The Uniterian Church Elders - Magyarsoros

The Land at Magyarsoros

The Walnut Project

The Walnut Project – Crescatorii de Nuci

Last week I made a return trip to Transylvania. As some of you may recall, in my volunteer work with the Organic Farmers Association of Romania – Bioterra – I became aware of both the deficiencies and the opportunities of agriculture in that country. I hit upon a project that I became convinced was of such merit that as my Peace Corps days were winding down, much of my energy went into this idea.

Simply put, the plan is to couple investors and landowners in a joint effort to plant, grow and harvest Carpathian Walnuts (some people call them English Walnuts). The more I researched this theory, the more it made sense to me. Basically, the plan is to group the landowners who have little access to capitol, but have suitable land and labor together with investors with a long-term outlook – like 10 to 50 years – in a mutually beneficial program to redevelop Walnut orchards in suitable areas of Transylvania.

The first problem I found was chicken and egg; which came first, finding committed investors, purchase of the trees or contracting with the landowners. It became clear to me that this program had sufficient merit in at least three areas, social, environmental and fiscal. I could not let go of it, so Nancy and I became the investors, the trees were ordered, and landowners were spoken too. Regional managers, a key to the success of the project, were identified and signed on.

It is not easy setting up a business in a foreign country, and the trials of trying to co-ordinate the start up from back in Virginia have been many. Last week’s trip was do or die. The trees had been paid for and were awaiting transport to the land, the business accounting and bank account were not functioning as envisioned and the landowners were without contracts and were waiting for their ‘signing’ incentives.

Now I can report that my trip was a success. Crescatorii de Nuci, S.R.L., which translates as Walnut Growers, now has bright prospects. We’ve signed contracts for over 25 hectares (56 acres) of land for between 30 and 60 years. The trees are to be delivered and planted this week. The banking is going forward and additional trees will be held over for more acreage to be planted in the fall.

Individual farmers and the Unitarian Church in the village of Magyarsoros have accepted the plan. The pictures I’ve included are of the elders of the Unitarian Church and the land around the village prior to planting the trees. The original business plan that I created calls for a total grow out of 300 hectares, so there is plenty of room for expansion. Should we have a successful first planting I am sure that additional farmers will take advantage of this program.

I remain excited about this program and if anyone has questions, comments or interest in joining the project, please let me know. We are looking for groups and individuals to join us as either participant landowners or as investors.

Peepers and other Rites of Spring

About a week ago I heard the first chirps of the spring peepers. The sounds are spring is to be soon upon us. The little frogs that make the distinctive peeps are a more reliable signal of the inevitability of March than the robins. Once they begin peeping, I’ve never known them to go back into hibernation again.

Out the kitchen window the rite of battle over the bird boxes has begun. Every year it is a pleasure to see which brand of bird wins rights to the house by the field gate. The bird box has been there since the fence was built, the spring of 1992 and every year one species or another of bird has raised families in it. Our favorite renters are the blue birds. They were my mother’s favorite bird and certainly their striking blue, the multiple broods they raises and their relish of the insects that inhabit our lawn all add to the good karma they bring when they are the inhabitants of the house.

The tree swallows are our second choice. In the pecking order of birds, the swallows bully the blue birds, but they have many merits of their own. Least favorite are the house sparrows. These are the littlest of the inhabitants of the box directly in front of the kitchen window, but they can be the most aggressive, throwing out both the swallows and the blue birds. Their brown plumage and their many numbers make them only an ordinary renter. We’d rather have the blue birds. I’m not sure who’ll win out for this year’s prize spot, but the blue birds certainly scoped out the box last fall.

All along the fence line there are bird boxes of all sizes and materials, and it is interesting to watch all the feathered families take advantage of them, watching several generations of the same species come back to their own boxes year after year. In winter the bird seed is at the feeder and the flash of colors and shapes is always a delight, but by spring the seed is cut off and the birds must fend for themselves. And to note, that their favorite nesting material is the long, soft horsetail strands that the horses leave against the fence line.

Finally, this evening, as I walked back to the pond that lays in the woods at the edge of the property, checking to see if the earliest daffodils were in bloom, the dogs and I spooked two pair of mallards and a dozen wood duck. Mallards are common; wood ducks are not. It was a good thought that my woods might be home to the family or two of wood ducks.

The First Crocus of Spring

Uncle Allie

Uncle Allie

Last week my brother Joe and I traveled up to our birthplace, Elmsford, New York, to pay our respects to Uncle Allie. He died at the age of 89 and was the last of that generation. The Floral trade was both his profession and his avocation. He was part of a family tradition, first established by my grandfather and shared by his four sons. Uncle Marshall and Uncle Allie worked the business in Elmsford. Uncle Jack had a florist and greenhouse in Pauling, N.Y. Uncle Charlie moved out west, first to Nampa, Idaho and then to Boise to establish his own greenhouse and florist. At least three variations of Cooke’s Greenhouse are still being practiced in Virginia and New York. Out in Arizona Uncle Jack’s children are also still active in the business.

For the majority of the first nine years of my life, I lived next to the greenhouses and florist shop that consisted of the place my grandfather and then Uncle Marshall and finally Uncle Allie practiced their trade. It was a special place to grow up. I can remember playing baseball with an odd twist in the backyard of our house. If anyone hit a ‘home run’ over the 8 foot high hedge, it was an automatic out, because over the hedge were the glass panes of Uncle Marshall’s greenhouse. It wasn’t so bad if Granddad was there potting up the plants for he’d return the baseball without question, but if Uncle Marshall was around, then we’d run first to the money jar to reimburse him for the expense of the broken glass. We three boys learned to become singles hitters rather than go for the fences.

Now, the old house has been demolished; an office building sits on the site. The greenhouses have been sold for development but the joy of laughter, the smell of the crushed flower stems, the music coming out of the beat up old radio, the sudden chill of walking into the flower cooler on a hot summer day, all these things still fill my senses and my memory. Allie was a jovial man, a round man who enjoyed his family and his work. It showed. He was the youngest of the family and my mother’s favorite. I never thought of him as astute a businessman as his other brothers, perhaps even not as quick witted and intelligent, but he was surely the kindest.

One remembrance, which I record to remind myself in the future as much as to inform the reader, is this. I was perhaps five or six years old. It was a rainy early fall evening. I have no idea where Allie’s family was, but it was just he and I. He was always active in the Fairview Volunteer Fire Department and this evening the semi-annual fireman’s carnival was underway. He took me up the road to the carnival site, but because of the rain and chill of the night, we had the fair almost all to ourselves. I can’t recall ever having been before, so the activities of the carnies and the rides and the smell of cotton candy were frightening to me. Luckily I had my Uncle who knew everyone.

He showed me the shooting gallery and a number of other attractions and offered to pay my coin if I’d like to participate, but I was to shy and to overwhelmed to agree, but finally, he suggested that we put our money down on a spot for the wheel of fortune. We were the only ones there, my (his really) coin the only spot taken in a long table of numbered squares. The fellow behind the counter spun the big wheel and sure enough, it trickled to a stop on the number where my coin rested. I was asked what I would like from the pile of prizes, and I selected a glass juice pitcher painted with pictures of oranges and eight juice glasses to give to my mother.

But even then, somehow I knew that the game was rigged. Rigged in my favor, or really, in Uncle Allie’s favor. Somehow he had some magic to make that wheel stop at the only square that contained a coin, my square. And for the next fifty years as the juice pitcher and eight glasses gradually diminished to but one glass, every time I had orange juice I would remember that night. For as long as they lasted it was the only juice glass that I would ever take down from mother’s cupboard. The last glass was broken eventually, as all temporary and fragile things are, but Uncle Allie’s magic, which was neither temporary nor fragile, has remained to this day.