“This looks like Antarctica.” I stare off to the blinding south, the albedo glaring from the snow with the sun halfway up in the sky, lightly filtered through some high cirrus. However, some trees on the horizon make me reconsider. “No, perhaps the far north. Antarctica doesn’t have trees.”
But, I’m in neither place. I’m visiting family back home, and I’m out for a walk on the edge of our property in Tennessee. Two and a half inches of snow fell yesterday, and the field that was once soybean roughage has now become a beach of white glistening sand.
I love these winter walks to see what beauty snow has wrought. It’s cold, 25F, and mostly calm. The landscape is quiet, minus the Horned Larks that pipe their sweet song as I stir them up. To my north is a field of winter wheat, which looks more like a raked zen garden with the alternating lines of green and white than an agronomic crop. I dare not disturb either pristine scene, so I trod the path between the two where the wheat stopped the snow and made it more shallow along this edge of soybeans.
The field to my south…
…and the field to my north.
I have a destination in mind. I’m going to see an old friend. On the corner of our land is an old possumhaw that I remember from childhood. And, I’m curious if there are any berries on it this year. I catch a glimpse of red jutting out of the grays and browns of the fencerow, so I at least know I’ll see some fruit.
Ilex decidua is a wonderful, often overlooked plant. As I walk, I remember the many memories of them along fencerows. In some areas you couldn’t drive a quarter mile in Tennessee without seeing a flash of red from this deciduous holly, and now having made the Texas-to-Tennessee trek many times during the winter, I can say the same about Arkansas. They hide all year, but once the leaves fall and their berries burn bright, they can’t be missed. Their locations became etched in my mind.
Well, at least the females couldn’t be missed. They flower as separate male and female plants, so the males would never be conspicuous. In these wild places, concern about pollination doesn’t seem to be an issue as there are berries a plenty, but making sure a male is nearby should be considered when we welcome berry-bearing possumhaws to our gardens. Even male Ilex opaca can serve as a pollen source for crossing.
Hello, old friend. Possumhaws are stalwart shrubs that thrive much of what mother nature throws at them.
I make it to the corner where two fencerows converge and end, one running north-south and the other east-west. Here, the possumhaw grows with heavy fruit on the branches, not all of them, but enough for a winter smorgasbord for birds. While we call them berries, technically the fruit are drupes and consist of fleshy tissue that surrounds one or multiple pyrenes, the nut-like seed inside. And, on snowy days like today, the red orbs pop against the bleached white background, like tomato sauce spots on a white table cloth. They also glow against the sky, as Joseph LeMay sang,
“Possumhaw up against a pale grey sky
Tennessee winter, man the sun don’t shine”
But, the sun is shining, and the berries beam bright. I’m surprised there’s not a Northern Mockingbird nearby to taunt me. I usually see them standing guard over a fruit niche this size. But, this one is just for me to enjoy today.
I begin wondering what other creatures have found shelter and forage with its arching branches? While Eastern Bluebirds, Northern Bobwhites, and Wild Turkey feast on the fruit , they don’t compare to the onslaught from Cedar Waxwings. I can’t tell you the number of times that I’ve watched a flock mob a possumhaw as they stripped the plant bare in late winter. Here today, gone tomorrow. And, while I know that some holly berries can ferment and cause intoxication, I haven’t found a good source stating that this shift occurs with possumhaw. From personal observations and research, I know the birds tend to wait until later in the winter to gorge themselves on the fruit.
Though I have never seen one in it, evidently opossum like the fruit, hence the common name. And, in case you’re wondering, the -haw comes from the fruit resembling those found on hawthorn (Crataegus).
In the bleak midwinter, possumhaw brightens life.
A closeup of the hawthorn-like fruit of possumhaw.
I also ponder how many moons this plant has seen. Multiple, thick gray stems rise out of the base and reach out to capture what light they can under the hackberrys and oaks above. Possumhaws are tough; they have to be to survive on the fragmented and disturbed habitat of fencerows. Possumhaws can live for many years, and thrive in full sun or dappled shade, though the more light, the more fruit one will get. And, while this one shouldn’t face flooding anytime soon, there is a record of possumhaw surviving 105 days submerged under floodwater.
Another shot of Ilex decidua a few miles from our house. Possumhaw thrives even in the dense shade and competition of this fencerow. This ditch will frequently flood over the road during the winter, submerging the possumhaw root systems for a few days.
Can you make out the floodline from where this possumhaw was submerged for a few days? Note the color shift from red at the top to orange about midway down.
Because of its ecological value and resilience, I’m working to add more possumhaw to our garden in Texas. There’s ‘Finch’s Golden’ I have rooted as cuttings; this variety has brilliant yellow fruit. I have seed of a nice red-berried form that we found in east Texas. And, I’m not beyond purchasing a reliable fruiter like ‘Pocahontas’; I saw an excellent specimen of this cultivar at Nancy Goodwin’s Montrose Garden recently. For me, there’s also a nostalgia to them; seeing them brings back memories of my long winter walks.
Ilex decidua ‘Finch’s Golden’
Ilex decidua ‘Pocahontas’
By now the sun is getting low, and the vanilla cirrus are starting to swirl in some caramel from the golden light. As I start my walk back, a Northern Harrier beats its wings half a dozen times and coasts mere feet above the field hunting for life in the winter amongst the snow. I found some, and I hope it does, too.
One final look back at the fencerow corner that my possumhaw calls home.