Osage orange has place at the buffet

Osage orange has place at the buffet
                        

One of the more thought-inspiring facts my mother used to share about growing up during the Great Depression was how, during the summer, she and her siblings used to have to spend endless hours watching the family’s small dairy herd graze the back pasture because they couldn’t afford fencing.

My own siblings and I — a formidable herd in and of itself — can probably thank those early experiences for Mom’s astoundingly abundant patience as the eight of us bumbled our way toward adulthood.

I think of Mom’s fenceless pasture often as I walk the grounds of the old family farm — now the campus of Wayne College near Orrville. A gnarled jumble of Osage orange forms a distinctive barrier along the western edge of the property, and the trees seem to be of a proper vintage to have been planted by Grandpa Bishop as a “natural fence line” back in the day.

Much like the multiflora rose that was touted as a natural fence, hedge and wind break for much of the 20th century, purposeful cultivation of the Osage orange was largely responsible for the scattering of the shrubby tree far beyond its ancestral range in an area that is now Eastern Texas.

The Osage orange’s diaspora began even before the arrival of European settlers, due to the value of the tree’s wood in making weapons. North America’s indigenous tribes found the strong, flexible, fatigue-resistant wood superior to all others for crafting their hunting bows — a claim that holds true still today in the eyes of many longbow purists.

When in season, the grapefruit-sized fruit of the Osage orange, also known colloquially as hedge apple, monkey ball, mock orange or even monkey brain, is a tough, dense, pale-yellow sphere that seems to defy even the thought of becoming food. For humans and most animals, a thick, white latex that oozes from the slightest nick is enough to ward off would-be eaters.

As fall turns to winter and other food sources become more scarce, the orbs littering the forest floor become more attractive, not only because of their abundance, but also because the freeze/thaw cycle had taken some of the stickiness out of the latex and softened the flesh just enough to allow the stomp of a white-tailed deer hoof or the gnash of squirrel incisors to get to the seed-spiked energy center on the inside. Though not a high-value food source, its food nevertheless.

On a recent outing, I found the understory littered with yellow piles — the exploded remains of Osage oranges. The outside of any “oranges” that were still intact had taken on a dull brown color, the effect of several weeks of below-freezing temperatures. Of the piles, closer examination revealed small seeds “shelled” by rodent teeth, squirrel and smaller and numerous tracks about the area including deer, opossum, skunk and raccoon. It seemed as if plenty of critters were up for at least a try.

Next time you happen upon an Osage orange, take a look around and wonder how that tree got there. You might envision an old farmstead where barbed wire was a luxury beyond reach.

If you have comments on this column or questions about the natural world, write The Rail Trail Naturalist, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email jlorson@alonovus.com. You also can follow along on Instagram @railtrailnaturalist.


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