Everyone enjoyed the great autumn colors this year and for obvious reasons— they were rather spectacular. At our place a bald cypress in the middle of the pond took first prize with a rust-orange radiance, but there were serious contenders: a pawpaw that literally glowed with yellow light, a black gum holding every shade of orange on shiny waxed leaves, a sassafras set afire. A dry fall is typically an excuse for poor leaf color and our records showed we hadn’t had appreciable rain in six weeks. But we didn’t bother looking for explanations— the time to enjoy fall color is fleeting.
In towns across the country, the leaves that were destined to contribute rich organic matter and nutrients to the soil were raked and piled curbside to be trucked off to the composting facility, or worse yet, the landfill. Complex soil communities composed of mycelium, bacteria, and insects will suffer the consequences. Mulching leaves where they fall is far more practical and beneficial and still provides the look of tidiness we seem to crave.
Lee and I are conducting a bit of an experiment here at the home place, a study of what happens when fields used for nursery production are suddenly abandoned. The results are rather predictable as the vegetation that follows field abandonment is well documented, but this is land we are intimately familiar with, and we need to call it an experiment lest we be accused of laziness or poor stewardship or worse.
Along the south field where it borders the county road are segments of dry stone wall interrupted with sections of rail fence. It was once a pastoral overlook— a combination of native stone and rustic timbers with a manicured nursery beyond. Today the wooden rails have largely collapsed but the stone wall stands firm, fashionably trimmed (“weedy and unkempt,” to some), with remnants of seasonal grasses, goldenrod skeletons, lingering asters, and milkweeds casting their silky seeds to the wind.
A well built stone wall holds a somewhat unique promise. If it is not intentionally or unintentionally deconstructed, it stands a reasonable chance of existing long after the buildings and trees and roadways it borders are gone and forgotten. The wall’s only guaranteed threat is the elemental forces of wind and rain which eventually erode it away.
Last weekend the wall lured a passing car into our driveway. The passengers included a high school senior and a couple photographers. They were on a mission to find picturesque backdrops for senior photos. They pulled in and said, “we thought this place was abandoned!” “Abandoned by design,” was my reply, feeling rather complimented. They were immediately attracted to the bald cypress, and based on their excited chatter and whooping, it must have satisfied their objective.
The study has proven entertaining, frustrating, and intriguing over its 10 year history. There is no shortage of pioneering tree species such as elm and sycamore, but there are more oaks than expected and for some odd reason a few white pine seedlings are showing up, which is a rare occurrence almost anywhere in the state. Our frustration stems from the invasive and highly aggressive Bradford pears, autumn olive and bush honeysuckle which compete with native vegetation with a vengeance.
Then there are the vines, the hops and mile-a-minute, that may have hitchhiked on nursery stock we handled and now delight in smothering the crowns of plants young and old. Other native vines like grape and poison ivy are abnormally abundant and are showing exceptional vigor, which is a verified response to increased atmospheric CO2.
Sprinkle in brambles and multiflora rose and an assortment of ornamental plants that remain in the fields and we have a nearly impenetrable mass of vegetation occupying the study area, which the birds and deer and rabbits appear to find quite acceptable. For the foreseeable future it is theirs, while we continue to monitor changes.
It’s fall and the mice have laid claim to the house with bold aggression. I catch glimpses of them sprinting along baseboards, dashing under furniture, ducking into desk drawers left slightly ajar. Almost always, they make their moves at the periphery of my vision so I question myself, but they cannot hide their stockpiles of sunflower seeds stolen from the sack on the back porch and stashed in closet shoes and gloves. Neither do they attempt to muffle the sounds of their waltzing and racing and gnawing inside our walls. Our century old home with a crumbling stone foundation provides an open invitation. A few mice are a given and don’t bother us, but they reproduce like flies and have no concern for our preferences so inevitably their numbers exceed our tolerance. Today, traps smeared with peanut butter and laced with sunflower will be set. Step gingerly, little vermin, your days of free and reckless frolicking are numbered.
If mice had advanced intellect and if we assume wise judgment would come from it, they might anticipate the consequences of over abundance and gauge their numbers accordingly. Instead, they liberally procreate as long as resources hold out or until disease, famine, predation, competition, or a detrimental shift in their environment puts an end to their growth if not the mice themselves.
All too soon the last of the color fades to brown, the curtain drops on the finest of seasons, and the animals of highest intellect rake the last of the fallen leaves curbside and perceive a future of growth and prosperity free of limitations. The season of dormancy moves in, an abandoned field nurtures the seed it’s given, and a dry stone wall stands with a promise to outlast it all.
