There is something almost magical about planting a garden. You take some wrinkled seeds out of packets, place them into tilled-up earth and a week later (if you’ve been diligent about watering) little shoots start to appear.
Well, let’s be clear here - if you’re a gardener like me, you wait until the last day you can get the 50 percent discount to order your seeds. After they arrive, you stash the box somewhere out of sight and then remember that you had planned to attempt indoor seedlings - only it’s about a month too late at this point, but you don’t want to waste four varieties of tomatoes and five kinds of peppers, so you plant them anyway. Then, after making a mini-greenhouse in an unused bedroom and barely remembering to water anything, you realize it’s about time to be planting a garden outdoors. Only, then you decide it’s imperative to make yourself some cute little raised beds out of cedar. So you spend a few days building them. And they are cute.
But then it rains. And it rains. And your (well-intentioned) plans of getting a garden planted at any time close to what a Minnesota summer will allow for are pretty much gone.
Come June 1st and it’s still not done. Procrastinators do not make good gardeners. But, I digress - back to the magical part of having a vegetable garden. I would love to set up a time-lapse camera for how quickly plants like squash (that were only planted at a certain someone’s request - certainly not mine) will burst up and how slowly my precious cilantro grows. It’s really rather unfair that produce that has little-to-no flavor without adding brown sugar and butter can double its size in a day while this savory herb takes FOREVER.
What is less magical and certainly less charming are the six different kinds of weeds that sprout up right alongside what I’ve cultivated. They have no sense of personal space and just pop in uninvited. Although, I do have to admit that pulling weeds is a bit of a cathartic process - “take that you little water-hogging parasite!”
Gardening is also teaching me patience and helping me to remember the tenth commandment as I see the fruit coming from my parents’ and inlaws’ abundant garden. I look at my beans that have just started to blossom and marvel (okay, I cringe) that they have already harvested a five-gallon bucket.
Thankfully they are blessed with the gift of generosity because they both have shared their produce with us since my paltry efforts at gardening aren’t producing yet. There’s probably a lesson there somewhere, but I’m too busy scarfing down fresh cucumbers and new potatoes to think about it.
Showing posts with label country life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label country life. Show all posts
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Monday, June 1, 2009
mary, mary quite contrary...
Even though I’ve reached the ripe old age of Never-You-Mind, I still haven’t figured out this nursery rhyme. My tattered copy of The Complete Mother Goose doesn’t help at all. I want to know why Mary was so contrary.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she was gardening. That I get. I could be the Mary in “Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” Only my response would more like this: with weeds galore and more in store and ten dirty toes in a row.
Never mind we haven’t had rain in, well, I’m getting to old to remember any more. Never mind that I have four little boys who want to “help.” And never mind that my hose doesn’t quite reach to the newly-moved garden that needed more sun.
And yes, I know the solution to problem number three is an easy fix - Wal-Mart is only five miles away. But, have you ever walked inside a store that contains Oreos, baseball cards and squirt guns with four boys? I’d rather lug my watering can with the broken nozzle to each little garden bed to refresh some not-so-fresh looking peppers and cabbage. (That problem also has a solution called Wal-Mart, but...)
Problem one I can’t fix. Problem two I can’t either. Well, I tried and I gave up. Well, okay I didn’t try very hard.
I had this BRIGHT idea that four boys could have fun planting their own rows next to my garden with the seeds I had left over. But it took some doing.
First the ground was too hard. Then it was too hot. Then it was too cold. Then I just didn’t feel like it. Hubby got the ground tilled up (for the second time) for me, or rather for them.
I figured the boys could experience some real-life science, real-life chores and maybe even some real-life sweat. Who knew you could get so much out of one simple little project? Like procrastination, irritation, bug bites and sunburn. It’s enough to water MY garden, let alone four more hodge-podge rows of who knows what. Because of course, then comes the weeding. (I can almost hear the whining already and see all the dirt clods getting thrown around. I’m raising boys, can you tell? Anything can turn into a war and then into a wrestling match.)
I think I know why Mary was contrary.
She probably needed a hammock in the shade and a few servants to tend her garden. And, I’m guessing she didn’t have rows of watermelon, pumpkin, two beans, one huge mass of carrots where the seed packet got dumped out and a puny little tomato that got trampled, twice.
Remember, she had pretty maids all in a row. I have pretty dirty faces all in a row. Well seriously I don’t know if you can even call them rows - they sort of zig and zag a bit. But, they’re labeled whose is whose with favorite rocks and sticks and even a hoe handle.
Now they want to plant apple seeds and raisins and whole dandelion heads. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if one of the littler boys got planted, head first.
If I’m being honest, my life isn’t much different than Mary the Contrary. I make big plans. I get crabby about said plans. I work, work, work to get plans done, but do not enjoy one single second of the work. And then I find something more to plan.
The good news is that God has a funny way of tapping you on the shoulder sometimes and forcing you to smell the dirt clod that just got thrown in your face. After you get the grit out of your mouth, be sure to look around closely. You might just find four delighted boys poking holes in dirt, babbling non-stop about what their row contains and how they’re going to eat an entire watermelon this summer.
And you know what? They can eat the whole thing. Life’s too short to be contrary. Or stingy. The four boys God planted in my life are more fun than silver bells and cockle shells.
That’s how my garden grows.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she was gardening. That I get. I could be the Mary in “Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” Only my response would more like this: with weeds galore and more in store and ten dirty toes in a row.
Never mind we haven’t had rain in, well, I’m getting to old to remember any more. Never mind that I have four little boys who want to “help.” And never mind that my hose doesn’t quite reach to the newly-moved garden that needed more sun.
And yes, I know the solution to problem number three is an easy fix - Wal-Mart is only five miles away. But, have you ever walked inside a store that contains Oreos, baseball cards and squirt guns with four boys? I’d rather lug my watering can with the broken nozzle to each little garden bed to refresh some not-so-fresh looking peppers and cabbage. (That problem also has a solution called Wal-Mart, but...)
Problem one I can’t fix. Problem two I can’t either. Well, I tried and I gave up. Well, okay I didn’t try very hard.
I had this BRIGHT idea that four boys could have fun planting their own rows next to my garden with the seeds I had left over. But it took some doing.
First the ground was too hard. Then it was too hot. Then it was too cold. Then I just didn’t feel like it. Hubby got the ground tilled up (for the second time) for me, or rather for them.
I figured the boys could experience some real-life science, real-life chores and maybe even some real-life sweat. Who knew you could get so much out of one simple little project? Like procrastination, irritation, bug bites and sunburn. It’s enough to water MY garden, let alone four more hodge-podge rows of who knows what. Because of course, then comes the weeding. (I can almost hear the whining already and see all the dirt clods getting thrown around. I’m raising boys, can you tell? Anything can turn into a war and then into a wrestling match.)
I think I know why Mary was contrary.
She probably needed a hammock in the shade and a few servants to tend her garden. And, I’m guessing she didn’t have rows of watermelon, pumpkin, two beans, one huge mass of carrots where the seed packet got dumped out and a puny little tomato that got trampled, twice.
Remember, she had pretty maids all in a row. I have pretty dirty faces all in a row. Well seriously I don’t know if you can even call them rows - they sort of zig and zag a bit. But, they’re labeled whose is whose with favorite rocks and sticks and even a hoe handle.
Now they want to plant apple seeds and raisins and whole dandelion heads. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if one of the littler boys got planted, head first.
If I’m being honest, my life isn’t much different than Mary the Contrary. I make big plans. I get crabby about said plans. I work, work, work to get plans done, but do not enjoy one single second of the work. And then I find something more to plan.
The good news is that God has a funny way of tapping you on the shoulder sometimes and forcing you to smell the dirt clod that just got thrown in your face. After you get the grit out of your mouth, be sure to look around closely. You might just find four delighted boys poking holes in dirt, babbling non-stop about what their row contains and how they’re going to eat an entire watermelon this summer.
And you know what? They can eat the whole thing. Life’s too short to be contrary. Or stingy. The four boys God planted in my life are more fun than silver bells and cockle shells.
That’s how my garden grows.
Friday, February 27, 2009
no room at the inn
This is an actual conversation that occurred about fifteen seconds ago between me and Boy number four.
“Mom, I should get a hamster!” he declared (and quite seriously, I might add.)
“What?!?” I’m about ready to clean my ears out to make sure I heard him right. “What would you do with a hamster?”
“I’d put him in a cage, then I’d put it outside.” (That’s more like it!)
“Why do you want a hamster?” I had to ask.
“Cause I just like them,” he justified. “I always want a hamster.” And he looked at me like he somehow just deserved to get one.
This, coming from a three-year-old who is barely out of diapers, but who has somehow managed to pick up the begging lingo enough to insist he’s always wanted something. As if that’s enough of a reason to get anything, let alone a smelly little rodent.
I will really worry if he starts praying for one at bedtime, instead of the normal thanking God for supper, lunch and snacks. (Food is a big focus around here - both at prayer time and pretty much any other time. Like I would need another mouth to feed around here, even if it is a hamster.)
Bear in mind that I am not an animal person. The thought of an animal (with the possible exception of a fish) in the house gives me the willies. There isn’t room, for one thing, not to mention that four boys are dirty enough. The only upside I could see would be a built-in vacuum cleaner for all the food that gets dropped on the floor at every meal, even snack time.
Boy #4 isn’t the first to show tendencies towards animal-loving, but he is the first to ask for a pet. The other boys have been a bit scared of dogs and considered cats a bit of a nuisance. Number two has a soft side for rabbits, but not enough that he’d ask for one as a pet. (I think he learned his lesson when it became his job to feed the baby chicks every day - animals are work!) Number three was the main reason why Mom got a beta fish for Mother’s Day a few years ago and he still finds that incredibly funny. Number one is allergic to both dogs and cats and wants no part of sneezing constantly.
This one has already asked to get a dog.
That, I blame on my sister-in-law, who got a cute, fluffy dog (no bigger than a cat) and somehow impressed upon him that having a dog was a good idea. That, coupled with the fact that he idolizes his cousin, Lexi, makes him extremely susceptible to persuasion in the matter of pets. I think there might have been some monkey business involved there, but I can’t prove it.
I simply tell him, if he wants a dog, he can visit his cousin and his aunt and their dog Bella any time he wants. Soon, I will ask that they put him on pooper scooper duty and that should do the trick.
This chicken still has a little say-so in this roost. If it ever comes to it, thankfully God has provided us with plenty of land out here - for an “outside” dog.
But, hubby was just talking about goats....
“Mom, I should get a hamster!” he declared (and quite seriously, I might add.)
“What?!?” I’m about ready to clean my ears out to make sure I heard him right. “What would you do with a hamster?”
“I’d put him in a cage, then I’d put it outside.” (That’s more like it!)
“Why do you want a hamster?” I had to ask.
“Cause I just like them,” he justified. “I always want a hamster.” And he looked at me like he somehow just deserved to get one.
This, coming from a three-year-old who is barely out of diapers, but who has somehow managed to pick up the begging lingo enough to insist he’s always wanted something. As if that’s enough of a reason to get anything, let alone a smelly little rodent.
I will really worry if he starts praying for one at bedtime, instead of the normal thanking God for supper, lunch and snacks. (Food is a big focus around here - both at prayer time and pretty much any other time. Like I would need another mouth to feed around here, even if it is a hamster.)
Bear in mind that I am not an animal person. The thought of an animal (with the possible exception of a fish) in the house gives me the willies. There isn’t room, for one thing, not to mention that four boys are dirty enough. The only upside I could see would be a built-in vacuum cleaner for all the food that gets dropped on the floor at every meal, even snack time.
Boy #4 isn’t the first to show tendencies towards animal-loving, but he is the first to ask for a pet. The other boys have been a bit scared of dogs and considered cats a bit of a nuisance. Number two has a soft side for rabbits, but not enough that he’d ask for one as a pet. (I think he learned his lesson when it became his job to feed the baby chicks every day - animals are work!) Number three was the main reason why Mom got a beta fish for Mother’s Day a few years ago and he still finds that incredibly funny. Number one is allergic to both dogs and cats and wants no part of sneezing constantly.
This one has already asked to get a dog.
That, I blame on my sister-in-law, who got a cute, fluffy dog (no bigger than a cat) and somehow impressed upon him that having a dog was a good idea. That, coupled with the fact that he idolizes his cousin, Lexi, makes him extremely susceptible to persuasion in the matter of pets. I think there might have been some monkey business involved there, but I can’t prove it.
I simply tell him, if he wants a dog, he can visit his cousin and his aunt and their dog Bella any time he wants. Soon, I will ask that they put him on pooper scooper duty and that should do the trick.
This chicken still has a little say-so in this roost. If it ever comes to it, thankfully God has provided us with plenty of land out here - for an “outside” dog.
But, hubby was just talking about goats....
Monday, July 21, 2008
casualty
Boy Number One's kitten got run over the other day. Apparently it was taking a nap underneath the skid loader, but why it didn't wake up and move is still a mystery.
If you want a detailed description of the event, feel free to ask the boys. They'll give you more information than you probably care to hear.
Hubby was working in the garage later and was muttering to himself when Number Two heard him and asked what was wrong.
"What's the matter, Dad?" he asked.
"I'm mad that the kitten died," hubby explained.
He thought about that for a second and then said, "Dad, I wouldn't be mad about it...I'd be sad."
I won't tell you what my reaction was - you won't think highly of me.
If you want a detailed description of the event, feel free to ask the boys. They'll give you more information than you probably care to hear.
Hubby was working in the garage later and was muttering to himself when Number Two heard him and asked what was wrong.
"What's the matter, Dad?" he asked.
"I'm mad that the kitten died," hubby explained.
He thought about that for a second and then said, "Dad, I wouldn't be mad about it...I'd be sad."
I won't tell you what my reaction was - you won't think highly of me.
Monday, June 16, 2008
tastes like chicken
We're officially a farm. (Does that make us farmers?)
Just finished up butchering the last of the chickens today. And we sold 10 of them. We had a regular assembly line going. Hubby chopped heads, wings and feet off and removed the rather disgusting innards. The boys rinsed the birds off and took turns bringing them to the house, where I cleaned them further, weighed them, butchered them and bagged them.
Not an entirely pleasant process - I'll spare you the really gross details, but will say that I think eating the meat might be a bit harder than I thought - at least harder than some random chicken I bought at Cub Foods.
Once you've had to cut apart wings, legs, thighs and the hardest part (the breast), it's a bit difficult to look at the meat the same way. To be clear, this isn't because I feel some remorse over killing an animal for food, nor is it that I considered these clucks pets.
But rather, it's more just the grossness of it all. Blood, guts, fat and having to cut into the meat to separate the pieces just isn't so appetizing. I'm not in the mood for chicken, let's just say.
Strangely, none of this seemed to affect hubby. He was ready to get the grill fired up and make a meal of it. Maybe after all the images in my head are replaced by paint colors or yarn samples, then I'll be able to pull one out of the freezer for supper - in about a month. Or better yet, I'll have hubby cook it instead. Hopefully it'll taste like...chicken.
Just finished up butchering the last of the chickens today. And we sold 10 of them. We had a regular assembly line going. Hubby chopped heads, wings and feet off and removed the rather disgusting innards. The boys rinsed the birds off and took turns bringing them to the house, where I cleaned them further, weighed them, butchered them and bagged them.
Not an entirely pleasant process - I'll spare you the really gross details, but will say that I think eating the meat might be a bit harder than I thought - at least harder than some random chicken I bought at Cub Foods.
Once you've had to cut apart wings, legs, thighs and the hardest part (the breast), it's a bit difficult to look at the meat the same way. To be clear, this isn't because I feel some remorse over killing an animal for food, nor is it that I considered these clucks pets.
But rather, it's more just the grossness of it all. Blood, guts, fat and having to cut into the meat to separate the pieces just isn't so appetizing. I'm not in the mood for chicken, let's just say.
Strangely, none of this seemed to affect hubby. He was ready to get the grill fired up and make a meal of it. Maybe after all the images in my head are replaced by paint colors or yarn samples, then I'll be able to pull one out of the freezer for supper - in about a month. Or better yet, I'll have hubby cook it instead. Hopefully it'll taste like...chicken.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
ugly chicks
Not sure if I'm quite ready to lick my chops yet - especially considering how ugly these chicks get after a few weeks.
Not only are they ugly, but they're also dumb. The other day they had completely run out of food, so I filled the feeder and they're getting too big to all fit around it at the same time. I thought I would be nice and fill the smaller feeder so some of them could eat there, instead of watching them peck each other to get to the feed or water. (They're like some boys I know.)
Anyway, I could pick the half-grown chick up, put it next to the smaller feeder, try to put its head to the feed and it would have nothing to do with it. Instead, it would take off like a bandit for the other feeder, dive in, ruffle a few feathers and kick some other dumb cluck off the feeding line.
I tried several times to get them to eat from the second feeder. Who's the dumb one now? It only worked with one bird - apparently there is a hungry genius in the bunch. The rest, well I'm assuming they got a few bites in. The feeder was empty the next day.
Monday, April 14, 2008
green acres is the place to be
We're officially farmers. Never thought I'd say that or add that to my non-existent resume. I'm a farmer! Oh please help me now.
Actually, we were driven to it like most people I would imagine - not by a love of animals, but in desperation as four boys are consuming more than their fair share of the family grocery budget. It was time to start raising our own meat as we raise our own boys.
Today 25 chicks arrived at the farm store. I don't even know the name of the business, that's how hopeless a farmer I am. I got the job of picking up the teeny box of cheepers. (They'll cheep your eardrums off - I still hear a high chirp). I also had to pick up feed. Me. A farm girl by birth, but not by trade and definitely not by admission. The man behind the counter asked what I wanted and I, reading off the list in my hand, apparently didn't know there were at least two kinds of wild bird feed. So, in desperation and embarrassment, I simply told him - what my father-in-law got.
First, like he's going to know who my father-in-law is. Second, like he knows who I am. And third, like he's going to remember what FIL bought. But, apparently Buffalo still is a small town, because he did remember Rog and what he bought - wild bird seed with no chick mix and no medicine. (Trying to be as au naturale as possible.) I found out later - probably the reason he remembered Rog was because he had ordered 25 chicks and then after getting the okay from his wife, purchased 46 laying hen chicks. 46! I'd remember a guy like that too. :) I don't think we'll be buying eggs for the rest of our lives. Guess I shouldn't poke too much fun at him. They might start upping their price from free to something not free.
Anyway, the boys couldn't wait to get their grubby paws on the chicks. Number Three dropped one and then wouldn't try to pick them up again. Number Four picked up one like a baby kitten (by the fuzz on the back of the neck) and nearly broke the neck of another. He was cut off from holding after that - explaining the concept of petting to a two-year-old wasn't really working. He got his feelings hurt when he realized that he couldn't pick them up. A few tear drops fell on the top chicks in the heap.
We let the boys unload the box, fill up the waterers, pet the chicks and fill the feeding trough. The heat lamp got adjusted, the food placed strategically and then a few chicks got dunked into the water in an effort to demonstrate where the water was. The boys seemed to think that the chicks would either starve or dehydrate if they didn't learn where their meal was. One of them got named "Cheep." At last check, all 25 were still alive. We'll see what tomorrow brings.
For now, I'm humming: du dun du dun dun...the chores! Apparently Green Acres is the place to be, but I'm not so sure that farm livin' is the life for me. That stupid theme song that has now replaced the chirping in my ears.
Actually, we were driven to it like most people I would imagine - not by a love of animals, but in desperation as four boys are consuming more than their fair share of the family grocery budget. It was time to start raising our own meat as we raise our own boys.
Today 25 chicks arrived at the farm store. I don't even know the name of the business, that's how hopeless a farmer I am. I got the job of picking up the teeny box of cheepers. (They'll cheep your eardrums off - I still hear a high chirp). I also had to pick up feed. Me. A farm girl by birth, but not by trade and definitely not by admission. The man behind the counter asked what I wanted and I, reading off the list in my hand, apparently didn't know there were at least two kinds of wild bird feed. So, in desperation and embarrassment, I simply told him - what my father-in-law got.
First, like he's going to know who my father-in-law is. Second, like he knows who I am. And third, like he's going to remember what FIL bought. But, apparently Buffalo still is a small town, because he did remember Rog and what he bought - wild bird seed with no chick mix and no medicine. (Trying to be as au naturale as possible.) I found out later - probably the reason he remembered Rog was because he had ordered 25 chicks and then after getting the okay from his wife, purchased 46 laying hen chicks. 46! I'd remember a guy like that too. :) I don't think we'll be buying eggs for the rest of our lives. Guess I shouldn't poke too much fun at him. They might start upping their price from free to something not free.
Anyway, the boys couldn't wait to get their grubby paws on the chicks. Number Three dropped one and then wouldn't try to pick them up again. Number Four picked up one like a baby kitten (by the fuzz on the back of the neck) and nearly broke the neck of another. He was cut off from holding after that - explaining the concept of petting to a two-year-old wasn't really working. He got his feelings hurt when he realized that he couldn't pick them up. A few tear drops fell on the top chicks in the heap.
We let the boys unload the box, fill up the waterers, pet the chicks and fill the feeding trough. The heat lamp got adjusted, the food placed strategically and then a few chicks got dunked into the water in an effort to demonstrate where the water was. The boys seemed to think that the chicks would either starve or dehydrate if they didn't learn where their meal was. One of them got named "Cheep." At last check, all 25 were still alive. We'll see what tomorrow brings.
For now, I'm humming: du dun du dun dun...the chores! Apparently Green Acres is the place to be, but I'm not so sure that farm livin' is the life for me. That stupid theme song that has now replaced the chirping in my ears.
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