Spring is Limping

Jonquils against the raised bed; Deb Marshall photo

Spring is limping towards us, though in parts of the state I hear it’s actually arrived. Here, however, only three days ago the forsythia slid into bloom, and two days before, the jonquils planted right next to the cement-wall raised bed bloomed, but those in the garden are still just green shoots. I see a few tulip leaves emerging; the leaves of the rhubarb plant were just visible all rolled up and nobby, but today started to unfurl; and I even see a few peony shoots under all the mulchy stuff, and the scilla I planted last fall are in bloom. 

The tree frogs and peepers are singing their songs and there have been hooty owls at night, but it’s also only about 35 degrees tonight and it wasn’t a whole lot warmer earlier today. Between the wind and the rain rain rain rain and the cold temperatures it really isn’t like spring yet.

Figures – I put the snow boots away and decided it was safe to wash and put away the winter jackets last weekend. Expect a snow storm. Tonight, actually.

 

The evolution of emerging rhubarb in just a few days; Deb Marshall photos

Last week the Husband was taking a shower and started shouting “Come quick, come quick, come quick!” Heart in my mouth, I raced to the bathroom. “Look out the window!” he shouts.

There, nibbling on my garlic shoots, was the curious fawn from last fall – more like a young deer now, but, damn – in my garden having a snack! And so much for the theory that deer don’t like garlic.

Nibbled garlic; Deb Marshall photo

 

We tapped on the window and he looked up but went right back to nibbling. So I raced out the door and clapped my hands and shouted, “You can’t be in the garden now! Go eat grass!” He (she?) fluffed his tail and looked at me, then went back to business. So I ran down the wart stairs and clapped and shouted again. He didn’t budge. I ran over to the garden and clapped and shouted again. The tail fluffed, he looked at me, considered for a moment, and went back to nibbling. Why, oh why, didn’t I take the time to grab the camera before I ran outside? But I didn’t. So I stamped my feet and shouted, and moved closer towards him.

He fluffed again, turned around and moved a few feet away; if I’d had a carrot with me I would have probably been feeding a wild deer from my hand. We were only about 7 feet apart, and stared at each other awhile, then he decided it was time to depart – not in a major rush.

I went hunting for deer discourager that afternoon, and discovered most are made of – garlic! So I bought granulated coyote urine, instead.  It’s been raining steadily so I haven’t put it down yet, and I’m hoping it’ll work until I meet my next dog, who I imagine will take up the job of  peeing around the garden and warding off the deer. 

Spring somethings - Scilla? Deb Marshall photo

Four lovely loaded pallets arrived last week – one of bricks and pavers, and cement blocks that I used to replace the rotted wood that held one raised bed together; one of bales of hay that will mulch the raspberry canes that should arrive in the next couple of weeks; one of dozens of bags of composted manure, and organic potting soil mixed with manure, and organic top soil. These will be distributed to various beds before planting, and are also filling four new beds that fill the space between the existing garden and the back of the row of compost bins/peony bed/ old compost bed, a space that’s hard to mow.  This is where the winter’s worth of saved cardboard and newspapers goes – a thick layer of cardboard  and newspaper to kill the grass, covered with soil and manure or compost, makes a fine garden bed. A third pallet of  cedar mulch will replenish the few paths I have in the garden that are still unpaved, and add to the job I started under the blueberry bushes last summer. And the fourth, most exciting pallet, is 120 rock-like chunks that I’ll use to build another perennial bed wall along the back side of the fence, and finish edging the front beds so mowing will be simpler.

So even though it was way too cold to be outside working the garden, and definitely too cold to plant anything more than onions and shallots and maybe some seeds that like cool soil, I’ve been putting off planting anything and am working hard to get in some more paths, finish the four new beds, get the potato bags ready for planting next weekend, and similar chores that never get done before it’s time to plant and the list of things to do gets even crazier. I’ve been out until 7:30 pm three times now, and Saturday I’m pretty sure I froze my toes off – I’ll not know until my feet thaw out.

New bed and the pallet of chunky things; Deb Marshall photo

Note to self: take the ibuprofen before heading out to the garden – it takes a lower dose and only one more dose before bed’s needed. If I take it only after I’ve been hauling heavy stuff around, I’ll sleep in a bed of pain and limp around all the next day. 

The list of stuff still to do is long: weed the beds before adding manure, get trenches ready for the asparagus roots that will soon arrive, figure out where to put the three new peach trees that are also going to arrive soon, get the onion sets that should be here Monday into the ground, and the seed potatoes ready to plant next weekend. Build the new perennial bed, and figure out where to put the peas and favas and other cool weather plants this year. And  I already know I didn’t order enough pavers and bricks - all I have to do is stand outside for a few moments and I can see other places I need a path. So much for advance planning. 

Dragon's new home on the edge of four new beds; Deb Marshall photo

One of my patients was telling me a story the other day about someone she knows finding a pile of golf balls at the bottom of a tree in the woods. He was walking with a friend, and they were sort of near a golf course, but not close enough that golfers would have lost so many balls that far into the woods. “The squirrels take them,” his friend said. “They seem to think the golf balls are nuts. They carry them off and hide them in trees. I bet if we shake this one, more will fall out.” So they did – and a rain of golfballs fell down.

That, I think, is even more curious than the curious fawn!

For the blog: 29 April 2019

Heart-leaved Hardy Thing; Deb Marshall photo

When I Was a Witch

When I Was a Witch

When I was young, freckled and braided

I was a witch. I had a black cat, a tiger cat, and

A fluffy three-colored cat; all familiars.

I was a witch; there was a witch’s house in the backyard,

And I picked secret herbs from amongst the grass blades,

Mashed them together, grinding them between two rocks,

Scraped them into one of my grandmother’s canning jars,

Filled the jar with water from the holy spot on the lake shore,

And left it in the sun.

It turned thick and black, and tasted terrible.

But I was a witch, and I’d made a potion.

I was a witch, and didn’t know it.

Then I became old, with one braid, fewer freckles,

And I may be a witch. I have a black cat, and a

Slinky wild cat with a mane and black and white whiskers;

Both familiars. I live in a house with gremlins and phantoms

That float in the air all year long, near a hornet’s nest, near

A mummified snapping turtle. I fill jars with herbs, the

same I plucked as a child, but had no names for: heal-all,

plantain, dandelion, cat-tail pollen, motherwort…

I put them in a pot, and fill it with water

And boil and boil.

It turns thick and black, and tastes terrible.

But I’m a healer, and I give it to others

And tell them to drink deep.

Maybe

I’m still a witch, and don’t know it.

Total Buzz Kill

Too Good to Use Moccasins; Deb Marshall photo

 

End of last year, the Husband and I finally decided to make an official, witnessed, notarized will, and do all the other notarized paperwork that goes along with that sort of thing: basically, a paper that says who gets to decide when to pull the plug, another that explains who has to pay the bills with our piddling savings if we can’t physically or mentally do it ourselves, and another that explains, to who’s in charge of getting rid of our stuff and of what happens to the house  (if we still own it when we meet our demise), how best to get rid of the odd equipment and text books and related gear we own that most people wouldn’t have a clue what to do with if they weren’t in the same businesses. 

It was a total buzz-kill, I gotta tell you.

We’d made a will decades ago when we were young and carefree, and even got our friendly out-back naybahs to witness it for us. That was as far as we went…well, honestly, that long ago I don’t think there was such a thing as a living will or powers of attorney for this and that – not that regular people would have had, anyway (“regular people” meaning anyone not stupidly rich).  In that long-ago will, we left all our stuff to our friends, who were as poor and living-on-the-edge as we were. In our imaginations, all our rent-strapped friends would decide to move into our house, maybe build onto it or erect straw-bale houses or 4-season cabins on our 7 acres of land, turn the raised-bed garden into an even bigger raised-bed garden, can stuff and freeze stuff and put squashes and root vegetables down cellar, get some chickens and maybe a cow, and maybe manage to live more comfortably than before.

We, of course, wouldn’t be there because we would have either: a. decided to move anonymously and permanently to Canada after having searched out my Scots and French-Canadian roots; or, b. gone on to the next existence after dying in an impressive crash on our way home from a late-day run to Montreal for supper. Yes, there was a time when a late-day run to Montreal wasn’t something we thought twice about doing.

That old will got tossed into the fireproof box and we assumed that if we did, indeed, expire in an impressive crash, someone would find it and all would be well. Truth be told, I knew better – I’d been a paralegal in a previous life and knew that we needed to get it notarized for it to be legal, but money was tight and we didn’t really believe it would ever be needed.

Fast forward four decades. Last spring I realized that the need for the extensive raised-bed gardens wasn’t going to go away in our older age, but for me to be able to continue to effectively work them in my seventh decade and beyond, I was going to have to do something now to make them less work-intensive. So I started paving paths and eliminating the need to weed so much and doing some other labor-eliminating things; and that got me thinking about what it meant to get older with creakish knees and sore back muscles and joints, and a memory that records something I’ve only thought about doing in the Done List instead of the To-Do List. So I started to make an actual list: finally put up hand-rails on the stairs in the house, replace that ancient furnace, put heat into the chapel so we won’t have to burn wood if our bodies don’t want to haul it, rebuild the back wart, and so on. Phase one of buzz-kill. 

Then I remembered that besides never having actually gotten that old will notarized, some of the beneficiaries were now either dead or a lot richer than they’d been, and than we are, and that they wouldn’t need the benefit of our miniscule largess. And worse, if I were to die in an icy or moosey car crash late at night on the way home from work, and the Husband died intestate sometime later, his much older adopted sisters in Ohio – or their children - who would have no interest in or need for our stuff, would inherit everything and it would be a major irritation for them and a bummer for my niece and her kids.

Thus, phase two of buzz-kill: the wills.

And that started a new and strange mental exercise. Now that I’d written everything out, maybe I should myself take care of some of that stuff that would need to be dealt with after our dramatic demises, or at least make it easier for the person who has to do it eventually. 

So this is phase three of buzz-kill.

There’re a few rules that native New Englanders are born with tatoo’ed inside their eyelids and carved on their bones. One is that you never, ever, ever throw out something that might be useful later, because you never know when you’ll want it or need it. Another is that there is stuff that’s too good to use. A third is that if it belonged to a relative who’s now dead, it’s both too good to use and too precious to get rid of.

I’ve been breaking those three rules lately, with interesting results. I’ve begun to wear the hand-made moccasins I bought for much more money than I could afford to spend when I was in my 30’s and have stored since then in my closet: too good to use. Turns out they’re wicked comfortable!

I’ve given away a couple of items of clothing that are almost new, worn only once or twice, but never worn again (some for several decades) because they didn’t fit quite right, or are otherwise impractical. Yes, I still think they’re beautiful, but am I really likely to wear them when I’m another twenty years older? No. And with those clothes are going some books I know in my heart that I’ll never read again.

And those things that I’ve had forever, but never really liked, but they belonged to some dear dead relative? They’re headed to the younger generation now, to use or save or toss. And some stuff is just going gone. Who needs a chipped china teacup, no matter that it belonged once to dear departed Great-Aunt Honey?

Phase three of buzz-kill turns out to be amazingly satisfying. I like it. It means sorting through a lot of stuff, and a lot of papers, and organizing, and eliminating, and marking things off my Lists. Less to dust, less to bump into, less to clutter my mind. And unexpected goodies for some folks who’ve benefited from my clearing-out activity. 

Anyone need eight complete but unbound copies of a text I wrote for a class I haven’t taught for five years?

Published in the Concord Monitor on 18 April, 2019 as “Where There’s a Will… “.

How To Wash A Cat

Catmandudedog; Deb Marshall photo

 

The morning after this past week’s lovely weather, there was a line of little black birds and some even smaller speckled birds with little red hats and a few mourning doves sitting on the ice and snow coating the wart rail where I usually feed them, peering through the kitchen window waiting for me to bring out breakfast – which I didn’t have for them. I ran out the day before, and most years that would have been fine. But that cold and grey morning, the spring birds looking sad, and the ground completely white again, and the temperatures hovering around freezing, I raided freezer and pantry to come up with some sort of bird nourishment. They ended up with a mix of frozen blueberries, sesame seeds, crunched up pecans, barley, popcorn, currants, and some corn meal.

Then I left home early to have enough time to buy enough seed to feed them for another week or two. Them, I hope: not the bear. 

Catmandoo, after Abu Dhoggi died last August, decided he’s the top dog in the house. Literally. He’s taken to peeing on people’s car tires, chasing herds of turkeys and deer out of our yard, going after visiting dogs with terrifying vigor, and finally – the ultimate – he got skunked. I’m now calling him Catmandog.

How do you wash a cat, you’re wondering? You don’t. Especially a Catman. No no no no-no!

I’ve known three cats who liked water. My third-grade school teacher, who lived down the street from us, had a cat who went for a swim in the lake every morning before breakfast, except for when the lake was iced over in the winter.  The black cat we had when I was a kid – who was a very interesting being – used to sit in the middle of giant rain puddles and pretend to fish, scooping up water and flipping it into the air. And one of my editors, back when I was the managing editor of a computer magazine, had a kitten that would dive into the bathtub with her whenever she was taking a bath and paddle around happily.

Most cats, however, don’t like getting wet, and Catmandog, being larger than most little dogs and very opinionated, is a being you try not to piss off. He has big teeth, big claws, and a notch in one ear to prove he knows how to use them. 

Of course, the first thing Catman did after getting skunked – which didn’t seem to bother him one bit – was head upstairs to his side of my bed for a nice snooze. And then downstairs to bask in front of the warm woodstove, and spread skunk stink throughout the house.  Trying to sleep that night  was … interesting.

Fortunately, cats take plenty of tongue baths, and the taste didn’t seem to bother Catman or Biscuit, so the stink is getting less pernicious fairly quickly. I even picked him up and gave him a belly kiss this morning, and didn’t come away stinking.  I’m allowed to give belly kisses to this big wild cat, because I’m the mom. He doesn’t take my face off. No one else should attempt it.

The turkeys seem to be in male/female groups now and there have been a couple of toms strutting around the yard all fluffed up and blue of face with spread tails,  glaring at any non-turkey movement.  I’ve tried to get a good photo, but they head for the woods as soon as they see me at a window, so all I’ve managed to get is one shot through window screens, and not a close-up. I’d love to find one of their nests, but not willing to bushwhack through the brush and feed the ticks in order to find one.

Tom turkey in semi-fluff; Deb Marshall photo

This weekend, after a cold wet grey week, we had a day of sun and really warm weather – like 70 degrees or so. When I went outside, it was muggy – the sun and heat was melting the snow so fast the air was full of moisture. It was strange, but the snow remaining in my garden melted, so even though it’s still surrounded by fields of white and a fair amount of mud. I was able to walk the paths I put in last summer, and peer at dead vegetation, and discovered there are a few just started sprouts visible: chives, tulips, Egyptian onions. I hung the birdhouses on the fence and arbor at the back of the garden, and decided I need another one or two because the birds are so entertaining when they’ve got a nest started, and I also started to put down newspaper and cardboard mulch to kill the grass where I’m going to put in a new bed this spring.

Emerging rhubarb; Deb Marshall

On my birthday this next week, I’m going to go down to the building supply store order some stuff: pavers, rock-like lumps, cow manure, cement blocks, and other things I need to get the gardens ready. I might even try planting some lettuce seed under old windows to warm the dirt a little. I sorta can’t wait!

The ground is really only unfrozen an inch or two down except in the raised beds close to the house, so I’ve restrained myself from getting out any of the gardening gear, but this could be a great time of year to set pavers and build a new bed or two – cool enough to be enjoyable, no pesky biting bugs, nothing else that desperately needs to be done in the garden yet. Summer is  coming: the Actress and her husband are back from the south, the Tall Dude’s back from his winter trek and starting seed flats in his greenhouse, and the Historian wrote last month to say he already had a cherry-sized green tomato on one of his indoor-started plants. He did the same thing last year, he has a wicked green thumb! And my mother, in her little back-yard microclimate, has daffodils in bloom and irises up. The Poet in the back woods has emerged from her winter enchantment and is also thinking about gardens, and what to do to prepare them...

Emerging flower - scilla? Deb Marshall photo

Summer’s coming, summer’s coming, summer’s coming…keep saying it like a mantra, like you're casting a spell, like you believe it will come true...

Swelling peach leaf buds; Deb Marshall photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the blog, April 14, 2019

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Johnny-Jump-Ups are up and in bloom! Deb Marshall photo