a tale of tails, tenacity, and tedium, as told by me, usually barefoot and bellowing
Showing posts with label Osage Orange. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Osage Orange. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Bodark, Osage Orange, Hedge Apples...

Whatever you call them
we have them.
They cover the ground yet are poison to humans. In some states they sell them at the super markets. Supposedly they discourage insects. The squirrels love them and so do children.  In a child's mind they can be any range of monsters.  At The Farm this is the one thing you can chop, throw, spear or poke without retribution. 
We lost a few during the tornado but those left still thrive.  I think I will place a few under the floor to see if it slows down spiders!

Bois d'arc is the best wood for a bow.  The wood is strong but pliable.  It is a beautiful yellow wood but we let ours grow.  There may come a time we fashion a bow.  Until then we play, put them in baskets for fall decorations and allow the squirrels to enjoy them.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

The Cedar Glade...

is what it was always called.  Mostly cedar, pine and few hardwoods grew here on the rocky side of the ridge.  Before the tornado you could not see the sky line well.  Now it looks bare to me.
 Seeing the top of the ridge is something new in my lifetime.
Years before my memory Dad and Mom had goats
 on this hill side keeping the underbrush clear.
  The briers make it almost impossible to walk.
Here lie the roots of an ancient cedar torn up by the tornado but the loggers were able to save it for lumber.  Much they could not for if a tree is twisted so will the lumber tend to twist.
You can see the healed twist in this small tree.
Many cedars could not be used for lumber
but can be split for fence posts
A pair of Osage Orange or Bodark trees
 One gone one twisted and split but still living. 
Supposed to be the best tree for making bows.
It is sad to see the destruction 
but the tiny cedar trees are growing again.
In sixty years you'll never know the damage that was here.
Returning from my walk
A frost bitten vinca tries to convince me its spring.
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