Tag Archives: Garden photos

Uncharacteristic Weather: A Long Dry Spell

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My friend Cidnie over at Our Life with Ceol Mor recently did a really smart thing: she announced to her readers that she was taking a break from posting for a certain period of time. When she announced it, my first thought was ‘what a smart idea’. Unfortunately my thoughts stopped at that moment. Had I followed those thoughts to their logical conclusion I would have realized that by announcing her planned hiatus, she would avoid the guilt over what  I call “failure to post”. When you have a blog that you love, posting things becomes a natural part of your life, so I have discovered. And in spite of the fact that most people do not comment, our stats tell us people do actually at least look at our pages, so I feel a certain illogical responsibility to that audience. What to do when there is really very little to say?

I notice that some bloggers post something every day. Frankly, I can never be that blogger. I cannot imagine a time when I would have something interesting to share every day.  I don’t need to be in people’s consciousness that much.  Most days are lived in ‘the beige’ of life: they are neither high nor low, but form the background and tie all the other days together. Time drifts by. What’s so great about that? No, I fear that posting every day at this point is just not going to be my style. So if there are long periods of time between posts, know that we are living in the beige just then and have nothing of interest to report in terms of progress. No one wants to read about how many hours I spent laying on the couch doing nothing or working out to my cardio boxing game. Here’s a brief wrap up of what we’ve accomplished toward the plan so far this year:20130212_1

We’ve bought a truck. True, we’ve added a vehicle, and, against common wisdom,  this has given us a profound sense of relief because we deperately need a truck with the property we live on. Now we can do dump runs, take furniture to Goodwill, get mulch and bark for the yard, and all the good things only trucks do. Then there is the issue of transporting things like kayaks and Puddler, our dinghy. We got this truck for only 1500$ so it didn’t set us back much.

Mike has made it his goal in life to clear the yard of unused items that, while hidden from sight, still must be dealt with should we ever dig ourselves out of here. Old wheelbarrow? Gone. Useless garden hose reel? Vamoose. Lawn vac? (yeah, I know.) Finished. Next to go are my old cement mixer (yes, I owned my own), a big pile of treated wood from Andrew’s old tree house, a lot of firewood, and a big stack of cement roofing tiles leftover from a garden edging project. You begin to see why a truck is a necessity.

I have cleaned up the work area behind the greenhouse to enable a leaner operation, offer a good place for storing garden tools all in one place (yeah, like that’s going to happen once gardening season begins), and allow Mike to build a structure for things that need cover, like the lawn mower. I am willing to share that area  because the days of my starting a hundred kinds of seeds in one season and acting like I own a nursery are over for now.

Just as people have to get boats ready to go, homeowners have to get their home ready to either sell or rent, and we’ve been doing that. Mike has created a great workshop area in the garage. There is room for it now that we’ve dumped so much stuff at Goodwill. Plus room for the car. Who knew? He’s replaced a toilet and I notice that he has bought a supply of molding to finish off a couple of areas. We have a door standing by to replace another door that is hideous. Anyone who complains that boats are a lot of work has never owned a home. Their cries fall on deaf ears around here.

Anyone notice how often I’ve typed the word ‘Mike’? That’s right. He is basically driving this train right now. I am the caboose, being pulled along in the same direction, and thankful for it. My focus is on my work and my health. It’s enough for me presently. I am back to working out, which feels great, (and many thanks to Nintendo for creating the Wii because I hate going to a gym). I am back on my diet to take off the pounds of holiday excess and fight my British genetic love of all things carbohydrate. I am infusing energy into my work by planning to teach some classes. All to the good. In my line of business, sitting back and coasting isn’t really an option if you give a crap about work quality. And I do.

Moonrise remains on the market and we have continued to do little projects that don’t warrant their own post, such as bringing home the canvas cover for the wheel and giving it a good wash, and cleaning the outside of her. Boats in the Puget Sound area look just awful in the winter. They have a tendency to grow a green algae everywhere. We can’t let that stand. Mike is refinishing the teak cockpit table, as the canvas doesn’t quite cover the end of it and it was badly weathered. We’ve had some interest in Moonrise but it is now a waiting game. I am of the mind that we need to set a date by which, if she is still ours, we decide to keep her and move on. I grow weary and discouraged over having my heart broken about other boats. Who knows? Maybe it wouldn’t be that uncomfortable sailing the Pacific on Moonrise. Who am I kidding? It would be terrible. But I would probably go anyhow.

So we exist in a slow moving wave just now, a time of introspection and waiting as we have just passed the mid-winter mark. The snowdrops are blooming, I’ve cut back the old leaves of the hellebores to unveil their blossoms. The chickens are busy keeping weeds at bay and generally running amok. Some shrubs appear to believe we’ll have an early spring around here. We’ve had a blessedly easy winter this year but we aren’t out of the woods yet. I’ll do a garden post soon, as it begins to look interesting out there. Meanwhile, we surf the wave slowly but surely.

Skippy standing guard over the winter garden.

Skippy standing guard over the winter garden.

 

Days of Sloth

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It’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, a time when people reflect on their lives and what they’ve accomplished over the year, setting goals for the future. The dark days of winter are, I’m sure, created in order for us to have time to be introspective, thoughtful, mindful of how we live our lives. And I intend to do just that. After I’m finished resting and relaxing.

Hermione knows what I’m talking about. What a face!

Yes, indeed, I have hit the days of Sloth full force with my resting ways. Today I have accomplished the following: a shower, throwing wrapping paper from Christmas into the recycle bin. That is all, really. And I am completely satisfied with my level of usefulness in the world. My needs this week, in terms of being at all useful to others, are small.  And in this slow-moving, deliberate living I have embraced of late, I have, indeed, had some time to think, even if I haven’t given it much notice.

The ultra cool Space Needle in Seattle. I stuck this in here because it’s a groovy photo I took this season. Some day I will buy myself a really awesome camera and learn how to use it.

I’ve been thinking about how this time last year I was on a rampage getting rid of stuff. It’s as though I somehow thought that our cutting of the dock lines was just around the corner of our lives and that I had to hurry up and simplify. Oh, brother.  In so doing, I have complicated things terribly. Whatever you do, don’t believe everything you read about how ‘freeing’ it is to get rid of all your stuff because sometimes that is just a damn lie. And this lie comes home to roost on Christmas day when you have 9 people over for dinner and own only 3 dining room chairs because you gave the other chairs away since they were cluttering up the place. And then you have the neighbors over for dinner and apologize about the lack of chairs, commenting that you don’t know what happened to them and they respond with, “You gave them to our son last year because you didn’t need them anymore. Do you need them back? You don’t have anyplace for people to sit when you entertain.” Right. Like I’m going to take back chairs I gave to someone just starting out in life who can barely make a living much less buy new chairs. How embarrassing.

Oh sure, throwing everything out would be freeing if I didn’t ever need things again, or if I was moving onto a boat, say, tomorrow. But since neither of those things is true, I better slow down or we won’t have anyplace to sit in our own home.

What we have here is a collection of very tiny ornaments. I will NOT be getting rid of my collection of tiny Christmas ornaments. They will go with us on whatever boat we have. They take up almost no room. Without Christmas, there would be no Days of Sloth. And I must have them.

Oh, we’ve de-cluttered the place nicely this year. We’ve made so many trips to Goodwill that they know us by name. But the dirty truth is this: getting rid too much stuff well in advance of making a move to a small place, or a boat, is useless. Why? Because nature abhors a vacuum, that’s why. We live in a 3000 square foot house, more or less. Already with both kids gone most of the time, we feel as though we are knocking around in a huge empty space. Getting rid of things that take up that empty space just creates more empty space, and, naturally, it somehow gets filled with more stuff.  It just feels weird to have big blank areas where furniture needs to be. I took the advice of all the self-help gurus and got rid of all the stuff I didn’t use or have on display. That leaves exactly 3000 square feet of stuff that I DO use and IS on display. The house is too big for just us, but we’re in a transitional phase just now and we’re not getting rid of it anytime soon.

And speaking of that, I’ve been pretty attached to my house lately. Maybe it’s just that it’s winter, and cold and wet but I’ve come to realize that my dreams of being on a boat really do generally include warm weather and sunshine. Not that I don’t want to sail in colder climates. I do, but I don’t intend to be miserable all the time while doing it. So this time of year when I miss the boat and think ‘let’s go sailing’, I look outside, realize that what’s in my head doesn’t match the reality outside,  and then become thankful that I’m warm and dry. Call me middle-aged. Call me a sailing wimp. Whatever. I prefer to think of it as ‘blooming where I’m planted’.

Here’s a photo from the butterfly house at the Pacific Science Center, for those who need a break from the narration. I like how this butterfly totally brings together the colors of the plants. This is how gardeners think in the winter time.

Mike has been more productive today, but then, he has a more finely developed sense of guilt than I have. After all, he did grow up in the south. He and Andrew replaced the brake shoes on two cars today, so he feels like he deserves to be laying on the couch reading one of his many new books he received from Santa this Christmas…books on sailing. Mike received 4 riveting books that are sailing oriented, and we’ll post about them later. For now, suffice to say that while Mike received books on sailing adventures, and Andrew received new sailing boots and a new anchor roller for Danger Kitten, I received kitchen utensils and a gift certificate to the spa. I’m beginning to sense a trend. Now, to be fair, I have been ‘into’ cooking lately, as is evidenced by the luscious Beef Bourguignon I served for Christmas dinner. Still, I believe my point is well taken. I will be reading his books so I dearly hope he is in a sharing kind of mood.

He must be really enjoying this book because I’ve heard a lot of snorting and guffawing, and comments like ‘this guy either has balls or he’s an idiot’. And also things like, “I know what’s going to happen next because we’ve done this. Oh, Lord, at least we know he lived to tell of it.” I can’t wait to read this book.

And so during these days of sloth when I’ve given myself the gift of not giving a damn what I get done, Mike lies on one couch, I type on another couch… you can see where I’m going with this: we simply must buy a boat with two generously built settees. Otherwise, there is no other way this whole plan will actually work.

 

 

Playing Farmville

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Somewhere on this blog I’m sure I have already confessed to being easily bored. It’s true, I like for life to be just a little interesting with fun things to do and new things to learn. Maybe that’s why I like spending weeks on the boat so much; exploring new places and having new adventures just suits me.

Just now we’re at a point in our lives where things are becoming bland. We are truly living life in the ‘beige’ just now.  One kid is grown, one kid is in college, we’ve both been in the same jobs since the Pleistocene.  We’ve lived in this house for almost 13 years and there aren’t any big projects left, only maintenance projects and everyone knows how BORING maintenance is. How many times can I paint molding before I go insane and start throwing things? How many weeds can I pull in a yard this big before I completely lose my mind, especially in the winter when it’s dark and wet constantly. (Are we SURE that Washington isn’t moving further north, say toward Alaska or, maybe the arctic region, or the cold void of space? Because it sure seems that way.)

Our Fran, who was the most beautiful dog to ever live, and who we still miss every day.

Furthermore, in the last year we’ve reduced the size of our family by 3 pets. We’ve lost one cat, adopted out another because she was lonely, and lost our beloved Australian Shepherd, Franny. We are down to one dog, Skippy the Aussie. I know we’re preparing to go cruising by downsizing, but this is ridiculous. I realized that during this phase of the preparations for a life yet to be lived, life is beginning to feel just a little empty. Since we don’t yet have the cruising boat, we needed a project, something to capture our interest and attention; something to entertain us and rip up all my carefully planned gardens. Something to spend money on.  And my sister had just the solution. Chickens.

Andrew loving on a chicken, age 7

Our son, Andrew has wanted chickens for years and I’ve always said ‘no’ because I didn’t want more animals to care for. When he was 12 I gave in partially by getting him a taxidermy chicken, complete with real feathers, for Christmas. It was more expensive than a real chicken. It had a straw nest. He loved it and it lived in his room until very recently, when I discovered mites eating the feathers and it had to go. Fortunately, Clucky lives on forever and ever at this Facebook page created by some of his friends back in high school. They came. They stole the chicken. They took it places and photographed it.

Clucky, being not amused.

Mike also wanted chickens but saw the wisdom in not bringing in more animals than we could handle. And at this point we certainly don’t want to adopt animals that are going to interfere with our cruising plans. So when my sister, Amy, and her husband found out they were moving down to Oregon for 18 months, it just made good sense that we would become foster parents to their 6 little hens while they were away. Perfect! We get to play with chickens, buy them little chicken clothes, keep their nails filed and painted,  and collect eggs. By the time they come back we should be that much further along with our cunning plan and the chickens can go home.

Let the entertainment begin! My idea was to turn the chickens loose in the garden during the winter while most of my perennials are dormant. Weeds never stop sprouting and growing up here so there is a nice crop just awaiting attention from the chickens’ sharp talons. It would be an excellent plan except for one thing. How, exactly, does one get chickens to go where one wants them? We have a yard that is 3/4 acre. I’ll pause in the writing while you try to imagine it. Go to the garden page of this site to give yourself an appropriate visual sense of what we’re dealing with here.

We have tried herding them with sticks and that resulted in a nice game of ‘here we go round the rhododendron bush’ as they deftly ducked under the branches and scattered in all directions. Anyone who says chickens are not smart has never tried to catch one.

A little red hen, ready to run.

Although I originally thought I would be the one to enjoy the chickens most, it’s Mike who has taken to them like a natural farmer. It’s in his blood since he used to raise calves when he was a boy. I, on the other hand, am more distant from my farming ancestors. The chickens actually like him better, too. They eat from his hand. They run from me, looking askance from a far corner of the coop as I offer them tasty morsels. They are not fooled. They know I want them to work for a living.

Mike has spent most of his spare time lately working on chicken projects: a timed light for their little coop, creating areas for storing their little chicken stuff, making portable fencing so we can keep them safely contained in the areas I want worked, making sure they have fresh straw, checking for eggs several times a day and reading about them in a myriad of books he found at the library. His next project is to build a portable coop, using an old garden wagon I was getting ready to give away on Craigslist. See how we shouldn’t be getting rid of stuff? He loves him some little chickens. It’s so cute. Today I received a text message from him during the work day: “Any eggs? Do you have a photo of the coop you can send me?” . Yes. My husband is talking chickens at work.

This photo was taken in the middle of the day. There still wasn’t enough light to get a good, sharp image. People who think they should move to Washington, please take careful note.

So we will be suburban farmers and collect yummy fresh eggs and watch cute birds tear the hell out of my garden for 18 months. Whatever survives wills stay. And they’ll have to stay in the coop come spring because I’m not going to have holes in my hostas weeds or no weeds. I have SOME standards. Andrew will have chickens to cuddle when he’s home, and Skippy will go ballistic knowing there are other animals in his yard and he’s not allowed to get to them. It’s not that I like chaos. Really! It’s just that life is suddenly a little more interesting just now.

Andrew cuddling a chicken, age 20.