Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Hiatus
This blog is currently inactive to give the author a rest on the subject. Plenty of material here to browse, so please enjoy the stories and information.
Friday, May 27, 2016
Hot and cold
The most
difficult part of living in the north country isn’t the cold. Rather, it’s the
heat—which comes on like a bomb before one’s body can acclimate.
For
three-quarters of the year, it’s cool here, and one of those quarters is usually
cold. I’m no fan of days that don’t get above freezing, or nights that drop to
twenty-five below zero, but at least when it’s cold you can keep adding clothes
when outdoors, and another log to the fire when indoors (or just turn up the
thermostat for you oil, propane, or electric folks).
When it’s
hot, however, you can’t take off your skin. It’s hard to justify central air
conditioning in a cool-for-three-quarters-of-the-year environment when you’re
self-employed with restricted cash flow. And it’s socially unacceptable outside
the home to do the next best thing and take off all your clothes. (Naked isn’t
a desirable option, anyway, because by the time the air gets warm enough that
you want to, the bugs are out—and a lot of them bite.)
Hot and
cold, of course, are relative conditions. For my body, 35 to 45 degrees
(Fahrenheit), on a sunny day, is the best temperature range for outdoor labor. It’s
cool enough to keep your skin covered against cutting and bruising, but warm
enough that you can remove layers once your blood gets churning. Depending on
what you’re doing, you might even work up a sweat and peel down to a T-shirt. Not
so if you’re just standing around, or working with cold items bare-handed, or
if it’s wet or there’s a stiff breeze.
45 to 60 is
the best range for light recreational activities, and work like gardening. The
plants may disagree about that temperature range, but it lets you move
comfortably in lightweight long sleeves and pants for skin protection, or T-shirt
and shorts if you don’t mind dinging your forearms and shins. Bugs are less
pernicious at this range, as well.
60 to 70—tops—is
my comfort range for short clothing or none at all, just as this is the
preferred temperature range for most people indoors during winter. Higher temps
than these usually come with humidity, and that’s when my energy gets sapped.
Over 80 and I can barely move. Over 90 and I’m semicomatose. Tough to stay
productive in that condition!
People in
southerly climes might wonder why this is a problem. It’s because we don’t get
a chance to ease upward gradually. We acclimate to the norm of cool and getting
colder. Come springtime, however, temperatures spike and rollercoaster, sometimes
ranging 50 or even 70 degrees in a single day. After months of consistent teens
through 40s or 50s (woo-hoo! Heat wave!), suddenly there’s a gorgeous day of 62
and you can fling open the windows and roll up your sleeves. But overnight might
bring a killing frost, followed by three wet days in the 40s. Then another pop
up to, say, 54. Then 71. Then down again. Up again. Down, up, down, up,
down—and suddenly it’s 88, sunny, and humid for almost a week. At that, most of
us northerners topple like trees!
While we’re
going down, plant life is thrusting up at a rate that’s almost scary. Growth
and reproduction have to happen in a short window, so sometimes it feels like
we’re watching a fast-forwarded film. Unlesslawn mowing is your
favorite recreation, it’s impossible to keep up with the grass growth. And
weeds in the garden. Until July, when suddenly everything shuts off then
reverses, like that strange suspension in water when the tide changes.
For now,
however, entering Memorial Day weekend—the official launch of summer, calendar
be damned—it’s freaking hot and we’re praying for a thunderstorm to cool things
off again.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Open winter
I picked up
the term from hearing other people in the region use it. Both the term and the
experience are new to me after a lifetime in New England and upstate New York. We’ve
had snowy winters and less snowy ones, colder ones and warmer ones, wetter ones
and drier ones, earlier ones and later ones, but this year set a record for the
combination of least snow and mildest
temperatures. The effect was a strange undulation between November and March,
all the way through the months in between.
It’s an
interesting contrast from last year, which was frigid for prolonged periods,
and the year before, which was old-fashioned in its snowiness. This year we had
a few modest snowfalls which melted clear to the ground within a few days. White
to brown, multiple times a month. The frost in the ground was superficial,
whereas last year it ran so deep, people were losing water. Our neighbor had
frozen underground lines for eight weeks!
The pond iced
over late, melted open a few times, and reclosed. Just this week, it closed and
opened inside twenty-four hours. Over the whole winter, there was only one
subzero period, and that quite brief. The most dramatic temperature swing occurred
in February: minus twenty to plus fifty in three days. A seventy-degree change
in midwinter!
Mainly we’ve
had rain this season. It’s weird to hear the dry streams and the nearby river
coursing loudly when normally that doesn’t occur until April. If all that rain
had been snow, we’d be half up to our eaves with it, and not seeing dirt until
May or June.
The problem
with open winters is that ours is a seasonal economy. Many families make half
to all of their annual income from snow-related enterprises, so they were badly
hurt this season. For the rest of us, it’s been a boon. Dramatically reduced
firewood and oil consumption. Way less wear and tear on plow trucks and snow
blowers, not to mention our backs. No ice dams on the roofs, no impassable
driveways—heck, we could have gotten away without putting snow tires on our
vehicles. And mud season is almost nil.
The
intermittent temperature spikes let us (and the cats) go out in the yard and do
things, twice in shirtsleeves. Fewer wild animals and birds died from
starvation or freezing. The downside is the ticks coming out a month early.
Daffodils have broken through almost a month early, as well.
The extreme
of this season is a result of El Niño, which has saved the severely drought-affected
regions of the west and southwest. I am happy to swap moisture bonanzas with
the fruit and vegetable basket of the country. Other people aren’t so happy, as
they’ve been walloped with weird weather their own which hasn’t been so benign.
Still, for
those of us with an artist’s eye, the season has been beautiful. If not white and
silver coated, it’s been a gorgeous study in all the middle-tone earth colors
and constantly changing skies. Soon the landscape will be green again. With all
the ups and downs of recent seasons, I can’t imagine what the next few will be
like!
Monday, May 11, 2015
Perennial P.I.T.A.
The
first gardening mistake I made when we moved to rural Vermont 17 years ago was
thinking that perennials are something you plant once and enjoy forever.
Ohhhhhh
no. Oh-ho-ho-no.
Well,
in some cases it’s true—we’ve got peonies, for example, that came with the
place and must be decades old—but the very fact that perennials stay in the
ground makes them subject to seemingly endless variables, all exacerbated by
the seemingly endless microclimates that characterize the region in general and
our yard in particular.
I
knew going in that some perennials, such as gladioli, are sensitive and must be
brought indoors for the winter then reestablished in the spring. So I skipped
those. I also knew that some perennials, such as most everything in the mint
family, are invasive and must be either contained or planted where they can run
amok. So I avoided those, too.
Then
went on to plant my favorite species, since our well-established perennials represented
a previous homeowner’s taste. Pretty much everything I put in failed within 1-3
years, while the established plants flourished. Huh?
I can
divide or transplant the established perennials with shocking brutality and
they just keep going like Energizer Bunnies, but my carefully selected,
carefully tended new perennials just don’t last. Heck, I’m the only person I’ve
ever met who can’t keep daffodils!
Even
after I got smart and started planting only Zone 3–hardy specimens (learned
from cataloguing everything established and finding that to be the common
denominator), I still lose the new ones. Or else they shrink back in number to
a few feeble survivors that keep returning enough to keep giving me false hope.
The
experience has taught me a lot about the dominance of microclimates over zone
maps, the difference between reproductive techniques, and perennial vs.
diennial growth patterns. It also clarified the definition of “partial
sunlight.” The thing that surprises me year after year, however, is the fact
that some perennials move.
It’s
a creepy thought that nags at me during the winter. While the land is frozen
for months, somewhere below my feet there are tendrils reaching out, or seeds
that fell over the summer, which will result in plants emerging somewhere other
than where I put them. Thus I’ve had grape hyacinths and glory-of-the-snows pop
up in the middle of the lawn. Thus I’ve had a crocus appear even though I never
planted one. Thus the horseradish emerged in the woods 30 yards away from its calculated
placement, the phlox choked out a complete garden, the lupines stepped sideways
two feet, and the bee balm took over the compost pile.
These
plants behave, in fact, like certain weeds. Heck, perennials are weeds, if you consider this
definition: “What we call a weed is in fact merely a plant growing where we do not want it” (E. J. Salisbury, The Living Garden, 1935). In
my yard, some perennials are invasive weeds—like the nightmare phlox, along
with lilacs, anything in the rose family, and lily of the valley, which to me
is as pernicious as grass. I have come to hate grass, which grows like a
metastisizing cancer where you do not want it and refuses to grow where you do.
What
this all adds up to is a three-part lesson: (1) Do thorough homework before you
plant perennials. (2) Be prepared to monitor them closely and manage them
regularly. (3) Make sure you put clumpers in the garden and movers somewhere
they can spread.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Broken record
Reporting
on the local climate makes one sound like a broken record. Same phrase over and
over: “It’s different every year.”
But
I have to keep saying that, because it’s true.
This
winter was different from each preceding winter, and spring is coming in with
its own flavor, too.
The
winter of 2014–15 was a whopper for many areas, and broke numerous records.
Here it was just a normal Vermont winter, with the old-timers saying it was
more like the ones back when than recent years. The only record we came close
to was Coldest February (ranked #3 according to those who keep track).
Yes,
there have been snowier winters, colder ones, longer ones, icier ones, drier
ones. What stood out this year was the mix and match (as reported in my
February entry, “A big winter”). In contrast, it’s ending benignly, easing into
spring with a gentle thaw. While the weather improvement on a daily basis is
frustratingly slow, it allows the snow to melt gradually so that flooding is
either absent or mild, and dirt roads are slimy instead of axle-deep mires, and
ice-out is a rising rush instead of a torrent that causes ice dams.
People
keep saying, “When is spring going to get here?” By my observations, it’s
already arrived. Spring isn’t so much when the grass turns green and flowers
bloom, but when the environment changes from hard to soft, and the birds start
returning and hibernating critters emerge. The migratory birds are right on
time, starting with the song sparrows, red-winged blackbirds, and robins. Coons,
skunks, and squirrels are out foraging, and no doubt the bears will make an appearance
shortly. So will the daffodils and crocuses.
I’ve
noticed from my informal recordkeeping that the songbirds and bulbs appear
reliably within a two-week window. This year they’re on the late side because
the snowpack has been slow to shrink. As soon as that noticeably began,
however, in came the migrants, and now the morning is filled with twittering
and singing instead of frigid silence. In our first 48 hours above freezing, we
lost almost half the snow cover and gained multiple species.
So
even though every year is different, the season cycle is comfortingly the same.
Global climate change is showing trends that we’ve noticed over thirty years,
but as long as the planet remains driven by sunlight and tilted at the same
angle, we can count on what goes around coming around again.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Winter garden
I’ve
lost track of how many years it’s been since I’ve been growing red bell peppers
and tomatoes in my living room. At least a decade now.
This
practice arose from three things: (1) a very short growing season, (2) learning
that peppers and tomatoes are perennials in tropical climes, and (3) having a
south-facing living room wall that’s all windows.
So one spring, when I bought transplants for the garden, I kept one tomato and
two peppers inside and planted them in big pots. They have provided produce
year-round ever since.
I also tried dragging one of my EarthBox containers inside at an early frost, just when the red bell peppers were ripening for harvest. (Kitty helped.) They produced into December.
I also tried dragging one of my EarthBox containers inside at an early frost, just when the red bell peppers were ripening for harvest. (Kitty helped.) They produced into December.
For the year-rounders, all I give them is water and occasional refreshing of soil. The plants have always
been brittle, since they don’t grow against wind and rain, and each year they
give more leaves and fewer, smaller fruit. I cut them back every few months,
and they crank up again.
Finally
I killed one from too much sun and/or too little water and/or cutting back too
severely. So I replaced it the next spring, and on it goes. The longest-lived
one has been about seven years. All would go indefinitely if I treated them
better.
So
this season, I upgraded my ritual to include twice-a-month feedings. Too soon
to tell what that will lead to. I’m looking forward to spring, when I can
replace the tomato with a bush variety that will not take off across the living
room and up the walls.
Even
with sparse output, you can’t beat having fresh tomatoes and peppers when it’s
ten below!
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