Lurching along

Summer may have arrived, but at Mucky Boots we're still stuck at Spring on the weather dial. Yesterday we finally had some heat and today promises more of the same, but the weeks of cool, cloudy weather have put the vegetable garden behind even last year's delayed schedule. We just picked the first barely ripe strawberries yesterday, and the pea blossoms are only starting to transform themselves into pods. The winter squash seeds decided to sprout after all, but unless we have an unusually long, warm fall there may not be enough time for the squash to ripen.

On the bright side, the brassicas and salad greens have been in heaven, doing all they can to make up for their thinner-blooded friends in the vegetable garden.

And on another, very bright side, every blooming perennial has decided that this is the year to put on a show. Could it be my expert, tender care? Probably not. Maybe it's Mother Nature trying to console us for Kim's stubborn case of bronchitis and my seasonal arthritis flare-up.

What ever the reason, anything in the front half of the property that blooms has gone to town: peonies, cranesbill geraniums, columbines, iris, lilies, wisteria, wigelia.

No wonder they call this a snowball viburnum - not only do its flowers look like snowballs, the fallen petals sprinkled on the path below look like a dusting of snow.

And the poppies! We knew we were in for a banner year in the poppy department, but for the last two weeks we have been blasted by the poppy equivalent of a double-orchestra symphony. Plants that last year bore three or four flowers are carrying eight or ten this year, and new clusters seem to have sprouted anywhere the conditions are even remotely suitable.

As usual, with a mind full of jobs wanting to be done and a body that isn't cooperating at the moment, I am wrestling with the lessons the garden is trying to teach me about patience, and acceptance, and living in the moment. So the lurching isn't just the weather, or my own progress down the garden path with sore joints - it's my blossoming into the person my garden wants me to be.

I wish I was a better student.

Hector junior

We'd like to introduce you to the newest charmer in the chicken yard: Hector Junior. Yes, this eight-week cockerel is the love child of either Gertie or Alice. We're not sure. But there's no doubt about his papa: this young fellow is the spitting image of Hector, right down to his sweet, gregarious charm.

He's a big fella, this boy. Tall and long-legged, just like his dad. But because he's hanging out with his peers he's not the bottom of the chicken-status totem pole, like Hector was when he joined us. Instead, he's the biggest, handsomest, fastest boy of the bunch. Just look at that red comb and those wattles - and he's only eight weeks old!

But, just like his papa, he hasn't let his good looks and big size go to his head. He's a curious, calm, sweet boy, with chicken mannerisms that are so like Hector's we are agog, daily.

After losing Gertie so suddenly, it feels wonderful to welcome the next generation to the barnyard.

Goodbye Gertie

We lost Gertie yesterday. She was killed in the orchard, horribly, sometime yesterday morning. She leaves behind Alice, her inseparable twin, and Hector, the sweet little runt who grew up and became her protector.

We're not sure what got her. It was during the day, so it probably wasn't a raccoon. More likely it was an eagle or even a raven, but the kinds of injuries she had don't quite fit. We have been lucky so far with predators, but this week has been rough: first we lost an 8-week old pullet who disappeared without a trace from the chicken yard (probably nabbed from overhead, despite all the reflective tape and fishing line streamers criss-crossing overhead), and then yesterday, Gertie.

Poor Gertie. And poor Hector, and poor Alice, who were with her when it happened.

This is Gertie and Alice when they first arrived at Mucky Boots. They were so beautiful: soft and fluffy and so black, even their feet. They went everywhere together, and talked to each other in their special chicken language.

Gertie as a young pullet in the vegetable garden. She was a good forager, and laid beautiful creamy rose-brown eggs.

Gertie with Alice and Hector.

Goodbye Gertie.

Emergency preparedness

I have been working the last while to update our emergency kit. We live in an earthquake zone, in a rural area that loses its power with some regularity, in a part of the country that deals with fire emergencies every summer. It just makes sense to be prepared. So we have a big garbage bin filled with emergency radios and cell phone chargers, a ceramic water filter, camping equipment, first aid supplies and a crossword puzzle book to keep us occupied.

And in the workshop we have the bulk of our food storage. I'm aiming for a 3 month supply, but we're not quite there yet.

I know some people think I'm a little crazy (which doesn't matter, because I'd rather be prepared and not need to be, than not prepared and wishing I was). But today - well, today my emergency preparations came through for me when I most needed them.

Did we have an earthquake? No.

Did we have a power outage? Well, no . . .

Was there a flood? Er, not really . . .

What exactly, then was the state of the emergency?

A bad day. A really bad day. A long and tiring and really bad day.

And how did the emergency kit help with that, you might ask? It wasn't the first aid kit that I desperately needed and was so grateful for, or the sleeping bag, or the wind-up radio.

No, it was the chocolate covered almonds I had squirreled away. Boy oh boy, when I remembered they were there and went to fetch them and they were right where I had put them, my day instantly improved by a factor of about a million.

So don't let anyone ever tell you emergency preparations are a waste of time. They saved my day.

And, yes, I will replace the ones I ate, which by bed time will probably be the entire bag.

Hum

Something wonderful is happening in the sound scape at Mucky Boots: humming, lots and lots of humming. Bees, in every flowering plant from the chestnut tree to the stands of comfrey to the raspberry bushes to the rhododendrons. That's great news, especially in the vegetable garden, berry patch and orchard, because bees mean fertilized flowers which means a chance for apples and strawberries and peas and tomatoes this year. And with the collapse of bee colonies all over North America, it's not news we take for granted.

I tried to take a picture, but bees are busy little creatures, and wouldn't stay put long enough for me to point, focus and click. So instead, here are some of the blooms that had bees in them today - until I showed up with the camera, that is.

Welsh onion

Last year when I was surfing through seed catalogues making picks for the 2010 growing season, my eye fell on Welsh onions, described as a perennial onion. Well, anything edible that's also a perennial sounds good to me, so I bought a packet and grew six clumps that I transplanted into the herb bed. They grew happily, looking very much like scallions, and overwintered just as happily, staying green through all the snow. And now, this spring, they're flowering - gorgeously.

Here's my problem: what exactly is a perennial onion? I know I can cut the green part off and it will regrow, like chives. Is that all it is - a beefier version of a chive? Because for sure, if I dig up the bulb, the life of that particular perennial comes to a close. Somehow I expected more than just big chives. Did my imagination simply run away with me?

And while I'm asking what are probably really stupid questions, why don't seed packets give harvesting tips as well as planting information? Just wondering. . .

Return of the poppies

It looks like it's going to be a banner year for poppies here at Mucky Boots. The San Pellegrino poppies (so named by me because they're the exact colour of San Pellegrino Aranciata, one of the most refreshing drinks known to humankind) have been blooming up a storm for about a month now, in their simple, modest way. But this week they were joined by their slightly-more-flamboyant orange cousins. . .

. . . and the first of the jaw-droppingly gorgeous, dinner-plate-sized Oriental poppies.

Look at all the future blooms on this one plant - and there are scores more all over the property. We're in for a show!

Lost

I am generally a good person, and I try to live my life in a thoughtful and responsible way. But I have a few shortcomings, as the people who love me can attest to. My tendency to over plan at the expense of spontaneity, as one example. Or my seeming inability to stop taking responsibility for the happiness of everyone around me, as another.

But - oh! - the failing that has me tearing out my hair this week is this: I cannot, for the life of me, hang on to a set of pruners.

I'm rough on tools. This is a well-established fact. I leave tools out in the rain, I rarely clean them, and I never, ever sharpen or oil them. That's why I buy the $5 pruners instead of the $50 ones. I understand and accept this. What I can't figure out is how I keep losing them.

This week I set a new record. On Saturday afternoon I mislaid a set of pruners while tackling the creeping bellflower in one of the perennial beds. I had them. I put them down. I left for a few minutes to empty the wheelbarrow and when I got back those pruners were nowhere. I looked and looked, and never found them.

That wasn't so bad. Kim was nice enough to bring me another pair, even though the ones I had mislaid were clearly marked "Kim". What was bad - really, really bad - was that the next morning, in the space of one hour I mislaid two more pairs.

I don't know where they went. I have retraced my steps, and looked under every conceivable bush. I have rooted through the compost pile, thinking maybe I absent-mindedly put them in the wheelbarrow and then emptied them into the compost. I have hunted and hunted and haven't been able to find any of the three (most recently) missing pairs.

What did I do?

I went out and bought two more pairs. And - so far - I know exactly where they are.

Home

Oh, there's nothing like coming home after being away. And coming home to a garden lush and green, fragrant and blooming - how lucky can one person be?

Of course having been away for two weeks in May means I'm behind on everything, but somehow it doesn't matter. Yes, the winter squash absolutely must get planted tomorrow, and there are weeds everywhere. But somehow I look at the perennial beds filled with fresh, lime green hostas, and red-stalked rhubarb, and the first of what I call the San Pellegrino poppies, and tulips of every colour, and all those weeds just don't matter. At least not today.

When I travel by air I have to go on steroids to clear out my sinuses - which means that for about two months I have the gift of a sense of smell. When I got out of the car to open the gate I was overwhelmed by the wonderful scent of the air - just the air. Green and fresh and woodsy. Is this what it smells like all the time?

So in the two days I've been home I've had my nose stuck in every plant and flower, storing up all the wonderful scents while I can. Especially the lilacs - there's a whole childhood of memories tied to the scent of lilacs.

Home!

Flower parade

Okay, I'm 100% convinced: spring is really here, and it's not going to snow next week.

To celebrate my new accord with Mother Nature, here are some of her most gorgeous peace offerings, appearing now at Mucky Boots.

Trillium and magnolia blossoms . . .

. . . bleeding hearts and peach blossoms . . .

. . . and the first entrants in the annual Tulip Parade.

I'm taking a bit of a break for the next two weeks. Until I see you again, I wish you sunny skies, gentle showers and peace in your heart.

Moving day

The six Red Rock Cross pullets, now about 2 months old, have made the move to Big Chicken Land, otherwise known as Chicken Coop #2. We finished leveling the building and stabilizing the foundation as much as we were prepared to (it's just a chicken coop, after all), Kim laid a new plywood floor inside and made a chicken door into the chicken yard, and we joined the fencing of the yard to the walls of the coop, to make it secure for the new residents.

Then we introduced the teenage pullets to their new home - how exciting!

At least we thought so. The pullets themselves weren't sure what to make of it all. To a chicken everything new is something to be cautious about, and it took them some convincing that the chicken door wasn't a gateway to somewhere horrible.

There is still work to be done: Kim wants to build a new gate into the pullets' part of the chicken yard, a new human-sized door for the coop with a window that opens, and some additional ventilation holes. And the coop itself is a blank slate inside - the pullets are making do with a movable roost, and Kim wants proper roosting and nest box space, plus a separate enclosure to increase chicken arrangement flexibility.

When I made my first tentative gardening steps and wondered how much work it would take until the garden was done, a more experienced gardener friend laughed (a bit hysterically) and assured me no garden was ever done. I'm thinking the same must be true for chickens. . .