![]() ![]() ![]() The three seemed at death’s door, so we called in a tree surgeon who cut here and there, opening up the trees and shaping the crowns, giving them a form that any mature apple tree would be proud of. Twenty-five percent of the limbs on Sarah’s twitch tree were dead, and others had sucker sprouts growing so densely from branches that there was no room for apples. With the help of a chainsaw and youthful muscles, we released them from the confinement of the woods, but they were in bad shape. When I moved into the farmhouse in 1972, these three gals were overtaken by forest and struggling to live. But given their ability to bear fruit, they’re female to me. I’m no botanist, and don’t know (or care) whether my trees are technically male or female. Pleased with the tree, Sarah planted one companion on each side to provide more apples for her famous pies. It stuck in the ground, sprouted roots, and eventually produced apples. Upon arriving home, in a fit of frustration, Sarah threw down her driving whip, a twitch from an apple tree. The legend goes that one birthing went badly, and the baby and mother died. Sarah was a midwife, helping babies into the world in Loudon and Canterbury, making house calls in her cart, pulled by her stylish Morgan horse. Flanked by two other apple trees almost as old, she was planted in the 1920s by Sarah Whitehouse, a previous owner of Miles Smith Farm. She started life as a fragile sapling and grew into the big apple tree that stands in our backyard. Someone has lived on my farm for about a century. ![]() ![]() This column is an excerpt from the author’s book, “Yes, I Name Them,” available in September 2023. ![]()
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