The Call of Irises

The fancy irises in the oak field have been begging me to move them out of their original bed to somewhere less weed-choked. Their plaintive cries can be heard even when I'm inside the house with the windows shut, in mid-winter.

The former owners here planted the specialty irises, about twenty feet by four feet of them. Ten years ago, they were a magnificent sight.The thick grasses wanted the field back. I've done what I could to dig some of the rhizomes up, divide them and replant them elsewhere.

It's like having a tiny gold mine not too far under the ground. The problem is finding spots to replant them. The front yard is the sunniest and most level, but has some really nasty invasive grasses that I've written about before. Also, the yard is close to the road and in the fallout zone of the road dust, not a pleasure to work in. I keep having to rush into the house when I hear big trucks coming.

Even irises that I transplanted and looked after now need to be moved again, the ingrates.

My grandma Belle had gorgeous iris beds in her yard. I guess I love irises because they remind me of her. Now I understand why she seemed to always be working in them.

Giving up on irises is not an option for me. Their beauty keeps me caring for them as best as I can.

Just looking at last year's pic of the silver white ones takes my breath away.

One day, I hope to read the glad news that some determined iris-breeder has perfected irises that know how to hold their ground against encroaching weeds. In addition, the irises will have learned how to be not so prone to crowed themselves out of bloom. I await the news with breathless anticipation.

In the meantime, this year, I plan to move some of  them to the garden hillside, where the grasses are not so dominant. Unfortunately, the English Plantains are the invaders there. Sigh.

We Were Expecting Something More Like Spring

These out-of-town arrivals were promised by their tour group that Missouri would be a great destination for spring dining experiences. Daytime highs in the forties could be guaranteed. Yesterday, the snow and a large flock of Robins arrived at the same time. The birds, fluffed up against the cold, couldn't get to even frozen worms. They seemed  to be hanging around the bird feeders wishing they were seed-eaters, perhaps thinking of converting to Vegetarianism.

Groundhog Day dawned bright and sunny but cold and windy. The next day, portending spring despite the groundhog, it was in the 50's. The dive down to five below was admittedly a jolt. Highs in the following days didn't get above freezing.

My seed order from Pinetree Seeds arrived. It's time for me to move the yarn stash off the shelves and lower the grow lights for the cabbages and early annuals. Well, almost time for them. Since moving north, I've learned that February 20 works better than my old February 9 date for starting seeds. I learned the hard way that Spring moves north ten miles a day and will not be hurried.

This year, I did well to get through January with a modicum of complaining about winter. I walked  to the river and environs. A mink streaked across my solitary path as I walked my path above the cow pond. That  was very exciting.

It was fun watching the  myriad birds that came to the feeders: Cardinals, Bluejays, Goldfinches, Chickadees, Nuthatches, Woodpeckers, Purple Finches, Juncos and Sparrows.  None of them held still for photographs.

A Forsythia bush out front kept knocking against the house, begging to be let in. In two weeks, the branches I put in water bloomed, with a later batch thinking about it soon. Here they are posing on the cleared part of the kitchen table. The rest of the table is garden catalogs.

As for the Robins, I believe they flew on south and met up for coffee at Denney's, where they made plans to settle in a more hospitable area. At least they are no longer seen here, despite today's melting snow and dazzling sunshine.

Down By the Riverside

At last, there was a break in the bitter cold. Lissa and I played Lewis and Clark. Beau wandered across the mostly frozen river to the far shore. We did not, since a serviceable bridge was in sight.

While it was cold, I went out a couple of times a day to feed the chickens and fill the bird feeders. Alarmist warnings on the weather radio would have people believe that venturing out would result in instant frozen faces. I explained to a friend that it would only result if a person was immobile, say stuck in a snowbank.

Folks in the northern states and Canada get out all the time in the winter, much more than we do here in Missouri, and they seem to not only survive but thrive.

I did stay inside on a particularly cold day when grandchildren Molly and Jason went sledding. I had a cough and the snow wasn't really great. Izzy and I sat by the fire and drank coffee like wimps..

When Izzy was a baby, in 1967,we lived in Fairbanks, Alaska, a place that was really cold, sixty below zero. We went outside lots. When we went to watch the dogsled races on the always uncleared main street, we had to step into the stores occasionally to warm up not ourselves but the camera batteries. That day, it probably was only thirty below zero. Our faces didn't freeze. I learned to make mukluks (footwear seen above left) but was glad to leave such an inhospitable climate. It was not a gardeners' paradise.

Back to the present, Lis spotted some clear bags of leaves dumped alongside the exit ramp on her way here. We drove there, backed down the never-congested ramp and got them for my garden.

"Another fun Mother-Daughter outing," she said, assuring me that the worms would be very happy to have the leaves for dessert after I gave them a rich meal of chicken poop seasoned with wood ashes.

It's That Time Again

Anyone who has been reading my blog for years knows what I do in January. Nothing new here. I think about gardens. I make plans. I dream of having a greenhouse. I find myself singing, "It's the most wonderful time of the year."

Many seed catalogs came before Christmas, but a self-imposed rule is I save them for the boring days of January. Any month that follows such feasting and fun family gatherings would seem flat. I count on the seed catalogs to cheer me up. I believe the print on those pages is treated with a contact chemical that forces readers to make grandiose garden plans. Once again, I forgot to don surgical gloves before handling them.

This is where I check my hopes for years past, in order to plan on crop rotations (never exactly right) and varieties that I must have. It's good to have a plan, even if many of the plants and seeds didn't wind up where I put them on paper. I blame that on factors of soil condition and hazy memory.

Graph paper with big squares have introduced a touch of reality to my plans. One square equals one square foot. My garden is tiny by comparison to I when had a farm with a 90 x 90 foot garden. In those days, I had a family of helpers/eaters, so I don't need that much space now.

Next, I got out all my big shoe boxes of saved seeds. I'll compare them to the seed viability charts and decide what I can use this year. This mental exercise will either keep my brain functioning like a well-oiled machine or cause me to lose my mind completely.

It doesn't help that seed companies change their offerings from year to year. I had a note to self to get Sorbet Violas from Stokes this year, but didn't find it listed as one of the many varieties available. Wah!

Then there are the seed orders themselves. There's no rushing them, because it will be March at the earliest for starting seeds indoors. I wouldn't mind having plants be nearly full grown by the time I set them out, but I don't have much room under lights, horizontally or vertically, and potting soil is rather dear. My young granddaughter Molly actually started corn under lights just for the heck of it last year. We gardeners get a little desperate, a little crazy, waiting for spring.

Now is the time for me to go through all my digital pictures of last spring and summer. I took lots of shots of things growing and in bloom then just so I could have hope in bleak midwinter. Also, pics show where I actually planted things instead of where I planned to plant them.

This picture revealed a few square feet of grasses that I could get rid of and plant to perennials. I am ready once again to do battle with the established and fiercely determined grasses.

Rushing outside to check the area, I rubbed my gloved hands with glee at the prospect of a bit more room to grow flowers. The ground in question had traces of the last snow, but the clumps of grass still had green bases. "Just try and get rid of us, " they seemed to threaten, sinking their awful roots deeper into the frozen dirt beneath them.

So, the Grassland War continues for the tenth year here. The catalogs showed a flame weeder as a possible weapon to carry out my scorched earth campaign. It  looked appealing until I had a mental picture of lands where the grasses were burned off in early spring. A few weeks after the burning, the grasses appeared like green whiskers on the blackened ground. Burning did them a world of good. Also, my place is on the edge of miles of riparian woods, inaccessible to fire trucks.

My daughter Izzy is a chemist who used to work for the EPA. She has warned me against many appealing grass-killers in the catalogs. One that claimed to be organic caught my eye, as an orange life raft might appear to a person treading water in the mid-Pacific. However, a Google search revealed the product in question had a few toxic effects on skin, eyes and breathing.

My daughter Lissa's cardboard cure seems to be something that has worked for me in the past, so I'll use that again, to smother the grass in its sleep.

With all the colorful flower and veggie pictures, mine and the catalogs, hope springs eternal. This will be the year I keep the marauding grasses from taking over, don't kill the rhubarb, get my mulching act together, give things enough room and have no bugs competing for my dinner. It will not be unbearably hot and humid, either.

An Early Christmas Present

A couple of weeks ago, I spent the day at Lissa's. Returning  home in the dark, I pulled in my driveway and a cat jumped onto the hood of my car. Then it tried to get in the door of the house with me.

I have been feeding a feral Maine Coon Cat for some time, but it is very shy of me. I thought maybe it had decided to trust me. I gently pushed it away from the door with my foot.

When I came out with Beau to go shut the chickens up for the night, I didn't anticipate what followed. The wild cat always runs from him, but it became apparent at once that this must be a different, trusting, cat.

I watched in horror as Beau got hold of the poor cat and shook it fiercely. He is a coon hound and it did look like a raccoon. After a few seconds that seemed like hours, the cat escaped and spent the night in the topmost branches of the Bradford Pear tree.

I went out at five a.m. and shone the flashlight. It was still in the tree. I put out a half of a can of tuna, almost guaranteed to take the place of a fireman.

To my surprise, when the kitty came down, she had no visible injuries at all. She was very friendly to me, as if she had always lived here.

Next, I tried to introduce her to Beau when I had him on a choke chain. He lunged at her, so that didn't work at making them into close friends.

My granddaughter Molly had told Izzy that the way to accomplish the seemingly impossible feat was to put the cat in the carrier and bring her inside. So I did. When Beau seemed to become fixated on her, not in a good way, I just turned his head away so he could look at the soothing fire instead.

The process didn't take all that long and now they are fine with each other.

Lissa came and identified the kitten as a Maine Coon Cat. I named her Lovie on account of how affectionate she is. Lovie has the characteristic big paws, furry ears, bushy tail,  neck ruff, tiny voice and extremely friendly disposition.

She's not a kitten but probably not full grown, either. Who left her here? She is obviously used to being an inside cat. I drove over and asked my nearest neighbor if he'd lost a cat, but he said no.

Here she is with a favorite game, get the ball out of the box. Or maybe she was used to drinking beer.

Oreo and Iris found Lovie's playfulness annoying and retreated to higher ground.

Also, Lovie chases them. Iris likes to chase Oreo but howls at Lovie for the same trick.

Lovie plays hard but then takes long naps. Sometimes, she goes into the cat cage by herself, where she has a cozy wool blankie, formerly a vest I knitted.

Even though she is suited to cold temperatures, we've had snow and minus ten degrees in the last few days, so I am grateful she found a good place in time.

Years ago, another feral cat brought her babies to me. It took me a long time to tame them, but  the "Wilds" were the most gentle cats. I brought all four of them here with me when I moved. Oreo is the only one who didn't vanish over the following several years.

So there is a slight possibility that the big Maine Coon Cat who comes at night might be Lovie's mother. I did see that big cat in the daytime when I was coaxing Lovie down out of the tree. Hmmm.

The food left out at night continues to be gone by morning, like a plate of cookies left out for Santa. In return, I got an unexpected furry present.

All Split

It took days, but I completed splitting the wood. Those big chunks were really heavy. I lifted with my knees, which conjures up a picture of me lying on my back, legs in the air, spinning the wood with my feet. Yep, that's what I did. Unfortunately, there was no one around to take pics.

Here is the other porchful, which should be a word.

Meanwhile, between Chris cutting and me splitting all that basswood, the guy I ordered wood from came with this nice load of dry mixed wood. I'll burn that while waiting for the basswood to dry in the sun and wind. Beau loves all the warmth by the wood stove. Even though he has a nice fur coat, he only wants to be outside when I am there to keep him company.

Here we are on a family walk down at the Grand River, which I own. Perhaps I've mentioned our tradition of a long walk after a big Thanksgiving dinner. Even Beau got some turkey. Another tradition is no football, now reinforced by no TV reception. Peace and quiet prevail.

The grandkids Molly and Jason always love coming down to the river.

Firewood Surprises

Time to cut firewood again. The basswood tree limbs have been down for over a year, so I loaded up my cute chain saw and drove Rosie and the cart to the edge of the field.

The biggest surprise was how heavy my little chain saw had gotten since last year. It's true that since the garden had gone past, I had become the vegetable. I had erroneously believed that knitting would be good exercise for my upper arms. Instead, all those days staying inside to avoid the awful road dust had left me with Weenie Arms. I had to rest periodically in order to be safe cutting limbs of the tree only.

The other surprise was how much good wood was down. The ends of the limbs were punky and covered with fungi. However, down the hill, beyond that tangle, were bigger and bigger limbs that looked like promising firewood.

That's very good news, because I had underestimated the firewood situation in the same manner as I did the hickory nuts. A cursory glance is never enough. I had already called my guy who has sold me firewood in the past and ordered a truck load.

Meanwhile, I have not been warm and toasty at all. There's always woolies, and I do knit a lot, but nothing beats a wood fire, especially one seen through the glass door of the Buck stove. That's probably why people get fireplace videos. It's not the same; we are not fooled.

Exercising without doing useful work has never appealed to me, or I would have brought the chain saw inside in the summer and waved it around, mimicking the real thing. If I had, I could have cut more than a puny half cart my first time out.

I left off in the middle of a rather nice limb, to encourage myself to return soon There also appears to be a whole winter's worth of kindling. Of all the trees I didn't want to lose a big limb, it's the basswood, with its exquisite blossoms that the bees made into honey. The limb that broke off was a massive one. I found that out when I'd cleared off several loads of kindling.

My prayers were answered when my son Chris, perhaps tired of me whining that the limbs were bigger than my puny saw, came up with his bigger saw and his bigger muscles.

He made short work of the limbs that would have been within the scope of my little chain saw, and then went on to the really big ones. I was the person who loaded the wood chunks into Rosie's cart and zipped them up to the house. I lost track of how many loads. My part may have given me some upper arm strength.

That went on for hours. The smallish stuff I stacked on the porch nearest the wood stove.

The big chunks I unloaded near the workshop, home of the electric log-splitter. Many hours of fun await me.

Anyway, I didn't exaggerate. They really were too big for my little saw.

All that wood made my original contribution of three loads of kindling look a bit puny. These little branches are not my idea of ideal kindling, because they cling together like coat hangers. Apparently, they know where they are headed.

The End

It happens every year about this time. That doesn't mean that gardeners accept it graciously. It makes us sad.

Hard Frost pulls the plug on tender vegetation. In the past, I've delayed the inevitable with low hoops over plants. This year, I didn't fight it. Succumbing to Nature's will was easier.

These turnips didn't die, but they failed to ever develop roots. They didn't say if it was my belated thinning or just contrariness. They will be greens for the hens.

The same was also true for the winter radishes. Maybe it was the heat after I planted them. Whatever it was, there are no radishes, just leafy tops.

Overnight temperatures have dipped into the low twenties. Sunshine takes the chill off later in the day, if the sun decides to come out at all. We could still use some rain but so far only had a half inch of snow that remained overnight. It looked like frosting on the green grass.

The bees are ready to go into winter. I've left them with an extra super and put the hive entrance reducer in to keep mice out. Lis and I finished extracting and wound up with 53 pounds of honey this season.

The propane tank has been filled. I got fresh gas for the chain saw. The remnants of wood in the pile are only enough for a few fires. They are left over from last winter's supply, so I guess they are "over-summered."

I dug out the box of winter duds. My grandchildren say calling clothes "duds" is terribly funny. The flannel sheets are on the bed.

Fall gardening clean-up sounds better than pulling up the beloved dead bodies of plants I've cared for since early spring. I believe there should be persons of little feeling who go around and act as morticians for the stiffs.

Thinnings

A body has to be desperate for fresh greens to consider washing these tiny Tom Thumb lettuces. That's me. Ready for the salad spinner (another fabulous gift from Lissa) are these lettuces and some bigger spinach leaves.

A good rain, actually a deluge, made them easy to pull up. These greens suffered through lots of heat and dusty winds, and are now really glad to have cooler days. Yesterday was the exception, being in the 80's. Like a sundial, we in Missouri only count the pleasant days.

Great news this morning, the Toy Choys are within days of being ready for a stir-fry. Because they do not over-winter like spinach, I will gobble them up.

A Favorite Hickory Tree

Of course I hate to play favorites and hurt the other hickory trees' feelings, but I do have one special tree. Those nuts just taste better. From my brochure from the Missouri Conservation Department, it appears that the tree is not a Shagbark or Shellbark. I went around one spring and tried to identify all the hickories in the twenty-four bearing trees from the leaves. This one is a Mockernut hickory (Carya tomentosa). I could be wrong.

The nuts have a fabulous taste. The year I gathered quantities of nuts in anticipation of selling some, I kept the Mockernut ones for me. Alas, I wound up doing all the work of hulling, etc., only to put the rest out for the squirrels in winter. They were glad, because they couldn't quite remember where they had stashed theirs.

A couple of weeks ago, I found a few under my Fave Tree. I looked up and could have sworn there were no more. However, Iz took a walk in the woods when she came for a visit. She found quantities, which shows how reliable my opinions are.

These are some from a shellbark tree down on the river bottom that I named Bountiful. I got 47 gallons  from it in 2010, the last prolific harvest.

We went up yesterday with buckets to the special tree. We grubbed around in the leaves and kept getting quantities of nuts. The other night the drought was broken once more with nearly seven inches of rain. That must have knocked them down. Quickly filling the two buckets we brought, we carried them down that steep hill, then up a steep hill to where we had left Rosie and the cart.

It seemed like a good opportunity to change my blog picture. I'm repeating it here for those who don't get the entire picture. Many thanks to my sister Jeni, who I am indebted to for getting the blog up and running in the first place. The technical parts of blogging are a big mystery to me.

Since I am nothing if not greedy, I went back today to get the rest of the fave nuts. The hulled nuts that float aren't good, but I got plenty of the sinkers. They have to be dried and allowed to age a bit. I can hardly wait.