NATIVE FOLIAGE GUIDE
This year, I’ve seen in the news the usual handwringing over the quality of Vermont’s foliage season, and via the Internet pictures of brilliant foliage in West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Michigan. Two of those states have the kind of climate that global warming might move northward, yet they seem not to have lost their fall colors. Perhaps a thorough video survey of peak foliage conditions through a tier of states below Vermont would ease some local fears.
But that’s not why I’m blogging today. For those who are relatively new to this foliage business, I’d like to point out some of the relatively hidden wonders, some of which will be evident during even the most disastrous seasons for the big trees and their leaves.
--1. Stroll through the sumac. When pundits opine that an early hard frost will create better foliage, I cringe—such frosts kill the sumac that enlivens far more roadsides than tall maples. Up close, this persistent weed tree displays a whole spectrum of variegated colors—glorious for photographers.
To make a comparison: in Japan, cherry trees are often a nuisance. They don’t look that great, they rain down stuff from diseases and insects—no one would guess, without being so informed, that they are regarded as national treasures and indeed a symbol of existence. Their moment comes when they transform the landscape with their blossoms. The brevity of their glory became iconic during the era of the samurai, whose swords were so sharp that a falling blossom would divide if it fell on an upright blade, and who frequently went to Zen masters to cope with their realistic fears of mutilation and death. To live with bravery and indeed beauty, for as long as it was fated to do so, became the ideal. When you see the great Kurosawa movie “Yojimbo,” and come to the scene where the leaf is blowing around the hut where the samurai hero is recovering from a bad beating, and suddenly gets spiked to the floor by a thrown knife, that’s the same philosophy.
So, hate sumacs when they invade your garden, but love them as part of the landscape. If you need a symbol of fall leading to spring, remember that when the old-timers needed a maple spout, they would do what my father did for his backyard stovetop sugaring: core out the soft pith from a section of sumac to make a little pipe. Or if you want to take a Christian perspective, think of the last becoming the first.
--2. Look for little oak trees. Most people recognize the leathery brown of oak leaves, hanging on late in the season, later to (approximate Robert Frost quote here) go scraping and creeping over the crusted snow when others are sleeping. But during foliage time, younger oaks—say up to six feet or so—produce leaves so intensely decorated that they are worth photographing individually. This, by the way, is also a good strategy when the maples aren’t as red as they might be. Another the-last-shall-be-first, or perhaps the-stressed-shall-be-best: often maple leaves afflicted by some sort of disease or parasite will be characterized at the end by spectacular dotting, streaking and veining.
--3. Blackberry patches. Many brambles produce interesting leaves, but my experience has been that blackberry canes produce the best colors just as they produce the greatest variety in flavors. Again, this is a matter of getting close enough to see them—sometimes a hazardous enterprise, because the thorns are also an octave above other brambles in their functional capacity. Picking them is like doing yoga: once you get in a good position, hold it, and then the benefits will come.
--4. Burning bush. Some experts advise never to plant these, saying they are foreign and “invasive.” Well, they’re not nearly as hard to extirpate as purple loosestrife, and our in-town foliage would be poorer without them.
If it’s red you’re looking for, burning bush’s flaring crimson should give you an eyeful. Meanwhile, look around for other domesticated or semidomesticated bushes that may have coleus moments before fading out (the website Blossom Swap says that coleus “offer tons of color in the shade. Coleus are easily started by seed or cuttings and be over wintered as houseplants in colder climates.”)
As our culture grows more experienced, we’ll probably grow more like the Japanese, who can see all of Nature in a single bird in a backyard garden. We’ll probably have foliage gardens, as we now have butterfly gardens, planted to flowering species that suit these flopwinged mini-hummingbirds. Meanwhile, we Vermonters can rejoice that we live in a kind of gigantic mega-garden. It’s even big enough to have room for tourists—as we all are, in too short a time.
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