50 Shades of Brown

Yes, yes, that title is a reference to the 2011 erotic romance novel “Fifty Shades of Grey,” which went on to spawn four more books, three movies, two song albums, a parody movie (“Fifty Shades of Black”), and a guest appearance as a book club selection in the movie “Book Club.” But enough for a belabored frame of reference – this column will have no sex scenes, no sadism, no masochism, no bondage, no dominance, no submission. Instead, it has leaves. Lot of leaves. In winter.

As to why leaves turn brown, that is more of colors departing than brown being added. Spring to summer to fall, each leaf is in a dynamic state. Leaves are an energy factory, continually synthesizing more chlorophyll so as to convert sunlight to sugar. Toward the end of our temperate zone growing season, as days shorten, chlorophyll synthesis stops. Green fades. In school, we might have been taught that the yellows and oranges and reds and purples of fall leaf color were always present, only becoming visible with the loss of green. Current thinking is more complex. Plants need time to withdraw sugars and carbohydrates from leaves, to be stored in roots over winter. More of the color compounds – anthocyanins – are made in leaves to protect against ultraviolet damage, i.e., sunburn, while nutrients are being salvaged.      

Another part of the leaf life cycle is “abscission,” the means by which leaves fall from trees. At the time of each leaf’s creation there is a specialized layer of cells where the leaf stalk joins the stem – the abscission layer. As days shorten, a tree hormone, auxin, decreases. This triggers a structural weakening on the abscission layer. Leaves are blown off by wind, or even on a quiet morning, can detach by their own weight. A branch broken in summer will have leaves that go straight to brown without intervening color, and the leaves will stay attached into winter.

Oak leaves on a fallen tree that turned brown 
but did not fall off. Click to enlarge photo.

There are a few species of trees that hang onto their brown leaves all winter: American beech and some of the oaks. Preternaturally retaining leaves in winter is called marcescence. As to why it happens, one theory is that beech trees do this, especially on young trees and lower branches of older trees, to discourage deer from feeding on the tree’s twigs and buds, which are a high-protein food source. Another theory is that not dropping winter leaves until spring serves to self-mulch the trees against competing plants trying to get started close to the tree trunk.

Back to brown. The major constituents of winter’s brown leaves are cellulose, hemicellulose, lignin, pectin, tannins and mineral content. The percentages of each dictate leaf shade from the pale brown of beech to the rich, dark brown of oak. Falling in between are ash, poplar, maple, birch, pine, hemlock and the various understory plants. Looking downward when out for a woods walk will reward you with myriad shades of brown.   

Winterberry berries, on ice

There are also accents of winter red. When berries go from green to ripe colors, the term is “veraison.” Same for grapes and many types of fruit. Two competing theories here – either these fruits are synthesizing polyphenolic compounds, which just happen to be colorful, to combat fungus growth, or the plants are signaling to animals that the fruits are ripe, and therefore OK to eat. Thinking for the latter concept is that by enclosing seeds in edible fruits, the plants are borrowing the animals’ digestive tract and wandering lifestyle to disperse seeds far farther than just falling to the ground. There is a name for this: “endozoochory.” Mammals and birds are the majority of seed-spreading participants, although plant-eating reptiles such as turtles can be involved.

The red we spy on winter walks included rosehips on Multiflora rose and berries on Burning bush, Japanese barberry, Oriental bittersweet and Winterberry. That is four invasive species and a native, respectively. Several bird species and small mammals will eat the rosehips, burning bush, and barberry, but the bittersweet and winterberry stay around until found by robins, either those who decided to not migrate or the north-migrating birds of spring. With the exception of barberry, none are considered people-edible, but rather mildly poisonous.        

European barberry is used to make jam. In Persian cuisine, barberry is “zereshk”, and “zereshk polow” is a traditional barberry and rice dish. While Japanese barberries are considered edible, strong reasons to why not bother to collect any include a need to separate fruit from seeds, nasty thorns, and the plants being a preferred habitat for deer ticks.  

 

The First Robin of Spring Isn't

Robins, winterberry, snow

Robins don’t leave anymore. American robins are omnivores, consuming fruit, berries, earthworms, and insects. They used to leave – their Latinate name Turdus migratorius says exactly that – and then come back in the spring. The “Turdus” part refers to being of the thrush family.  Emily Dickinson’s poem “I dreaded that first robin so” started with robins and went on to list other Spring-signs she dreaded such as daffodils and bees. And actually, they still do leave, mostly, but enough stay to make robin sightings year-round not particularly newsworthy. The reasons for seeing robins year-round is probably a combination of in part global warming and part a better winter food supply. A good resource for shifting bird territories is The Great Backyard Bird Count (www.birdsource.org). The next scheduled count is February 12-15, 2021.

Robins that leave New England spend the winter months in the southern states along the Gulf of Mexico or in central Mexico. Coming back, the male show up first. They travel 50 to 200 miles a day, staying behind the northward advancing line of temperatures above 37° degrees. That temperature is when earthworms will start appearing on the surface and also when the ground softens enough for female robins to collect mud with their beaks for nest building.

Spring sightings here in New England will be a combination of flocks stopping off temporarily but heading further north, and those that have stopped here, declared territories (the males) and started nest building (the females). If you hear a robin singing it is a local male declaring his territory.

In passing, “robin egg blue” as a color is defined as a shade of cyan (greenish-blue color) approximating the shade of the eggs laid by the American robin. Tiffany Blue is a trademarked name and trademark-protected version of robin egg blue uniquely associated with Tiffany & Co., a New York City based jewelry company. The company began using the color in 1845, not many years after its founding in 1837.

Robin, winterberry, snow

The robins that don’t leave, more males than females, gather in flocks of 20-50, sometimes co-mingling with wintering flocks of starlings. These are not the plump and gentle birds of summer with the hop-hop-hop-stop method of working a lawn for worms and grubs. In winter, robins are noisy and combative, working their way though berry bushes with the remembered aggressiveness of Bostonians at a Filene’s bargain basement sale.

Robins like winterberry berries (as do Cedar waxwings), but will eat just about any type of berry or fruit. One reason they may find New England more winter-friendly now compared to years ago is the prevalence of two invasive plant species: Oriental bittersweet and multiflora rose. Both the tree-topping vines and the arching ground brambles are lush with red berries by late-November. Many bird species will eat the multiflora rose berries, but the bittersweet crop is left for robins an waxwings

And why the name “robin?” When the English colonists started arriving in the 1630’s they named the local bird “robin” because its appearance reminded them of the European Robin. The species are not related. The European bird is smaller and has a red/orange face and bib, but a whitish belly. It is the national bird of the United Kingdom. When the English got to Australia the local red-breasted birds also became named robins. These “Flame robins” look a bit like our birds, only brighter. Unlike our species, the females lack the red breast color.

“Little Robin Redbreast” is an English language nursery rhyme. It goes, “Little Robin Redbreast, Sat upon a rail; Niddle noble went his head, Widdle waggle went his tail.” Earlier versions, dating to the 1700s, revealed a more coarse humor, to wit: “Little Robin Red breast, Sitting on a pole, Nidde, Noddle, went his head, And poop went his hole.”

There was an Atlantic Ocean crossing important to American robins. The common earthworms we see robins tugging from the earth and feeding to their chicks came over with the colonists. Although there were many species of worms native to the Americas, these immigrants are more adept at managing the colder climate of the northeast. Back across the ocean, earthworms are being threatened by another invasive species: the New Zealand flatworm. In parts of Scotland and Ireland native earthworms are now scarce – and the fertility of the soil is declining.

This is an expanded repeat of a column first published in December 2009.   

No Soup for You

Ingredients - 1

In this pandemic time of no gathering, hope can be sustained by thinking of celebrations that will be restored once enough people have either survived infection with COVID-19 or been vaccinated. Think birthdays, graduations, holidays. Even funerals (there will still be funerals) will become, once again, time when people can congregate, reminisce, remember.  

New Year’s Eve celebrations will be missed this year. While there may be celebratory fireworks, First Night Boston and New York City’s famous illuminated ball drop, these events will be broadcast for viewing in the safety of home rather than being seen in person by tens of thousands of people. Think “Next year, next year, next year!”

New Year’s Day has its own celebratory traditions – things to do so as to bring good luck for the coming year. In Spain, one is supposed to eat twelve grapes at midnight of New Year’s Eve – one at each toll of the clock’s bell. In Japanese households, families eat long noodles at midnight, specifically “Toshikoshi Soba,” or “year-crossing noodle,” being careful to suck in the noodles intact versus biting them into pieces.  Elsewhere in Asia, ‘forward-moving’ foods such as fish are good luck on New Year’s Day, whereas backward moving (lobster, crayfish) and backward foot scratching (chicken, turkey) are to be avoided. Sauerkraut brings good luck in central Europe, lentils in Italy, herring in Scandinavia.

Ingredients-2

In the southeastern United States, people dine on black-eyed peas, collard greens and cornbread on New Year’s Day. Symbolically, there are ‘money’ foods, representing respectively coins, folding money and gold. Another southern New Year’s Day classic is red beans and rice with sausage. The thinking here is these are “poor people’s foods,” so by doing so you are destined to eat better the rest of the year.

From fall 1978 to fall 1980, we lived in Mobile, Alabama. Besides all-the-time hot and humid weather, and living through Hurricane Frederic, we were introduced to some deep south customs. One we brought north with us (New York City, then Oak Park, a Chicago suburb, now Maynard) was to start the New Year with friends, dining on beans and rice. In time, this evolved into a lot of friends, a lot of beans, and a lot of rice. And collard greens with black-eyed peas and salt pork. And ham. The beans became black bean soup, either with ham or vegetarian. The rice became New Orleans-style ‘dirty’ rice, with sausage or vegetarian. The ham became hams. “With friends” became inviting everyone we knew. Our event evolved into a New Year’s Day afternoon open house that sees 100+ people stopping by.

Daniel Mark, helping with New Year's Day cooking, Dec. 2005.

Three simple rules help make the event work: 1) Keep your shoes on; 2) Wear a name tag (helps us know who you are); and 3) Talk to people you don’t know. When we moved to Maynard, September 2000, there was some question as to whether the tradition was portable. The answer? Yes. Confirmed when mid-afternoon of our first Maynard open house, I asked Jeanne “How do we already know 50 people?” The tradition continued, so that January 1, 2020, was our 33^rd annual New Year’s Day open house.

Sadly, New Year’s Day, 2021, we will do without. “No Soup for You.” [For those who lack the frame of reference, that was the catchphrase of a character who appeared in a 1995 episode of Seinfeld (a TV comedy).] There was some consideration toward making the soup, dividing it into quart containers, and inviting everyone to stop by to take some home, perhaps from a no-social-contact table by the front steps, but this grew logistically complex. Instead, Next year, next year, next year!!!

Mark thinks that any soup recipe that starts with a quart of olive oil, five pounds of onions, two heads of garlic, four large cans of diced tomatoes, eight pounds of dried black beans and a nine-pound ham cannot go wrong. Or the vegetarian version, with parsnips, celery, mushrooms, etc.  

Time Capsules from Centennial (1971)

The 100^th anniversary of the creation of Maynard was marked by many celebratory events, including the creation of a wooden box – a “time capsule” – kept at Town Hall, in recent years on display in the glass-fronted case in the upstairs hallway. This one was intended to have been opened with great fanfare on April 19, 2020. The COVID pandemic cancelled the planned celebration. To be rescheduled.

Time capsule box a Town Hall.
Centennial Belles and Brothers
of the Brush put stuff inside.

As to the history of the box and what is inside, a newspaper article in a scrap book created by the Maynard Historical Society provides all the details. The box was constructed by Worsley Fardy, Manual Arts teacher at the high school. On November 29, 1972, records and histories and memorabilia of the Centennial Belles and Brothers of the Brush were placed in the box, as were cards filled out be more than 300 children, writing their names and which school they attended. The Belles and Brothers were groups that had organized many of the centennial’s celebratory events, including an all-you-can-drink beer bash (tickets, $2.50), and an inner tube race on the Assabet River.    

That was not Maynard’s only time capsule. Fowler Junior High School decided to create its own memory- and memorabilia-capturing reliquary by asking students to contribute items they thought would be representative of their time, fifty years later. The event was organized by Social Studies teacher Doug Miller. Ellen Duggan, life-long Maynard resident, active with the Maynard Historical Commission and the Sesquicentennial Steering Committee, located a fragment of a newspaper article from 1971 with a description. It has the last part of the list of what 75 students brought: “…72. Watch band, 73. Paint brushes, 74. Tooth paste. 75. Camera.”

The newspaper item ended with: “The above articles were placed in a plastic time capsule and sealed air tight. It was buried on June 22, 1971, in front of the Jr. High School next to the flag pole. The capsule is to be dug up fifty (50) years from the above date.”

In an event exemplifying the spirit of ONLY IN MAYNARD (see column about that topic at maynardlifeoutdoors.com, February 2020), a decision was made to dig up the capsule on Friday, December 11, 2020, i.e., six months and 11 days before the scheduled date. A modest gathering of observers met on the ArtSpace lawn. The man with the shovel was Bill Goddard, who as he put it, “I’m the one who dug the hole back in 1971.” Also present and assisting were Rick Lalli and Ron Melanson, classmates from 1971.

The effort to unearth the time capsule came to naught. Bill remembered it has having been buried about a foot below the surface, in front of the flagpole, meaning the side away from the building. The hole, enlarged and enlarged, did confirm one thing – that the present-day flagpole is not on the exact location of the original flagpole, but rather about 18 inches closer to the building. The dig did find the base of the original flagpole but nothing else.

Doug Miller (left) with Rick Lalli, Bill Goddard
and Ron Melanson (time capsule seekers)

The next step was to ask if anyone else had a different idea as to the location of the buried treasure. Doug Miller – THE TEACHER – was called, arrived, and was of the opinion that the site was halfway between the flagpole (the original) and the sidewalk to the east entrance to the building. A smaller hole dug there failed to unearth the capsule. Doug was, however, able to provide a more detailed description of what was buried, to wit, a plastic garbage can with a lid, painted white and black to resemble a space rocket, and sealed ‘air tight’ by having it inside a plastic bag. Given plastic container and depth, no value it trying to find it with a metal detector.

There was some thought that either the Town or the school administration had a record about the exact site of the 1971 interment. Queries sent. Meanwhile, Bob Cutaia, another student at the time, who had not been able to be present for Friday’s event, voiced a strong opinion that the capsule had been buried BEHIND the flag pole, as in between the flag pole and the building. If close behind, that would put it under the concrete slab that anchors the present-day flagpole. If more toward the building, then perhaps this will all end with a successful recovery of the collection of items the student donated back in 1971.

Update: A second attempt to unearth the time capsule before the big snowstorm failed.

Draining the Mill Pond

People walking across the drained frozen mill pond 1916-17.
Trestle and flume visible, left; St. Bridget's spire, right.

One wonders what is on the bottom of the mill pond. No one is allowed to swim in it, or boat on it, so people who own a diver’s face mask, or have the ability to look over the side of a boat on a calm day, cannot fathom what lies on the bottom.

What we do know is that the mill pond is not a ‘kettle pond.’ The most famous kettle pond in Massachusetts is Walden Pond, 65 acres in area and more than 100 feet deep at its deepest. Kettle ponds closer to Maynard, not famous and not as deep, include White Pond (Concord), Crystal Lake, Sudbury (old name “Bottomless Pond”), and possibly White Pond (Hudson), for which Maynard owns water rights, and until 1999, sourced some of its tap water from there.

Toward the end of the last ice age, when the glaciers of ice as much as two miles thick were melting in place there were many instances in which large (LARGE!) blocks of ice remained as a remnant while the ice surrounding it melted, leaving an ice ‘island’ separate from the face of the glacier. As the glacier melted, meltwater would carry sand- and gravel-sized particles to settle around the ice blocks. On occasion, meltwater lakes were contained behind an ice dam, the sudden failure of which would release a vigorous flood of water that would move sizeable rocks.  When the remnant ice blocks finally melted, what remained were open depressions surrounded by deep layers of sand and gravel and rocks. Wherever the groundwater table is high enough, these kettles become permanent ponds, replenished by rain falling on the surrounding sandy plain. Walden Pond has no surface streams flowing into it, nor an exit stream leaving it, yet it persists, with a surface level that averages 158 feet above sea level. It rises or drops several feet above or below that based on previous years’ rainfall and snowmelt.

Maynard’s mill pond and its water level are artifacts of the mill’s construction and management. When Amory Maynard and William Knight came looking for a site for a woolen mill in 1846, they each had mill ownership in the past. They deeply understood water power. Key to the attractiveness of Assabet Village as a potential mill site was the fact that at Rockbottom (not yet renamed Gleasondale), the site of the nearest existing dam upstream, was more than four miles away, so that if they could figure a means to dam the Assabet River to their advantage, they could back up a large enough volume of water for year-round operation without interfering with the operation of the Rockbottom dam.

Where the mill pond is now was originally a swamp; by building a large dam upstream from where there had been a modest dam at Mill Street, and also constructing a canal to where the first mill building was built, they were able to flood the swamp. Lost to unrecorded history (?) is whether a dike or other construction was needed to prevent the newly elevated body of water from finding a route to the river that was not through the mill’s waterwheel. The net result was getting the equivalent of 50 horsepower of ‘free’ power, six days a week, 52 weeks a year. This was enough initially, but by 1862, coal-fired steam engines began to augment, and then finally replace, water power.

Wait, wait, where were we? Considering draining the pond. Which is exactly what was done in 1916-17, when what is now numbered as building #3 was being built. A temporary dam was erected near the Sudbury Road bridge. A wooden pipe, a “flume,” resting on a wooden trestle, conveyed water to the mill for washing the raw wool, providing water for the steam engines, and washing wool again after it was dyed. There are photographs in the collection of the Maynard Historical Society showing the pond drained. In winter, people walked across the ice- and snow-covered bottom. From the photos, an estimate can be made that the refilled pond is no more than 30 feet deep at its deepest.

Trestle visible in 1977 when the mill pond was
partially drained for building repair (photos
courtesy of Maynard Historical Society) 

When construction was completed in 1918 the temporary dam and flume were removed, but the trestle was left in place, partially submerged, in case there was a future need to drain the pond again. In 1977, the pond was partially drained to allow for building repairs. The trestle top was visible and still looking in good shape. At present, the tops of a few remaining wooden piles can be seen breaking the water’s surface when viewed from between buildings #3 and #5. Without knowledge of the original intent, many people assume that these are the remnants of a railroad trestle. Most of the time, the pond’s water level is maintained within a small range.

Could, should, the pond be drained again? There is no real reason to. There is little sediment build-up, because most of the silt carried by the Assabet Rive to the body of water retained by the Ben Smith Dam settles miles upstream from the canal. One hundred years ago, people swam in the pond or skated on the ice. According to town records, some died doing so, but the bottom of the pond is not strewn with bodies. There are rumors that desktop computers and other equipment were defenestrated when Digital Equipment Corporation abandoned the buildings. This has not been confirmed. Unlike the river, the pond was never a dumping place for old tires. Draining it would surely reveal bottles and cans, but nothing that is impacting the quality of the water.

Remnants of trestle (2001)

The pond does not stagnate because it is managed; during times of high river flow, fresh water is allowed in through the canal gatehouse (visible from the Route 117 bridge) and let out via the old mill works tail race, visible from Walnut Street. The water level can drop during summer droughts because no water is allowed to be diverted into the pond when the river flow drops below 39 cubic feet per second. There was a problem the summer of 2017 when the pond would repeatedly fill to almost overflowing into the Main Street parking lot even though the canal gate was closed. Turns out a sunken log had prevented the gate from being completely closed. Scuba divers were hired to remedy the problem.   

Mark envisions an annual kayak day sponsored by Mill & Main, perhaps with a launch fee going to a local charity.