.” – Henry Thoreau

The other day, I pulled my kayak gear from storage. There it was all spread across the driveway, seed of water-wandering for the coming season. Then the obvious arrived in mind: scattered liberally too were hundreds of cones from our local pines – so many that the ground was dark with them in places, all in search of the next spot for a pine. There’s always always always faith in what’s to come. And then I knew where my first paddle would be; I’d aim for an islet and that has its own seed-story.

Wild apples Photo: Bigstock

Wild apples
Photo: Bigstock

As fall comes on, I’ve seen them bobbing in the bay like punctuation marks in search of a sentence. Apples, like much that lives along the shore, go overboard sometimes, and where they go once in the water is a matter of wind and current. And, perhaps, some third force – a hand, for instance, or a swimming deer.

Whatever the manner of movement, some years ago, perhaps around the time I was born, an apple fetched up on an islet between the two Goose Islands (Upper and Lower) in Casco’s Middle Bay. How do I know this history? Its long story of growth lies there still.

I first noticed this tree on the north end of the islet during late August while water-ambling in my kayak. From a distance it looked decidedly out of place amid the clutch of sumac and wild roses that ran along the thirty feet of ridge a few feet above the tideline. That’s an apple tree, I thought from a distance, and as I drew near, I saw that it was. The trunk was a foot thick, and, on its inland side, away from the salt-burned foliage, I saw pale apples the size of a baby’s fist.

That islet’s a most unlikely Eden, I thought, and then I went ashore. It took about a minute to circumstroll the islet, and as I edged up under the apple, I could just reach some its spawn. I picked one, turned to an unmarred side, checked for worm-holes and took a bite; the sour saltiness pulled my whole face askew – this apple was tough in so many ways. But I took another bite, worked it hard with my jaws and finally swallowed. So began a ritual that ended only last year – as an act of taking on summer to ready for winter, I always paddled out for a few salt-apples. And out there, miles from any other apple tree, I wondered at this tree’s story and survival only feet from the sea and exposed to the wind that drives waves up the bay.

Last spring’s first paddle took me out to the islet, and even from a half-mile away, I noticed the change – no tree jutted from the north end like a defiant fist. Drawing closer I read the story of the tree’s fall – its trunk lay prone toward the water, and its root-system, which had grown sideways up into the islet’s meager bank was pulled away. Some winter gale or accumulation of ice and snow had toppled the tree, or waves had pulled finally the support from around it.

So no more salty apples, but the remnant trunk is still a story of amazement at how seeds – of life or thought – meander to and root in the most unlikely Edens.

And, when you come to think of it, isn’t every Eden unlikely?

Added practical note: pine cones make wonderful fire-starters; with their rich load of pitch, they take flame from a single match and burn fast and hot. Or, if your fire is flagging, a few cones on its coals will flare under added wood. I gathered a large bag full in a few minutes (and, as a bonus, my fingers smelled of pitch for the rest of the day).

Here they are - looking a bit like an odd hobbit - a bagful of pine cones.

Here they are – looking a bit like an odd hobbit – a bagful of pine cones.

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Filed under General, Henry David Thoreau, Living Deliberately, Nature, The Roost, Thoreau Quote

Leaving “Walden” Behind

By Corinne H. Smith

“How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book. The book exists for us perchance which will explain our miracles and reveal new ones.” ~ Henry Thoreau, “Reading,” Walden

On Friday morning, I zipped over to an adjacent town just before 9 a.m. I wanted to hit a public library book sale in its first minutes, before I had to go to work.

I don’t “need” more books, mind you. My bedside stack of to-be-reads stands more than two feet tall. I buy one or two more from online sources at least once a month. And I work part-time at a used bookstore, for heavens sakes. Still, I had to go to this sale to make sure that I wasn’t missing out on some other crucial titles. I knew I had only 15 or 20 minutes to waste – uh, I mean spend — there.

I pulled into the parking lot just as the doors opened. A few dozen early birds hurried in ahead of me. As I walked into the large room, I saw that the volunteers had marked the tables well. The LITERATURE and NONFICTION signs caught my eye first, and I decided to save these sections for last. I started instead with FICTION and MYSTERY. I began the usual cock-headed zombie walk of the experienced book sale customer.

This was an average-sized sale, with many more hardbacks than paperbacks. I soon saw familiar books. Ones I managed and distributed as a long-time librarian. Ones I once owned and have since given up. Others – both read and unread — that still sit on my shelves at home. It’s like Old Home Week when I go to one of these sales. I had to smile at some of the titles I saw, remembering. I couldn’t dawdle, though. And I kept bumping into people going the other way.

I used to devour mysteries like potato chips. But I’m not always in the mood for them. More often I move toward books about nature, writing, nature writing, and personal motivation. I made short work of MYSTERY here.

I picked up James Michener’s “The Novel” and carried it along as I kept looking. I soon realized that I didn’t want to own this book; and if I wanted to read a copy, I could always borrow it. Had I read it before? I thought I had. I may have even owned a paperback copy of it, once. After a few minutes, I returned Mr. Michener to an open slot on the FICTION table.

I headed toward LITERATURE. This was the smallest section of the sale, and the pickings here were slim. Nearly every book was recognizable as a classic: American, English, even some from old Greek storytellers, like Homer. Not many selections appealed to me. I rounded the corner to scrutinize the other side of the table. Well, what do you know? Here was a copy of Walden. Hello, old friend. Hello, Henry. I may have even gasped when the one-word title caught my eye.

It was the Great Illustrated Classics edition, first printed in 1946. I’ve seen it on many library shelves over the years. Now here this one sat, right next to Catcher in the Rye, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, The Great Gatsby, and biographies of Shakespeare and Mark Twain.

It wasn’t a library discard. It was fresh and unscathed. The hinges held perfectly, almost as if they were brand new. I opened it up and looked for a past owner’s name. I didn’t see one. I did see the price mark of four dollars. I put it back. I stared at it for at least a minute. Should I, or shouldn’t I?

waldenatsale

I didn’t “need” this “Walden.” I already have a few key editions that I like. And of course, this wasn’t my favorite version of all time. That’s the 1970s paperback that I read in my senior year of high school (See my blog post, “MY Walden,” http://thoreaufarm.org/2013/08/my-walden/, for this story.) After a minute of contemplation, I sighed and turned away, empty handed.

Running out of time, I speed-sauntered around the rest of NONFICTION and BIOGRAPHY. I glanced quickly through SELF-HELP. In the end, I took three books to the checkout clerks: A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean (which I read in the 1980s but never owned); In Defense of Food, by Michael Pollan (which I hadn’t gotten to yet, though I’ve read a few of Pollan’s other books); and an original hardcover of Blink, by Malcolm Gladwell. I’ve read all of Gladwell’s books by borrowing them from libraries. I knew I had since bought a used paperback of one of them, and I couldn’t remember which one it was. I decided to take the risk on this Blink. It was in excellent condition.

And what of that “Walden”? I decided to leave it behind. I hoped it would find another home with another devoted reader. Perhaps it was fated to make a difference in someone else’s life. How could I stand in its way?

[Many thanks to Jeannette Weitzel, who served as photographer, by request and at the spur of the moment. And FYI: I now own two copies of Blink.]

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Filed under Arts, General, Henry David Thoreau, Literature, Living Deliberately, News and Events, The Roost, Thoreau Quote, Walden

Refilling the Feeder – The Cardinal’s Yard

Recently, at the end of a long day, we pulled into our driveway ready to re-up for the slow arrival of Maine’s spring. The dirt-infused snow was still deep on the front yard, and the bushes around the house still slumped beneath the winter’s weight. But there in greeting also was a lozenge of fire, red atop the rhododendron – the cardinal who knows our yard as his territory looked directly at us and offered announcement, sort of a squall of welcome. What, he seemed to say, are you going to do about the feeder out back?

We have a holly, and we have a cardinal, but these are not they. Photo: Bigstock

We have a holly, and we have a cardinal, but these are not they. Photo: Bigstock

 

So, before unpacking the car, I went to that feeder and shook out the residue of seed husks, then filled it with fresh provender.

This morning brought reward in familiar flurries. Chickadees and nuthatches, including a red-breasted one, flew in and lit to take their accustomed single seeds, which they then carried to a nearby pine. House sparrow arrived and performed his usual task – grabbing and then flinging seeds here and there before settling on one to actually eat.

The sparrow must be the cardinal’s friend because not long after he’d flung seeds this way and that, the cardinal stopped by for the sunflower seeds now on the ground. Ever-alert, he hopped and sorted among the downed seeds until he found one he liked; then he split the husk and downed the seed in a gulp. Then on to the next.

Yesterday, the goldfinches arrived. There, suddenly, they were, looking like yellow thumbs (up).

So too, one of the neighborhood cats, for whom I am a backyard Maori – unaccustomed to being chased, cats run from the expletive-spewing, hand-waving emergence from our backdoor; then at the fringe of the woods, they always look back in further disbelief, before vanishing.

I’d welcome some not-too-antisocial advice about discouraging cat-visits. I’m loathe to go to the warning sting of a b-b or pellet gun, but, clearly, I’ve considered it. Perhaps coyote urine, easily purchased these days? Perhaps you have a favorite solution? Perhaps I will post our little stamp of land, alert our neighbors, and then have at whatever slinking cats appear.

Or, perhaps, I can entice our local rooster to hang out more in our yard; the cats seem wary of him (as am I).

We’re a little too suburban to need to heed the advice to take down our feeders in April as guard against bear-visits – no bears live in and wander our local woods, even as I see sometimes a fox step from them and the wild percussion of our pileated woodpeckers sets my toe tapping.

And so, until summer starts offering its menu, I’ll keep heeding the cardinal and filling the feeder. Surely, I get more back than I give.

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