Dew-Catching Leaves

It's been a warm and wonderful fall so far. It started with a sunny, dry and unseasonably warm September and October is following along behind in similar fashion. The evenings and early mornings have turned crisp, but this week we're due for some temperatures in the 70s. I'll take it. This weekend O and I walked to the playground by taking a path through a graveyard. There are some huge old maples there, and no one rakes, so you get to see the splendor of uninterrupted leaf fall.

The sun was just right to sparkle the dew on the leaves brilliantly and when O saw me pull out my phone he came running to see what I was looking at. Diamonds, we agreed.

We noticed that only the backs of the leaves can catch the dew. Another lesson from mother nature. The face we hide from the world is often the most interesting.

First Frost

We had our first hard frost yesterday. Yikes. Mid-September is early for the cold we've been having and I'm hoping this isn't some harbinger of a doom-like winter.

I'm not sure what happened to August. Some garden stuff happened, I just didn't do much weeding, or harvesting, or picture-taking. We had great basil, but the cukes were disappointing. I still haven't figured out how to kill the beetles without damaging my plants. We had good beets and carrots, and a respectable amount of tomatoes. Too many cherries, as always, but a good number of beefsteaks, early girls and better boys. Oh, and nice romas, too, this year.

I hate to sum up the garden because that turns the corner to fall. And around that corner is winter.

Swiss Chard

It's been a rough year in the vegetable garden. Between some failed germination, an infestation of cucumber beetles and a badass woodchuck, the veggies have suffered. Apparently, though, the chuck doesn't like swiss chard and it must be resistant to pests. It's the one patch of true success out there. I guess I'll take it.

Garden's In

 

Doesn't look like much, does it? I almost never take pictures of the just-planted garden, but I curse myself later because a before and after would be cool. So, here's this year's plot, at it's earliest stage. We got the baby plants in the ground the last weekend in May, and planted the seed crops on June 5th.

That's a little later than normal, but we had a week or two of fairly cold weather and so I don't think we're behind any of those folks who got a jump on us. We shall see.

What's that one green spot? A thick patch of dill, self-seeded from last year. Let's hope we get some cucumbers!

Wordless Wednesday: Persistence

When Cutbacks are a Good Thing

I often hesitate to cut flowers in my gardens.

Especially in early spring when color is so sparse in the yard, I like to leave the blooms there. I feel guilty bringing in the few tulips or daffodils, as thought I'm thinning the ranks of the spring soldiers out there.

What I've learned about lilacs, though, is that cutting flowers actually helps produce blooms in the following seasons and so when those purple beauties arrive, I cut masses of flowers and set out bouquets all around the house.

I'm an inexpert pruner, but researching lilac cutting led me to some good resources. My main questions were what to prune and when to do it. The why already made sense to me --- increased flower production, bush shaping and air circulation.

It was nice to learn that you can prune anytime - spring pruning won't necessarily hurt the bush. But, the best time is late summer because at that point the plant doesn't have much incentive to put on new growth (which you're triing to get rid of). Think of a summer/fall plant as one who's getting tired after going after a summer-long bender. They're just not going to put much effort into their appearance.

What to prune is more subjective --- shape your bush and remove the "suckers." Lilacs produce a thicket of new growth at the base of the plant, and then also as new shoots growing upward from main branches. These can be removed to encourage the main bush.

This article from Fiskars talks about removing no more than 1/3 of the bush with each pruning and describes how to remove branches at the point where they meet other branches. Leave the branch "collar" intact so the bush can heal the cut.

Wordless Wednesday: Plant a Seed

First Pick of Asparagus

I love asparagus. And truthfully, much of this deep devotion comes from its early appearance in the garden. 

Last night we picked a few spears out of the three raised beds where our crowns are planted. We weren't sure it would do well in raised beds, but it seems to be happy.

This is our first picking year for this purple variety. After first planting, you typically don't harvest from the plant for three years. So, in many ways, asparagus is about patience. The flip side of that coin, though, is that an asparagus crown will produce for as many as 15 years without replanting.

We're in it for the long haul. If you are, too, I'd highly recommend planting some --- it's delicious raw from the garden, with a pretty different flavor than what you'll find in the grocery store. Want to know more?

Gotcha! Hepatica

We have a few trilliums in our yard, transplanted years ago from the woods. I think this little wildflower stowed away in the transport ... I'm not sure how else it would have arrived at the foot of our foundation. I realized recently that it's one I'd seen at Niquette Bay State Park, but not been able to identify (see my old post on the topic).

Since that time, though, I've gotten a wildflower identification book from my wonderful husband. I highly recommend it for any of you Vermont woods-walkers. It's Wildflowers of Vermont by Kate Carter. It's organized by color and size of plant, making identification quick and easy. The photos are fantastic, and all from Vermont. It's small and covered with a durable plastic cover, perfect to slip into your backpack or even a pocket.

So, the answer is: Round-lobed Hepatica. I was stumped at first because our Hepatica is white, but the book has the pink version. Luckily, the ones I saw at Niquette were just slightly pink ... a clue for me to thumb through the pink section in search of this lovely little early bloomer. Gotcha!

Bird

Bird perched on my knee

I feel your flutters and fears

Fly, little boy, fly

Light Bulbs

Our crocuses are finally blooming and they're providing a much needed bright spot in a pretty grey landscape. Spring is coming, but it's coming in fits and starts, and the flowers seem to know it as well as we do. The snow is finally gone, though, and the daylillies are really starting to jump up. I've noticed buds on the lilac bushes and the tulips are inching their way up. I can't wait to really get out into the yard ... and spend an afternoon or two raking, digging, weeding, planting. Bring it, spring.

Brrrrr-ing on Spring

This pretty much sums things up.

It was a cold winter and now we're having a cold spring. This week we were duped by a day of 80 degree warmth followed by a snowstorm and cold snap. The bulbs are following the light and springing up anyway and I sometimes feel like holding my hands over them for warmth like they're some small, green fire.

Wordless Wednesday: Frozen

Spring, Wherefore Art Thou?

The robins have returned, but are resorting to berries for food as we've still got feet of snow blanketing the ground. We're five days into calendar spring and the temperatures remain well below normal and the snow cover well above. Even my normally determinedly positive outlook has taken a beating and I shake my mental fist at the sky every single day.

The sugar makers have started late, and the temperatures aren't letting the sap run. We're forecast for a big blizzard this week. And meteorologists predict big spring melts as heavy rain will eventually melt off this mass of snow in an eye-blink.

I'm just doing my best to get through the days. Like these poor robins.

White Noise

Yesterday we got a 4-8 inch snowfall and my dreams of spring rolled over and went back to sleep. It was inevitable, and in many ways beautiful. It was a classic, 24-degree, no wind, fat-flake kind of storm that lasted all day. When I left work in the dark, there was that hush that only comes during a snowfall as billions of snowflakes create nature's original white noise.