Sprung Spring

My green friends greeted this year's Spring with mixed emotions. They liked the head start, but they weren't sure they could trust me to protect them if the mercury sank precipitously. Of course, I didn't put them at severe risk. Even now, only hardy guys and gals grace my garden. Strawberries, of course:

Beets:

Onions, a gift from Kirsten:

Brassicas (cabbages, broccolis, cauliflowers, and Brussels sprouts):

"Nice spider web," says Virginia.

"I had to look at this picture to learn that my pomegranates are budding. I thought they might be taking too long." (You may have to double-click on the photo to see the buds.)

And look, the grapes are showing signs of life:

Is it Spring, or is it Summer? Believe it or not, this harlequin beetle joined a hundred others in the first squish session of the year. Its last meal was Chinese cabbage.

I've imprisoned some of my peas. If you look closely at the back two-thirds of this bed, you may be able to see rows of the legumes.

"LET ME OUT!"

No Guarantees

The gardening expert who writes for our local paper apparently has tired of gardening topics, as she had in previous years. One of her recent columns addressed "The Donald," of all things. A few years ago she warned us against getting ants in our pants, when I was sowing what I would happily reap in May and June.

Now is when Spring gardening begins. Fail to take advantage of the opportunities and you'll be the one griping "this Spring was too wet." We had a window of a day or two this week, following our big snow a week ago Monday. Now it's raining cats and dogs, so anyone who didn't seize the moment will have to wait a while longer.

I've come to the conclusion that successful gardening, like farming and many of the other good things in life, comes to those who work hard when the working's good. Sit on the couch and someone else will grab the worm.

I've heard that our magic date for pea planting is February 24, sort of like March 17 (St. Patrick's Day) for potatoes. I missed February 24th because the ground was too wet, but I've planted around it -- Wandos on February 18, the day before our one snowstorm for this winter, Laxton's on February 27, and Telephones and Super Sugar Snaps February 28. Now it's raining and I'm happy.

I also tossed in some lettuces and beets. It may still be early for beets, but with the unseasonably warm weather of this winter, waiting longer might seem a big mistake in April or May if temperatures prematurely hit the nineties. We recently attended an agricultural extension service meeting on broccoli, where several people suggested that our frost-free date has moved forward a week or more from the May 15 date our grandparents stuck in our minds. I won't test it by transplanting tomato plants into the garden much before then. Besides, the weather's been so weird we might have snow on Memorial Day, which means I'll hold some back even then. The "frost-free" date is no guarantee, never has been.

Guarantee? Not too much in life is guaranteed. Once upon a time, not so long ago, several banks ran ad campaigns guaranteeing free checking for life. In part because of the fallout from that experience, those of us who review bank advertising generally put the kibosh on attempts to "guarantee" terms. For some reason, this reminds me of certificate of deposit campaigns tying interest rates to the performance of a local sports team. Maybe Elk Cliff Bank will run a rural promo promising a higher CD rate if Jack Frost visits after May 15.

"Sign me up!" says Virginia.

She's a lucky woman. She had no reason to know it, no one ever told her, but she satisfied the conditions to inherit land from her grandfather just in time. If the "Frosted CD" sounds good to her, you might want to follow her lead.

I need to pay attention to Dorothy, who told me last night that around here we start tomato seeds inside on February 14, Valentine's Day. I'm late.

Carrot Sticks

The last blog posting nearly killed me, but here I am, sputtering, sweating and, thank goodness, un-Skyped. Karen and I finally got on the river today, kayaking to Glasgow. It's been a couple years since we took that route, so it seems more isolated and unfamiliar than the Gilmore's Mill and Alpine Farms sections upstream from our place. The Glasgow take-out was packed with maybe a hundred cars, mostly folks traveling to Balcony Falls, we presume.

We're swamped with peas, a couple hours picking and a couple hours shelling every other day. In between, we have sugar snap peas, which are much quicker because you simply string them and eat the entire package. Our freezer still has peas and corn from last year, so I have to shift things around and put the new guys on the bottom. Same story for the 30 quarts of strawberries frozen this year. Today, 4 bags of broccoli joined the frozen family. Soon we'll pull up some potato plants to see what's happened since March 17.

"Tell them about the carrots," says Virginia.

She knows one of my favorite vegetables is the carrot. When a friend suggested I take vitamins instead of eating all those carrots, and all that sugar in the carrots, I told her she's crazy. She is.

Found Objects

An older brother bemoans the lack of rain in Kansas, where the mercury reached 100 degrees (F) today.  A year ago, or maybe two, they had a season of record rains.  Meanwhile, some folks around here complain they can't get their gardens in because it's been too wet.  Silver Queen sweet corn climbed into our garden this afternoon.  After several more plantings, with luck, we might have sweet corn into November like last year and the year before.

For now, cheer the chives,

nurture the nasturtiums,

and peek at the pea.

These guys are hard to find, but you know they're there because your cabbage leaves are holey and, as you can see in the little web, they make deposits.  Forget about dropping them in gasoline or soapy water.  Around here they simply get squished.  At least this one did.

  Some thinning is in order, in this lettuce bed.

Speaking of lettuce, volunteers are always welcome.

"Tell me," says Virginia, "who's guarding the artichokes?"

Maybe some child or parent knows.  Let's call him Art for now.  When our son was little, he would often ask me, after I returned from a run, "What did you bring me?"  I would hand him something I found, like this guy, who was sitting by the side of the road a few days ago, waiting for a rescue.

Butterfly Effect

Look who greeted me in the greenhouse this morning.

Here's another view.

"Is that a zebra swallowtail?" says Virginia.

I'll tell you what it is.  It's a wonderful way to start a day.

"Makes you want to run inside and work on a book deadline?" says Virginia.

Exactly.  We may be picking strawberries in a week or two.

And peas, too (Wandos).

How about some broccoli?

Cramped salad, anyone?

And later, much later, maybe some grape juice or raisins?

Spring Things

Things spring.  Our garden beds are taking off, head-started by plans laid in late Fall for once, instead of delayed by unrelated time-eaters and wet weather.  Rain, rain, come again today, this year we're ready for you. Whenever you aren't visiting, more seeds are likely to be planted.  This is when I'm especially grateful to be self-employed.  I don't have to go to an office and watch fine weather pass by.

Each year I surround one bed with garlic, planted in November.  The cloves develop underground, sight unseen, until they begin to poke out in January or February.  Now they're 3 inches tall, as they should be.

It's the onions' turn.  Their bulbs wait under a few inches of mounded soil.  Actually, I doubt they're waiting.  Planted three weeks ago, their hairy roots probably are reaching down and around, while green shoots aim sunward. If I were a scientist, I might dig here or there to see what's happening.  Instead, I'm reluctant to sacrifice a single sprout.

Lettuce in the coldframe races to catch up with greenhouse greens almost ready to grace our table, while tiny lettuce and spinach seeds in the garden should be sprouting tiny thin first leaves any day.  Every few weeks I'll be planting a new generation and as the heat of summer approaches I'll gamble on greens thriving in the shade of an ash tree.  If we're lucky, we'll have home-grown salads year-round.

A year ago I planted fava beans too late, thinking they grow like green beans and limas.  They burned black in the summer sun.  This year, their wide fat seeds have already been sown.  Maybe they'll grow, this fava bean virgin wishes.

"Peas, peas, peas, peas, eating goober peas," sings Virginia.  "Goodness how delicious, eating goober peas."

Well, it's too early to plant goober peas, but Wando and Laxton's Progress peas are doing something underground.  I hope to be shelling several bushels in 3 or 4 months.  I know, sugar snap peas and snowpeas are cool.  I plan to stick some of those in the soil later, far enough away and late enough not to cross with the shelling peas.

All of this reminds me of the one class I took from my father, Genetics.