I took my lunch break on the water today.

You might remember my first foray into kayaking at the end of last summer. It was challenging, and I loved it because it tasted like freedom and independence. We mamas don’t get much silence, nor is there often the chance to sit alone in a quiet place and just not talk to anyone. Being on the water in your own personal craft seemed to be the solution, particularly if I could load and unload it myself. That sweet husband of mine surprised me with a second-hand vessel last week, and in my favorite color no less. We struggled together with a roof rack and oddball straps for about an hour before realizing that even if I got it down, I wouldn’t be able to hoist it that high by myself to bring it home. I can however slide it in and out of the truck bed, and so off I went. That maiden voyage was everything I had hoped it would be: refreshing, exhilarating, silent.

We brought the girls down for a little excursion Saturday evening after dinner. It was getting cooler, and the beach was shaded though the sun was still strong further out on the water. It’s a single kayak, but our girls are little enough that if they sit at the front of the opening and stick their legs out, there’s still plenty of room to maneuver. J took Swee first, paddling right to slide behind the country store, then the cafe, then on past the stream with the waterfall where the heron likes to wade. They cut left to cross open water and startled the loons, causing them to dive and swim away. When they surfaced, my people were already heading toward us, and we could all hear their eerie laughter echoing across the valley. Beanie and I watched a seaplane with pontoons circle overhead – she loves airplanes – and then it was our turn to head out. As we pushed off from the beach, that same plane roared over our heads and landed right in front of our boat, leaving all of us amazed as it traveled down the water. We paddled counterclockwise, watching it closely as it turned and taxied back. Beanie was enraptured; I of course was filled with anxiety that it would want to take off again and wouldn’t see us in its way, and so I moved us quickly around and across to see the loons. We were apparently less threatening than my other half, and those beautiful birds bobbed along, staring at us from maybe ten feet away. Daddy and Swee had swum out to the second dock to wait for us, so we pulled up there to watch the plane motor down the length of the lake, rising at what appeared to be the very last second to soar over the trees and disappear into the sky. When I asked her at bedtime what her favorite part of the day had been, Beanie chose the plane, no hesitation. Definitely an atypical experience for our tiny town.

Today, the girls were asleep and J was mowing the lawn when I reached a good stopping point in my work, so I slid my new baby into the truck, gooped up with some sunscreen, and took off. I briefly entertained the idea of trying a new pond, but thought that probably wasn’t wise to attempt unaccompanied and continued on to our own little Lake Minnehonk. It’s small enough that you can see both banks at all times, and I feel confident that should something go wrong, I am strong enough to swim myself out (yes, I wear a life vest. It’s turquoise, in case you were wondering). About halfway down the lake, the wind really picked up and I wasn’t making any headway so I cut across to the other side and paddled back to the beach. The loon turned to look at me as I passed their nest, it’s red eyes following me as I moved away. They have a chick, I’m told, though I haven’t seen it yet. I did see a little dog on a dock, a terrier who made sure to tell me I was not welcome on his lake as his parents chuckled from the swing and remarked on his ferocity. Almost back to my starting point, I swung my legs up and out, over the sides to dip my toes in the water, paddle resting across my legs to allow the slight waves to bob me around, enjoying the sun and the breeze. A quick forty-minute paddle was the perfect lunch break.

One of this property’s selling points was the abundance of mature fruiting trees, namely apples. Admittedly, we know next to nothing about orchards and have a lot to learn, but but we knew that the ability to grow so much food was an immediate asset. Our offer was made when the trees were bare and the ground was covered with snow, but as things have grown and bloomed and set fruit, we’ve discovered that there are several non-apple trees in the mix. The internet is a wonderful thing, but without a starting point for your search, you just wind up falling down the rabbit hole. Maybe you can help me figure out what we’re working with?

Tree #1 is in the “lower orchard,” situated among the apple trees below the house. It flowered like the rest, white blossoms with a pink tinge, though I don’t remember if they were fragrant. It developed those green berries several weeks ago, and though they’ve gotten bigger, they’ve not changed color. Cherries, perhaps? I’d think cherries would be ripe by now, but I’m admittedly still on a Southeastern Pennsylvania calendar when it comes to growing schedules (it takes an awful long time to adjust your expectations. I keep wondering where the tomatoes are!).

Tree #2 is almost directly opposite #1, along the stone wall at the top of the property. The bark is smoother and the leaves are deep green with reddish veins. The flowers were a rich pink and these berries are purplish-red with a dusty coating. I’d love if they were edible, but I’m afraid they’re ornamental. Ideas?

I’m curious – as you discover new plants and trees, how do you go about the process of learning? I love my Encyclopedia of Country Living, but dear old Carla Emery only goes so far. I don’t even know how to tell when the apples should be picked!

J and the girls got out of bed this morning and went downstairs, leaving me alone to listen to the fan and smell the day coming in on the breeze. I fully intended to follow them immediately, and instead dozed off again. Effortless. Now, I am as tired as the rest of you mamas, but typically once I’ve opened my eyes, engaged my brain and spoken to someone, I’m awake. Today I could have drifted off and stayed there, but alas, there were things to be done and children to care for, and so I hauled my bleary-eyed self down the stairs for caffeine.

The chickens were already foraging and the girls had been fed, so my coffee and I got to wander out to the garden. I sipped and watered, pulled a few weeds and admired my plants. How they’ve grown! I made mental notes of what seems to have helped and what clearly has not. The half of the plot that I fully worked, digging and turning the soil before planting in rows, looks far better than the other half; that section is choked with weeds threatening to overtake the three sparse rows of wonky carrots and turkey-eaten cabbages. Lesson learned, I suppose. I snapped a couple of photos, and headed inside to try and write before beginning my work for the day.

And then I pulled up the pictures.

Oh, how pitiful, the voice jeered. Who do you think you are, pretending to know anything about anything! You are no gardener. Those are crooked rows of scraggly plants in a messy yard. You can’t share these photos. 

And you know what? I listened to that nasty voice. For most of the day. Ouch.

I’ve got this vague feeling of having exited the survival phase of mothering very young children, which comes with no small amount of relief, but it has also brought some serious uncertainty. The fog has lifted enough to see around me, but I don’t recognize the terrain. Where the hell am I? It certainly seems to be a dangerous place, for despite regaining the ability to think about myself a wee bit, I am still firmly in a season of giving, giving, giving until there is nothing left to give, and receiving little validation, only more worry and more requests. I can think about self-care and personal development, but there’s not much time or space to DO anything about it. And that nasty voice from the garden loves to translate “nothing left to give” into “nothing worth giving.” That nasty voice makes me doubt myself, and so instead of doing something (anything!), I do nothing, including things I love. What a jerk. A jerk and a liar.

So here are those pictures. My scraggly patch of dirt, my weeds, and my plants that may never produce. It’s probably not the last conversation I’ll have with that nasty voice, and that’s ok. I’ll share my photos because they’re real, and “good” or not, they’re mine. They’re not perfect, and that’s ok too, because it’s ok to do something for the joy rather than for the glory. I am a gardener because I say I am a gardener. I put plants in the dirt and I garden. I suppose it’s as simple as that, yes? I am because I say that I am and because it makes me happy.

There was a cow at the end of my driveway yesterday morning. And no, I don’t have a picture because I was just so completely flummoxed that I didn’t even think to pick up the camera. I did throw on a hoodie over my pajamas and run down the road to the neighbor’s house to bang on her door, using my morning breath to ask her what to do. She was far calmer than I, welcoming me into her kitchen while she called her brother to come get his critter out of the road. She then sent me home with not just her brother’s number, but those of the rest of the family as well. The whole thing seems very silly and simple now, but in the moment, I was quite uncertain as to the appropriate response.

The chicken run is (mostly) complete. There are plans to cover a portion of it so that we don’t have to do quite as much shoveling to get their exit door open over the winter, but there is now quite a nice enclosure. The little chickens are the only ones that currently have access to the space, with the idea that they can meet the big girls through the fence for a few more weeks before moving in with them. In reality, the two mini-flocks care not a whit about each other. The chickens avoid eye contact with members of the other group, as if the chicken wire were a solid wall, or they were city pedestrians, carefully not looking up as they pass. Clearly, I have no idea if this is normal, nor do I know how the flock integration will go. The youngsters are thirteen weeks old today (I was a week off without my calendar!) so we will try to merge them at the end of the month.

Our long weekend was filled to the brim with true summer living, and I said yes to both cotton candy and ice cream, more than once. We attended a lovely boat parade on the 4th, and enjoyed a really incredible pyrotechnics display in town a few days before. Swimming has become a daily event, and bathing suits and beach towels rotate constantly through the washer and dryer while the regular laundry piles up at the bottom of the chute. There’s not much of anything coming in from the garden – even the herbs are too small to pluck – though I’m still hopeful our little plot will eventually produce something. The apples, however, are most definitely growing, and we are enjoying walking among the trees to inspect the baby fruits. Signs of the next season to come, for sure.

How are you summering?

 

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.

My youngest turns three today.

I hung the glittery paper birthday banner in our front window last night, thinking about the day I bought it for her big sister’s first birthday party, and where I hung it then, and for the following family birthdays. I never intended to make it a tradition, but here it is. It hung in the summer rental for Beanie’s first birthday, and then in the second rental for her second birthday. It’s now hanging in our own home, a ready backdrop to cake and candles later tonight. My littlest love has lived in four houses in her three years; it’s so nice to celebrate in our home today.

I’ve posted twice now about our big move, though realized that I still haven’t made an announcement or explanation. Such is the tattered brain I’ve been taping together these past few weeks.

We have bought a home. A beautiful home with plenty of space for our family and for guests to stay – inside, rather than in a tent in the yard. And the yard! Almost seven acres total, with two small apple orchards and many mature trees. It’s on a dead-end dirt road, and our neighbors are proving to be just delightful. The first day of moving in (two years since the girls and I arrived in Maine, almost to the very day), they showed up with a bottle of apple cider wine from our very own trees.

And it feels like home already. Despite the rooms littered with boxes, and the big empty walls, there is none of that vague unfamiliarity that so often comes with a new space. No, this home is warm, and welcoming, and instantly comfortable for us.

I baked a cake and we opened presents after breakfast. Swee even picked out a special something for her Beanie at the swap shed this weekend, and it’s truly the perfect gift. I’m tired – goodness, I’m tired! – but it seems fitting to celebrate our little love here tonight, in our family’s very own space.

Oh, were we ever a sight yesterday afternoon. With very minimal time to spare, we decided to help the chickens make their big move. J somehow, somehow maneuvered his Silverado into the backyard and behind the coop. I ran next door to borrow a dog crate and then followed all five birds around the yard, shaking a parmesan cheese can full of scratch and calling to them like they’re dogs. To be fair, several came running like good little dinos, but the others had no intention of being captured. It was probably pretty funny to watch. With the big girls corralled, I headed in to the bathtub to scoop the “babies” into a cardboard box. When I reached in to catch them, one of the cockerels bit me on the wrist…and held on! He didn’t break the skin, but I was yelling some unpleasant things while trying to shake him off. Little punk.

Finally, all the critters were contained, and J had dug up enough of the base to tip the coop into the bed of the truck. Now, this thing stands taller than I do, with a fully shingled roof and barnboard siding. It’s heavy. More than once I wondered what would happen if it tipped the wrong way and landed on me. I don’t think I was much help, to be frank, but “we” managed to get it into the truck, get the truck out of the backyard, and lash everything down.

With the four-ways on, we crept our way to the new house. At one point I speculated to J that the people behind us might be taking bets on what exactly we were moving, though we eventually agreed that given the area, they probably accurately identified it as a chicken coop without much discussion.

The girls spent their first night on the homestead last night. I didn’t let them out this morning, wanting them to know exactly where their home is since we don’t have a run set up yet, but J decided to free them after lunch. They certainly looked grateful. It will be nice to have them around again. I’ve missed seeing them in the yard, and I certainly won’t mind the bug control!

Our little ones are only seven weeks old, so they overnighted in a big bin in the shed. I drilled some holes in the lid for air, and once we have the interior coop reinforced, the big girls will move inside, and the young-in’s will occupy Fort Knox until we can integrate them. Most sources suggest waiting til the chicks are 16 weeks old or so, giving the little ones a chance to grow to a comparable size next to their new sisters. We want them to survive any pecking order scuffles…literally. They’re growing fast, however, and we might not need to wait that long. I’ll snap some photos of them tonight…