At Last, Eggs

Right on schedule, six months after I got the day-old chicks, I have fresh eggs. I don't know why it should have been such a surprise; it is a miracle nonetheless. They are small at first, as the hens' egg-laying interior production line gets up and running.

They have beautiful orange yolks. Best of all, no more of the store eggs with what my daughter Lissa calls "egg-like" flavor. Yummy.

Turn Off the Wind Machine

It dawned on me that the compost cage was too open to the prevailing winds. I found some old lath in one of the outbuildings and wired it up to the curved part of the cage. There wasn't enough to go around. Foregoing cute for cheap, I wired an old tarp to the fence.

This should help until I can cut some other boards, abundant here, to use on the front of the cage. It's not pretty but it will work to keep the breeze from drying the compost. Let the wind go around and work on the firewood and leave my garbage to rot properly.

The beauty of living out in the country is there are no neighbors to complain that things are unsightly or not to local regulations. I couldn't live like that. Here, I can be as tacky as I want. Someone else's eyesore is my whimsical.

Big Wet Blankets

That one day of gardening activity has been replaced by more wood-cutting.

Here's the trouble. It appears to be a promising stack of  seasoned firewood. Granted, these chunks are a tad big for my small wood stove. The problem is that after a month of being covered with a tarp at night, uncovered on windy and/or sunny days, in its heart it is extremely damp.

This wood would burn, if placed on a bed of red hot coals, or perhaps molten lava. Consequently, I have been cutting more wood to get this stuff to do more than char.

At Christmas, when my family was due to visit, I had no stuff that would burn. The weather was mild, but a fire would have made it much more like Christmas at Grammie's. When my daughter Izzy learned that, she brought back some wood I had cut for them a couple of years ago. A tree had fallen in their yard and I cut it up and left the wood for their fireplace, rarely used.

Nothing for me to do about the damp sour-smelling wood except split it into small pieces and stack it to catch the drying breeze. I do have an electric log splitter, but it is a chore to haul the big chunks to the workshop in the wagon, split the wood, put it back in the wagon and haul it around the house to the front porch.

This splitter, being electric, is a pleasant change from the many two-stroke tools that refuse to start after a while. The controls for the splitter require it to be engaged while squatting behind it. After doing that for a few years, I found the upended log I used for a seat was woefully inadequate for anyone having a bottom over six inches wide. Certainly not me. With some of my Christmas money from Chris, I got this nifty seat.

Not to be a whiner, but it is not the work of an instant to cut wood here. Yesterday, I pruned down the wild rose canes on the steep path through the woods that I've kept open to access the far areas of my ten acres. I had a big nasty surprise when I found that my path along the neighboring cow fence had gotten overgrown with really big strapping rose canes. The two cedars that I always drove between had joined limbs and refused me passage. Making a new route, I cut the canes with the pruner and then used it to pull them free of the path. Some had grown up into nearby trees. We are not talking about cute little Knockout roses here.

The hills here make it only possible to get to the hickory hill crest by  going up to the third field and then down to the hickories, where there is enough room to be able to turn the mower and cart around. Some little trees had sprung up on the way. They had to be cut down. I had to remember where the big grass-covered anthill is that can hang up the mower deck. It's all great fun.

Having reached the turning point (and the breaking point) after a couple of hours, I drove Rosie back without cutting any wood.

Now I have cut 25 loads. This half load is hickory. I don't count kindling, which is another  matter.

When  I  went for these fallen hickory limbs, I found more rose bushes had gotten huge under the trees and must be dealt with. This time, I attacked the thorny brutes with the chain saw, which was both efficient and satisfying. Those bullies snatched my hat several times, but in this day and age, we women are not to be messed with.

A Compost Post

Looking at the seed catalogs at this time of year, I'm tempted to send for a compost bin. Something plastic, guaranteed to keep things tidy and produce tons of lovely compost. Then I bring myself up with a start. My garden is simply not on that cute scale at all.

Why the manufactured compost container solution is so appealing is because nothing has broken down in my compost cage for months. It looks like garbage, because it is. Everything I could cover it with, like leaves, was frozen. For a few days now, it's stayed above freezing. Better yet, it was fifty degrees yesterday.

In addition to the cage, I have a Big Weeds Dump, where I throw spent tomato vines and their ilk over the back fence of the garden onto the steep hill. Those gnarly things will break down over a period of two years.

When I was exiled to the suburbs years ago, I bought a compost tumbler from a neighbor for twenty-five dollars. The guy who did the lawn maintenance for the nearby apartments told me he'd sold it to him. So it was not highly recommended. I did manage to produce some compost if I was careful with what went into it.

When I moved here,the composter had started to rust in the drum and the supports. I was not tempted to buy another one, especially for five hundred dollars. Having plenty of  old hog fencing, and no old hogs,  I bent a length of it in a semicircle and attached it to the garden fence posts. That is my cage. It was time to move it along the fence to the next spot. Thick fescue loved that cage and wouldn't let it go. I got out the shears and convinced that grass otherwise.

The top layer of the pile was full of garbage, but a ways down was compost. This stuff was along the edge of the pile.

This is one of my favorite tools, the big hoe head. I found it at my old farm when I moved there in 1977. In constant use in the gardening season, it has served me well, surviving a big flood and occasional neglect. But I digress.

First, I dumped a tub of leaves in the "new" cage, on top of the thick grasses in residence. Then I raked off the stuff from the pile that could be recognized as garbage. All went into the cage, along with several tubs of chicken bedding I had spread on the garden in the fall.

After a rather dry winter, the straw had not broken down much. The Bradford Pear at the end of the garden contributed leaves to the wonderful potential compost.

The beauty of my system is once I use the compost, the indomitable fescue has been smothered to death, leaving a new bed for planting flowers. To the right of the  pile are two former compost cage spots, now growing peonies, rudbeckia, irises and coreopsis.

Words cannot express how happy I was to actually do some gardening. Instead of dreaming about better soil, I mixed up some ingredients for a batch..

Geese flying high overhead showed me that even though it is still January, spring is on the way. I didn't quite understand why they were headed west.

Possums as Astronomy Buddies

Perhaps it's been a mistake, but I've been leaving snacks out for the two possums.

Whenever I feed Beau leftovers, he manages to barf them up, so the possums are getting them now, along with any cat food Oreo and Iris leave.

Why this may be a mistake is they are rather noisy on the back deck. They knock the bowls about and I have seen the big guy nipping the little one to protect his bowl. They make a noise like a little bark. All that causes Beau to bark quite loudly and spring into action, which startles me and the cats. The other night, I was stretched out on the couch in front of the wood stove, reading a book. Iris was on my lap. She bolted, getting purchase with her claws on my leg.

Last night, I was stargazing on the deck.  I went out early, all bundled up, to find some open clusters in the constellation Auriga seen in my star atlas. Auriga is quite far north and so is rather high as the night progresses. The little possum stayed in the corner, despite me moving the chair and tripod and gasping in delight at the myriad stars in Auriga. To the naked eye, or one wearing glasses, those stars are invisible.

I only wish I could have held the possum up to the eyepiece so it could have a look.

Today is the Winter Solstice

Only another gardener would understand why the Winter Solstice is important. No, we aren't doing any pagan rituals. It's the turning point toward Life and Living. That means a lot to a gardener.

After the Summer Solstice, we gardeners lose interest in gardening. Things don't want to grow well and  the soil is usually too dry. A Fall garden is usually a big waste of time and energy, with days still hot for the recommended cool crops. Plants sense the shift toward Death and Dying. It's Nature's way.

Now, the seed catalogs have started arriving. As usual, I don't look at them until Christmas Day. They are in a secure location, hidden from the Grinch. More should be arriving shortly.

Seed catalogs are some of my favorite presents.  I dream of them while cutting firewood. Incidentally, I cut, hauled and split 14 carts full, but a sudden really cold snap of minus 15 degrees both used up the wood and kept me from getting more. The ground is still covered with ice and snow, making my hills more than imposing.

Fortunately, a young cattle farmer nearby has come to my rescue. He's bringing a big truck load of wood tomorrow. For my money (literally) burning wood is cozier than burning propane.

Not looking at the catalogs or getting the seeds stash out does not preclude me from thinking about my veggie garden and flowers I might start indoors. These ideas are germinating in the warmth of the wood stove.

Happy Winter Solstice to all gardeners everywhere! May our numbers increase.

Chain Saw Grandma Returns

I'm concerned that the dog and cats are chilly with the furnace set to sixty degrees at night. Even though it's hard to get out of my cozy flannel sheets, their comfort is such a high priority that I am motivated to get up and get the fire going.

At last, the days are getting cool enough to cut firewood. The road dust is still a problem, but the time has come to run the chain saw.

Today, I cut up the sycamore limb that fell near the pond in the summer. I'm rather fond of sycamore for the sound it makes when knocked together, which is rather like bowling pins. It's quite heavy. I understand it won't split for anything, but I only cut the limbs. They are just my size. I'm not sure where sycamore stands on the BTU's scale, but maybe not knowing is better. Also, it doesn't seem to deteriorate. Best of all, it's very pretty, camouflaged in a distinctive way.

I cut these kindling pieces with the pruner. They are almost too gorgeous to burn. Last fall,  I wimped out and bought fire wood, on account of having that awful lingering cough. I was pretty much wiped out by it.

Now, I'm eager to start cutting wood. Because it's hard work, one load a day seems like plenty. One winter I kept a tally and cut 40 of these carts full.

I could buy wood again, but where's the fun in that?

A National Tragedy

To my readers around the world, I'd just like to apologize for the election outcome. How people could call themselves Conservative and yet vote for such a horrible creep is beyond me. Those of us who voted against Trump are huddled in shock, clinging to the hope that justice in his upcoming lawsuit will remove him from office. Having a loose cannon on deck does not make us feel secure.

Please don't think we are all idiots. He did not win the popular vote.

Tucked in for the Winter

That little bed has been planted. Several dozen daffodil bulbs are tucked in around the three transplanted daylilies and five butterfly weed bushes. To a non-gardener, this must look like some dirt and some plants sticking out of it. However,  I can see the daffodils in full bloom, nodding in the spring rain or even braving the last few snowflakes. It always snows on the daffodils. In my mind's eye, I can see the later flush of bloom from the daylilies and then the gorgeous butterfly weeds in yellow, orange and red, echoed by the marigolds that I'll plant along the edge.

My new auger made short work of planting the bulbs. Much better than the way I once did it. That required loosening the soil, running Tillie, scooping off the soil, placing the bulbs and then dumping the soil back on top. That was such fun that I only did it once, for a very limited amount of bulbs, like a dozen.

Had a little time out from gardening to have pneumonia. I blame the road dust for starting that.

Still awaiting more much-needed rain, but at least the cistern has rainwater and the pump delivers it.

Thinning the new spinach was lots of fun and I got plenty of thinnings to eat now. It's great to have anything growing in the garden after two light frosts. The El Dorado chard were eaten by bugs all summer, but have finally put on some growth. These darling volunteer lettuces may make it, and the garlic will overwinter for next year. The marigolds are still blooming, but another frost is forecast tonight. It's November, for Pete's sake, and they cannot go on forever.

Because the warm dry weather continued, I got a paint project going. Not perfect, but better. The old paint on the structure above the fruit cellar steps has been peeling for years. I decided I can't possibly look at it for another winter. It's the view from one of the windows. The paint was brown, one of my least favorite colors. I went with a pale green, the same color as my living room. The roof needs replacing, but this was what I could do. I scraped loose paint, nailed quantities of loose lap siding, added gobs of caulk, and ripped off the curling top boards.

The second coat was awaiting a bit of rain to dampen the horrific road dust, so I could breathe. I got a break when the wind shifted away from the road. Slapped on the second coat. It's as pretty as new paint.

A Feather Bed

Despite having a three-tiered roost and plenty of fresh straw for bedding down, the little crazies found a place they like more.

This won't work when they get much bigger. The nights are only in the sixties, so they must just want to cuddle with their friends. It doesn't appear that we have a rooster, so this must be a hen party that goes on into the night.