Planting Days

25Apr14

Yesterday was another first of spring -- first dusty, dirty dragging in tired after planting day.  First day of thighs feeling tight and weak after towing a garden cart laden with a heavy roll of plastic mulch up Hawk’s Hill.  The first day you’ve pushed yourself to do everything you possibly can in a day.  We ate sweet & sour cabbage, noodles and tofu for dinner, our jeans dirty & dusty, our cheeks ruddy, our eyes bearing the soft darkness of fatigue, yet glowing with the joy of the work accomplished.  We celebrated the return home from college of our beloved Sarah, the joy of reunion and the delight of sharing stories of conquests from Sarah’s writing award and exams completed, to David’s reawakening of an ancient computer, its retro games reinvigorating memories of our children’s childhoods.

On my knees in the garden this morning, poking holes in black plastic, and setting onion starts into the soil, I let the song of the Mockingbird wash over me, the cheeky warble of the Rufous-Sided Towhee echoing from the fencerow treetops enliven me.  Grounded, racing the coming rain, I poked the plastic with a tool my friend Steven made for me from a stick (works great).  A poke into the plastic breaks open a hole in the mulch and down into the soft earth just right for a little transplant to fit into.

Sweet Candy, Walla Walla and magenta Red Zeppelin onion starts tucked into the good earth, spreading down the rows like a tide of new life, standing tall as dancers in a line.  The hissing of soaker hoses beneath the plastic rang like the song of celebration.  Knowing the onions’ torpid roots were just now reawakening, just now reaching out to the life-giving water, just now stretching towards fruitfulness, I pictured them in months to come, rounded and fat, with their tall flags of greens standing up, or bundled in threes for the market table.

Sowing -- whether plants or seeds -- has a magical quality, the beginning of new life after the stillness of winter.  The work is intense, knotting muscles in shoulders and back, but delighting my soul and body and mind.  Pausing as  I plant, I look to the treeline, to witness 3 male Blue Jays courting a female, to spy the bursting changes in the tree canopy if not hour to hour, at least within the span of the day, to witness every shade of spring, the subtle changing-of-the-guard from early spring woodcocks’ crazy crepuscular whistling flight to Cardinals and Robins and Mockingbirds, to the new activity of the Blue Jays.  Nature’s ceaseless show requires only observation for admittance.

My basket of onion starts emptied as the first drops of rain spattered the plastic.  I stood, dusted my hands off on my jeans and, pressing palms together in my prayer of Namaste, I bowed to my new starts, thanking God for the privilege of planting, for the gift of the soil and the balm of nature, and asking blessings on the growing plants.  Rain drops plonking on my head, I tucked away my stick tool in the garden shed, and toted my basket up to the house for lunch and more conversation with my beloveds.

Rain pattered away all afternoon, and after I cleaned the chicken coop, filling it with fresh, dry oak leaves, topping off the feeder, and tucking a fresh egg in my flannel shirt pocket, I found myself with an hour to kill before dinner preparation.  

Spring invites new beginnings.  The press of planting season is on in the sunshine, but the wise farmer knows to never walk on wet soil, or the result will be compacted concrete-like earth.  Planting in the rain is out of the question.  

I meandered over to a collection of massive flat stones in the pasture that David had mentioned at lunchtime.  The spring grass and raspberry canes were beginning to climb over the 2’ x 3’ x 1’ chunks of rock, and we knew if we didn’t haul them out soon, they would be camouflaged by rampant weed growth until November’s frosts revealed the earth’s bones again.  Rain sprinkled and pattered as my true love and I sized up our prizes.  They would fit nicely around my new water garden, Stonehenge-like shoulders to bound the trickling pool.  We dispatched ourselves -- David to start the tractor, and me to clear space around the water garden where the stones would set.

The rain began to patter down harder as I set the “Monster Strap” around the first slab of rock, and David eased the tractor forward.  The wet grass slipped right under the stone hunk, and the tractor pulled the monolith along with the ease of a child’s string toy.  The cold droplets of rain tingled on our skin and plastered our hair down to our heads.  

David towed each of the rocks into place, and found one more down in the brush near our granddaddy Sugar Maple.  Clambering in among rosebushes and sapling ashes, I hooked the strap to the wet rock and David pulled it free with the old Kubota.  Then, with the blade on the tractor, David pushed the stones into place, and I dropped some perennials I had dug from around our old trailer into the spaces between the thick rocks.  Now the water garden began to take shape.  We stood back sopping wet to admire our creation as cold spring rain dripped down from a stone-colored sky.

The tractor parked and silent, the only sound that remained was that of rain drops and the burbling water garden. As we walked back to the house from the barn, headed to a hot shower, I got the first thrill of walking up on the pool of musical water hidden behind massive stones. The sound reached my ears before my eye caught a glimpse of the secret that lies beyond the rocks and plants.  Somehow, the knowledge that a secret, sunken garden awaits visitors to Soulstice’s front porch just tickles my fancy.

May your fancy be tickled!
Betsy

Rock Bottom to the Pinnacle:

Unearthing a Purple Fortune

Snowdiculous is what my beloved called Tuesday's Tax Day snowstorm.  Just Monday, I was planting beets, turnips and carrots in the garden in Daisy Duke shorts, and praying for rain.  Got it.  Plus a little snow.  That does look ridiculous on the green grass and at the hem of the neighbor's woods just now tinged with the green hues of opening leaf buds.  Every flat of plants -- broccoli to leeks, pak choi, peppers and tomatoes -- is crowding the plant stand and spilling over onto the floor nearby, waiting out the cold temperatures and the interruption of planting season.

My fig tree reinvigorated.

Plant traffic jam

The spring snow reminds me of our first full week of dwelling on the farm.  We had come for a visit on Easter break ahead our moving date in June.  We arrived on the farm on a warming trend.  The girls, David and I spilled out onto the land, David and the girls building a tree-house in the granddaddy sugar maple tree while I pruned the grape arbor and took my first turn at gardening.  I remember the popsicles the girls sucked on that hot Tuesday afternoon, watching thunderclouds build and sail over the farm.  The mountainous clouds marked a front bringing a curtain of cold air and snow the next day, weather so like what we are experiencing today.  I laugh at the stuff I didn't know back then.

When we took possession of the farm the previous autumn, we used the new keys to open the locked rooms of the barn, finding yellowed cattle vaccination charts, ancient coffee cans heavy with sharp roofing nails, and sturdy tools hanging on nails in the wall or propped upright.  I had fingered through the pitchforks and rock rakes in the barn, finding familiar implements --a sledgehammer, a hatchet, a spade, a flat-bottomed shovel -- along with old metal tools with worn wooden handles I had never used -- a hay hook, calf castrating equipment and a pick axe.  What the heck was a  pick axe doing in this lush haven?  But wait, there was another pick axe.  Why two? 

My first day in the garden, I had a sinking realization of why the pick axes rested dusty in the old barn tool room.  Breaking up soil clods that David had turned over with a potato plow, I spaded the chunks into a finer-grained substrate to plant lettuce, spinach and purple potatoes in.  As I worked my way energetically down the first row of the bed, I hopped on my spade, putting all of my weight through my tennis-shoed foot on the curled metal top of the blade.  A few feet in, my spade smacked into a solid rock with a dull "chunk!"  Used to sinking into the soil, I lost my balance and tipped over. No problem.  I scootched my spade over a few inches and tried again.  Chunk!  Hmmm.  I scootched over a foot.  Chunk!  Another foot over.  Chunk! Oh *$#@! My heart raced as I fretted that the entire garden was nothing but bedrock with a thin soil frosting!  

Just then, David walked by, and pointed out places in the garden where the plow had sunk so deep, it made the tractor tires spin, saying what a shame it was that I had picked the one place in the garden that had a rock under it to start my work.  I was overreacting to a rock.  I continued at a mellower pace.  When I got done with my archaeological unearthing, I had revealed a 5' by 3' slab of rock that I could not move.  A first experience for me and a valuable start in my lessons in humility. 

I laughed Sunday, just thinking of those pick axes, and that mammoth rock, for I dug a 2' by 3' hole only a foot or so deep off the north porch of the house to set a water garden in.  I had planned to scoop the organic soil around the sides of the plastic mortar pan, and use the soil hummocks to plant flowers and hostas in.  Nope.  As I sunk my spade in for the first bite of soil, I found the thinnest veneer of organic soil clutched tightly by a mat of grass roots, and beneath that, chunks of gravel- to cobble- to stepping-stone-sized rocks.  I peeled back the sod, saving it to patch a dip in the yard, and hucked the little stones to the driveway.  The stepping stones serve nicely around the water garden.  Luckily, I didn't need a pick axe. 

Stones and water create an oasis.

Sunday evening, David and I sat on the porch and admired the beauty of moving water in the little water garden as the sun set on a gorgeous spring day.  A ring of stepping stones stood out amid the dark compost I hauled from the compost pile and poured around the pond to plant into.  The water burbled musically, and I could imagine the shasta daisies, blanket flowers and foxgloves I seeded in flats last week nodding on a summer breeze as David and I shared lunch in our favorite summertime lunch spot.  

I never know what lies under the soil -- smooth digging or chunky rocks-- but I find there is always something useful -- stepping stones, lessons in humility, even just driveway gravel -- if I can step back, regain faith and try again.  When we persevere, we win.  

That immovable rock remains majestically resting just where I found it, where the eons will find it when I am long gone.  Even the tractor couldn't budge it.  We unearthed another rock similar to it in a nearby bed.  And David hauled that giant rock out of the garden with the tractor and towed it to the greenhouse where it forms a solid stone stoop that catches the sun's warmth.  (That's what those big chains in the barn were for!) 

We have found other similarly massive monoliths in our digging on Hawk's Hill.  We now have a collection along the driveway that we hope to use for sidewalk stones, as pieces of rock walls, as stone bench sets.  I might just use one as a mammoth stepping stone around my new water garden.  Do you know how much money it would cost me to buy a rock that big?  A purple fortune!  Who knew my spade was biting into a purple fortune that day I was so hot under the collar with my haughty approach to a country problem.  

May the chunky part of your day turn over a purple fortune in treasure.
Betsy

Wishing all of you who celebrate it a blessed Easter.

Spring Tonic

We have survived the ocean of winter to wash up on the shore of springtime, where we find ourselves in the land of firsts.  The first robin of spring arrived before the first green grass day, as did the first Red-Winged Blackbird.  March 30th brought the first chorus of Spring Peepers down in the valley.  Later in the week, the first meadowlark call (April 6th) arrived a day before we walked down to the bus stop to witness the first daffodil blooming in the woods.  After a steady diet of gray skies and snow, each day seems to bring new unfurlings of flowers, buds, and songs.
   

Now that new grass is lushly carpeting the pasture east of the barn, our laying flock celebrated their first day on grass April 9th, bailing out of their gloomy barn home to stop and snip tender grass shoots at their feet.  Some years, it takes the girls a little while to warm up to the idea of going outdoors, and I call, "Chooook, chook, chook, chook!" and wait on the other side of the chicken door, anxious to witness their ravenous delight upon finding lush grass and bugs to peck, new ground to scratch and sunshine to bask in.  

Not this year.  The hens and rooster trundled out the little door, and stopped right in front of it, backed up in the closest thing to a George Washington Bridge traffic jam that we have on Hawk's Hill.  The rooster stood alongside his ladies, occasionally encouraging them with a soft, "chook,"  but, he could see that he needn't waste his breath calling to them, for the air was filled with the little sounds of happy chicken growls and that quiet nipping sound of beaks plucking tender grass shoots.  I could just sense the vitamins and phytochemicals coursing through the hens' feathery bodies as they enjoyed their spring tonic. 

Our first spring tonic came just a day before, when I pulled back the Agribon frost blanket to pick spinach and found chickweed thriving right alongside the spinach, so I  mixed some right in with the spinach for our lunch salads.  Later in the week, I made a salad entirely out of chickweed.  The first crunch released the invigorating sensation of childhood freedom on a Saturday morning outdoors.  A few dandelion greens tossed into the mix made it an official spring tonic.  Taraxicum officinale, which loosely translates to "the official cure for what ails you," has been a long-standing spring tonic.  Folks eating the first fresh greens in spring, must have felt like my hens gobbling up grass shoots, feeling the vitamins and antioxidants coursing through their veins in a celebration of new life.  We have found chickweed an effective decongestant for lingering spring colds. 




Yesterday, David pulled long furrows in the tilled garden soil for me to set seed potatoes in.  Cut into chunks the size of hens' eggs, the potatoes got dipped in wood ashes to prevent rotting, and dropped into the furrows about 8 inches apart.  I imagined the shrubby, healthy plants the potatoes would grow into, picturing the bounty of tubers I hoped we would till up in July as I walked down rows with a bucket of cut spuds, dropping each one in place.  I trucked a hundred pounds of seed potatoes down to the garden in my garden cart-- Yukon Golds and Red Pontiacs -- and put most of them in the ground. The rest went into storage in the root cellar David dug into the north side of the hill.  A mockingbird sang a patchwork of other birds' songs as he looked over my work, and my dog flopped in the shade of my cart like he does in the heat of summer, content to be outdoors.  

Later in the day, David and I set up beds for the broccoli and cabbage plants now filling my new plant stand.  We raked alfalfa meal (for nitrogen) into the 3 foot wide beds, pinned soaker hoses down and stretched black plastic mulch over the soil's surface and dug it in by hand with trowels.  On our hands and knees, trowels scooping earth over the edges of the plastic, we talked about politics, the new GAP farming regulations, and my struggle to fit enough plants into the garden to serve our new market in Beaver. 

The gift of the day was the sense of unity I felt with David as we worked our way down 40 foot rows, just talking.  When the sun set on Hawk's Hill, we tucked our tools in the garden shed, gathered up the jackets we had strewn on the ground, and hauled our garden cart laden with a roll of plastic mulch back up to the barn to close up for the night. 

Baby tomato plants grow next to broccoli waiting to be planted.

The plant stand David built me is now full.

Today, I awakened to another first: the morning after my first big planting day in the garden, moving like a sack of wet concrete.  I slogged through the morning, hands rough and calloused from my work yesterday, but soul singing happily at the thought of today's spring rain pattering down on the soil overtop of our Yukon Golds and Red Pontiacs out in the earthwormy garden soil.  The young broccoli and cabbage plants sit outside the house, protected from the wind, acclimating to the brightness and temperatures of the outdoor environment they will soon move to.   

May your day --whether sunny or rainy -- bring you the tonic of spring surprises and joy.
Betsy

Seal it with Gratitude

Pea Planting, Nature Journaling and a Spark of Joy

Monday morning, after walking to the barn to take care of my chickens, I paused to listen to the Song Sparrow who sings every morning from a hawthorn bush back of the barn.  His joyous bubbling song stopped me in my tracks, and I was compelled to take in the rising sun over the neighbor's pasture, the bounding sparrow's tune, and my rooster's crowing response.  It was the very day of 2014 that the grass turned green on Hawk's Hill.  A pause, a moment to take in my place in the year, and I celebrated with a sun salute, hands planted on the green grass, head down, gazing at the rolling hills and blue sky from an upside-down viewpoint, ears taking in the songs of the sparrow, robins, cardinals and towhees.  A spark of joy glowed within me as I spent that 5 minutes of the day pausing in gratitude.

Sunday afternoon, I taught a nature journaling class at the state park.  The day opened with snowfall, then miraculously transformed into a lovely spring day washed clean with gusty March winds.  The group of enthusiastic participants -- elementary aged children to retired folks -- were completely engaged in the topic at hand, participated fully, and investigated nature with their journals in sketches, prose and poetry -- in spite of the chill in the air.  I look forward to the annual class, and feel lucky to have the opportunity to share my love of art, writing and nature with kindred spirits.

On the drive home through the wooded park, I felt compelled to stop, park my old truck in a fisher's lot, and watch the sun sinking towards the hills and lake.  I needed just a moment of stillness after the bustling activity of teaching.  I pulled out my nature journal, and began to sketch the scene before me -- hillsides leading down to the lake, bare oak tree limbs reaching up to the blue sky, the lake water free to carry the motion of the wind.

A Sunday-afternoon sketch (from a rain-wrinkled page in my nature journal).

The craggy caw of a crow alerted me to a wild show going on in the trees above me.  A red-tailed hawk winged over my head, pursued by several crows, then the procession whisked over the ridge behind me, and I was left sitting in my truck, window open, sun striking me broadside and warming me gloriously, with surprising strength. I stole 15 minutes to sit, sketch, bask and watch the natural show before me. And I was left with a deep sense of gratitude -- for the camaraderie of the class, for the visit to the park, for the balm of nature and the opportunity to sketch in my nature journal.

David turns the rich earth

Making labels for rows of peas

Last night, after David turned the earth in our garden, after I planted peas and kale in the loamy, black soil, after hauling rocks around in a garden cart, after making dinner, and cleaning the dishes, as the stars twinkled and David played with his remote control helicopter, I stood outside and watched him fly, and we listened to the Spring Peepers sing down in the valley. Just for a few minutes.  The tiny tree frogs sounded loud as a flock of starlings, but with the delightful rarity of tiny, noble harbingers of spring.  A woodcock twittered and "peent"-ed down in the neighbor's empty field, and I felt that old familiar sense of spring magic, of joy and delight at the miraculous things that nature does after we pass the Vernal Equinox.  Green life is reborn.  Nature awakens, shakes off winter and sings and blooms.

Spring -- especially this late spring -- gets crazy busy with the pressure of tilling, planting, setting up beds with plastic and soaker hoses, with onion plants arriving in the mail, with quick trips to the feed and seed for 50 pound bags of seed potatoes and alfalfa meal, with transplanting tomatoes and peppers indoors, with endless projects that were put off for better weather this winter.  One trick Hawk's Hill has taught me is the magic of taking just 5 minutes to rest, to gather in the scene and to say thank you for the blessings in the present moment.  Like capturing a sunset in a journal, the gratitude encapsulates the magic of the day, sealing it in my memory, and giving me a gem to carry around in my heart to light workdays ahead.

My happy little jigger sowing Sugar Snaps and Petit Pois

May your day be rich with blessings and space to pause and take them in,

Betsy

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