Measuring and Recording
I first met Alice in the summer of 2006 after receiving her letter typed on onion skin paper and asking that we come together as “plantswomen”. She was 81.
Alice Morrison was an historian, botanist, gardener, avid ornithologist, genealogist, horticulturist, a woman who spoke her mind and came straight to the point. She was independent, referred to herself as a “flora-phile”, and in 1992 bought a 77 acre farm when she was 67.
Alice placed far greater value on her outside world, perhaps the exception being that in the 1950s and 60s she began collecting old herbals.
When I met Alice, she loved to sit and talk plants and took more than great pleasure in her gardens, which were rich in native pollinators, home to deer and bear, birds of abundance, a racoon and countless other visitors.
Visitors didn’t just remain outdoors. I used to visit Alice and sit either on the porch or at her window-side table, or on the living room floor. Well, at least that was the case until one day while sitting on the sofa with a huge stack of books to read in front of herself, Alice told me about the big black snake that would make its way up from the basement to soak in the softness of her not-too-clean living room carpet.
Alice had many ways that were uniquely her own, not the least of which was how she positioned her old typewriter and her swivel chair when it came to recording historical data, all within easy reach of many a file cabinet and the stacks of historical records that she always kept close to hand. In addition to having authored a history of Cooperstown, PA, Alice continued to work as an adept genealogist, both near and far.
Alice Morrison was also an avid recorder. She recorded not just the daily visits of her avian friends but also the outside temperature, rainfall, and blooming abundance. A Five-Star spiral bound notebook was always within easy reach, as were binoculars and a pen. Her pencraft was purposeful and fluid, whether writing scripted prose or her numerous lists.
We often talked about lists.
Why make them? Who would read them? Were they important? Why measure more than once? Who cared? How did lists benefit us?
Like many fascinated by the minutia of daily living, Alice made lists because they were important to her. They ordered her days. She knew that when cleavers populated the edges of her rock gardens, violets were soon to follow. This happened every year. Perhaps not on the same day, but certainly within the same window. She was able to say if a floral bloom was early or late and knew her land so very intimately that she was able to quickly identify the appearance of a new stand of beebalm or a cluster of ivy tendrils.
Even if no one else stumbled across her college-lined notebooks of lists, Alice referred back to them. There were many. Her record-keeping likely began years before her purchase of the farm, a land that she was proud to share and open up to hunters and gatherers. The path leading up to the springs at the top of the hill would burgeon with St John’s wort in early summer, and the only sounds other than birdsong might be the occasional squeak of the pump that helped propel spring water down the hillside into her amazingly filthy kitchen.
Alice was one with her land, and her record-keeping allowed her to identify and appreciate shifts, those that happened haphazardly and those that were a threat, like rising winter temperatures.
Alice Morrison’s lists were important. An avid purchaser and planter of bulbs and seeds, Alice’s purchase histories informed growth patterns, sourcing of botanicals, frost dates, when rainy seasons began, and the expected appearance of a hairy woodpecker. Year after year.
We often talked about the importance of measuring more than once. Afterall, once might be a fluke.
fluke
/flook/
noun: fluke; plural noun: flukes
an unlikely chance occurrence, especially a surprising piece of luck. "their triumph was no fluke"
For example, how can we talk about averages if we don’t measure more than once? Can I say with any surety that the average moisture content of lemon balm is about 80% or an echinacea root, about 65%? Drying and weighing multiple harvests is informative. If nothing else, if I am harvesting fresh lemon balm and hoping to store 1-2 pounds of this dried herb to get me through the winter, I know that I’ll need to harvest 5-10 pounds of fresh material.
Data informs the process. So might a hunch or intuition.
I don’t know to what extent innate knowing informs my work. Alice and I both agreed that her lists, and my own, failed to capture much about the flora that surrounded her and the qualities of the medicines that I made. Once we sat down to make a list of all that lists failed to capture. What a rabbit hole that was!
Lists inform so many aspects of our lives, from transgressions to gift-giving, from planning a garden to things “too-do”. These lists are records of change, degrees of change, focus, and intent.
Alice also introduced me to amaryllis.
She had cast iron radiators that sat in her genealogy room under several large rectangular south-facing windows. Each winter she’d place last year’s pots of dormant bulbs on a tray, add an ounce or two of water, and within days they would begin to grow. Alice had a multitude of house plants that looked to struggle to garner more care than other realms of the interior. Her amaryllis, in particular her four or five waxed amaryllis, didn’t struggle. Instead, they offered color throughout the shortest days of the year.
And Alice had a fair idea of how long their blooms lasted. That, too, was worth recording.
It is indeed the right time of year to pay tribute to Alice Morrison and for me to dig out my amaryllis bulb from last year. Her enthusiasm for all things that grow was infectious. Her respect for this world, both blasé and humbling at the same time. These were qualities that were unmeasurable, nonetheless worth recording.
