I got a text message from a friend on Sunday, asking what our plans were for the week and would we like to meet up at the lake before they headed out of town for the long weekend. It made me smile, and sounded like a great idea to get together. I fully intended to tell her as much, and somehow, when I sat down at the computer tonight to get to some bits and pieces of personal stuff, I realized I’d never even written her back (sorry, friend!). Such has been our week.

We’ve been rising before six most mornings, though if I’m being honest, I seem to have forgotten how to shine at that hour. There is currently no set schedule in our house, with one or both of us grownups having a commitment at a different time each and every day, so coffee has become a necessity, and the calendar is always my first stop. An experienced mama of six asked me the other day about mama guilt, and I was quick to brush it off, but when I stop to think, the answer is yes – I do feel guilty, mostly because this kind of hustle can’t be easy for them either, and goodness, I have not been patient lately.

I have been trying to make time, to deliberately be a fun mama since it’s not coming naturally right now, even if that time comes in little nuggets. We’ve been playing outside early in the morning, girls in jammies and mama with coffee. Bug collecting is a new favorite, and Swee is not at all squeamish. The other day, her kit was filled with snails and a frog, though she did admit to disliking how the junebugs claw their way up her fingers (me too, kid. me too).

Our chicken run is still just a set of posts in the ground, and the “baby” chickens are decidedly not babies anymore. They’re ten (eleven? where’s my calendar…) weeks old tomorrow, and have begun to crow. It’s an anemic, wobbly noise as yet, but they’re trying! The big girls are still happy to be out and about each day. Laying dropped off for a week or so, and we began to wonder if they had a secret stash somewhere in the yard. We haven’t found anything, and they’ve picked up again, so I guess the issue resolved itself.

The local pick-your-own strawberry patch is open for business, and bustling. They start their day not long after we do, so we ducked out early the other morning and spent 45 minutes picking and eating our way along a row of plants. Twenty-seven dollars later, I had two berry-stained little people and a ton of work to take home, but we had a good time together.

And that is what my kitchen counter looks like right now: an oddball collection of stuff, including a banana that someone decided to open and then abandon. I sure would love to have it cleared off, but it will have to wait – there’s no space for that on the calendar!

Sunscreen hand prints on our storm doors. A pile of swimsuits and towels on the tile by the stairs. Half-unpacked boxes in the corner and a kitchen countertop strewn with random bits which have no home. It’s summertime in Maine, which means we are sopping up every second of sunshine we can (until the flies chase us inside – when will they go away?! I thought for sure they’d be gone by now, but the welts on my poor girls’ backs show otherwise), and leaving the inside work for another day.

It was both a wonderful and dreadful time to move homes. We escaped mud season, and thankfully didn’t track gobs of dirt inside, but as soon as we vacated the other house and plopped our belongings over here, we had to start getting a handle on the yard work. In fact, J hopped on the mower right after our settlement and cut the front lawn. It’s been nonstop since then, and we are feeling the stretch – to enjoy the weather, to get the work done, to finish moving in, to keep up with our regular responsibilities!

We haven’t done much inside except to move into the existing closets and cabinets. When we bought our house in Baltimore seven+ years ago, we ripped up carpet and laid quarter-round right away, painting every room before even bringing furniture in. In theory, that was a great choice because there was more space to move around. But rushing the process led to snap decisions on colors, etc., and it wasn’t long before I was wishing we’d done something different. I’d like to paint just about every space in this house, but this time we’re going to live in it for a while first. The weather will keep us inside soon enough – best to save a few projects for later.

So we’re focusing on making the grounds our own. The garden is as planted as it’s going to get. I found myself slipping into despair as I looked up and down the rows and realized nothing had grown, not a seed had sprouted, until J reminded me, “you do this every year,” and true to form, everything is green and growing after several days of rain. Sadly, a garden fence is at the bottom of the project list for now, so my silly chickens still have full access to the plot. I could coop them, but their powers of tick control far outweigh a few plants in value, yes? So for now, we’re still chasing them out of the dirt several times a day. The result of their attentions is a wonky row of carrots (bonus: no need to thin because they’re not crowded!) a thick patch of kale, and a missing tomato seedling (what did they do with it?). I’m still finding a lot of broken glass and pottery, making me wonder if the area was an old farmhouse dump. It’s hard to say without knowing more about the history of the property, but I do miss gardening barefoot.

The other night, on a whim, I asked J to take the weed eater to the trickle of water running under the apple trees, just so we could see it. There’s a round cement cap over what appears to be a natural spring, just down from the garden under an apple tree with a perfectly curved branch for sitting. We’ve remarked that it might have been the original water supply for the property, way back when, but now it flows freely for the deer and other wildlife to partake – chickens and Schnauzers too. With his ear pro on, that husband of mine knocked down all the vegetation, even after working on projects all day, and as I prepped dinner for the grill, I watched he and the girls load the wagon with the cut pieces to be dumped elsewhere. When we wandered down after dinner, I found they had even gone so far as to clear out some of the rocks and make a barrier of sorts, redirecting the flow from a muddy, marshy mess into an actual stream. In some places, it was positively burbling and splashing along. We stood on the cap and watched a little frog do his best imitation of a stone, and then the girls rode the tractor with their daddy, one on each knee, along the path through the tall grass and back before a big, bright rainbow broke the sky, and we all went in to bed.

On Sundays, the girls go to my parents and J and I have three childless hours to do whatever we please. Sometimes we run boring errands together, trips to Home Depot or to the grocery store. Sometimes we drink coffee and do nothing, though that’s a pretty rare occurrence. Today, we went to the farmer’s market with our four-legged fur-child, who was very excited to have mama and daddy all to himself.

We came in at the far end of town so as to avoid the market traffic, and parked outside the little store there. I popped inside to pull cash, but the ATM was out of order, and I didn’t have a check to cash at the register, so we were limited to the $13 in J’s wallet and any vendors with a Square. The dog owners were out in force, and Stubby paused to greet an ancient Springer spaniel, and then what looked to be a pair of retired Greyhounds.

It was still early in the day, and there weren’t very many patrons about, though the vendors all seemed happy to be out in the sunshine. Pickings were pretty slim in terms of veggies – it’s still early for us – but there were cheeses and pickles, breads and mustards. We made a lap, stopping to talk to a friend who owns the ice cream bus, another who was shopping with his son. We tasted a beer infused gouda, and marveled over a loaf of herbed cheesy bread; both made it into our tote.

Our funds spent, we sauntered back to the little store. J went inside for sandwiches and Stubby and I wandered around back to watch the lake. A loon drifted by as I fumbled with my camera. Despite Stubby’s best efforts to ruin the shot, I caught the image just before the bird dove, resurfacing well out of range. The distance they can swim underwater is just amazing – you never know where they will come up. There is a pair that returns to our own little lake each summer, and I am still in awe that we see such an exotic species on a regular basis – this is no Mallard eating bread crusts at the suburban duck pond.

Two hours already gone, and we hadn’t even begun the projects on today’s short list, so we headed home with full tummies to pick rhubarb and work on the chicken coop before bringing our little ladies home to nap.

Awhile back, I read a tongue-in-cheek comment that the largest crop grown in the state of Maine is actually rocks. I chuckled at the time, thinking it to be hyperbole. That lighthearted chuckle has turned into more of a rueful laugh as I begin my third season as a Maine gardener. I truly think they’re multiplying.

There was an existing garden plot in our yard, a nice large, flat space with plenty of full sun and a row of rhubarb going gangbusters. I know there are pitfalls to moving into someone else’s dirt – soil exhaustion, potential chemical use by the previous gardener, etc. There were some pros for us too though – mainly the great location and the time saved by not having to break fresh ground. We are already a little late getting started.

So I’ve spent quite a bit of time turning the garden soil by hand over the last several weeks. It’s been slow going as I pick out broken glass and remove the rocks. So many rocks! The no-till method makes sense to me, so instead of renting a rototiller, I’ve been using the spade to dig and turn, breaking up clumps by hand. It’s allowed me to remove most of the weeds by the root, hopefully making my job easier in the coming months. The soil’s not great. It’s sticky and almost clay-like, but there are lots of worms and bugs squirming about, which is encouraging. I had hoped to mix some composted manure into the dirt before planting, but just couldn’t make it happen, so I’ll be adding some as more of a mulch, and will make sure to put the garden to bed properly this fall, which will make a world of difference next spring.

The strawberries look really happy. J’s lab partner gifted us several transplants last spring, and they made the  move with us, perking right up once in the ground and even flowering. I’ve got almost half the plot turned now, and have put two rows of veggies in: tomatoes and peppers. But they are sad little plants right now, shivering in the cold. Our sunshine has been elusive this spring, and I’m hoping it will make an appearance soon. The weather has been strange all around, really. We had a doozy of a thunderstorm today, hail bouncing around the yard.

I’m going to direct seed carrots, marigolds and zinnias tomorrow, and I have a small pack of pickling cucumber seedlings to go in. We’re going to attempt a sunflower house, too, and I’m sure the rocks will continue to spread. They self-seed, you know, and it looks to be a bumper crop.