Another Tree Problem

“Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.”
― Khalil Gibran, "Sand and Foam"

At this time of year things have settled somewhat in the yard. Catbirds fly around looking for food to feed their young. I am serenaded by one singing from my hedge, where I'm sure there is a nest. Less than 24 hours after the wren young left the box, a male wren, possibly a different bird, started singing its territorial song. It was not the only one. On my street alone I've heard three others, one of them two yards over. The male hasn't drawn a mate yet but he is fierce in protecting the nest box.

The dead part of the tree against the living rest
of the apple tree. (Margo D. Beller)

The fledged wren young were noisily following their parents in and around shrubs at the periphery of my yard for a couple of days but lately I have not heard them.

The gnats continue in ones and twos rather than a bagful, and I am still not sure how they are getting inside the enclosed porch. Every day I play whack-a-gnat. There is no longer anything on the porch that would allow them to eat or breed. If they are coming in through small spaces around the windows, I may have to turn to chemical warfare again.

Currently, however, my main attention is on the apple tree.

We had a lot of rain this spring, and the tree was full of blossoms, which meant it would be full of apples. Then, suddenly, one third of the tree died. This is an old tree. It has a hole in its trunk big enough for a chipmunk to hide in. It has a ring of little holes from a yellow-bellied sapsucker that visited a few years ago. And yet, the tree continued to bloom and produce apples.

Dogwood blossoms in 2016. (Margo D. Beller)

When half the dogwood tree died in 2023, I asked the yard man I was using at the time to bring his chainsaw. He cut the dead parts into stackable pieces. I waited to see what would happen. The next spring the dogwood not only lived, it put out flowers.

Last year, the problem was the tree-like house plant that was getting too unwieldy to transport in and out of the house. I agonized over whether to kill the plant, but when it began growing from the bottom my decision was made and I chopped down the top. The two parts growing from the bottom are healthy (see below) and, I hope, won't grow too much.

These are a little bigger now. (Margo D. Beller)

Now it is the apple tree's turn. 

There are no lack of sites on the internet explaining what can happen to an apple tree. Here's what Tree Fluent has to say: "Environmental changes can significantly impact apple trees. Temperature fluctuations, excessive rainfall, or drought conditions can lead to stress."

Well, that sums up life in my area in a nutshell. This week alone we started 20 degrees colder than average and expect to jump to 20 degrees hotter than average by the weekend. A major fire in the New Jersey Pine Barrens in April was finally put out with help from a series of heavy rain storms. But last summer was so dry we had drought emergencies that didn't end until last month.

What else could've affected the apple tree?

Couch to Homestead lists a variety of causes including over- or under-watering, the wrong growing environment, a lack of nutrients, pests and diseases. The diseases have such charming names as apple scab and fire blight. There are also various parts of the tree that can be prone to rot, starting with the roots.

Apples growing on the living two-thirds of the tree.
(Margo D. Beller)

I did not plant this tree. It is the last of five apple trees standing, four of which I've taken down and one taken down by stags rubbing velvet from their antlers too many times. I left this one tree because its apples taste good as apple sauce. (Unfortunately, the squirrels and the deer also like them.) These apples usually have more bad than good parts, requiring a lot of cutting to use. In summer the apple leaves seem to be the first to yellow and fall. I thought this was a natural thing. Now I am not so sure.

My remedy for this problem is to rent a chainsaw, cut down the dead wood and hope that allows the tree to recover and grow next spring. It worked for the dogwood. It worked for the big plant.

I haven't gotten around to doing it yet because it has been too wet, yet again. If this remedy doesn't work the tree, like the diseased ash tree we had to cut down years ago, is history. 

A Change in the Weather

 Climate is what you expect. Weather is what you get. -- Robert A. Heinlein

I am fascinated by weather, how one day can be picture perfect and the next cloudy and gray; 20 degrees higher than "average" one day and 20 degrees below the next.

When the local news is on I always pay particular attention to the weather segment.

Shearwater blown close to shore. (Margo D. Beller)

When I first contemplated this post, we had not gotten any significant rain since August. The ground was dry, brown and rock-hard, an amazing change from earlier in the year when we got a lot of rain. There was no forecast of rain for the following weeks, including the week my husband (MH) and I were to be away. Fires were raging throughout my home state of New Jersey and I feared some neighbor's stupidity in running a lawn mower or lighting a backyard fire pit despite a state burn ban would set the neighborhood ablaze, leaving us homeless.

So before traveling I gathered important papers, my laptop, prescription drugs and small artifacts I wanted to keep and packed them to bring with us. We left and I hoped for the best.

We drove to Cape Cod, which is the only area of Massachusetts that was not in significant or extreme drought - it is only down about 2 inches, as opposed to more than double that elsewhere in the state. Its geographical location - sticking out into the ocean - helps. The warmer ocean currents that may be a factor in New Jersey's strange weather kept Cape Cod warm and moist enough for flowers - mums and snapdragons among others at the motel - to be blooming long after my flowers became a memory.

Sheltered savannah sparrows (Margo D. Beller)

But being out in the ocean is not good when the winds start blowing hard from the north, as they did when we were on vacation. It became wintry in a hurry, although the winds that nearly knocked me down several times also blew ocean birds closer to shore where I could see them. It also forced the land birds I was seeking to gather in numbers in more sheltered areas.

When we returned home most of the backyard trees were bare, their leaves blown in clumps around the lawn. I had cut back and stored the cannas before we left but the coleus in the one pot I'd left outside was dead. The earlier darkness and the later morning light depressed me. 

Hard, dry ground at Greystone (Margo D. Beller)

This is when I contemplated this post, to try and make sense of this annual change that I find doesn't get any easier to live through. But then, a week after returning, something good happened - it rained. And when the temperature started falling it snowed, lightly.

It has been raining or snowing for two days now. After the initial runoff because the ground was so hard the soil has softened and is drinking in the moisture. The snow showers have prompted the birds to flock to the feeders in droves. When I contemplate Thanksgiving I do not fear my house will burn if we go away. The forecast is for two or three more soakings, including more snow, in the coming week. 

New Jersey is still in a drought, however, even with the current and forecast precipitation. Much of the northeast is also in a drought. We would need two weeks of rain like today's to make up the deficit. With climate change it is no longer predictable if we'll get enough rain, too much rain or no rain.

And during the time the northeast was drying up, the southeast was flooding, the west was burning and parts of the southwest had heavy snow. 

As I sat writing this post I wondered, why this wacky New Jersey weather?  Climate change, of course.

From the New York Times:

New Jersey is heating up faster than any other state in the Northeast, pacing a region with rapidly rising temperatures, according to data gathered by a nonprofit research organization

The cause of New Jersey’s dubious distinction is most likely a combination of factors, including the warming of the ocean bordering the coastal state and overdevelopment in some areas, experts say.

But what is certain, they added, is that the state — and the Northeast in general — will continue to see more heat waves like the one last month, as well as worsening storms and floods.

“New Jersey is ground zero for some of the worst impacts of climate change, including extreme heat and considerable increases in flood risk,” said Shawn M. LaTourette, the commissioner of New Jersey’s Department of Environmental Protection.

While average annual temperatures across the country have increased by about 2.5 degrees since 1970, annual temperatures in New Jersey have increased by roughly 3.5 degrees, said Lauren Casey, a meteorologist with Climate Central, the nonprofit organization that gathered the temperature data.

According to the group’s findings, New Jersey is the third fastest warming state in the country.

When we had less than half an inch of rain in early
November I took this picture of my back patio.
(Margo D. Beller)

What does this mean? More heat, more rain (when there is rain), more humidity in summer and less snow in winter. According to my state's climatologist, 80% of New Jersey’s warmest months have occurred since 1990. And there has not been a top-five coldest month in New Jersey since 1989.

In years past, during the worst summer heat, there would usually be one day when the humidity was low, the sun was out and the breeze was cool and pleasant. I would say to MH, I wish all the summer days could be like this.

Be careful what you wish for. After this year's long string of "perfect" days sucking us dry, I don't think this anymore.

Dark in August

 If a story is in you, it has to come out.

-- William Faulkner, author of "Light in August"

August is not my favorite month. 

I've written of this before. I still feel the need to complain, especially this year when we are going through a prolonged drought (after a year of too much rain) and the garden I've worked so hard to make beautiful is suffering. (It does not help when the leaders of this country can't come to anything resembling agreement on climate change, much less any other issue.) 

Lots of reminders of death come to me in August, even in good garden years. My favorite grandmother and one of my good friends died in August. My mother, gone these many decades, was born in August. The days are becoming visibly shorter - by this time next week, the sun will set in my area before 8 p.m. Already the sun is rising later in the morning each day.

Flowers from my fading garden,
likely my last bouquet this year.
(Margo D. Beller)

August is when my family would take a vacation during a time when it seemed everyone was taking vacation, so my father could close his medical practice for two weeks. But we knew when we returned we'd have to start getting ready to go back to school after Labor Day, at the beginning of September. From there it would seem like no time at all before the end of the year and the need for a new calendar.

Drying dogwood leaves (Margo D. Beller)

At my age, August has become a time of suffering, particularly this year.

Last year at this time, my cancer treatment made me so sick I could barely function. There was also so much rain that even if I had been able to spray the weeds growing between the paving stones on my front walkway I could not. And so they grew, so thickly you could not see those stones.

Weeds between paving stones. At least
you can see the stones. (Margo D. Beller)

This year has been the complete opposite.

We have already suffered through several heatwaves. The last one was from late July into early August, then we got a few days off. Now another one has started. Worse, we have had no significant rain for some time. I gambled, based on last year, and did not have the sprinklers turned on. Now my grass, like most of my neighbors', is brown and dormant. The trees that would've also benefited from a deep lawn watering are showing the effect of the drought, and that makes me feel very bad. 

Drying butterfly bush leaves. (Margo D. Beller)

The apple and pear trees have been shedding leaves for weeks. Half the dogwood leaves are dried and brown, tho' still attached to the branches. There will be no red berries this year - putting out fruit takes too much energy. The viburnum did form berries but they are still green and the ripening seems to have stopped. Shrubs are wilting. The ferns have dried to a crisp. 

The heat has kept me inside most days, except for the early morning when I can sit on my porch and listen to the yard birds. As I've said before, they can do very well without my help (tho' I do provide a water dish) and, judging by the young I've seen and heard, have been very successful this year, despite the conditions.

Drying canna leaves. The plants should've
flowered by now. (Margo D. Beller)

Even the weeds have stopped growing, at least in those areas where I pulled them when we had a couple of cool mornings. However, in the areas behind the deer netting they are very much alive and in some places close to obscuring the perennials I have tried to water every so often. The butterfly bush has flowers but the leaves are showing brown. The cannas in their pots have brown edges on the foliage and have not flowered. (Plants in pots need more water than plants in the ground.)

The daisies bloomed nicely but now they
are ready to be cut back. (Margo D. Beller)

I know, this is not the first dry season we've had but it feels different. Some parts of my state have been inundated with rain. Mine has not. And most of the country is dealing with some level of drought as waterways dry up and fires rage, including in some of our most famous national parks. 

The world is warming by a few degrees each year. The summers are hotter and drier. While I complain in New Jersey, other areas in the western part of this country are being consumed by forest fires sparked by years of drought. (Meanwhile, others are literally drowning in rain.) 

The peppers are now doing well in the heat. 
So are the basils nearby. (Margo D. Beller)

So I get it. And even in my yard some things are doing well in the heat, as long as I water them. The bugs that beset my pepper plants are gone so the plants have recovered and are finally going to provide me with some vegetables. There have been no white flies this year so the basil plants are growing extremely well, the best since I started growing basil in pots. The many sedums I have growing - daughter plants that have been rooted from the original plant, all behind netting I reinforced to keep out the deer - are starting to put out flowers, right on schedule. (These plants are succulents, so they retain moisture.)

But those are the exceptions. Otherwise, I am surrounded by death and dying and I have resigned myself to waiting for the next cool morning to cut back the perennials and then hope conditions are better next year for them to grow and thrive. 

There are berries forming on the viburnum but
they are far from ripe. (Margo D. Beller)

That is the main reason why I dislike August. I can't stop it. 

August is inevitable. Its heat and humidity sap my strength. The weeds and dried-out plants make me feel I can't keep up with the needs of my garden. The song says, who'll stop the rain. I can't start it. The darker early mornings will return and make it harder to get up and do what needs to be done every day. Soon it will be winter and I can only hope we have some rain by then, and even some snow (but not too much, please).

Ultimately, August reminds me of my mortality. 

Saving Water by the Barrel

This post is based on one that originally ran on March 6, 2017, on the blog of New Jersey Audubon's Scherman Hoffman sanctuary. The NJA blog was significantly overhauled since then and the archives were deleted. However, I was able to keep a copy so this can again see the light of day.

"When the well's dry we know the worth of water," said Benjamin Franklin. That is never more true than during the summer.

Thirsty titmouse at hanging water cooler
(Margo D. Beller)

Here in New Jersey, unlike in other years, we've had plenty of water from an overabundance of spring rain. Reservoirs levels are at or over capacity, making it certain we won't need restrictions on watering lawns or plants. But that is not always the case. In many years July into August is a time of brown grass and thirsty flowers. The birds are thirsty, too, when they come to the water cooler, their bills open to release the heat.

Back in 2017 I attended a program where people learned the value of saving water by making rain barrels to store water for those dryer times during the summer.

I was there as an observer and didn't make my own rain barrel. In my yard MH only mows every few weeks and keeps the mower higher so the grass protects itself, leaving our lawn a bit greener than our neighbors' albeit crunchy in spots. My plants do well in drought and only need to be watered once a week with the hose. But I admit that after attending the program I felt guilty about how much water is wasted coming off the roof and pouring over the driveway to the street and down the drain.

As I wrote in 2017:

Dry forsythia and viburnum, 2015 (Margo D. Beller)

One inch of rain pouring off the average suburban house roof -- 800 square feet -- means approximately 600 gallons of water, according to a fact sheet from the Rutgers University NJ Agricultural Experiment Station in New Brunswick. That's enough water for your garden and your lawn twice over.

Wasting water leads to drought restrictions, usually during the hottest part of summer. So this year, instead of over-using the sprinkler or hose, why not consider a way of collecting at least some of that runoff each time it rains -- a rain barrel.

New Jersey Audubon's Scherman Hoffman sanctuary held its third annual program on how to build your own rain barrel, and it is easy to see why this is a popular program.

Not only did those attending learn something about making their gardens more sustainable while saving water, but they were able to use shop skills many might not have realized they had to create a 55-gallon blue plastic rain barrel (donated by Ocean Spray) at a fraction of the cost of what you'll find at your local Do-It-Yourself store..

Alexandra Cavagrotti, Americorp Watershed Ambassador for the region encompassing the Passaic, Rockaway and Whippany rivers in northern New Jersey, said most homes shed water through gutters and leaders down nonporous surfaces such as driveways, where the water picks up lawn chemicals, car substances and other pollutants and runs into street drains and thus down to streams, rivers and, ultimately, the ocean.

House sparrow at water dish (Margo D. Beller)

Rain barrels are a good way of cutting down on some that polluted, wasted water, said Cavagrotti.

Sherman Hoffman program director Stephanie Punnett said the sanctuary has two rain barrels. "When you have 275 acres, water is problematic," she said. The rain barrels "have been a great help with our native planting" program, that includes removal of invasive, non-native plants throughout the sanctuary.

Plus, rain barrels are fun to make.

Certainly the people making their own were enthusiastically having fun using a drill to create a hole for a faucet and one for draining overflow, then caulking the faucet and putting mesh over the donated screen to keep mosquitoes out (standing water is prime mosquito breeding territory in summer).

One woman, who happened to be Cavagrotti's mother, was wielding the drill like a pro, with the barrel steadied by her husband. "I've built whole houses," she told me when I asked if this was her first rain barrel. I can believe it.

"You get such a feeling of satisfaction" from wielding a drill, said another woman. (Having used a drill I know the feeling.)

For those not power tool-inclined, Cavagrotti and several other Ambassadors helped drill the holes. Americorp is a public service program supported by the U.S. federal government, foundations, corporations and other donors. These Ambassadors teach the importance of water to schools and at programs such as Scherman Hoffman's.

When they finished, everyone put their barrels into their pickups, SUVs or sedans (with a little shifting around of seating), to take them home and position them under a downspout (or not -- Scherman Hoffman's barrels are not connected to the roof, said Punnett, because all of the Hoffman Center’s downspouts are connected directly to a groundwater recharge system. The rain barrels are connected to two other buildings on the property). The more creative can even decorate their barrels for use this summer.

Dry lawn, 2015 (Margo D. Beller)

And that's one thing to keep in mind if you want to buy or build your own rain barrel.

Once it's November, no matter how unusually mild the weather, unhook your rain barrel, use up the remaining water, clean the barrel out and store it inside. You don't want a barrel full of ice that might expand and damage your handiwork. According to Cavagrotti, it's best to use your rain barrel from April through October.

Also, while rain water off a roof is all-natural it may not be all-edible. Some roofs are treated with chemicals to keep mold and moss off. Birds and squirrels have been known to leave their mess on roofs.

So while the water flowing from roof to rain barrel may be fine for your lawn or your flowers or even washing your car, don't put it on your vegetable garden or in your pet's water dish or into a bird bath.

Some of the people making their own rain barrels, 2017
(Margo D. Beller)

You can get more information on rain barrels and wise water use from a number of online sources including the Rutgers Cooperative Extension Water Resources Program.

If you don't want to buy or build a rain barrel, there are other ways of using water wisely in your garden this summer.

Use soaker hoses (available at most garden supply stores) that provide an even, small drip to the roots of plants. Install native plants that are accustomed to your area and can survive dry conditions. Plant more trees -- they will not only provide shade from summer heat but they will suck up rain water that would otherwise go down the sewer drain.

Or create a "rain garden," using trees and native plants, that features a depression in the ground for pooling water. There are many websites on how to design a rain garden including that of the Rain Garden Alliance at http://raingardenalliance.org/planting.

Scenes From the Drought

Today, Labor Day, is the 60th day of temperatures of 80 degrees or higher, and while a drought has not been officially declared by my home state (thanks to a very wet June), we are at the point where you can tell who has been using a sprinkler (built in or otherwise) and who has not.

What had been lawn is now baked hay. My husband has not mowed the lawn since mid-July -- which, coincidentally is when we last had a day below 80 degrees. "Pop-up" storms have been few and far between.

Lawn - Sept. 7, 2015 (Margo D. Beller)

No one cared one to two months ago. Most people - not me - apparently prefer heat and humidity to cold and snow and have really enjoyed having sunny, dry days for going to the beach, the lake or the mountains, the ballpark or just for doing nothing around the house.

But now that summer is supposedly over and school is in session, these same people are ready to do their usual suburban fall activities - mow and fertilize the lawn, buy mums and corn threshes to decorate for autumn - and they suddenly realize, hey, what happened to my lawn? Why doesn't it feel like autumn?

Whether it is hot and dry or hot and humid, without rain you have plants drying up. Even plants that are "drought-tolerant" or have deep roots need water once in a while, which I provide early in the morning as needed. Many people don't, and their dried-out, dead plants show the results.

Despite my best efforts, burnt joe-pye weed. (Margo D. Beller)

Just as the birds fled the Indonesian coast before the Christmas 2004 tsunami, my backyard bird behavior is telling me how dangerous this situation has become.

Scene 1: I have had a hummingbird feeder out all summer. I've written before that recently I had to buy a cup to fill with water and keep out the ants - itself a sign of drought - and create a moat. A few days ago I came on the porch, looked at the feeder and instead of a hummingbird a downy woodpecker was attempting to get its long tongue through the portal as the smaller hummer does. Just today, a tufted titmouse grabbed hold of the rim, leaned forward and dipped its bill into the moat. I've never seen such activity from either bird.

Scene 2: I do not put seed feeders out during the summer because birds usually can eat insects (more protein). However, with this drought, there is a dearth of flowering plants. Even where there are flowers - such as the rose of sharon - I have seen very few bees or other insects partaking of the pollen. That isn't normal.

MH knows I put out feeders around Labor Day, but last week he kept asking when they'd be going out. Ever since the bear destroyed my feeder pole, requiring me to buy a new one, I've been reluctant to put them back out, knowing I'd have to take them in every night.

But I put them out, figuring it would take a few days for the birds to find them. I was wrong.

Titmouse at water cooler. (Margo D. Beller)

Within an hour I had titmice, chickadees and many, many house sparrows at the two feeders containing sunflower seeds. It took a couple of days before the thistle sock drew the attention of any goldfinches - six at one point. Until I  put the feeders out I didn't see very much backyard activity at all.

I am glad to see birds, lord knows, but it took me some time to realize that I am providing an easier way to get food than hunting long and hard for food that could be quite some distance away. That is why the female downy woodpecker has learned another unusual behavior - how to get between the bars of the caged feeder to get some seed.

I also provide water - a water cooler for smaller birds, a water dish for larger birds. In summers, even those with plentiful rain, these are invaluable. Both smaller and larger birds have come to the water cooler, the larger birds contorting themselves from a nearby branch while the smaller ones are on an attached perch. The water dish has also brought an assortment of birds as well as squirrels and chipmunks.

Scene 3: Just as there are birds crowding into and atop the feeders - particularly the huge family of house sparrows, which blocks other birds from getting food unless I chase them off - there is a large flock of birds feeding on the leavings because it is easier than fighting the crowd above. These include mourning doves, cardinals, other sparrows and even titmice and chickadees, along with squirrels and chipmunks.

With so many birds pecking at what the goldfinches and other birds have dropped, it is surprising to me that no sharp-shinned or Cooper's hawks have swooped in to catch a meal. Maybe they are sticking to the shady forest, where some areas are still green. I know I would.

Chickadee with seed. (Margo D. Beller)

There is no water, there are no flowers, there are no insects. There is only drought and what water and food I (and, I hope, others) provide. It is wrong to waste my time, energy, water and money using sprinklers in a battle to make the lawn green and long, which would mean going out (or hiring someone) to mow it and cause further heat damage to the grass, which is - after all - a plant, too.

Is this global warming, this strange dipping of the Jet Stream that has us in a high-pressure system that keeps the rain north or south of the New York metropolitan area? Is this the "new normal?" I fear it is.

I know, California has been suffering years of drought. But take a look at this list of record temperatures.

Nuthatch at caged feeder behind thistle sock. (Margo D. Beller)

According to weather.com, the record hottest summers are:

• Eugene, Oregon: Average temperature 69.5 degrees (old record 68.5 degrees in 1967)
• Lewiston, Idaho: Average temperature 76.9 degrees (old record 76.3 degrees in 1940)
• Phoenix, Arizona (tie): Average temperature 95.1 degrees (ties 95.1 degrees in 2014)
• Portland, Oregon: Average temperature 72.2 degrees (old record 69.8 degrees in 2009)
• Medford, Oregon: Average temperature 76.4 degrees (old record 74.9 degrees in 2014)
• Salem, Oregon: Average temperature 71.3 degrees (old record 69.4 degrees in 2014)
• Seattle, Washington: Average temperature 69.2 degrees (old record 67.4 degrees in 2013)
• Spokane, Washington: Average temperature 72.7 degrees (old record 71.7 degrees in 1922)
• Wenatchee, Washington: Average temperature 76.9 degrees (old record 75.6 degrees in 1958)

Pear tree showing effect of drought. (Margo D. Beller)

Other Notables: Anchorage, Alaska (3rd hottest); Boise, Idaho (2nd hottest); Tucson, Arizona (2nd hottest); Columbia, South Carolina (3rd hottest); New Orleans (5th hottest); Baton Rouge, Louisiana (4th hottest)

Even Canada's Edmonton, Alberta went through its second-hottest August in 20 years.

Of course, not everyone is so affected. For every yin there's a yang. Again according to weather.com:

• Fort Wayne, Indiana: 21.52 inches of rain (old record 18.70 inches in 1986)
• Rapid City, South Dakota (airport): 14.54 inches of rain (old record 11.90 inches in 1968)

Nuthatch, goldfinch, titmouse at feeder (Margo D. Beller)

Other Notables: St. Louis (2nd wettest), Indianapolis (2nd wettest), San Diego (2nd wettest), Tampa (5th wettest)

And as bad as August has been, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, July was worse - the hottest month since records have been kept.

President Obama recently traveled to Alaska, to focus on climate change and its effects in the short term on the indigenous population and in the long term on the rest of the world. He is the first U.S. president to travel north of the Arctic Circle.

We've seen some lovely pictures - melting glaciers and the like - but he could've made the point just as well had he come to my backyard, watched the grass and trees and plants dry up and the birds fighting each other desperately for what food and water I provide.