Stopping to Smell the Peonies

The various peony bushes called me to task for only showing them mostly in bud. They begged to have me show more pics of them now that they are in full bloom, vain beauties that they are.

Not only did I oblige, but I drew up a lawn chair, had a jar of iced tea with basswood honey and admired them heartily.

Another round of thunderstorms on the way made me want to appreciate them before the rain drove their pretty faces into the soil.

I believe this is the Shirley Temple. It looks like an enormous cabbage rose.

Red Magic has just come into bloom, well worth waiting for.

The recent rains made it imperative that I mow today, but I was transfixed and refused to budge.

Some of my many peony bouquets in the house had wilted. Putting them around the tomato plants for mulch freed up the vases for fresh blooms. I got as many of the at-risk peonies into vases as I could. What gorgeous flowers; no wonder they are a bit vain.

Does this seem excessive for dinner decor for one person? I didn't think so.

Really Grand

Probably entirely due to me making the second rain barrel, the spring rains showed up. Five inches poured down on all my new plantings, washing some lovely soil away.

For the first time this year, the Grand River got out of its banks. It crested and went back down, but these rain cycles seem to quickly repeat themselves.  All that water has to go someplace, and some goes up.

The fields on the other side of the river had lots of standing water, not quite a big lake. The lazy river cuts across, finding the shorter route, as rivers are wont to do.

Beau and I couldn't get down to the river at our place, on account of the river being backed up across the path. There is too much poison ivy in the woods to go another way. We often walk down the road to the bridge, which is the sissy way to see the river. Sometimes, a vehicle passes by.

Chilly and rainy days are making the tomato plants look really miserable. More rain is on tap for the days ahead. I'm emptying the excess rain into the old cistern, giving it both barrels.

Location, location, location.

After I got settled here, in 2009, I ordered five fancy peony bushes. They are Shirley Temple, Festiva Maxima, Bouchela, Edulis Superba and Red Magic, surely enough peonies to last forever. They have grown huge. They are ready to burst into bloom.

Later, I discovered a few puny ones here and there, planted in all the wrong places. I no longer had need of more peonies. However, I became like my friend Judy who found stray cats irresistible, until she had given a home to seventeen of them.

Several spindly specimens were found languishing down in the deep shade between two outbuildings. There, they only had enough sunshine to keep body and soul together, never blooming. Despite the fact that peonies supposedly don't like to be transplanted, they seemed to beg me to get them out of that bad neighborhood. This is one that I missed.

With no formal first-aid training, I started CPR, Crowded Peony Rescue. I dug them up. They didn't even complain when I accidentally broke some of their fragile roots in the process. I gave them a sunny location, on the south side of the house. Although I doubted if they would amount to much, these three by the front porch have turned into beautiful shrubs.

The former owner was known for planting things extremely close together. I rescued some peonies that were growing inches from big trees, also in the shade. Ones like this one were clinging to a tiny bit of soil and dear life. My splendid Hellebore is right at home; the peony is not.

One was growing in the same space as an overpowering  Rugosa rose. When the rose died back, the peony put on a surprising amount of growth and is now quite respectable. It can hold its own with the other four peonies along the cow fence. Miss Iris the naughty cat is seen in the grass, and Beau is sniffing something near the rain barrel.

A home was found inside the garden fence for these two, with a splendid view of the chicken coop. They especially appreciated it after being stuck in the gloomy alley for most of their lives.

At last count, I have fifteen big blooming peony bushes. Rich, rich, rich, beyond my wildest dreams. When I get to seventeen, I'll stop.

Increasing My Rainfall

My usual heavy spring rains were late showing up this year. I made this second rain barrel a couple of weeks ago. It gets the runoff from half of the front roof. However, it has to rain for that to happen.

Finally, some serious clouds appeared. Best of all, I could rest from all my digging in the dirt. Disappointingly, there was less than a quarter of an inch of rain. So it was a big surprise for me to find the 55 gallon barrel completely full. I couldn't have been happier if I had good sense.

The rain wasn't enough to deeply wet the soil, but I hooked up hoses and watered new plants and the garden with it. Everybody got a nice drink of pure rain water. Because the other barrel has less roof to catch the rain from the workshop, it only collected 30 gallons. Even so, from such a scant rainfall, I had plenty of water.

It's not the money savings at all, although it will help a little on the water bill. I'm big on not wasting water. I have rural water here, which is usually reliable and affordable.

When I go down to the river and watch all that water flowing by, I think of those poor souls in California who would love to have it. The Grand River flows into the Missouri River and it joins the Mississippi and then finally loses its usefulness when it mixes with salt water in the Gulf of Mexico. Despite repeated suggestions from me, it refuses to be diverted to California. They could surely use it, if they didn't mind brown silty water in all those swimming pools.

The very next day, as I was gloating over my water catchment, one of the gully-washer rains came through. Nature has a way of making gardening a barrel of fun.

A Tale of Two Chickies

My first flock consisted of Rupert the Rooster and a Buff Orpington I named Betty. Later, I raised three more pullets, one of which was another Buff Orpington. Betty and Rupert were apparently an item, despite the presence of the other Sister Hens.

All went well with the lovebirds. They even roosted together. Then a few weeks ago, tragedy struck the happy couple. Betty started looking puny.  I did check to make sure she wasn't egg-bound. Yes, I used rubber gloves for the procedure, which we will not dwell upon. She passed away quietly in the night. I said a few words and gave her a burial at sea, ultimately. The bridge is so handy.

The younger gold hen, Buffy, who had been peacefully pecking without a thought in her tiny brain, was suddenly the object of Rupert's attentions. There were many outraged squawks from Buffy. Rupert had no idea why his soul mate was suddenly running from him.

He was becoming downright abusive, holding her head down on the ground without even trying to mount her. Understandably, she became nervous. Several times, she was found outside the fence. It was easy to coax her back inside with the food bowl, even though it contained clover and she was knee-deep in clover.

I tried leaving Rupert out and the girls inside, but he flew the coop run and had to be rounded up before one of the dogs got him. I was tempted to let them have a go at it. The other two hens had discovered the trick of staying close to him and moving when he did, so he could never get at them. "Looklooklook," he said, offering choice bits of greens on the ground in front of them. They might be dumb clucks, but they knew what the dinner would entail and found their own greens.

One day, Lissa and I decided to put Rupert in the fenced garden, to give Buffy a day of shelter in a safe house. Lissa is a Champeen Chicken Wrangler, an expert at catching huge roosters. Somehow, during the ensuing melee in the chicken run, Buffy got out.

At that point the neighbor dog got hold of the hen, bit her and snatched off her tail feathers. Lis rescued her.

                                                         The culprit, Sandy.

When it came time to put Rupert in for the night, he flew over the garden  fence and headed across the field toward the neighbors, where several more dogs were waiting for such an opportunity for a big easy target. Lissa was able to herd him back and we got him inside the coop.

Buffy, now thoroughly alarmed, took to staying on top of the nest box, where it was difficult for Rupert to get at her. Quietly regrowing her tail feathers, she only made brief forays into the run, where Rupert did his Foghorn Leghorn imitation, striding out to capture his lady love. She zipped around like crazy before flying back up to the safety of the nest box top.

This sounds absurd, but now I have to stand guard while she comes down for some water, krumbles and greens. This can't go on.

How Does My Garden Grow

To keep Beau out, I had to put up this temporary fence. It's made of opened tomato cages. The butterfly bush cuttings are to keep the little neighbor dog from wandering through. I suppose she wouldn't hang around so much if I didn't give her dog biscuits.

Even so, Beau got himself fenced in there. Seeing the look of acute dismay on my face, he obediently sat down, right on a clump of daffodils. Otherwise, the fence is working, and the early bulbs and daylilies are coming up.

Yesterday, I worked the soil in the Cylinder Tier and planted all sorts of early veggie seeds and onion sets. The fencing is to deter the cats from acting like I went to a lot of trouble to make them a litter box.

The specks are crushed eggshells. Molly and Jason had fun pulverizing them.

The LOAM in the Cylinders Bed is the result of years of adding every known kind of organic matter to the dirt. I've worked in cow, horse and chicken manure, leaves, river topsoil and bean plants. I'm terribly proud of the result. Did I mention it is loam? After loosening it slightly with the turning fork, I was able to work the soil down to eight inches with just my hands.

Countless worms were busy making the soil even better. Rich, rich, rich, beyond my wildest dreams!

Happy Days are Here Again

A week ago, it was too cold to be outside more than the several times daily that  I had to be out to take water to the chickens and do other chores.

For the last two days, I have been outside in shirtsleeves, digging in the dirt. Such are our instant weather changes in the Midwest.

This flower bed along the cattle fence has my best soil, worthy of my devotion on my knees. Since the dirt was once worked with the tiller, it is friable and can be worked early. Because it is surrounded by invading grasses, I must do plenty of weeding. The grass roots sneak in at some depth and appear here and there as harmless little sprouts of cute grass. Then they change almost overnight into big nasty clumps, making me consider using explosives to dislodge them.

There are lots of perennials and bulbs in this bed, so I have to work the soil by hand. I believe the worms appreciate the loosening and hand-mixing of the dirt. It's so hard to tell if they are smiling; maybe I'm looking at the wrong end.

It's not apparent, but I dug up a huge clump of grass-choked irises, got rid of the grasses and replanted four nice sections of iris. The steppingstones, pressed into service all winter to hold down the tarp over the wood pile, had to all be re-set, not the work of an instant.

Other ground, only recently freed of snow, remains muddy and sullen.

One of my favorite sounds of early spring is the Peepers. They started their little froggy croaking right after the ice left the pond.

Many songbirds have started to sing and are spiffing up, gradually getting into their breeding plumage. A pair of bluebirds has moved into the birdhouse in the garden.

Weeks ago, I cleaned out the three birdhouses. Looks like I forgot that chore last spring, because I found this inside. Trying to be a better landlord, I cleaned out this double-decker nest for the bluebirds.

This is the happiest time of the year for me. My daughter Isabelle said I'm like a kid in a candy store.

Flowers of Yesteryear

                    In order to survive February, I  must have a flowers fix.

Although I do have a lovely African Violet blooming, what I need is a trip to my past gardens, via my photo books and digital files.

When I lived in the suburb, cut off from my nature trails, I made my yard into a flower garden of impressive scope. It inspires me now to see those lovely beds and plan to plant things I grew there.

The war with the grasses continues unabated up here. Some flowers are able to hold their own against the invasive roots, while others are less strong and quickly lose ground.

Now that there have been months of boring brown grass or snow, it is hard to believe I ever had any flowers here.


So it was helpful to find these pics of my granddaughter Carolyn holding flowers that actually bloomed and flourished in this place last August.

Even though the perennials seemed to vanish with the snows of yesteryear, they are just waiting to spring up, grow and be beautiful once again. The daffodils, tulips, surprise lilies, Asiatic Lilies,daylilies, hollyhocks, irises, Mexican Hats,  gaillardias, butterfly weeds, daisies, Missouri Primroses, Johnny Jump-Ups, peonies, spiderworts, bleeding hearts, poppies, dianthus, roses, yarrow, coneflowers, Siberian Irises, creeping phlox, hyacinths, hibiscus, weigelas, hydrangeas, spireas, forsythias and butterfly bushes will return in a blaze of glorious bloom.

They will all return "when spring brings back blue days and fair," as the poet said.

Just yesterday, when Lis and I were tearing down a rotten front porch railing with a huge crowbar (another fun Mother-Daughter project) I found a gold crocus in bloom! Pay no attention, I say, to the deep snow still on the north side of the house, gold has been discovered in the south side border. Eureka!

A Winter Reminder

Okay, I admit that I was getting a little carried away, thinking spring was nearly here. We had some lovely sunny days in the sixties in late January. I found some Siberian Irises coming up.

Nature had the last laugh, though. Yesterday, the mail brought a big seed order from Park Seeds and an electric hedge trimmer to use on the chicory. Two hours later, it began to snow, the fine steady snow that doesn't look like it's amounting to much.

This was the scene this morning. It was so beautiful it made me gasp. Seven inches so far, and more expected all day and evening.

Because it was so still, it piled up on unlikely places, like the clotheslines.

After I shoveled the porches, I settled in front of the fire to complete my Jung Seeds order. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these gardeners from their blooming plans.

Comet Lovejoy

What fun, I found the comet! It was a lovely big green misty ball, seen through my telescope with my favorite 17mm wide angle lens.

Winter is not my favorite time for stargazing, on account of  I'm  such a wuss. However, the chart that Sky and Telescope had online made it too irresistible. After all, I have to bundle up several times a day to take water to the chickens, cut firewood with the chain saw, carry firewood to the house and take Beau for walks down to the river to check on the ice. One more time couldn't hurt. A comet with such a pleasant name, Lovejoy, called to me through the dark moonless night.

The first night I found it, it was high in the southeast.  In order to see through the eyepiece, I wound up kneeling on a cushion there on the front porch.

Last night, before I went outside,  I adjusted the tripod legs higher. That made it so I could sit to view from my adjustable office chair. This is the angle it required. It looked like it was ready to launch. The red dot is probably Sirius rising. Not locating my quarry at once,  I got in the right neck of the woods (a term not used by real astronomers) and then scanned slowly back and forth and up and down. There it was, Comet Lovejoy, looking slightly dimmer than four nights ago, or maybe just more spread out.

It's hard to explain how finding a fuzzy green object in the sky could be so exciting. It has to do with what a tiny spot is visible through a 4-inch lens. We're not talking Hubble here. The finder scope, a baby telescope that is attached to the mother scope, shows a bit more sky, but even that isn't much.

Over the years since I got addicted to stargazing in 2005, I've learned to point the main scope a lot better. Now, I don't use the finder scope as much.

"First light" is what astronomers call their first time to look through their telescope. I'm afraid my first view was somewhat disappointing:  I saw nothing. Taking it back inside the house, I found the focus knob, which made all the difference.

Even so, it took lots of practice to point the blessed thing, due to what you see isn't what's up there. Things are reversed and upside down through the finder scope. To make it more confusing, the view through a refractor telescope is only reversed but not upside down.

I feel it's been a lot more fun to not use one of those Go-To gizmos that get the telescope to turn right to the object. A mere ten years is all it took for me to find my way around the Galaxy. Captain Kirk would have been proud of me.