The Hickory and the Tupelo
I must admit I don’t actually know that the hickory and the tupelo ever left Halibut Point. I’m
conjecturing from accounts, paintings and photographs of several centuries of
occupational enterprise that devoured the woodlands of Cape
Ann.
First came the coastal trade in lumber and cordwood that
helped fund early colonial settlement. Gradually agriculture took hold on
arable acres, culminating in the 19th century clearing of even
marginal land for sheep pastures. And then the steam-powered quarry engines
consumed firewood ravenously. How could there have been a tree standing on
Halibut Point when the granite industry closed by 1930?
Yet the quarry rim today is vegetated, including the hickory
and the tupelo. These are plants to be especially enjoyed now in the fall, the
tupelo an early rich claret, the hickory coloring later to sunny yellow. You
have to make their acquaintance in the wild. Since their tap-rooted natures
make them difficult to transplant or grow in containers, they aren’t going to
find their way to your home landscape through the nursery trade.
Tupelo |
Last week while I was looking at the litter of nuts beneath
a hickory, several more bounced down through the canopy to the scolding
complaints of a red squirrel busily liberating them from upper branches. I was
standing in his harvest, which he evidently planned to stash in distant
storerooms below ground. Aha. A barter in the making. Hundreds of calories for
red squirrels, but if the tree got even one nut to germinate over yonder, the
hickory advance accelerated.
Shagbark hickory nuts |
The tupelo wasn’t advertising its dispersal technique to my
casual eyes. In the manner of modern inquiry I went online for answers. Come to
find out that the tree produces drupes,
which appeal to certain birds, and that this is the season.
Drupes? I balanced the potential for nuisance and pleasure at
the encounter with a new word en route to my primary quest. I downshifted, diverted
to take Webster’s Seventh New Collegiate
Dictionary (inscribed to me by Aunt Ruth in 1964) down from the shelf.
Drupe: from the Greek for olive, by way of Latin, “a one-sided indehiscent
fruit having a hard bony endocarp, a fleshy mesocarp, and a thin epicarp that
is flexible (as in the cherry) or dry and almost leathery (as in the almond).”
Since drupes are supposed to be there now in the fall
banquet for birds, I postponed further temptations of vocabulary and etymology
to return to the realm of the treetop with my telephoto lens. Oh joy, there
they were, little blue-black productions wreathed in burgundy leaves against a
fortuitous sky whose color, to save further research and argument at the
moment, I will just call celestial.
Tupelo drupes |
My mind hurtled back to the Costa Rican farm Albergue Río
Savegre where Kay and I watched quetzals swallow miniature avocados in the
treetops. That’s the way their systems and sphincters evolved. Tupelo drupes seem less daunting. I have a
new quest to see who will come to dine.
September 30, 2013
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