Garden Chores

We have had several mild, mostly sunny spring days in succession!

J. pronounced that the ground had dried enough to 'turn'--as tilling the garden is termed in

our part of Kentucky.

Pebbles the Horse being securely pastured inside her double fence and placidly munching grass,  we could finally concentrate on other needs.

[Thank you for all the comments regarding the horse tales!]

 

Jim is proud of this tractor, one of his most recent restorations.

He remembers a similar model from his teen years on the Vermont farm.

I think his happy grin attests to his pleasure in putt-putting along the garden rows, turning in the green cover crop, laying bare the bands of rich brown loam.

A light wind frisked about all day, carrying the scent of damp soil, pear blossoms, and fresh-cut grass.

I tackled the strip that borders the front porch.

It was clogged with purple lamium--an invasive wildling that is prevalent here.

Locals call it 'hen-bit'.

This plant can blossom and flourish throughout the winter months, taking over, as in this case, a strip of garden weeded clean in autumn.

Driving around the county, we see great swaths of the red-purple blossoms in fields that have not yet been cultivated.  The slender juicy stems of the weed pull up easily--the fine mat of roots clings to the soil and has to be dug out with a trowel.

I worked steadily, clearing the area around the daylilies planted last year.

When we came here, grass and weeds crowded up to the foundation of the porch with a sad and tattered clump of sedum flanking each side of the steps. I rooted out the sedum last spring, along with a variagated grassy plant whose name I forget.

I was given a gift card for my birthday and spent some of it on daylily roots and two peonies.

The daylily roots have been added to the cleared strip--with much assistance from the boy cats.

I'm pleased to see that the lilies planted last year have fattened into sturdy clumps.

I raked up dried leaves--the wind whisked them back.

The gaunt old pear tree is coming into bloom.

Two of the three seasons we've lived here have seen the ancient tree producing a heavy crop of pears.

Mr. Rogers who is nearing the century mark, tells us that this tree was of bearing size when he moved to the neighborhood as a young boy.

Pear blossoms on the lower branches of the old tree.

The goat willow tree at the bottom of the front yard is in that lovely stage of transition from pussywillows to golden catkins. The whole tree has a soft glow about it even when the sun hides behind a cloud.

I worked until dusk, firmly ignoring the protests of my aging knees.

The small strip beyond the clothesline presented some challenges.

Although I removed sod when I started that bed last spring, there were still matted roots that made weeding difficult. I dug out more of the omnipresent lamium, pried out clumps of other perennial weeds whose names I haven't researched.

I tossed clods of earth at the boy cats who were determined to roll on frail emerging  peonies and dig madly around the clumps of pinks.

As the ache in my back grew I questioned my own sanity in trying to maintain so many plantings.

I should have had the sense to put down landscape fabric before setting in my flowers!

I've thought that the mulch we used in the upper perennial strip along the drive hasn't been very effective in keeping down weeds.

After grubbing in the strip by the clothesline where no mulch was used, I can appreciate that the mulch has kept the soil more mellow and easier to work in the other planting.

I didn't garden today.

I cooked a substantial mid-morning meal, tidied the kitchen, made several dozen molasses/spice cookies.

I wrote letters, responded to phone calls, applied lotion to my stiff and roughened hands.

This evening I wandered the dooryard, collected cats, visited Pebbles the Horse, marveled at the scent of pear blossom and the sound of the frog peeper's chorus ringing from the creek across the road.

I watered the daylily roots planted yesterday, tucked some strands of clematis around the wires of the trellis, noting the fat flower buds.

A seed catalog is open on the table, and visions of peonies and roses dance in my head.

The Rampages of an Elderly Horse

Pebbles sometimes escapes from her fenced area. We blame the deer if the fence is toppled.

When Pebs went walk-about early last week, the fence was upright, no post knocked over, no wire sagging. She has always been a biddable horse, meekly coming to J.'s whistle and

following where he leads.

We were surprised to see her strolling in the back lot only a few hours after J.

had returned her to her enclosure.

As the week progressed, the stealthy exits from her pasture became a routine.

During most of the year there is no charge on the electric fence, as Pebbles respects it.

After the second day of rounding up a straying horse, J. lugged over a battery and set the fence charger to ticking.  Finding Pebbles 'out' again within the hour, he began to be irritated.

By this time, she had wandered into the field of winter oats and was chomping greedily.

"She has to be jumping the fence," J. declared testily.

Thinking of her stiff and often hobbling gait this winter I protested that she couldn't possibly.

I went round the fence again.  J. raised the electric wire several inches.

The wretched horse got out yet again--but we never caught her in the act of 'getting out.'

Pebbles has had issues in the past with foundering--one of the reasons that J. keeps her in a relatively small grazing area.  All the fresh green grass and tasty oats couldn't be good for her.

By Friday the situation was aggravating.

J. put a fresh battery on the fence charger.

The third time that Pebbles escaped on Friday afternoon, J. was out of patience.

He had been back in the house less than 15 minutes when, looking out the north window I had to report, "Your horse is out--again!"

Pebbles resisted being caught. J. strode after her.  She walked faster.

He doesn't put a halter on her, merely loops a plaited lead rope around her neck.

This time he shooed her into the stall area and roped off the entrance..

I got out her brush and curry comb, hoping that I could brush out some of her

winter-tangled and muddy coat.

We settled her in the stall where she stayed for the night, good hay and water provided.

On Saturday morning, things came to a head.

J. released Pebs from her stall, checked to be sure the electric fence was ON.

Grandson D. drove in to share our breakfast.

We went out to admire the dried mud on his vehicle--evidence of his Friday night adventures with friends.

We discovered that Pebbles was OUT.

J. got on the 4 wheeler and rounded her up. Hurrying her into the stall he dragged metal door panels across the opening and with a flourish, nailed them in place.

"There!" he said, with satisfaction. "See how you like that!"

D. finished breakfast in several gulps and left us to linger over French toast with

applesauce and maple syrup.

As I pushed the last bite of toast around my plate, soaking up the puddle of syrup I became aware of a drumming sound coming from the back yard.  My first thought was that D. had decided to clean the mud off his Tracker and had the water hose going full blast.

J. looked up, his mouth full of toast and beef bacon.

Recognition dawned for both of us and we pushed back our chairs and made for the back door.

Pebbles was kicking the metal panels.

 I watched from the edge of the garden, astonished, as she managed to poke one leg around the edge of the panel, pushed, pawed, withdrew her leg and struck the panel another blow with her hoof.

As we walked up the path to the barn, Pebbles continued to hammer the metal panels.

She tossed her head, snorted, plunged.

The dooryard rang with the clashing of her hooves against the metal.

The cats who had followed us up the path, skittered away in fright.

I was reminded of a naughty child who, sent to her room for 'time out,' pitches a fit!

J. hauled over a sturdy half-round beam and nailed it above the metal panel with heavy spikes.

A second beam was positioned near the bottom of the panel, a substantial barricade.

I protested, "Its a beautiful day, the first one that's warm with sunshine.  How can you make Pebbles stay in her dark stall?"

"She can stay there," J. announced, "until I can go to town and get a heavier fence charger!  She can't roam the property and she's obviously not getting enough of a zap from the fence to impress her. This has gone on long enough!"

He made solicitous visits during the day, carrying fresh water in a bucket, fluffing up a helping of good hay.

Pebbles spent the night in her stall.

This morning, J. checked the fence charger once more, prepared to drive to Tractor Supply on the other side of town and purchase a new one.

"I think that charger is working just fine," he pronounced. "I'm going to string a double fence."

When he had finished, he took down the barriers and let Pebbles walk out of her stall.

She appeared to thoughtfully inspect the new fencing.

She didn't offer to put it to the test.

We have worked outside in the mild warmth most of the day.

Each time we glanced toward the horse pasture, Pebbles was calmly grazing, or standing still, looking meditatively out over the field of oats.

At times she retreated to her stall, munched hay, lounged in the shadows at the back of the stall.

Sheer greediness would seem to have been the motivating factor in her determined escapes. She discovered she could get out, and she discovered the succulent young green oats.

Her tantrums, in retropsect, are amusing.

Her return to docility is appreciated!

After the Whirlwind

For the past three weeks our home and that of our daughter and her family, a mile down the road, have been a reunion point for family and friends.

There is great joy in welcoming those we love.

Celebratory meals have been prepared and shared.

At times the cacaphony of laughter, talk, voices tumbling one over the other, have been almost over-whelming.  There have been tears choked back at partings, hugs, the wrench of leave-taking, the blessings for safe journeys.

With the dust now settling, I find, not surprisingly that I have a lot to process, words to remember, faces, familiar gestures, stories to be sorted and stored away rather in the manner of the laundered sheets which have been whisked from beds to clothesline to linen cupboard.

With the last guests waved off on Wednesday morning J. and I drove to the next county for the discount shopping offered one day per month to those over 60.

We spoke little during the drive, the silence settling about us like dust motes that rearrange after one passes through a room.

Home again, lunch eaten and the groceries put away, I wandered outside while J. betook himself to an appointment with the chiropractor [an appointment long deferred--stubborn man!]

I was surprised to note that in spite of the chilly days and nights of a reluctant spring, blossoms are opening on the two young pear trees.

These are a semi-dwarf variety of the vintage Kieffer Pear which has stood for over a century in our north meadow.

Pebbles the Old Horse, who has seemed to languish unhappily these past months, has been finding ways to get out of her fenced area.

J. has tightened the fence, ramped up the voltage.

He has returned her to her enclosure.

She follows him willingly enough and is out again almost before he has returned to the house.

I feel that all this green feed can't be good for her, but what is one to do?

I decided to walk the fence-line looking for a sagging wire or a place where she had knocked out a post.

Charlie and Bobby McGee paced along with me.

As I trudged around the back of the barn Pebbles watched, looking over her shoulder.

Near the top garden, Nellie crouched over a mole's tunnel, his 'arms' stretched downward into the soft earth which he had excavated.  This morning he brought us a huge dead mole which has been left just beyond the sliding doors, going soggy in the desultory rain of the day.

We have had another quiet day, spent mostly inside--J. by the living-room fire watching TV and nursing his sore shoulder.

I kindled a fire downstairs and made good use of the afternoon stitching down quilt bindings.

We are tired. a bit 'let-down,' waiting for the normal pattern of our days to re-emerge; hoping for warmer, drier weather, and the enthusiasm of gardening to revive us.

A Garden Inspection

Blue skies this morning--a welcome change from the surly weather that prevailed through

the days when we had guests.

I tided up the kitchen after a breakfast of pecan waffles with home-canned applesauce and maple syrup, pulled on my boots, layered sweatshirts and a down vest, and went out to take stock of the gardens.

The ground is soggy from so much recent rain, so I reconnoitered along the edges of the perennial strips.

The shiny green leaves of lemon balm have been crisped at the edges by frost.

Most of the herbs in the little plot by the carport are straggling and in need of judicious pruning.

The mat of thyme which spilled so charmingly over the concrete is a heap of

woody stems--wild and tangled.

Willis the Cat joined me and was quick to recognize a clump of catnip which has established itself at the base of a Yellow Simplicity rose.

The iris in the background were transplanted during our first season here--many clumps of them are still dotted around the yard, the roots heaving from the earth and needing to be divided.

Willis has thrashed and wallowed in the catnip and his eyes are crossed in inebriated bliss.

Recovering slightly, Willis walks with his shadow, muttering under his breath.

I despair of the weeds which have spread during the winter.

I spent many hours late in autumn clearing and tidying the beds.

We bought many sacks of mulch last summer which seem to have been less than effective

as a weed barrier.

The worst culprit is a wild form of lamium which invades ruthlessly.

I think the slightest thread of root can produce a whole colony in a matter of weeks.

Balancing on my haunches at the edge of the flower strip near the clotheslines, I grubbed weeds away from an emerging peony.

There should be--or should I say, there were planted--five peonies.

I found only two today.

The neighbor's cattle stomped about there when they broke through their pasture fence several weeks ago. Hoofprints and depressions remain in the soil around the plants.

It seemed that trying to smooth out the humps and dig out weeds would do more harm than good until the ground has dried a bit.

This vintage peony, one of two in place when we moved here, shows healthy new growth amongst the dried stems of last season. Several later-blooming peonies in this area are still hunkered down in the cold soil. Mole tunnels are evident along the edges of the stone-edged strip which borders the vegetable garden.

The tree peony puts out new leaves very early, even when the weather is still cold.

I am dismayed that few poppies have seeded from those that bloomed last year.

I brought several seed pods from the other garden last fall and sprinkled poppy seed here quite liberally.

As I was tugging at weeds to give the poppies more space, I realized that one had sprouted on top of the yellow peony, 'Molly the Witch'.  I ordered two of these last spring from a nursery specializing in peonies.

They were pricey and arrived as mere rooted cuttings rather than sturdy plants.

I cossetted them in pots through the long hot summer, putting them in the ground in September. 

I could find no sign of the second one today, nor of the other two peonies, a white one and a dark red.

Those were both sturdy plants from a local garden center.

Strands of clematis winding up the new trellis.

The process of removing the rusty wire which had supported the vines in the past disrupted some of the roots, but I think the plants will flourish again.

There are many gaps in the perennial strips.

Endless experimentation and continued replacement of perennials is not in my present budget!

I will need to rely on plants that I can start from seed, plants which have proven they can take the weeks of humid heat in July and August. More daylilies, perhaps, achilleas in varying colors, phlox, salvia.

If only the beautiful and choice plants were as hardy as dandelions!

A Catching Up Sort of Day

Weather in Kentucky continues to defy the calendar.

March has brought us more cold and blustery weather than either January or February.

Still, buds continue to appear on the trees and the grass is greener with each chilly shower of rain.

We have had a delightful round of company.

J.'s beloved Aunt Dorothy [nearly 89] came down from MA, with her daughter, grand daughter and great-grand daughter.  This was no small journey to undertake.

Aunt D. and her daughter stayed at our house--the others at G.'s house next door--various other relatives converged for the weekend, staying at a local motel.

Meal times were uproarious occaisions of wonderful food, story-telling and talk.

I prepared two blog posts in advance of the visit as my desk with the large PC is in the space which is also the guest bedroom and bath.

Frustratingly, the two scheduled posts didn't pop up and I had to post them manually today.

It is always easier to welcome loved ones than to say goodby when the moment comes for leave-taking.

I always think the best cure for the bittersweet emotions stirred by partings is to get busy.

I laundered towels and linens, decided that the weather didn't encourage pegging anything outside on the clothesline.

We've had snow squalls, moments [few] of sunshine, chilly wind, spatters of rain.

I made use of the electric dryer rather than leave the laundry for a sunny day.

Aunt D. brought her little dog with her.

My cats aren't used to dogs and didn't take to one who barked wildly and scrabbled after them each time they stuck their noses into the living room!

The dog spent considerable time in her portable kennel in the bedroom, coming out to be 'aired,' fed and socialized.

The cats--other than the undaunted 'bully boys'-- spent most of their time in the basement where I set up an extra kibble feeder and water bowl.

Each time I went downstairs I patted the 'cat pile' of furry bodies snuggled on a warm old quilt.

After the departure of family this morning, the cats, one by one, crept upstairs, had a cautious look around and decided that the house belonged to them again.

With clean laundry folded and put away, the bed freshly made up, I took time to post blog comments, read a few of my favorites, answer emails.

Lunch was left-overs from last evening's supper.

A quiet day, missing family, thankful for our time together, knowing that it is right and proper that we must all get on with the return to routine in our separate places.

Crocked

There is nothing like impending guests to jump-start my spring cleaning.

The ritual of spring-cleaning surely harks back to a time when laundry had to be done without the blessing of a tumble-dryer--heavy quilts, blankets, winter-tired curtains needed warm sunny days on a clothesline outdoors.  Winter woolens were aired and stored away in smelly moth-balls until they would be needed in the fall--at which time they were aired again to remove the stench of the moth proofing.

With Jim away for 10 days at the beginning of March, it was good timing for me to tackle what needed to be done.

I took advantage of a few sunny, windy days to deal with laundry, then retreated inside to some dusting and tidying.

We have no lack of tracked in grit from the gravel driveway; each armload of wood brought in sheds specks of sawdust or bits of bark. Having a wood stove in the living room means that fluffs of powdery ash settle on shelves and the objects on the shelves.

The resident cats provide an endless source of cat hair to be vacuumed up.

I tend to get a burst of energy in the evening, and with no one around to suggest bedtime, I could dust cupboards and rearrange items until well after midnight.

Rootling in a basement closet I noticed that two large vintage crocks had never been brought out into the daylight. They were carefully wrapped in layers of newspaper when I packed up our last Wyoming house in January, 2010. I lugged the crocks upstairs thinking they could go atop the kitchen cabinets along with other similar items.

It wasn't that easy. The inner crock, swathed in newspaper, would not come loose from the larger one in which it sat.  Looking at it in frustration I realized that one--maybe both--were out of round just enough to make the inner one stick. I heaved the weighty load into the kitchen sink and aimed hot water between the two pieces of crockery. They stuck fast.  I squeezed in dish-washing liquid. More hot water, more jiggling.

Hoping to gain leverage I plunked the crocks on a towel on the kitchen floor, tried inserting a flexible spatula around the edges.

My sleeves were wet, the floor was wet.

It seemed that I could rock the inner crock a bit farther, but no amount of pulling brought it free.

A glance at the clock confirmed that I had been at this task for more than half an hour and the hands of the clock were edging toward 1 A.M.

By now the newspaper layers were quite soggy. Snatching a long-handled fork from the utensil drawer, I began tweeking out wads of the wet paper.

Back to the sink, more dish soap, more hot water, more tugging, and suddenly the inner crock lifted up from its nest inside the larger one.

The cats watched in amazement as I dragged a stepstool to the kitchen counter, placed the crocks within reach, then climbed onto the counter. I lifted them into place, clambered down, crawled back up on the counter, leaning dangerously over the fridge to position the crocks to advantage.  It did occur to me that should I topple from my perch, breaking my old bones, I wouldn't be discovered until much later!

A final tweek at the row of 'collectables' parading along the top of the cupboards and I was safely down!

Some of my crocks came from my grandfather's farmhouse, others have been picked up at auctions or flea markets.

None are of special value--I simply enjoy the look of them.

I call the shelves on this side of the fireplace 'mine.' Just to the left of the shelves sits my cherished rocking chair with a  stand to hold my current books and magazines, which have to be jostled out of the way to set down a mug of tea.

The shelves on the other side hold oddments that J. has collected.

It seemed that his collections had been edging into my space!

Since he wasn't there to protest, I climbed up to dust everything, severely relegating his objects to their own shelves.

I poked about the house, gathering up items I would like to have near me.

The boy cats enjoyed this late evening activity, trotting up and down the stairs, getting shut in closets, sniffing at each object as it emerged from a box or cupboard.

I appreciate the look of a house freshly refurbished, but I'm not one who enjoys flitting about with a feather duster and a broom.

While we are never dirty, both J. and I tend to be less than tidy by nature.

There always seems to be an overflow of papers, parts, projects and pieces that are laid down where they shouldn't remain.

For several days after a major cleaning I am militant about keeping order.

I rush to sweep up every crumb of wood debris around the fireplace, flick dust off shelves, meticulously put things away.

Slowly other more interesting activities claim me--reading, sewing, baking--and beyond the immediate cleaning and ordering of kitchen or bath or bedroom, I revert to my natural less than tidy ways.

If ever I were 'well-to-do' I should hire a cleaning lady!

Since that will never be, I will have to settle for my frantic bursts of housekeeping!

Ladies' Day Out

Gina's friend, Maria, traveled from Vermont for a 6 day visit last week.

We were sure she would enjoy a trip to the Casey County Mennonite shops.

I picked up the 'girls' at 10 o'clock last Thursday morning for a leisurely tour.

Our first stop was at Misty Mountain, the general store which offers a wonderous stock of kitchen goods, canning supplies, pots and pans in sizes to cook for large families, yard goods, and a sampling of Amish-made furniture and quilts.

The store also has on hand calico dresses, aprons and bonnets favored by 'plain people.

Maria and Gina modeled bonnets.

This quilt featured for sale was new to the store since my last visit.

The hand applique and small quilting stitches are exquisite.

The quilts are displayed beneath a sheet of clear protective plastic--which causes a glare in the photo.

Many years ago in Vermont I helped Maria to construct her first quilt.

A meticulous person in all that she does, Maria has gone on to make lovely quilts.

Her knitted garments are also beautifully professional.

She was pleased to find quilt backing fabric here at a better price than 'home' so bought several yards to pack into her suitcase.

This 'primitive' quilt was on display at the nearby furniture store which is presided over by a man who is easily 7 feet tall!

This shop had been greatly expanded since our last visit two years ago.

The quilt was on a rack behind a table, so a bit awkward to get a proper photo.

Applique detail of the crow in the corner block.  This would be a very simple quilt to duplicate.

Although I couldn't reach to turn over the edge, I suspect this is an imported quilt, not locally made.

This is another homespun quilt, also, I believe, an import.

I like the colors and styles of these quilts, but I disagree with the sense that 'primitive' means clumsy seams and wrinkled piecing.

As we made our way around the furniture showroom, G. discovered this over-sized version of a child's 'highchair.'  The shop owner informed us that it was made as a 'sample' such as might have been set outside a shop years ago to advertise the wares within.

G. [of course] had to clamber into the chair for a photo session and was very amused when the shop owner produced the calf nursing bottle as a prop,  We guessed that many people take advantage of the chair for a memorable photo.

The Amish rocking chairs are blissfully comfortable.

Maria is enjoying one which has a matching footstool which also rocks.

Much as I love my Grampa Mac's old rocking chair, if I had room in this little house for another, I would have come home with one of these.

G. is dispalying a braided rug in soft colors.

This is a beautifully made replica of a Hoosier kitchen cabinet.

I have one, an original, which came from the Vermont farmhouse shared by my grandparents and great-grandparents. This one has a laminated butcher block top while mine has an enameled sliding top.

Where the sugar and flour bins are shiny aluminum in the new version, mine are a white-painted metal.

The sign on this quilt stated that it was locally made. The 'patches' are of denim salvaged from jeans. At the 4 corners of each block are calico 'yo-yo's' which tie down the quilt.

Critical quilt maker that I am, I felt that the yo-yo's needed to be more firmly attached to survive wear and laundering.  The backing was a rather thin muslin with no batting.  I would have added a low-loft batting.

This lodge pole pine table and chairs are of the style often seen in log houses such as

J. built in Wyoming.

Nearly all the furniture in the shop, whether of the primitive genre or more refined was built in a scale that would dwarf the rooms of our small cottage.

Many of the decorative accessories in the shop were rather predictable: stenciled signs, fat candles in rustic wrought-iron holders, small woven or braided rag mats.

This owl caught my eye. He is made of a coarse linen and his 'apron' is attached with faux-rusty pins.

We concluded our tour with a stop at the whole foods market.

I bought a 50# sack of unbleached flour, dried beans, rice, pasta in bulk packages, a gallon jug of molasses, various other goodies, and the ultimate indulgence: a small container of pumpkin fudge.

I realized suddenly, that I was more than ready to head for home.

We had enjoyed our 'time out' but a week of cleaning or sewing until after midnight had caught

up with me.

After delivering the girls to Gina's house, it was good to return home, greet the cats, build up the fire and sit still with a mug of green tea!