The pumpkins are taking over our sitting area. They have tumbled almost completely out of the raised bed, and are creeping towards our chairs and gliders. Huge yellow-gold flowers are in varying stages of openness, and below each one is a round, green mini-pumpkin. The cucumber vines are similarly flowering, smaller lemon-yellow blossoms hiding beneath the canopy of leaves. Broccoli looks like broccoli now, a fact that tickles Beanie’s funny bone whenever she peeks inside the leaves.

We’re not harvesting anything right now. The chard and strawberries are done, and the tomatoes aren’t anywhere near ready. I overheard another gardener at yoga the other night, bemoaning the slow season, so I don’t believe it’s just my small patch that’s lagging behind the calendar.

Petunia, Pansy, Dottie and Pinky

Dottie and Pansy

Petunia

 

Our chickens will be thirteen weeks old this coming Sunday, and are allowed to free-range the yard in the evenings. We let them out when the girls go to bed and they wander around our ankles as we unwind by the fire. Tonight they joined me as I read, pecking at the dandelions underneath the glider. Only Pinky has been bold enough to investigate the veggie patch so far. Dottie is the biggest, and at the top of the pecking order. She seems to be something of a barnyard mutt with crazy coloring and fuzzy feet.

Pansy and Petunia, the Silver-Laced Wyandottes, are referred to as “the twins” because for a long time, only I could tell them apart. You can see, however, that Pansy has developed a substantial wattle, very distinct from her sister. She has also taken to making noise in the morning, a sound very much akin to a rubber chicken. We are wondering if perhaps she will soon be “the chicken formerly known as Pansy,” requiring a more masculine moniker. We shall see.

We acquired two cast iron skillets, so some re-seasoning is on the list as my next project. Beanie and I foraged some black raspberries last week, and my little helper helped herself to several tremendous mouthfuls. With a scant cupful leftover, I tried Molly’s puff pancake. I enjoyed it, which is good because I ate it for breakfast and lunch since no one else did. Some of those strawberries we picked were plunked onto homemade shortcake one evening. I managed to freeze a few, but most of them got gobbled right up. I’m hoping to sneak out early one of these mornings to pick raspberries up the road.

I’m enjoying the cool evenings, even more because I am not enjoying the heat of the late afternoons. I shouldn’t complain because soon the snow will fly, but for now, I’m happy to light the lantern and relax in a hoodie with a good book and my chickens.

 

 

The green wheat’s a-growing,
The lark sings on high;
In scarlet silk a-glowing,
Here stand I.

– Cicely Mary Barker, “Poppy” from Flower Fairies of the Seasons

The poppies in Swee’s wildflower garden opened this week, a bright contrast to all of the green around us. She loves the Flower Fairies, and it’s been such fun connecting the pictures and poems with the real things growing. 

I don’t have much experience growing flowers other than marigolds and petunias, but would love to branch out with all kinds of perennials when we finally land in a place of our own. Until then, we’ll enjoy the surprises this seed mix throws our way. I think the cosmos are next…

I am finding that as I get older, I feel others’ tragedies more strongly, and I suspect that as a mama, it’s because I now have more to lose. Perhaps it’s also because social media brings everything into my living room, and I am reading the words and seeing the photos of friends and loved ones in pain so quickly afterward.

There have been unbearable losses this week, and much sadness and uncertainty.

My sorority sister lost her young husband suddenly. He was a veteran (like J) and they have two girls, aged 2 and 4 (like my girls). I am hurting for them. A family that is very special to us received a shitty diagnosis for their 5-year-old son, and I am hurting for them as well.

And unless you live under a rock, or even just in a self-imposed bubble, you know at least something of the violence people in our country are visiting upon one another. It is a heavy, heavy time.

Our little house in Maryland sat fewer than ten miles from the worst of the Freddie Gray riots. J was here and we were there, and while ten miles is a lot of distance in a city like that, it was all still so very close. Selfishly, I am glad that we are now living in relative rural safety. I like knowing that our water supply isn’t tied up in a city-wide system, and that I won’t wind up in a gridlock on the beltway should we need to leave the area.

I don’t believe that this is my season to be an activist, at least not outside of my own home. My responsibility right now is to my children, to keep them safe and fed, and to shield them as much as I can. To show them what kindness looks like, and encourage them to spread that kindness. To care for our community, and to be as self-sufficient as possible so that should the worst happen, whatever that may look like, we will be ok.

So today we picked strawberries. Lots of strawberries. We went as a family. We bickered on the way, but we showed our girls how you can disagree and then find resolution. We connected with the other people in the strawberry patch and talked about everyone doing their share of the work (an ongoing lesson, of course). We taught them how berries grow, and we let them gorge themselves on warm, healthy fruit.

Tomorrow, I will put those strawberries away – in freezer bags and in jars of jam for later, in bowls for snacking and shortcake for sharing. Tomorrow, I will begin to take stock of what we have in the cabinets – food, first aid supplies, water. Tomorrow we will continue this important work of raising good, kind, decent human beings. We will see what happens, but we won’t do nothing.

 

If you’ve been following along here for any length of time, you’ll remember that we made a point of going on “adventures” as often as we could last summer, when nearly every trip in the car was an adventure because everything was new. Last summer we were also a one income family, and our breadwinner had every Friday off, so we had the flexibility, if not the funds, for frequent outings. Adventures have been in short supply this summer. With both of us working oddball schedules now, time is the major issue, so when I was reminded that I had a flex holiday to use up within the next few weeks, we decided to take the chance to go adventuring.

To the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens.

About an hour’s drive away, the gardens are just gorgeous. Rustic and decidedly un-fussy, they have a wildness that is so very Maine. It was a very comfortable place to visit. Not overly manicured, but still carefully curated. We spend the majority of our time in the Children’s Garden, visiting with Little Bear in the blueberry patch and clambering across the rope bridge in the treehouse, but wandered through most of the Central Garden area as well. Mama loved the kitchen garden best, and our littles made wishes with pennies tossed in the fountain. There’s a lot we didn’t see, and I’m keen to try one of the boat tours, maybe as a date day with J. Either way, I think we’ll be back.

Wouldn’t you know, all that adventuring can make a girl hungry. We stopped in Wiscasset on the way home and enjoyed a lobster roll on the water. It’s kind of fun doing the touristy things now and again, without the pressure of trying to cram it all into a short trip, particularly knowing that we get to go home and sleep in our own beds. It’s the best kind of adventuring.

My chickens go bonkers for organic chard. It’s the only thing we’re harvesting with any regularity right now, and while I’ve tossed it in salads, I find I’m not a huge fan of the flavor. I hadn’t originally planted it for the birds, but I think I will sow another row or two this weekend just for them. It’s saving us on feed, I’m sure, and it’s definitely providing entertainment. The six little ones who were here this past week were just enamored with our little flock, and spent a lot of time feeding leaves through the fence and giggling when they got pecked.

Everything else is growing, and the garden is thick and lush. The tomatoes are beginning to form on the vines, and I’m really excited for them to ripen. I chose to plant only cherries this year, Sungold, and a red variety whose name is escaping me. My full-sized fruits never ripened last year, and I’m wondering if it just didn’t get hot enough. We were gifted a couple of tomato seedlings of indeterminate variety, two of which got planted before they withered, so we may have some big ones after all. It will be a surprise.

The strawberries are ripening slowly, and eager little hands checked them constantly last week. I read that I should have pinched off the flowers this first year to allow for more plant growth, but since we’ll be transplanting them in the spring anyway, I figured I’d just let them do as they pleased for now. The apple tree is laden with hard green fruit, and my lavender is finally blooming. Sweebee’s wildflower garden grew like crazy while I was gone, and she was so excited to see flowers opening this past week.

Thanks to the girls’ disdain for organized rows in the garden, I have lost track of which vines are pumpkins and which are cukes. They’re flowering now, and spilling out of the confines of the bed, so I think it will quickly become apparent which is which.

Today, Handsome Fixer Man is building a surprise for the girls in the yard, my parents are coming over to cook out, and then we’re all heading to the town beach for fireworks.

Wishing you all a safe and happy Independence Day weekend!

 

There’s no place like home.

I’m coming off of 6 days in Florida with 500 strong, successful and supportive women. We gathered together to celebrate the bonds of sisterhood, to laugh and to cry, and encourage each other in so many ways. It was wonderful to sit down with my people and pick up where we left off, enjoying the easy flow of conversation that happens with those who really know you. I was sad to leave them, though I anticipate some visitors to Maine before long. Despite the melancholy of separation, I had such a sense of relief when my plane landed and I walked into our tiny terminal. Slow and small. I breathe more easily here.

Freed from the airport, I cruised up I-95, windows open to enjoy the fact that it was 25* cooler here than in Jacksonville, and a Bald Eagle swooped out of the marsh and across my lane with a fish in its talons.

The weekend before I left, we celebrated a fourth birthday with chocolate-frosted cupcakes and kite-flying on the beach. The next day, I squelched my inclination to plan, and Daddy led us on an expedition to eat brunch and then go fishing.

I came home from my trip to J’s family visiting for a couple of days, and bringing our headcount to five adults, one teen, and six kids ranging in age from 2 to 8. These kids can pack the food away, let me tell you!

I have no way to wrap this up succinctly, which I suppose is appropriate because nothing right now can be wrapped up in a neat little package, least of all my thoughts. I’m tired, and happy, and I think that’s good enough.

 

 

 

“Would you like some parsnip seeds?”

I was standing at the circulation desk in our tiny village library when she walked in with a brown paper shopping bag and a box of resealable sandwich baggies. She had come to share the wealth with the seed exchange that the library hosts, and stood at the central table to parcel them out. She gave me so many, I think that I’ll be sharing them as well.

The girls and I pulled in at 3:01 pm yesterday, thinking we’d be the first family in the door as they opened. I realized that was silly of me, following one car up into the half-filled lot with another coming in close behind us. When the library is open, the people come, and I am glad for it. If they are struggling to stay relevant, I am certainly struggling to see it as the library seems to be the epicenter of our little town. It’s the first place that I learned of our town newsletter last year, and one of our librarians kindly added me to the email distribution. Yesterday, I picked up the form for summer swimming lessons at the town beach so that we can get Swee registered. Our pumpkins are growing from seeds picked out of the library’s exchange, and it would appear we’re adding parsnips to the mix. The library is a vibrant and essential part of this community, and I am grateful for it.

This week we are:

– pulling chard from the garden in bunches, adding it to salads and feeding some to the chickens (if you’re local and want to barter, let me know – we have a lot)

– mending in the garden

– enjoying some new to us garden seating (and trying to choose a color for a facelift)

– surviving our first power outage in this rental – successfully!

Summer is almost upon us – what are you up to?

Ok, chicken people. I need some help.

We are total novices at this poultry game. Everything we know we’ve learned from books, blogs, or through J’s amazing Google fu. And really, for possessing no practical knowledge, things are going pretty well. We had no pasty behinds. We didn’t lose any chickies while they lived in our bathtub. I mistook Dottie’s umbilical cord for poop once when she was tiny, and made her bleed a little (and felt awful), but she survived with no ill effects. They eat like hogs, and learned to roost all on their own. So far, so good.

Our feathered friends are seven weeks old tomorrow, and look like actual chickens now. Gone is the gangly half feather/half fluff look they were rocking, and instead they’re starting to take on that chicken shape. They’ve been out in the coop for two and a half weeks now. It only took a day or so for them to find their roosts and snuggle in together under the heat lamp, which we’re using because they’re still young and it’s still cold at night. We blocked the nesting boxes so that they wouldn’t become accustomed to sleeping (and pooping) where they will eventually lay, and hadn’t let them out into the run until yesterday. And here comes my question.

My assumption, based on my reading, was that at dusk, they would return to their established home and prep for bedtime. It’s only been two nights, but they have not shown that initiative.

Several of the girls let me scoop them and put them inside. Easy peasy. Two have hidden under the coop where I cannot reach them and refused to come out until I bribed them with crumble, and then ambushed them. It took thirty minutes last night; forty-five tonight. This cannot continue, basically because by 8pm, I’ve used up the last of my patience on my human children and honestly, I just want to go to bed.

Am I rushing them? Trying to put them to bed too early? Did we let them into the run too soon? I’d love your thoughts.

Beyond that, our teeny homestead is coming together as nicely as I could hope for, being that it’s in the backyard of a rental. It’s shabby, but in the best way, and is quite comfortable. The grass is finally coming in, the veggies are growing, and we even set up an old woodstove as a firepit today. My friend Jocelyn shared a recipe for shrimp foil packets today as well, and I think our little redneck stove will be perfect for cooking them, maybe on J’s next day off. I’ll let you know how they turn out.

I went looking for a clean dishcloth tonight, and couldn’t find one. The kitchen drawer was empty, and there weren’t any in the basket of laundry waiting to be folded nor in the folded piles waiting to be put away. I can only surmise that they’re all dirty, but I have done so. much. laundry over the past seven days that I simply to refuse to believe that’s the case (dishes and laundry: the never-ending chores). Interestingly, my inclination was to pull out my knitting bag and cast on for another, because clearly we don’t have enough. And I realized that I must have come a long way if my first thought is to make one, and not to write dishcloth on the shopping list hanging on the fridge.

We have not been living as slowly as I’d like, though I’m still making the effort to live intentionally. I have the faint sense that we are close to finding our stride with this new schedule, the way we do at the end of each semester or the beginning of a new adventure. I’m looking forward to putting this frenzied pace back to sleep for another few months.

The quiet nights at home while J is at work are welcome, though still different for me. I find that when he’s here I don’t do much in the evenings, preferring instead to be in the same room with him. If he’s doing homework, I’ll read or knit, but it’s nice to just be together. Now that I’m getting used to the relative solitude, I’m tackling those little tasks that make our daytimes run more smoothly and comfortably, like dirtying those dishcloths to wash up the pots and pans that don’t go in the dishwasher. It’s nice to wake up to an empty sink and clean countertop.

Tonight when those dishes were done, I refreshed our supply of homemade taco seasoning. I’ve been mixing our own for a number of years now, and while the flavor isn’t as complex as some store bought packets, it tastes cleaner. I use two parts garlic powder, onion powder, chili powder and cumin, and one part red pepper flakes, usually in increments of a teaspoon until the jar is filled. It’s simple, and I’m sure I could kick it up a notch, but simple is the point. I hate DIY recipes that require a million ingredients you’ll never use for anything else; they defeat the purpose. These are standard spices, and won’t go to waste. I use a 4 ounce jelly jar that must have originally come to us as a gift, because I know I didn’t buy it, though I don’t remember what was in it to start. Most likely something homemade, and actually, a little jar of seasoning would make a nice gift.

I joked to J the other night that it must be summertime here in Vacationland, as our calendar is suddenly filling up with out-of-state visitors arriving and departing, back to back. I think it will be wonderful introducing our loved ones to this lovely place, and maybe we’ll recruit a few more transplants!

Though, visitors mean more dirty dishes. I suppose I better get to knitting that dishcloth.

 

The words “violently ill” have long seemed like hyperbole to me, but then I hadn’t truly been sick since I was very young, maybe six or seven years old. I remember laying on the couch next to a bucket, a towel folded over the cushion, wondering why my ginger ale had to be warm and why I couldn’t have more butter on my toast. It’s been a long time, and really, I’d rather it have been longer.

I was violently ill this past weekend, and it was dreadful.

My poor Swee woke me up around 2am on Friday as she crawled into my bed. Given the hour, I didn’t ask any questions and instead pulled her in for a snuggle. She soon woke me again, and I spent the rest of the night holding her skinny little self over the bucket. She seemed to rally on Saturday but things went up and down for her for a couple of days.

Gramma came Saturday evening and took care of everything. Babies, dinner, dishes, laundry, Candy Land, bedtime, all the way through J’s shift Sunday night when I was finally able to sit upright again. We made it out for the parade on Monday, but Swee relapsed and we went home to bed. She’s much better now, if a little tired, and I’m so glad she’s finally eating and getting back to her normal. And I’m glad she didn’t have it as badly as I wound up. J and Beans escaped unscathed, thankfully, and Beanie was able to gorge herself on cake Monday night as we celebrated her second birthday.

My Swee-girl and I are glad to be back. J has this weekend off, and there’s a lot of living to do. Welcome to summertime in Maine!