Autumn olives, Elaeagnus umbellate, have put out fruit that reminds me of the mayhaws of East Texas. The fruit is smaller than a mayhaw. In a game of marbles, autumn olives would be ducks, and mayhaws would be taws or shooters. But the colors are similar. The autumn olives are turning from yellow to red. I’ve been told they’re tart but make good jelly.
Mayhaws are in genus Crataegus, and three species are common in East Texas. I gathered them and made jelly as a young man. I’d make a pan of biscuits for supper. The mayhaw harvest and jelly-making was an occasion.
Autumn olives, like mayhaws, are a big shrub or small tree.
The woods around Alexander Lake at Panola Mountain are full of autumn olives, which are originally from Asia. Some people call them Japanese silverberries.
Americans begin bringing them here in 1830. Autumn olives can fix nitrogen in the soil. They can grow in poor soil and improve the soil’s quality for other plants. Pollinators love the flowers. Birds, insects and jelly makers are among those who love the fruit.
In the 1950s, the U.S. government planted Elaeagnus umbellate to control erosion, build windbreaks, rebuild exhausted soils and provide habitat for wildlife. Government agencies developed cultivars.
In some places, garden centers sell autumn olives, and you can find online discussions about which varieties are the fastest growers.
But our sense of what’s good and bad ecologically has changed. All those benefits don’t outweigh the fact that the autumn olive competes against native species.
Councils that monitor invasive plants in some states list it as a severe threat. It’s on a Top 10 list of invasive plants in Georgia.
My heart is with the native plant advocates. But my head tells me that this plant is now part of the Piedmont. Trying to get it out of the woods would be like trying to get the invasive Norman influence out of English.
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