Instant Winter

A great motivating force for action has always been a change in the weather. When we lived at the farm, my daughter Isabelle and I whipped ourselves into planting frenzies in springtime, just ahead of lowering rain clouds.

So, when a big cold front was forecast, I found myself in a dead heat to finish some fall projects before it arrived.

Always starting with the easiest job, I emptied the rain barrel onto the garden, put the cover on the hole in the downspout, rinsed the barrel and carried it down to the playhouse for the winter.

That day, it was 72 degrees, really too hot to run the chain saw. After crocheting the broken gaps in the cucumber trellis netting, I took it down for the season. Much to his dismay, I gave Beau a bath outside. The bees were seen sunning themselves out on their little deck, in their tiny lawn chairs.

Since I'd had two unproductive seasons trying to grow veggies without supplemental water, I already had decided to abandon the Remote Garden. Getting the big Troy-Built down to shelter turned out to be no mean feat. First, I mowed a path up the hill through the tall grass. Then I carried up the compressor and aired up the tires. Otherwise, I have had the challenge of getting a low tire back on the rim. That's what happens when the rubber tires are over thirty years old. When they feel low, everyone has to suffer. Everyone being me.

The last part of the journey was a little tricky, navigating the steep hill down to the outbuilding. There's no stopping Big Red if he decides to lay over on his side like a stubborn bull. Even though the old tiller acts tough, he has always been kept out of the rain until these last two forlorn years, when he was almost abandoned up at the Remote. I believe I heard a sigh of relief from Red when he was safely tucked into the outbuilding with a good roof.

Late in the the afternoon before the cold came, I decided to zip up to the closest field and mow a path around it. however, I managed to get Rosie the ride-on mower high-centered over a hidden telephone pole lying in the grass. I used the chain saw to cut off the pole but the part under the mower deck was embedded in the ground, quietly rotting. Sweat was dripping down my glasses as I struggled to free Rosie from between two hills. I did not succeed.

The next day,  it was 27 degrees. The cold wind brought tears to my eyes. It isn't the cold as much as the sudden stoppage of warm weather that is a pain in the neck, like whiplash.

Not a soul was around, but nevertheless I felt embarrassed because I couldn't remember how to unwind the cable from the winch I bought the last time Rosie got stuck. At the local hardware store, I bought a length of stout chain.

Finally recalling where I put the winch instructions, I pounded in a fence tee post. After that, I was able to winch Rosie uphill, off the pole. I must say, it gives a woman a sense of being powerful to use a winch. There's nothing like a wench at the winch.

Assorted Excuses

At this time of year, I have the farmers to thank for curtailing my outside work around my house.

Grain trucks, combines and trucks
towing combine heads stir up so much dust that it briefly looks like the Great Dust Bowl. Here is a combine head parked at the neighbor's place. It's longer than a truck. It seems to attain supersonic speeds, too fast to photograph in motion.

The gravel road is entirely too close, only kept from getting closer by the fence. This is one of the small grain trucks, a minor dust-raiser. Most of the trucks are semis and rolling pretty darn fast, notwithstanding the sharp curve before the bridge. I took the pic through the storm door because I value the camera lens. Not surprisingly, dusty wind  is a big reason to not hang out laundry, mow leaves and mulch the garden beds. I've tried working with a dust mask, but the dust still stung my eyes.

As I've mentioned, the wind is usually from the road. The ironic part is the farmers only get on the fields when they, and the road, are dry.

That got me to thinking that it's helpful to have a supply of valid reasons for putting off outdoor chores.That way, no guilt is attached to what otherwise might be viewed as indolence. The following excuses are valid and have stood the test of time.

     Digging soil and pulling weeds are only possible when it isn't too dry or too wet.

     Planting can be put off because of the above, plus unfavorable moon signs.

     Burning the brush pile can be postponed when it is too windy, there are dry leaves in the nearby trees, or it is too cold to hook up the hoses.

     Watering is not sensible when there is rain in the forecast, even days hence.

     Fishing is out of the question when the river is above Fishing Beach. Also when it's too windy, the moon is not favorable or the river is frozen.

     Running the chain saw is out when the poison ivy is in leaf or it is hot.

Beau is glad when the road is dusty because we usually go for a long walk in the woods, where the dust can't reach us.

Harvesting is one thing that brooks no excuses. Even pouring down rain doesn't qualify as legit. However, relying on the "Rain before seven, dry by eleven" will allow an extra four hours of slothful behavior indoors. This time can be used to iron curtains, or work a puzzle, whichever needs to be done the most. Ironing, of course, is more pressing.

Swimming in My Bee Suit

In ordering a bee suit, I had to take into consideration the suits are made for tall thin men. That's despite the fact that many women are beekeepers. Some of them may even be on the short side. I got a medium.

The crotch droops down around my knees. The legs cascade in folds above my boots. If needed,  I could wear the suit with short stilts underneath, for a clown parade. Despite my advanced age, I'm good on stilts.

The hat and veil combo allow for extended growth of my neck, say another two-thirds of a yard.

I say two-thirds of a yard for clarity, instead of two feet. As everyone knows, necks cannot grow feet.

Honey and Apple Harvest

The bees filled a few frames of the top super. They also had capped honey in the super that I gave them to clean up. I extracted three quarts and a half pint for me and left the other super for them. There are lots of bees in the hive so no doubt they will need plenty of honey to get through our cold winter.

This late honey was also light and incredibly delicious, bringing the season's harvest to twenty-six pounds and a half pint. Celebrating my good fortune, I baked a loaf of honey white bread in the Sun Oven and spread it liberally with this golden goodness. Bliss.

Not only did I get all the honey, but the two apple trees gave me the first real crop ever. Lissa and I canned 9 pints of apple pie filling. I put up 27 pints of applesauce, filled the fridge crisper drawers with these lovely Criterion apples for eating, and still have a few to pick. This is part of the crop, after I thinned it early on. At the last, I had to prop up the limbs with cut branches to keep the slender limbs from breaking under the heavy loads.

The faces of the apples were a bit grimy from the road dirt, but they cleaned up nicely.

The Criterion apples turned out to be the best I have ever tasted in my life, absolutely fabulous. They are a keeper, literally and figuratively. I got the tree from Miller Nurseries in the spring of 2008. After ordering fruit trees and strawberry plants from Millers for many, many years, we were aghast to learn that last year was the final one for the mail-order nursery.

Looks like I now have a hard-to-find variety of apple to go with the unnamed red one that was here already. The fence is to discourage stray cows. They damaged another apple tree that I planted with the Criterion in '08. Even though it is beyond recovery,  I hadn't the heart to cut it down. When it produced one very small red apple, I thanked it profusely and didn't mention its terminal condition.

The apples are all due to the bees's pollinating work on the blossoms in the early spring. I believe they really love my organic acres as much as I love them.

While the bees will have plenty of stores for the cold months, the grasshoppers continue leaping from spot to spot. How something with so few survival instincts could become so plentiful this year is a mystery. They heed not the shorter days, the turning leaves or morning fog. Winter is dead ahead, like a massive iceberg from which there is no turning.

This indolent grasshopper whiled away some time, sitting on the deck railing, watching me read a novel. Perhaps she enjoyed listening to the Respighi that I had on the CD player drown out the gunfire from the Skeeters. Obviously not a Prepper, she had all the time in the world to spare.

Finally, I shooed it away. Its continued scrutiny of me was somehow unnerving. It made me feel I should get up and dehydrate, can and freeze even more vegetables and fruits.

The Dragonfly Squadron

Until recently, there were lots of Swallows flying around at the bridge. Since there aren't as many barns out in the country these days, I guess they should be renamed Bridge Swallows. Lately, it would appear that the Swallows have gone back to Capistrano.

Thus the Dusk Patrol had relocated the mosquito fighters to another area. But recent rains had ensured plenty of those pests to torment me when gardening. They were the tiny ones that utilize small but sharp syringes to take a sample of my blood. I did not wish to be a donor.

Fortunately, the valiant bi-wing Dragonflies for a while were still guarding the air. Squadrons of them relentlessly swooped, dived and maneuvered overhead. It was not possible for me to see them actually gobble up the mosquitoes but they did some tricky maneuvers. In flight, the little warriors looked like miniature helicopters.

They were seen briefly resting on the top tier of the garden, which I believe was their designated Aerodrome. I watched them do touch-and-goes.

Some days, a good stiff breeze kept the mosquitoes grounded. No doubt the Dragonflies were stood down and enjoyed very small beers at their favorite watering hole.

Usually, there were several dozen of that Twilight Squadron working the area. They took off from the Aerodrome for dogfights with the mosquito bombers (not RAF de Havilland Mosquitoes).

That made it possible for me and my pets to be outside.

To paraphrase Churchill,  Never have so few owed so much to so many.

Three Tomato Seeds

In March, I started some tomato plants from seed. My motto is too many is better than too few, so I had plenty to give to my daughters.

Lissa started a Permaculture garden last fall. I wasn't convinced that it would work. She didn't till the soil in her small back yard plot. She scattered some of Molly's chickens' bedding and manure, put down some opened, overlapping brown paper leaf bags and piled layers of leaves on top. She bought some composted chicken litter and scattered that, then added lawn clippings when the grass started growing.

In spring, she liberated some red wriggler worms that she had been raising in the house. When I went over with the tomato seedlings in May, I was amazed that the earth under the mulch was rich and loamy, no trace of the grass that had been growing on the spot.

The three tomato plants went in the ground. The soil was filled with tiny earthworms. They loved their new home.

Meanwhile, I planted twice as many tomato plants. A few got killed by frost. Some of the tomatoes got sunscald.

When next I was at her place, the tomatoes were obviously thriving in their new rich location.

They'd climbed out of their cages by late July.

I began reading up on Permaculture.

Every few days in August, I canned a few pints of tomatoes from my plants. I ran up my water bill giving them drinks. Grasshoppers were feasting on the tomatoes, so I had to bring them in to finish ripening. Mostly, they were small to medium tomatoes.

Lissa gave her plants only occasional water. She had plenty of tomatoes to eat, give away, can whole and make pizza sauce.

I started a couple of Permaculture patches in my weedy garden.

Lis borrowed Chris's Victorio strainer. I suggested that she bring  some of her tomatoes up to meet mine. Object: sauce. It was like asking another mother to bring their newborn baby to come meet mine and then finding my preemie was being compared to her husky ten pound future Sumo wrestler.

The orange ones are Kellogg's Breakfast, an heirloom. I was able to contribute only about six small tomatoes to the operation.

We cooked two pots of juice down to one pot of sauce, a special blend of three varieties.

We canned 21 half pints of this great stuff, which will be perfect for homemade pizzas.

In addition to turning the handle of the strainer, my part was chiefly planting the original three seeds.

The One I Let Get Away

Having canned as many quarts of dill pickles as I needed, ten, plus a quart and a half gallon of fresh sliced dills in the fridge, I decided to let the chickens have the rest of the cucumbers.

Pretending to not see this cuke, I waited to see how big it would get.

This guy no doubt thought he would escape the pickle jar by becoming the Arnold Schwarzenegger of cucumbers. I believe I heard it chuckle when I gasped over what a big boy he'd become.

The chickens love to peck out the seeds, but leave the rest of the cukes. Periodically, I have to rake out the cucumber and zucchini donuts from the hen run.

Rupert the Rooster is quite gallant, calling the hens to eat before he does. I've watched him break off a small bit of clover and put it down for a hen. The stupid hens never do notice his offerings, but do come for chow whenever I appear anywhere nearby. They prefer vegetables to cracked corn, which always gets left for the cardinals and other birds to clean up.

As for Mr. Big Cucumber, as sometimes happens with these late-maturing brawny types, he wound up being terribly henpecked.

The Skeeters are Back

In early spring, I was hanging out laundry when I smelled smoke. It was terribly windy, too windy to be burning brush. There had been lots of brush fires but surely no one in their right mind would be burning anything outside.

Coming around the front of the house, I saw the smoke was black and coming from down by  the Skeeters. It's a cabin calling itself a lodge, back in the trees on the other side of the road, down by the bridge. The folks who own the place only come on occasional weekends, to shoot skeet, set off loud fireworks and generally disrupt my peaceful life. They are not bad people, just noisy. I'm sure it never crossed their minds that I live here because it's so peaceful. What a concept.

There were young persons there earlier in the day, zipping up and down the road on motorbikes.

But now, there was this smoke. I called 911. The dispatcher said a fire truck was already on the way.
After a while, I heard it coming. The smoke got darker and more voluminous. More trucks arrived, plus a water tanker. There was that popping sound I heard when the Yeller's house across the road from the lodge burned down that dark rainy night.

Finally, some of the trucks moved off and I walked down the gravel road to check it out. I'm not much of a gawker, but I do get curious. Some firefighters were working at keeping the fire from getting carried away in the dry leaves in the woods all around the lodge.

What was left of the cabin was still burning. I noticed the two motorbikes parked some distance away but the kids were nowhere to be seen.

Later, I saw the bikes in the back of a pickup truck that went by. I could imagine the kids saying, "Gee, Dad, we didn't mean to burn the place down."

The guys who do plumbing for me are volunteer firemen. They said the kids had been trying to burn some leaves in the high wind and the fire got away from them.

That was in the early spring. It didn't appear that they would be rebuilding the lodge. I did hear shots from over there on some weekends. A 30-06 rifle sounds a lot like a cannon.

This week, however, some big dump trucks and bulldozer worked to shore up the drive to the place. From the looks of that effort, something grand is going to rise out of the ashes. Already it's noisy.

This fine driveway gives a clue as to what the new structure will look like. Now, I'm curious, but the STAY OUT sign peeking out from the leaves makes me wonder if they mean me. After all, I'm their nearest neighbor. Surely they don't mean me. It doesn't say This Means You.

It doesn't help for my grown kids to keep kidding me about how I solved the noisy neighbors problems with the Skeeters and the Yeller.

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Basswood Honey

The first super has been extracted, and the honey is exquisite! The basswood blossoms gave the honey a fruity flavor and light color that makes it a premium honey. The new extractor proudly stands by  its work.

For six years I've been looking at the huge basswood tree, smelling the fragrant blossoms in springtime and thinking bees could surely makes some good honey from them. I wanted some guy to come bring a hive. At last, I did something about it, all by myself. Now, I wonder what took me so long.

Putting the honey in jars was easy. I just filled them from the honey gate in the bucket that strained the honey from the extractor.

Uncapping the super  frames was rather a sticky process, but not bad for my first solo harvesting effort.

The bees had made some burr comb between their hive body and the super. That broke apart when I took the super off, making things sticky from that point. In front of the hive, a nice chunk of comb honey dropped from one of the frames. I picked it up, getting honey on my gloves and my trusty lawn tractor's steering wheel. I whisked the super away, covered by a towel,  in Rosie's cart.

It is a beautiful sight and somewhat irresistible. The second super may consist of some basswood and some wildflower honey, perhaps catnip. Some is already capped, but I await the completion of it by the bees.

The day after I took the one super, I returned it, empty of honey, to the hive all sticky and ready to be cleaned up and reworked by the bees. Bless their tiny hearts, they had cleaned up the honey from the burr comb, which is sort of a bonus storage area for them between stories of the hive. They were calm, not seeming to hold it against me that I had marauded their food stores the day before like a big clumsy bear or maybe a Sasquatch..

Catnip Honey

Gosh, it's great to have bees on the flowers once more. Bees were getting pretty scarce before I started raising them this spring. The best news is I am going to get a honey crop this year. Sometimes, the bees don't make enough honey the first year, so I am pretty excited.

For years, these catnip plants have been growing in amongst the flowers, popping up until they became nuisances. The first time I took some of the leaves into the house to look them up in Missouri Wildflowers, one of the cats streaked across the room, snatched the sprig from my hands and wrestled it to the ground. Shortly thereafter, that feline picked a fight with one of the other cats and had to be put outside. Cats on drugs are not a pretty sight.

If the plant isn't cut, the cats don't notice it. Because it blooms at a time when pretty much nothing else is flowering, I generally let it get carried away, for the sake of the wild bees. Even the one that flops over the steps to my workshop is not cut back.

My hive of bees probably made a lot of honey from the basswood tree. The buzz was they were coming and going in that direction. They were nice and gentle when I opened the hive. That's to say they pretty much ignored me.

When I had bees about thirty years ago, I had a policy of not disturbing them too much. I felt they knew what they were doing and didn't want to mess up their work to satisfy my curiosity. I'm just the colony landlord, who comes to provide syrup in early spring and additional stories for honey storage. So far, I have added two supers. I'm the super with the supers.  Like all landlords, I hope to be paid.

Catnip wasn't in the wildflowers book. The leaves are quite pungent. The flowers are teensy, with new blossoms opening each day. I have to admire the bees for their work on them, since the nectar they must get from each flower is minuscule.

The question is, will the honey be something I can only spread on toast when all the cats are out of the house?