Feeling Chipper?

We harvested a beet this afternoon.

"Wow!" says Virginia. "How did you get it to grow so round?"

Ummm. I said "a beet, not two." It's red mangel, grown for the donkeys and goats.

Here's what it looks like cut in two.

And here are some more still growing.

Rain, rain, beautiful rain. We may have to hunt up a lawnmower, but first I should re-stack our woodshed. Let me show you what the derrecho gave us -- some crabapple:

...pine (for the Pompeii brick oven):

... and maple:

I also need to find a mulcher-chipper or the Lady of the Manor (Virginia, too) will not be pleased.

Dirt

This is a public space. When I read what some people write (and sometimes my own material) I cringe at what the future may bring. In 1984 we feared Big Brother, now we invite him in. A body of law has grown up around "a person's legitimate expectation of privacy." I wonder if we have voluntarily surrendered any expectation, nude pictures almost nothing compared to unloading our innermost thoughts for public consumption.

So I won't mention the possible end of a friendship, one might say two autocrats re-entering orbit after colliding into a double triplet. Or have I already? "Managing People," a Citicorp course pretty much mandatory for managers, pointed out that people under stress tend to revert to child-like behavior. Maybe it wasn't "Managing People," maybe it was a Personalysis session or an article in Psychology Today. And maybe I've been reading too much Woolf, Proust and Joyce. James Joyce.

Nine piglets nibble people. Green beans grow big. Mammoth donkeys must diet. Wire grass worries gloves. Japanese cucumbers jam crisper. Tall parsnips take planning. Sweet corn soon coming.

This week, our visiting niece and her boyfriend seemed to look forward to harvest day, every day this time of year. We gather bowls or buckets and grocery shop in our garden, today's solar power fueling today's and winter's table, goat ice cream for dessert. Thank you, dirt.

Minners, Polecats, Wineberries and Green Beans

A fellow with white hair leans on a walking stick and peers into Hopper Creek. I've met this smiley guy, so I take a break from running. "What are you watching?"

"Minners," says he, "not as many as they used to be. I'd leave my light burning out back to gather bugs, then bring 'em here to feed these guys. I knew exactly where two watersnakes'd be lying, over on the right under a couple rocks. They'd glide out, mouths open [he forms an "O" with his mouth] and swaller a couple minners. They're not here any more. One day, two polecats, biggest I ever seen, were lyin' there belly up [he points to the far bank], with a couple dead babies behind 'em. Now who'd do somethin' like that? They's some mighty crazy people 'round here. I used to fish every single day. Never kep' 'em, threw 'em back. Brook trout. Don't see many any more. There's a pool up thar by the cabin, used to have lots of trout. Haven't been in years. I lived in that brick house next to your'n, married to Frances 25 years. She still lives there, with her mother. She's somethin', about 90 now, still ridin' that mower with an umbrella on it. Duck and me, we used to gather up the road, the one that wanders by the Devil's Marbleyard, and drink home-made moonshine. I had a still back then. And beer. No trouble, just good fun. Another meetin' place was old man Marshall's farm. He had an old black buggy, you know the kind with the top rolls down, he loved that thing. We'd get together Sundays, drink a lil beer, and watch the college girls ride by nice and fancy. [He pretends he's holding reins and posting up and down, up and down.] 'Let's get those horses,' Marshall'd say, he loved that buggy, and we'd go tearin' after. His horse liked pullin' that thing, too. He'd stand up tall, proud-looking, in front of that buggy. I never got a DUI for driving horses. Not that I ain't been in jail. One night down in Fincastle, I called Frances and she got her dad to come for me. When he showed up to bond me, I said 'that's that, I'll never do this again.' Looking at him, I didn't want to ever see him come after me. Not that I haven't been in a couple times for other stuff."

About this time, he ambles over to his pickup. "Well, you have a good day," I say. "You, too," says he.

That was yesterday.

"I guess he didn't find out much about you," says Virginia.

Many blog visitors seem to be interested in two things this time of year -- wineberries and freezing green beans. This is a banner year for wineberries, thick as can be on our mountain. In 4 trips I've picked about 13 gallons, more to come. I made juice with the third picking because a shortage of jelly bags had maxed out Karen's winemaking capacity. She says she wants us many as I can find, so I'll keep picking. For hints on using wineberries, click on "Wineberries" on the right, under Labels. Some day maybe I'll show how to make juice: add water to cover, simmer about 10 minutes, mash, strain through a jelly bag or cheesecloth in a colander (not a flimsy plastic one), add sugar to taste, bring to simmer again, put in jars, then can in a water bath (30 minutes boiling for quarts).

A flag's waving for green beans, too. I've been picking them small, so each time I go out they seem to be making fun of me by ripening faster. I've stir-fried and frozen 6 gallons so far. For instructions on freezing green beans, my most popular blog posting ever, click on "Freezing Vegetables" on the right, under Labels, and go to June 3, 2011, "How to Freeze Green Beans and Sugar Snap Peas."

Happy 90th Birthday

Wanda Suter Pannabecker

(photo courtesy of Mary and Fred Steiner)

"What did she do?" says Virginia. "Win the lottery?"

Almost. She received a lifetime membership to the local senior citizens center. Ten years from now, we'll be celebrating her 100th birthday. In the meantime, all 4 generations are getting together this weekend to cheer her on. Yep, only 4. No 16-year-old moms in this family, yet. In fact some of us waited until almost 40 or later, which can cramp a progenitor's style.

We put together a "short" program that's sort of reminding me of a Krantz music party. Those parties -- catch one if you can -- begin at 4 or 5 and end after midnight. Don't worry; I think we're still under an hour, depending....

Brains and Brawn

Yesterday, after I wrapped up another book update, which is how I bring in the bacon, I pulled on my boots and turned to gardening, which is how I bring in the nonbacon. I had strangled one of my beautiful young apple trees, so it stood in a wasted hole, dry and brittle. The strangling was well-intended. My once-intended, now stuck with me forever, had complained about the tree's leaning like the Tower of Pisa, so I'd roped it straight. It complied, then died. I dug it up, added it to a pile of brush and replaced it with a peach pit. I once liked a peach so much, I planted its pit. There, now, the transplanted pit sits.

Next, I cleaned up the garden bed south of the greenhouse. I had just said that I regretted not planting more carrots to take advantage of the cool weather we've been enjoying. I thought I might get some carrots in before the gray western sky descended. When the hard part was done, I began broadcasting carrot seeds, relaxed in the quiet, calm afternoon. A few raindrops sprinkled.

How many times have I said that one of the secrets to gardening is not taking off when work needs to be done? Some folks have told me they've had a tough time getting their gardens planted this spring because of all the rain. Sorry guys, that's a poor excuse; it hasn't rained every day, or even every week.

"Maybe they had to go to work," says Virginia.

Oh. It's been so long since I punched a clock I forgot about that.

"Fred called, said the boys are outside the fence! I need to leave soon!" Karen interrupted my reverie. Persistent honking drew her to our driveway entrance. A second neighbor was reporting the escape. My cellphone cussed at my pocket, "Now Keri's out!" I tossed the rest of the carrot seeds, ran for the keys to our stationwagon, and tore down the lane and James River Road. Karen had already coaxed the goats back inside the fence and Keri was perched on the front seat of our Camry.

She returned Keri and waved goodbye, off with some women who meet for dinner every couple months. The least my brawn could do with my quiet evening was fix the fence. I gathered a couple sledgehammers, a T-Post with brackets, a length of fence (just in case), a pair of pliers, and rolled my wheelbarrow to the gap. Two hours later, I decided the fence would keep the kiddies in.

The rain had merely dropped. I still had time. After a quick dinner of Elk Cliff peas, toast and cheese, I put in this year's third planting of sweet corn. Then it poured. Perfect timing.

Barn Restaurant

Shake a speare, the ground moves. Some people think we live in the boonies of rural Virginia, not knowing that music plays every corner, with living actors, dancers, authors, poets and artists galore. Drive an hour north and you’ll find a timberframe barn in the midst of historic Staunton where words written in the early seventeenth century echo fifty-two weeks of the year. I vote for Olympiads of art, literature and drama. Let the winners rule the world. Forget wasting it with firepower or raping it with derivatives no one understands.

Attend to top-notch actors in the American Shakespeare Center in Staunton, then dream…of barns of beauty, where folks gather to share the bounty of the land on which they stand. Of evenings of entertainment, simple sophisticated songs by familiar friends. Forsake flawless digital diction for parlor piano, raunchy rambunctious joy.

This morning, Karen introduced the idea of inviting guests to tour the farm and select their dinners. May I suggest…a bursting broccoli head, lean New Zealand rabbit, curly spinach, English peas (go ahead, shell them), a young barred-rock rooster, new potatoes, deep red tomatoes, sweet Silver Queen corn (Serendipity or Kandy Korn if you prefer). For a starter, here’s a spinner, fill it with richly colored lettuces if you please.

No, you won’t have to prepare them. While you wait in the air-conditioned barn, visit a string quartet or listen to a fiddle, banjo, guitar, sitar, balalaika, some other instruments you find hard to name, maybe a singer who sounds strange but familiar. Browse displays for homemade cheeses, produce, and local goodies of the crafty or artsy sort. Or stroll along the creek and river, paddle upstream in a kayak or innertube. Look under rocks for hellgrammites, pet a goat or two. Hop on a donkey, take a spin in a donkey cart.

Then back to the barn for suppertime.

“It sounds idyllic,” says Virginia.

And a lot of work.

Tomato Trellis

A few months ago, a large branch broke off one of our ancient oak trees, landing on our compost heap, my first gardening project after we bought the farm. Today I finally began turning it into firewood...and a tomato trellis. The trellis project got me started and I'm glad it did. It's easy to forget work waiting behind our hundred year old boxwoods, since I abandoned that heap for another.

"It's going to blow over in the first strong wind," says Virginia.

What would I do without her? Back to the drawing board.

Maybe braces in the middle and giant pegs in the ground for each leg will make a difference.

Goodbye, Rosie

Rosie -- April 16, 2001 - May 11, 2012.

Rosie's family said goodbye to her today, after she chose to rest quietly for two days before slipping away to Boxer-heaven or wherever white Boxers go. Rosie was born a North Carolinian, but had no trouble adapting to Virginia when she moved here for the rest of her career. She attended Anderson Avenue Preschool, Arrowhead Lodge Elementary School, Burks Cabin Cottage High School, and completed her undergraduate and graduate studies at Elk Cliff Farm U, where she majored in field management and bird peace studies (with a specialty in ducks).

Rosie is survived by her litter brother Lex; adopted sister Keri; quasi-parents James and Karen; quasi-brother Adam; housemate Yogi; equine africanus asinus Chy, Wilson, Jaz, Willo, and Earle; sus/suidae Roxie; capra aegagrus hircus Cooper, Jimmy, Pessa, Luti, Flower, Poppy, Darla, Tila, Buffalo, Legget, Franklin, Stewey, Felix, Banks, Remy, and Otto; about forty gallus gallus domesticus; nineteen meleagris; and uncountable flora.

"You forgot someone," she says through her tears.

Ah yes, and Virginia.

Pomp and Circumstance

On March 5, 2011, I commented on the weekly reports we had to provide when I worked at Citicorp. The baton has passed. Our son recently mentioned that during his internship this summer, the last requirement for his Bachelor of Science degree, he must provide a weekly report to his supervising professor at Radford University.

We didn't mind standing in the rain for hours last Saturday while he sweltered in a black gown. As 2000 graduates processed, I contemplated that we have two choices: (1) play Pomp and Circumstance over and over again, double bar to double bar; or (2) work at it each time trying to get better and better.

Gardening is like that, everything is like that. Some people do the same thing the same way over and over again, and insist theirs is the only way. Some of them feel threatened when someone else does it differently and succeeds. Let's not.

Back to Pomp and Circumstance. We know this tiny segment of Sir Edward Elgar's larger piece entitled Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1 (for a performance, visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moL4MkJ-aLk -- no, you haven't gone to the wrong URL, keep listening!). On Saturday, I thought I heard someone singing.

Virginia says, as if she doesn't know, "Are there words?"

Yes:

     Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,
     How shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?
     Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set;
     God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet,
     God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.

Today's Harvest

"What's this?" asks Virginia.

"Today's harvest."

"Mushrooms?" she says.

Yep, the brown things that is, Shitake mushrooms, we think, grown on a log inoculated by friends. If you can't trust your friends, who can you trust? Check back tomorrow.

Dime Time

One of the truths I've heard about self-employment is a tendency to work when there's work to be had to the detriment of spare time, which cannot be called "free time" because time is no longer "free" (as if it ever were), all of your time being on your dime. Those who work for others, feel free to disagree and brag about all the hours you put in. I remember that not being able to count on someone else giving me a paycheck of a certain amount every period took some getting used to.

My morning run pointed out the cost of dime time.

Although I didn't run as far as I often do, I was out there longer. First, I ran into SJ walking his dog and we got to talking, about the 22 pistol in his hoodie's pocket, which he was about to pull out when he heard my feet pounding up behind him (had I known that I would have yelled hello SJ earlier), twisting the necks of rabbits destined for pan-fry, building a windmill near a mountain cabin, the increasing affordability of solar power (now at par with the grid in many instances), reading Mother Earth News for 20 years, digging gardens by hand, using Subaru parts to fix a 1952 Ford 8N tractor like the one at yesterday's Effinger Auction (yes I could learn some engineering at our advanced age, both of us being within a year of 60), finding enough manure (for which I offered a solution because I know a guy who will load you up for free), killing wiregrass with agricultural vinegar, using muriatic acid to clean the two-thirds full 5-gallon bucket of copper pennies he found next to the dumpster over near the Natural Bridge (who would abandon so many pennies because they were too dirty to roll?), a wife who's apparently become addicted to online gaming and says she exercises on a treadmill while he walks but probably doesn't (48 years younger than a certain person I know who recently finished something like her 18,000th game of FreeCell and still exercises at least three days a week), the mammoth "jacks" in our field, spaquaponics, and white roof coverings reflecting sunlight to keep houses cooler. 

No sooner had I left SJ than I stopped in the Trading Post parking lot among four fifty- to sixty-something males soaking up the sunlight that had just broken through what's been a dependably gray sky (actually it was the beginning of a clearing that led to a blue-sky afternoon). "Did Karen like her cake?" I asked KC, who we'd seen waiting at the Wal-Mart (oh no, I let that one slip) cake counter yesterday. "Yep, she ate some for breakfast." "Good," I said, "that's what cakes are for, like donuts." "This is the first time I've seen those steel legs stopped," one familiar-looking fellow said through the window of his pickup. I responded, "My Karen suggested a couple days ago that maybe they don't stop enough."

"Is that what you meant by the cost of dime time?" says Virginia.

That's part of it. Hide away working and you'll never hear the compliments of strangers. More important, you'll miss out on life passing outside your window.

Status Report

Monkey off my back (that is, 5 months of heavier book update deadlines than usual) took me to the piano for a couple hours, a disappointing auction, our greenhouse, and the end of Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom, which our book club has been reading this month. The book club is down to two devoted members who read a "classic" each month, "discussing" it via emails as we go. May will be our first foray into science fiction, A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which I suspect will be an easier read than Faulkner. If that author of some of the longest sentences in English literature were around today, I'd bet certain Confederate flag worshippers would like to aim their muskets at him.

"What about me?" asks Virginia.

No, they wouldn't aim at her. That's not what she means. Poor Virginia, she gets little attention these days, but she's always hanging about. Her turn will come.

While Karen installs an aquaponics system using our hot tub (see http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/) -- she's always up to something, isn't she? --  I'm trying to fill our greenhouse with life. Over 100 heirloom tomato plants wait for new homes. They are so ready, but I refuse to risk their well-being by transplanting them in this unpredictable spring weather. A frost last week stung my potatoes, although they're bouncing back. My pomegranate grove also took a licking this spring, having leafed during the early Spring fake-out. They're inching back, no pep in their resurrection. Carrots? What a disappointment. Three separate fine starts were nibbled to the ground by, I think, bunny rascals, who also did a number on a thick, even, kohlrabi stand. I may need to hook up our portable electric webbing.

Oh, but we have parsnips! I let them go to seed at the end of last season, then they sprouted in the fall, and now they're thriving all over the place. You won't find me complaining about volunteers like them, arugula, cilantro, lettuce, bok choy, and this year, salsify. Maybe someday my garden will plant itself. With Karen's aquaponics, we might not be pulling weeds, either.

Lexington/Rockbridge Studio Tour: 10 to 5 April 21

When I heard that eleven artists and craftspeople would be opening their studios to the public, I thought a tour sounded like an interesting way to occupy a Saturday. I figured if I got started a little before ten, I'd be back home by 3:30 or 4:00. The brochure promised a 20-mile road trip.

I began on schedule, parking at the Lexington Inn Restaurant and running out to Thorn Hill Farm, where Bill Johnston has his pottery studio, number 11 on the brochure's nice map. I think 20 cars filled his lane. One of his assistants stamped my Studio Lotto Card (visit all 11 and you might win $300).

I viewed his and a guest artist's works, then aimed for number 10, another pottery studio, this one owned by a friend, Lee Taylor. A little road-side emergency, in a pine forest, began a day of crime. Then, I turned onto his road and committed a second.

What to do? By this time, I was sopping wet. I didn't have a towel. I decided, heck with the stupid sign.

Here he is. Darn, I didn't get a full body shot to show the kilt he was wearing, A kilt and a kiln?

Lee had two guest artists at his studio. Here's one. I realize the picture's not so great, but Kitty (Tilson) and I played violins a couple years together in the "Three Little Old Ladies Quartet." She's been making baskets for many years, but she didn't start this bunch until November. She said she began making one a day, then as time passed she got faster and faster. I hope I look that young when I'm over eighty.

Okay, here's how you get home when Buffalo Creek's too high. Check out the swinging bridge!

On the other hand, you've got to feel bad for these guys. They're not going to be grinding any flour until the creek's way up.

Now let me tell you how I cheated. Elizabeth Sauder said I could knock 7 miles off the trip if I ran through the woods instead of traveling the roads. (By the way, I entered this run on "Map My Run" (it's a website for runners), which shows that cutting off 7 still left me with 26 miles.) Forget what the brochure said. Here's the old road through the woods.

"Now why are you including this lousy shot?" says Virginia.

Because the shiny copper roof on that log cabin reminded me of the people who stopped to photograph our new roof several years ago. New copper roofs look like giant jewels.

Soon after that shot was taken, the sky turned gray and began making me even wetter. By Susan Harb's (number 6), I was completely soaked. As I walked into her gallery, she handed me about ten paper towels. Here's Thom checking out her mud brick oven. He has almost finished building a Pompeii brick oven at his place.

About ten 'til five I finally reached Gallery Number 1. As I left, Laurie told her husband, Craig, I ran the thing. "Nice job," he said, thinking she meant I'd been in charge of the Studio Tour. Nice job, whoever you are.

Falling Spring

Our latest clutch of incubated eggs began hatching last night, so we have some real Easter chicks. They're a day earlier than expected, unless we've forgotten how to count to 21. Here are 4 of them, under the lights.

"So what else is new?" asks Virginia.

I thought she'd never ask. Here's a lonely pear, calling for a friend. (You may need to click on the picture to enlarge it to see what I mean.)

How about a peach duet?

A future fuzzy navel?

We have two trees that appear to have grown branches from both the grafted stock and the stock to which the graft was attached. So perhaps this is an apricot.

Here are some Asian pears.

I like this apple blossom.

Spring could as well have been called "Fall" as Autumn, witness these Carolina jasmine petals.

I'd describe the very successful (for us) morel hunt we hiked this afternoon, but I think I'll leave it for Holes in My Jeans. See http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/.

Spoiled

Coming out of the fog of 4 months of busy writing, I see pink, red and white dogwoods, redbuds, apple blossoms, and a new generation of tent caterpillars. Sometimes I think they've one-upped us, living in tents. How practical and inexpensive! A few humans are as smart, those who've discovered yurts. I'd bet my Mac PowerBook would work very well in a yurt. Our woodstove might become a hero instead of the villain in this house for which it's proved to be under-sized.

Not that we've had much need for our woodstove this winter. Our woodpile was small from the beginning, so I couldn't complain too much about frost-free mornings. About the time I began splitting wood every two or three days, our ancient Old Milwaukee furnace that occupies half of a basement room conked out. We filled the oil tank, expecting the old monster to start up again, but it didn't. Karen quickly ordered a couple infrared heaters, then all of a sudden summer arrived. Now we wonder if the heaters would keep us warm on ten degree nights, not having had a chance to find out.

Fools we are. Not too many generations ago, our foreparents got along just fine under blankets on ten degree nights. Couldn't we? We might find comfort seeing our breath with the sunrise. But no, that's for the poor and the hungry. The rest of us are spoiled brats.

"Let's just say spoiled," says Virginia.

That's right. I drew looks once when I mentioned we'd turned our thermostat up to 62. I felt like a brat.

Nonsense

Do things seem a little whacky? The warmest March in years is nearly over already. Our first two asparagus spears arrived this morning. More slugs live in our garden than ever; they're decimating the brassicas. We hunted morels this afternoon; it's comforting that they seemed to know it's not time yet. Up the mountain, behind our cabin, we found a tree that looked as if a weird beaver, or maybe a bear, had chewed on it, probably a bear. Maybe a human did the job, but why, it would have taken lots of time, crazy? The neighbor of one of my best friends reportedly shot at two step-sons and missed and burned his house down (maybe?). Anyway, the house is a shell. Tonight clouds are blocking what could have been a spectacular view of the moon, Jupiter and Venus. I read somewhere this same sort of conjunction occurred the night the Titanic sank. I used all my letters three times in Scrabble tonight.

I met a timber framer last weekend. Since then, without my mentioning him first, at least four people brought up his name. (Actually I met two; his wife was a timber framer before he was and now teaches piano instead.)

"It's normal," says Virginia.

I didn't say it isn't.

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!"

Procrastination

Today I was accused of not knowing what procrastination is. I guess that's a compliment, although undeserved. Among other examples, I procrastinated until tonight to follow the score for "L'Histoire du Soldat" (Stravinsky) while listening carefully and making notes. Tonight was my last chance before "music camp," which begins tomorrow evening.

Actually, I'd given up because my only recording was hidden away on my Mac PowerBook, which "white-screened" a week ago Monday. As I worked on an important project, my screen suddenly went blue, then white, and from then on, if I could get my computer to turn on, I could work no more than a few seconds before it blanked out again. Fortunately, I had saved my files in off-site virtual storage ("cloud computing," I guess), so I was able to continue working on my old non-Mac.

I procrastinated, wondering who to call. Fortunately, we found a very quick repair service, Lynchburg Computers. We took it on Friday, they called to say it was ready yesterday, and I retrieved it this morning. So I no longer had any excuse. Stravinsky was waiting.

"What's this about music camp?" asks Virginia.

Garth Newel Music Center, near Warm Springs, Virginia, hosts an adult chamber music weekend every Spring. Chamber ensembles get a few days of careful coaching by members of the Garth Newel Piano Quartet (pianist, violinist, violist, cellist). When the Arrowhead Trio went a few years ago I enjoyed getting very personal attention from the pianist because other than him I was the only piano player in town. This year I won't be so lucky.

We end the weekend with a concert on late Sunday morning, followed by a gourmet brunch. You're welcome to attend, although it's a long haul for most of you -- and you might find L'Histoire du Soldat, well, shall we say, an earful.

Total Frustration

When I arrived at work on Monday morning, early, before any of my staff, I discovered the department had been reorganized and rebuilt. Walls had been moved and everything reconstructed. The place looked like a giant Library of Congress reading room, only with modern desks instead of old-fashioned wooden study tables. If a throne could be a desk, my desk was a throne. I knew it was my desk because my name-plate rested on its surface. I thought, "I've been promoted."

Having checked on things, I decided to return to my apartment, which was somewhere in the same building. I couldn't find it, too many corners and turns. I spotted a fellow who looked like a security guard and asked if he could show me the way. I apologized, saying so much had changed over the weekend, I couldn't remember where to go.

I had a feeling he knew who I was, but he asked for my apartment number anyway. I said 2012. He led me to the neighboring apartments, 2011, 2010. I said, "Yes, I know how to get here, but for some reason my number isn't in order like the rest. It's here somewhere." Feeling that he might not know me after all, I wanted him to reassure him that I wasn't a trespasser, so I said, "I saw my new desk; I guess I've been promoted." He remained silent, searching with me.

A gap in time passed, with some wandering, and then I saw Karen and waved. She seemed so pleased I recognized her, that I tilted my head and said, "What's going on here? Of course I know you." She said, "You're getting better." I said, "Have I been forgetting things?" She said, "Yes, you've had amnesia. You were in a coma for two months."

Frustration set in. I tried to remember and I couldn't. "Do we have kids?" "Yes," she said, "four of them, all grown."

I said, "I guess I'd better get to work, but what do I do?" She said, "Don't worry about that. They're not going to fire you." I was really fretting. I mean, I couldn't find our apartment, I didn't know my kids, I didn't know what my job was.

"Don't worry," she said. "You founded this place, and other companies. No one's about to fire you."

I didn't know whether to believe her or not. She insisted, "You're the owner. In fact, we're billionaires."

I said something like, "A billionaire and I can't remember a thing." She said, "Really, don't worry, your memory is coming back."

How could she tell? I suddenly realized, "Do you mean I've asked you these things before?" She laughed, "Yes, many times, but now you're getting better." So every day, with any passage of bits of time, I asked her the same questions. I must be driving her nuts. Today, finally, I had recognized her, and I had known enough to look for our apartment, which was in the same building.

But how did she know I would keep getting better? This was about the time I opened my eyes and saw daylight in the window.

"What if you came to and recognized Keri, Lex, Rosie, and all the other animals, but not Karen or the rest of your human family?" says Virginia.

Karen might not be too happy about that, but I bet she'd find it funny.

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.

Two Favors from Calvins

Yesterday, our friend, Tommy, arranged for us to borrow a 1-horse trailer from his friend, Calvin, a short man with a cowboy hat and a pipe.  Even compared to me, he was short -- kind, generous, and short.


This morning at 8, Tommy appeared to direct the show, him not one to let a friend's trailer out of sight with another friend. Borrowers, remember that advice, especially if you, like Tommy, have a heart operation scheduled the next day. It's no time to let a friend multiply your stress. 


We coaxed Velma in with whole corn, spreading it in a line to the front of the trailer, like Hansel and Gretel. She seemed suspicious, focusing on the feed near the entrance, then backing home to the paddock. The pull of hunger was too much. Soon she was stretching inside, hind feet on the ground. Tommy held the door ready to slam when she lifted the left leg up, then finally the right. BAM! She was in. We tightened three straps on the door and centered the "FARM VEHICLE" sign. 


I aimed the pickup down the road, smiling about how things had gone, but still nervous about the trailer, which may have looked normal when my grandfather only had one horsepower. Karen and Tommy, with Bennie (a goat), followed in our stationwagon.


About 3 miles later, as we approached Glasgow, I felt the trailer shake as if its hitch might be slipping off. It shimmied and quaked and my cellphone rang. "Pull over!" said Karen, "She's trying to jump out." They'd been watching Velma's snout push out the bottom of the door, and then she'd levitated herself onto the door, which was a half door, the upper half open to the sky. Smart pig, she knew why birds need daylight.


So much for easy. We gathered round the bouncing trailer and wailing, snorting pig, who seemed determined to make us regret our informal U-Haul arrangement. I tried to hold the door shut and daylight out, while sing-songing Velma and feeling like Peter. Her last day was supposed to be gentle. 


Karen returned home for lumber, drill, screws, saws, and whatever struck her fancy. She came back with a couple pallets and a bunch of wood. We set to work rehabbing the trailer so Velma couldn't get close to the door, and blocked as much daylight as possible. We were finally on the road again about 10. 


Perhaps I should mention that through all of this Bennie rested sweetly in the stationwagon. Who's smarter, the goat or the pig?

We wound our way through one switchback after another to the abattoir in Naola. Of course, we had to unscrew our rehab work before Velma could find the way to her pen of last resort. Meanwhile, Karen went inside, filled out the paperwork, and chose how we wanted our darling babies returned. The butcher's wife shared some tears and before long we were on our way home. 

Having done this once, moving Roxie was a piece of cake. We carried her 2 miles down the road to another Calvin, who had agreed to introduce his boar to Roxie. We're hoping she enjoys her vacation and comes home pregnant in a week or two or three.

We completely dismantled our work on the trailer, removed all the screws and nails, and cleaned it up so the next horse doesn't smell pigs and short Calvin might let Tommy borrower the trailer again, not for pigs. Six hours after we started, we found lunch at home.


"So you're real farmers, now?" says Virginia.


No, but we're learning.

Yard Art

Today we're watching our only (?) 2011-2012 winter storm melt.

SNOW ANGEL

OLGA

WE'D BETTER TALK

Virginia says, "LET'S DO THE LAUNDRY TOMORROW."

TAKE A SEAT

ORANGE TREE (HARDY ORANGE TRIFOLIATE)

TOO MUCH COMPOST

TOMATO CAGES

ALMOST ALL-AMERICAN CHESTNUT

NEIGHBORS

ORCHARD

HOME

On Strike?

I've been accused of going on strike. That hasn't happened since I was 16 and a member of Retail Clerks International, when I learned what a scab is. For me, striking was a vacation. I wanted my wages to buy doughnuts and records. I didn't need them to pay rent and buy groceries. I showed up now and then to carry a placard, walk back and forth along the sidewalk, and feel sorry for the older guys whose spouses and babies depended on them for food.

No, I've been the opposite of on strike. After years of "working" part-time and filling the rest of my time with constructive play, this year has found me clocking 40-hour+ weeks and struggling to play. I've neglected my blog partly because it seems to get as many visitors when I don't post as when I do. Who among you wants to read about Dodd-Frank and banking stuff anyway?

"I do," says Virginia.

Don't listen to her. She's green because I have been writing some other things, not about her, things I'm not about to put on this blog.

"Poems," she says.

Yeh, them too. If I put them here, others might not want to publish them. Not that anyone's pounding on my door.

Something else, too. Maybe she'll let me finish it some day.