Welcome Spring

Our maple sugaring season came to a close last Tuesday, with the boiling down of thirty six gallons of sweet sap into syrup.  The day was a balm-- sunny, and relatively warm, with temperatures rising up into the upper 30's (F), the robins and cardinals singing, and the enthusiastic warble of the house finch ebulliently announcing spring from the tops of utility poles and spruce trees.  

Since we tapped our first sugar maple, the broad, old granddaddy sugar maple, in late January, I have made the rounds, towing buckets sloshing with sap in a garden cart, visiting 6 maple trees spread up and down Hawk's Hill, marking output at every stop in a notebook, and hauling the sap to a lidded plastic trash can tucked in the north shade of our old trailer.  

The persistent cold kept the sap from flowing much until the last few weeks, but then the days above freezing and the nights below freezing got the sap dripping into one gallon plastic water jugs or sliding down the vinyl tubing into 6 gallon super-buckets with lids.  Some days I arrived to find gallon jugs filled to overflowing with sap. Though the cold shortened the season, the icy temperatures froze the sap, and we were able to concentrate the sap for free by just removing the ice chunks (mostly water).  

Once we got critical mass in the sweet sap-- 30 gallons -- we watched for a good weather day.  The ideal day is not too windy (for fire safety), with no precipitation (my evaporator site is out in the open), and warm-ish.   The night before boiling down the sap, I raked dead grass thatch away from the evaporator site, shoveled out last year's ashes and charcoal, and reassembled the fire bricks and the new stovepipe chimney.

Our maple sugaring set-up follows the thrifty plan -- second hand fire bricks from a construction resale center, secondhand stainless steel buffet table pans bought by the pound at a metals recycling center, a new chimney (the old one rusted through) and clay from the creek to stop the smoke from seeping through the gaps between round stovepipe and squared-off bricks.  I set the stainless steel buffet table pans in their places, and hauled several old wicker chairs from the trailer porch down to the sugaring site.

In the morning, I hauled a truckload of wood from the woodpile, filled the pans with trash can sap, caulked the gaps between pans and bricks, around the chimney and lit the fire.  The fire caught, and the little evaporator stove ran like a rocket stove when stuffed with sticks.  Soon, the sap began to boil, and clouds of water vapor puffed away.  As the sap boiled away in the larger pan, I heated more sap in the small, square pan to refill the evaporator pan.  The key in sugaring is to keep the sap boiling constantly.  Adding cold sap to the pan would kill the boil, and I'd be left restarting the boiling process.

So, the day progresses with ladle full by ladle full of sap being transferred from the little square pan to the larger rectangular pan only to boil away, and then get replaced again.  Logs and sticks get stuffed into the fire pit.  Standing dead sticks get hauled up out of the woods, sawed or chopped into pieces, stacked and then fed into the blazing fire.

At times, I'd take a break, kick back in a seat and listen to the sounds of the birds, pet my dog, sketch in my nature journal, or ladle boiling sap into a mug for tea.  Those moments fill a soul with peace, the reconnecting with the natural world, the pause to take in the energizing beauty of a simple March day.  "Thou restoreth my soul."

My friend and her son stopped by to help with the wood chopping, and the sap ladling, and to chit chat.  The balm of friendship added to the day's joy.

As the sun set into the woods that evening, I spread wet dirt on the fire to douse it, and pulled the evaporator pan off the fire, hauling it up to a picnic table, where my beloved held the syrup filter (catches the ash and other flurg) over a pot, and we poured off the almost-syrup into pots to finish in the house.  We made sure the fire was out with lots of water; we put away the chairs, gathered up tea mugs, ladles and extraneous equipment, and David drove me and my 2 pots of amber nectar slowly up to Soulstice to finish in the kitchen there.

By 11:00 that night, I had poured finished sap into sterilized jars, and was off to the bathtub, while the little lids began to pucker with that satisfying "puck" sound.  In the morning, sitting on the kitchen counter were 71/2 pints of syrup to pour over stacks of flapjacks, or to give to friends and family.

The first crop of 2014 has been harvested on Hawk's Hill.   Not a crop that we have sown but one received freely from nature. A sweet gift of the earth, purchased with physical effort and a day spent in the fresh air of a sunny March day.

May you receive the sweet balm of nature in your daily life, and may you get the opportunity to taste the nectar of real maple syrup.
Betsy

The Barn-Mart

In our trailer-living days, we kept only what we used in our tight living space, and we stored a lot of clothing and household goods in the big barn at the top of Hawk's Hill.  During garage sale season, I stocked up on basic clothes, tucking winter items in the barn for storage.  In early autumn, I trundled up the hill with a garden cart in tow, to fill with bags and boxes of sweaters, long-sleeved shirts, insulated work shirts and snow boots from storage. Then, down the hill I'd tramp, feet planted against the tug of the heavy cart.  At the trailer, I'd upend the bags of goods, and lay them out in stacks on the big porch picnic table.  The children would come "shop" for the gear they wanted with the songs of migrating Robins echoing up from the orchard and forest.  Oh, how much more appealing than driving twenty minutes to spend time and money in the less charmed environs of a big box store.

Spring found us returning the heavy gear in exchange for shorts and sunhats.  Our Sarah playfully came up with the tag "Barn-Mart" -- when in need of a dress, a "new" pair of jeans, a three-ring binder for school or craft materials to make a birthday present, we were off to the Barn Mart to rummage for treasure.  Can make for a messy barn, but if your organizational skills are even moderately good--clothing in one corner, canning jars in another, books and craft supplies upstairs in the hay loft-- you can tuck away raw materials against future needs and save time-consuming trips off the farm, as well as bundles of jing.

Now that we live in our solar home, Soulstice, we no longer pack away clothing seasonally.  But, we still maintain boxes and bags of craft materials, cloth, and a few bags of really old, clothing remain.  This past January, the Polar Vortex sent me off to the Barn Mart once again to solve a need.  Two of my hens had been heavily treaded (ridden) by the rooster, and were bare-backed.  I had made cloth saddles out of jeans lined with T-shirt materials for them, but the ladies had slipped out of their old "cloaks," breaking the elastic bands that held them on.

As the weather forecasters predicted temperatures dropping down below zero, I looked at those old hen covers and thought they'd be woefully inadequate to protect bare skin even under heat lamps.  So, off to the Barn Mart I went, perusing trash bags of old sweaters, and finding several made of 100% wool.  Bingo!

Putting the new sweater on a hen.  The mask is to keep cold, dry
winter air from hurting my nose & throat

I washed the wool sweaters in hot water and ran them through a hot dryer, transforming them to thick felt that wouldn't unravel when cut.  It was easy to make a pattern from the old saddles, and to attach a piece of elastic to slip under the wings to hold the saddles securely on their birds.  The hardest part of the operation was catching the partly defeathered birds.  My beloved helped me to corral the two hens, and I slipped their warm jackets on.  To one jacket, I had sewn on a "cape" to cover the bird's bare shoulders.

The lowest hen gets the finest garb!

In chicken "culture," the lowest hens on the pecking order are treaded more often by the rooster, so the fanciest cloak went to the lowest hen in the flock.  She tucked the edges of her new sweater under her wings, keeping its warming insulation free of drafts.  In the end, she looked like a character from a Beatrix Potter story, out for a walk to Ginger & Pickles' General Store in her finery.

And as I pulled the covers up to my chin that night, and David read the digital thermometer at -45 degrees F with the wind chill, I knew that my Buff Orpington hens were tucked away safely under cover of their warm winter sweaters.  And I hadn't spent a penny keeping Henny Penny warm.

May you find unexpected treasures in your own Barn-Mart, Basement-Mart, Garage-Mart or Closet-Mart as you do your spring cleaning!

Betsy

Embracing the Struggle

Weds., Mar. 5,2014

Even when we're fully entranced by our dream, we face struggles.  But the heat of the struggle can make us feel alive, can give us the occasion to stop and see the larger beauty of our lives, can challenge us, and in forcing us to meet the challenge, can make us stronger.

The wind bit at my fingers yesterday as I hung wet sheets, flapping, on the laundry line. The 20 degree F air and gusting wind stiffened the fabric within seconds, until the cotton sheets felt like cumbersome canvas sails.  A thick winter parka kept my body untouched by tendrils of cold, but my bare fingers turned red and numb, and I paused every few minutes to tuck them against my neck to warm them.  Oh the cold!

As I was forced to stop work and reinvigorate my fingers, the kinetic rhythm of my life paused.  I was able to see a larger picture -- the blessing of being outdoors among the cardinals and crows, the cucumber tree and the cats in the yard.  I could see the terrain rolling away out to the horizon.  The light covering of snow outlined every curve and hillock underneath the bare-limbed woods.  Down in the pasture below me, a solitary Song Sparrow sang his optimistic tune.  The scent of fresh clean air filled my lungs.  The wind brushed my cheek.  The invigoration of a moment in nature after a winter tucked away like a mole indoors filled me with joy.

 My dog rolled on his back and kicked his feet in the air, his mouth hung open, tongue lolling in a doggy grin.  He could feel my excitement at the gift of being in nature, the gift of the lilting music of the Song Sparrow's bouncing call, the gift of being fully alive in the moment.  Hanging laundry often does this for me.  It should be on the chore list, but pegging out clean, wet garments to let nature dry them with a breeze, and bringing in the scent of fresh air to perfume my house feels like a balm.

The experience brought to mind a video made in the 1970's about Dolly Freed, author of Possum Living.  Dolly and her dad lived the tightwad dream, growing, gathering and making what they needed to survive with their hands and their wits on $1,500 a year (or $9500 in 2014 dollars).  I delighted in watching Dolly sort through wheat she had bought at the feed & seed, pouring it out onto the kitchen table and manually cleaning it of stones, bugs and chaff before grinding it to make flat breads. (Possum Living Video part 2 of 3 ).  Her sure, quick motions, her confidence at knowing how to provide for herself and her dad through simple means drew me in and made me admire the plucky young woman.

What is it about simple manual labor that makes it comforting to watch, even if tedious to perform?  I admit I am always trying to get done with the grunt work to move on to something "important."  But, having clean fresh-smelling laundry is important.  And manual labor has its own rhythm and charm. Done with skill and appreciation, manual labor is beautiful, an ancient dance performed by humans back down the years.  What is it about modern life as a woman that has me downgrading its importance?  I have seen my mother-in-law's hands fly through a peck of sweet peas, shelling the tiny peas out of their wrappers in a trice.  Beauty I admire.  I suppose I am always pushing myself to be more and to get more done.

At the end of the day, if I've been efficient in my manual work, I have well-tended chickens, fresh bread, a clean house, and a home-cooked dinner to show for my time. In the summer months, a day's manual labor buys me rows of neatly-planted onion starts, or the broccoli crop transplanted into fortified soil (alfalfa pellets, bone meal, greensand and rotted horse manure added), alongside soaker hoses all contained under plastic "mulch" (a sheet of black plastic) and covered over with hoops and insect netting to foil the cabbage moths.  A pause to look over the work done, and the gift of the day is wrapped up with dinner with my family, and a chance to share stories, relax and laugh together.

May your day be filled with appreciation for whatever work you do, struggle and all.
Betsy

New Life

David builds the new plant stand to house
broccoli started in the south windows.

Living on Hawk's Hill Farm makes me think big.  Big as in how many carrots do we eat in a year, and how much broccoli?  Driving to our new farm for a visit one month after we bought it, my husband and I discussed how many pounds of celery, potatoes, onions and peas our family ate in a year.  I tallied weekly grocery store purchases, and estimated startling totals of hundreds of pounds of potatoes and onions, and at least a hundred pounds of carrots.  I had no idea of how many bushels of tomatoes went into the spaghetti sauce we ate.  My mind boggled at trying to picture how many square feet of garden soil would be needed to grow that many pounds of food.  At the time, my vegetable garden was about 10' x 15'.  The bulk of my vegetables were supplied by a trip to the local supermarket to pick up whatever was on sale, shipped in from California or Idaho or Florida to our northwest Ohio home.  No thought required, just a whim and a MasterCard.

One of the things I love about winter on Hawk's Hill is the planning -- stomping around the garden in the snow while picturing a jungle of tomato vines, a luxuriant carpet of tender lettuce or rows of dark maroon beets, feathery carrot tops and feisty turnip greens where a white blanket now exists.  Planning what we will grow, eat and sell, how much of it, and when the seeds need to be started is the winter's work; the creation of the garden of my imagining.

The earliest crops I sow are onions, leeks, parsley, and Brassicas.  Twelve weeks before spring's average frost free date, I start broccoli and cabbage indoors under lights.  Honestly, my family has never been big cabbage eaters, but I grow the plant to fill out our market table, and because it is nourishment for the eyes and soul in winter, perfectly tender and beautiful in its miniature form with cupped, rounded leaves of dusty blue-green.

This year, I threw caution to the wind and started broccoli in front of the south windows in mid-January, 17 weeks before our average frost-free date.  The delightful side of a wild and profligate broccoli sowing is that no matter whether the plants succeed brilliantly or fail, you are gambling with mere pennies in seeds.  And the immediate payoff is in leafy greenness during a gray season.  New life flourishes indoors as the birds are singing promises, the sun is rising earlier and setting later, and we are wondering if each snowstorm will be the winter's last.  But, by mid-February, those broccoli and leek plants had reached a stage of maturity that required more light and more space than the window alone provided.

Over the last two and a half decades, David has made me a series of plant stands to hold seedlings and lights, culminating with the fourth in the series, pictured here, that he completed and painted during the recent thaw.  Big and sturdy enough to hold 16 full flats of garden plants -- that's 576 broccoli plants, an enchanted broccoli forest -- the shelves are perfectly fashioned to fit Soulstice's south windows.  I see the empty space, and imagine a crop of heirloom tomato and pepper plants rising up from their plastic pots, and rows of little herbs in 2" pots waiting for their turn on the market table.  Next January, I could raise flats of salad greens to trim for meals -- just a few feet from farm to plate.

Being made by my beloved, the plant stand is sturdy enough for 2 adults to sit on, simply constructed, using recycled parts, including a shop light from an old Toledo factory and tubes bought secondhand from a friend's long-defunct, ahem, controlled herb-growing operation.  My broccoli plants don't seem to know the provenance of their lighting, but are leaping towards the balanced bulbs with new vigor alongside celery, alliums and cabbage starts.

After a midwinter furniture reshuffle, I have a reading nook where I can watch snow fall behind a carpet of spring green.  The yin-yang contrast invigorates a soul.  It's as if I can feel the aura of growth emanating from the tender plants before me.  Bright lights in winter help both plants and people.

May you have wild success with profligate window-side plantings this year!
Betsy


A few seed-starting tips:  
*South light is the best for your plants.  
*If you can't add grow-lights, try mixing a warm fluorescent bulb with a cool one to get the maximum wavelength spectrum of light for your plants.  
*Hanging fluorescent lights on a movable chain allows you to keep the light 2" above the young plants, raising it as they grow.  The closer the lights are, the more intense the energy the plants receive.
*For a simple approach to gardening with seed starting guides and schedules, check out Mel Bartholomew's classic Square Foot Gardening.