Poor year for pears (and poults?) #phenology

In August, two years ago, our back yard pear tree looked like this.

a prosperous pear tree

Photo by J. Harrington

This year, even when standing directly underneath the tree, it's hard to see any pears, and those that can be seen are severely dwarfed and misshapen. We think much of the problem relates to some fierce storms we got just as the tree was coming into bloom. This year's "new normal" weather pattern doesn't seem to have done to a local apple orchard what it's done to our pears. Since much of our pear crop usually gets consumed by the local whitetails, they'll be more disappointed than we will, except that probably means we won't get to see as much of this year's yearlings as we have in the past.

a pair of hen turkeys with their poults

Photo by J. Harrington

The local turkey flocks have also been making themselves scarce this Summer, or, in point of fact, they actually may be scarce. We've seen hens with poults but once or twice. Perhaps they're running a couple or three weeks behind what we used to think was normal.

We did, very briefly, see a flash of bright orange at the nectar feeder yesterday. The orioles are still around but probably busy with fledglings. We didn't put out any meal worms this Summer. The year that we tried dried meal worms for orioles didn't produce much except a mess and left over meal worms. Purple finches are in a "now you see them, now you don't for a few days" pattern. So far, the Summer seems to be right smack dab in the middle of a "could'a been betta, could'a been worse" status and, before it's over, probably will be. At least some years, some pear trees produce pears and pleasure for people in poems.

Green Pear Tree in September

By Freya Manfred

On a hill overlooking the Rock River 

my father’s pear tree shimmers, 

in perfect peace, 

covered with hundreds of ripe pears 

with pert tops, plump bottoms,  

and long curved leaves. 

Until the green-haloed tree 

rose up and sang hello, 

I had forgotten. . .  

He planted it twelve years ago, 

when he was seventy-three, 

so that in September 

he could stroll down  

with the sound of the crickets 

rising and falling around him, 

and stand, naked to the waist, 

slightly bent, sucking juice 

from a ripe pear.

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