I hate lawnmowers

The Husband said he was going to leave work early today so that he could mow our yard and Nanny's yard 'fore it rains.  Sure enough, when I got home, his truck was down at Nanny's, and he was already finished with her front yard and was starting on the back yard by the time I got down there. 

I waved at him and walked out to the garden to check the progress.  Things are sprouting, but not vigorously.  A little rain to soften the dirt wouldn't hurt.  There was grass coming up amongst the tomatoes, so I grabbed a hoe, sharpened it on the bench grinder, and did some chopping.  I was just putting away my hoe when I heard the riding lawnmower screech and go

WHOOOOOMMMMMPPP.

Uh-oh.

I listened.  The motor was running, but the blades weren't turning.

We bought this lawnmower, a Cub Cadet, 10 days ago.  The day we brought it home, the blade bent before we finished the first yard.  The store gave us a new blade, which seemed a little sturdier than the factory blade.  That new blade bent today.

Now, I was against buying another Cub Cadet.  We have a zero-turn model that we bought several years ago, and it has consistently been the most persnickety lawnmower we have ever owned.  The belt will come off it you look at it side-ways, and it did come off, almost every single time I tried to mow.  When we took it out for the first time this year, something went beserk, and it wouldn't turn or stop moving - he had to turn off the key to keep from running into the shed.  It's motor is in the back and has no hole for a hitch, so we can't pull the lawn sweeper with it.  I do not have one good thing to say about this lawnmower, and I was not gung-ho about buying another one of the same brand.

So, when I heard the new lawnmower roll into the shop and saw that part of the yard had not been mowed, I followed the mower into the shop and gave The Husband a look that asked, "Is this lawnmower screwed up again?"  And he was climbing off, disparaging the lawnmower's parentage through gritted teeth.

I thought it best not to comment.  I came on back to the house to prep supper.  ;)

The dish I made for supper calls for fresh tarragon, and as I was stripping the leaves off of the stems, I remembered seeing a stem-stripping tool for sale in a cookware catalog yesterday.  I didn't look it over very closely to see how it works because I thought, "Really?  We need a DEVICE to pick thyme leaves off the stem?" 



How lazy have we gotten?  It seems to me to be a whole lot more trouble to (1) find the leaf-picker-offer in the tool drawer, (2) use it, (3) wash it, (4) dry it, and (5) put it back in the drawer than to run my fingers down the thyme stem and be done with it.

Besides, I like to lay hands on my food.  Sometimes, that's the only way to tell when things are right.  My high-school home ec teacher almost had a come-apart when she caught me with my hand in the biscuit dough.  How else was I supposed tell if it needed more milk???  I only used that confounded pastry cutter she handed me until she turned her back. 

The Husband must have worked on the mower, for I hear it circling our yard, blades running.

Time to get cooking!

Squirrel Tree Frog

A couple of weeks ago, we were in our living room, watching TV and chilling, when something BIG climbed up the wall across the room from me.  I screamed like a girl and jerked my feet onto the couch.  It nearly scared The Husband to death, and he jumped out of his recliner hollering, "What?!"  I pointed to the wall and squealed, "There's a HUGE spider climbing up the wall!"  He turned to look, and I heard him gasp.  I was already scanning the floor, looking for a shoe, a plastic sword, anything to hit it with when I heard him say, "It's a TREE FROG!"  A wave of relief washed over me.  I said, "Well, catch it and pitch it outside," which he did.

That frog was brown, the color of dark ale, almost as dark as the wood of our living room floor.  I did not know that there were brown frogs that were capable of walking up a wall.

The next day when I came home from work, there was a frog stuck to the porch wall above our front door.  This frog was the color of sand, almost the identical color of the wall.

Hmmm...could it be...?

I told The Husband about it when he came home from work.  We went outside and found him in the same spot, almost invisible against the wall.  We both pondered whether a frog could change colors, like a chameleon, for neither of us had ever seen a brown frog OR a tan frog that could climb a wall.

Tonight, the subject of tree frogs came up during my granddaughter's softball game.  I told Mr. Bob, a retired Navy man, about my theory of color-changing tree frogs.  He scoffed.  I said, "Well, let's google it," and I whipped out my phone and found this:

That, friend, is a Hyla Squirella, also known as a Squirrel Tree Frog.  This little critter can change colors.

Mr. Bob was stunned, and asked about the frog's habitat, as if he suspected it only existed in a jungle, or something.  The article I read said it's habitat is the southeastern United States, from Texas up to Virginia.  I felt vindicated.  Later, at home, I looked at the map that accompanies the article, and it shows the frog living far south and east of west Tennessee.

But, I promise you, one lives in my yard.

May 15 - Garden Check

Stuff is coming up.

It took the squash and zucchini about 4 days to send up the first sprouts.  Green beans, cucumbers, and okra began to sprout today, day 7. 

There are deer tracks everywhere.  The deer are coming up from the little thicket behind the garden, and walking diagonally across the garden to the field beside Nanny's house.  I think it's a fairly well-established route.  I wish I could've seen them come across there the first night after we installed the hog-wire fence for the beans.  Judging by the mish-mash of tracks in one spot, I'd say the fence surprised 'em.   

....Which makes me recall....

A long time ago, we had a big old shaggy brown dog named Bear.  He looked like a cross between a Golden Retriever and a German Shepherd - long, thick, tan coat with a black muzzle - (how that happened I'll never know, for his mother was a Sharpei and his daddy was a brown and gray patchwork shepherd dog from up the road that we affectionately referred to as "Fugly").  Bear chased anything that moved, including meter readers (how they hated him) - I guess that was the shepherd in him - and he was fast as lightning.  Let him see a squirrel or rabbit, and ZOOM!  Zero to sixty in one second.

He routinely zoomed right through the flowers that I'd planted around the patio.  There was no way to teach him any different.  I'd parked the car on his head when he was a puppy, and he never was quite right.  So I figured the best thing would be to put up a fence around the patio.  We didn't have much money, so the best I could do was chicken wire and some landscape timbers, sawn in half and planted like posts.  I started the fence late on a Saturday afternoon.  We had somewhere to go that night, and so I didn't get much done before it was time to quit for the day.  I got the posts set in the ground on one side of the patio, and had just enough time to tack up some chicken wire between the posts when I had to stop. 

The next morning, I went out to the patio, and my posts were leaning, and the chicken wire was all pooched out in one spot.  As I stood there puzzling about what could have happened, Bear came trotting around the house and sauntered toward me.  The pooched-out spot in the chicken wire was exactly as high as his head.  Judging by the amount of damage, I'd say he'd been moving at a pretty good clip when he encountered the newly-installed chicken wire in the darkness.  Is it wrong of me to still be snickering about it?  ;)

May 9 - Green Beans, Cucumbers, Okra, Peas

My planets must have been in alignment today, for I was able to accomplish all of my garden chores  without too many complications.

The plan:  (1) build a permanent fence for climbers, and (2) plant beans and cucumbers to grow on it. 

My boss turned me loose early today.  The weather was great.  I had a pile of fence posts and rusty hog wire left over from prior attempts.  I had a roll of bailing wire to attach the wire to the posts.  I actually found the fence-post-pounder and the wire cutters.  I was in business.  In less than an hour, I had ten fence posts pounded into the ground and one long section of hogwire attached.  It was at that point that I remembered that I'd wanted to re-till that row before I planted, since it was a little clumpy from being too wet when I'd plowed it the day before. 

I hauled Gloria, the little red tiller, out of the shed, thinking I'd run her up one side of the fence and down the other.  She hadn't been cranked this year.  When I reached for the pull cord, it was hanging out about a foot and wouldn't go back in.  With a shortened cord, it couldn't build up enough compression to start.  I was about to cuss when I saw that spot on the top of the tiller where you can use a drill and a special bit to crank the thing.  I pushed the tiller to the workshop, where the little cranking bit was supposed to be.  It wasn't there.  I did cuss then, and I yanked Gloria's cord just for spite, and the b*tch fired up, and sucked the cord back in where it was supposed to be.  I could not believe it. 

I rolled her out to the garden, and we started tilling.  I hadn't finished the first pass when I looked up, and there stood Nanny.  She hadn't been home when I started to work, and I hadn't heard her drive up.  But there she was, in her gardening clothes, ready to work.  I was glad I'd already done the hard part, and glad I hadn't finished the wiring when I realized that if I'd raise the wire a little higher off the ground, Gloria could run under it until the plants get too big.  When I finished the tilling, Nanny helped me re-attach the section I'd started and attach the next section, and we were ready to plant.

About that time, I looked up, and there stood The Husband in HIS gardening clothes. He, too, was glad I'd done the hard part.  ;)  I sent him back to the house to get the seeds while I de-clumped three more rows with the big black tiller.  He and Nanny made short work of planting the pole beans, cucumbers, and purple hull peas.  I planted okra and did a little raking while they put the tillers back in the shed. 

Yeah, we kicked butt today.

May 8 - Tomatoes, peppers, squash

Today was a perfect day, weather-wise.  As soon as I got home from work, I put on the gardening clothes and went down to Nanny's to check on the garden.  I've had a dozen tomato plants, a dozen pepper plants, and an eggplant living on my front porch for two weeks, but it's been too wet to put them in the ground.  (It is a miracle that they are still alive!)  I took them down to the garden, dragged the big tiller out of the shed, and re-plowed 5 rows of ground that was really a tad too wet for tilling.  But I had on my gardening clothes, and the weather was nice, and I had the time, so I planted the tomatoes and stuff in dirt that wasn't *quite* mud.  I also planted about 10 hills of squash and a couple of hills of zucchini.

I am trying an experiment this year.  Recalling how the Native Americans used to plant corn, squash, and beans together, I stuck a squash hill on both sides of one of the tomato plants, theorizing that maybe the squash leaves will help keep the weeds down between the tomatoes.  I'll let you know how that works out, weed-wise.

Tomorrow afternoon I hope to build a permanent fence for green beans and such.  I have all the stuff I need except The Husband's willingness to go along with the plant.  I'll let you know how that works out, too.  ;)

Kale

Last year, we set several prefab raised bed frames in the back yard.  The Grandchildren and I planted lettuce, beets, spinach, and kale in one of them.  I planted flowers in one, and vegetables in another.  We had a long wet spell that drowned  most everything, followed by a long dry spell that withered up everything else that the critters didn't eat, except for one scraggly kale plant.

That kale plant grew and was just beginning to look nice when a worm found it, and ate it right down to its skeleton.  I left it where it sat, and it leafed out again, weathered the winter, and now look at it.  It is magnificent, and far too awesome to eat (that's it at the far end). 

The front end of the bed is planted with onions and garlic.  Every one of them came out of my Blue Apron box.  We get lots of onions and garlic in the box.  I plant the root ends of the scallions as I cut them off, and if the garlic sprouts, into the bed it goes.  I haven't bought green onions in months. 
 

Good Friday 2017

It's all The Husband's fault (isn't it always?).

I was sitting on the back porch yesterday morning, playing Solitaire, drinking coffee, minding my own business, when The Husband said, "The wind isn't blowing much today.  I think I'll burn that pile of sticks."

Well.

That pile of sticks had been laying in the outskirts of the yard for TWO YEARS.  During that time, it had transformed itself from a loose, head-high mountain to a compact, knee-high heap.  It needed to go.  The Husband struck a match, and within minutes the flames were so high and hot that he had to stand back 15 feet to keep from getting roasted, himself.

Between him and me, there was an un-sprung mole trap that had been sitting, locked and loaded and idle, for a week.  When I noticed it, I decided to move it to another of the hundreds of mole tunnels that are disfiguring our yard.  As I was hunting for a better spot, I noticed all kinds of things that needed doing.  There were saplings springing up in flower beds, dead limbs that needed to be removed from the Sweet Betsy bush, and a concrete planter on a concrete pedestal that had settled into soft ground (probably the mole's doing) and needed moving.

The Husband gave me The Look when I said we ought to move the planter, but he helped me load it into a wheel barrow, one heavy piece at a time, and move it to a different spot in the yard.  Naturally, in its new location, the planter begged for flowers.  I took The Husband's truck to the garden center and came home with potting soil, flowers, herbs, seeds, blueberry bushes, and two 6-packs of tomato plants.

In retrospect - and I was retrospecting about this even as I drove home - the tomato plants were a mistake.

You see, I had not yet readied a garden spot for the tomato plants and, more importantly, we were  planning to be gone from home for a week, starting in two days; if I did not get those tomato plants in the ground before the trip, they would die of thirst in their little plastic cartons before we came back home.  Seven dollars and 99 cents' worth of plants, just gone.  Unconscionable. 

So after I planted the flowers and the herbs and the seeds and the blueberry bushes, and after The Husband and I had finished eating our fried bologna sandwiches and were resting on the back porch, I said to The Husband, "I think I'll go plow up a row in the garden for these tomato plants."

Talk about getting The Look.  While I had been puttering around the yard with shovels and loppers, he had been push-mowing the yard, and he was tired and well smoked from the fire, and was probably thinking about a shower and a lazy afternoon in front of a television. 

I said, "I saw that Look.  You don't have to help.  I've got it."  And I meant it.  For real.

I went inside, got my hat and some fresh gloves, topped off my water glass, grabbed my Jeep keys, and drove down to the garden (I knew I'd never make it back up Nanny's driveway on foot once I got through with the plowing). 

I LOVE TO RUN THAT PLOW.  For real.  I love the smell of the dirt.  I love watching those weeds being yanked from the ground.  I love pulverized soil!

I dragged the tiller out of the shed.  IT CRANKED ON THE VERY FIRST PULL. 

I thought, "This was meant to be." 

I put 'er in gear and headed for the garden, and as I tilled, the voices of my fathers spoke to me. 

It was Good Friday, and as the tiller tines bit into the dirt, I heard my Daddy say, "Thangs planted on Good Friday s'posed to come up in three days."  I fought that tiller down the row, and as I turned it around for the second pass and saw how my work was more serpentine than straight, I heard my father-in-law say, "You'c'n plant more on a crooked row."  HAH!  Those two....  :)

Anyway....

As I was coming back up the row, fighting that tiller, trying to straighten out the curves, I looked up and saw The Husband and The Grown Nephew standing at the end of the row, their arms folded across their chests, just watching.  When I got closer, The Grown Nephew had the audacity to comment (with a snaking hand sign, mind you) on the crookedness of my row.  I gave him two hand signs of my own, one of which invited him to take over the tilling.  He shook his head and waved me off, shouting he'd probably do worse. 

The Husband continued to give me The Look.

Then Nanny drove up.  She'd taken The Grown Nephew's little daughter shopping for an Easter dress.  They went inside, changed clothes, and came out to the garden.

You should have seen how fast both The Husband and The Nephew offered to take over the tilling when Nanny came out.

But thank goodness she did come out, for as I was fighting the tiller toward her, Nanny noticed that one of the tiller tires was flat.  The Husband and The Nephew sprang into action, and within minutes, I was back at work. 

It is amazing how much easier it is to steer a tiller when both of the tires are the same.  :)

I ended up tilling the whole garden - seven rows, with ample space for a riding lawnmower to go down the un-tilled middles.  My subsequent rows were straighter, thanks to the un-flat tire and my late father-in-law's whisper, "Pick you out something at the far end of the row and aim the tiller at it and your rows'll be straight."  Good advice, Pop-Pop, good advice.

The next time The Husband offered to take over the tilling, I said, "I'd rather you'd go buy me 10 bags of cow poop."  And HE DID IT.

I was working on the last row when he returned with the composted manure.  He and Nanny opened the bags and sprinkled the poo in the first few rows while I drank some water and cooled off.  Then he took on the job of running the tiller over those rows to work the manure into the soil while I rested and finished my water on the tailgate of his truck. 

All of my joints locked up in the five minutes I sat on the tailgate.  When I slid off the tailgate to plant the #)@&! tomatoes, it felt like my leg bones racked into my shoulder blades.  After planting that last #!(#% tomato, I thought I was probably going to have to sleep in the garden, as I could not get up.

Lord, have mercy on me!

And on The Husband, too!