It got down to 30 degrees here last night! And it's still August! The cars were covered in frost this morning. I had covered up all of the tomato beds that had hoops on them already, but I didn't think it would really frost. Then Russ got up at about 1 AM and covered everything else...ya gotta love that in a spouse! I think the tomatoes in hoop houses should be okay, but I'll have to assess everything else tonight when I get home. Just when I've got gazillions of green tomatoes on the brink of starting to ripen (I hope, it's about time!) we get this weather. But I shouldn't be surprised; the same thing happened last year even earlier in August, but that was followed by about a month of mild weather.
I'm definitely doing all of my tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant in raised beds with row covers next year. The row covers are really simple to make; just take a length of 3/4 inch PVC pipe (10 feet, I think) and bend it over the bed, and fasten in place with screw-in conduit holders (sorry I don't know all of the correct names for hardware!) I use 4 of them for each 8 foot bed. The covering material is just construction grade plastic for now; I might look into permeable materials for next year.
I've noticed it also helps if you break the rules about spacing tomatoes (18 inches-2 feet apart) and plant them closer together. I plant eight plants per 8 x 4 raised bed. The dense leaf growth traps in heat and the plants insulate each other somewhat.
One of my goals for the garden is to try and incorporate some of Eliot Coleman's harvest-extending techniques, and develop solutions, like the spacing and row covers, that are uniquely suited to this climate. I also want to experiment with different open pollinated tomato varieties and see which ones are best suited for this type of growing season. So far, Stupice is my best performing tomato, although I'm eagerly awaiting the Pruden's Purple, which should be ripe some time this week.
I planted more lettuce, kale, spinach, arugula, Chinese cabbage, orach, and corn salad in the onion and carrot bed I cleared on Sunday. Hopefully, with some frost protection, that will provide fresh greens at least through early November.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Monday, August 22, 2005
Big pickle weekend
My days off from work seem like a lot more work than my days on lately. I took Friday off because I wasn't scheduled to go out wading creeks, measuring cross sections and evaluating substrate types (and watching frogs). Tomorrow I will probably be going out electrofishing, which should make for some interesting stories. I'll try to remember the camera!
Friday morning we were blessed with some rain, not a huge amount but steady enough to keep me from having to water the garden. I washed dishes and cleaned the cook shed in preparation for my first venture into canning in several years. My neighbor Patty has been bringing me her excess green beans, which amount to a lot more than my entire production of beans so far. I had two large bags full, so I decided to can some straight and make pickled beans out of the rest. I did eight pints of beans in the pressure canner, and what a joy it was to hear the hiss of the steam and the rattle of the weight, and to lift out the jars and hear the ping of the lids sealing.
I did the pickled beans on Saturday morning in the water bath canner, and prepared the cucumbers for pickling in the afternoon. I had them all packed tightly into ten wide mouth quart jars, then realized I was out of wide mouth rings and lids! So in a wonderful display of inefficiency, I made the fifteen mile drive into town just for one thing. Well, actually two things, since it seemed such a waste of time and gas to go to town and not get beer. I returned, and pickles were processed.
Sunday was a day of rest--of sorts. I did laundry in the morning, because it had to be done, and hung it all out to dry. I helped Russ put a few sheets of siding on the house. Then Vincent and Nina and I got on our bikes and rode to the old farmstead just across the creek, where we picked a bucket of crabapples, which I might make into jelly, and some red clover blossoms to dry for tea. The kids and I spent some time just running in the grass and watching clouds. Then I decided that Togo the husky needed some exercise, so we rode our bikes back, put Togo on the leash, and came back to the same spot, the kids again on bikes and Togo taking me for a run. I took him off the leash for a while and he was ecstatic, although I think he's so used to being chained up he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
When we got back, Russ had brought water down to the garden and he was starting up the chain saw. Hmmm, I thought we were going to take it easy the rest of the day. So I watered while he cut down a small dead birch between the new house and the garden. After the watering was done, I decided I hadn't done enough work so far, and proceeded to weed and trim edges around my greens bed, and clean out the onion and carrot bed which had been harvested. I stopped short of planting seeds in the cleared bed. Gotta save something for tomorrow!
Joe, by the way, threw a twenty minute tantrum because Dad would not let him operate the chain saw. This is the same three year old who wants a shotgun for his fourth birthday "So I can shoot those damn neighbor cows if they come over here!"
Winding down (finally) for the evening, I started what I hope to be an ongoing thing: reading with Nina and maybe Vincent. We read the first chapter of Louise Erdrich's The Birchbark House, which is wonderful so far.
Friday morning we were blessed with some rain, not a huge amount but steady enough to keep me from having to water the garden. I washed dishes and cleaned the cook shed in preparation for my first venture into canning in several years. My neighbor Patty has been bringing me her excess green beans, which amount to a lot more than my entire production of beans so far. I had two large bags full, so I decided to can some straight and make pickled beans out of the rest. I did eight pints of beans in the pressure canner, and what a joy it was to hear the hiss of the steam and the rattle of the weight, and to lift out the jars and hear the ping of the lids sealing.
I did the pickled beans on Saturday morning in the water bath canner, and prepared the cucumbers for pickling in the afternoon. I had them all packed tightly into ten wide mouth quart jars, then realized I was out of wide mouth rings and lids! So in a wonderful display of inefficiency, I made the fifteen mile drive into town just for one thing. Well, actually two things, since it seemed such a waste of time and gas to go to town and not get beer. I returned, and pickles were processed.
Sunday was a day of rest--of sorts. I did laundry in the morning, because it had to be done, and hung it all out to dry. I helped Russ put a few sheets of siding on the house. Then Vincent and Nina and I got on our bikes and rode to the old farmstead just across the creek, where we picked a bucket of crabapples, which I might make into jelly, and some red clover blossoms to dry for tea. The kids and I spent some time just running in the grass and watching clouds. Then I decided that Togo the husky needed some exercise, so we rode our bikes back, put Togo on the leash, and came back to the same spot, the kids again on bikes and Togo taking me for a run. I took him off the leash for a while and he was ecstatic, although I think he's so used to being chained up he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
When we got back, Russ had brought water down to the garden and he was starting up the chain saw. Hmmm, I thought we were going to take it easy the rest of the day. So I watered while he cut down a small dead birch between the new house and the garden. After the watering was done, I decided I hadn't done enough work so far, and proceeded to weed and trim edges around my greens bed, and clean out the onion and carrot bed which had been harvested. I stopped short of planting seeds in the cleared bed. Gotta save something for tomorrow!
Joe, by the way, threw a twenty minute tantrum because Dad would not let him operate the chain saw. This is the same three year old who wants a shotgun for his fourth birthday "So I can shoot those damn neighbor cows if they come over here!"
Winding down (finally) for the evening, I started what I hope to be an ongoing thing: reading with Nina and maybe Vincent. We read the first chapter of Louise Erdrich's The Birchbark House, which is wonderful so far.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Low tech
We celebrated Nina's birthday on Sunday by having my mom, dad, brother and his family, grandma, aunt and uncle up for a picnic. It had been two years since any of them had seen the place and we were anxious to show them the progress on the new house. We even enlisted the muscles of my dad, brother, sister in law, and uncle in lifting one of the glue-lam beams that supports part of the second floor.
While I love having my family up for a visit, I always get the feeling that they don't fully understand why I'm doing this, why I'm working towards this homesteading lifestyle. My grandma and my mother certainly lived some of it, but are content in not having to do all of the hard work anymore. I think they admire me for doing it, and creating such a great environment for the kids to grow up in, but at the same time are a bit perplexed by some choices. Like the composting toilet.
"Why are you going with a composting toilet instead of a regular one?" my dad asked me. I paused, reaching for the right words. The composting toilet is such an integral symbol of our philosophy of living here; conserving valuable resources, making do with less, and participating more fully in the cycle of life. How do I distill all of that into an answer that won't take the rest of the afternoon? I didn't have a copy of The Humanure Handbook available to show him, although that may have been a bit too much information for a Sunday afternoon.
"It's low tech." I heard myself say. It's low tech. Exactly. You can't get any more low tech than a bucket of sawdust. It's simple and elegant, and it won't get plugged up and overflow at inopportune times. But yet, the process of composting is probably more complicated and technical than anything humans could come up with, so in a sense it's not low tech. But for our purposes, at an organism/ecosystem level, it's low tech.
I went on to explain how a septic system would cost thousands of dollars to install, would require intervention by professionals and inspectors, and even then would have no guarantee of working properly. Mound systems have a way of freezing up during winters with little snow, and functioning questionably the rest of the time. My aunt and uncle, who live on a lake, are aware of this. They will eventually need to replace their system, but will probably go with a holding tank instead of a mound. As a biologist I agreed that was the better option for them and for the lake, which suffers from nutrient overload. I should have preached the benefits of the composting idea, but perhaps that will wait for another day, not a family birthday celebration.
The economic argument probably made more sense than the low tech one. I don't know. My extended family probably still thinks I'm a bit strange. Oh well, at least we didn't go with my husband's idea of greeting them with a hatchet and telling them to go down to the chicken tractor and choose their dinner.
While I love having my family up for a visit, I always get the feeling that they don't fully understand why I'm doing this, why I'm working towards this homesteading lifestyle. My grandma and my mother certainly lived some of it, but are content in not having to do all of the hard work anymore. I think they admire me for doing it, and creating such a great environment for the kids to grow up in, but at the same time are a bit perplexed by some choices. Like the composting toilet.
"Why are you going with a composting toilet instead of a regular one?" my dad asked me. I paused, reaching for the right words. The composting toilet is such an integral symbol of our philosophy of living here; conserving valuable resources, making do with less, and participating more fully in the cycle of life. How do I distill all of that into an answer that won't take the rest of the afternoon? I didn't have a copy of The Humanure Handbook available to show him, although that may have been a bit too much information for a Sunday afternoon.
"It's low tech." I heard myself say. It's low tech. Exactly. You can't get any more low tech than a bucket of sawdust. It's simple and elegant, and it won't get plugged up and overflow at inopportune times. But yet, the process of composting is probably more complicated and technical than anything humans could come up with, so in a sense it's not low tech. But for our purposes, at an organism/ecosystem level, it's low tech.
I went on to explain how a septic system would cost thousands of dollars to install, would require intervention by professionals and inspectors, and even then would have no guarantee of working properly. Mound systems have a way of freezing up during winters with little snow, and functioning questionably the rest of the time. My aunt and uncle, who live on a lake, are aware of this. They will eventually need to replace their system, but will probably go with a holding tank instead of a mound. As a biologist I agreed that was the better option for them and for the lake, which suffers from nutrient overload. I should have preached the benefits of the composting idea, but perhaps that will wait for another day, not a family birthday celebration.
The economic argument probably made more sense than the low tech one. I don't know. My extended family probably still thinks I'm a bit strange. Oh well, at least we didn't go with my husband's idea of greeting them with a hatchet and telling them to go down to the chicken tractor and choose their dinner.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
today's nature observation
Frogs will sit motionless on a rock for hours on end. Yes, it was alive. Maybe it didn't have anything else that needed to be done, and it was a pretty place to be. I am envious.
bittern moon
Does anyone know anything about animal spirits? Specifically, what does it mean when an American Bittern repeatedly presents itself to you? We have seen this bird several times in the last few weeks. One evening, soon after we completed the first walls of the new house, it flew low over the house. The other day at the pond, I swam across to the other side, a distance of probably 100 feet or less, and the bittern emerged from a clump of sedge it had been lurking in for at least the half hour I had been there. Yesterday, again at the pond, it flew low directly over us. I always thought bitterns were rather elusive, timid birds that were rarely seen. Certainly I had never seen one up close before this year.
Autumn is sliding in. It is present in the yellow leaves of the young birches that have given up hope of enough rain to produce any more this year. It is present in the flock of hundreds of blackbirds, rising and falling like a cloud. It is present in the hummingbirds, visiting the feeder with increasing urgency as they prepare for migration. It is present in the common nighthawks, flocking together in swirling swarms; I had not seen a nighthawk all summer. And it is present in the bands of cedar waxwings, feeding on ripe chokecherries.
Autumn is sliding in. It is present in the yellow leaves of the young birches that have given up hope of enough rain to produce any more this year. It is present in the flock of hundreds of blackbirds, rising and falling like a cloud. It is present in the hummingbirds, visiting the feeder with increasing urgency as they prepare for migration. It is present in the common nighthawks, flocking together in swirling swarms; I had not seen a nighthawk all summer. And it is present in the bands of cedar waxwings, feeding on ripe chokecherries.
Friday, August 12, 2005
six years ago today, or how things came around in a circle
Six years ago I sat in the very room I am sitting in now, working the same job, but it was all about to change. I was due with my second child, and my husband had just accepted a job offer in another state, which meant once the baby was born I would never be here again. I would be leaving my job, which I had come to like; selling our house, the one we had had built for us in a rural subdivision, the only house I'd known in my married life; moving 600 miles away to a place where I had no friends or family; and being a stay at home mom to two young children.
Six years ago I wanted to sell our land. If we were moving that far away, I could not bear the thought of having a piece of land, a place I loved, but not being able to visit it as often as I wanted. It turns out I was wrong, and keeping the land is what saved us. We had talked of living here, but that seemed like such a remote possibility, one I was not sure I could make the transition to at the time.
Six years ago was my last day here at the office. I went home as usual, made dinner, went for a walk, and read bedtime stories to my two year old son. As I was rocking him, I felt the familiar tightening, the beginning of contractions. It seemed like forever before he was finally weary enough to fall asleep in his bed. I took a warm bath, but it did not comfort me; the contractions kept coming, faster and more intense. I told my husband what was going on, but not to worry yet, I was going to bed for a while, it would probably be hours before anything happened.
Then my water broke. Hours collapsed into seconds as I went into transitional labor on the way to the hospital. I don't know how I walked in, all the way to OB on the second floor. By the time we got into a room I was ready to lie on my side, nauseous and irritable. I asked for Nubain, but by the time the nurse brought it in, it was too late; I was pushing. My doctor arrived just as the baby was crowning; moments later I heard a little cry and "You have a daughter!" Nina was born at 1:30 AM, Friday the 13th, 1999, after under four hours of labor. She's always been impatient and determined.
We moved, but somehow what we were moving to seemed to elude us. We moved again; the job, the location, the finances, never seemed quite right. Three years went by in a haze as we chased what we wanted, what we had a vague idea of but didn't know how to get there. Coming back to the land was always like coming home; it was becoming the center of my universe.
Then we landed here, when Nina was three and had a one year old brother. It was as crazy and unplanned as anything that ever happened. We lived day to day, not knowing how we would get by, but somehow life was starting to feel right. Six months later, my old job opened up; I walked in the door just like I always had, and it was as if nothing had changed, nothing except me. Somewhere on that wild crazy journey, I learned what I wanted out of life.
You could say we ended up here, right back where we started, because our other plans didn't work out. I believe, however, that there was one plan all along, one we gradually came to know. The treasure we sought was not necessarily the treasure we would find.
Happy birthday, Wild Neen.
Six years ago I wanted to sell our land. If we were moving that far away, I could not bear the thought of having a piece of land, a place I loved, but not being able to visit it as often as I wanted. It turns out I was wrong, and keeping the land is what saved us. We had talked of living here, but that seemed like such a remote possibility, one I was not sure I could make the transition to at the time.
Six years ago was my last day here at the office. I went home as usual, made dinner, went for a walk, and read bedtime stories to my two year old son. As I was rocking him, I felt the familiar tightening, the beginning of contractions. It seemed like forever before he was finally weary enough to fall asleep in his bed. I took a warm bath, but it did not comfort me; the contractions kept coming, faster and more intense. I told my husband what was going on, but not to worry yet, I was going to bed for a while, it would probably be hours before anything happened.
Then my water broke. Hours collapsed into seconds as I went into transitional labor on the way to the hospital. I don't know how I walked in, all the way to OB on the second floor. By the time we got into a room I was ready to lie on my side, nauseous and irritable. I asked for Nubain, but by the time the nurse brought it in, it was too late; I was pushing. My doctor arrived just as the baby was crowning; moments later I heard a little cry and "You have a daughter!" Nina was born at 1:30 AM, Friday the 13th, 1999, after under four hours of labor. She's always been impatient and determined.
We moved, but somehow what we were moving to seemed to elude us. We moved again; the job, the location, the finances, never seemed quite right. Three years went by in a haze as we chased what we wanted, what we had a vague idea of but didn't know how to get there. Coming back to the land was always like coming home; it was becoming the center of my universe.
Then we landed here, when Nina was three and had a one year old brother. It was as crazy and unplanned as anything that ever happened. We lived day to day, not knowing how we would get by, but somehow life was starting to feel right. Six months later, my old job opened up; I walked in the door just like I always had, and it was as if nothing had changed, nothing except me. Somewhere on that wild crazy journey, I learned what I wanted out of life.
You could say we ended up here, right back where we started, because our other plans didn't work out. I believe, however, that there was one plan all along, one we gradually came to know. The treasure we sought was not necessarily the treasure we would find.
Happy birthday, Wild Neen.
The Snake River
The Snake River, where I've been spending a lot of time this week
I was intrigued by how a small amount of woody debris, such as a fallen tree or branch getting caught in the bank, can over time pick up more and more debris and become substrate for plant growth. Underneath all of this is some wonderful cover for fish.
A school of fish, probably white suckers, visible in the clear water.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Ripe tomatoes and green beans!
Joe harvested my first ripe tomato yesterday, a Stupice. Actually I've been picking a couple of orange cherry tomatoes and Roma tomatoes from a container plant, but those don't count because a) I got them from my neighbor Patty, who started tomato seeds a lot earlier and grew them to more gigantic sizes at transplant than I did, and b) they're container plants. Oh well, at least I'm getting tomatoes this year, container or no. That's more than I can say about last year, when at this time we were having frost! I haven't eaten the Stupice yet; I'm saving that for a special tomato ceremony. There are a few more that are almost ripe.
Vincent harvested a few Kentucky Wonder pole beans, but they really haven't kicked in yet. And my Ohio Cutshort pole beans aren't even flowering yet! I looked in the Sandhill catalog, and discovered they are an 85 day variety. So I probably won't be planting them next year.
I'm also getting green and yellow zucchini, and I might have enough pickling cucumbers for a batch of dill pickles on Saturday. And tons of broccoli.
Vincent harvested a few Kentucky Wonder pole beans, but they really haven't kicked in yet. And my Ohio Cutshort pole beans aren't even flowering yet! I looked in the Sandhill catalog, and discovered they are an 85 day variety. So I probably won't be planting them next year.
I'm also getting green and yellow zucchini, and I might have enough pickling cucumbers for a batch of dill pickles on Saturday. And tons of broccoli.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
river running
I've been spending the last three work days taking habitat measurements on two area rivers. I'm beginning to enjoy this kind of work. In a state famous for its lakes, where spending the weekend at the lake cabin is a way of life for many, rivers, especially smaller warmwater rivers, often get overlooked.
The Snake River flows some eighty miles from headwater streams in Aitkin County, MN, to its confluence with the St. Croix River east of Pine City. Although there are areas of whitewater near the mouth and again near where the headwater streams come together, the section I've been on is a wide, shallow, low gradient stretch. We traveled by flat bottomed boat with a small motor, but I found myself wishing I was floating lazily in a canoe.
There are cabins and houses scattered along the banks, more so in the area near Pine City, but much of the river flows through wild floodplain forest, with basswood, maple, oak, and an occasional white pine, the remnant of the vast white pine forest that covered this area until logging began 150 years ago.
This has been a dry summer, and the river is at a very low level. In some areas the river is a sand bar 100 feet wide with water barely six inches deep; occasionally we had to get out of the boat and drag it across these areas. However, debris piled on the banks and snags of grasses caught in tree branches spoke of spring torrents when the river level was about ten feet higher.
As I rode along in the front of the boat, watching the water ahead for logs and boulders, I was amazed at the water clarity. Lakes around here generally are not very clear, but the Snake River water was clear enough I could see down several feet. I saw an occasional smallmouth bass and suckers and redhorse. With water levels this low, fish are scarce in the sandy flats. Any available cover, such as a boulder, fallen tree, or bed of river pondweed, is utilized by fish. I have often read and preached the importance of instream cover for fish, but seeing the amazing numbers of fish that congregate in one log jam make the message clear. More habitat=more fish.
The fish weren't the only wildlife I observed. Small flocks of cedar waxwings flitted among the tops of trees. Great blue herons stood still in the backwaters. A flock of Canada geese flew overhead. Wood ducks and mallards splashed in wild rice beds. A bald eagle sored overhead. Shorebirds, perhaps spotted sandpipers, waded on exposed sand bars, enjoying the numerous tiny mussels and invertebrates. Mussels were abundant; I saw numerous live ones half buried in the sand, their siphons and gills exposed out of their shells. If mussels are an indicator of clean water, the Snake River is in good shape.
Our purpose in surveying the river is to assess the fish population, primarily the "game" fish; that is, walleye, northern pike, smallmouth bass, and channel catfish. However, I could probably spend days paddling the river, observing what I have described above, watching the glassy water slip by reflecting the blue sky, and not even wet a line.
The Snake River flows some eighty miles from headwater streams in Aitkin County, MN, to its confluence with the St. Croix River east of Pine City. Although there are areas of whitewater near the mouth and again near where the headwater streams come together, the section I've been on is a wide, shallow, low gradient stretch. We traveled by flat bottomed boat with a small motor, but I found myself wishing I was floating lazily in a canoe.
There are cabins and houses scattered along the banks, more so in the area near Pine City, but much of the river flows through wild floodplain forest, with basswood, maple, oak, and an occasional white pine, the remnant of the vast white pine forest that covered this area until logging began 150 years ago.
This has been a dry summer, and the river is at a very low level. In some areas the river is a sand bar 100 feet wide with water barely six inches deep; occasionally we had to get out of the boat and drag it across these areas. However, debris piled on the banks and snags of grasses caught in tree branches spoke of spring torrents when the river level was about ten feet higher.
As I rode along in the front of the boat, watching the water ahead for logs and boulders, I was amazed at the water clarity. Lakes around here generally are not very clear, but the Snake River water was clear enough I could see down several feet. I saw an occasional smallmouth bass and suckers and redhorse. With water levels this low, fish are scarce in the sandy flats. Any available cover, such as a boulder, fallen tree, or bed of river pondweed, is utilized by fish. I have often read and preached the importance of instream cover for fish, but seeing the amazing numbers of fish that congregate in one log jam make the message clear. More habitat=more fish.
The fish weren't the only wildlife I observed. Small flocks of cedar waxwings flitted among the tops of trees. Great blue herons stood still in the backwaters. A flock of Canada geese flew overhead. Wood ducks and mallards splashed in wild rice beds. A bald eagle sored overhead. Shorebirds, perhaps spotted sandpipers, waded on exposed sand bars, enjoying the numerous tiny mussels and invertebrates. Mussels were abundant; I saw numerous live ones half buried in the sand, their siphons and gills exposed out of their shells. If mussels are an indicator of clean water, the Snake River is in good shape.
Our purpose in surveying the river is to assess the fish population, primarily the "game" fish; that is, walleye, northern pike, smallmouth bass, and channel catfish. However, I could probably spend days paddling the river, observing what I have described above, watching the glassy water slip by reflecting the blue sky, and not even wet a line.
Monday, August 08, 2005
the weekend
Sorry no pictures...I brought the digital camera home from work but forgot the memory card. D-uh!
Friday night we had a great time listening to our friend Fred's bluegrass band, the Whistlepigs (see link on right). I have played music with Fred and bandmate Joel, but I had never seen the full band perform. They play a mix of straight bluegrass, bluegrassed contemporary tunes, and even some very impressive original stuff. They were playing at the Highway 61 Folks Fest in Mahtowa, MN, a fairly laid back outdoor festival with a small but enthusiastic audience.
I wanted to go back to see more of the festival on Saturday, especially the singer songwriter contest, but I couldn't let any more of the weekend slip by without getting caught up on chores i.e. watering the garden (first priority--it's been so dry!), laundry, and even doing the dishes. Russ has been working so hard on the new house, and friends and neighbors have been stopping by to help out, so there hasn't been time for him to do much else. The entire framing for the first floor, at least the important, load-bearing stuff, is almost complete!
Nina is now riding her bike without training wheels. This came as news to me Saturday night; her older brother Vincent apparently taught her. She picked it up fairly easily, just like he did, except she had a swollen eyebrow. "I kind of ran into the swingset," she said, "But I'm okay!"
But alas, the weekend was not complete without a Sunday evening visit to the emergency room. Vincent and Joe had been riding their bikes in the driveway, while Russ and I were admiring the work on the new house, when we heard a crash, then a cry from Joe. The back of his head was bleeding. Apparently they had collided and it was the pedal of Vincent's bike that got Joe. Vincent was very upset and sorry about the whole thing immediately; I felt as badly for him as I did for Joe. I knew it wasn't that bad, though, because Joe was conscious and not feeling like he was in shock. He was crying on the way to the ER, I think not from pain as much as worry about going to the hospital. Once we got there, though, he was himself and talking nonstop; again, I think that was part nervousness at the situation. He received eight staples in a V-shaped cut about 2 inches long. Poor little guy! I was impressed with the staff at the ER of Mercy Hospital in Moose Lake. They were very good with Joe, very nice to us (I thought I'd get a lecture on bike helmets and a referral to the authorities!) and very quick; we were there maybe an hour or less.
One hilariously funny thing though, and one I'll always remember. When the nurse came in and started chatting with Joe, one of the first things he asked her was "What's your phone number?" The kid is 3 and a half years old! Hope Dad hasn't been putting him up to that...
I've been out in the field at work today, so not much time to post. I hope to post more tomorrow!
Friday night we had a great time listening to our friend Fred's bluegrass band, the Whistlepigs (see link on right). I have played music with Fred and bandmate Joel, but I had never seen the full band perform. They play a mix of straight bluegrass, bluegrassed contemporary tunes, and even some very impressive original stuff. They were playing at the Highway 61 Folks Fest in Mahtowa, MN, a fairly laid back outdoor festival with a small but enthusiastic audience.
I wanted to go back to see more of the festival on Saturday, especially the singer songwriter contest, but I couldn't let any more of the weekend slip by without getting caught up on chores i.e. watering the garden (first priority--it's been so dry!), laundry, and even doing the dishes. Russ has been working so hard on the new house, and friends and neighbors have been stopping by to help out, so there hasn't been time for him to do much else. The entire framing for the first floor, at least the important, load-bearing stuff, is almost complete!
Nina is now riding her bike without training wheels. This came as news to me Saturday night; her older brother Vincent apparently taught her. She picked it up fairly easily, just like he did, except she had a swollen eyebrow. "I kind of ran into the swingset," she said, "But I'm okay!"
But alas, the weekend was not complete without a Sunday evening visit to the emergency room. Vincent and Joe had been riding their bikes in the driveway, while Russ and I were admiring the work on the new house, when we heard a crash, then a cry from Joe. The back of his head was bleeding. Apparently they had collided and it was the pedal of Vincent's bike that got Joe. Vincent was very upset and sorry about the whole thing immediately; I felt as badly for him as I did for Joe. I knew it wasn't that bad, though, because Joe was conscious and not feeling like he was in shock. He was crying on the way to the ER, I think not from pain as much as worry about going to the hospital. Once we got there, though, he was himself and talking nonstop; again, I think that was part nervousness at the situation. He received eight staples in a V-shaped cut about 2 inches long. Poor little guy! I was impressed with the staff at the ER of Mercy Hospital in Moose Lake. They were very good with Joe, very nice to us (I thought I'd get a lecture on bike helmets and a referral to the authorities!) and very quick; we were there maybe an hour or less.
One hilariously funny thing though, and one I'll always remember. When the nurse came in and started chatting with Joe, one of the first things he asked her was "What's your phone number?" The kid is 3 and a half years old! Hope Dad hasn't been putting him up to that...
I've been out in the field at work today, so not much time to post. I hope to post more tomorrow!
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
David James Duncan on evangelism and fundamentalism
Check out this article, from Orion online July/August 2005:
What fundamentalists need for their salvation: in defense of truth, stewardship, and neighborly love
Quote:
What fundamentalists need for their salvation: in defense of truth, stewardship, and neighborly love
Quote:
The God of politically-organized fundamentalism, as advertised daily by a vast array of media, is a Supramundane Caucasian Male as furious with humanity's failure to live by a few lines from Leviticus as He is oblivious to the "Christian" right's failure to live the compassion of the gospels and earth-stewardship of both testaments. As surely as I feel love and need for food and water, I feel love and need for God. But these feelings have nothing to do with Supramundane Males planning torments for those who don't abide by neocon "moral values." I hold the evangelical truth of our situation to be that contemporary politicized fundamentalists, including first and foremost those aimed at Empire and Armageddon, need us non-fundamentalists, mystics, ecosystem activists, unprogrammable artists, agnostic humanitarians, incorrigible writers, truth-telling musicians, incorruptible scientists, organic gardeners, slow food farmers, gay restaurateurs, wilderness visionaries, pagan preachers of sustainability, compassion-driven entrepreneurs, heartbroken Muslims, grief-stricken children, loving believers, loving disbelievers, peace-marching millions, and the One who loves us all in such a huge way that it is not going too far to say: they need us for their salvation.Yes! Yes! Yes!
ferns
I'm playing with my new toys here at work: a new computer with 20" flat LCD monitor, and Adobe Photoshop! I took this image of ferns along the path leading to the cabin about a month ago, but I just couldn't get the color and contrast right with the standard image editing software on my old computer.
the joy of music
I was asked to play music for the church service last Sunday. I don't really have a long list of repertoire that is suitable for church; my guitar/vocal list includes songs more along the line of Greg Brown's "Lord I Have Made You A Place" so usually when I'm asked to play something I take the opportunity to learn something new to me; I'll pick a gospel tune off a bluegrass album or find an old-timey sounding hymn. For someone who practices as seldom as I have lately this is living on the edge; I have literally worked out chords and arrangements the hour before the service. This time I chose "Morning Has Broken" and worked out a Cat Stevens style arrangement for guitar minus the pretty key changes (I don't know enough chords to do that! )
While I was sitting outside on the back step practicing on Sunday morning, I heard the sound of music coming from the cook shed. A Celtic music program was on the radio (KUMD-Duluth) and Vincent had turned it up loud. Without too much prodding from me, he has taken an interest in Celtic and bluegrass music. He kept yelling to me "Mom! Come listen to this great music!" I think it was Seamus Egan on flute, doing a fantastic set of jigs and reels. We couldn't help but dance to it. Vincent brought out his Indonesian drum and started pounding out a beat. I took over, drumming and dancing. We laughed, we danced, we whooped under the tall pines. Now that is LIVING.
I need to get my son started playing an instrument, now while he has this sense of the true joy of music. And I want to be able to make music with him, and with the whole family. I have this vision of us sitting around the woodstove on a cold winter night, picking and singing, the music echoing up into the rafters.
While I was sitting outside on the back step practicing on Sunday morning, I heard the sound of music coming from the cook shed. A Celtic music program was on the radio (KUMD-Duluth) and Vincent had turned it up loud. Without too much prodding from me, he has taken an interest in Celtic and bluegrass music. He kept yelling to me "Mom! Come listen to this great music!" I think it was Seamus Egan on flute, doing a fantastic set of jigs and reels. We couldn't help but dance to it. Vincent brought out his Indonesian drum and started pounding out a beat. I took over, drumming and dancing. We laughed, we danced, we whooped under the tall pines. Now that is LIVING.
I need to get my son started playing an instrument, now while he has this sense of the true joy of music. And I want to be able to make music with him, and with the whole family. I have this vision of us sitting around the woodstove on a cold winter night, picking and singing, the music echoing up into the rafters.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
What I've been up to
Sorry I haven't had a chance to post more often. I've been taking Fridays and Mondays off (love those 4 day weekends!) and our Internet connection at home isn't working, which is in some ways a good thing because I'd probably spend way too much time blogging and reading blogs instead of gardening, doing laundry, etc.
New house update: the two long first story walls are up! My husband's older kids, Ryan 26, Sarah 23, and Tom 21, and Tom's girlfriend Abby, came on Sunday to help out and we got the walls lifted in place despite the heat. Now I can visualize better what the house will look like. The front wall is oriented due south, with an opening for an 8 foot patio door with tall 2 foot windows on either side. This will take advantage of the low winter sun; the floor in front of the windows will be dark colored ceramic tile to hold heat from sunlight. The wood stove will be 8 feet from the windows, with a half wall behind it for additional thermal mass. It's hard to imagine the utility of these passive solar features on a 90 degree day, or the value of R40 insulation everywhere, but in the middle of winter it will make a difference!
Garden update: We've had several meals of fresh broccoli, which for some strange reason the kids love. Diva cucumbers, a great slicing variety, are starting to get to perfect size, and I'm getting a few pickling cucumbers. I wish the picklers would all get the same size at once. I dug some new potatoes yesterday, Red Gold and Viking Purple. I'm so hesitant to take too many new potatoes, though, even though I should have plenty of potatoes for storage. The pole beans are just beginning to flower, and I saw inch-long beans yesterday. The neighbors gave us some flat Italian-style green beans from their garden for dinner last night; I know I need to plant some of those next year! Tomatoes are growing like crazy, but even my extra early varieties (Stupice, Sub Arctic, Legend, and Siberia) have yet to ripen. Patience, patience. I am getting a few yellow cherry tomatoes from a container plant but all those tiny bites do is tease my appetite for more.
Nature update: It is August, and that means goldenrod and asters are blooming. Asters-the end-of-summer flower! We were over at the neighbors' house last night and there was literally a swarm of hummingbirds at their two feeders. I suppose it's getting towards migration time. Yesterday I got out my butterfly ID book and identified a couple of the most commonly seen butterflies here--Milbert's Tortoiseshell and White Admiral. Of course there are swallowtails and monarchs, and lots of little blues and whites that just won't hold still long enough for me to get a good look!
That's enough for now...gotta get some work done, if I have to, I guess...
New house update: the two long first story walls are up! My husband's older kids, Ryan 26, Sarah 23, and Tom 21, and Tom's girlfriend Abby, came on Sunday to help out and we got the walls lifted in place despite the heat. Now I can visualize better what the house will look like. The front wall is oriented due south, with an opening for an 8 foot patio door with tall 2 foot windows on either side. This will take advantage of the low winter sun; the floor in front of the windows will be dark colored ceramic tile to hold heat from sunlight. The wood stove will be 8 feet from the windows, with a half wall behind it for additional thermal mass. It's hard to imagine the utility of these passive solar features on a 90 degree day, or the value of R40 insulation everywhere, but in the middle of winter it will make a difference!
Garden update: We've had several meals of fresh broccoli, which for some strange reason the kids love. Diva cucumbers, a great slicing variety, are starting to get to perfect size, and I'm getting a few pickling cucumbers. I wish the picklers would all get the same size at once. I dug some new potatoes yesterday, Red Gold and Viking Purple. I'm so hesitant to take too many new potatoes, though, even though I should have plenty of potatoes for storage. The pole beans are just beginning to flower, and I saw inch-long beans yesterday. The neighbors gave us some flat Italian-style green beans from their garden for dinner last night; I know I need to plant some of those next year! Tomatoes are growing like crazy, but even my extra early varieties (Stupice, Sub Arctic, Legend, and Siberia) have yet to ripen. Patience, patience. I am getting a few yellow cherry tomatoes from a container plant but all those tiny bites do is tease my appetite for more.
Nature update: It is August, and that means goldenrod and asters are blooming. Asters-the end-of-summer flower! We were over at the neighbors' house last night and there was literally a swarm of hummingbirds at their two feeders. I suppose it's getting towards migration time. Yesterday I got out my butterfly ID book and identified a couple of the most commonly seen butterflies here--Milbert's Tortoiseshell and White Admiral. Of course there are swallowtails and monarchs, and lots of little blues and whites that just won't hold still long enough for me to get a good look!
That's enough for now...gotta get some work done, if I have to, I guess...
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Impressions from On The Road, part 1
I mentioned in a previous post that I would share some of my thoughts after I recently completed reading Jack Kerouac's classic novel, On The Road. This was not a book that I just put down after finishing it; it has lingered in my thoughts, the stories and images coming back, refining my own impressions to increasing clarity. Perhaps that is the true test of a classic work of art, be it a novel, symphony, or painting; it's not the initial experience of reading/seeing/hearing it, but the thought it inspires. This novel has certainly stayed with me more than anything I've read recently.
Kerouac's use of language is as vivid and rhythmic as anything; I am there, in the smoky jazz clubs of San Francisco, in the steamy bayou night of New Orleans, riding across the high plains of Nebraska in a flatbed truck. I am brought back to the cross country trips I have taken, to the excitement and mystery of the road. I am also taken to the depths of despair, at getting to the end of the continent, my destination, and still feeling empty somehow, beat, alone with myself.
The passage that had the most impact on me was this:
I realized: That is my heritage! My whole family tree is full of people who know nothing, practice nothing but the idea of what one should do! I'm afraid there aren't even any interesting black sheep or skeletons in the closet! I grew up with this incredible naivety, not even knowing where to begin to ask questions, not knowing how to experience anything other than what one should do. I wrote poems, they were good ones, but they were only supposed to be good and happy and the way they ought to be; that bored me eventually but I did not know why, yet I did not know how to understand or appreciate poetry that strayed from these constraints. So I quit writing poetry.
Fortunately I must have had some kind of vision, to see beyond that protective shell. I am still shaking myself free from it. On The Road is helping me to crystallize the longings, the feelings of what I really want in life, and how depressing and constraining the modern, industrial-commercial model of the world is. We are beat.
Kerouac's use of language is as vivid and rhythmic as anything; I am there, in the smoky jazz clubs of San Francisco, in the steamy bayou night of New Orleans, riding across the high plains of Nebraska in a flatbed truck. I am brought back to the cross country trips I have taken, to the excitement and mystery of the road. I am also taken to the depths of despair, at getting to the end of the continent, my destination, and still feeling empty somehow, beat, alone with myself.
The passage that had the most impact on me was this:
I took up a conversation with a gorgeous country girl...she was dull. She spoke of evenings in the country making popcorn on the porch. ONce this would have gladdened my heart but because her heart was not glad when she said it I knew there was nothing in it but the idea of what one should do. "And what else do you do for fun?" I tried to bring up boy friends and sex. Her great dark eyes surveyed me with emptiness and a kind of chagrin that reached back generations and generations in her blood from not having done what was crying to be done--whatever it was, and everybody knows what it was. "What do you want out of life?" I wanted to take her and wring it out of her. She didn't have the slightest idea what she wanted..."What are we aching to do? What do we want?" She didn't know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen, and most lovely, and lost.
I realized: That is my heritage! My whole family tree is full of people who know nothing, practice nothing but the idea of what one should do! I'm afraid there aren't even any interesting black sheep or skeletons in the closet! I grew up with this incredible naivety, not even knowing where to begin to ask questions, not knowing how to experience anything other than what one should do. I wrote poems, they were good ones, but they were only supposed to be good and happy and the way they ought to be; that bored me eventually but I did not know why, yet I did not know how to understand or appreciate poetry that strayed from these constraints. So I quit writing poetry.
Fortunately I must have had some kind of vision, to see beyond that protective shell. I am still shaking myself free from it. On The Road is helping me to crystallize the longings, the feelings of what I really want in life, and how depressing and constraining the modern, industrial-commercial model of the world is. We are beat.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Pictures from the homestead
Gardening tip: For an easy garden that the birds will love, just don't mow or clean up under the bird feeder in the spring!
Our own "leaning birch", to borrow a name from one of my favorite blogs. I don't know why this little tree has issues with uprightness every time it rains; maybe its roots are in shallow soil over a big rock or something.
Status of the garden, 7/26. Some of the tomatoes are covered due to forecasts for temperatures in the 30's last night!
Russ working on the new house. He got the framework done for two sections of the back wall yesterday.
My 7 month old Siberian husky, Togo. I managed to get him to stop moving long enough for this photo.
A thump in the night
WARNING: Children should wear helmets when sleeping in the top bunk!
Vincent fell out of bed at about midnight last night. He's been sleeping in the top bunk for months, no problem, but I think he had too much stuff up there with him so he was sleeping too close to the edge. He ended up with an inch long gash just above one eyebrow, which he will probably get stitches in this morning. Russ wanted to drive him to the ER last night, to get stitches as soon as possible so there would be less of a scar, but I was a little hesitant to have him drive 25 miles, in the middle of the night and at bar closing time, for something that was not life threatening. I was awake for a couple of hours after that, rethinking the ramifications of my decision, but I was just going along with my instincts. Parenthood is never black and white, simple decisions. You just have to make a judgment call sometimes and hope it's the right one.
It was a cold one last night for late July: 39 degrees when I woke up!
UPDATE: Vincent is okay. He got four stitches, and it looks like the scar won't be too bad although there might be a little gap in his eyebrow. If that's the case he'll match me; I have a little scar in one eyebrow from when I was about his age. For being a good patient while getting stitches, he received some Twins baseball cards from the doctor: Kirby Puckett, Frank Viola, and Gary Gaetti--some of the heroes of 1987!
Vincent fell out of bed at about midnight last night. He's been sleeping in the top bunk for months, no problem, but I think he had too much stuff up there with him so he was sleeping too close to the edge. He ended up with an inch long gash just above one eyebrow, which he will probably get stitches in this morning. Russ wanted to drive him to the ER last night, to get stitches as soon as possible so there would be less of a scar, but I was a little hesitant to have him drive 25 miles, in the middle of the night and at bar closing time, for something that was not life threatening. I was awake for a couple of hours after that, rethinking the ramifications of my decision, but I was just going along with my instincts. Parenthood is never black and white, simple decisions. You just have to make a judgment call sometimes and hope it's the right one.
It was a cold one last night for late July: 39 degrees when I woke up!
UPDATE: Vincent is okay. He got four stitches, and it looks like the scar won't be too bad although there might be a little gap in his eyebrow. If that's the case he'll match me; I have a little scar in one eyebrow from when I was about his age. For being a good patient while getting stitches, he received some Twins baseball cards from the doctor: Kirby Puckett, Frank Viola, and Gary Gaetti--some of the heroes of 1987!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
near miss with a fawn
I had a close encounter with a deer on the way to work this morning. I was driving along Highway 23 just on the east side of the beautiful Kettle River. The road goes downhill and around a slight curve before crossing the river. As I approached the curve, suddenly I saw a fawn walk into the opposite lane. I hit the brakes carefully, then realized there was a pickup truck approaching in the lane the fawn was in. That fawn was in a tough situation, and most likely to run directly in front of me. I didn't have time to think whether or not I could avoid it. Suddenly, the fawn leaped across my lane, flying eye level with the drivers seat and just yards in front of the still-moving car! It cleared my lane, landing in the shoulder and disappearing under the guard rail. I wonder if the other driver was close enough to see the look on my face when that fawn was directly in front of me.
I had to pull over in the middle of the river bridge a moment to collect myself before continuing. It wasn't that I was consumed with the fear and shock of a near-miss, although the adrenaline was pumping. What I was thinking was "Absolutely awesome!" I mean, that fawn FLEW. I never knew a young deer could leap like that. It was a thing of beauty.
Of course, I am thankful that the fawn did not become road kill, the other driver and I were not hurt, and my vehicle didn't suffer a scratch.
I had to pull over in the middle of the river bridge a moment to collect myself before continuing. It wasn't that I was consumed with the fear and shock of a near-miss, although the adrenaline was pumping. What I was thinking was "Absolutely awesome!" I mean, that fawn FLEW. I never knew a young deer could leap like that. It was a thing of beauty.
Of course, I am thankful that the fawn did not become road kill, the other driver and I were not hurt, and my vehicle didn't suffer a scratch.
Four day weekend
It's been way too long since I've had the time to post here! Last week I was doing another fish population assessment on a lake an hour's drive away from the office, and it made for some long days. All I can say is, if you're not catching walleye, northern, largemouth bass, crappie, or bluegill on South Lindstrom Lake, you're not trying hard enough. They are there.
I took Friday and Monday off so I could spend some time with the family and Russ could get some quality house building time. He singlehandedly assembled the framework for the front wall, all 2 x 6 construction, in three separate sections. I think the house is 48 feet wide, and the front wall has a few openings for windows and a patio door, so it was a big job.
I had enough time to get things done in the garden; staking tomatoes, trellising cucumbers, and cleaning out and replanting my greens bed. I'm experimenting with succession planting this year, hoping to harvest fresh lettuce, kale, savoy cabbage, and spinach way into the fall. We harvested broccoli for dinner twice during the weekend; I've never grown such big, beautiful broccoli heads. I hope to have enough pickling cucumbers by the weekend to try making a batch of dill pickles. The whole garden is thriving, despite the dry July we've been having. Bees are buzzing everywhere, doing their job of pollinating and making me realize that this garden is part of a larger ecosystem, and in order for it to thrive I must think in terms of that system, not "what chemical can I apply to increase yield?"
Of course there was pond time. Vincent can now dog-paddle and backstroke his way across the deep parts, and Nina wears her life jacket so she can swim right along with him. Joe tried his life jacket yesterday but he thought the deep water was a bit too cold and was content staying where his feet could touch bottom. While the kids swam, I finally finished Kerouac's On The Road. To sum it up, it really spoke to me, got me thinking what it is we're looking for in life. More to come in a later post.
I took Friday and Monday off so I could spend some time with the family and Russ could get some quality house building time. He singlehandedly assembled the framework for the front wall, all 2 x 6 construction, in three separate sections. I think the house is 48 feet wide, and the front wall has a few openings for windows and a patio door, so it was a big job.
I had enough time to get things done in the garden; staking tomatoes, trellising cucumbers, and cleaning out and replanting my greens bed. I'm experimenting with succession planting this year, hoping to harvest fresh lettuce, kale, savoy cabbage, and spinach way into the fall. We harvested broccoli for dinner twice during the weekend; I've never grown such big, beautiful broccoli heads. I hope to have enough pickling cucumbers by the weekend to try making a batch of dill pickles. The whole garden is thriving, despite the dry July we've been having. Bees are buzzing everywhere, doing their job of pollinating and making me realize that this garden is part of a larger ecosystem, and in order for it to thrive I must think in terms of that system, not "what chemical can I apply to increase yield?"
Of course there was pond time. Vincent can now dog-paddle and backstroke his way across the deep parts, and Nina wears her life jacket so she can swim right along with him. Joe tried his life jacket yesterday but he thought the deep water was a bit too cold and was content staying where his feet could touch bottom. While the kids swam, I finally finished Kerouac's On The Road. To sum it up, it really spoke to me, got me thinking what it is we're looking for in life. More to come in a later post.
Friday, July 15, 2005
the pond
This is where I've been spending most of my evenings after work lately. We had this pond dug in 2003 to provide gravel for our driveway, which was a mess at the time. The front part of our property, towards the road, was at one time a gravel pit. You can still see some of the old banks and piles that were left from the gravel mining. I don't know why they stopped mining gravel here; maybe it wasn't high enough quality, or maybe since it is right at the edge of the gravel deposit, maybe there wasn't enough to be worthwhile digging. When we first bought the property, the area where the pond is was a low spot, too low for haying, and thick with willows.
The pond is maybe 10 or 12 feet at its deepest. We had the backhoe operator dig as deep as he could, with the idea of using the pond to raise fish. The depth allows groundwater to seep in and maintain the pond's level; in two years we have not yet had low water. It also provides water that is much cooler than the surface water, cool enough for trout. The pond has filled in somewhat with sand and silt but there are still parts that are over my head. The area where the kids swim is shallow enough for them, but it drops off steeply a few feet out.
The pond is home to numerous frogs, a few painted turtles, and some small fish, probably sticklebacks. How they got in there is unknown; after a heavy rain there is the possibility that something could swim up from Sand Creek through a shallow ditch and two culverts, but that seems unlikely. I hope to stock some trout in there some day, but it probably won't be this year. Ideally the pond should be dug a little deeper and bigger for trout, but I think the fish would survive as is.
The pond provides year round recreation; the kids spend hours splashing in the shallows, swimming or catching tadpoles during the summer. In the winter the pond is a perfect size skating rink. As you can see in the picture, it adds much aesthetic appeal to our land. But most of all, I enjoy lounging on the beach after a dip in the cool water, watching the reflections of clouds and white pines while sipping a beer. I have it all right here at home; I don't need to pack the kids in the car and drive to some overcrowded beach. This is heaven!
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
I haven't had much time to post the last couple of days. I've been out of the office working on a "fish population assessment", which means I've been netting fish on a lake and counting and measuring them. It's fun as far as work goes, although I come home covered with fish slime and algae. I've learned some interesting things, such as:
Freshwater drum (sheephead) actually make a grunting noise.
Channel catfish "talk" too.
Yellow perch have more pointy, spiky body parts than any other fish, but nothing hurts like getting spiked by a small bullhead.
Northern pike produce more slime than any other species.
Leftover grilled salmon is not the best lunch choice when you've been handling dead fish all morning.
Damselflies were out in full force, gathering in still areas where the pondweed grew to the surface. A loon silently approached within thirty feet of our boat. A solitary tern, maybe a Common or Forster's, perched on one of our net buoys. The lake was fairly quiet, although a few people were out on jet skis and pontoon boats. All in all, not a bad way to spend the work day.
Freshwater drum (sheephead) actually make a grunting noise.
Channel catfish "talk" too.
Yellow perch have more pointy, spiky body parts than any other fish, but nothing hurts like getting spiked by a small bullhead.
Northern pike produce more slime than any other species.
Leftover grilled salmon is not the best lunch choice when you've been handling dead fish all morning.
Damselflies were out in full force, gathering in still areas where the pondweed grew to the surface. A loon silently approached within thirty feet of our boat. A solitary tern, maybe a Common or Forster's, perched on one of our net buoys. The lake was fairly quiet, although a few people were out on jet skis and pontoon boats. All in all, not a bad way to spend the work day.
Monday, July 11, 2005
hot and hotter
It was a hot weekend with the high dewpoints that make it oh so comfortable. I got sweaty just watering the garden and mulching potatoes; I quit mulching after two potato beds on Sunday. My body just doesn't take heat well. Despite all the sweating I still feel bloated; I even had to take off my wedding ring because my fingers are so swollen.
Despite the heat, Russ finished insulating and installing the plywood floor of the new house. That was a big accomplishment, and to celebrate we loaded up the van and headed to Park Point Beach in Duluth Sunday afternoon. About half the population of Duluth and a million tourists had the same idea, but we got there late enough that the crowd was beginning to dwindle. Nina the Mermaid spent nearly the entire time swimming in the waters of Lake Superior, which seemed warmer than normal. Russ and I lounged on the beach watching the kids and watching people. I decided I must be the only woman under forty that doesn't have a tattoo right above my butt.
The as-yet-nameless kitten has decided already who's the boss of the house. It likes to climb up on the bed at 3 am and walk all over everyone, purring loudly and cuddling. Nothing like a furry neck warmer on a hot night.
I finally picked up some pictures that I took last winter, so I'll be posting a photo once in a while. These were taken on Ektachrome Pro slide film, and I'm impressed with the color and resolution, but I'm still anxious to go digital. Having film developed is an expense and a hassle these days.
Despite the heat, Russ finished insulating and installing the plywood floor of the new house. That was a big accomplishment, and to celebrate we loaded up the van and headed to Park Point Beach in Duluth Sunday afternoon. About half the population of Duluth and a million tourists had the same idea, but we got there late enough that the crowd was beginning to dwindle. Nina the Mermaid spent nearly the entire time swimming in the waters of Lake Superior, which seemed warmer than normal. Russ and I lounged on the beach watching the kids and watching people. I decided I must be the only woman under forty that doesn't have a tattoo right above my butt.
The as-yet-nameless kitten has decided already who's the boss of the house. It likes to climb up on the bed at 3 am and walk all over everyone, purring loudly and cuddling. Nothing like a furry neck warmer on a hot night.
I finally picked up some pictures that I took last winter, so I'll be posting a photo once in a while. These were taken on Ektachrome Pro slide film, and I'm impressed with the color and resolution, but I'm still anxious to go digital. Having film developed is an expense and a hassle these days.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Amphibian encounter in the night, and a new kitten
As I drove up the driveway last night, Joe was out front waiting and he came up running to meet me. "Mommy! We found a cute little kitten! Come and see it!" Uh-oh. We have an abundance of cats in and around the house, we don't particularly need another, no matter how cute it is.
That is, unless it has some Siamese features. I'm a softie for Siamese cats, ever since I got my first cat, Mittens, at age 4. Then there was Lilith, and Lucy. I know there are some Siamese type genes flowing around in the way-too-active feline gene pool here; there is one outdoor cat named Snowy who has blue eyes, grayish points, and white fur. She is even a bit cross eyed. Well, the Siamese genes have struck again, and here's Mom gushing the loudest about how cute the little fluffball is. It has long cream colored silky fur, with darker gray ears, nose, paws, and tail, and paws and tail are tipped with white. Blue eyes, of course.
The poor little thing was hungry. It ate constantly for about a half hour after we brought it inside. I don't have a good track record thus far of sexing young kittens, hence Alexandria became Alexander (alias Whiter Biter) but I think this one's a male. Which is good, since it costs about half as much to neuter a male as it does to spay a female, and this kitty's going to be my new house kitty.
There was so much excitement over the kitten that the kids "forgot" to tell me about any other critters they had found during the day, or what became of them. I had to get up to pee at about 1 am, and as I put my hand on the railing at the foot of the bed I felt something small, cool, and moist. My startled recoil prevented me from squishing it. "What the hell!?"
"What is it, honey?"
"I don't know...there's something here...Agggh! I think it's a frog!" I felt something hit my arm as it leaped. "Turn on the light!" I don't like sharing my sleeping space with leaping, crawling, or flying critters.
"Where is it?"
"Over here...I felt it...awww, you probably think I'm going crazy."
"No, I forgot to tell you, Vincent had a tree frog in here today. It's name is Froggy. It got loose."
We found Froggy and set him free outside. As I settled back into bed, Joe mumbled, half asleep:
"Where's Froggy?"
"I took him outside."
"We have to find Froggy. I miss him."
That is, unless it has some Siamese features. I'm a softie for Siamese cats, ever since I got my first cat, Mittens, at age 4. Then there was Lilith, and Lucy. I know there are some Siamese type genes flowing around in the way-too-active feline gene pool here; there is one outdoor cat named Snowy who has blue eyes, grayish points, and white fur. She is even a bit cross eyed. Well, the Siamese genes have struck again, and here's Mom gushing the loudest about how cute the little fluffball is. It has long cream colored silky fur, with darker gray ears, nose, paws, and tail, and paws and tail are tipped with white. Blue eyes, of course.
The poor little thing was hungry. It ate constantly for about a half hour after we brought it inside. I don't have a good track record thus far of sexing young kittens, hence Alexandria became Alexander (alias Whiter Biter) but I think this one's a male. Which is good, since it costs about half as much to neuter a male as it does to spay a female, and this kitty's going to be my new house kitty.
There was so much excitement over the kitten that the kids "forgot" to tell me about any other critters they had found during the day, or what became of them. I had to get up to pee at about 1 am, and as I put my hand on the railing at the foot of the bed I felt something small, cool, and moist. My startled recoil prevented me from squishing it. "What the hell!?"
"What is it, honey?"
"I don't know...there's something here...Agggh! I think it's a frog!" I felt something hit my arm as it leaped. "Turn on the light!" I don't like sharing my sleeping space with leaping, crawling, or flying critters.
"Where is it?"
"Over here...I felt it...awww, you probably think I'm going crazy."
"No, I forgot to tell you, Vincent had a tree frog in here today. It's name is Froggy. It got loose."
We found Froggy and set him free outside. As I settled back into bed, Joe mumbled, half asleep:
"Where's Froggy?"
"I took him outside."
"We have to find Froggy. I miss him."
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
homesteading stuff
I spent the entire weekend at home, doing homesteading type things. Saturday I started doing laundry early in the morning so I could take advantage of the sunny, breezy conditions for drying. I did about three loads in the wringer washer, which is working fine now, and I'm starting to work out a system: heat up a pot of water on the propane burner, pour it in, add a small amount of detergent and whites/light colors, fill with more water. Agitate for a few minutes, run clothes through wringer into first rinse tub. Put second load of clothes into wash water, agitate, during which time I run first load through wringer into second rinse tub, which contains about half a cup of white vinegar in the water. Then, run second load of clothes through wringer into first rinse tub, add third load into wash water (which by now is looking pretty dirty, but amazingly still gets clothes clean), wring first load and place in basket for hanging up. Et cetera, et cetera. I was pretty satisfied with the results; the vinegar really does work as a fabric softener. Baking soda in the wash will help neutralize odors (I did have some stinky stuff in there! ) A drop or two of lavender essential oil in the rinse water adds a nice fragrance. When I use up the current supply of Tide (which will last a long time using this method), I am going to explore more environmentally-friendly or homemade detergents.
Russ spent a day and a half building a chicken tractor for the meat chickens. If you're not familiar with the concept, it's basically an open-bottomed, enclosed, movable pen for chickens. The chickens scratch and work the soil, eating grains and insects, and the pen can be moved to a new spot every few days, leaving a richly fertilized bed behind for next year's garden. Permaculture in action. On Sunday we set it up in the garden area and moved the chicks to their new home. At nearly four weeks old, these are hardly cute fluffy Easter chicks; picture 1-2 pound, scantily feathered reptilian looking birds with grossly oversized breasts and rumps. They know how to do one thing: eat. When it's feeding time, it looks like the scene from Chicken Run: "Chicken feed, my favorite!"
We loaded them from the chicken coop into a portable dog kennel, and transported the kennel in the trailer of the garden tractor, which my 8 year old son drove quite skillfully. Then we unloaded the confused birds into their new home. I had the job of reaching into the kennel and pulling out the chicks, one by one. The bottom of the kennel was slightly wet to begin with, and a few of the chicks had defecated along the way, so the birds were slimy and stinky and they all crouched towards the rear of the kennel, which was big enough I had to actually put my head inside to reach all the way in. I held my breath each time.
I didn't do too much intensive work in the garden, but I did weed and fertilize the tomatoes with my Stinking Nettle Tea, which made the beds smell like a freshly manured field. Quite an olfactory assault of a weekend here! The tomato transplants are producing flowers. The first potatoes I planted are starting to flower, and need to be mulched. One of the Diva cucumbers flowered yesterday for the first time.
Sunday night we had a bonfire and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows. I didn't think it was anything special, but all of the kids kept telling me on Monday: "Mom, that bonfire was so fun! It was so SPECIAL! Can we have another one?" Ahhh, the simple pleasures.
Russ spent a day and a half building a chicken tractor for the meat chickens. If you're not familiar with the concept, it's basically an open-bottomed, enclosed, movable pen for chickens. The chickens scratch and work the soil, eating grains and insects, and the pen can be moved to a new spot every few days, leaving a richly fertilized bed behind for next year's garden. Permaculture in action. On Sunday we set it up in the garden area and moved the chicks to their new home. At nearly four weeks old, these are hardly cute fluffy Easter chicks; picture 1-2 pound, scantily feathered reptilian looking birds with grossly oversized breasts and rumps. They know how to do one thing: eat. When it's feeding time, it looks like the scene from Chicken Run: "Chicken feed, my favorite!"
We loaded them from the chicken coop into a portable dog kennel, and transported the kennel in the trailer of the garden tractor, which my 8 year old son drove quite skillfully. Then we unloaded the confused birds into their new home. I had the job of reaching into the kennel and pulling out the chicks, one by one. The bottom of the kennel was slightly wet to begin with, and a few of the chicks had defecated along the way, so the birds were slimy and stinky and they all crouched towards the rear of the kennel, which was big enough I had to actually put my head inside to reach all the way in. I held my breath each time.
I didn't do too much intensive work in the garden, but I did weed and fertilize the tomatoes with my Stinking Nettle Tea, which made the beds smell like a freshly manured field. Quite an olfactory assault of a weekend here! The tomato transplants are producing flowers. The first potatoes I planted are starting to flower, and need to be mulched. One of the Diva cucumbers flowered yesterday for the first time.
Sunday night we had a bonfire and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows. I didn't think it was anything special, but all of the kids kept telling me on Monday: "Mom, that bonfire was so fun! It was so SPECIAL! Can we have another one?" Ahhh, the simple pleasures.
Friday, July 01, 2005
at work
Well, I ended up having to go to work today after all. Our state legislature and governor finally agreed on funding for part of the state government, including the part that I work for. They have a four month session to get the job done, but in the end it comes down to partisan negotiations, trading cuts in health coverage for the working poor for no tax increases for the wealthy, and sneaking in all kinds of questionable line items that no one has time to debate about. Business as usual.
Okay, return to Sand Creek Almanac. I try to keep politics out of this journal as much as possible, because there are many more uplifting, less boring things to write about.
My washer is fixed and ready to go, thanks to Lehman's who still carries parts for old washers. I had a good talk with Grandma the other night when she called. I asked her what her method was for washing and rinsing, and I could tell she always preferred the wringer washer and line drying clothes over any other method. We even got into a little discussion about herbal medicine. She had seen a book on using herbs, and she thought that sounded much better and healthier than modern drugs. I agreed and told her what I've learned lately about dandelions and stinging nettles. It was so nice talking with her because most of my other relatives tend to have an unfaltering belief in science and if I told them I've been drying nettles for tea they would think I've finally gone off the New Age hippie edge.
The particular gourmet four-leggeds got into my garden last night, dining on red lettuce, spinach (which I was planning to pull and reseed anyway), and broccoli. From the way they eat the tops of the plants, I would say it was deer. It's probably foolish and naive to have a garden around here and not think the deer will get to it eventually, even though they have plenty of other stuff to eat this time of year.
On the way to work and daycare this morning, the kids and I had a good discussion. Vincent was asking me about rivers: the Kettle River that we cross every day, and the Mississippi, into which the Kettle, and Sand Creek, eventually flow via the St. Croix. He asked if any rivers in Minnesota were connected to the Missouri River. I had to think a minute, but yes, there are a few in the extreme southwest corner of the state that are part of the Missouri watershed. Then out of nowhere the thought came to me:
All waters are connected. We may live at the headwaters, near the divide, but eventually all the waters come together.
That will give me something to think about for a while.
Okay, return to Sand Creek Almanac. I try to keep politics out of this journal as much as possible, because there are many more uplifting, less boring things to write about.
My washer is fixed and ready to go, thanks to Lehman's who still carries parts for old washers. I had a good talk with Grandma the other night when she called. I asked her what her method was for washing and rinsing, and I could tell she always preferred the wringer washer and line drying clothes over any other method. We even got into a little discussion about herbal medicine. She had seen a book on using herbs, and she thought that sounded much better and healthier than modern drugs. I agreed and told her what I've learned lately about dandelions and stinging nettles. It was so nice talking with her because most of my other relatives tend to have an unfaltering belief in science and if I told them I've been drying nettles for tea they would think I've finally gone off the New Age hippie edge.
The particular gourmet four-leggeds got into my garden last night, dining on red lettuce, spinach (which I was planning to pull and reseed anyway), and broccoli. From the way they eat the tops of the plants, I would say it was deer. It's probably foolish and naive to have a garden around here and not think the deer will get to it eventually, even though they have plenty of other stuff to eat this time of year.
On the way to work and daycare this morning, the kids and I had a good discussion. Vincent was asking me about rivers: the Kettle River that we cross every day, and the Mississippi, into which the Kettle, and Sand Creek, eventually flow via the St. Croix. He asked if any rivers in Minnesota were connected to the Missouri River. I had to think a minute, but yes, there are a few in the extreme southwest corner of the state that are part of the Missouri watershed. Then out of nowhere the thought came to me:
All waters are connected. We may live at the headwaters, near the divide, but eventually all the waters come together.
That will give me something to think about for a while.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Stormy night
Yesterday morning I learned from a local TV weather reporter that I am living in the middle of a mini tornado alley, thanks to the effects of Lake Superior some forty miles to the northeast. In the years we've had this place, there have been several severe storms, including one that topped off the giant spruce right next to the cabin. Being a few miles from town, a weather radio is essential equipment, although during daylight hours there is no substitute for watching the sky. Having animals helps too; they are particularly sensitive to abnormal weather.
But for some reason I wasn't worried last night. Even though I'd heard ominous forecasts all day long, by evening the weather was just cool and breezy with a little rain. The kids were in bed, except for Joey who insisted on staying up and watching "The Lone Ranger". I went to sleep around ten. At around 10:45 I woke up when Russ put a now-sleeping Joey in bed with me. It was raining hard. I glanced up outside the window; occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the branches of trees gently swaying. I was just settling back to sleep when I heard the robotic voice on the weather radio in the other room: "The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning...Pine County...Doppler radar indicated...Askov...moving towards Bruno..." Hmmm...sounds close. I glanced outdoors again. Torrential rain, slight breeze but I was convinced it didn't feel like tornado weather. I was more concerned about the prospect of hail ruining my garden. Still the simulated voice continued: "take cover immediately...flash flooding..." Take cover. Where would we go? The only basement we have is a small cellar in the foundation of the new house; it isn't even covered yet. It would be a lot of trouble and perhaps more dangerous to rouse the kids out of bed, run them to the car in the pouring rain, and drive to the neighbors' house. All things considered, inside the cabin in bed was probably the safest place to be. If anything was happening.
Lady, our yellow lab, was snoring on the foot of Nina's lower bunk. The cats lounged on the bedroom floor. Aren't animals supposed to go crazy if bad weather is approaching? I listened outside; the rain pounded, the wind breezed through the pines. A normal rainstorm. I pretended to be asleep while Russ paced around, looked outside, listened to the radio. "Flash flooding...do not drive across water in road...tornado warning...has been allowed to expire...". Whew.
Such is the nature of my faith. In the eye of the storm, when fierce winds blow, I just know, somehow, that everything is going to be okay. I can be a fierce mama bear sometimes when it comes to protecting my kids, but inside there's a voice that tells me when to act, and when to remain still and not to worry. And I find myself trusting this voice over the mechanical simulation which draws its conclusions from abstactions. I trust the Real.
I checked out my garden first thing in the morning, and everything was fine. The clear plastic was still up on the tomato hoop houses, plants were standing up, even the bean tepees were in place. On my drive to work I looked for damage, for evidence, but saw not a single leaf or twig on the ground.
But for some reason I wasn't worried last night. Even though I'd heard ominous forecasts all day long, by evening the weather was just cool and breezy with a little rain. The kids were in bed, except for Joey who insisted on staying up and watching "The Lone Ranger". I went to sleep around ten. At around 10:45 I woke up when Russ put a now-sleeping Joey in bed with me. It was raining hard. I glanced up outside the window; occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the branches of trees gently swaying. I was just settling back to sleep when I heard the robotic voice on the weather radio in the other room: "The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning...Pine County...Doppler radar indicated...Askov...moving towards Bruno..." Hmmm...sounds close. I glanced outdoors again. Torrential rain, slight breeze but I was convinced it didn't feel like tornado weather. I was more concerned about the prospect of hail ruining my garden. Still the simulated voice continued: "take cover immediately...flash flooding..." Take cover. Where would we go? The only basement we have is a small cellar in the foundation of the new house; it isn't even covered yet. It would be a lot of trouble and perhaps more dangerous to rouse the kids out of bed, run them to the car in the pouring rain, and drive to the neighbors' house. All things considered, inside the cabin in bed was probably the safest place to be. If anything was happening.
Lady, our yellow lab, was snoring on the foot of Nina's lower bunk. The cats lounged on the bedroom floor. Aren't animals supposed to go crazy if bad weather is approaching? I listened outside; the rain pounded, the wind breezed through the pines. A normal rainstorm. I pretended to be asleep while Russ paced around, looked outside, listened to the radio. "Flash flooding...do not drive across water in road...tornado warning...has been allowed to expire...". Whew.
Such is the nature of my faith. In the eye of the storm, when fierce winds blow, I just know, somehow, that everything is going to be okay. I can be a fierce mama bear sometimes when it comes to protecting my kids, but inside there's a voice that tells me when to act, and when to remain still and not to worry. And I find myself trusting this voice over the mechanical simulation which draws its conclusions from abstactions. I trust the Real.
I checked out my garden first thing in the morning, and everything was fine. The clear plastic was still up on the tomato hoop houses, plants were standing up, even the bean tepees were in place. On my drive to work I looked for damage, for evidence, but saw not a single leaf or twig on the ground.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Garden update
I spent Saturday morning working in the garden, before it got too hot, and learned a lesson that can apply to many things in life: if something seems overwhelming, take it one piece at a time. Simple advice that has been repeated in many different forms, but well worth a reminder from time to time. On Saturday morning when I wake up there is always one brief moment when the day looms full of possibilities. Then I start to go over my mental "to do" list, and the hours of the day suddenly seem not long enough.
So I made up my mind that the garden would be the task of the morning, but even the garden can be a complex job. There were tomatoes to plant (still!), weeds to be pulled everywhere, edges to be trimmed, paths to be mowed, one bean tepee to set up again after the wind blew it down, etc. I threw some tools, a jug of water, the tomato plants and some seeds into the garden cart and headed out.
My garden is a series of thirteen wooden-sided raised beds, with four more square bins for potato plants. I promise pictures some day, when everything is bigger and better looking. I took a systematic approach to the day's work, which is surprising for me considering my more spontaneous, distracted personality type. I started with one bed, did all of the weeding and planting until it looked respectable, then moved on to the next. At any point I could look back and see that progress had been made, bed by bed.
Everything seems to have taken off growing with the hot weather of the last week and the relatively warm nights. The pole beans are about eight inches high, still not grabbing the poles yet but looking leafy and green; the butternut squash that I planted from seed in the same bed already looks robust. Broccoli plants are not forming heads yet but have increased greatly in size. Cabbage seedlings are still tiny, although I have not given up on them completely. The tomatillos are already blooming and large enough to need staking. The Diva cucumber plants doubled in size over the weekend. Tomatoes are all in various stages of growth but looking good; the ones in the covered hoop houses seem to be the biggest. I planted extra tomato plants in the last unplnated bed, throwing caution and gardening sense to the wind as I crowded plants closer together than normal and didn't label everything.
I think I will buy some new carrot seed and replant, which I can still safely do this time of year; only a few carrots sprouted. I thought parsnips were a bust as well, but I discovered two seedlings that looked like they may be parsnips; I'll keep them in and see. All in all, things are looking good, as good as can be expected anyway.
So I made up my mind that the garden would be the task of the morning, but even the garden can be a complex job. There were tomatoes to plant (still!), weeds to be pulled everywhere, edges to be trimmed, paths to be mowed, one bean tepee to set up again after the wind blew it down, etc. I threw some tools, a jug of water, the tomato plants and some seeds into the garden cart and headed out.
My garden is a series of thirteen wooden-sided raised beds, with four more square bins for potato plants. I promise pictures some day, when everything is bigger and better looking. I took a systematic approach to the day's work, which is surprising for me considering my more spontaneous, distracted personality type. I started with one bed, did all of the weeding and planting until it looked respectable, then moved on to the next. At any point I could look back and see that progress had been made, bed by bed.
Everything seems to have taken off growing with the hot weather of the last week and the relatively warm nights. The pole beans are about eight inches high, still not grabbing the poles yet but looking leafy and green; the butternut squash that I planted from seed in the same bed already looks robust. Broccoli plants are not forming heads yet but have increased greatly in size. Cabbage seedlings are still tiny, although I have not given up on them completely. The tomatillos are already blooming and large enough to need staking. The Diva cucumber plants doubled in size over the weekend. Tomatoes are all in various stages of growth but looking good; the ones in the covered hoop houses seem to be the biggest. I planted extra tomato plants in the last unplnated bed, throwing caution and gardening sense to the wind as I crowded plants closer together than normal and didn't label everything.
I think I will buy some new carrot seed and replant, which I can still safely do this time of year; only a few carrots sprouted. I thought parsnips were a bust as well, but I discovered two seedlings that looked like they may be parsnips; I'll keep them in and see. All in all, things are looking good, as good as can be expected anyway.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Gone fishin'
We finally did it. After years of excuses and missed opportunities and mowing around the boat trailer, we fired up the Evinrude and went fishing on Friday evening. My eight year old son had been fishing before, but this was a first for my daughter and younger son. We decided we can't have any more kids, because then we'd have to get a bigger boat.
It was the most relaxing, fun evening I had had in a long time. No tangled lines, no hooks embedded in flesh, and we actually caught a few fish! With the kids we were rigged mainly for bluegills and the like. We ended up with 7 or eight bluegills, one large black bullhead, and one large yellow bullhead. I was the only one who didn't catch anything, but I was having too good of a time watching everyone else and being on the lake to even care.
It was the most relaxing, fun evening I had had in a long time. No tangled lines, no hooks embedded in flesh, and we actually caught a few fish! With the kids we were rigged mainly for bluegills and the like. We ended up with 7 or eight bluegills, one large black bullhead, and one large yellow bullhead. I was the only one who didn't catch anything, but I was having too good of a time watching everyone else and being on the lake to even care.
Friday, June 24, 2005
heard, but not seen
I solved an almost lifelong mystery today. There is a bird with a warbling, bubbling call, kind of like a trickle of water flowing in a rocky stream, up and down, back and forth. I remember hearing it often at Grandma and Grandpa's lake place. Since there were abundant house wrens there, and their call was similar, I just assumed in my young mind that it was a variation of the house wren's call.
This spring, when I had lived at our place long enough to know the soundscape, I realized that this bird's call was part of it. I also realized that there were more and more birds that I may have heard but had never seen. I had never put my house wren hypothesis to the test; this bird could be something new and different.
Last night I heard a bird call once, a strange melodic whistle in the moonlight. I tried to keep it in my mind long enough to check on eNature BirdAudio when I got to my computer at work. Unfortunately I did not find out what this bird was, but in the course of clicking on various birds I suddenly heard something familiar--the warbling vireo. That warbling, bubbly song. That's it! One more name to add to the multitude of living things that share my home. Although it is only heard, not yet seen, it exists and that thrills me.
Other birds heard but not (or only rarely) seen:
Red eyed vireo
Veery
Sedge wren
Ruby crowned kinglet
American redstart
Black and white warbler
Song sparrow
Yellowthroat
Least flycatcher
Alder flycatcher
Ovenbird
who knows how many more?
And for those who "enjoy" nature by racing through it on their four wheelers, I say how can you enjoy nature when you don't even stop to hear it?
This spring, when I had lived at our place long enough to know the soundscape, I realized that this bird's call was part of it. I also realized that there were more and more birds that I may have heard but had never seen. I had never put my house wren hypothesis to the test; this bird could be something new and different.
Last night I heard a bird call once, a strange melodic whistle in the moonlight. I tried to keep it in my mind long enough to check on eNature BirdAudio when I got to my computer at work. Unfortunately I did not find out what this bird was, but in the course of clicking on various birds I suddenly heard something familiar--the warbling vireo. That warbling, bubbly song. That's it! One more name to add to the multitude of living things that share my home. Although it is only heard, not yet seen, it exists and that thrills me.
Other birds heard but not (or only rarely) seen:
Red eyed vireo
Veery
Sedge wren
Ruby crowned kinglet
American redstart
Black and white warbler
Song sparrow
Yellowthroat
Least flycatcher
Alder flycatcher
Ovenbird
who knows how many more?
And for those who "enjoy" nature by racing through it on their four wheelers, I say how can you enjoy nature when you don't even stop to hear it?
building our own house
How to Overthrow the System: brew your own beer, kick in your Tee Vee, kill your own beef, build your own cabin, and piss off the front porch whenever you bloody well feel like it. --Edward Abbey
I've done the brewing thing before, and I need to get back into it. I could almost do without the TV, but the kids would object and I would miss my Northern Exposure and Beverly Hillbillies DVD's once in a while. Beef, well not yet, but we've got 50+ chickens to put in the freezer by the end of summer. We built the cabin, now we're going for the big time: our own house.
How many people can say they've designed and built their own house these days? I mean actually built, with their own sweat and labor, not "we told the architect what we wanted and paid a contractor to build it", in the sense that "designing" and "building" are so often used. To quote from Beverly Hillbillies:
Mr Drysdale: John Barrymore built this place.
Jed Clampett: And he's a right fair stonemason to boot!
Around here, even a new house built on-site is a rare thing; manufactured homes are the norm. And although they try to look different, they all tend to look pathetically the same.
When we took the plunge and moved here, with three kids, we had three options: haul in a manufactured home, add on significantly to the existing cabin, or build a completely new house ourselves. Actually, #1 wasn't really an option, mostly for the reason that most designs didn't allow for doing what we wanted, like heating with wood or even orienting house and window for maximum passive solar heat gain. Plus, they all tend to look pathetically the same.
Adding on to an existing place that wasn't really designed to be added on to presents its own challenges, and would likely end up costing as much or more than building new. I didn't want to significantly alter the character of our cabin either. Some day I envision it to be a nice little guest house/writing/music studio. We did add on a room just to spare our sanity this last winter.
So we went with the third option, and with any luck we'll be moving in this fall. No, I should say we WILL be moving in this fall. It's our dream, it's what I live for, and we will find a way to do it. I'm guessing it will be a work in progress for quite some time, but as long as we've got a (steel) roof over our heads, insulation in the walls, windows to let in light, a fire in the woodstove, and a pantry full of canned (and bottled) goods, I will be thankful. Thankful for the beginning of living a life that shows what we believe in.
And as for the front porch, although three year old Joe is getting quite skilled at that art, I prefer to do my business a little bit further away from the house.
I've done the brewing thing before, and I need to get back into it. I could almost do without the TV, but the kids would object and I would miss my Northern Exposure and Beverly Hillbillies DVD's once in a while. Beef, well not yet, but we've got 50+ chickens to put in the freezer by the end of summer. We built the cabin, now we're going for the big time: our own house.
How many people can say they've designed and built their own house these days? I mean actually built, with their own sweat and labor, not "we told the architect what we wanted and paid a contractor to build it", in the sense that "designing" and "building" are so often used. To quote from Beverly Hillbillies:
Mr Drysdale: John Barrymore built this place.
Jed Clampett: And he's a right fair stonemason to boot!
Around here, even a new house built on-site is a rare thing; manufactured homes are the norm. And although they try to look different, they all tend to look pathetically the same.
When we took the plunge and moved here, with three kids, we had three options: haul in a manufactured home, add on significantly to the existing cabin, or build a completely new house ourselves. Actually, #1 wasn't really an option, mostly for the reason that most designs didn't allow for doing what we wanted, like heating with wood or even orienting house and window for maximum passive solar heat gain. Plus, they all tend to look pathetically the same.
Adding on to an existing place that wasn't really designed to be added on to presents its own challenges, and would likely end up costing as much or more than building new. I didn't want to significantly alter the character of our cabin either. Some day I envision it to be a nice little guest house/writing/music studio. We did add on a room just to spare our sanity this last winter.
So we went with the third option, and with any luck we'll be moving in this fall. No, I should say we WILL be moving in this fall. It's our dream, it's what I live for, and we will find a way to do it. I'm guessing it will be a work in progress for quite some time, but as long as we've got a (steel) roof over our heads, insulation in the walls, windows to let in light, a fire in the woodstove, and a pantry full of canned (and bottled) goods, I will be thankful. Thankful for the beginning of living a life that shows what we believe in.
And as for the front porch, although three year old Joe is getting quite skilled at that art, I prefer to do my business a little bit further away from the house.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
feeling the blogging love
I didn't think it would lead to this. Imagine, feeling a connection to people thousands of miles away, whom you've never met face to face, and having it mean something!
I started blogging after a thread in a message board I post at, very infrequently now. It asked who on the board was blogging. I read it, followed some of the links, and thought, "This sounds like fun!" Thus was born Sand Creek Almanac. It has grown into something larger for me, a daily challenge to write, to record the things around me, to communicate with an unknown audience. It is truly an inspiration. At first I thought I would write better if no one was watching me, but now I think about what I write, even if its only a paragraph or two, and I think we're all better off for the increased consciousness.
Today I think a very significant thing happened in the blogging world. I read someone's post, thought, "This sounds like something I read yesterday", and wrote a comment that connected the two blogs. Judging from the subsequent comments, I think they hit it off. And I think, without blogging, how could a thirtysomething mama ever communicate something in common with a couple of twentysomething Kerouac aficionados? Who ever thought that Two Hearted Ale would forge a common connection across the Blogosphere?
What I'm saying is, thanks, all of you, for being there and for commenting. And don't be afraid to criticize me, I can take it, I know it will make me a better writer and person. And, specifically, thank you Dan, Erich, Dharma Bum, Lene, and Sylvia. You've been an inspiration.
I started blogging after a thread in a message board I post at, very infrequently now. It asked who on the board was blogging. I read it, followed some of the links, and thought, "This sounds like fun!" Thus was born Sand Creek Almanac. It has grown into something larger for me, a daily challenge to write, to record the things around me, to communicate with an unknown audience. It is truly an inspiration. At first I thought I would write better if no one was watching me, but now I think about what I write, even if its only a paragraph or two, and I think we're all better off for the increased consciousness.
Today I think a very significant thing happened in the blogging world. I read someone's post, thought, "This sounds like something I read yesterday", and wrote a comment that connected the two blogs. Judging from the subsequent comments, I think they hit it off. And I think, without blogging, how could a thirtysomething mama ever communicate something in common with a couple of twentysomething Kerouac aficionados? Who ever thought that Two Hearted Ale would forge a common connection across the Blogosphere?
What I'm saying is, thanks, all of you, for being there and for commenting. And don't be afraid to criticize me, I can take it, I know it will make me a better writer and person. And, specifically, thank you Dan, Erich, Dharma Bum, Lene, and Sylvia. You've been an inspiration.
broken washer
I already managed to break something on my wringer washer . Arrrgh! Grandma used the thing for forty years, no problem, and I have the thing one week and something breaks. It's the wringer bushing assembly, the thing that holds one of the rollers in place. Maybe I tried to feed something too thick through the wringers. At least, thanks to Russ' web surfing this morning, he located someone in Illinois who carries parts for old Maytags. The nice thing about this washer is that anyone, even someone as mechanically inept as me, can look at it and make a reasonable guess what's wrong. There is no complicated circuitry, no fancy touch pads or automated dials.
Maybe this is my punishment for not sitting down and having a nice long talk with Grandma and asking her about the ins and outs (little pun there) of wringer washer use. I sometimes forget that she grew up in an age like no other, when electricity and automobiles and washing machines went from being new ideas to ways of life. She grew up on a farm, one of six siblings, daughter of a Swedish immigrant and a first generation Swedish American in Grasston, Minnesota. She knows the Swedish language well enough that she is occasionally called upon to translate early church records. She probably knows a lot about what I am trying to learn, about raising food and canning and washing clothes and sewing and other farm home activities. I have learned to can pickles and tomatoes from her.
I find it hard to ask her about life on the farm, however. When I tell her we're raising chickens she'll tell me what a horrible job it was to butcher them and how she would never do that again. She tells me of long hard days spent weeding gardens and digging potatoes. To this day she is insecure about her cooking ability because she was constantly told her sister was a better cook. So whenever we talk about the old days, I get the idea that she doesn't understand why I want to do things that way because it's so much easier to buy food from the store. I think many people from her generation accepted the idea that modern conveniences would save them lots of hard, menial work. I seem to be the only one in my family that sees things in a different light. I'm the only one who expressed any interest in the wringer washer.
Maybe this is my punishment for not sitting down and having a nice long talk with Grandma and asking her about the ins and outs (little pun there) of wringer washer use. I sometimes forget that she grew up in an age like no other, when electricity and automobiles and washing machines went from being new ideas to ways of life. She grew up on a farm, one of six siblings, daughter of a Swedish immigrant and a first generation Swedish American in Grasston, Minnesota. She knows the Swedish language well enough that she is occasionally called upon to translate early church records. She probably knows a lot about what I am trying to learn, about raising food and canning and washing clothes and sewing and other farm home activities. I have learned to can pickles and tomatoes from her.
I find it hard to ask her about life on the farm, however. When I tell her we're raising chickens she'll tell me what a horrible job it was to butcher them and how she would never do that again. She tells me of long hard days spent weeding gardens and digging potatoes. To this day she is insecure about her cooking ability because she was constantly told her sister was a better cook. So whenever we talk about the old days, I get the idea that she doesn't understand why I want to do things that way because it's so much easier to buy food from the store. I think many people from her generation accepted the idea that modern conveniences would save them lots of hard, menial work. I seem to be the only one in my family that sees things in a different light. I'm the only one who expressed any interest in the wringer washer.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
cuter
Okay, enough feline stuff. I almost forgot to write about Sunday, the afternoon spent lounging out at the pond while the kids splashed about and caught tadpole/frogs. Russ was feeling a bit better, enough to be out and about building new quarters for our rapidly growing poultry. The guinea keets are already resembling mini adults but with camouflage brown feathers. The Rhode Island reds already have enough wing feathers to fly up to the edges of the pens and roost. We have so many different breeds of layers, it's interesting to compare growth rates and habits. Hopefully the guineas will help to reduce the deer tick population...these tick borne diseases are scary!
Sunday was hot and sunny, too hot to do much in the garden during midday. I washed a week's worth of dishes with Nina and Vincent's help, then made a chicken salad for lunch. Then it was off to the pond. I mostly do lifeguard duty, sitting in my lounge chair watching the kids. There is a steep dropoff so I have to keep constant watch, but the kids seem to know where it is and how to avoid it. I initially swam across the pond a few times to cool off, but that was enough water time for me. The water is cold in the middle; I'd say its cold enough to raise trout, but too cold for me to spend too much time swimming in it. When I was Nina's age I could spend all afternoon in the water, and she is even more so--a regular mermaid. She has even gone swimming in Lake Superior at Park Point beach in September, not bothered one bit by the water temperature! So I suntanned and read a bit of On the Road while she swam, Joe played with the Tonka heavy equipment, and Vincent caught tadpole/frogs.
At what point does a tadpole become a frog? Does it just spontaneously go to the water surface and take its first breath, trusting that its lungs are ready? Does it go back and forth between lungs and gills for a while? We now have a minnow bucket containing several leopard frog/tadpoles in various stages of metamorphosis. They are more frog than tadpole, breathing on the surface and propelling themselves with newly developing legs, but they still have tails. I had never really seen frogs in that in between stage before.
Sunday was hot and sunny, too hot to do much in the garden during midday. I washed a week's worth of dishes with Nina and Vincent's help, then made a chicken salad for lunch. Then it was off to the pond. I mostly do lifeguard duty, sitting in my lounge chair watching the kids. There is a steep dropoff so I have to keep constant watch, but the kids seem to know where it is and how to avoid it. I initially swam across the pond a few times to cool off, but that was enough water time for me. The water is cold in the middle; I'd say its cold enough to raise trout, but too cold for me to spend too much time swimming in it. When I was Nina's age I could spend all afternoon in the water, and she is even more so--a regular mermaid. She has even gone swimming in Lake Superior at Park Point beach in September, not bothered one bit by the water temperature! So I suntanned and read a bit of On the Road while she swam, Joe played with the Tonka heavy equipment, and Vincent caught tadpole/frogs.
At what point does a tadpole become a frog? Does it just spontaneously go to the water surface and take its first breath, trusting that its lungs are ready? Does it go back and forth between lungs and gills for a while? We now have a minnow bucket containing several leopard frog/tadpoles in various stages of metamorphosis. They are more frog than tadpole, breathing on the surface and propelling themselves with newly developing legs, but they still have tails. I had never really seen frogs in that in between stage before.
cute
Why, why, WHY do kittens have to be so damn cute?
(insert mental picture of four week old orange kitten with huge blue eyes staring at you)
We have too many cats around here already. I like cats, and I haven't seen a mouse in the house or cook shed for ages, but I hate to think what they might be doing to the local bird population.
I didn't ask for cats. They just showed up from the farm across the road. Evil Calico, the wild eyed matriarch of the kitty clan, decided to have a litter of kittens here two summers ago. Then another litter last year. Natural selection, tomcat predation, and my inattentive driving have kept the population somewhat under control, which is good because I don't have the money to spay or neuter the whole herd and, with the kids around, I don't have the heart to shoot any of them...yet.
I had the urge to do in Evil Calico last night, after she tore a chunk of flesh from my finger as I was tossing out some meat scraps. Evil Calico has never been a nice kitty, the kind that curls around your legs and purrs. She lurks in the shadows, looking out with her demonic green eyes. But she is a scrapper and a survivor, and a fierce mother. Just after the hypodermic clawing incident, as I was whimpering and wrapping my finger with a Band Aid, Cub told me to come look at something. And there it was, The Kitten. Awwwwww....how cute. How damn cute. The big-eyed spawn of Evil Calico herself.
Thank goodness there's just one. For now.
(insert mental picture of four week old orange kitten with huge blue eyes staring at you)
We have too many cats around here already. I like cats, and I haven't seen a mouse in the house or cook shed for ages, but I hate to think what they might be doing to the local bird population.
I didn't ask for cats. They just showed up from the farm across the road. Evil Calico, the wild eyed matriarch of the kitty clan, decided to have a litter of kittens here two summers ago. Then another litter last year. Natural selection, tomcat predation, and my inattentive driving have kept the population somewhat under control, which is good because I don't have the money to spay or neuter the whole herd and, with the kids around, I don't have the heart to shoot any of them...yet.
I had the urge to do in Evil Calico last night, after she tore a chunk of flesh from my finger as I was tossing out some meat scraps. Evil Calico has never been a nice kitty, the kind that curls around your legs and purrs. She lurks in the shadows, looking out with her demonic green eyes. But she is a scrapper and a survivor, and a fierce mother. Just after the hypodermic clawing incident, as I was whimpering and wrapping my finger with a Band Aid, Cub told me to come look at something. And there it was, The Kitten. Awwwwww....how cute. How damn cute. The big-eyed spawn of Evil Calico herself.
Thank goodness there's just one. For now.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
This week, around here
The last few days my husband has been flattened by some unknown, flu-like bug. So yesterday he went to the doctor, and the diagnosis is Ehrlichiosis (don't quote me on the spelling), the "other" disease humans can get from deer ticks around here. My daughter and I went through Lyme disease last year, and as far as I know we are cured, but this is a new thing. Hope it will go away soon, with help from antibiotics. I'm telling him it's God's revenge for complaining about the weather, to be bedridden on a beautiful day like this.
I did some gardening this morning. Some unknown creature ate the tops off all of my orach plants, while ignoring the abundant lettuce, spinach, arugula, tatsoi, and mizuna in the same raised bed. Definite preference for purplish plants there! I pulled all of the arugula, tatsoi and mizuna plants, which were bolting. I'll maybe plant some carrots there; my first planting didn't seem to take too well. Or I'll plant some more spinach, which my kids all love. Strange, isn't it...they all love broccoli too.
I think I saw a Veery today, for the first time. Their song permeates the air around here, but they are very hard to see. I heard one of their calls, which sounds somewhat like a part of the song of the cardinal, and I saw a thrush like bird where the call was originating from.
I'm not feeling much like writing now, so maybe a bigger update tomorrow.
I did some gardening this morning. Some unknown creature ate the tops off all of my orach plants, while ignoring the abundant lettuce, spinach, arugula, tatsoi, and mizuna in the same raised bed. Definite preference for purplish plants there! I pulled all of the arugula, tatsoi and mizuna plants, which were bolting. I'll maybe plant some carrots there; my first planting didn't seem to take too well. Or I'll plant some more spinach, which my kids all love. Strange, isn't it...they all love broccoli too.
I think I saw a Veery today, for the first time. Their song permeates the air around here, but they are very hard to see. I heard one of their calls, which sounds somewhat like a part of the song of the cardinal, and I saw a thrush like bird where the call was originating from.
I'm not feeling much like writing now, so maybe a bigger update tomorrow.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
song lyric idea...first draft
This just came to me as I was taking a noon walk. Much of the inspiration came from this post by lene at Leaning Birch.
Let me stand in the dark
so I can see you
let me fall to my knees
so I can run
plant my feet on solid ground
ancient roots of the white pine
so I can soar like an eagle
in the sky
That would probably be the chorus. Verses are yet to come...another walk someday perhaps.
Let me stand in the dark
so I can see you
let me fall to my knees
so I can run
plant my feet on solid ground
ancient roots of the white pine
so I can soar like an eagle
in the sky
That would probably be the chorus. Verses are yet to come...another walk someday perhaps.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Other homestead stuff
I guess I was so excited about the washing machine that I didn't get around to mentioning that we got chicks on Friday. We have about 100 of them, about half various egg layers including buff Orpington, barred rock, Rhode Island red, golden laced Wyandotte, silver laced Wyandotte, and black Australorps. The other half are hybrid fryers. So far we aren't too impressed with them; they don't seem to know enough to keep from drowning in the waterer or trampling each other. There are also a few guinea keets. We will be getting a few more chicks this week.
Rain and more rain. I have too many plants that still need to get planted in the garden, and seed potatoes, but it's just too wet. My stepson came over yesterday to help Russ work on the new house and put up a tarp covered garage we've been meaning to put up for two years now. He stayed over to do some more work today but so far they've been rained out. The forecast, dare I say, looks good for the rest of the week though.
It's the time of year for oxeye daisy, orange hawkweed, Indian paintbrush, phlox, and lupine. We don't have too many patches of wild lupine here but there are some areas where garden lupines have naturalized and are blooming like crazy. The starflowers are still blooming along the trail, joined by wild lily of the valley and bunchberry. I'm keeping an eye out for potential blackberry picking sites, which are revealed by the blossoms right now.
Rain and more rain. I have too many plants that still need to get planted in the garden, and seed potatoes, but it's just too wet. My stepson came over yesterday to help Russ work on the new house and put up a tarp covered garage we've been meaning to put up for two years now. He stayed over to do some more work today but so far they've been rained out. The forecast, dare I say, looks good for the rest of the week though.
It's the time of year for oxeye daisy, orange hawkweed, Indian paintbrush, phlox, and lupine. We don't have too many patches of wild lupine here but there are some areas where garden lupines have naturalized and are blooming like crazy. The starflowers are still blooming along the trail, joined by wild lily of the valley and bunchberry. I'm keeping an eye out for potential blackberry picking sites, which are revealed by the blossoms right now.
Monday, June 13, 2005
My "new" washing machine
We went to my aunt and uncle's lake place on Saturday, and we picked up three very useful items, all for free, because they were no longer being used by their owners. I like the idea of being able to reuse items that are well built, even if they may seem a bit anachronistic. One was a hand-crank meat grinder, which will come in handy if we buy a hog, shoot a deer, or even find a good price on chuck roast. Another was a wood stove, which we have no immediate use for but may eventually end up in a garage. The third, and the best deal of all, was a 1958 Maytag wringer washer.
Laundry has been a problem ever since we moved here. Once a week my husband or I have had to drive fifteen miles into town and spend up to $20 at the laundromat. This process took up the greater part of a day by the time everything was sorted and folded, and left me with frazzled nerves. Laundromats are generally dreary places to hang out, especially with three young children. In some urban college areas I imagine there are laundromats that make the experience bearable by serving alcoholic beverages or having Internet access available, and the people that frequent these places might even be interesting. But around here the only entertainment is a few old Good Housekeeping magazines, Christian tracts, and the bulletin board. It's an unwritten rule that people don't talk to each other except to complain about the dryer on the end that doesn't work, or the person who brought in fifteen loads and shoved five comforters in the super size machine, then went to the bar and left everything sitting for two hours. I have tried to bring in reading material, but I only get a few sentences read before I have to keep Joey from climbing into a dryer or tossing unknown objects into other peoples' washers.
The environmental impact of washing laundry this way leaves something to be desired as well. There is the gallon or more of gasoline consumed to bring the laundry to town, the energy and water consumption by the washers and dryers, the treatment of wastewater and leaching of chlorine and other chemicals from detergents and fabric softeners. And doing such quantities at a time means I have little time to pay individual attention to clothing items that may require special care. Stains don't get pretreated, buttons get lost, and the lifetime of the garments is perhaps shortened.
By contrast, the wringer washer is an incredibly simple technology that consumes relatively small amounts of electricity and water. It is quiet, and the gentle agitation is easy on clothing. My grandma always said the wringing process takes more water out of the clothes than the spin cycle of an automatic washer, so the drying time is less. And the drying is the best part; free solar energy, and the clean smell of clothes dried outside, no artificial fragrances necessary.
Yesterday we set the machine up outside, next to the shower, and gave it a trial run. Except for the electrical plug, which needed replacing, everything worked perfectly. I selected a load of the kids' clothes, presoaked them in a metal washtub, transferred them to the machine, and agitated them for about fifteen minutes. I drained the wash water, ran some rinse water, then started wringing. What fun--the whole family was there in an assembly line: Joe and Vincent handed me clothes, I put them through the wringer (avoiding the proverbial "tit in the wringer"), and Nina and Russ hung them on a wooden drying rack and a makeshift clothesline.
I often think our modern "timesaving" appliances create a disjunction that prevents one from any involvement or pleasure with the task. The assumption is that washing dishes by hand, or doing anything with laundry except for putting it in and out of machines, is a waste of valuable leisure time, and the appliances supposedly spare one from this drudgery. However, when we remove ourselves from the tasks necessary to live the way we do, we lose the possibility of finding enjoyment in the task itself. I enjoy reconnecting to the task, getting my hands wet, understanding that this is not drudgery but a vital activity in our family's life, an act of beauty, art, and prayer in its execution.
Laundry has been a problem ever since we moved here. Once a week my husband or I have had to drive fifteen miles into town and spend up to $20 at the laundromat. This process took up the greater part of a day by the time everything was sorted and folded, and left me with frazzled nerves. Laundromats are generally dreary places to hang out, especially with three young children. In some urban college areas I imagine there are laundromats that make the experience bearable by serving alcoholic beverages or having Internet access available, and the people that frequent these places might even be interesting. But around here the only entertainment is a few old Good Housekeeping magazines, Christian tracts, and the bulletin board. It's an unwritten rule that people don't talk to each other except to complain about the dryer on the end that doesn't work, or the person who brought in fifteen loads and shoved five comforters in the super size machine, then went to the bar and left everything sitting for two hours. I have tried to bring in reading material, but I only get a few sentences read before I have to keep Joey from climbing into a dryer or tossing unknown objects into other peoples' washers.
The environmental impact of washing laundry this way leaves something to be desired as well. There is the gallon or more of gasoline consumed to bring the laundry to town, the energy and water consumption by the washers and dryers, the treatment of wastewater and leaching of chlorine and other chemicals from detergents and fabric softeners. And doing such quantities at a time means I have little time to pay individual attention to clothing items that may require special care. Stains don't get pretreated, buttons get lost, and the lifetime of the garments is perhaps shortened.
By contrast, the wringer washer is an incredibly simple technology that consumes relatively small amounts of electricity and water. It is quiet, and the gentle agitation is easy on clothing. My grandma always said the wringing process takes more water out of the clothes than the spin cycle of an automatic washer, so the drying time is less. And the drying is the best part; free solar energy, and the clean smell of clothes dried outside, no artificial fragrances necessary.
Yesterday we set the machine up outside, next to the shower, and gave it a trial run. Except for the electrical plug, which needed replacing, everything worked perfectly. I selected a load of the kids' clothes, presoaked them in a metal washtub, transferred them to the machine, and agitated them for about fifteen minutes. I drained the wash water, ran some rinse water, then started wringing. What fun--the whole family was there in an assembly line: Joe and Vincent handed me clothes, I put them through the wringer (avoiding the proverbial "tit in the wringer"), and Nina and Russ hung them on a wooden drying rack and a makeshift clothesline.
I often think our modern "timesaving" appliances create a disjunction that prevents one from any involvement or pleasure with the task. The assumption is that washing dishes by hand, or doing anything with laundry except for putting it in and out of machines, is a waste of valuable leisure time, and the appliances supposedly spare one from this drudgery. However, when we remove ourselves from the tasks necessary to live the way we do, we lose the possibility of finding enjoyment in the task itself. I enjoy reconnecting to the task, getting my hands wet, understanding that this is not drudgery but a vital activity in our family's life, an act of beauty, art, and prayer in its execution.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Just outside the office door
What a pleasure it is to work in a place where I can still have some connection to the outdoors, instead of in a cubicle maze twenty stories up in some city. Just this morning right outside the office front door, we were treated to the sight of a female snapping turtle who chose that unusual spot to deposit her eggs. I snapped a few photos on the office digital camera.
reaching the mouth of the river
This is it. Today, after more than 32 years working as a fisheries technician with the Department of Natural Resources, Al is retiring. I have known Al for over twelve years and worked with him for nearly eight. If that doesn't make sense, I left my job here in 1999 and came back in 2003. Long story. Anyway, Al was a dependable and hard worker who could be counted on to do whatever task the boss had for him.
Al's favorite assignment, and one in which his work skills put the rest of us to shame, was sturgeon sampling with hook and line. Yes, this was a legitimate, sanctioned duty that yielded valuable data concerning the lake sturgeon populations of the Kettle and St. Croix rivers. Al is pictured below with one of his prize specimens, which was tagged and released.
I can't imagine walking into work Monday morning and not seeing Al at his usual spot at the end of the table. Al, you could be set in your ways and stubborn as a mule sometimes, but I'm going to miss you. Best wishes!
Al's favorite assignment, and one in which his work skills put the rest of us to shame, was sturgeon sampling with hook and line. Yes, this was a legitimate, sanctioned duty that yielded valuable data concerning the lake sturgeon populations of the Kettle and St. Croix rivers. Al is pictured below with one of his prize specimens, which was tagged and released.
I can't imagine walking into work Monday morning and not seeing Al at his usual spot at the end of the table. Al, you could be set in your ways and stubborn as a mule sometimes, but I'm going to miss you. Best wishes!
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Tomato crazy
I can't think of much to write about today, so I'll continue my garden description with the tomato varieties I planted. I have five 4x8 raised beds of tomatoes now, with a total of 40 plants in the ground. Most if not all of the varieties I have planted are heirlooms; that is, they are open-pollinated (not hybrid) varieties, ones from which seeds can be saved. Many of the varieties were introduced in the late 1800's or early 1900's, and were the preferred kinds until seed companies started ensuring future sales by introducing patented hybrids. I became interested in heirloom tomatoes back in 1993 or 1994 when I had my first garden at our house in a semi-rural housing development. My husband happened to hear about the company Seeds of Change on the radio, and we ordered their catalog. The idea of time-tested varieties, selected for superior flavor and suitability to local conditions and passed from generation to generation, appealed to me. When I tasted my first home grown Brandywine, I was forever hooked. I now refuse to buy out-of-season tasteless tomatoes from the grocery store.
This year was the first in five years that I've been able to start tomato plants and had a place to plant more than just a few of them. I had a few growing in containers last year but it was a half hearted effort that ended with a heavy frost on August 10th.
Here are the varieties, as I can remember them while sitting here at work. Ones that are tried and true include Brandywine, to which there is no equal; Rose, a variety from Johnny's that is advertised as "Some say it's just as good as Brandywine..."; Stupice, which may yield my first fruit of the season; Amish Paste, a great tasting productive variety that makes good salsa; Yellow Pear, which even my son, who won't touch red tomatoes in any form but ketchup, likes.
Others that I have not tried, or maybe tried but forgot or got mixed up with other varieties, include: Wisconsin 55, Black Cherry, Mother Russia, and Black from Tula, courtesy of Martin "Paquebot" Longseth of Wisconsin; Maskabec, Enterprize, Martino's Roma and Tiffen Mennonite, from Sand Hill Preservation; Siberia, Aker's Plum Pink, Green Zebra, Omar's Lebanese, Garden Peach, and Legend, from various sources; and some kind of Roma that grows nicely in containers, according to my neighbor Patty. So that's 20 varieties, and I'm sure I may have missed some.
Seedlings are starting to come up in the non-tomato beds: pickling cucumbers, winter squash, pole beans, rutabagas, cabbages, radishes, and second plantings of lettuce and beet greens. I'm enjoying fresh mixed lettuce salads every day, with some orach, arugula, spinach, and mizuna mixed in. The tatsoi is starting to bolt already; I don't know if I have much use for this green. And the spinach is getting out of control huge! I steamed some in the microwave last night and the kids even liked it.
This year was the first in five years that I've been able to start tomato plants and had a place to plant more than just a few of them. I had a few growing in containers last year but it was a half hearted effort that ended with a heavy frost on August 10th.
Here are the varieties, as I can remember them while sitting here at work. Ones that are tried and true include Brandywine, to which there is no equal; Rose, a variety from Johnny's that is advertised as "Some say it's just as good as Brandywine..."; Stupice, which may yield my first fruit of the season; Amish Paste, a great tasting productive variety that makes good salsa; Yellow Pear, which even my son, who won't touch red tomatoes in any form but ketchup, likes.
Others that I have not tried, or maybe tried but forgot or got mixed up with other varieties, include: Wisconsin 55, Black Cherry, Mother Russia, and Black from Tula, courtesy of Martin "Paquebot" Longseth of Wisconsin; Maskabec, Enterprize, Martino's Roma and Tiffen Mennonite, from Sand Hill Preservation; Siberia, Aker's Plum Pink, Green Zebra, Omar's Lebanese, Garden Peach, and Legend, from various sources; and some kind of Roma that grows nicely in containers, according to my neighbor Patty. So that's 20 varieties, and I'm sure I may have missed some.
Seedlings are starting to come up in the non-tomato beds: pickling cucumbers, winter squash, pole beans, rutabagas, cabbages, radishes, and second plantings of lettuce and beet greens. I'm enjoying fresh mixed lettuce salads every day, with some orach, arugula, spinach, and mizuna mixed in. The tatsoi is starting to bolt already; I don't know if I have much use for this green. And the spinach is getting out of control huge! I steamed some in the microwave last night and the kids even liked it.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Monday nature stuff
I had a Marlin Perkins moment today, when a video camera would have been handy if not priceless. A coworker and I were out on a lake, driving under a bridge and through a channel that connects the two lakes. The channel has a lot of nice emergent vegetation and water lilies, good wildlife habitat. As we were motoring through we heard a hen mallard quacking anxiously. We looked towards the shore and there was the hen, with her ducklings about ten feet out in the water, and on the shore stood a fox. I stopped the boat and we watched, for a good minute or more, as the fox just stood there contemplating the potential meal, and the hen swam back and forth, quacking up a ruckus. Finally the fox turned and trotted back into the woods; we stayed to watch if it went far away but we didn't see it. Real life drama at its best.
I came home to the sight of two naked butts, and one with swimming trunks, in our pond at the front of our land. My husband had the kids out swimming. What a wonderful sight, I mean, this is what childhood is supposed to be! I stayed out with them for another hour, drinking a beer and watching their innocence as well as the reflections of the white pines in the water. The Dharma Bum had a recent post about sitting still and watching the water and the sky. My pond isn't that big, but at least it's something that I can get that feeling any time I want.
At sunset I took Togo (my Siberian husky puppy) out for a walk. There in the driveway, not there before during the swimming, was a painted turtle laying her eggs in the middle of the driveway. I marked the spot with a rock, and I'll try to mark the nest so we don't drive directly over it.
Yesterday we found a red bellied snake. Russ was mowing out by the pond, and I flipped one of the canoes over so I could move it, and there it was. However, today it is either roaming free inside the cabin or it was an unsatisfying meal for a cat. We also saw a small snapping turtle up close, and a wood frog. Can they really learn this shit in school?
I came home to the sight of two naked butts, and one with swimming trunks, in our pond at the front of our land. My husband had the kids out swimming. What a wonderful sight, I mean, this is what childhood is supposed to be! I stayed out with them for another hour, drinking a beer and watching their innocence as well as the reflections of the white pines in the water. The Dharma Bum had a recent post about sitting still and watching the water and the sky. My pond isn't that big, but at least it's something that I can get that feeling any time I want.
At sunset I took Togo (my Siberian husky puppy) out for a walk. There in the driveway, not there before during the swimming, was a painted turtle laying her eggs in the middle of the driveway. I marked the spot with a rock, and I'll try to mark the nest so we don't drive directly over it.
Yesterday we found a red bellied snake. Russ was mowing out by the pond, and I flipped one of the canoes over so I could move it, and there it was. However, today it is either roaming free inside the cabin or it was an unsatisfying meal for a cat. We also saw a small snapping turtle up close, and a wood frog. Can they really learn this shit in school?
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Rainy Sunday morning
Russ and I are up a little before seven; it is raining and we are drinking coffee. The kids are in various stages of waking up, but for now there is mostly quiet. We are talking about our search for meaning, how we want to find who we are and what we were really meant to do on this earth, in this life. I don't want to go to the grave with nothing more but good intentions. We talk about our quest for the direct spiritual experience. Some people seem to find great meaning in going to church services, but that has never done it for either of us. We think what it would be like to belong to a true community of believers, who did not follow any one scripture word for word but opened ourselves to receive the spirit directly. And we would have some incredible bluegrass gospel music at every service.
We talk about how our closest spiritual experiences have been in nature, particularly on beaches. We recall one beach in Mendocino County, California, where we spent a totally unprogrammed day listening to the waves, building driftwood sculptures and using driftwood sticks to drum on the bigger logs. It seems we felt close to God then. We talk about other places, other beaches: Edisto Island in South Carolina, Park Point in Duluth. We talk about our childhood memories of beaches and wild places, Russ in the coastal lowlands of South Carolina at his grandmother's house, I at my grandpa's place on the St. John's River in Florida. I used to walk out on my grandpa's long dock and watch herons, egrets, anhingas, snakes, crabs, and other creatures at the water's edge. The best times were when we would take the boat out; we even saw manatees out in the river.
We talk about fishing, how Russ took it for granted that everyone had a mile long pier on Lake Erie to fish from as a child. He and his buddy used to go out every day and fish for perch; it was within walking distance from their houses. They didn't need an adult to drive them, and it was totally unprogrammed, not "soccer practice at 6 at the humongous complex ten miles away from home".
We talked about travel, how we long to go back to some of these places in our childhood and discover new places. Public schools make it difficult; travel must be planned during school breaks, although it can be done during the school year the administrators make you feel like you are breaking the law and disrupting your child's learning process if you want to take them out for a week or two.
Lately we have been discussing the need to preserve folk knowledge, of building techniques, cooking, canning, sewing, and knitting. I don't know how to knit; I learned to crochet as a teenager and made one afghan, but I am curious about knitting. I want to spin wool and make wool socks and sweaters. We look through the course catalog from North House Folk School in Grand Marais; here they teach everything from knitting to boat building. Perhaps I can revive some of my Scandinavian heritage through knitting.
Just some rambling thoughts on a rainy June morning.
We talk about how our closest spiritual experiences have been in nature, particularly on beaches. We recall one beach in Mendocino County, California, where we spent a totally unprogrammed day listening to the waves, building driftwood sculptures and using driftwood sticks to drum on the bigger logs. It seems we felt close to God then. We talk about other places, other beaches: Edisto Island in South Carolina, Park Point in Duluth. We talk about our childhood memories of beaches and wild places, Russ in the coastal lowlands of South Carolina at his grandmother's house, I at my grandpa's place on the St. John's River in Florida. I used to walk out on my grandpa's long dock and watch herons, egrets, anhingas, snakes, crabs, and other creatures at the water's edge. The best times were when we would take the boat out; we even saw manatees out in the river.
We talk about fishing, how Russ took it for granted that everyone had a mile long pier on Lake Erie to fish from as a child. He and his buddy used to go out every day and fish for perch; it was within walking distance from their houses. They didn't need an adult to drive them, and it was totally unprogrammed, not "soccer practice at 6 at the humongous complex ten miles away from home".
We talked about travel, how we long to go back to some of these places in our childhood and discover new places. Public schools make it difficult; travel must be planned during school breaks, although it can be done during the school year the administrators make you feel like you are breaking the law and disrupting your child's learning process if you want to take them out for a week or two.
Lately we have been discussing the need to preserve folk knowledge, of building techniques, cooking, canning, sewing, and knitting. I don't know how to knit; I learned to crochet as a teenager and made one afghan, but I am curious about knitting. I want to spin wool and make wool socks and sweaters. We look through the course catalog from North House Folk School in Grand Marais; here they teach everything from knitting to boat building. Perhaps I can revive some of my Scandinavian heritage through knitting.
Just some rambling thoughts on a rainy June morning.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Lakeshores
I got to spend some time outdoors today, in the name of work. I was inspecting lakeshores, places where people have applied for a permit to remove aquatic vegetation so they can swim/fish/get their jet ski or boat out into the water. Unfortunately I can't just rubber stamp a big "NO" on any permit application that involves the use of herbicides. I can understand using a little elbow grease to cut and pull a few plants in a small area, but why it is legal to spray poison in public waters is beyond me. So my job is to make sure that any plant removal is justified, and that the impact to the lake is minimal.
I also don't understand why, when someone from the cities buys a lake lot these days, they feel obligated to clear it, mow it to within inches of the water, put up a barrier of riprap, and put up the kind of landscaping so as to render it indistinguishable from the suburban lot back home. Then they build a mini-mansion to use as their "weekend place". I find the old fashioned, small cabins much more charming, and the visual impact is much more favorable to the up north experience of going to the lake. Now if the septic impacts were only so benign...
My old friend Aphanizomenon is already beginning to appear in the water column. Looking like finely shredded grass clippings, this blue green algae thrives on excess phosphorus and nitrogen from runoff and leaching from septic systems. By mid summer it forms layers of scum tinged bright turquoise, hence the name "blue green" algae. I am not allergic to many things, but I am definitely allergic to this particular algae. Years ago, when I was doing some netting (for work) on the same lake I was at today, I told my partner that within thirty minutes I would be sneezing uncontrollably, and I was right. And that was just from working in a boat on the surface of the water. Swimming in it would require heavy doses of Benadryl. I found out the particular species when I was in graduate school and took a course called "Biology of Algae". Our field work took us to a lake in eastern South Dakota that at the time had the consistency of pea soup. After canoeing out and taking a scum specimen, I was sneezing and rubbing bloodshot eyes in the back seat of the professor's car all the rest of the way to the Black Hills. Microcystis or Anabaena didn't do it; just Aphanizomenon.
I heard two loons calling as they swam and dove out in the open water, but I did not see if they had any chicks yet. Not living on a lake, I don't get to hear their calls too often and it is always a pleasure. And, as I was standing on shore writing some notes, a ruby throated hummingbird came within two feet of me, hovering just inches off the ground, and took a few sips from a Creeping Charlie blossom.
I also don't understand why, when someone from the cities buys a lake lot these days, they feel obligated to clear it, mow it to within inches of the water, put up a barrier of riprap, and put up the kind of landscaping so as to render it indistinguishable from the suburban lot back home. Then they build a mini-mansion to use as their "weekend place". I find the old fashioned, small cabins much more charming, and the visual impact is much more favorable to the up north experience of going to the lake. Now if the septic impacts were only so benign...
My old friend Aphanizomenon is already beginning to appear in the water column. Looking like finely shredded grass clippings, this blue green algae thrives on excess phosphorus and nitrogen from runoff and leaching from septic systems. By mid summer it forms layers of scum tinged bright turquoise, hence the name "blue green" algae. I am not allergic to many things, but I am definitely allergic to this particular algae. Years ago, when I was doing some netting (for work) on the same lake I was at today, I told my partner that within thirty minutes I would be sneezing uncontrollably, and I was right. And that was just from working in a boat on the surface of the water. Swimming in it would require heavy doses of Benadryl. I found out the particular species when I was in graduate school and took a course called "Biology of Algae". Our field work took us to a lake in eastern South Dakota that at the time had the consistency of pea soup. After canoeing out and taking a scum specimen, I was sneezing and rubbing bloodshot eyes in the back seat of the professor's car all the rest of the way to the Black Hills. Microcystis or Anabaena didn't do it; just Aphanizomenon.
I heard two loons calling as they swam and dove out in the open water, but I did not see if they had any chicks yet. Not living on a lake, I don't get to hear their calls too often and it is always a pleasure. And, as I was standing on shore writing some notes, a ruby throated hummingbird came within two feet of me, hovering just inches off the ground, and took a few sips from a Creeping Charlie blossom.
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