Enough Room

I'm trying to change my planting habits. My worst problem, from when I had my first vegetable garden when I was fifteen, is giving plants enough room. This time I used large-square graph paper to plan the garden, which showed me that there really wasn't going to be room for unlimited veggies.

The yardstick allowed me to place these seed potatoes exactly 18 inches apart, and the onion sets have adequate space.  I've even left enough room to be able to till alongside the rows and mound up the dirt after the potatoes start growing. It's amazing, and so unlike me.

The next thing I'm working on is not planting too much of everything. A small garden helps in that regard. When I was living by myself at the farm, a friend suggested I no longer needed to plant the entire 90x90 foot garden. I thought that was heresy.

About a month ago, I planted little blocks of 2x2 feet along the soffit edge of the garden. See the white markers above. Those little wide row plots were for things that can't be put up for future use, like lettuces, radishes and chard.

Snow peas are wonderful fresh but always a bit limp when frozen. Hence, they got a small double row of 4 feet. I used the seeder, which sowed them a bit thickly; I'll thin them later. The pic looks rather dull, but the green shoots seem quite exciting after staring at the spot for a month, waiting for them.

Those early garden goodies have been very slow to come up, due to the area only having ONE inch of precipitation since Jan. 1. It was all to the good, though, when the temp got down to 9 degrees the other night.  Today, I broke down and watered them from the cistern.

Surprisingly, I found that two Red Norland seed potatoes gave me enough starts for there to be plenty for fresh eating all summer. Actually, one big potato would have done it.

Now that the grandkids are no longer coming to Grammie's for strawberry picking, I merely dug up 6 plants from the old weedy patch and gave them their own cute little bed. Molly, the youngest child, now grows her own strawberries. My freezer still has quantities of sliced strawberries and freezer jam.

Some rain and/or less strong wind would certainly be welcome. I put the broccoli and cabbage plants out to harden off in the sun for a scant few minutes yesterday. It took them the rest of the day under the grow lights to recover and straighten up. I overheard them making critical remarks about the dusty wind and my judgment.

The fun of gardening is we get to keep trying different approaches. I find that in any given year I have either a good early garden or a main one, but rarely both.

Beauty Pageant Hen

This is Betsy. She is an Americana, born in the USA. Quite the most beautiful hen in the run, she will not deign to associate with me. When she was a chick, I thought she was skitty, but now I believe she finds me repellent in my gaudy hot pink sweatshirt. So unsubtle.

Sporting exquisite feathers with  magnificent shading, she would be a prize-winner in any show. Even her feet are an unusual gray-green.

 Betsy is now producing the most gorgeous eggs of all. She was only in the house one day when she was a chick, but she apparently remembered the color of my living room walls. She has the true artist's eye.

The First Take-Cover of the Spring Season

Yesterday, when the winds continued very strong all day, and the temps got up to 75, things got a bit squirrely. In fact, I saw a squirrel leaping from tree to tree to reach a safe hole in the big oak.

These weather changes are hard to keep up with. Just the other day, when it was 72 degrees, the weather radio was still playing their old records, possibly 78's, advising us how to avoid frostbite.

My computer does have the radar image, which is good because I am not near any big city and have no TV reception.

Last evening, I was fixing my usual late dinner after dark when the weather radio announced that the tornado watch turned into a tornado warning. A tornado was reported to have touched down a little to the southeast. Time to put on a jacket and rubber boots, grab the flashlight and my purse and get down to the fruit cellar. It's always chilly down there, but the outside temperature had dropped 20 degrees rather swiftly.

Once there, I discovered my new cell phone, purchased for such an eventuality, refused to work without me giving them more money. I had it set up to automatically deduct from my Visa, so don't know what that was all about.  The idea behind the cell phone was if my manufactured home became airborne and landed on the cellar exit, I would have a way to reach someone to come get it off me.

Outside, there was lightning, thunder, heavy rain and hail. The wind continued to howl. I regretted that I didn't bring a book to read, having finished the four mysteries I got from the library recently.

It's moments like that that I really think I should do something to make the place more pleasant. Perhaps some posters of sunny island paradises would help. I did tear out the sagging plywood shelves years ago. The problem is the cellar is rather damp in the tornado season, hence the boots. Soft furnishings were definitely not the answer. The stored rain barrels did add a touch of much-needed color. Indirect lighting was provided by my trusty LED lantern.

The jugs are old kitty litter containers full of rainwater for the plants. Once I got the cistern pump, I forgot about using them.

Before long, the peepers in the pond could once again be heard as the storm moved off. I returned to have my dinner.

Snow is forecast for the weekend.

Digging in the Dirt Once More

Temperatures any day here in February can be variable, a wild understatement. This week in 1979, the low was minus 21 degrees. I was milking goats in in the barn in that bitter cold, so I was inordinately grateful for 63 degrees a couple of days ago. The tiny blue wildflowers are blooming!

Some of the weeds in the flower beds were in loose soil, so I spent the day pulling them. The chickens got lots of greens.

It was time to cut old stems on the hostas and peonies. Some red shoots were starting up in the peonies, a good sign that they will be shaking off winter with a new wardrobe any day now.

The garden was too wet to disturb, but I couldn't resist digging up some of the over-wintered parsnips. I don't know why some of them were a little on the scrawny or leggy side. I was careful to not cultivate around them, gave them plenty of room and talked to them nicely. These are Gladiator hybrids from Stokes. The bigger ones were delicious. All American Parsnips are my favorite, but I can't find the seed anywhere. So much for hybrids being a big improvement.

If I wasn't already getting all excited about spring, I heard the first Robins and Meadowlarks. I couldn't be happier if I had good sense.

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.