Rainy Monday

Monday morning and another thunderstorm rattled me right out of bed at 7AM.  Checking the camera on my phone, I see Mom is still asleep, so I have some time to write.  

Carl and I had another sweat fest this weekend, especially on Saturday when the temperature soared into the 90's with high humidity. 

I've been a bit short-tempered lately which is, sadly, nothing new for me.  I try to curb my tendency to be a twat, but there are times when my impatience comes out in spades.  I truly completely appreciate Carl's help in the garden, indeed, this crazy jungle of ours would completely cripple only one gardener (in truth, we could use clones of both of us) but there are times when the two of us have 'words'.  

Saturday, being the hot, sticky mess it was, found Carl hauling pine needles from the Back Eight and me weeding in the adjoining hosta bed.  (Yeah, I know, why do we have so many hosta beds?  Why is that blasted garden so big?  Are we nuts?  Ok, we all know the answer to that question.)

Though Carl and I were only about fifty feet apart, conversation was proving to be difficult due to the proximity of the plants and rocks and trees.  And probably, though neither of us wants to admit our failings; maybe, just maybe we don't hear as well as we used to.  Carl grew up in a blacksmith shop and has worked in metal fabrication for 39 years and even though he wears earplugs religiously, I can tell you the shop he works in is a cacophony of alarming banging and grinding bedlam eight long hours a day.

I grew up on the farm and never heard of an earplug until I met Carl.  Though farming wasn't as deafeningly loud as Carl's work, I was exposed to a lot of loud noises too, especially with the tractors and field work.  Carl insisted I start wearing ear plugs after we married and I reluctantly agreed.  (Ok, he was right, everyone should wear hearing protection.)  

Be that as it may, I really don't think either one of us hears as well as we think we do.  

Carl would say something and I'd ask, "What was that?"  

He'd repeat what he said and I'd catch half of it.  

"What did you say?" I barked.

"Well, there's no need for you to be grumpy," Carl answered.

"I'm not grumpy, I couldn't hear what you said," I grumpily answered.

"Yes, you are crabby, what's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong, we just have too much to do and not enough time to do it," I muttered.  Grumpily.

"What did you say?  I didn't catch that," Carl said.

"I said, "We have too much to do before Wednesday."

"We have to go where Wednesday?"

"Oh, never mind!" 

"I couldn't hear what you said, what did you say?  Why are you so grumpy?"

Fun in the garden abounds here. 

Anyway, after apologizing for being grumpy, we went back to work, doggedly in pursuit of the gardener's dream, a weedless spectacle of horticultural perfection.  Ha ha.

We took a break for lunch at around 1PM and were enjoying a rousing adventure with Hoss and Little Joe running around on the Ponderosa on the retro channel when the phone rang.  A friend of ours from Neenah wanted to bring some visitors to meet us and tour the garden.  The visitors were some long lost cousins of mine whom I'd never met before.  

Oh, boy.  I wanted to meet my relatives, but the house, oh the house.  I admit I'm not the best housekeeper in the winter, but when summer rolls around, well the house is really on it's own.  The house is not pulling it's fair share at all, by the way.  It could try a little harder to remain tidy.

So, our next step was what Carl deemed a 'Scream Clean'.  My sons remember the term well.  I'm sure it is one of their most cherished childhood memories.  If I'm grumpy when it's hot and I'm gardening, you don't wanna see me when I have to clean the house in under an hour.

We pulled out all the stops and managed to sort of, kind of throw this place together.  I was doing dishes, Carl was picking up his tools and putting them away (What's that?  You don't have a carburetor on your dining room table?  I do.)  I moved on to vacuuming and mopping the floors, and ta da (after tossing a lot of stuff down the clothes chute) the house was presentable (I didn't dust) for company (if they don't look too closely.)

My cousins live in Florida, Ohio and curiously, Appleton, but the way we met was through a garden walk a year ago.  I was giving a group a tour through the garden and someone asked me my maiden name.  When I said what it was, one gentleman  in the group named Robert perked up, "That was my mother's maiden name."

Robert could pronounce Van Wyk perfectly.  (Most people cannot,  it's Wyk with a long Y, not Wick.  Just in case you cared.)  We started talking and came to find out we are second cousins.  We have to get together with the family tree soon, they have all the family records. 

We had a very enjoyable afternoon visiting.  The weather was too hot to work and just right for taking a nice break.

 I'm on the left, I'm also the youngest, but I look the oldest.

 First impressions mean a great deal.   (I left my knee pads, hat and most especially, the strap-on milk stool in the barn.  We don't need the relatives knowing how insane I truly am.)









 

Weeding On

Another day, another thunderstorm.  I took this picture tonight, about twenty minutes before a severe thunderstorm blew on through.  We were lucky, as far as I can tell most of the trees pulled through.  There were tornado warnings posted and the sirens were going off in town three miles away.  About ten minutes into the worst of the storm, we heard hail bouncing off the windows.  I didn't have the heart to go out and see how the lilies and hostas look, tomorrow will be soon enough.  Luckily the hail wasn't too big by the sound of it, I'd guess pea-size, but driven by high winds, even tiny hail isn't a good thing.

Today was a hot one in the garden, we were close to 90 degrees along with very high humidity to make it all the more uncomfortable.  Carl spent the afternoon mulching the Formal Garden while I was weeding in the hosta bed nearby.  We finished planting the Formal Garden on Thursday night and also removed twelve small 'Hetz Midget' cedars from the beds.  The cedars had become very open due to the shade cast by the 'Coralburst' crabapple trees.  The weird thing is, after Carl dug them all up, neither of us missed them at all.

The picture above was earlier this year, the cedars are on the ends of the six arcing beds. 

The 'after' picture, no cedars.

Three years ago I decided to line the outer walls of the garden with hostas to cut down on weeding.  I had one 'First Frost' hosta which I was able to divide into thirty-two separate plants.  At the end of each row of 'First Frost' plants, I added a 'Halcyon' hosta for color contrast.   For the first two years the planting was pretty sparse, but this third year things are starting to fill in.

'Gold Drop' was the other hosta I used to edge the dome wall and around the crabapple trees.  The entire Formal Garden will probably be a shade garden in time to come, but for this year, I planted fifty-three of my Supertunia Bubblegum cuttings for color.  We'll see how they do in partial sun. 

Being down on my knees weeding the garden looks so different.  

We've had a lot of visitors here already this year.  Last weekend the peony convention was in Green Bay and we had visitors from Washington state and Minnesota.  Though we weren't on the peony convention tour schedule, we were listed as an open garden in their literature.  (We weren't aware of that little detail, ha.)  The visitors were very friendly and seemed happy to tour our half-baked garden even though tools, lawn mowers, flats, weeds and buckets were everywhere.  We truly weren't in open garden mode, but we had no idea we were on the list.  I was sad the gardens didn't look better, but again, it is what it is.  

At least we had one peony open for their enjoyment, Peony 'America':

Even with all the wind and hot weather, the non-fading flower power of this peony made me happy.  This is one you definitely can see from across the yard.  I have some very old peonies here in the garden that used to belong to my paternal grandmother.  I never knew my grandmother as she passed away long before I was born, but every spring when the peonies bloom, I think of her.  They aren't open yet, but thinking about the longevity of peonies, it makes me smile to think my granddaughter Audrey will be the fifth generation to enjoy their fragrant beauty.  

Along with the garden not being in shape, the gardener is another scary thing to behold.  Usually before a garden tour I'm sort of cleaned up, but the visitors found me just as disheveled as the landscaping.  I don't have a picture which would be worth a thousand words, but here we go with the words instead:

My usual garden attire is pretty scary, but it's far weirder this year by a long shot.  The antibiotics I'm on for Lyme disease make me more sensitive to the sun, so I'm trying to cover every square inch of my hide with sunscreen and clothing.  This is proving to be quite the task since I carry a Felco pruner holster on my right side, a cellphone pouch for my new smartphone (so I can check on Mom while I'm weeding via the camera setup) a pruning saw in my left hip pocket and a fancy new ergonomic weeding tool in my right hip pocket.  In order to find a long-sleeved shirt that will accommodate all of this gear, I bought a bunch of extra-large men's shirts on the clearance rack at a thrift store.  The shirts could almost be dresses, but surprisingly, they're not all that uncomfortable to work in.  (However, I'm NOT adoring the long sleeves with this 90 degree weather.)

But wait, there's more:  I forgot to mention the newest and truly most bizarre piece of gardening equipment I've ever owned.  Introducing:

No it's not some kind of kinky chastity belt, it's a bonafide gardening tool.  You garden in it, or, on it, well, with it.  You sit on it and carry out your gardening chores.  Yep.  That's what you do.  And when you walk around, it comes right along with you.  And when you have a long shirt on, the curly spring sticks out like a pigtail.  Yep.  That's what it does.  (I will have to completely embarrass myself with a picture one of these days, but for now, your imagination will have to suffice.)

Can't you picture me bouncing around in the flower beds with this contraption?   (Imagine how surprised the peony convention visitors were to see me.  That's ok, I was surprised to see them, too.)

The stool was originally designed for milking cows.  You simply put the adjustable strap around your waist and wherever you go  the stool does, too.  I wasn't sure it would work, but after a week's worth of weeding using the contraption, I'm sold.  Though my tailbone isn't happy with sitting on anything hard, my knees are thrilled to have much of the stress taken off of them.  I can lean from side to side to weed or rest on one knee at a time, gosh,  I wish I'd bought one decades ago.  This was one of those purchases I put off because of the price ($90 with shipping) and taking a gamble on buyer's remorse, for what if it didn't make my life easier?  

Even the advertisement put it bluntly: 
Originally designed as a milking stool, the Wearable Garden Stool straps on like a pig tail to let you squat and spring from plant to plant. Save your back and knees from bending, keep your hands free for picking and planting, and adjust the nylon straps so you can comfortably walk while wearing the device. Just don't expect to look cool. 

They've got that right.  I definitely don't look Cool.  


                          

Progressing Slowly

Every day seems to blend into the next one and the only change is my location in the gardens.  After my medication run and visit with Mom this morning I walked home and went to work on planting annuals by the garage,  gazebo and the river bed.  It's not a huge area, but it took me a few hours to complete.  I must say it looked much better than before I started, that's always a plus.  The weeds were definitely present and accounted for, I ended up with five pails of them in such small space.

Carl had to fix the pan fountain on Sunday as the bottom holes needed to be soldered closed again.  He used some fancy brazing rods he bought a few years back, hopefully this time they will hold water.  So far the pans are all holding rain water, so I think he did a good job.

We'd had a touch of rain almost every day since last Wednesday.  On Sunday afternoon we were surprised with a fast moving thunderstorm which ironically didn't contain much lightning or thunder, but packed a wallop with winds over 50 mph.  Actually, I would have believed 70 mph the way the trees were bending.

Carl and I were planting the river bed when we noticed the sky turning navy blue to our west; all too soon the storm was upon us.  Carl had brought up a load of pine needles and I finished whipping them down on the ground around the Bubblegum petunias just as the cold raindrops began pelting down on my head.

Carl's 1987 Oldsmobile has brake issues (as in none) so he opted to head for the garage and see if he could fix the problem while the storm was raging.  I grabbed a few grapes and a glass of water and headed out to the front porch to watch the theatrics.  There's nothing I love better than to sit on the porch and watch it rain, it's usually very peaceful; usually being the key word here--Sunday's rainfall turned into a full-fledged blow out.  I was holding my breath as I watched our big birch tree bending in the roaring gusts, it's amazing how much trees can bend without breaking.  The noise was deafening, and almost sounded like a train in the distance.   At the first far too close crack of lightning  I moved back into the dining room from the porch, uncertain if I should seek cover in the basement.

I thought, well, Carl apparently isn't worried, he hasn't come in from the garage yet, so I guess it's not that bad.  I stood in the messy living room for a little while, looking at the stained glass lamps and wondering which one I should rescue just in case.   Then I looked out the window again at the trees thrashing around and texted Joel at his house, "Hang on, Joel, it's headed your way."

Joel and I spent many summer days storm-chasing in the past.  No he isn't one of those crazy people who gets as close as possible to tornadoes (thankfully we haven't had any tornadoes here since the barn went down in 1981) but he likes to get behind a storm and follow it for lightning and cloud formation photography.  I am always torn between wanting to go storm-chasing or staying home on my porch (or hunkered in the fruit cellar) to watch with horror as everything blows away.

We didn't get a lot of rain out of the storm, just tremendous wind.  Since Carl was showing stoic resolve staying put in the garage,  I decided I was being an alarmist and resumed my perch on the porch.   Along with the trees twisting in the wind, I watched with bated breath as my martagon lilies were flailed about.  Martagon lilies are relatively new to me, I think this is their third or fourth year in the garden and they are in full bud.  I've already protected them from the unusually hard freeze we had in April when they were three feet tall.  Now they're over five feet tall and I  hoped we could see them bloom without being blown to smithereens.

Finally the storm passed and I went outside dodging raindrops to survey the scene.  Surprisingly, we came through it with only minimal damage.  Only one of my twelve martagons collapsed, hopefully a few of the flowers lower on the stems will open.  This is Martagon 'Alba'.  Our good friend Leo grows this variety in his garden and over time they increase exponentially; quite the sight to see in full bloom.  Oh, well, there's always next year.

Coming through the hosta beds, I saw a strange mutation on one of the leaves:

 Probably some day soon, the way hybridization programs are progressing, but until that day, the mutation was a leaf off of a coleus 'Kong' that I'm growing in an urn nearby.  

  Could you imagine a hosta with that coloration?

After making a quick survey of the gardens, I ran into Carl going into the house.

"Well, that was enough wind to last us for a few years," I said.  "You sure were brave, staying in the garage the entire time.  I was thinking about going to the basement, but when you didn't come in, I felt silly going to extremes.  It's dark in here, turn on the lights."

"I can't turn on the lights, the power was out before the first lightning strike," Carl said.  "The only reason I didn't come out of the garage was because the electric garage doors don't work without power.  I was stuck in there until I could climb over the junk between our two cars to reach the service door.  Did you hear how loud the wind sounded?  I almost thought about going to the basement."

So much for me thinking he was Super Man with nerves of steel.

Hosta 'Liberty'

Later on Sunday evening, our friends Sharon and Duke arrived with a wonderful surprise, a six foot long piece of cut limestone from a hearth and a matching lintel.  I'm not sure what we will create from this treasure; they would make a lovely bench.  Carl wants me to try my hand at stone carving (?) I don't know when or how I'll get around to that hobby though it is intriguing.) 

Sharon and Duke brought us beautiful stones and we turned around and filled their nice pickup truck with a bunch of daylilies and mud.  Though I haven't written about it yet, we've been remodeling the lane bed, trying to pare down the daylilies to a manageable amount and move hostas into the territory to eliminate weeding a little more. 

Renovating gardens is exactly like the children's book, 'If You Give A Mouse a Cookie', if you take out the willow tree, you will lose the shade.  If you lose the shade, you have to move the hostas.  If you move the hostas, the daylilies are in the way.  If you move the daylilies, you have no place to put them, so you impose on family and friends to take them off your hands.  After the daylilies are gone, you still have to plant the hostas.  And boy, do I have to plant hostas!  I have at least five full wheelbarrows of clumps to get back in the ground.

And then a few pesky trees are in the way of the hosta planting, so then you get out the chainsaw and......

Wellll....you get the picture. 

It will all come together eventually. 

Hopefully before the first frost of fall.  

It Is What It Is

Six days into June already and things here are as hectic as ever.   We're in the midst of a rain shower right now, so I have a little time to write about the goings on here at the farm. 

We finally got most of the pines pruned (or deformed, if you scrutinize my pom-pom pruning talents) last weekend.  Carl's sister Mary and her husband Tom stopped in for a visit on Memorial weekend and kindly helped us prune for a few hours on the two mugo pines by the formal garden entrance.  

When that chore was finished, Carl and I moved on to ladders and the white pines down in the Quarry.  Mary and Tom visited with us while we worked.  Why did we let these trees get so tall?  Well, that was silly.  Our next gadget on the someday to buy list will be a three-legged tripod orchard ladder so we can reach the top of the pines.  

The entire ordeal with the white pines was my bright idea; we just wanted to keep them smaller, more in scale with the garden.  Yes, buying a slower-growing tree would have been the intelligent thing to do, but we didn't know much about dwarf conifers back in 2001.  So, being broke and wanting trees to soften the stonework in the Quarry, we transplanted three pines from the Back Eight, plunked them in the garden and sentenced ourselves to a lifetime of pruning them every May.   

Below is a crummy, out of focus, after sunset photo of one of the three trees we've been maiming for fourteen years. 

 I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to pruning despite interwebs research on the subject.   A Niwaki pruning expert would run screaming from the garden at the sight of my ham-handedness.  I've read that Japanese gardeners usually serve seven year apprenticeships before they are deemed experienced enough to take over pruning in prominent gardens.   

Seven years before they are allowed to touch a tree on their own.  Imagine the skill sets they must have by then.

We've been disfiguring the trees here for far longer, but still haven't learned much.  Carl has taken a much more studied approach to his tree; he has made cuts to guide the tree branches in the direction he wants them to go eventually.  

Carl's Tree in progress

 We have had many disagreements over the best way to prune, and I'm sure in the end, Carl's tree will be far superior to my specimen.  I tend to go at the chore with a 'hmmmmmmm....let's see what we don't need' attitude and my end result is rather alarming, but at least it's not really noticeable unless someone points it out.  I've been adding stones tied to old washline and draping them over the branches I want to slowly bend over time. 

My tree, Oooops missed a few candles

  In the famous words of (who said it first? I have no idea):

 'It Is What It Is' 

 The view from the top, if you're good at Where's Waldo-esque searches, you may be able to spot the three Scotch pine victims of my Felco pruners turned into poodles.  I took this picture sitting on the top step of our 12' ladder at around 8:45 PM.   (Yes, I know you are not supposed to sit on the top step.)   The scotch pines are volunteer seedlings growing on the east side of the Quarry, so we're not out anything if they die from embarrassment of their haircuts.

 Carl and I took turns on and off the ladder and with various pole loppers and Felcos.  The trees still need more work, but the major candle push is over with for now.   Every year I'm amazed the trees survive our assault, especially the lowest pine in the Quarry which often sits in water for a few weeks in the spring.

The other onslaught this year on most Mugo and Scotch pines was the black headed pine sawfly.  I don't know how many of those gross worms we mushed this spring, ugh.  Far too many.  They're hard to see until you bump a branch and suddenly the 'needles' rear up their ugly heads.  What tipped me off was the dead foliage on some of the branches, on closer inspection there would be dozens of the caterpillars literally stripping the needles of last years' growth.  There's always something to spoil the fun.

Well, the shower has passed over, so it's time to go back to work.  The annuals are calling my name.  Next week Wednesday is our first official garden walk of the year.   Grab a trowel, we've got work to do!

 

 

Springing into June

The clock struck midnight as I started writing tonight.  Ready or not, June has arrived.  Our first scheduled garden walk is June 15.  Oh boy, fifteen days to whip this disaster into shape.

 Carl pruning pines late Sunday night, I was on a ladder next to him working on my own tree and trying not to fall off my perch.

Since Mom's been home from the hospital, I've had to to get used to a new routine, but apparently I'm a slow learner.  My old routine for the last three years was to get out of bed in the morning and immediately apply workout clothes (yes, I actually do wear Spandex, stop recoiling in horror as you picture it in your head; hey, it's comfortable.) 

After swallowing my thyroid medication and a glass of water, I'd head into the living room and survey my perilously perched tower of fitness DVD's, hmmmm....which trainer did I want to have torture me today?  I have multitudes of choices, Leslie Sansone, Jessica Smith, Debra Mazda, and if I get really serious, Kelly Coffey Meyer or Cathe Friedrich for weight lifting which I should be doing three times a week. 

After picking one of the trainers, I would commit to a one hour workout, and if it was feasible, I'd also fit in a rebounding session on my mini-trampoline.  And to end the workout session, a thirty minute stretch with Miranda Esmonde-White.  I have four seasons of Miranda's PBS show on DVD which means I can have a different stretch almost every day of the year.  

I had to lay off the heavy weight lifting when my joints began to really bother me last October; I'm sad about it, but until I get this Lyme disease under control I don't want to risk doing any more damage.  My heavy weights are upstairs gathering dust along with my Craigslist gym machine, but I have high hopes I'll get back to it by fall.  Seeing what hard work and heavy lifting on the farm did for Mom, I know it's a must for me, too if I want to be mobile in my old age.  

I used to go to our church for the Monday and Thursday exercise class, but the last time I was there was January.  Amazing how fast time flies, it's been almost six months already.  I quit going when Mom was in the hospital because the timing wouldn't work out and because I wasn't feeling well.   

When Mom came home from the hospital we had the visiting nurses coming several days a week in the morning and Mom needs her medication right away first thing, too, so now my routine is all kaput.  Now I get out of bed and swallow my medication.  Then I   locate the small backpack Mom's meds are kept in, put the straps over my head and traipse the quarter mile up to her house, picking up her newspaper from the box on my way in the driveway.

 Heading west to Mom's

I keep her house key attached to the medication backpack and unlock her door.  I tromp loudly on each step as I try to make my arrival known.  Unfortunately, I'm not noisy enough.  Mom, usually perched in front of the east window with her back to the door is always startled by my sudden appearance even when she knows I'm coming.  She nearly jumps off her chair when I walk in.

"OH!  You scared me! I never heard you coming!  Did you walk down the road?  You did?  I never saw you," she says, completely astounded every day.

And every day I reply, "Yep, I walked right down the middle of that old road, sassy thing that I am."

"Well, I never saw you, and here I'm sitting in front of the window, I must be getting old."

"Nonsense," I say.  "You're not getting old."

I quickly move to the refrigerator and retrieve one of her two hospital mugs filled with water.  I open up her pill dispenser and dump the contents of five pills into her outstretched palm.  Then I try to divert the conversation to whatever is blaring on the TV so she'll hopefully not be upset about the medication and swallow them without incident.  I gave up giving her the vitamins and probiotics, the extra five pills were causing her far too much anxiety.  She made it to 95 years old without supplements, and she hasn't complained about her stomach hurting, so I'll leave well enough alone for now.

After we have the pills down, I talk to her for about a half hour and then it's time for the blood pressure readings and get her to jump on the scale for a weight reading.  I usually spend an hour or two with Mom in the morning before I head home to get on with my day.  Her weight has been a worry; she's teetering around 98 to 102 pounds.  I'd like it to be over 100; I don't want her to lose any more ground.  

She's been painting up a storm again though it took a lot of convincing to get her started back in February.  She had a paint by number of the late Thomas Kinkade's 'Garden of Prayer' to work on, but she said it was too complicated, the spaces were too tiny, she just couldn't do it. I finally told her if she didn't want to work on it, it would go to waste because I don't have time to oil paint and neither does Carl.  Thankfully she took the bait and started painting again under protest.

Carl told her she had to have the painting done for this gardening season 'because we are going to display it at garden walks to show people the picture that inspired our formal garden'.  (The picture did inspire us, by the way, this isn't just malarkey he was pulling out of his butt to keep my mother busy, but I know we won't display the picture outside, too risky with the weather.)  

Once she got started on the painting she was addicted and every day another square inch or two came to life.  Finally the day came when she declared her work finished.  

"You're not going to keep this picture outside, are you?"

"No, we won't keep it outside," I promise.

"Carl said you were going to display it by the dome in your garden, did you know that?

"Yes, we could, but only when we have walks on nice, sunny days, and we'll keep it in the dome itself, out of the weather." 

Ok, Carl convinced her we needed the painting desperately for tour purposes, but it's what it took to get her motivated to paint again.  I wish our garden looked as ethereal as Thomas Kinkade's painting, but we do the best we can with what we have to work with.  Mr. Kinkade's garden paintings are all gorgeous. (And not a weed in sight.)

I told her she did a beautiful job, and though she pooh-poohed it, I know she was pleased.   Now that her confidence is back, she's moved on to repainting my garden lanterns, freshening up the color schemes.  She loves to be artistic and it gives her something to look forward to.  She loses herself in the process and that's a blessing.  

I find I lose myself while weeding in the garden; my aches and pains are still there, but all my troubles seem to vanish as I work.  And since I'm already on my knees, I do a lot of praying while I weed.


 

  I do believe the saying, 'We are closer to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth.' 

 Spring has sprung, and with it, new life.  I think of our infant granddaughter while I'm working, and I smile.  

Abby sent me this picture of Audrey and her Daddy yesterday and I had to stop and wipe away happy tears.

 Is there anything sweeter?

I am blessed.

No Roots, No Money

Memorial Day weekend has come and gone again.  We're quickly speeding into June and things cannot get done around here fast enough.  Sometimes it seems as if we're running a marathon that never ends.  

The garden has an overabundance of weeds again this year, but there's one weed on this farm that cannot wait which leads me to my next ramble down Memory Lane: Farming Edition.

 Last Thursday afternoon, I was on my way up to Mom's to fetch the 574.  Carl and I had some dreams about fixing up the lane bed and an unruly old gnarly juniper needed to go.  The best way to achieve these dreams of ours is with a tractor and a bunch of chains; that way there's no stumps to deal with.

As I walked down the lane toward Mom's, I noticed yellow flowers growing in the hayfield on our west fence line.  

Yellow Rocket.  My arch enemy.  

If these plants go to seed, in time the entire field will be infested with the weed.  Oh, no, this will never do.

  My father had an obsession with all the weeds on this farm but anything that blossomed yellow was especially hated.  Back in the day we didn't spray our fields for weed control; most weeds were controlled by tilling or in the case of a hayfield you didn't want to drive equipment into, hand-pulling.   

My earliest job on the farm was 'pulling mustard'.  (Mustard will be blooming next, in June.  Yellow Rocket comes first.)  Dad would send me out into the field with a promise and a stern warning, "I'll pay you a penny a plant for every one you bring home BUT they all better have roots on them, don't go out there and just yank the tops off and expect to be paid!  No roots, no money."

I would sally forth out into the alfalfa field and scan the green field for yellow flowers;  going from plant to plant, covering acres of ground in search of my income.   The hay (or oats) could be way over my knees and make walking difficult, sort of like wading in the surf of a bizarre green lake.   

Alfalfa field last fall, how green is my valley?

If we had a bad year (or a good one, depending on whose side you're on) I would barely make a dollar for my troubles and I could carry home the carcasses with ease.  But some years Dad would purchase oats and alfalfa seed that had the weed seeds included, and then I'd have a bumper crop.  I'd have to make heaping piles on the fence line to come back for with my wagon because they were too heavy to haul across fields.  

By the time I got back to the barn, I'd be soaking wet from sweat and the dew still in the tall alfalfa.  My tennis shoes would be making squishy noises as I plodded down the barn alley. I remember solemnly bringing the weeds to Dad for inspection.  I always laid them out in piles of fifty.  

"How many you got there?" he'd gruffly ask.

"I counted 223."

"223, you sure?" He'd squint his eyes and look at the piles, kicking them apart with the toe of his workboots, scanning to make sure I had the roots.

"Well, I suppose you can count that high," he said.  "You got all the roots out?  You didn't just bust them off?"

"No, I got all the roots, you can see them there."

"223, well, that works out to what? $2.23?  At this rate I'll go broke paying you to pull the damn things," he'd say as he gave me two dollars from his wallet and dug for change in his bib overalls.  

"Here's fifty cents, you can keep the change."

"Did you want to count them?" 

"No, I don't want to count them.  I'll take your word for it.  But you better be telling the truth about getting those damn roots."

 

 Fast forward fifty years, and look who's still pulling the damn weeds.  I couldn't help thinking Dad was watching me as I went wading through the alfalfa field in search of the telltale yellow flowers. 

Luckily, neither Yellow Rocket or mustard have very deep taproots and they do pull fairly easily if the ground is damp.  Usually in late spring, we've had enough rain to make pulling the buggers less of a chore, but up until this weekend, we'd had three weeks of dry weather and the ground was as hard as a rock.  

I was cussing them out as I'd pull and the stem would break off.  "No root, no money," I could hear Dad's voice in my head.  I had my trowel on me and went after the blasted roots with a vengeance.  There, take that, gotcha now.

After forty-five minutes of pulling weeds, I checked my phone for the time and knew Carl should be home from work.  I called and asked him to bring the lawn mower and the trailer so we could load up the weeds to take home for burning.  Carl came up to meet me driving up the creek bottom where the hay is sparse so we didn't trample down any alfalfa.  Once he arrived, we worked for another half hour before we were done and Carl headed home with a heaping trailer full of yellow blooms. 

Carl tossed them on the burning pile for me when we got back home.

"Did you count them?" he asked.  

"No, I didn't."

"Looks like some of these are missing their roots," he said as he inspected the haul. 

"The roots are there," I said, "I dug them out separately."

"Well, don't expect to get paid twice for roots and stems.  That's not how the system works," Carl said.  

 "Yes, I know."  

No roots, no money.

 

A Precious Arrival

First comes love.

Then comes marriage.

Then comes a sweet bundle of joy in a baby carriage. 

Carl and I are very happy to announce the arrival of our first grandchild. 

 

Audrey Helen Vanden Heuvel

Birth Date: 5-27-16

Time: 2:21 PM

Weight: 6 pounds 13 ounces

Length: 19 3/4 inches

Proud Parents:

Joel and Abby Vanden Heuvel

Proud Grandparents:

Brian and LeeAnn Reindl

Carl and Karen Vanden Heuvel

Abby and little Audrey are doing fine, we are all thankful for a safe delivery for them both.    

 She is so sweet, so tiny, so perfect.  And she has the longest eyelashes and beautiful dark hair like her Mommy. 

 Carl and I arrived at the hospital just in time for Audrey's first bath.

 We are blessed.