Spring

Though we are blessed with relatively short and mild winters in the Georgia Coastal Plain, the grey landscape of that season becomes somber and gloomy after a while. The cold wind bites harder past the age of 45. The bare branches of the trees raise craggy arms and fingers to the grey sky. It can be hard to keep the drab winter grey from affecting one’s mood. And then it happens. Dogwoods bloom and azaleas set yards aflame. The creek bottom turns yellow with butterweed. But it’s not even the middle of March quite yet. This is what we call “False Spring” and it can be fickle and deceiving.  

Before I know it, the buds are breaking in the orchard and the tender, green tissue is bursting through the outer bud scales. From a distance, the outline of the orchard trees will soon take on its green glow, like that of the hardwood bottomland, already awake and alive. A welcome change from the bleak shroud of winter. The birds seem energized in their singing as the sun warms. For all these reasons, I welcome spring each year, but I don’t trust it.  Though I’m glad to see it, I must admit, I wouldn’t call myself a fan of spring.

I can too easily recall Easter of 2007, when a late freeze settled upon south Georgia with temperatures below 28 degrees in many areas. We had an early budbreak that year and the foliage was advanced and expanding. The trees here on the farm were spared any serious damage but many friends and neighbors suffered significant losses to their pecan crop that year, as the leaf tissue, following the early budbreak, was frozen off, along with the tiny young pecan flowers and any hope of a crop. Old timers claim, “You can’t fool a pecan tree”, as they reference the tree’s tendency to be one of the last trees to break bud. The fact is, you can fool some of the pecan trees some of the time, but you don’t often fool them all.

Newly bursting pecan buds are themselves a wonder, wrapped up in the hidden things of earth, air, and sky. Budbreak depends on things defined in technical terms like chill hours and heat units. What it really comes down to is the colder the winter, the less heat required in spring to bring out the new green leaves. If this all comes about too early, and fickle spring recedes, disaster can come calling.

Pecans have a wide natural range, extending from southern Mexico up through the rivers and streams of East-Central Texas and up the Mississippi and its tributaries as far North as Clinton, Iowa. Needless to say, this has allowed the pecan opportunity over the millenia to adapt to a wide range of environments. From this, has arisen the incredible diversity that has given birth to over 1000 pecan varieties. One of the defining characteristics of these varieties remains the wide range in timing of budbreak.

While chilling is important to set those enzymes controlling a pecan bud’s readiness to begin the new year, astir, it is the warming of spring that draws the new growth out of the buds. Though not a universal rule, those pecan varieties descended from trees in the more Northern areas of the species range tend to break bud later in the spring because spring tends to arrive later at more Northern latitudes. But, it is not only the fickleness of spring and its potential to damage my pecan crop that dims my opinion of the season.

Spring is messy, like a young toddler running chaotic and haphazard through the house with muddy feet. There is joy in it but someone has to clean up the mess. I simply am not ready. I have just finished my pruning, or what pruning I was able to get done, and limb piling, and tree planting. I would like a few weeks to simply enjoy the orchard. A few more weeks to admire the neatness of my work. Maybe even a week or two to cast a line into the lake. But no, the false spring of early March with its warm days and sunshine are calling forth nature’s new year.

In the orchard the young clover, still clinging relatively close to the ground is beginning to show a few crimson blooms scattered here and there. It faces stiff competition from the outlandish growth of wild radish, which jumps two feet in a week and flowers profusely with yellow blooms. Many pecan farmers consider this plant, so fast to take over and dominate the orchard, a scourge. True, it does try to crowd out the clover. But, it also has a pretty stout taproot that I like to imagine helps fight soil compaction, though that may be wishful thinking.

Native to the Mediterranean and North Africa, wild radish seed can remain viable in the ground for 15-20 years, making it difficult to get rid of. It thrives on the spring rains, accounting for its rapid surge in growth. Sometimes I mow the tops out to try and cut down on the seeding and allow the clover to catch up, but this is largely futile because the next rain will bring another rapid burst of inflorescence. I am told that in Pakistan, the leaves are eaten in salads or cooked, though I haven’t given this a try. I suppose I should work to get rid of the things, but I’m not ready to tackle such a task this early in the year. Instead, I’ll just take pleasure in the color it adds to the spring landscape and watch the bees and butterflies it brings to the orchard. For me, that is enough reason to tolerate it.

I suppose it is the Italian ryegrass that is largely responsible for my failure to really enjoy spring in the orchard. Like wild radish, it goes from barely noticeable to rank, unruly, and seeding in a matter of days. Both species do well in pecan orchards because the land is not turned under, which largely controls their germination. While my general philosophy is that every living thing has a purpose, I, for one, can find no redeeming quality in Italian ryegrass. Each year, I allow the clover seed to mature, dry down, and seed out prior to the first mowing of the orchard so that the clover will re-seed itself. This usually takes place in late May or early June.

The problem is that Italian ryegrass also re-seeds itself. One can spray it with herbicides, just enough to stunt it so that the clover can out-compete it, but who wants to spray herbicide in February? This would have to be repeated every year just to keep it beat back a little. Therefore, I am bound to suffer the indignities of Italian ryegrass. It is not the trashy appearance Italian ryegrass gives to the orchard once it bolts up 2-3 feet in height nor the seeds that fill one’s radiator driving through the orchard on which the misery induced by this plant resides. It is the hay fever brought on by its pollen.

I am prone to severe reactions to the stuff—from itching skin and whelps to watery, itching eyes so troublesome that I can’t maintain vision. It’s terrible. Over the counter allergy meds taken prior to going into the orchard used to help but I can’t take them anymore because of interactions with other medication I have to take. The perils of aging.

And so, I try to do as little in-orchard activity on foot as possible between April and when the clover seed matures. It is a joyous occasion to mow that Italian ryegrass down with the clover around the end of May. This has some benefits. I save fuel and time spent mowing through about a quarter of the growing season. I’m not scouting or spraying for insect pests that early either and most of the other tasks I’m working on can be accomplished in the cab tractor isolated from the noxious pollen of ryegrass. But, I don’t like this isolation. Everything in me longs to walk the tree rows and touch the bark of trees as I pass, looking and watching the early season progression. I want to hear the buzzing of bees in the clover and the joyous songs of woodpeckers, chipping sparrows, summer tanagers, pine warblers, bluebirds, and bobwhite quail.

With all of its trickery, Spring isn’t my favorite time of year, but it’s not my least favorite either. My reluctance is not for its beginning but for the rapid pace at which it progresses. This reluctance arises from my ever-increasing desire to hold back time. I’m not ready, but there are a lot of things I’m not ready for and the schedule is not up to me. The new life of the year is pushing through. There’s no turning back now.