Sunday

Well, I overslept. Just a little. If on other days I let the chickens out by 6, today it would be a half hour later.

So I'm in a bit of a rush. Isis wants breakfast. Can you wait? No? Okay, but listen! I can hear the chickens squawking! I have to hurry!

I step outside. A beautiful day again! Maybe I should take a photo now... what's this?? The cheepers are running down the path toward me with an exuberant greeting, except wait: running down the path?? Who let them out?!

The better question is -- who forgot to lock them in last night?!

It's easy to forget. They retire to the coop, all is quiet, you think you've done it (actually Ed has been doing it most nights) because frankly, the routine doesn't vary and so there is an image imprinted somewhere in your brain that you did lock them up.

Thank you, racoons, possums, coyotes and whatever else could have made a meal of them overnight for staying away.

So, a pretty morning with four live chickens:











Lovely breakfast:






Boring beginning to the day: we wash the farmhouse upstairs windows. There are only seven, but it takes time, especially since I go out on the roof to do the outside panes (the windows swing in, but it's easier just to climb out). Ah, but it's pretty from up here!





And then it's the usual: planting, digging up raspberries for a Craigslist buyers (driving in all the way from Iowa! And again there were three children along for the ride and I was about to put Oreo away, but he seemed nearly asleep under the crab apple and so I let it go), finishing up mowing (it's a tedious multi stage process: today Ed did the front on the big mower and I tidied up around the trees and beds with the little mower), more planting, more watering.

And if this sounds terribly repetitive, remember please that just a month ago, toward the end of April, we were only beginning to notice the first buds on trees.

What a difference a month makes!
















And June will be different too. This year, because of my little one's wedding, I wont be leaving the country until the end of the month. But even as outdoor work will continue, it'll be of a different caliber. Finessing rather than overhauling. Tending rather than redesigning.


Evening. My older girl and her husband are here...







...and it's the first time that we decide to take our dinner foods outside.







The lilac continues to fill the porch with a spicy perfume. The birds provide all the music anyone could need. A gorgeous end of day. And yes, we remembered to close the coop for the night. 

between species

What a day! Martha the groundhog glared at me for a good ten minutes, Isis rekindled his predator skills by bringing a chipmunk into the farmhouse, and Oreo decided that young boys are a real threat to his three hens and so he asserted himself by flapping his wings wildly and jumping up and down on one foot, and basically scaring the daylights out of two kids.

So what was your Saturday like?

And the dawn was so ordinary. Or, ordinarily beautiful!






Ed and I both were there to greet the day. And to greet the chickens.






And we had a quiet breakfast, on the porch.






Again, not to drive you nuts with repetitions, but it really was a beautiful day.

Perhaps this is what gave us the will and the energy to work on the overgrown land by the sheep shed. We'd dug up the shrubs and saplings yesterday. Today, we return to pull up all the weeds and, more importantly, the fabric underneath a layer of soil -- put there a long time ago, to limit the spread of invasives (it didn't have the desired effect). Once a messy jungle, now an open universe, waiting for a  plant or two.






This is when we go inside to rest. But before we catch a single extra minute of sleep, we spot Isis, bringing to us his gift of a chipmunk.







I haven't a clue as to what should happen to the chipmunk now. Ed tells me he may only be playing dead. He picks it up and places is it in the rosebushes outside. Isis acts like it was all in the catch. The release is of no interest  to him.

This was only the beginning of   exceptionally interesting times.

There is the mater of Martha the groundhog. She has delivered babies and occasionally, you may view  them  playing just by the wood pile. But Martha herself is extremely camera shy. Once she catches you sneaking up on her, she runs and hides. Here she is, waiting for me to go away.


 



And here she is, tired of waiting, but holding her own. To the left? The chipmunk, carrying his own wee guys away from this suddenly very crowded place.






I wanted to say -- that's what you get for chomping away at my flowers, but I let it go. The chipmunk family was having a rough day without the added burden of my reprimands.


Meanwhile, my friend comes with her husband and three sons to pick off some raspberry canes. (Does anyone else want some? Special price for Ocean readers: a penny a piece!)

It's important to note that the boys' ages are very young,  somewhat young and  nearly done with grade school young. At first, the chickens are merely puzzled. There are suddenly more people fussing over them than ever before. But it doesn't take long for Oreo to realize that the visitors could well be predators, looking to make a meal out of his hens. Well now, time to act! He knows better than to show off in front of the nearly done with grade school older boy. But he is adamant about protecting his chicks from the curious interest of the littlest fellows.


It was quite a show. Both the rooster and the littlest fellows will remain traumatized for a long time. I'm sure of it.


In the evening, Ed and I build little cages around the emerging beans.






And I water the veggie patch and some of the newly planted perennials. In standing there with the hose, I smile at the recollection of the innocent message that children's literature often puts forth -- the one about the harmony that exists in the animal kingdom, where beasts, birds and butterflies coexist in the most friendly fashion. Fostering chickens shatters that myth. There are animals out there, ready to pounce on the chickens, at the same time that the birds and little creatures fly or run at the sight of  the chicks, for good reason. Each animal is both a hunter and hunted by others. Harmony my foot. It's a dangerous world out there!

Ridding myself of animal thoughts, I make a spring soup for supper that is purely vegetarian: onion, potato, kohlrabi, spinach. Oh, oops! It has a chicken broth base.

Like I said, it's rough to be an animal on the smaller end of things. Ask the chipmunk that Isis brought in. Or the little fellows who wanted to run around and play with the chickens today.

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.