June bug

How do June bugs know when it is June?? They showed up here, out on the porch, on June the first.

A spring evening

I'm not sure there is anything quite as wonderful as a spring evening, with all the windows open and a temperature of 70 degrees and the air full of the sounds of peepers and tree frogs.

Clothesline revisited

Three years ago, almost to the day, I posted about my new clothesline. I didn’t keep it there too long. Turns out that the little walkway out to it between the lilac and honeysuckle wasn’t so much fun because of the giant rhubarb in the path. I could have transplanted it somewhere else, but decided it was easier to move the line.

So, Tom dug up the clothesline and put it out by the barn. It was a lovely spot, and served as a blog header picture last May. 

Today it was moved again to a place closer to the house. We could put it here because the old maple was cut down last fall, leaving a sun-drenched place just right for a clothesline. I couldn't be more pleased.

A Year of Afternoon Gardens - November

You may notice all the maple leaves. They have been here every single October for the 33 years we have lived in this house, and for the hundred + years before that. But next October they will not be on the lawn and patio anymore, for we had to have the big sugar maple cut down. A forester friend recommended a good person. He came and looked it over, made those ‘tut tut’ sounds that doctors are famous for, and said it was time. And so, on Saturday, October 18, it came down. Two young men did the cutting while a third did all the picking up and chipping of the small branches. Margaret had to work, but the rest of the family was here watching. It rained off and on, sometimes quite hard, but they kept on working. They came back the next day for the final cleanup. 

We actually feel lucky because we had the tree sixteen years longer than we thought possible. In August 1998, we had a very quick, very strong wind; not a tornado but a microburst. In five to ten minutes we lost trees all over our land. Our road was completely blocked. The tallest section of the maple came down in that storm, and we thought the tree would die, but it leafed out the next spring and every spring since then. That’s what made it hard to cut down. It still looked so good as far as the leaves were concerned. But in amongst the leaves were splits and rot. It wasn’t in good shape, and even a small storm could have taken off branches or sections and someone could have gotten hurt. 

Though we all felt a bit sad at heart, we know we did the right thing and are quite surprisingly happy with the result. The open view is wonderful. And we have more light in the house now. But still, but still there is an ache for what is gone. We have ten windows and a glass door that look out to the south, where the tree was. It was what we saw every minute we were in the house and of course outside. But as Joni Mitchell wrote, ‘something’s lost, but something’s gained in living every day.’ Hazel Nina and Campbell Walker will never know this tree but they will know a different landscape which will be their childhood memory. We have some trees on order for the spring - a rowan, and two hazelnuts. Perhaps we will plant them there, or maybe we’ll leave that open space for games of badminton and croquet. 

This maple tree was in my very first blog posting, and has been in many photographs since then. I thought I’d post a few more I took in the days before it was cut down, during the cut, and some that show how it looks now.

If you are wondering what the chunks of wood are on the patio, Estée had the great idea to make tabletops from the tree. Those in front will go to the kids, 

and Tom and I will have the smaller one. 

Can you see an owl's face? The tufts at the top, the two eyes, and the beak? I am delighted.

Black Locust Trees

A short time ago, the black locusts were in such contrast to all around them. The grass was so green, The maples were in bright green leaf. The lilacs were blossoming. And there stood the locusts - bare, stark, autumn-like in the heart of spring. It occurs to me that this is on purpose. They let everything else get all the 'wows' of springtime, when every single day brings something new and remarkable. Then, when the daffodils are gone by, and the lilac blossoms are no more, those creamy white flowers appear which to my mind offer the sweetest smell imaginable.

When I have mentioned locust flowers in my letters, some people have commented that they are like the fragrance of wisteria, the plant oft mentioned in literature. Do locusts get mentioned in fiction? Not in any book I've ever read. And in nonfiction, mostly they are written of as weed trees, springing up everywhere. This is so hard for me to understand. They are beautiful trees in leaf, in flower, and even when they are bare. I grew up with them in my yard, and when Tom and I moved out here, I had to plant black locusts, the greatest gift of my June days.

New plants with family name

Today we planted Walker's Low catmint in honor of our new grandson, Campbell Walker. I had looked around for something with his name, and this sounded perfect. It's hardy enough for our zone 3 garden, and it will appeal to our kitties! I bought it from Bluestone Perennials, and they suggested planting Happy Returns daylily with it, so I did. The Walker's Low name comes from an English garden which of course makes it even more appealing to me. I have two hazelnut trees coming in the fall in honor of Hazel Nina! Such fun.

Death of Esther the goat

I found myself thinking over the years that maybe, just maybe, Esther would beat the dying rap and live on forever. On one very frustrated day, I looked up the life span of goats, and though the average is 10-12 years, the number 30 jumped out at me. If she wasn’t immortal, then certainly 30 wasn’t out of her reach. But the reality of life which is death caught up with her. And I mean literally ‘caught up.’ Esther wasn’t easy to catch, either by us or the grim reaper. The night before she died, Tom was exasperated for the zillionth time when she snuck in the front door of the barn, knocked the top off the grain can, and started eating. And the very day she died, she was out of the pasture roaming around the lawns. Then Tom came in and said she was down. We called the vet and Tom brought her up to the office and Esther was given that last shot. 

The first photo we have of her is this one from 2002 with Bracelet and Annie, all gone now. 

You’ll notice that Annie the white one is much smaller. She was a pygmy goat, our third. Those were great goats. Small, friendly, companionable. We bought Bracelet and Esther sight unseen. The people said they were pygmies, but we knew the minute they hopped out of the truck that they were not. They were regular sized goats. And they were nothing like the malleable, naturally well-behaved little pygmies we had known. From the start, they were trouble. They lived life on their terms. If they wanted to leave the pasture, they did so. The electric fence didn’t faze them a bit. If they wanted to eat down the 55 day lilies Tom planted in his 55th year, they did so. One of my own personal favorite blog entries is about the goats. 

After Bracelet died two years ago, which I noted in this post, Esther only got worse, though I didn’t think it possible. She was an unstoppable force. She was on the move all the time. I would watch her as she took a bite here of daylily, and a bite there of yellow bean leaves, and wondered why she didn’t stay put and enjoy her meal. I looked it up and found out that goats learn about something by eating it. They learn about a plant for a while, and then move along to learn about the next one. She wouldn’t touch tomato leaves or onions, but most everything else among the flowers or vegetables was fair game.

Tom and I knew that when (if) she died, we would feel a sadness, simply because she was such a personality. And we do. We used to call her our outside dog, because she really liked to hang around us when we were out. But we also feel relief. We have some new ideas about the gardens for this summer, and I have been wracking my brain wondering how on earth we would keep her away. Last year she did some big damage. Several flowers never blossomed because she ate them off while in bud. We had to replant the yellow beans because those leaves were a special favorite. 

The last picture of her was taken Christmas eve day out the window as she walked out of her pasture, across two lawns, and out into the north pasture. Just ‘cause.

So yes, there is relief. But yes, we shall miss her.

As seen through the screens

Outdoor life as seen through the window screens this week.

Enjoying the apple leaves.

Love the leaf shadows on her back.

The bluebird couple. They often sit together like this on the wire.

There are two mother wild turkeys with sixteen chicks. This day the little ones flew up onto the maple tree branch.

On the top left, you can see one of several chicks who flew way up.

And today's foray was into the garden. We often hear them before we see them - the sweet little peep, peep.

'A Rose is a Rose is a Rose' - Gertrude Stein

Nebby the donkey

The recent years have brought too many animal deaths to Windy Poplars Farm. Since 2006, we've lost three dogs, one cat, two donkeys, one goat, and one sheep. The remaining barn animals are all quite elderly. Since Daisy died, we've felt the lack of an equine presence. Last week, the state market bulletin had an ad for a donkey. I called the person immediately, and everything he said sounded great. Nebby is around 11 years old, a small standard donkey, and has lived with cattle for a few years. The price was good. We know a guy who transports horses so we hired him to travel the couple hours to pick her up. (He has gotten a lot of leverage from his 'hauling ass' joke.) And today she arrived! Margaret and Matt came up to visit, and she was calm and friendly to all of us. We've put her in a stall for a bit so she and the sheep and goat can get used to each other. So far, she's had grain, hay, and apples. We are all so happy. A perfect spring tonic!

Death of our donkey, Daisy

The first quote du jour entry I put up on the blog was:

A quotation at the right moment is like bread to the famished.The Talmud 

Last evening I pulled a book off the shelf called Long Life by Mary Oliver. It is a collection of essays and poems, which I haven't read yet. I opened to this passage:

For the first time in twenty-five years there is no small footstool next to the bed, on which to break one's toes. The little dogs, first Jasper and then Bear, are gone. How neatening is loss, since it only takes away! One less mouth to feed, to walk, to bathe, to hold. One less sentient creature to cherish, to worry over, to feel for, to receive comfort from. And where is he, little Bear, the latest to leave us? We watch the clouds carefully; sooner or later we will see him, sailing away in careless and beautiful serenity. Of what rich and ornate stuff the powerful and uncontainable gods invented the world, out of the rampant dust! The silky brant, the scarf of chiffon, the letter, the empty envelope, the black ducks, the old shoes, the little white dog fall away, fall away, and all the music of our lives is in them. The gods act as they act for what purpose we do not know, but this we do understand: the world could not be made without the swirl and whirlwind of our deepest attention and our cherishing. And if I mean the god of the sky, I mean also the god of the river - not only the god of the gold-speckled cathedral but the lord of the green field, where people pause casually and snap each other's picture; where thrushes release their darkling songs; where little dogs bark and leap, their ears tossing, joyously, as they run toward us.

Yet again, I marvel at Mary Oliver, and I marvel at those words from the Talmud. Just before leaving for work yesterday morning, Tom came in from the barn and said, 'Daisy is dying.' The day was a fretful one. I went out to the barn a few times to check on her. She seemed peaceful and quiet, laying on her side in the stall, separate from the goat and sheep. By the end of the day, she had passed on. She turned thirty last summer, and we've had her since 1988, when my children were six and three. She was a wonderful girl, who absolutely adored people. She would walk up to perfect strangers and nuzzle them. The last picture I have of her was on the first day of fall, in the pasture with 'her' animals, guarding them from predators, guiding them where they should go. Daisy was a happy, contented, loving soul, and though our hearts are aching and the tears are falling, we know that she had the best possible life.

 

First Corn

And then all attention is riveted on the corn patch. ... For three glorious, hedonistic weeks we will dine on it nightly. We rush it from field to pot to table in under ten minutes.
The Country Kitchen, chapter from In Deep
by Maxine Kumin

Our 'three (I hope it is that long!) glorious, hedonistic weeks' began today! Five years ago I wrote that we no longer boil corn, but bake it according to The Nero Wolfe Cookbook. Out of this world delicious!!

Today's poem by Edgar Guest

My mother was not a gardener. She didn't grow and tend a flower garden, but she did have hollyhocks growing up on the east side of the house. In my memory they were there every summer of my childhood, but of course it may have been just one year. I recently heard from my mother's only living sister that their mother also grew hollyhocks on the farm. I have been trying to grow them at Windy Poplars for the thirty-one years we've lived here, with only one year of success. That year I bought a plant from a local nursery in the spring and it produced beautiful yellow flowers. This year I got serious and planted hollyhock seeds under the indoor lights, and wow did they ever grow. They were quite large when we transplanted them to one of the raised beds, and now they are huge, with a couple taller than I am.



I do battle with Japanese beetles, going out every day with a container of water and flicking them into it with my fingers before they fly off.


They've done a lot of damage to the leaves.


But thankfully, so far, the flowers are not bothered one bit. It is a great joy to see these red and pink beauties.





I looked around for a hollyhock poem and found one by the beloved poet Edgar Guest.

Hollyhocks

Old-fashioned flowers! I love them all:
The morning-glories on the wall,
The pansies in their patch of shade,
The violets, stolen from a glade,
The bleeding hearts and columbine,
Have long been garden friends of mine;
But memory every summer flocks
About a clump of hollyhocks.

The mother loved them years ago;
Beside the fence they used to grow,
And though the garden changed each year
And certain blooms would disappear
To give their places in the ground
To something new that mother found,
Some pretty bloom or rosebush rare--
The hollyhocks were always there.

It seems but yesterday to me
She led me down the yard to see
The first tall spires, with bloom aflame,
And taught me to pronounce their name.
And year by year I watched them grow,
The first flowers I had come to know.
And with the mother dear I'd yearn
To see the hollyhocks return.

The garden of my boyhood days
With hollyhocks was kept ablaze;
In all my recollections they
In friendly columns nod and sway;
And when to-day their blooms I see,
Always the mother smiles at me;
The mind's bright chambers, life unlocks
Each summer with the hollyhocks.

Edgar Guest (1881-1959)

Daisy turns 30!

From The Friendly Beasts:

"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown,
"I carried His mother up hill and down;
I carried her safely to Bethlehem town."
"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown.


Five years ago, I wrote about the loss of our donkey, Juno. In the time since, our other donkey, Daisy has continued to go from strength to strength, as they say. She had gotten thin, and we were advised to begin feeding her a 'senior' donkey food. It has worked wonders. She is stocky and healthy. She runs down the hill when she knows Tom is letting the animals into the north pasture. She brays if she doesn't see 'her' sheep and goat, and goes off to find them. She turns a fierce eye on Piglet and Lexi when they come up the hill with Matt and Margaret.




I have an old yellowed article from The Wall Street Journal which begins 'Coyotes beware. Killer donkeys are on guard.' It goes on to say

Guard donkeys are no good for a bank or warehouse: they like people too much. But they're boffo [isn't that a great word?!] for protecting livestock. Sheepherding is a specialty because donkeys quickly identify with the herd, and they hate dogs, foxes, and coyotes - sheep's natural predators…

Donkeys do indeed love people. Daisy loves to walk right up to someone and nuzzle.

This is the way to feed donkeys or horses, with a flat hand, so they can't bite it. I brought out carrots to celebrate her big day.

Here is almost six-year-old Margaret, whose own 30th birthday is next month.

The bill of sale from July 5, 1988 - we bought them from a woman a few towns away