it's how we work...

Up early. Too early. Don't you think 3 a.m. is early? I could have let the chickens out, but that would have been a shock to their systems. They love routine. 3 a.m. is not in their routine.

Will you find me repetitive if I tell you we had a beautiful day today? Sunny, warm but not hot -- exquisite! From the first golden rays of... whatever later hour it was. Maybe 5:30?











So, breakfast on the porch...











Then there are the Friday errands and meetings, but just after noon we are home again, ready to continue where we left off.





 
For me, it's work in the flower beds.





Yes, with Scotch's help.

I'm working not too far from the sheep shed and as I glance in that direction, I notice how weedy it has become. Maybe we should clear the space that faces the courtyard? There are leafy bushes that have sprung from nowhere. It can't be that hard to dig them out.

After a few tentative pulls, it become obvious that it is hard. There are saplings and there are trees with deeper root systems.

What? Stop now? No. We dig them all out.

 I wish I could tell you that we then go back to our regular gardening checklists, but in fact, we don't do that.  We're tired and, too, we're at a turning point: continue, or walk away from this project? Pull up the fabric under the top layer of soil and lay on chips, maybe plant some separated hostas... Or, ignore it all now that the bushes are gone?

And isn't it just like us  -- to walk by some corner of land, drop everything and without prompt or any discussion, begin work there? Because it feels right at that moment?

I think about how massive our efforts have been this year to control the spread of weeds. And how quickly it all can revert back to the less stellar times of dense foliage where mosquitoes hang out.

But I have to say, having invested so much effort in the makeover, all other maintenance will seem like childsplay.

Even though there's no childsplay in store for us this week or even the next. We pause now. I put away our old digging tools, Ed sits back and hangs with the chickens.







Tomorrow. We'll finish this new bit of repair work in one way or another tomorrow. Right now, I throw some corn to the brood and retreat to the farmhouse.

I'll end with one last photo -- of the lingering blooms of the crabapple, but really, of so much more!






And now if you'll excuse me, I have a back to stretch, sore arm muscles to indulge and hours of sleep to catch up on.

time

The sun is definitely closer to the western horizon and we are not done with our vegetable planting. Phew!

I start with this sentence because it sets the tone of my post: there just isn't enough time to attend to it all and this despite the fact that both Ed and I were up before 6 today.











Three acres is a lot to take care of. Tending to this amount of land really does require a Monet's family setup (he forced his numerous offspring to do much of the work around his inspired gardens). In the past, Ed and I have been willy nilly in our efforts, thinking that half an effort is better than none. That, unfortunately, proved to be misguided. If you plant trees and don't protect them, you lose your trees. If you have raspberries and don't prune them back, they run amok and you may as well have nothing. Or worse, you have a mosquito resort. In gardening, you have to set your goals high and make an effort to get to the finish line.

But the day is only so long.


In the morning hours, for us, there is always breakfast. These days, on the porch.





After? There is no routine, no set pattern. We talk about what comes next and then we plunge into it.

And so today is a grab bag of jobs: we want to return to planting vegetables, having stalled yesterday on not finding the right peas and corn seeds. Not so easy. Corn has very strict compatibility requirements. You cannot plant random corn seeds next to each other. And we had miscalculated which varieties are compatible. Phew! Lunch break is now handed over to studying corn compatibility tables.

And there is the matter of grapes. We thought we had a casualty among last year's grape plantings. Today we spotted a bud on the "dead" stalk. So the replacement grapes now need a new bed. Add to the list: grape bed building.

And mowing. With a hand mower. Tight spots around the veggies. Except I get carried away and mow random tight spots all around the property.

Do you see what I mean? Too many things, not enough time.

So let's focus on the upside. Because there is always that upside!

First of all, we did finish our veggie patch today: five rows of peas, six rows of corn, one supplemental bed of grapes. Done!

And the chickens mostly behaved. At least, they stayed away from the veggie patch while we worked there.






True, they would not leave my flower bed toward evening...





...but by then I was too tired to fret.


In case I give the impression of this being a month of all work and no smiles, let me forcefully say that this is not the case. Days like today are such a gift! Sunny, not hot -- really perfect. And as Ed commented -- today was probably the best day of the year in which to admire the lilac along with the crabapple. They are at their peak and the effect is stunning. Hard to capture them in one frame, but this might give you a hint of what it's like:






There, I need say no more. I'll just leave you with one last little pic -- one of my dizzy girl dianthus (that's my nickname for it): it's blooming now and if you can't smile at it's crazy hair, then you're just not a flower person!

hiding

Within the hidden courtyard of the farmette (see yesterday's post), secrets abound. The morning walk to open the chicken coop for the day revealed just a few. There are more. I'm sure of it.

But I can't say I am enthusiastic about getting up. Storms rumbled through late at night and, on top of this, Ed and I unintentionally strayed into some topic of conversation (possibly concerning mosquitoes, but I can't really recall now) that kept us going for a couple of nightly hours and so by 5:30, I am more tired than rested.

And yet, when I step outside into that misty world of heavy and heady lilac scented air, any reluctance to be up falls to the wayside.

It is a gorgeous morning.






In the later morning, I finally harvest our rhubarb. I hadn't planted it: it came with the farmhouse. And it really delivers!






In past years, I'd use only a small portion, but this year I'm motivated. What we don't want for now, I'll turn into rhubarb jam for winter peanut butter sandwiches. But today, I'm just making compote.






I cook it with Flower Factory honey (my favorite local perennial grower used to be a beekeeper in his previous incarnation) and then whip it up with Kefir for our porch breakfast.






You really feel spoiled when you watch the May sunshine throw zigzag patterns on the screen panels as you sip your rhubarb-honey-kefir coctail.  So spoiled that getting going takes a bit of an effort.






But we manage! The heat of the day (again in the 80s, though with a breeze today) keeps the chickens out of our path as they hide in the coolest and shadiest spots. Ed and I have three replacement trees to put in and this time Ed is ready with protective cages. It takes the hens a while to figure out that yes, we are digging and yes, there may be worms.






But they retire to the shade soon after.






We go on to plant more beans as well as peas along the newly built trellises.






The planting job's not done. We're missing a packet of sugar snap peas and I change my mind about the corn seeds and so we (happily, I have to admit; it's hot in the sun!) abandon planting in mid afternoon and retire to the coolness of the farmhouse for a nap.

That would end my account here, except that my thoughts and my camera file take me back to this morning. You know, when there were secrets to discover. For example, on my to do list there were the dead grape branches I was going to remove from the walls of the sheep shed. But no, it can't be done. Because in poking around there, I found this:






And, too, I began snipping off some of the spent daffodil flower heads. Had to stop that as well. Because of him:






I was less thrilled to see that this guy has stealthily returned to my garden:






He eats any number of flower leaves with a fury, outperforming even the chickens in the amount of damage to the flower beds. I remind myself that the yard is to be shared. I admonish him for hitting on the daylillies last night and then I turn away.

I'll leave you with just two or three additional morning photos. Those early images really stayed with me today. As you glance at them, think of a moment when the drops of rain still hang from lilac branches, even as the mist is lifting and the skies turn a pale morning blue. Yeah, heavenly.

secret gardens

If I mention a "secret garden" to you, what images are conjured up by this? The children's book by Frances Hodgson Burnett? For me, there's inherent beauty in the concept. Secret garden. Flowers, birds, privacy. Benches, bees drawing pollen from anything that blooms, berries growing randomly -- it is, to me, is such a heavenly image that I really cannot improve upon it.

But apart from this idyllic little picture, I can think of other gardens that are indeed secret. Two come to mind, right here at the farmette. And this became obvious to us this morning.

The first one was described as such not by me, but by someone who stopped by early to pick up something I was selling on Craigslist (I have an ongoing catalogue of used items there).

But let me back up and mention this: it is another beautiful day -- perhaps the first day that closely approximates summer.






Chickens clamor to get out so as to enjoy the morning. And, Ed and I have a lovely breakfast on the porch.






...though it's interrupted by a phone call from my Craigslist shopper. She pulls up shortly after 9 and our courtyard takes her breath away. True, the crab apples are blooming, the lilacs are just starting to flower -- all that helps. But what really caught her by surprise is the fact that when you drive by the farmette, you see none of our courtyard. You see the farmhouse, with a front entrance that's crumbling and in need of repair. You see large maples, a scraggly lawn. If you stare hard, you'll pick out a few lilies of the valley hugging the building. That's it. The magic of our growing spaces is hidden. You don't see any of it until you come to the end of our driveway. And then, boom! Quite unexpectedly, you step into a secret garden.











Very few of the flowers are blooming now, but it almost doesn't matter. The greens are fresh, the clumps of perennials so full of hope.








(the secret entrance: we ignore the front door and use this instead)


Our shopper tells us that if nothing comes of her purchase, it will still have been worth her while just to pause for a minute in this hidden, bird-filled secret space.


The other place that justly deserves this label is our vegetable patch -- the one at the far western part of the new orchard. It's where we will plant our tomatoes, our corn, cucumbers, peas and grapes. The chickens know it's there, but they never venture out to it. It's too far, too open, and today -- too sunny. And so while they rest inside the garage and then inside the barn, Ed and I go out and begin planting our tomatoes.






It is, in fact, grueling work in the heat of the day. Lots of bending, shoveling, moving about -- but I don't want to stop because I know that by evening, the day will be cooler and the chickens will be more curious. And if I complain about them free ranging in my flower beds, I can say with confidence that we would both be groaning very loudly if the hens hit our tomatoes with their sharp beaks and dinosaur claws.




 

Halfway into the task of putting the tomatoes in (50 more to go!), I have to stop. We leave our secret garden and take a refreshment break. Grape juice with lemon fizzy water -- the best thirst quencher on the planet! And watermelon! (The chickens love the leftovers.)






And I look outside and it is so still and peaceful now. And so lush! As if winter belonged to another planet. Never here, in this space of the most delicate flowers and shady trees.






In the afternoon, we return to the tomatoes. The heat keeps the chickens away again and we finish the job without their interruptions: 94 plants, in the ground. (We promise ourselves to cut back next year; let's aim for fewer than 50, shall we?)


It's evening now. I'm sitting on the porch writing this while Ed is putting away the paraphernalia of our garden work. This hour is a gift -- it's rarely so warm late into a May evening. You worry a little: will it last? Will it bring on the bugs? But mostly you sit back, breathe deeply and do nothing at all.

Monday

A colder day. From nearly every corner and perspective.

There was a time when temperatures in the high fifties would have seemed utterly luxuriant. When a breeze and a slight shower -- a sign of good things to come. When a walk through the farmette land on a pavement of green grasses -- heavenly.

Today was not such a day.

Yes, I let the chickens out at dawn...


 


... and they are happy.






Yes, we have breakfast on the porch. But it is a chilly breakfast. I nearly put everything back on the tray and retreat.





For the rest of the day, Ed hides out in the sheep shed and I hide out in the farmhouse and that is just fine, because that harmonious work pace we'd maintained has stalled, as if somehow the wind has derailed us and we can't quite climb back on track again. Not today, anyway.

The chickens are puzzled. Were is everyone? - they seem to say. Oh, they try to trick me! They amble over to the big flower bed and scratch and dig and I'm sure destroy more than one leaf out there. But I stay put, trying hard not to twitch in exasperation.

When Ed and I finally do come out, we focus on all the piddly things that are not working well this year: the asparagus bed that refuses to sprout asparagus. The strawberry bed with half the leaves chewed away. And so on.






By evening we are slightly more inclined to join forces again and labor on, but it is late and so we leave the farmette to go out to dinner - a real treat of mussels and fries downtown. It starts to drizzles and then rain and then flash lightening with loud rumbles of thunder. I'm sure all the noise and wetness caused the chickens to disappear under the cars in the driveway back home.






It was a warm and tasty dinner.

The hope is  that tomorrow somehow the winds will push us back into our working mode where I chop and he saws or I dig and he heaves or however else we have worked out this harmonious partnership that has managed to create a little bit of paradise around us.

Sunday

If I've raved about the weather on some previous days of spring -- forget those accolades. This day beats them all. Mostly sunny, a high of 73 -- what's there not to love?

Hi cheepers! -- that's the attitude I had walking to set them free at 5:30. Isn't it lovely outside?






Breakfast is on the porch, of course!






And then Ed and I attack our list of outdoor projects. And here's something I learned today: the chickens aren't as thrilled with "sunny and warm" as I am. They follow us to wherever we are working, but rather than pestering us no end, they park themselves in the shade and attend to their plumage. Or take a nap. Occasionally, one will come to me and give a halfhearted scratch of the soil. Tokenism. She really wants me to hand her a worm. She'll then retreat and join the pack. As if the begging itself was too much effort.



Oreo, watching


So we got a lot done today. Ed finished building the pea trellises, I nearly completed planting the flowers. We trimmed dead tree limbs, replanted the lilies of the valley, planted the replacement peach trees and an apple and cherry (having taken out the ones that did not survive our impossible winter) and randomly trimmed anything that stood in our path.



(the replacement peach trees are mere twigs)


We're being careful with our young fruit trees this year. Ed is building cages for them as we speak to keep the deer away.

Our list of projects isn't exactly dwindling. But I am so happy that the difficult ones are slowly being crossed off. So that only the zen-like ones remain. I mention this because I spent some time watering the new plants this afternoon and I remembered how much I love (yes, really!) just standing there with a hose and pointing it toward a flower bed. This is the best aspect of yard work: the satisfaction of having it come together, aided now by a misty spray of water.

In the evening we go to our home supply store (Menards) to pick up more wire fencing for our new orchard. While still in the parking lot, I watch a young couple hurry to a waiting car. There are two kid seats inside, but I can't tell if they're empty or with kids. The couple is loading up some painting supplies. She looks so stressed. I'm thinking -- it's Sunday evening, they probably have work the next morning, kids to feed yet tonight and this project that obviously cannot be completed by the end of the day. I wonder if in countries where families gather for the better part of a Sunday, home improvement projects are less popular. Because how else do you fit in everything?



(our neighboring farmers to the east)


Dinner -- a simple one of wild asparagus from various parts of the farmette (we don't know how it seeded, but we have scattered spears coming up in a number of places during May), of shrimp and sorrel and quinoa.






I look at my gardening list for this coming week. The transplanting of tomatoes alone will take up an enormous amount of time. And of course, any mowing will need a repeat performance. Ditto weeding. (To the commenter who suggested burning the prairie grasses -- Ed tells me that he tried that when he first moved to the farmette. All it did was strengthen the quack grasses. Our prairie is really only in part a true prairie. Most of it is overwhelmed by quack grass, mustard greens, Queen Ann's lace, rambler vines. Things that thwart a prairie. To start a true prairie, we would probably have to apply several doses of Roundup and then vigorously reapply it until all invasives were put to rest. We're not willing to do that, so we struggle with imagining something else. Maybe a clover field someday? We dream big! For now, I mow.)

So this is it -- what we look forward to all winter long. An immensely busy time of putting in place a garden. A raspberry field. A shady flower bed. Strawberry rows. A young orchard. Are the better dreams out there? Can't think of them. Not on days like this one.