Dancing for Joy, Weeping in Horror

 

The new shed door

The shed is done! The shed is done and the workbench and shelves are in place, and I’ve moved what’s left of the garden stuff I’m not leaving in the under-stairs shed into the new shed, and the hose holders and pegs for the potato bags and weed bags are hung, and I’ve started to re-store the bamboo posts that mark vegetable rows when I’m planting seeds in the spring. And the plastic cloches are stored, up high, where nothing will fall on them and smash them, and I tossed out the ones that had been fallen on and smashed when they were in the old shed. And I haven’t hit my head once!

Yes, I’ve done several dances of joy.

Unknown visitor

A toad seems to have moved in, and chipmunks go in and out at will – the shed isn’t that tight, which is fine because it’s not a place to start (or store) seeds in.  But it is a place to store out of season garden tools and tomato cages and weed bags and potato bags and other summer garden things, and where I can fill plant pots and get any leftover big bags of MooDoo and Mainely Mulch and potting soil out of the garden in the fall, and entertain Rasta who’s supervising where I put stuff. I LOOOVE having a real garden shed and I’ll love it even more next spring when I’ll be able to get out what I need without having to remove everything to get the one thing that’s way in the back, and then put it all back again, ‘til I need the next thing.

Supervising the shed

 The garden is in some ways already out of control. I’ve had to walk down the paths and remove huge masses of daisies and California poppies and strawberries, as well as Indian paintbrushes, cinquefoil and some massive mulleins, wood sorrel, dandelions, violets and dill , and a whole lot of I’don’t-know-what-they-are other wild flowers that have taken up residence in every crack between the garden pavers and are gorgeous and blocking my ability to move around the garden. I leave the milkweed when I can – not only is it edible and quite tasty at different stages of growth, but the flowers smell incredibly sweet, and they’re food for Monarch butterflies.

The asparagus went to fern and is now 6 feet tall and humming with bees, which love the flowers. And also blocking my progress; I have to admit I trim it a bit. Carefully. There’s tickweed and bladder campion that have pretty flowers, so I let them do their thing and try to cut them down or pull them out before they send seeds everywhere. Every year there’s new wild flowers that show up from somewhere – all the mass of daisies planted themselves, for example – and sometimes I let them stay, and other times I don’t. After all, some people pay lots of money to buy daisies and goldenrod and Black-Eyed Sues to plant in their perennial gardens – I don’t have to. But the wildings do tend to get out of control easily and don’t ask me, first, where it’s ok to plant themselves. And some are incredibly beautiful and I have no idea what they are.

Early zucchini

This summer is going to be a bit of a pisser, because the Husband has just had surgery for a detached retina, so he can’t do anything – literally – for awhile, and none of the things all summer that he usually does around the house, and won’t be able to do for months. So while he’s lying face down for weeks on end and has only limited activity allowed (“Be a sloth,” his doc told him), I’m trying to find time to do the stuff he usually does, plus my own stuff. The “lawn” isn’t going to get mowed: it’s mostly thyme, anyway, and it is a field, and I’m not going to be able to get to that; good thing he’d just mowed it before his eye fell apart. With luck, friends will help cut up the winter firewood and stack it. Friends are driving him to Boston for his surgery and eye appointments; and he’s not going to be able to do most of the actual money-earning work he usually does, ‘til fall. He can’t help in the garden, and even his around-the-house stuff has to be restricted. I’ve been making a lot of bread to go into the freezer, a job he usually does weekly; and the weekly dump run is now mine, as is the milk run, and for the stuff he can’t do (like crack open jars and bottles that my arthritic hands can no longer do, move heavy things I can’t lift, etc) I have to make sad puppy-eyes at manly male friends and ask them to do. It’s a pain – for the Husband, literally – but at least it’s not winter with wood to haul and snow to shovel.

What hangs outside the shed

And speaking of pissers -  Good God, what’s happening in our country? Guns out of control, women’s rights  and lives destroyed, racist shootings and beatings, climate change still being denied, a Supreme Court that’s demeaned itself beyond belief and a Congress that’s effectually ineffectual --- it goes on. Infuriating stuff, stuff to mourn every week, if not every day. I can’t say how furious it all makes me; when I try, I find myself spitting and incomprehensible.  If I was younger I’d be out of here. Not sure what country I’d move to, but this one is embarrassing and rapidly sliding down a slope to nastiness and evil intent being too often the norm, and unremarkable it’s so commonplace. Scary and horrible. And hurrah for the Jewish congregation that’s suing the Court for illegally refusing them their Constitutional right to practice their religion!

And Covid? Lots of people are still getting it, and they’re always surprised when they do. Wear your masks, people, the pandemic isn’t over, and sanitize your hands when you touch things other people are spreading virus upon. Or don’t, and let’s see how sick you get, and how many other people you can infect, and of those, how many get very sick or die, or get long Covid, or any of the other bad things that can happen to people who catch Covid, or happen because people who catch Covid can’t work, or do their volunteer work, and so on. The numbers of people infected with Covid are higher than they were at this time last year, and they’re higher than they appear to be, because the home tests don’t get reported – the numbers we’re given are just the hospital and PCR test numbers. All the maskless people out there have proven we can’t be trusted to do the right thing by our neighbors – so protect yourself until consciousness shifts and we all become kind.

HA! Don’t hold your breath while we’re waiting…

Places for everything

 

 

For the blog, July 4, 2022: herondragonwrites.blogspot.com

All photos Deb Marshall

The garden mid-June

 

 

A Shed of One's Own

Daisies in Bloom in the center of the garden

 

 A shed of one’s own – what a wonderful thing. It’s only taken 66 years to get one!

I’m speaking of a garden shed. For all these years, I’ve used as my garden shed the walled-in space under the stairs to the 2^nd floor of the garage, where the Husband’s studio resides. But I shared that narrow, steeply-roofed space with a heavy old pump left behind by a long-ago house mate, winter shovels, axes and hatchets, a few heavy metal tools I can’t identify but the Husband considers important, and from time to time, winter tires and wart furniture and stuff we didn’t know what else to do with.

If you picture what under-the-stairs space looks like, you’ll remember from all  the Victorian novels you read as an adolescent that it’s dark, narrow, and the ceiling steeply descends into  a very short space. At one end it’s not possible to stand up, and that’s where all the dark things live that jibber and slorp and eat the bad children locked under the stairs for bad behavior. For many years this shed had a door, but to save money we used an old indoor-door rather than an outdoor-door, so after a bit it swelled up, wouldn’t shut, warped, and eventually was replaced in winter by a tar, making it easier for the various mice and hornets and other critters who made homes in the shed in my flower pots and other gear, and allowed leaves and sticks and dirt to blow in and establish themselves in large piles in the corners.

Because it’s long and narrow, things got stored in it in the order in which they were no longer needed in the garden, and according to what could go flat, and what could fit under the short end. Thus, all the pots and cloches and the short bin of organic fertilizer, and such like wound up at the far short end, old window screens (useful for keeping cats out of the garden beds until seeds germinate) were stacked against one wall, with flattened tomato cages in a tangled pile against them, and the round tomato cages stacked towards the back but in front of the pots and cloches and all the stuff I need at the beginning of  the season, and other pots and rolls of black paper  and doodads piled on top of each other under the hanging shovels and rakes and other heavy things that would fall off regularly and hit me on my head as I bumped them with a shoulder while reaching for something I needed; and the potato bags and weeding bags hung on the wall just out of reach, and all the garden stuff that can’t stay out over winter piled in front of the door,  followed by the wart furniture until I got smart enough to hual that down cellar to the space under those stairs. The shed by late fall was so full that the extra bags of MooDoo and mulch, needed for late-season garlic planting, had to be left to overwinter in the garden, rendering them less than useful and often full of interesting critters, by spring.

The new shed next to the door to the under-stairs shed

Like I said, I’m 66. And my garden’s too big for a person who also works to take good care of. I grow almost all the vegetables we eat all year long, most of it going into the two chest freezers, some getting canned, and things like potatoes and shallots  and garlic stored in baskets in the pantry, onions hanging from coat hooks in the kitchen, winter squashes piled into baskets under the dining room table, and unripe tomatoes left in baskets on the dining table to slowly ripen out of the sun (tomatoes ripen from the inside out; they don’t need sun once they’ve reached a certain stage of development).

And all winter, the tarp would flap in the wind, snow would blow in, critters would chew up what they could to make nests, and come spring when it was time to plant the cool-weather crops, I’d have to move everything near the door out of the shed so I could reach the stuff I needed. Over and over again. And I’d get smacked on the head by falling shovels and rakes, over and over again.

This spring I’d had it, and announced that something had to change if anyone wanted me to keep gardening, because I’m too old to risk getting knocked out and my arthritis hurts too much to move all that stuff over and over and over, fighting the tangles and tiny space all the time.

The Tall Guy and The Husband

 Fortunately, the Tall Guy was there when I threw my temper tantrum, and he didn’t have a job for the summer. The Tall Guy, besides being very tall and a retired organic farmer, is also a builder. And the Husband is a wicked fine carpenter’s helper. And I’m collecting social security and still working – I’ll never be able to afford to retire, so the garden’s important – so I had enough money from a years’ worth of  social security to buy the materials, and the Tall Guy isn’t charging for his time. I give him soup.

First they had to clear out space and scrub brush, and then they built an open shed all along the back side of the barn for the Husband’s stuff. And we put out at the end of the driveway a riding mower that no longer works, and a big bean tower that didn’t work in my raised beds, and some decent studded snows for a car that died last fall, with FREE signs on them – all have new homes, the mower with a guy who fixes such things for a living. Other stuff went to the dump in the Tall Guy’s truck. Marie Kondo would be proud.

The new open shed and the unfinished shed of my own

 Yesterday my new shed had its roof put on. They built it on a cement pad that had been poured years and years ago and had been the place the dead mower and the wheelbarrow and the grill and the really tall tomato cages that wouldn’t fit under the stairs all lived.  All I’m missing now is shelves and a door, which will be built next, and hooks and holders for hanging stuff, like the garden hoses, come late fall. I can stand up in it in every corner. There will be space to turn around in. The shovels and rakes and winter shovels will stay in the shed under the stairs, as will a few other things that are just too unwieldy for the new shed – but I’ll be able to reach them in the right order, now. I am in paradise.

Putting the roof on!

I’m sure the mice will appreciate it this winter, too.

Rasta supervising from the garden chair

 

For the blog, 19 June 2022: herondragonwrites.blogspot.com

Happy Solstice!

All photos Deb Marshall

 

 

 

 

Hiding Out Inside

 

It’s hot out, so I’m hiding in. My body and brain can’t deal with 50-degree changes in temperature overnight. And ever since I’ve become a woman of a certain age….ok, that’s not correct. Ever since I became a New Englander, so basically ever since I was born, I don’t do well in heat and humidity – I get crabby, then I get crabbier, my mind doesn’t work well, I snap at people and drop things, and, have I mentioned this yet? I get wicked crabby.

My mother, and her mother, enjoyed this weather. I did not inherit that gene, which apparently comes from the French side of the family. I got the Irish genes instead – give me cool and maybe a little rainy and I’m fine. Mom called me today and her first words were, “So – are you crabby today?” then proceeded to describe how hot it is, sitting out in her porch on the sunny side of the house, and how happy she is to be overly warm and how much she’s enjoying today.

I don’t want to hear it.

I’m half-way through the planting the garden “vacation” and it’s going slowly. This weekend and last were too hot, and then really windy, and then very cold nights. In spite of that, I’ve gotten, finally, all the cool weather things planted – late, because it’s no longer cool, but, oh well: peas, fava beans, onions, leeks, shallots, potatoes (I plant them in potato bags because potatoes are difficult in raised beds), broccoli raab, lettuce, kohlrabi, beets, carrots, and a few flowers. Yesterday morning I got up wicked early for me and went out while it was still reasonably reasonable and planted scarlet runner beans, zucchini, and summer squash. During last weekend and the week I had to plant the now-3-foot-tall heritage tomatoes I ordered from a seed company, begging them not to ship them to me until the very end of April because I can’t plant them out here safely until June. They sent them in early April, of course, and I potted them up, they lived next to the woodstove, and I shuffled them from one sun patch to another for a month.

Have you ever planted tomatoes flat? I haven’t had to in years, but half of these went into the garden that way. You dig a deepish hole for the root ball, a trench for the stem (from which you’ve removed leaves), and then lay the thing in flat. All the hairs on the stem will develop into roots. I propped the very top of the plant upright with a stick then plopped a plastic cloche over the top. Fingers crossed! It will work, barring cats deciding to excavate the stem, me forgetting where the stem is located and planting over it, etc.

I’ve also put in a couple hills of pumpkins, under cloches, and a couple types of shell bean, and yellow beans, all assuming that by the time they germinate, it’ll be warm enough. I still have green beans, lima beans, more carrots, parsnips, basil, cucumbers, cosmos, Love Lies Bleeding, sunflowers, Bachelor’s Buttons, nasturtium, winter squashes, nigella, calendula, and morning glories to plant. And I need to find some replacements for the perennials the chipmunks destroyed last year, little buggers. The roots of several lovely plantings were in the way of their tunnels, so they just chewed them off. AND ate all the parsnips one night, and the carrots twice.

Winter Savory

 

I’m not seeing many chipmunks this summer, which is the way of the world; and Rasta is on the job. So far he’s caught mice and a bird that quickly got away from him, but that helps, too. 

 

Well, not the bird, but since he only has canine teeth, if Biscuit doesn’t get involved, not much

damage is done to things that can fly. Unlike to my text and photo placement, which has just gotten weird and won't fix.

The lilacs finally bloomed yesterday, and from a distance in my hidey-hole, it looks like the flax bloomed out by the compost bins today. A few things I planted a week or more ago have poked up above their earthy bed: one row of carrots, peas, potatoes, fava beans. The rhubarb is up and even blossoming, and the asparagus has been cut-able this year (year four; you have to give it time to feed the roots for three years before you cut much) and soon I’ll be letting it go to seed, too. Winter and summer savory are up, one remaining parsley plant, catnip, dill, Egyptian onions, chives, mint, irises, the one bunch of tulips the chipmunks didn’t eat, Lady’s Mantle, thyme; daisys are about to blossom, the apple is in blossom and he cherry is past blossoming and the pear is about to blossom, but not the peaches yet. Wild strawberries are everywhere in bloom, and white violets, and the Johnny Jump Ups are wildly prolific this year. One of the bird houses on the garden fence has a resident, but I haven’t gotten close enough to discover what type, yet. 

The Manly Men Post-work Snacking

 

The Boys – here I’m referring to the manly men, the Husband, the Tall Guy, and the Scholar – have been taking out old trees and brush around the edges of the front and back 40, for several weeks now. The Tall Guy has himself a bright orange tractor that chips stuff and does other interesting things, and the result has been a couple of wicked big piles of wood chips, good for my three wild garden paths and mulching the blueberries; a pretty unrestricted view out the north windows to the road; and an opening up of the woods that surround the field that have slowly crept closer to the house over the years. In the process they uncovered the spot near the old barn foundation where I planted currants and gooseberries decades ago; it’ll be interesting to see what further developments arise.

I may be crabby, but my immediate world ignores me. Probably just as well!

 

For the blog, 22 May 22: herondragonwrites.blogspot.com

All photos Deb Marshall

The Orange Tractor, the Tall Guy, the Scholar (in black-fly hood)

 

Plantin' The Garden - Or That's The Plan!

Johnny Jump Ups have taken over several beds

 

Middle of May.  I’m on “vacation” – basically, two weeks off to get the garden planted, catch up on stuff, and with any luck also get some much needed mental  and physical rest.

So far: Buzzy Boy the excellent hummingbird is back from his winter travels – I found out when he dive-bombed me late one afternoon. Dive-bombing, buzzing pass-bys, and hovering are his ways of interacting with his humans, about whom and their doings he has some strong opinions. Buzzing pass-bys are his hello, dive-bombing means I’m not refilling his feeder soon enough or going back to the house from the garden in the evening when he thinks I should, and hovering takes place either when he’s peering in a window to see what I’m doing (he’s very curious about human doings), or when he’s saying goodbye for the season – always the day before he migrates, he’ll hover for a few moments right in front of my face.

I’ve planted out four of the eight heritage variety tomato plants, at least two weeks too early, but they’re all 2 feet tall at this point. I ordered them from a nursery  when I was ordering seeds, and included a note to them begging them to send them only in their last shipping date at the very end of April because I can’t plant them out safely ‘til June. Aaaannnd, of course, they arrived early April. As my Chinese medicine teacher used to say: Bastards!

Tomatoes hardening off

 I potted them up into quart yogurt and cottage cheese containers, because they were already too big for their 6-packs.They lived near the wood stove, and I’ve been shuffling them from sun patch to sun patch indoors ever since. Now they’re two feet tall, pot-bound, too tall to plant deep enough in my raised beds to make any difference, and too tall even for a large plastic cloche for protection. So out they go, fingers crossed, after a couple of days of hardening off on the back wart.

When it was the right time to plant peas and fava beans and lettuce and other cold-weather seeds, and onion sets and leeks and shallots and seed potatoes,  it was too rainy, too windy (it’s amazing how far an onion plant can fly), and below freezing at night. So those things didn’t get put in the ground at the right time, though I managed to get some of it done early in May. Now it’s too hot and too dry, and I just wish I knew why the weather gods are messing with us.

Clematis setting buds

I missed the lunar eclipse last night, it was too overcast to see, so missed that entertainment. I did, however, find a tick sitting in wait near the cat food bowl, and when I took it outside to crush (I keep a small, sharp stone on the deck railing for the purpose), I found another crawling up the inside of the door, which led to an evening of being certain I was feeling ticks crawling up legs and arms and torso and repeated tick-checks: the New Englander’s obsessive activity this time of year. Often with results – usually middle of the night. BTW, they don’t flush well, it’s better to crush them.  A patient told me she uses a lint roller on herself and her dogs before they go indoors after a romp outside. Doesn’t kill the ticks, you have to pull them off the roller and kill them, but it does pick up any on the surface. Brilliant.

It did rain last night and today’s humid. I’m having a hard time getting my butt in gear, and I keep reminding myself that this is, actually, vacation and only day 3 of 16, so it’s ok to take a day and, maybe , just sit under the wart tent (no blackflies where it’s covered) where it’s shady and there’s a small, nice breeze, and Biscuit’s been lounging for the past 3 hours,  and itch my blackfly bites and do tick searches, ponder poison ivy, and read something, maybe doze. This is hard – the remaining four heritage tomatoes are growing taller by the moment and shouting at me - not to mention the last batch of seed potatoes that I didn’t get to yesterday, the last package of fava beans, and all the other vegetable seeds that need to be planted now now NOW NOW NOW.

Today, the lilac blossoms are starting to show purple. The birds are singing, the hummers are busy, and I need to refill Buzzy’s feeder. There’s a load of dandelions in bloom in the back forty, and the grass has finally turned green, and the leaves finally came out. I’m told there’s a blue heron nest with a sitting Mom on it up the road in the moose pond. The bleeding heart plant’s in bloom, as is the Blue-eyed Sue. Asparagus are up and edible – I made an asparagus, fiddlehead, ramp, sorrel, mushroom, leek, and spring herbs (tarragon, winter savory, chives) soup this weekend. The peas and favas I managed to get in the ground earlier are arisen.

Lynx hiding in his ripped-paper pile

 The world’s going to hell in a hand-basket, but my garden remains about the same, minus (I hope) the roving gangs of chipmunks that decimated it last year.  I’m still finding and filling in their tunnels. And if I can find the coyote pee scent bottle, I may use some of that for good measure, though I don’t want to freak out the cats.

And now, a Covid update, because you need to hear this:

It’s on the rise again in NH and parts of VT – dozens of folks hospitalized, a big handful or two on ventilators, some dying. There are many dozens more people sick with Covid who haven’t been counted, even locally – no one reports the results of their rapid tests, so these folks aren’t included in the official state or CDC counts. There are currently dozens of those people locally with active cases of Covid – I know, because I hear about them, because of what I do for a living.

If you don’t want to catch it – and trust me, you don’t, for many reasons, including the risk of developing long Covid, the risk of passing it on to unsuspecting bystanders, the loss of income and community service, the risk of getting a really nasty and painful case of it, and the risk of the symptoms dragging on for weeks and weeks– no matter whether it’s required or not, don’t go into public buildings unmasked, and bring your hand sanitizer along and use it. Outdoors – depends. Wear a mask, try to stay away from the unmasked, and if it’s crowded, don’t go.  And let’s not make the mistake of assuming those allergy-like and mild-cold-like symptoms are either allergies or colds. If you have the symptoms, take a test.

No whining. Put on your Hero face, fight the good fight, and don’t doubt yourself if you’re the only one in the crowd wearing a mask – that just means you’re the only one in the crowd not causing medical issues that can be life-shattering or life-ending, and brave enough and smart enough  to do the right thing..

You always knew you were Special, right?

 

For the blog, May 16, 2022: herondragonwrites.blogspot.com

All photos Deb Marshall

Cinquefoil in bloom, yarrow leaves in background.