Loading...
June 09, 2005 - Scenes from a sprout houseI OA • The Suffolk Times • June 9, 2005 Scenes from a sprout house LAST weex I SPOKE ABOUT the almost impossible odds many of our migrating birds, some of which pass through our area, face on their hazardous journey north. It's hard for most to realize that a journey each spring and fall would carry with it such a heavy toll of death and destruction. Like with so many things in life, we halfheartedly try to convince ourselves of that but end up thinking that these events occur somewhere else and not here, and that takes care of looking any further and sets �� one's mind at ease. Well, let me Foe US tell you, the hazards of migra- tion are real and are happening, ON as the old saying goes, "right in our own back yards" NATURE Proof of such hazards hap- pening came to me the other by Paul day when a neighbor brought StOWenburgh me a small, plastic box with two small, colorful, dead birds in it. They had dashed themselves to death against the reflections of their world in a sliding glass door. These two warblers will sing no more, their hopes of find- ing a mate lost against a windowpane. This was what I was talking about. Hazards to birds are increasing each year as more and more of man's buildings, tow- ers and lights pop up throughout the land. The sad part of it is there is little we can do about it. We've all been caught up in our own httle world of wonder that has little room for migrating birds. Nevertheless, it does some good to think over these seemingly insignificant events, such as the one that took the life of the two small warblers "right in our own back yard." One was a Canada warbler, a handsome fellow in his black -and -yellow attire. (The last time I saw one of these small, colorful warblers was in a wonderful spot in the middle of the pine barrens called Hunt- ers Garden. It was busy flitting here and there in its rightful habitat, alongside a small, trickling stream.) The one just brought to me had just recently flown up from its winter quarters in Central and South America. It had flown through all the hazards of mi- gration in hopes of finding a suitable nesting spot to the north. It all ended with a mistaken reflection it saw in that glass door — and how many glass doors are there throughout the countryside? The other warbler was the mourning warbler, which also spends its winters in Central or South America. Its habitat is much more general and we find the nest a short distance above the ground or, more likely, on the ground. Like many birds that have courted and set up housekeeping, the male stays around and continually sings his heart out It's all part of this wonderful world of spring. I remember years ago, when I was birding up in Ttm sMe\ iew photos by Paul Stoutenburgh On warm spring days the turtles climb up on the floating logs to warm themselves In the sun after spending the winter hibernating in the mud below. These painted turtles are the most common freshwater turtles on our end of the island. Canada with Dennis Puleston, we came across a very vocal and jittery warbler. Dennis, with his good hear- ing, soon located the bird, and with his special know- how found the bird's nest just by the bird's call. But then, he was a special kind of person. I haven't been up to the hay shack for some time, so let's wander up and reacquaint ourselves with this hideaway of mine. It's sort of a replica of an old sprout house that was on Barbara's grandparents' place up the lane. A sprout house is a building where in the late fall family members and friends would go in the evening to pack Brussels sprouts for market. When the potato reigned king here on the East End, farmers would often raise cauliflower and/or Brussels sprouts as a second crop. It was the time when truckload after truckload of cauliflower would be taken to the Cau- liflower Association in Riverhead to have their load bid on. Often you could see 40 or 50 trucks lined up waiting for their cauliflower to be auctioned oft The people bidding were buyers for big and small retailers.The buyers knew the farmer and his product and would bid on the entire truckload of produce. It was a colorful time — the auctioneer yodeling his bids to the buyers out in front, then in their own spe- cial way they would acknowledge by a tilt of the head or a raised finger or make some other acknowledge- ment meaning a willingness to pay the going bid. On the other hand, sprouts were put up in wooden quart boxes held together with metal, then in crates, and then shipped to the city. First the sprouts were "pulled" out of the field during the day. In the evening family and friends would gather in the heated sprout house, where the sprouts would be dumped in front of the pack- ers, who would then fill the wooden be quart boxes with probably leafier sprouts on the bottom of the box and the firmer ones would be made to fit 'Just right" on the top. These boxes were put into the crates, which were then the next day taken to a shipping place. In talking with Helen from the Krupski farm in Peconic, she told me their family took their crates of sprouts to Machinciick's shipping place on Depot Lane, opposite the church. From there all farmers' sprouts were shipped together to the city and the crates returned to be recycled. When we first built here back in the '50s, the old farm had been sold and the only building left on it was the caved -in sprout house. It had a good shingled roof but all the windows were broken. It looked pretty sad and was ready to be trashed any day. I had been looking for a small shed, so I asked the then - new owner if I could have the building. He said he was glad to have someone take it away so he didn't have to dispose of it. Well, to make a long story short, my two boys and I took every shingle off the roof, took every board and plank off it and then reassembled it in the back pasture where I'm writing from now. I altered the design a bit — one half is a kind of retreat and the other half is where we keep a winter's supply of hay for the animals. With the boys' help, we reassembled that almost -lost sprout house that has served us well all these years I often come up here.'Ibe shack overlooks the old irrigation pond that attracts birds of all sorts I've seen everything from a green heron who indulges in my goldfish to a yellow warbler that builds its nest of dried grass and fine root hairs somewhere in the umderstory that surrounds the pond. We have a pair of mallard ducks that come in to wash away the salt they've acquired from the creek. Years ago I dropped a painted turtle in the pond that I saved from a busy highway. Today there are eight or 10 turtles basking on the shore in the sum. The sprout house looked pretty sad and was ready to trashed any day. 111 q 10 %� i1► 'P 33LL'' 1 This old family sprout house was being recycled at a new location in hopes of preserving some of the past. The Suffolk Times • June 9, 2005 Scenes from a sprout house Times /Review photos by Paul Stoutenburgh On warm spring days the turtles climb up on the floating logs to warm themselves in the sun after spending the winter hibernating in the mud below. These painted turtles are the most common freshwater turtles on our end of the island. LAsr WEEK I SPOKE ABouT the almost impossible odds many of our migrating birds, some of which pass through our area, face on their hazardous journey north. It's hard for most to realize that a journey each spring and fall would carry with it such a heavy toll of death and destruction. Like with so many things in life, we halfheartedly try to convince ourselves of that but end up thinking that these events occur somewhere else and not here, and that takes care of looking any further and sets one's mind at ease. Well, let me Focus tell you, the hazards of migra- tion are real and are happening, N as the old saying goes, "right in our own back yards." NATURE Proof of such hazards hap- pening came to me the other Y day when a neighbor. brought Stoutenburgh me a small, plastic box with two small, colorful, dead birds in it. They had dashed themselves to death against the reflections of their world in a sliding glass door. ' Thes two warblers will sing no more, their hopes of find- ing a3mate lost against a windowpane.This was what I was talking about. Hazards to birds are increasing each year as more and more of man's buildings, tow- ers and lights pop up throughout the land. The sad part of it is there is little we can do about it. We've all been caught up in our own little world of wonder that has little room for migrating birds. Nevertheless, it does some good to think over these seemingly insignificant events, such as the one that took the life of the two small warblers "right in our own back yard" One was a Canada warbler, a handsome fellow in his black- and - yellow attire. (The last time I saw one of these small, colorful warblers was in a wonderful spot in the middle of the pine barrens called Hunt- ers Garden. It was busy flitting here and there in its rightful habitat, alongside a small, trickling stream.) The one just brought to me had just recently flown up from its winter quarters in Central and South America. It had flown through all the hazards of mi- gration in hopes of finding a suitable nesting spot to the north. It all ended with a mistaken reflection it saw in that glass door — and how many glass doors are there throughout the countryside? The other warbler was the mourning warbler, which also spends its winters in Central or South. America. Its habitat is much more general and we find the nest a short distance above the ground or, more likely, on the ground. Like many birds that have courted and set up housekeeping, the male stays around and continually sings his heart out. It's all part of this wonderful world of spring. I remember years ago, when I was birding up in `Canada with Dennis Fuleston, we came across a very vocal and jittery warbler. Dennis, with his good hear- ing, soon located the bird, and with his special know- how found the bird's nest just by the bird's call. But then, he was a special kind of person. I haven't been up to the hay shack for some time, so let's wander up and reacquaint ourselves with this hideaway of mine. It's sort of a replica of an old sprout house that was on Barbara's grandparents' place up the lane. A sprout house is a building where in the late fall family members and friends would go in the evening to pack Brussels sprouts for market. When the potato reigned king here on the East End, farmers would often raise cauliflower and/or Brussels sprouts as a second crop. It was the time when truckload after truckload of cauliflower would be taken to the Cau- liflower Association in Riverhead to have their load bid on. Often you could see 40 or 50 trucks lined up waiting for their cauliflower to be auctioned off The people bidding were buyers for big and small retailers. The buyers knew the farmer and his product and would bid on the entire truckload of produce. [t was a colorful time — the auctioneer yodeling his yids to the buyers out in front, then in their own spe- -ial way they would acknowledge by a tilt of the head :)r a raised finger or make some other acknowledge - nent meanine a willingness to pay the izoing bid. un the otner nano, sprouts were put up in wooden quart boxes held together with metal, then in crates, and then shipped to the city. First the sprouts were "pulled" out of the field during the day. In the evening family and friends would gather in the The sprout house heated sprout house, where the sprouts would be dumped in front of the pack - looked pretty sad ers, who would then fill the wooden and was ready to be quart boxes with probably leafier trashed any day. sprouts on the bottom of the box and the firmer ones would be made to fit "just right" on the top. These boxes were put into the crates, which were then the next day taken to a shipping place. In talking with Helen from the Krupski farm in Peconic, she told me their family took their crates of sprouts to Machinchick's shipping place on Depot Lane, opposite the church. From there all farmers' sprouts were shipped together to the city and the crates returned to be recycled. When we first built here back in the '50s, the old farm had been sold and the only building left on it was the caved -in sprout house. It had a good shingled roof but all the windows were broken. It looked pretty sad and was ready to be trashed any day. I had been looking for a small shed, so I asked the then - new owner if I could have the building. He said he was glad to have someone take it away so he didn't have to dispose of it. Well, to make a long story short, my two boys and I took every shingle off the root took every board and plank off it and then reassembled it in the back pasture where I'm writing from now. I altered the design a bit — one half is a kind of retreat and the other half is where we keep a winter's supply of hay for the animals. With the boys' help, we reassembled that almost -lost sprout house that has served us well all these years. I often come up here. The shack overlooks the old irrigation pond that attracts birds of all sorts. I've seen everything from a green heron who indulges in my goldfish to a yellow warbler that builds its nest of dried grass and fine root hairs somewhere in the understory that surrounds the pond. We have a pair, of mallard ducks that come in to wash away the salt they've acquired from the creek. Years ago I dropped a painted turtle in the pond that I saved from -a busy highway. Today there are eight or 10 turtles basking on the shore ill he,5 n. is old family sprout house was being recycled at a new location in hopes of preserving some of past.