Winter Solstice Explained

There is a common misconception about the Winter Solstice that I shall attempt to clarify here.

Even the calendars have it wrong. December 22 or even December 21 in some years, are not the start of winter. Those dates are the start of the gardening year. Anyone who is a gardener understands that intuitively.

It isn't even the measly extra minute or two we get daily from the low-hanging Sun that makes the shift a reality. My theory is we get the news from the ground itself, which starts calling us to put down our knitting and pick up those seed catalogs that have been piling up since before Thanksgiving.

Sure, here in Missouri, we've already had three proper snowfalls of at least five inches The ponds are freezing in an unstable way. The edges of the Grand River down from my place have had frozen shallow water at the edges.

More snow, some freezing rain and periodic thaws are definitely ahead until at least late February. That's not the point.

The point is something has happened inwardly. It's the same force that turned us away from gardening in September. Oh, sure, we made yet another feeble attempt at a fall garden. Once again, it was not a fabulous success.

Now, it's back to Life and Living in the gardening world. Every day that the ground isn't frozen hard is a cause for rejoicing and even a little gardening.

Today, it was gray and threatening to rain. Recovering from slipping on my tush in the mud above the river, I could not sit comfortably. It didn't mean I was unable to work in the vegetable garden. Here is the new tier Lissa is building for me.

What better time, with the temperature in the forties, to lay out cardboard for another Perma Bed?

Yesterday, I got out the fence tool and freed the big compost cage I kept filling all last summer. Myriad other gardening fun things await. Only snow can stop these activities from going forward.

My son-in-law Kevin works to build bridges in dreadfully cold weather. Next to him, I look like a retired grandmother, which of course I am.

Planning is what the season calls for.  My son gave me Christmas cash, which makes ordering gardening equipment from the seed catalogs much more of a possibility. Shall I order the pole bean tower or make my own from old garden cart wheels? In addition, I have my sights on a lovely trellis for something to climb up.

Will the Salvia farinaca survive the winter to bloom another season? Will the Nicotiana syvestris reseed? Here are the remnants of last year's beauties, still gorgeous in my mind's eye.

Can I squeeze in another two, possibly six, daylilies? Why did I get a place with so much woods and so little garden space? These questions fill my thoughts.

Here is the patch of fall-planted spinach that so far has overwintered. See? The ground is getting ready to burst forth with life. But first, a brief  message from Winter.

River Access Closed

This is the sight of a disappointed dog. Despite a new bed that I made for him, he is not happy. Beau misses his walks down to the river. I do, too!

Poison ivy choked out the sun and eventually brought down a big willow. It fell across the path that I usually keep open by mowing and pruning encroaching vines. There is no other way down to the water, because an army of big Toxicodendron radicans are stationed everywhere, blocking my way.

Those meanie vines creep and climb over everything. In open ground they are like Cobras, rearing their scary heads to warn me off. I am five feet tall and so are they.

Perhaps I've mentioned, but when I raised dairy goats on my farm, the goats ate the poison ivy. I drank their milk and was totally immune from the remaining ivy. I'd love to have goaties again, but have no proper shelter for them. They are browsers, preferring to eat leaves and brushy stuff. At the farm, I took them on daily walks. They followed me everywhere on my unfenced land  and grazed on red clover, also a favorite, that we planted in the big field.

People who think goats will be a lawn mower substitute are sadly misinformed; grass is their least favorite food. In fact, goats are persnickety eaters, refusing to eat anything soiled. Hence a small exercise pasture is never going to be cropped by them. They love bags of dried leaves in winter.

Without goats, the path remains closed until frost stops the nasty ivy from having leaves. The vines and roots are still plenty toxic to touch, but maybe I'll think of a way to move the tree.

Another land-grabber is the wild honeysuckle. They also offer fruits to the birds, which spread them far and wide. If it has to be a war, I'm on the side of the honeysuckles, because they at least can be dealt with with big pruners. If left too long, a chain saw can bring them down. Some honeysuckles are creepers;these are upright bushes. My back hillside is covered with both invaders.

The wild roses are hard to deal with, on account of their many thorns and habit of keeping their thorny branches discreetly covering their ankles. Pruning them only encourages more growth the following year. That's also true of the honeysuckle. Sigh.

At this time of year, I try and stay away from pin oaks, on account of the oak mites. They are microscopic and float on the wind. Their bites are painful and super itchy. I've already had a few and the only thing that seems to give some relief is heat from a hair dryer.

It's great to have land in the country by a river, if only all the wild warring undergrowth would let me pass. One would suspect that they are joining forces to prohibit the spread of Mankind. I feel like an endangered species.

Not From Around Here

The car with out of state plates was driving by slowly. That caught my attention, because all the regular farm traffic is just shy of the speed of light.

I was in the yard, so walked over to see if they were lost. Two young women said they were looking for an address on my road. I explained to them that my mailbox numbers were out of sequence, a common problem in these parts. The next address was on up the hill a mile or two.

Just then, the gold hen walked out from around my parked car.

"Oh, look, a chicken!" exclaimed the driver. I guess it was quite unusual for her to see a chicken not in a fenced enclosure, or maybe just a chicken with feathers, not dressed for market.

All that left me with the feeling that she probably equated me and my bare feet and the loose poultry with hillbillies from the Ozarks. I live in northern Missouri, miles and decades from those legendary folks.

It might have been even more fun if they'd seen me sitting on the porch steps, feeding the girls their afternoon bread.

Better yet would have been if I'd called them and they came running.

Square Foot Gardening on Ten Acres

Surely I have addressed this topic before. Most of my land is woods. Even so, I have always planted more than I can care for. Call it a bad habit brought on by the flowerless winter months, when I forget how many perennials I already have.

What Izzy calls the Bump Out planting is now in bloom. That's where I moved the fence so I could plant in the better soil on the hillside adjoining the garden.

The extra-rainy spring has been cruel on the veggies, which are now in the pathetic category. Perhaps they don't like four inches of water at a time, such as we got a week ago. They are so picky.

Pulling and shearing grasses and weeds has become an endless enterprise. Picking a square foot to start on is the trick.

One thing that has always helped me organize a totally out of control situation is the Old Farmers Almanac. The one page that is vitally important to me is the one that tells the Moon's Astrological Place for every day. The sign changes every two or three days. Some signs are good for weeding, some for planting and a few are not mentioned. Those days are hammock days, I suspect.

The key to the moon signs is found on the opposite page of the Almanac.

 I have noticed that it is easier to weed on the days specified for that chore. Weeding must be done on other days, but the weeds are not in a mood to come out and break off, leaving the roots to deal with another time.

Why the guide is important is it gives me some place to start. Sitting in the air conditioning, it is too easy to become overwhelmed by what's out there awaiting my attention in what is now a sauna. Nothing will do but to get out the door and pick an easy task. My favorite is dead-heading the beautiful daylilies.

The daylilies, which I brag about shamelessly every year in this blog, are beautiful even with a few grasses sticking out. They apparently love rain, the more the better. They get huge, like these Dominic early ones. Look at how many flowers are in the making!

These are Wayside Painted Ladies, always gorgeous and huge.

These are either Rose or Rose Crush, both in the hillside garden. The three daylilies there are huge, as seen in the first photo, nearly obscured by tall grasses along the fence.

All the my named daylilies are from Roots and Rhizomes. I am tempted to have them remove my name from their catalog mailing list because I cannot seem to stop ordering more and I'm out of spots for them.

It's a Jungle Out Here

Mother Nature has been over-watering most of the month. Some things like it, like trees, weeds and frogs.

Even some trees have had enough, though.  These are the tops of  tall trees that used to be on the far side of the Grand River. Now they are in the river.

It all happened in a few days. On Tuesday, there were heavy rains to the north. The ground was already saturated. On Wednesday, the river was across the road and into the bottom land fields. The water crossed those fields upriver and then rejoined it by the bridge. It appears to be a large lake with a boat launch ramp.

This bridge is normally is high above the river. On my side, the elevation is greater, but it is over my paths. I assume so, because I can't get down there. My hopes are high that the poison ivy has been killed by the scouring waters.

It's been too wet to mow or pull weeds. The ground was squishy underfoot and mud splattered up from the grass. The veggies I planted are sickly. The irises seemed to like it and produced lots of blooms. The peonies did well until that day of recurring torrential rains.

I'm happy to report the river crested last night, but I don't think the road will be seen anytime soon. Imagine a gravel road at the bottom of a deep muddy river. The prognosis is not good.

In desperation, I have taken up growing flowers in containers. Lis helped me get this all together.  Izzy and Carolyn brought me plants for my birthday. I made a trip to the greenhouse for more, with my birthday money from Chris. My family  knows what I love. The plants all huddled together on the dining room table during the thunderstorms.

I also got a razor sharp hoe that I am itching to use, as soon as the ground dries out a bit. I am hopeful because it's been three days without a thunderstorm.

King Cole

A word about cabbages. That means I'm going to go on and on about them.

I feel the public is uninformed when it comes to cabbages. I say that because of some strange encounters I have had.

Once, I ordered Cole slaw at a restaurant and it was made of lettuce. I asked the young waitress if there had been some mistake. She said not. Apparently Cole means nothing to people. Cole crops are cabbages, not lettuces. Thinking that  I could have been mistaken all these years, I checked it out. Cole are one of several Brassicas; broccoli is a cousin.

When I ran out of my homegrown cabbages, I bought another one at the little grocery store that usually has quite nice produce. The young girl at the checkout looked puzzled. "Do you like them?" she asked. I wanted to say, "No, I use them as doorstops, but they do roll a bit."

She looked even more blank when I said they were good as coleslaw and also cooked with various sausages.

I believe people are failing their children in the foods department. When I asked a check-out girl where the barley was, she asked me if it was a spice.

Having gotten those episodes off my chest, I shall go on about cabbage. Not only do I love them, but I love growing them.

Recently, I complained to Lissa that all I could find at the supermarket were rather small cabbages. I wondered if there had been some sort of untoward weather event that was responsible. Lis laughed and said that's because I grow cabbages on steroids.

The fun for me is to grow several varieties of cabbage, so I can have them all season long. The last ones to ripen are the Bravos, which are the biggest. I'm down to my last two quarts of sauerkraut, hence the big planting of Bravos.

There is something that appeals greatly to a frugal soul like me when starting cabbages.  A package of cabbage seeds lasts years. Say a person plants two seeds to a pot and cruelly pulls out one seedling. Even so, a package holds 100 seeds at a cost of $1.75 at Pinetree Seeds. The initial investment of some shop lights over the seeds pays for itself over years, and the size bag of potting soil I buy lasts nearly forever.The inexpensive pots are reusable.  Cabbages are as close to free as possible.

Here they are after more rain than they really wanted. One is a broccoli that got in while I wasn't looking.

My new Perma Bed took a few more. This one is an Early Round Dutch, which may be ready by dinnertime.

This year I'm growing: Bravos and Early Round Dutch . The latter  are tasty but relatively  useless as door stops.

Signs of Spring

The main sign of spring is me moving the compost cage to a new location. I'm sure passers-by mark the day as the official start of the season.

Even before I  heard the peepers on the pond or spotted the Tiny Blue Flowers, I was pounding in fence posts for the new cage. This one is a biggie. First, I added quantities of spent leaves and stalks from the 14 cow fence daylilies. Naturally, I'd already tossed them over the garden fence in another spot, necessitating carrying armloads around the hillside.

Next, I shoveled the winter's worth of kitchen scraps and chicken manure from the cylinder. Bailing the pond liner was next. Many night crawlers lost their lives in the murky depths, and it smelled like it.

Back at last year's cage, I raked off the parts that didn't break down and added them to the new pile. It reminded me of Baked Alaska, not that I've ever had any. Anyway, the goodie was on the inside. The boards remain to be added to the new cage, or possibly I'll just use old tarps to stop the breezes from drying everything out.

A wet spring was made that possibility seem remote. When I pulled up fence posts, there were slurping noises. When the pond liner remained empty, it floated on the ground water. The next night, three inches of rain put it back in its place.

Nights are still cold but the Sun is seen  after behaving more like the Moon, with prolonged unexcused absences. I believe that while it is away, there is a 25-Watt Faux Sun that appears behind the clouds and provides less light and no warmth.

A Wintry Winter

These Mourning Doves huddling in the snow-covered feeder say it all.

It just keeps snowing, blowing and sleeting, interspersed with freezing rain. There was that one sunny half day of fifty degrees, but that turned out to be a cruel joke. By nightfall, it was below freezing again and the winter storm advisories quickly resumed.

Needless to say, we are all sick of it. Sick, sick, sick, do you hear? We can be of sanguine disposition up until mid-February, then we turn surly.

I only fell on the ice twice that afternoon that I forgot there was slick stuff under the fresh snow.

There was so much snow that on that warmish day the road became a hog "waller." Mud flung up onto the windshield and side windows. I now have Mud-a-Thon training.

My little Kodak camera died, hence no posts since November. My sister Jeni kindly sent me a nice Olympus camera but being electronics challenged, it took a while for my daughter Lissa to come up and get it to talk with my computer. Did I mention the roads were bad?

Enough griping, Joey. By the way, when Jeni was little, she called me Joey and it remains how I refer to myself.

The Cardinals are certainly cheery and seemingly increasing in numbers by the day. I had no idea they bred so fast.

My seed order has arrived from Pinetree. Time for me to move all the plastic boxes of yarns from the shelves with the lights. I recently resolved to stop buying more yarns and knit or crochet my stash. Instead,  I intend to save up for a greenhouse this summer. I believe yarn companies will suffer a severe loss.

Before the Invisible Giant Hand that controls the thermostat will move, someone has to say, "Even 105 degrees with a dusty wind would be better than all this cold." I refuse to be the one.