The Oak Harvest - Pat Fish

It started with the shredded oak leaf obsession, a condition that began in early summer and grew to outright neurosis by autumn's arrival. The day was crisp and dry; light breezes billowed about. I was, my human self, determined at last to reap the bounty of the oak trees. Against my plan, the greater portion of my day was spent watching the critters of my eco-garden reap *their* bounties.

Shredded oak leaves. The perfect garden mulch. And as perfect as they are, they are offered in abundance and completely for free. But it gets better. First, they help the earth retain moisture and prevent the growth of weeds. Fine. Most mulches do at least this. Second, they give a "woodsy" appearance to the gardens; not too formal as with white stone, not out of place as with many bark mulches. Third, they are completely free, although one must have some sort of leaf mulcher for the shredding. Fourth, they "melt" directly into the earth when they deteriorate, adding texture and nourishment to the gardens in the process. Finally, they are easy to cart about the gardens, as opposed to the unwieldy fifty pound bags of shredded bark.

Last fall, for whatever reason, I had obtained no shredded oak leaves, although to my recollection the ten oaks on my property provided plenty. Thus, I spent my garden season severely bummed out. I refused, on many principles, to actually BUY any sort of mulch. I then refused to spend all of my waking hours weeding and watering the gardens that would be rowing happy, healthy and weed-free were they mulched with shredded oak leaves.

The obsession grew to frantic proportions. THIS fall, I would harvest my oak leaves that next year's growing season is a happier one than last. In early November, enough leaves had fallen on the lawn that I was finally able to go out and reap my harvest. Beyond leaves, at this time of the year, the oaks provide another harvest, one in which my human self is not interested other than a mild annoyance. Acorns. About a million of them. They stud the lot ankle deep. They crunch and smash under human shoes. They fall from the trees as if nut bullets to bang and ping any object beneath, including human heads.

Now I find myself working in the gardens, storing away the summer decorations, pulling the fencing, and yes, shredding and bagging my precious oak leaves. With all this labor, I must occasionally take a rest. The break took over two hours because I was mesmerized by the animal activity in my surround and pondered that I was not the only lot inhabitant that anxiously awaited the arrival of the oak harvest.

The blue jays first caught my attention. They were everywhere, criss-crossing the lot, flying onto branches and into bushes, nearly colliding in their inattention. Every darn one of them had an acorn in its beak. And they spent so much time hiding this one little acorn that I had to laugh, my human self, that wanted to scream that there are a billion more acorns on this lot and hiding that one acorn was as the same as hiding one grain of salt from the shaker. Still, the blue jays would fly this one acorn over to a leaf pile, and surreptitiously poke it directly into the pile's center. Or they would hide another behind a stand of withered annuals. Or they would shove yet another under a garden ornament.

The squirrels, well goodness, acorn season is like their Christmas, come on now. They were all over the place, burying acorns in all of my plant containers that will cause a healthy crop of small oak and hickory trees next year that would make a forester beam.

Each species, blue jays and squirrels, spent as much as two minutes hiding a lone acorn; while a billion more lay upon the lawn and sidewalks. At the rate they were going, they'd be well into the next millennium to get them all hidden. Besides, I had every intention of chopping up that pile of leaves for my own oak leaf mulch so they were wasting their time hiding the acorns in there. Of course, I didn't tell them that.

The chipmunks really sent me over the edge. These guys were all over the place, running along the garden paths, over the fences, through the barriers. Every one of them had cheeks filled with acorns. I'm watching all this in utter fascination and a new respect for the acorn, which I had, until now, humanly scorned.

Not all of the birds were minding the acorns however. As I watched the busy blue jays, a little wren flies onto the porch. I'm used to these guys flying about the porch. Wrens just love eaves and given a choice, they will always pick a human hanging plant as a favored roosting spot. And this Carolina wren was hopping about in and out of all the plant containers and I must smile at this. A wren does, each and every year, choose one of my potted plants in which to roost. Many's the summer night when I had to hasten my watering duties as dusk threatened. If I waited too long, the wren will already have turned in for the night and my attempts to give the plant moisture will cause human screams in reaction to sudden flights of wren fear.

For whatever reason, the wren decides to fly over to where I am sitting. He lands on the back of the empty chair at the table where I sit. He only spends about five seconds on the back of this chair, all of this time spent just looking at me. I hold my breath and avoid movement to cause a sudden start, but I regard him as well. I think he decides I am not dangerous; he will roost in one of my potted plants.

Across the way and in the middle of the frenzied acorn activity, a female redbelly "barks" and hops around a tree trunk, gleaning whatever insects might be hiding under the oak tree bark this time of year.

I hear the furious chitter of the kingfisher and I walk around back to see what has him upset. Unbelievably, I see him flying low, being chased by what appears to be a furious fish crow. The kingfisher must be a threat to the minnows the crow would rather be all his.

So even with the blue jays flying about with their acorned beaks, even with the squirrels digging holes everywhere to bury their winter nuts, even with the chipmunks running all about to possibly cause human injury, I regard the oak leaves lying about my lawn with a renewed determination. I ventured out directly into the middle of the frenzy to obtain MY oak harvest.

I am a creature of the lot, too, after all.

... Patricia Fish