The Outside Critters

Marmalade is the latest cat to show up for food. He's pretty wild, having come around last year but not staying to have a snack then.

The problem of course is the dog. Although Beau lives with two indoor/outdoor/indoor/outdoor cats, he goes sort of berserk when any strange cat shows up. He lunges himself at the sliding glass door to the back deck. I'm trying to train him to accept another feline.

When Marmalade tamed down enough to let me pet him, I let Beau smell my hand to get the drift that I was fraternizing with the enemy outside. Once, I put Beau under restraint in a far room when the cat was eating. Usually, Marmalade comes after dark. One night, he was patiently waiting for grub while the snow gently covered his back. Poor baby!

At this point, I think this cat would come inside. However, there's the matter of  lamp shades. Just last week, I replaced yet another one. A fly was buzzing around the light when Iris sprang for it, bringing the entire floor lamp down. She no doubt was emulating her African relatives.

A chase involving the big dog and a strange cat doesn't bear thinking about. I still recall the fiasco with the bat flying around the bedroom with two cats and the dog in hot pursuit.

There have been other wild cats here. There was Fluffy, the one with matted fur and Midnight, a black one that only came after dark. I prefer to believe that they migrated to other environs, rather than that they met with untimely ends. Chris tells me that my place has not been a haven for cats. Nine cats, even some indoor ones, have died or gone missing in the years since I've been here. Even though the playhouse has a cat door and a pillow on a table by a window, I have never seen one of the "wilds" using it.

The word "feral" is popular now, to describe homeless cats. Somehow it conveys a picture to me of  a bobcat or a cougar. I did see bobcat tracks in the mud down at the river one summer, too cool.

Speaking of wild things, here is one of the resident 'possums. He was hiding from me in the chicken coop. Adorable though they are, they do like eggs, so I shooed this guy out before shutting up the flock for the night.

When I lived at the farm, I found a possum in one of the nest boxes, waiting for a hen to lay an egg in her opened mouth. I know it was a female, because I could see tiny pink babies in her pouch. That was a great treat for me.

Beau cannot resist possums. He acts like they are his favorite stuffed toy. He carries them around for a while and then, finding them strangely unresponsive, he lays them down. He must have a gentle mouth, though, because no matter how many times he gets one, it is able to recover shortly and waddle down to its home under the playhouse.

I sometimes toss over-ripe bananas or apples under the playhouse, just to help the possums get through the bug-less winter.The bigger one, possibly the mama to this one, is a beautiful silver. I don't name them, preferring to call them all "Sweetheart."

The River in Winter

The Grand River is quite entertaining. This year, the banks changed from lots of sapling trees to lots of sand, due to the high water all summer.

Since I was down there the other day, the river apparently came up, froze along the edges and then went back down. It left these big slabs of broken ice. Okay, I admit it was too cold for me to check on it, being minus three degrees. The wind chill was minus fifteen, making me not really care what the river was doing.

This spot is the beaver slide, much steeper than it looks. Beau is not venturing down it. All that water left ripple marks everywhere, very pretty in a tropical beach sort of way, except for the ice.

This picture was taken on Wednesday. On Thursday, the temperature got up to 55, but another cold spell awaits on the weekend. Such is winter in the Midwest. I am grateful for these little warmish spells, when I am tempted to plant the garden. The only thing that is stopping me is the ground is frozen.

Free Range Flock

It turns out I was needlessly worried that Rupert the Rooster would lead the girls astray. Lissa encouraged me to let them all out, assuring me that they would come in at dusk. They do!

Here, they are racing towards me, expecting bread crusts or some other wonderful treat. It's true, they are spoiled. Their favorite snack is pancakes, which they encourage me to hold while they gulp them down.

Buffy still gives Rupert a wide berth, but the entire flock of four are seen here and there, enjoying their freedom.

Beau doesn't look twice at them, and Sandy has learned they are not to be bothered. Lissa says that a rooster will fight off a critter threatening his girls. Rupert does flap his wings and look menacing.

The ground under the apple tree has been downright cultivated by the chickens. Overwintering insects there will not be resuming their destructive little lives in springtime.

On drizzly days, the chickens' feathers repel the rain, except for the rooster, who looks kind of scrawny about the neck when wet.

On bitterly cold  or snowy days, I keep them inside, but otherwise they are free to roam. I may have to fence off some of the flower beds when the daffodils and Siberian Irises come up, but will leave their dust bath spot.

In exchange for their freedom, the hens are giving me a few eggs weekly, which is pretty good for this time of year.

The added benefit was the hens regained their back feathers, missing all summer. With something else to do besides service them, Rupert turned his attention to scratching up fallen leaves. It's good for a guy to have a hobby, I always say.

Stocking Up on Seeds Time

                                                     My Research Coffee Table

Christmas brought some fabulous gardening gifts. My friend Karen found out somehow that I was gluing my old Annuals book. She surprised me by replacing both it and the Perennials one. Learning from some source that I have trouble keeping track of the days, she also got me this cute cat calendar. From my granddaughter Carolyn, home for Christmas from college in faraway Georgia, I received this Old Farmer's Almanac, without which I cannot live. Notice inside the front cover is a deal from Parks Seeds! Nothing gets done without coffee and fresh half  and half, plus Isabelle's homemade biscotti, to die for. I'm spending my Christmas cash from my son Chris on more daylilies.

Now, down to business. It would seem that after all these years of making garden plans, I'd have an easier time of it. Not true.

              The Frost Date

For starters, there is the frost date. That has to be known in order to plan when to start the indoor seeds, which are all figured  weeks from last frost as the rule. Of course anyone would know when the last frost happens. In Missouri, though, the last frost can be four weeks after the "usual" date.

To make it more challenging, we frequently have temps in the eighties in March. Then it can snow on the daffodils in April. In fact, it almost always does. They don't seem to mind a lot.

My records at this location, where I've lived the last eight years, show frosts usually in April but slightly more in  May, so I have to toss out the generally accepted April date, and wait. The odd thing is that the last frost is only known in  mid-May when it becomes apparent that I could have planted my seedlings four weeks earlier. That's all very well, better late than too early, but what about the broccoli and cabbage, that like cool weather? They have to have enough leaves that frost doesn't bother them unduly, so I am starting them under lights in February.

                                                      What the Seed Catalogs Don't Tell You

The next problem is reticence on the part of the seed companies. Yesterday, I considered ordering some carnation seeds. I checked several reference books about them, finally getting the truth in an old volume. It revealed  that carnations prefer cool damp summers. Why not be up front and mention that at once? I see where the seed companies are motivated by sales, but why should the other references withhold this valuable information?

My problem here in the Midwest is wildly fluctuating temperatures and moisture.  This year,  I think I'll just ignore all plant lifestyle preferences, start all sorts of flowers and see what survives.

                                                       The Co$t
Those of us who do not  have unlimited seed budgets have to shop around for the most seeds per packet and lowest price. Once again, my biggest order went to Pinetree Garden Seeds (superseeds.com).  Then there are the must-have varieties only offered by one company, such as Little Sweetie Peas from Stokes and Long Season Beets and Bravo Cabbages from Harris. I have to have those.

                                                    Other Considerations
For the vegetable garden, there is the fun of checking last season's planting notes and making appropriate crop rotation plans. It's enough to make my head swim. I also like to plant by the light or dark of the moon, but not when starting seeds under lights. Let's not get carried away. For seeds that I've saved, I check my list of vegetable seed viability.

The midwinter high spot for me is the meeting of the family gardeners at Planters in downtown Kansas City.  There, we will get our bulk seeds, spices, special potting mixes, more plant pots and trays. I can barely wait.



Meanwhile, I'll continue to burn my mind to a crisp placing the seed orders.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Only a few more days. I can barely wait. My preparations are complete. When I nestle all snug in my flannel snowman sheets at night, I  have visions not of sugar-plums ( whatever they are) but of  broccoli.

One of my calendars says it is the First Day of Winter. That's wrong. It's my favorite time, the Winter Solstice, after which it is perfectly permissible to think about the coming year's garden plans.

I can't help it, I'm a gardener. That's how we are. There is this pull from the earth as the days finally start to get longer.  Soon it will be slowly moving toward life and living!

Yes, I know  "when the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen."  Let's not dwell on that. This is the time for big plans, made easier because there is no danger of hard work for months. It's armchair gardening at its finest.

Although I am prohibited by a self-imposed rule to refrain from looking at the new seed and plant catalogs until Christmas afternoon, there's no stopping me from making soil amendments.

Already, I have been sprinkling bits of charcoal from the wood stove on the garden and lily bed.  I've added some chicken manure from the top of the nest box to the compost heap.

The soil is just lying there, cold and wet and forlorn. I was not able to work much organic matter into it last summer, with all that rain. However, there's no sense in dwelling on the failures of gardens past.

Now, it's not possible for me to glance at the front border when bringing in wood, without noticing some spots where new plants could go. Also seen are places where nasty invasive grass has taken hold. I mentally destroy it, using tiny land mines. Kablowie!

I had to glue the binding on one of my favorite garden books, Annuals for Every Purpose. It's a great reference book, but doesn't seem to be holding up under normal use. I was checking why my Gazanias are growing so well now, after many hard freezes, when they are supposed to be frost sensitive and prefer heat and dry conditions. I missed the part about digging them up in the fall for house plants. Now, they are in awfully wet soil and I daren't risk it.

A few days ago, we had so much rain that the river got out of its banks again.The Grand at the flood is a mighty river. Perhaps this season I should concentrate on wetlands plantings. Right now, I could just dig a hole anywhere for an instant lily pond.

While not peeking at the catalogs, I've worked puzzles featuring flowers and seed packets, watched Greenfingers again and fall asleep praying for a better year for cabbages.

Of course I'm ready for Christmas. I've baked three kinds of cookies. There will be a turkey dinner. The lights are up. My presents are wrapped. Plans are made for me to see the grandkids and my grown children. No one can tell that my thoughts are sneakily turning to the upcoming gardening year. That's if they don't know me very well.

Gordion Sweet Potatoes

The sweet potato plants were set in rather heavy clay soil. Taking a cue from earthworms, they produced potatoes that got into a tight knot.

                        This one was especially challenging to untangle.

In ground-breaking surgery lasting seven hours, six gardeners successfully separated these conjoined tubers. Now, all are free to make their way to the dinner table, unencumbered by siblings.

The Rest of the Honey

The supers that we extracted weeks ago were filled again by the bees. Some partially capped ones went back for the bees to finish up for their winter stores.

Lissa did all the uncapping with just the scratcher comb, finding it works the best for a few supers. She uses it to lift off the tops of the cells. In a big operation, that would be too time-consuming, but we are, mercifully, a very small operation. I once was urged to have more hives and the whole thing became no fun at all. Now, one hive is plenty to manage and provides more honey than we need.

We got another thirty pounds of  wildflower honey, bringing the total for the season to seventy pounds.

My method of raising bees is to disturb them as little as possible and let them get on with their lives. They know what they are about and do not need pharmaceuticals to do what they have been doing for ages.

They run the hive in very dark conditions, so pulling the frames out and checking their progress is the equivalent of shining bright lights on the poor things. They don't have eyelids to squint.

Some beekeepers evacuate the honey supers by using a fume board that drives them from the frames. I feel that's sort of like using tear gas. Perhaps the bees feel abused and look for a nice hollow tree where they will be able to breathe. Call me radical, but using the one-way bee escape seems much kinder.

Leaving a super of honey on the hive for the winter seems sensible. It appears greedy to take too much and leave them just enough to barely survive. This approach is definitely not mentioned in the beekeeping literature.

If I'm wrong about how to treat the bees, I will try another track, but this seems to work for now. I have plenty, they have plenty. What they do is miraculous, so who am I to try and manage that?

A Trained Chicken

We left off in our tale of two chickens (April) with Buffy the Buff Orpington spending her days on top of the nest box, to avoid the randy rooster. She would only come down for food and water when I was standing guard. Rupert the Rooster was obsessed with her blondness. The other two hens, out of their tiny minds with jealousy, were not kind to her.

The neighbor dog, Sandy, had snatched her tail feathers off when Buffy  got out of the run. Sandy understood that I was not happy with her behavior. Still, I didn't know if she would find the  loose hen too hard to resist.

Well, it just wasn't much of a life, even for a chicken. She no longer laid whole eggs, just the occasional round yolkless one. Deciding that it was the only thing I could do, I shooed her out of the fence to spend her days in freedom. She had her own water and feed and plenty of greens. She could go under the coop to escape Sandy.

Chickens are notorious dumb clucks, but surprisingly, over about a month, she became trained with bread bits to get out the gate first thing and come in the gate at dusk.  She is so dim that now she has forgotten there was a treat involved. Such a bird-brain.

When I come with the afternoon treats (over-ripe tomatoes) she comes running for her share. There is something terribly comical about a hen running; power-walking thighs and drumsticks..

Now, she is adding her egg to the others in the nest box before leaving for the day. She stays near the run and has a nice spot in the shady tall grass behind the coop fence.

Sandy stays well away from the chicken coop now. She is rewarded with rather a lot of dog biscuits for such a small dog.

My experiment with letting the rooster and two other hens out for greens was not so successful. Looking out, I saw he was leading them on what amounted to a cross-country trip for chickens. I had to lure them back at dusk with a trail of bread crumbs.

Meanwhile, Buffy is enjoying her life on the outside.

The River Settles Down

After high water, off and on, mostly on, all summer, the Grand River finally got over itself and dropped to normal levels.

The river bank was steeper, and still muddy when my son Chris and I cautiously made our way down to Fishing Beach. Just a few rocky feet of beach, actually, but enough to use.

Wish I could say I caught this blue catfish all by myself. The truth was Chris first caught the bait at a lake. Then he made the rigs and baited my hook and even cast it out for me. I felt like the girl. Here's another glamour shot of me.

The funny thing about sandy mud is it gets more slippery with each footstep. So getting back up the bank was even more of a challenge. We used the bank sapling trees to brace our feet.

Here, I'm waiting in the trees for Chris to hand me up some of the fishing gear. He brought two of his really fine rods and reels. Once again, I slipped and got a muddy bottom.

When Chris was about six years old, I took him jigging for smelt. We lived in Seattle, and the smelt were running up a river to the north. We left in the chilly dark, a real feat for me. We were on the dock at dawn with our tree branches with line and three treble hooks. We snagged plenty of the small, silvery, very tasty fish.  Chris didn't want to stop. I practically had to pry his little cold hands from the pole and drag him away.

What had happened was he was infected with the fishing bug, smaller than a b.b. After that, we often fished from the Seattle dock, where we mostly caught colds. When I bought the farm here in Missouri, I was glad to have my own river. Each year, Chris's catfish catch got bigger, as did he.

When he was in high school, Chris stayed with his dad and caught some really big fish there in wild Alaskan waters. His biggest catfish here in Missouri was a fourteen pound one. My biggest is in the photo, three or four pounds.

Chris is now a grown man who knows how to fish, despite my totally inept example. He is patient, showing me how to hold the rod and when to reel in. Catfish do not come quietly in to shore. Channel cat actually make a noise. I must say, it was easier to just snag smelt when they swam upriver.

The best part of fishing with my best fishing buddy is that he filets the catch.

After dinner, I buried the fishy remains in the garden, in an unmarked shallow grave that will have the best veggies ever, next spring.

Second Year Honey Harvest

Lots of hot sweaty work, but I brought in the first honey. There were more bees still on the frames, but an offer of help from  my daughter Lissa made me decide to not wait another day for them to make their way through the escape screen. The supers were brought into the laundry room, otherwise known as the main door that everyone comes through. Then came the process of escorting the hitchhikers outside, brushing them off the screen with the bee brush. I kept my bee suit and veil on for the process, being a big sissy about stings. I don't think the bees would have stung me, since we were away from the hive.

The claustrophobic veil and sweat dripping down my glasses sent me in to the kitchen a few times to get out of it and put a cold bandanna on my face.

The following day, Lissa came up to help me with the extracting. She really enjoyed the process, so much so that mostly I watched as she uncapped the frames and spun them around in my fabulous little extractor. The honey then went into the strainer on the bucket. The whole setup was a package from Brushy Mountain Bee Farm, and a huge improvement over how we did it at the farm.

Notice my bare feet, a good way to find the spots of honey on the floor before we tracked it all over the carpets.

Later, I showed her how to fill the jars from the honey gate on the bucket, which was set up on the freezer. There was much more honey in the bucket than I had last year. I guess that resulted in more head pressure. The honey surged out and ran down the outside of the jar and onto the floor, all in a whoosh. We had a good laugh over that. Lost about a quarter of a cup of the precious honey.

Lis made a discovery when she suggested that the two pound honey jar seemed much less than the quart jar. Looking online, I found that the quart of honey weighs 48 ounces, so my honey estimate for last year was more than the 27 pounds I got figuring "a pint's a pound the world around."

Here is the honey. The bees evidently got some of the basswood, although rains during most of  the bloom confined the troops to their quarters. It was mixed with the wildflower honey, quite a delicious blend. Pay no attention to the beekeeper's baggy pants; they are my favorite garment. Breezy, roomy, hideous.

Forty pounds of honey so far! I am taking back the sticky super for them to clean out and the frames that had uncapped honey for them to finish filling. Makes me feel like the Grinch bringing back the presents he swiped.