repeat blooms

In glancing over the photos for this day you'll think -- is it all about flowers now?







Yes. Now is the time for flowers.

[By the way, two of the earliest bloomers are plants I wintered over in the sun room. They are not hardy and I had wondered if they would stay with me if I potted them and took them indoors and the answer is a resounding yes! Here they are,  survivors of the Wisconsin winter: a nasturtium and a gaura.]











But these flower photos -- they're surely just the visuals. Something happens to you when you spend so many hours tending to a farmette. You throw that stream of water from the hose onto a dry bed and your mind pauses for a while. You think about this or that, or not much of anything. You slow down. You unravel tight knots. You figure out the next step.






I know that I am not very adept at sticking to boring tasks, so how is it that I can spend hours (and I do!) pouring water over tender plants and feel afterwards that I accomplished something big?

It was, in so many ways, a very ordinary day. A premature wake up (some combination of Isis and early sunlight and Ed reacting to Isis and early sunlight). A predictably delightful breakfast on the porch, made special because minutes earlier, I had just finished baking a batch of granola.



 

The power company comes by and dumps a truckload of wood chips at the end of our driveway. (When they do tree trimming around power lines, they shred the limbs and look for volunteers who'll take the wood scraps -- at any time and in large quantities. We do. Happily.)





Then comes a period of settling in -- an intense time of exam reading.  Really, not much more than that for hours on end. I do hop on rosie to go to the post office, but that's a small little sidestep. Mostly, I sit on the porch and read exams.

In the evening, I'm out with the hose. Ed goes off to ride his Wednesday night bike ride, but before he sets out, we stop to admire the great old apple at the edge of the driveway. She is a prolific bloomer, even if her apples are nothing to write home about.






We do one of our arm's length shots to commemorate this perfect moment of her most perfect blooms (yes, Ed is that much taller than me).





And after, I water flower beds and this brings me back to the beginning of this post -- how is it that watering something can be so darn satisfying??

on the porch

Out on the porch, in the late afternoon, the air is still. Warm, very warm. A tonic after the cold pre-spring. A gift, really.  No big winds today. It's like the world outside is taking a summer siesta.

If yesterday Ed and I strained to get work done out in the fields, today is different. After a delightful breakfast on the porch...










...I take rosie to campus to tidy up paper details and bring exams home. I'm giving myself three weeks and not a day more to finish grading a very hefty stack. The way to accomplish this is to plunge right in and do a big load the very first day. And so that's what I'm doing. Out on the porch. My first day of grading...

...while the daffodils keep their dance going and the buds of their neighbors are getting confident enough to keep shooting up.









I have my laptop near me and as I sit and read exams, my Skype phone rings and it is my sister and she, too, is out in the country. She's in the village house in Poland that was once my grandparents' home. It's where she and I learned to love the outdoors. Trees, flowers, growing things. I have to shake my head in wonderment at the passage of time, because when we were kids, there was no running water, no electricity, not any of it and now she tells me that in this same village she has a choice of internet providers (even though the place is remote enough that it still has no paved road running through it).

My sister and I are in cahoots to put in order my citizenship papers without the aid of the soulless bureaucrat sitting in the Polish Consulate office in Chicago. When she describes to me how, when presenting my case in Warsaw, she was aided and assisted by truly helpful office workers, I think how different and pleasant life would be if we could always turn our backs on the obstructionists and grumpy naysayers out there!

By evening, I take a grading break and I water the poor flowers that are just not sure what to expect, weatherwise. From frost, to 91 degrees, all in the space of a day. What next, they want to know. What next?





I have no answers.  We soldier on no matter what and do the best we can, no?

A supper of Thai take out. And an eye toward the rest of the week -- we're in for days of sunny skies and mild temperatures. A gift. A real gift.

after the cold

At 4 a.m. Ed asks -- should we look at the thermometer?
No, I don't want to know!
A few minutes later I change my mind: alright, I want to know!
He stumbles downstairs. Ready for it?
Tell me!
29.4 degrees.
That cannot be! Weather.com says it's 34!
Maybe it is that where they are.
Maybe our thermometer is broken! Or in an odd spot. Maybe you could move it?
He goes outside and moves it to a different spot.
It was wet with dew...

So it got confused! What is it now?
32.
You see? It's not below freezing.
Well, it just slivered down to below 30 again...

In a sense, it doesn't matter if it's 34 or 29. It's too cold for the tomatoes and the flower pots. I brought the flower pots in. The tomatoes? Well, all we can do is offer them cover: they have been huddling under blankets. Who knows to what effect.

We spend the rest of the night exchanging updates on what the temperature should be, is, will be. And, too, we attend to Isis inclinations. In. Out. In. Out.

But, soon after dawn the sun does its work well. The temperature appears to be running to get out of the cold zone. By breakfast time it passes fifty.

A celebration: pancakes for breakfast!





And now comes the job of uncovering the tomatoes and it should come as no surprise that some seem to be fine, while others appear to be dead as anything and that's a shame, but not a total disaster as we have a handful of still others to plant. The hope is, of course, that the cold did not shock the tomato productions system of even those that made it through the night. That's the hope. I'll let you know come harvest time in August.

I should note that the peas, sown from seed, have sprouted and appear to be completely unphased by this weather nonsense.


So long as we are in the back of the farmette,  Ed suggests we finish pulling up honeysuckle. After all, we may have missed some shrubs in the Great Pullout of last year.

It is at this time that I give a little tug to a vine with sprouting leaves. A small act with huge consequences. It looks as if it's one of those random vines that appears innocuous, except that by the end of the summer it manages to choke every living thing in its path. I pull it up and up and up and I see that it is connected through thick cables of roots, just below the surface. Indeed, the entire meadow is like a maze of vine growth and it is so like us to drop everything and devote all our energies to the project of eradicating the invasive vines!

At times, we just haven't the strength to pull it out on our own. We team up and heave at it together and mostly we are successful and at other times we need the shovel for help and the whole job is so intensely laborious and back breaking that I truly think we are somewhat insane to plunge into it with any degree of enthusiasm.






It was cool outside when we started, but we are now hot as hell from the exertion and when we think we're done, we find new vines, hidden deeply in the quack grass and so we spend hours like this: pulling, heaving, sometimes falling back when the root gives way, sometimes cursing in frustration as it remains firmly wedged in the clay soil.

But we get the job done. We clear the back field of honey suckle and menacing vines with roots an inch thick. Yay us. (I say this with some degree of bemusement because really, in the scheme of things, does it matter?)





(Here I am admiring two more stalks of random asparagus.)



Afternoon. It is time for the final stage of planting for me. Oh, sure, there'll be adjustments and seeds to sow and weeds to pull in future days. In other words, there will be maintenance. But today is my last day of big time planting work -- to finish off the huge bed leading to the sheep shed (as best as I can on this year's budget -- the strawberries helped!) and to plant a few flowering bushes by the side of the road.



(Isis, watching it all from the sidelines)


And now the light fades and we are both so very tired that even driving for take out seems an effort. I scavenger the refrigerator for leftovers and we sit back and almost instantly Ed falls asleep while I struggle to put a post up on Ocean.

preparing

The forecast for the second night of the unusual cold just keeps getting worse. This afternoon, I read what no hasty gardener wants to read about the night air: expect frost.

Happy Mother's Day to you, too!

Farmer Lee has co-opted all generations of her family to help cover the strawberries.





Our berries aren't advanced enough to require protection. But our tomatoes!

Let's consider the upside:

Breakfast: a lovely meal, as always. 






Outside, the light is brilliant!











Ed and Isis are in high spirits...






We work. I, on my various flower beds, Ed -- digging out stumps and who knows what else out back. For example -- consider this piece of something someone left behind, buried, until today:






This is the time that Ed and I are at our most jovial, most spirited and prone to banter. (And when he is least complaining about my photos of him.)






A solid day of work outside and before you know it -- it's evening. My older girl comes with her husband for dinner. (We had decided to celebrate Mother's Day next week, when my little one and her fiancee will be passing through.)





After the meal, the light quickly fades. I walk the farmette grounds one last time, sending a good vibe (I hope) toward the tomatoes.






Such a beautiful day it was. I'm holding my breath for a gentle night.

against the cold

A blustery day. The kind you associate with the month of March. Then you'd say -- oh, this isn't so bad for March. Now, you just want to stay indoors until the Arctic air that's causing this has moved on.

Breakfast in the front room.






We tick off all that we want to accomplish outside, though neither of us is in a hurry to get started. In fact, I turn my back on the yard and go to yoga.

On the way to the practice, I pass farmer Lee's fields. I note that her strawberries are doing well. But why the straw around the plants? To ward of the cold? The chipmunks? The birds?





Most of the strawberries we planted at the farmette, by contrast, are such tiny things! They're just now throwing out a first leaf or two. One of the sets we planted was completely dead and Ed makes the trip to get a refund (of course he does), only to come back with extras. So now we have a dozen bad plants to dig up and replace and a dozen extra ones to find a home for.

But that's not the main focus of the day. After yoga, the skies clear and even though the air is brisk, it's warm enough to take out the shovel and get to work. Now that the bulk perennials have arrived (bare root hostas, astilbes, irises, daylilies -- a dozen of this, a dozen of that...) I am eager to finish up the little bed to the side of the brick path.





I have spent almost as much time on redoing this bed as I have on creating the new one leading to the sheep shed. Established flowers that really did not belong in a shady spot had to be moved out. weeds, old fabric and awful soil had to be removed. New plantings brought in. A huge effort, but one that pleases me no end because it finally will make use of flowers and plants that belong exactly in this kind of environment.

You can't spot any of my work. Planting bare root flowers means you cover them with dirt and then you wait, patiently, until the first bud breaks ground. But I know they're there and that makes me very happy.

We fuss then with the strawberries and by the time that's done, it's nearly evening and we can't put it off any longer: time to provide protection for the tomatoes. A low of 33, two nights in a row. That's ten degrees lower than what they can tolerate. The game plan: upside down plastic pots (leftover from years of purchases), covered by scraps of quilts, blankets, plastic sheets.






The wind is so strong that I'm thinking even the bricks we put down wont keep the covers from flying off. We do the best we can.





We'll come back on Monday to assess the damage.

The wild turkey watches, shakes his head and moves on.


 

growing things

You could say we're working both ends of the weather stick: on the one hand, we're forging ahead with May plantings. On the other had, we're watching with trepidation as the cold front approaches.

Breakfast is in the sun room, but not for reasons of any sunshine. Not today. They said cloudy and cold and they meant it.





In the meantime, there are cardboard boxes on the porch, waiting, waiting. One has cherry trees, the other has bulk perennials, waiting...

We ignore them. Ed has work, I have work, stuff to do, chores, work chores, all that.

And the skies stay a wimpy gray and the wind makes the air all that much cooler.

Late lunch. I make pb&j sandwiches. Maybe we should plant the trees?  -- this from Ed and he says it not without enthusiasm. As if working in the yard on a cold spring day is a gift. And maybe it is. There isn't the heat of the sun pounding at your back as you dig into the clay soil.

Trees in boxes... Wait, how many? Ed??

I have found his Achilles' heel: planting young trees. Fact is, the man who never likes to buy things, not ever and especially not new things, has in this case overbought. We had four cherries to replace. True. But I'm counting the arrivals and I see eight new ones. Plus four (and I hope only four) additional pears coming in next week. And grapes. Did I tell you we're starting to grow grapes too?

I stare at him now, trying hard to suppress a smile. But, but, they were such a good deal! And look! These are splendid! Tell people on Ocean to buy from Grandpa's Orchard in Michigan!

You might wonder -- what will we do with all the farm produce? We freeze tomatoes, okay, so maybe we can justify planting seventy tomato plants (the seeds were just so... prolific!), but all this fruit -- who'll eat it?

Me, I never can quite imagine that it will come to be in the way that it's supposed to be. You plant more because you'll get less than promised. That's a Polish mindset. Ed plants because he is a fan of growing things. Too much fruit? Not possible. He talks about having a stand by the road with fruits for sale.

Okay, I can see it! I tell him: a pretty little shed maybe? With tags describing the varieties?
Now wait a minute! Let's stay basic: a card table will do!

We're getting ahead of ourselves. At this point, our new orchard is full of sticks. The apples and pears survived last year's drought, but they barely grew. This year's additions are also in the baby stages of tree-dom. Here's a photo of Ed tidying up a planted cherry. (The observant person will notice that we have a wild asparagus stalk growing right at its base!)






It's not supposed to be extremely cold tonight. The two killer nights (as far as tomatoes go) are tomorrow and the night after. Get us through this weekend and we'll sail home with a smile!


Elsewhere on the farmette, trees are really coming into their best moment of blooms and delicate greens.






This is truly the month for the sweetest, gentlest petals. All pinks and whites. How can you not fall in love?










The rains had trampled down a number of daffodils, but that's okay -- it gives me an excuse to bring some home.






Tomorrow we'll attack the perennials. And we'll build cold weather shields for the sensitive tomatoes. Tomorrow. For now, a supper of our usuals, with asparagus for sure. In the mixture, there are a total of two stalks that we found on the farmette.

oh oh

Rain. Good. Work time. Indoor time. While the flowers and plants outside thrive.






Well, maybe.

Let's start at the beginning. Breakfast indoors, in the front room. Very leisurely. Neither of us feels compelled to rush.











I go outside just for a minute. The rain is almost almost upon us. You feel the wetness in the air.






Appointments, work -- time slogs on. From hyper physical exertion of the past days, I switch to sitting still most of the hours of the day. (Yuk.)

In the late afternoon, we go to the Fitchburg Farmer's Market. It's cold and the rain is coming down hard. Not many farmers show up. Not many shoppers either. But our asparagus farmer is there and her asparagus is fresh and suddenly the market is transformed into a place of hope.





For a while anyway. Later, the day returned to being one of worry. We're preparing for Saturday and Sunday nights -- both will bring the temps into the thirties -- far too low to sustain a tomato crop. Now, you may tell me -- cover your plants! That's easy if you have five. Or fifteen. We've got a good seventy tomato plants out there, so we have to be creative!
Ed, this is your task; You pick the strategy, I'll help you implement it.
I'm on it!

In other news, our replacement cherry trees  arrived, my winter order of bulk perennials arrived -- all are sitting out on the proch waiting for kinder gentler times.

Ed and I have a lot of garden work in the week ahead. And that's a VERY good thing.

the daffs have it

There's so much more to these days than just the daffodils, glorious as they are. But, I stayed up late to post last night, got up early to plant and weed this morning and so I am now without oomph.

Much of this post will be, therefore, about daffodils.

With the occasional shot of Ed thrown in. Like at breakfast.







Oh! In this next photo of the entrance to the farmhouse -- you're not noticing the daffodils either. I've reconceptualized the perennial borders here. The plantings  have to be responsive to their environment: very little sunlight filters in once the trees have full leaf cover. In anticipation of the spring overhaul, I did not plant many daffodils here last fall.





This border -- not finished yet! -- was perhaps the hardest of them all for me this spring. Fabric, overgrown with weeds had to be dug up and removed, without disturbing the roots of the few flowers I would leave behind. Successful? Well, if you allow yourself to let go of the occasional casualty, then yes. Next year I'll let you know if the new plantings were suitable for the fickle lighting here.

In other spots at the farmette, the daffodils -- singles, doubles, white, orange, cream --  they rule in May.






So magnificent. And unpredictable, too. Here are some random stalks that tipped over in the bad weather of ... whenever it was that we last had bad weather. I cut them down and put them in my little vase.





Tomorrow, my digging, pruning, transplanting -- all pause as a cold front moves through. That's okay. I can admire spring from inside. I can catch up with written work, I can hatch plans for the next stage of this planting mania.  In the meantime, take in the daffodils and remind yourself how not that long ago, there was no sign of spring, of blooms, of all the beautiful pale yellow, orange, white that we see today.

It's a remarkable world out there. Even as now, it seems that it's all about the daffodils.