Hornet's Nest

Hornet's Nest; Deb Marshall photo

I’d been lustfully eying that lovely hornet’s nest in the maple tree depending over our driveway, and it finally was harvested, just a day before that horrific and surprising storm we had just before Hallowe’en, which probably would have destroyed it had it remained in the tree. It cost the Husband a swollen lip – the nest turned out to be not quite as empty as we’d thought – but the Tall Dude managed to keep hold of the limb it’s attached to and avoid getting stung while the Husband cut the tree limb, so now the nest is resting in the garage until we’re sure it’s empty. Eventually it’ll hang in the house in some protected corner; the cold temperatures that arrived this week will probably render it safe, and maybe drive the bears into hibernation, as well, so I can begin to leave seed for the birds on the wart rail, soon. 

The birds have efficiently emptied all the many many sunflower heads of all their seed, and the tall, dry, blackened skeletons have been pulled out of the garden and tossed, with the raspberry canes that bore fruit this summer and fall, onto the burn pile. I finally gave in and pulled the remaining beets and celeriac from the garden, in the process finding a handful of onions that somehow I’d missed earlier. These I used along with the penultimate handful of small and shriveled, but ripened, tomatoes from the basket on the dining table and the unbelievable handful of cherry tomatoes I gathered last week – in November!! -  from the rogue plant next to the house – they made a small batch of marinara sauce to add to the gathering containers of sauce in the freezer. 

Even though the fava beans were still flowering, I yanked those out, too – there are no bees around to pollinate them. The garden shed is packed full of tomato cages, wart deck rail planter boxes, large planters, bird bath, hoses, wart furniture – except one remaining chair that Catman and Beastreau and the Husband fight over on sunny days – and I fished out the snow shovels before the shed was too full to reach them. In reach just inside the door are the stakes we use to mark the edge of our driveway to keep the snow plow on dirt and off the field. The garden looks forlorn with most of its growing things gone, and only stakes firmly planted to mark the location of perennials. The parsnips, which I leave over winter, are green and lush still; and the garden chores are not yet done. If it stays warm enough long enough, I have yet to move the iris, cut back the dead marjoram and Jerusalem artichokes and asparagus fronds and catnip and so on; the blueberries must be mulched, and some noxious weeds pulled before they get too settled.

Those first paragraphs were written a week ago, and in so short a time the world has turned and our long, late autumn has turned bitterly cold and windy. There was even snow – not much, but enough to count – caught in the corners of the wart one morning this week, and it suddenly dawned on me that, 1. I’d better get on the list at the garage to get my snow tires put on because all of us who didn’t really believe winter would come this year are going to get caught out; and 2. the iris that didn’t get moved and the spring bulbs that didn’t get planted and the mulching that hasn’t gotten done and the cutting back of dead perennials that still remains may none of them get finished this fall, unless it warms up a little on a weekend when I can do it. I noticed a skim of ice on the pond the other day, and the topsoil feels a little crusty – if we don’t hustle, the driveway markers may not get into place while the ground is soft enough to pierce, either.

I’ll hope for an Indian Summer, which comes after a real freeze. I remember walking in shirtsleeves the 6 miles around the lake with my Dad one warm Thanksgiving Day back in the dark ages, and skiing on 3 feet of natural snow the following Thanksgiving. The year could go either way.

One new thing literally washed in with the storm - a flooded cellar! We’ve only twice before had a cellar flood, and only in spring when deeply frozen ground couldn’t absorb a fast snow melt. This flood came up through the drainage pipe, seeped in from cement floor cracks, burbled in through the corners. It couldn’t be pumped out until the pond levels went down and the flooded field retreated; since then the dehumidifier and fans have been working 24-hour days trying to dry the cellar out. It’s harder to do this time of year – two weeks later, it’s barely finished. For the duration, the Furry People’s indoor facilities moved upstairs to crowd the humans’ indoor facilities, a thing of joy for the Cat People. I hope the flood sent the cellar mice back into the relatively dryer great outdoors.

Abu and I have been taking before-bed strolls now that Roo is no longer with us, with Bu in his red winter coat as protection against the wind during  the past two days. He doesn’t seem to mind the cold, but I’m mindful of his arthritis – he’s a 16-year-old Barkie Boy who thinks he’s still a youngster but is a lot stiffer than a pup. During this past full moon, as we neared the far pond, there was a loud plop! plop! into the water. Too cold for frogs, and Abu was mightily involved with the pond-side smells, so what, I wondered, was escaping us – some late ducks? Peering closely in the moonlight, I saw two dark heads moving swiftly across the water, back and forth. I couldn’t get close enough to see what they were – my guess would be beaver who washed down with the big rain the week before – but they weren’t there two days later, so maybe they were minks. It was very exciting, and I had to use some strong persuasion to keep Abu from charging into the water after them.

We’ve had the woodstove burning the past two days, and Catman’s wart chair moves inside at night and on rainy days. He’s content to curl up on it and bake in the stove heat, with occasional excursions outdoors to nibble the remains of his catnip patch. We’re in the hunkering down part of the year; I light a candle for the window in the dark dining room, and it cheers me to see it as I pass by doing chores, and when Abu and I are returning from our late walk. I keep a scarf and fingerless mittens near my desk, and I, usually the night-owl, find myself drifting to sleep sitting up most nights. The body is still an animal, responding to the early dark and cold – we crave soup and baked apples, and hot drinks, and early and long sleep, and even the critters are happy to have a blanket draped over them for the night. Flannel sheets, an extra blanket, and hot bags of rice to warm the feet have been cosy bedtime companions, and I’m thinking it’s time to reread Truman Capote’s holiday stories, and the Yule-tide section of Wind in the Willows.

 

The best thing about the return of deep cold: much less likely to find ticks!

For the blog, 11 November 2017.

Harvested Nest; Deb Marshall art