Other people celebrate their maturing relationships with evermore valuable baubles, starting as humble as paper, with aspirations of gold, silver, and even diamonds. We have no such goals.

Let’s just say we got a late start. But we have just celebrated our Crumbs Anniversary, and oddly, simultaneously achieved a long term objective in that very department.

We moved in together ten years ago. Both scarred by failed marriages, it was a dicey start. There’s always that fear that the person you’ve been hanging with will turn into Frankenstein, once the furniture is rearranged and the additional keys are cut. For just a instant there, Rick thought he’d fallen into exactly that horror scenario.

It was the evening of our second day. I walked into the dim kitchen to make myself a snack. Initially I didn’t bother to turn on a light, but then, couldn’t find the utensil I needed in the dark drawer. I flipped the switch and was taken aback at what I saw on the countertop.

Crumbs!

I called him into the kitchen to point out his crime. “Rick, we need to talk.” He looked at me as though I’d grown horns! Really, I didn’t think I was asking so much–yet everything about him changed in that moment. His posture became defensive and he beat a quick retreat, slinking back to his office. In light of the situation, I didn’t understand what I perceived as an over-reaction to my comment.

A few moments later, snack in hand, I realized that we might not be communicating. I followed him in his retreat.

“You know it’s about gluten, right?”

He looked up. “What?”

“The crumbs issue. It’s only an issue because it can make me sick.”

His relief was palpable–he exhaled and tipped his head back, and then nodded. “Thank God! I thought you’d suddenly turned into some kind of maniac neat freak–and here I’d just moved in!”

“No, no. It’s just we need to discuss the blended house thing. Of course you can eat wheat, but we also need to create patterns that are safe.”

And he has been a marvelous partner since. He’s actually more careful than I am. After all, there have been some mistakes made along the way, and he’s seen the price I pay. Crumb patrol is serious stuff in this house.

We laugh about it. And we’ve fully adjusted. It turns out you can share a house and a kitchen with a Wheatie, without being endangered.

I am a bit of a foodie. And it has always been my objective to create healthy food that tastes great. Gluten-free threw a bit of a wrench into that goal, but I make the effort.

So, as if to bring it full circle, one thing that the pandemic wrought was my return to bread baking. Pre-wheat intolerance, I’d been an awesome baker. For decades I not only baked all our bread, but I ground and blended the flour…always in search of the perfect loaf. Suddenly not being able to eat wheat was like landing on a foreign planet. I gave up. Gluten-free breads were generally brick-like and inedible.

The pandemic sour-dough revolution was contagious. My sister gave me a gluten-free sour dough starter and the gauntlet was thrown down. After decades, I returned to the world of bread. In short order I was able to make a loaf that was “not bad for gluten free.” But that was never the objective. The challenge was to make healthy bread that even Rick could enjoy, without noticing that it was gluten-free.

Yesterday I baked the first “cross-over” loaf of bread. After six months of tinkering and experimentation…bread. This might not sound like much to the regular world, but…it has a warm and golden color, it rose to an acceptable level of loft, the crumb is even, moist, and elastic, and it tastes like real bread. Coincidentally, it happened to be our anniversary, our Crumbs Anniversary. It took ten years, and a pandemic, to bring us to this.

Now, if I can only get my hands on some amaranth flour…

In 2004, I discovered that I could not tolerate gluten. Until then, I’d been a prolific baker, and ever since I’ve been reinventing the wheel to figure out how to get healthy, tasty baked goods. It can be a challenge.

I’d pretty much settled on a Banana Bread recipe just over a decade ago. I don’t tolerate sweets much, so it was not overly sweet. It has nuts for protein and texture, flax seed for all things omega. I thought it was pretty good. But Rick never ate it. He’d make excuses, said it should be for me, since I didn’t get many baked goodies. But I could tell; it just wasn’t a treat for him. Recently, I’ve made a few changes to the recipe–and now he’s sold. Can you guess?

Perfect Banana Nut Bread

3 medium to large bananas

1 cup chopped pecans

2 eggs

1/2 cup mixed butter and coconut oil (50/50), melted

1/3 cup sugar (or honey)

1/3 cup ground flax seed

3/4 teaspoon xantham gum

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon vanilla

3/4 cup raisins

1/3 cup chocolate chips

1 cup oat flour

1/2 cup gluten free baking flour

Bake at 350 for 90 minutes (until interior temperature is between 190 and 200)

This is not a fussy recipe and I tinker with it. So, what’s the magic ingredient? If you guessed chocolate chips, you’re dead on. I also subbed in oat flour, for a springier texture, but it’s the chocolate that won him over.

I have a friend who is also a Facebook “influencer.” He has been warning people for weeks that they need to stock up, that instability and uprisings will likely interrupt the supply chain, causing shortages of food and necessities.

Until last week, I thought it was overblown. But then, I grew up with a pantry mentality.

My parents had only one car, which my father needed to get to work. We lived in Canada in the 1960s, when blue laws meant that grocery stores were not open on Sundays, and only open a half day on Saturdays (and some closed on Wednesdays–don’t ask, it has convoluted historical roots.) So shopping for a family of seven was inconvenient, and a big deal.

Once every two weeks, in the wee hours of the morning, my parents would load us up into the car, drive us all to my Dad’s office (across the river in Detroit), and then Mum would take us home so we could get to school. She’d do the shopping during the day (often with a kid or two in tow) and then, at the end of the day, load us all up again, to go pick my Dad up. Grocery day was grueling and an inspiration for any mild-mannered prepper. If you were going to need it in the next two weeks, you bought it that day.

From there, my parents moved to Copper Harbor, in the far north of Michigan. The closest grocery store was 37 miles away, and any major shopping was 50 miles away. Again, you didn’t go often and you bought enough to last. Pantry Mentality.

I know that urban dwellers have the option of fresh, civilized marketing on a near daily basis. Even when I lived in the city, that has never been my reality. I gardened for most fresh produce. And, since I always worked, grocery shopping was in the evenings, or left to the crowded weekends. And in Northern California, there was always the possibility of disruption from earthquakes. I kept things on hand for a longer haul.

How long could you go if the stores were closed…or empty?

I’m thinking I could go weeks, maybe even a month, though the menu would be pretty limited by the end. During the summer months, when fresh is a walk to the garden, we could go longer.

Though (with fingers crossed) I don’t think our current crisis will result in shortages, it’s time for people to pull their heads out of the sand and consider emergencies. If the pandemic has taught us anything, it should be that we need to be nimble and creative about provisioning. Many of us are a ________ (insert your personal relevant crisis–blizzard, power outage, hurricane, wildfire, pandemic, earthquake, plague of frogs, and yes, even an insurrection) away from food insecurity. A deeper pantry could be the difference between soup kitchen and a big pot of soup, in your kitchen.

So, while I’m not anticipating Armageddon, my friend isn’t all wrong. Stock up. Be prepared.

(Note, I’m posting this while Congress debates Impeachment. I may change my tune by the Inauguration.)

It is hot. I am dressed in a new, pale yellow dress with a smocked front. Well, it’s new to me, a hand-me-down that I finally fit. I love the texture of the dimpled smocking. It has contrast color stitching. Mostly I feel dressed up and special. My mother puts my little sister down for her nap. The older kids are outside with my dad, who is mowing the lawn. In retrospect, I have pieced the scene together, and know that I must have been about three and a half.

Mum wants to take a short walk to the mail box. It’s just a hop-skip and a jump away–maybe a little over a block. She takes my hand and tells me we’re going to mail some letters. I am thrilled. I get to go on a walk with my Mum, just the two of us! We stop in the yard, to tell my Dad.

It is blisteringly hot. My mother mops her brow with the back of her hand, even before we’re out of the driveway. I cling to her other hand.

We don’t get far, before our neighbor calls out to my Mum. They live opposite us, the front of our house looks across the crescent to the back of their house. Theirs is the mirror image of ours, one of the many variations on a theme in our neighborhood. The Missus wants my mum to come in for a minute, she has a question. We head across their lawn towards her “back door,” which, like ours, is really a side door to the kitchen, off the carport.

The carport area is shaded, and cooler. With me in tow, Mum takes the first step up to their kitchen door when the Missus tells her to leave me in the carport–this won’t take a minute. Mum settles me onto the concrete steps, before heading in.

I smooth out the fullness of my new dress, over my knees. My little fingers explore the fancy puckers in the smocked front. The neighbors’ dog, Taffy, jumps up to sit beside me. She is not a big dog, I later learn that she’s a cocker spaniel. I turn to her and tell her that it is very, very hot. The rest happens very, very fast.

The dog attacks me. The first bite is just under my chin, along the jaw. Then it jumps and grabs the flesh at the end of my eyebrow. I scream. My mother, who has just barely cleared the threshold into the kitchen, turns, and Taffy bites me again, piercing through my upper and lower lips, muffling my cries. My mouth fills with blood.

Mum rushes out and shoos the dog.  She scoops me up into her arms to comfort me.

“She must have teased the dog,” the Missus accuses, from just inside her kitchen.

I understand. She wants this to be my fault, and I cry out, “Noooo!”  I am covered with blood. I know that I did not tease the dog.

My Mum turns to bring me into their house, to their kitchen to clean me up and assess the damage. The Missus holds the screen door shut. “Oh no,” she says, “Take her home.”

Stunned, Mum turns and runs home with me in her arms. It takes both of my parents to hold me, screaming, on the kitchen counter as they flush and clean the wounds. The letters are not mailed. The dress is ruined. My parents are livid.

The Missus never mentions it again. She does not check to see if I am okay. My parents, young and shocked, never think to report the attack to the authorities. Though we live there, just across the crescent from them for another fourteen years, my mother never speaks to the Missus again. To this day, my Mum becomes incensed when the incident comes up, which it doesn’t very often.

The scars remain. And, in my mid-thirties, I am diagnosed as being allergic to dogs–the only one in my family with an animal allergy. I ask the doctor if being mauled as a kid could be the cause, and he nods, “Yes, that would make sense.” I tell my Mum (one of the few times it comes up.) She pursues it and asks her doctor, and other medical friends. Not that it really makes any difference.

Last year, in a Facebook group from my hometown, I become re-acquainted with her son, Bill. We reminisce about growing up in our neighborhood. He comments how odd it is that there was so little contact between our families, given our proximity. I say, that, for my part, it was because of the Taffy Incident.

“Huh?”

I describe the dog attack. He never knew that that had happened–and mentions that the dog had attacked other children, and had to be put down because of it. I hadn’t known that. He mentions, in passing, his hope that that incident hadn’t been the cause of any distance between our families. So I ask my Mum.

“Absolutely.” She answers, as if it had happened yesterday. “That woman!” She is doubly incensed when I tell her that the dog had to be put down. She bemoans that she and my Dad hadn’t had the sense at the time to report it. It’s more raw for her than for me. Some things never go away. I decided not to mention it to Bill.

The Missus passed away this week. Covid. I read the obit, and sent a note of condolence to Bill. The obit was full of loving tributes–how wonderful, and funny, and warm she had been. The Taffy Incident was nearly six decades ago, and I hold no grudge. Of course, she was elderly–and like many family members of Covid victims, it pains Bill that she had to die alone. This is the agony of a pandemic.

I decided not to mention it to my mother, but my sister did. My mother, in turn, reported it to me–announcing in the same breath, that she had no feelings about it, one way or another. But I can still feel the icy chip on her shoulder.

We were all surprised by the Christmas blast in Nashville. What did it mean? Why was it done? Because we all want to make some sense of it, to place it in the context of our understanding of the world. Why would someone do such a thing?

Is it a foreign threat? Is it a splinter of some nefarious domestic group? Is it the act of some lone, crazy person? In short, is it terrorism, or is it vandalism (albeit an over-the-top level of vandalism.)

There’s big money betting on the result of these investigations. Because, depending upon the answer, is the question of who will pay. Already, the City of Nashville has requested federal assistance. An incident of this magnitude is beyond the locals ability to cope. The FBI has taken the lead. If this is a terrorist plot, federal dollars may follow.

You may recall the terrorism exceptions to coverage that became part of the lexicon of insurance following the attacks of September 11, 2001. The Insurance industry mobilized to make it clear that they would not cover losses caused by terrorism, or riot or civil disturbance. We all received BIG PRINT notices with our insurance renewals, making it clear that this new hazard, terrorism, was not a covered event.

Depending upon the results of this investigation we may well spend the next decade litigating the definition of terrorism. Our government defines it as, “…activities that involve violent …or life-threatening acts…that are a violation of the criminal laws of the United States or of any State and …appear to be intended (i) to intimidate or coerce a civilian population; (II) to influence the policy of a government by intimidation or coercion; or (iii) to affect the conduct of a government by mass destruction, assassination, or kidnapping; and (C) occur primarily within the teritorial jurisdiction of the United States.” (Federal Criminal Code. Title 18 USC)

It seems, in short, that the turning point of terrorism is whether or not there’s some underlying ideology or objective. So, “lone crazy” may equal insurance coverage. Coordinated, conspiratorial or ideological attack would invalidate coverage, providing, at best for some FEMA type relief.

There are vested interests at stake in this investigation. Does Petula Clark’s “Downtown” make it more likely or not, to be terrorism? (Just wait for the parodies.) Does a pre-recorded announcement to evacuate make it more or less likely to be terrorism? Would it be terrorism if it were merely a disgruntled customer of AT&T?

Stay tuned for answers. Watch the free for all of vested interests. And wait for the new round of disclaimers from an insurance company near you.

Three articles came to my attention this past week. None of them was really news to me, but it was interesting that all reached the mainstream in the same week. The first projected U.S. domestic relocations anticipated because of climate change. Tens of millions. No surprise there. After all, it was one of the considerations that brought me home to Michigan seven years ago. Climate change was also a factor in choosing this property when I purchased it, over three decades ago. At the time, I hoped that I would be wrong about it. After all, in three decades we really did have plenty of opportunity to turn this juggernaut around. Was I cynical in making the purchase, or did I just know human nature? When climate makes life miserable, or dangerous, people will move. At least people who can afford to do so. Left behind will be the poor and elderly–or so the predictions say. And this only reflected domestic climate dislocation–multiply that around the world.

It’s already happening–and you can see it if you watch real estate trends. In our county, prices are up–but more tellingly, days on the market are way down, in a record-breaking kind of way. Stuff sells fast. Elsewhere, in my tiny northern home town, (where it’s easier to know the inside story) properties are selling before they even make it onto the ‘market.’ Word of mouth is enough for a property to find a new owner.

The Great Lakes States have ample water–unlike my old home in California. Too much, of late. Pricey waterfront homes are inundated, shorlines are eroding. Needless to say, I did not select pricey waterfront property. My Dad always said, “Build on high land.” But it goes to show you that you cannot anticipate all of the ripples of a changing climate. Sure, Florida may be underwater, but so too might inland areas be deluged by heavy, flooding rains, or hurricane force winds. Go figure.

The second article was about ocean warming, and its impact on plankton. Sure enough, those tiny critters of the ocean are dying because they cannot tolerate warmer temperatures (or perhaps the difference in chemical composition of warmer ocean waters–we don’t know which.) These are organisms so small that you cannot see them without magnification. Why should we care? Well, plankton are responsible for nearly half of all the oxygen generated on the planet. That should get everyone’s attention, but it won’t. Rick and I have been planting trees every year in an effort to create and maintain a climate resilient forest on the property. Not just because we like trees (though we really do like trees)–trees, along with plankton, are the lungs of the planet. They breathe out the oxygen that the animal kingdom breathes in. (We are part of the animal kingdom.) Plant trees, please. It won’t matter if you relocate to cooler, wetter property if we’re all left gasping for air. You can run, but you cannot hide.

The third article was about a controversial road planned through what’s left of the Amazon rainforest. It is well known that roadbuilding into pristine areas can be the death knell of the ecosystem. The Amazon forest is a huge source of oxygen for the planet. But economic pressures in Brazil have pushed to ‘develop’ the Amazon for decades–at the expense of the forest and the indigenous people who live there. This past year fires have devastated the region–but not like the California fires. These infernos have been set intentionally, against the law, but with the nod of the current regime. Once the forest burns it’s farmed, or converted to rangeland for beef production. It is an environmental crime of monumental proportion. Again, in addition to the immediate environmental damage, this comes with the cost of generated oxygen. Another, ironic, study this year pointed out a Brazilian tipping point with deforestation. The forest itself is a factor in climate. If you cut too much of the forest, the rains stop. And that’s what they’re beginning to see in the Amazon. These lands cleared by fire are losing their source of water. In search of a fast buck, those deforesting the region are inadvertently creating desert, not farmland. In a dark way, it serves them right. But they aren’t the only ones who’ll suffer for it. We see similar trends in Indonesia, and around the world, with similar ramifications.

We are in the process of creating a future world that may be unrecognizable to anyone living today. Only we have the power to slam on the brakes. World over, people need to pressure their governments to take action. And each of us needs to look at our own climate impact, and make changes. I worry though, that nobody is connecting the dots.

In any other year, we’d make the drive north to visit my mum and sister for the holidays. But, because of Covid, we skipped Thanksgiving and now we’re skipping Christmas/New Years. Next Year we can be together, without endangering one another. Better to ensure that we’ll all be here for it.

Which only left one troublesome little detail. What to do about Sadie?

Last January, my Mum’s old dog passed away. She was really old, so this was not unexpected. Adjusting to a new life, sans canine companion, was tough for Mum, doubly so in a pandemic. She was lonely.

In May, her good friend Joe celebrated his 95th birthday. It got Mum thinking…and she called me up, with an announcement. “I’m getting a dog. You and Kelly have to help me select one.” The search was on.

The reason for this shift was the realization that, if Joe could see 95 trips around the sun…so could she. And she just couldn’t see how that would be enjoyable for the next dozen-plus years, without a dog. She’s not undertaking it lightly. She has back-up dog-god-parents lined up. But if a dog would make her happy, a dog it is.

For a change, Mum wanted a non-allergic dog. I am the only one in the family with a dog allergy. For the past two dogs, about 25 years, visiting has been problematic. I either dose myself with anti-histamines for the duration, or I suffer. She wanted to change that–but it meant she couldn’t just pick up a shelter puppy. It meant a pure-bred dog. Sigh. We searched for rescue dogs. No luck. My sisters and I determined that we should all kick in for this pricey puppy. The search was turning into a plan.

Kelly and I went to work, researching dogs. We looked at poodles and whoodles and cockapoos. We looked at golden doodles, corgipoos, and poogies. Mum was not impressed. She wanted a DOG, not a lap-mop. She’s accustomed to a quarter of a century of german shorthair pointers. Bigger. We looked at Spanish and Portuguese Water Dogs. Closer, but no cigar.

Then, within half a day of each other, Kelly and I both happened upon the Lagotta Romagnolo. The Roman Water Dog. Precurser to the other water dogs and the poodle, the Lagotta in an ancient species, dating back almost a thousand years. Big enough to have real dog heft (about 27 pounds) but not too big for a senior to lift, the Lagotta is smart and loyal. And loves water. (Mum wants to throw sticks in the lake for fetching.)

Kelly found a couple of breeders and selected one living near me. The deposit was paid. And the wait for Sadie began. We thought it would be spring before a puppy was ready.

An email in early November revealed that the puppies had been born! They would be ready near Christmas. (Merry Christmas Mum–and Happy Birthday, too.) But having decided to forego Holiday travel, we were now faced with a puppy delivery conundrum. My mum lives 450 miles away from me. (500 miles from the breeder.) That’s nearly 9 hours–in good weather. How to safely transfer a December puppy in the time of Covid?

We met part way. I picked up the puppy and drove her to Marquette, where my sister and Mum met me in a parking lot. Observing proper social distancing, I transferred said puppy to their car–whilst they stood clear. We exchanged holiday packages and distance greetings–got back in our respective vehicles, and drove home.

It made for a very, very long day. But the weather held and my mother is now the proud Mum of Sadie, the Wonder Dog. I expect puppy tales, for months to come. My Mum is so excited with her new critter. It couldn’t have wound up any better, in these otherwise challenging holidays. What we’re not giving each other for Christmas is Covid.

I hope you all find ways to make your season shine. Happy Holidays.

Spent

My niece and her husband own a brewery–just a little microbrew outfit, called the Brickside. There’s little in it for me, beer is not gluten free. But my sister and her husband get a serious side benefit…spent grain.

Spent grain is a by-product of beer production. It is rich in nutrients and fiber. Some people dry it and bake with it. A lot of small farmers use it to augment the diets of their livestock. And gardeners use it for compost, and for direct amendment of their soils. My brother-in-law’s garden is lush and productive, in large part because of spent grain. It’s too bad that they’re 450 miles away.

2020 was supposed to be the year that we went in big with spent grain for our garden. We have friends, here in town, who have a brew-pub. Or, had. Just as we were gearing up for the great spent grain experiment, Covid-19 hit. And our friends had to make the difficult decision to close their establishment. Restaurants run on slim margins–doubly so for seasonal restaurants. That’s true, even if you can offer delicious artisan crafted beer on your menu. Our friends are one of the many who do not anticipate re-opening. So much for our foray into spent grain. It’s hard to complain about the loss of a perk, when our friends have lost their way of life.

There are other micro-breweries in the area. Rick decided to do a mass email to see if any of them were looking for folks to take their spent grains. Most locals already have farmers lined up to take them. But one answered in the affirmative. Sometimes he does “short runs” and his farmer can’t make the small batch stuff work for him. So this week, we received our first run of spent grain.

It was three huge bins of steaming, aromatic, wet grain. Each of the bins weighed in at well over 200 pounds. With it being mid-winter, we weren’t exactly geared up for this, so we decided to use the first load to top-dress our raised beds. We dumped the bins directly from the bed of the pick-up truck into our winter sled–five full sled loads, which we hauled down to the garden. We gave some to the chickens–but mostly, we loaded up the gardens. We finished, just as we lost daylight, happy and satisfied that our soil amendment experiment had begun.

The next morning I returned the bins. That afternoon, we walked down past the garden to scope out where we’d put our spent grain composting operation, when the next load was ready. We were shocked by what we saw. Deer in the garden!

Apparently, spent grain is heady, tempting stuff. Because those deer had come through that garden fence like it wasn’t even there. Over, through, (between the wires), however they could do it to get to that delicious all-you-can-eat buffet of sweet spent grain. All around the perimeter, and all over the garden, the snow was trampled with their hoof prints. I don’t think we’ve ever seen so much deer activity. Of course, once inside the fence, they weren’t limiting themselves to the grain smorgasbord–they were nibbling on the orchard trees, too!

Quickly, we set up barriers around the most vulnerable baby trees. But we knew that we had to deal with the grain–because it had created an irresistible invitation into a previously deer-free zone.

So, today, we went out to cover all the amended beds with heavy black plastic, weighed down with concrete blocks. We had to cover, or remove, all of the spent grain we’d spent half a day spreading. Rick is convinced that, come Spring, a new, taller, stronger fence will be installed. But just now we have to make it through the rest of the winter. A couple of hours later, we were cold and filthy, but it was done. The grain is fully covered–and we are spent.

Tonight Rick’s been checking the garden every hour or so. He stands on the front porch and shines a high beam flashlight into the garden. The light catches their eyes, in a strange ghostly way. So far, so good. Only one made its way into the garden. But we can see them, standing around the outside of the fenceline…wondering what happened to that great feast.

Terraced North Side

There are a couple of big projects we’ve been working to finish before the snow flies. December has been cold, but dry. We’re all starting to ask one another, “Where’s the snow?” In its absence, there’s been the opportunity to extend the outdoor chore period. Some of the work is slow–because it’s cold, but progress is progress.

Terraced South Side

I’ve been striving to complete our erosion control project along the side walls of the barn, where the roof edges drain. Rick did the terracing and my job has been to plant groundcover, and then mulch the area with pine needles harvested from the forest. Some of it (where the soil is not so good) has an under-layer of shredded leaf mulch. (Thanks to the suggestion of Deb Weyrich-Cody.) It’s tedious work, and I can only go for a half day at a time in the cold. The mind wanders while planting approximately 4,600 little sprigs (but who’s counting?) I finished today–with the last of the pine needle mulch. We’re ready for whatever winter brings.

Peeking Through

As for Rick, ever since we started keeping bees, he has wanted to bring them in out of the elements for the harshest times of the winter. There’s a “sweet spot” with bees, between 37 and 41 degrees Fahrenheit–in which they remain in their semi-dormant phase–but consume fewer resources. Also, winter cold doesn’t kill the bees, but wild fluctuations of temperature are hard on them–and moisture can kill. Of course, before we could offer winter shelter, first we had to build a barn.

Our barn is a “bank barn,” meaning that it is partially buried into the hillside (“banked in”) so that each of the two levels has ground level access. At the back of the lower level, it is buried about nine feet deep, which gives it some warmth from the ground. This lower level of the barn is not heated, but, except in the very coldest weather, maintains a pretty constant 40 degrees. And it never gets really cold, regardless what the weather throws at us.

Rick’s end-of-season task was to reorganize the barn so that there was room along the back wall for the bees. It took over a week to move everything around and organize. One of the issues with a lot of storage space is that it leaves room for inefficiencies. Not any more. He stacked all the lumber for our various planned projects, built racks for garden tools and forest tools. He even cleared enough space to put the truck in the barn. Who knew?

Then he built a wheeled dolly to hold the hives. The tractor could have delivered them on a pallet to the back of the barn, but it would have filled the area with diesel fumes. Not good for the bees. So the solution was the hive dolly.

Today was bee moving day. It went so smoothly, it was almost anti-climatic. We slid the three hives off their hive stands directly onto the bee dolly. Rick strapped them down, carefully backed them down the hill and gently lowered them onto the apron of the barn entrance. From there, he just pushed the whole assembly to the back wall.

First hive loaded.

Strapping them tightly.

Backing down the hill!

Despite the care, the bees didn’t take kindly to the move. We could hear them buzzing furiously behind the wire gate keeping them in. But they quieted down quickly once the action was over.

Winter digs.

The sweet spot.

It was a long day, with a flurry of outdoor chores, making ready. Because, tomorrow, we have an overdue appointment with winter.

This may be why I don’t mind winter. It’s cozy, and, with a couple of good books, I can outlast any storm. Of course, as is clear in the photo, there is the issue of near constant supervision.

I go through this every year. At some point, hopefully, I’ll learn to trust the numbers and relax. Thus far this year, we’ve been burning firewood from last year. That means we heated October and November without touching this year’s wood. The other day we exhausted that supply, and I loaded up the wood crib from the new wood for this year.

This will be our fourth winter here. We have learned from experience that we burn just over three cords of wood in a heating season. Behind the house, in two big stacks, is the pre-measured wood, stacked neatly, ready for this season. There’s a certain confidence, looking out the window to see those two big piles of split wood–each of these piles is four feet wide, twelve feet long and four to five feet high. It’s a generous three cords.

The wood crib, our storage area just outside the back door, holds between a third and a half cord. And that’s a good thing. But it means I’ve just pulled a significant chunk of firewood from the winter’s stores. It’s a big bite, and it shows. (Though we’ve only just moved it to a more convenient location…it’s not like I ate it or anything.) Of course, I panic. Will we have enough?

You know, some of the forecasters are predicting a particularly cold winter. (Though so far, they’ve been wildly off the mark.) And, this year, a percentage of that wood is beech, instead of ash. Ash is denser and has significantly more heating heft than beech. I look at that woodpile and wonder if there’s enough.

I do it every year.

It doesn’t even seem to help that we have already cut and brought in most of the wood needed for the following year. Because, poaching on next year’s wood would be robbing Peter to pay Paul, wouldn’t it?

I seem to have invented a whole new category of seasonal anxiety. The woods from which we harvest is directly behind us. It’s unlikely that, in any given year, we’d be able to exhaust the supply. When I purchased the property, some 30 years ago, I specifically selected it, in part, because the hardwoods section was big enough for our needs, without ever cutting a live tree. For this year, we can continue to bring in more wood, until the snow is too deep for the Kubota. Beyond that, we have an ice-fishing sled with which we could continue to haul in more if needed (and it’s all downhill). But that’s not really the issue. Needless anxiety is the issue.

The weather has turned colder, and we have our first real snow that “sticks.” To work through my needless anxiety, I asked Rick for his outdoor priorities with what’s left of the outdoor work season. Without hesitation he answered that there’s a couple more trees that have fallen and he’d like to cut them and bring them in.

I guess it’s contagious. Sigh. We do enjoy harvesting firewood–so it’s not a problem. At some point, we’ll be able to relax, knowing that there’s enough. We should be there, now. We won’t run out.

Maybe fraught elections aren’t enough. Pandemics aren’t enough. We’re humans and we find reasons to worry.

Bathroom Fixtures, James Stone

I was just a kid, but the import of the event wasn’t lost on me. My mum was making a special dinner. She’d scrubbed and vacuumed until our home shone. My grandfather, my Dad’s Dad, was coming to visit. There had been tentative outreach, but it would take some doing to melt the nearly two decades of silence between them. My mother was seeing to it that the visit would be seamless, and delicious. This new grandfather was bringing his wife…the woman he’d married immediately after my grandmother divorced him. I didn’t understand it then, but this was “the other woman.”

Still, she’d been with him faithfully for years. My father held no grudge against her; that was my grandmother’s forte. We, all five of us, were dressed and spit-shined. This would be one of those ‘best behavior’ days, more tedious than enjoyable. Only the curiosity of my father suddenly revealing a secret father of his own made it worthwhile. That, and the promise of dessert.

The actual visit is a bit of a whirlwind in my memory. They arrived and there were introductions and small talk. Everyone took seats in the living room, with my mum getting up to check the oven, from time to time. The table was set. It looked like Thanksgiving. The secret grandfather was tall, with the same piercing blue eyes as my Dad, and the same wispy, fine hair. He seemed as entranced with us, as we were with him, his eyes traveling from one tow-headed new grandchild to another. All the promise of five surprise grandchildren! The missus mostly sat quietly, jaw tight and lips pressed together. Perhaps it was a mistake that my mother politely refused her offer of help in the kitchen. Certainly my mum had no intention of reducing this honored guest to scullery help!

Finally, it was ready. My mum sent us all to wash our hands in the bathroom at the end of the hall. When we returned, the new grandmother, asked for directions to the bath, and my mum waved her down the hall. She never actually reached the bathroom–about halfway there, she shrieked like a gored animal, “Arthur!”

We all looked up in shock. Whatever could be the matter?!

“Dear God, Arthur, nudes! Obscenity! And in a house with children!” Her bony arm held outstretched, her finger pointing at the two, small, charcoal, nudes, tastefully framed, that hung at the end of our hall. “I cannot spend another minute under this Godless roof!”

My parents were both slackjawed, unable to comprehend the disaster unravelling before them. The woman turned, sprinted to the front entry and collected her jacket. She was out the front door before my new grandfather even knew what was up. Shaking his head, he apologized, before following his wife out to the car. They sat there, for some minutes, in heated discussion, before he eased the car back down the driveway and away.

Five little towheads, wide-eyed and shocked, lined up at the living room window, looking at the now-empty driveway. My mother quickly gathered up the extra place settings, returning the table to our normal set up for seven. My father quietly announced that, though he was surprised, it was true that some people might not appreciate our tastes in art. He suggested that we all sit down and enjoy the lovely meal that my mother had prepared. We ate mostly in silence. The apple pie was delicious.

Years passed before we visited with them again. She, of course, refused to come to our house. By then, though, the irony of this woman’s objections to nudity wasn’t lost on us.

My parents were always artsy people. I once heard a neighbor describe us as ‘Bohemians’…and I was never sure if it was a compliment. But my father was an amateur woodworker, and my mum became a potter of some artistic note. Their friends included potters and painters, weavers and sculptors. What can I say…it was the sixties. But that scene, halfway down the hall, always stuck in my mind.

Years later, my parents’ best friends, Jim and Irene, invited us to a special dinner. Some people become family, even without blood relations. These people were part of the fiber of our lives. This event was to celebrate the unveiling of his most recent painting. We arrived and while playing with their children, we peeked into the basement, where the easel stood…covered with a sheet. We’d have to wait until after dinner.

After dessert, we all trooped into the basement for the big moment. Jim adjusted the lighting and then, like a matador, dramatically swept the fabric up and away, revealing the canvas. It was a nude–a woman seated in a bathtub. Most importantly to me, breasts visible! Tits! Tits were okay! It was such a relief! If Jim and Irene could have tits in their artwork…we could, too! If there’d been any question left in my mind about the fallout from the unpleasantness in the hall, this erased it, made it all okay.

Decades later, as an adult who’d married, moved away, divorced, re-married and returned, my mother and I visited Irene. It’s a pleasure when someone has been in your sphere so long that they are a well-loved fixture in your life. Jim had since passed away, as had my Dad. But our families are inextricably interwoven. After dinner, Irene announced that she had a housewarming gift for Rick and I, for the home we were building. She left the room and returned with a painting, its back to me. And then, much like its first unveiling, four decades earlier, she dramatically flipped the painting and revealed…that very same painting of the woman in the tub.

She could never have known how much that particular painting had always meant to me. I was shocked…that she could offer me this painting, this special image, that was so deeply imbedded in our joined family history. I love it. It hangs in my bedroom, where I see it, and appreciate it and its history, every day.

Despite having tried, verbally to explain this and thank her–I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to convey how, in my mind, this painting accomplished a great healing for me. After all, without this confirmation, I might have gone through my entire life, wondering just what was meant by “Bohemian.”

To Irene, with eternal gratitude.

Finally, this trail is open.

The weather got a little cold for planting, and with the most important anti-erosion measures in place, Rick suggested that we work on the trails.

Our property is criss-crossed with old logging trails, a number of which had become impassable because of fallen trees. With the emphasis on building, we’ve not done much trail maintenance in the past few years. As a result, our zone of “Kubota” access area has been getting smaller and smaller.

We use the Kubota extensively in gathering wood. It delivers us to the site, carries our tools, lifts logs (using chains and the front-end loader) and drags them into safe, accessible work areas, pushes rotten logs to the side to clear the trail, and then pulls our loaded, ragged, little trailer back out of the bush to our woodpile, for splitting and stacking. These two seniors would be hard pressed to heat with wood, without the assistance of our trusty tractor.

Rick’s motivation for trail clearance isn’t just about clearing nice paths. We’ve had high winds of late, and there are a few big trees, newly down, (one in particular) that he is itching to cut and gather. But I’m open to the task–because I like nice paths. In the process, we’re harvesting any burnable wood that has fallen across the trails–though gathering is not our first objective.

Most wood left on the forest floor begins to rot quickly. Beech turns to mush in just a year or two, as does Basswood (Linden.) Maple lasts a little longer. Ash, especially if kept up off of the dirt, can last for years. The champion of the forest is ironwood (hop hornbeam), some of which we’re still collecting from the last time loggers were on the property in 2004. If wood is spongy or mushy, we push it aside. Sometimes we’ll cut it, just enough so that it lies flat on the forest floor–just to accelerate its return to the soil. Sound wood is harvested down to about three inches across. Twigs and branch ends are cleared from the paths, often using it for filling in the divots left when a tree falls. This fills in the lumpiness, and creates habitat for critters.

Though trail clearance is our first objective, in the past two days, we’ve cut enough for next year’s heating requirements, just from trees that had fallen on the trails! And we haven’t yet touched the big ash trees that have Rick salivating. And, further up the slopes, there are some “widow-makers” that we won’t touch until nature brings them down. Regardless how tempting, safety is our first concern.

This is the tree Rick wants.


And here’s a widow-maker! We won’t touch that.

The temperatures have been in the mid-thirties, but we’ve hardly noticed, even stripping down during the heavy work. We are wearing “Michigan lingerie,” the orange vests that mark you has “human” during hunting season. It’d be a shame to get shot right on your own property. Every year in Michigan, somebody gets shot by hunters with more enthusiasm than sense. Let orange be your safety flag.

I had intended to post a full set of photos with this, documenting all of the aspects of wood gathering and trail clearing. But once the work started, the camera stayed in the tool bucket. What can I say?

It’s been a bit of a hiatus from blogging. It’s not post-election anxiety. It’s not Covid. It’s hard labor. We’ve taken advantage of unseasonable warm temperatures to address erosion issues around the barn. This involves grading, terracing, and planting. We’re finally raising the grade to pre-construction levels, bringing the back end of the grade up four or five feet, (which includes burying the root cellar.) It’s an enormous amount of work. It involves moving huge piles of sand (which we dug out for the foundation) back, up the hill, and around the barn. This earthen berm that we’re re-locating is about eight feet high, by thirty-five feet long, by twenty feet across. Thank God for the Kubota.

Oddly, hard labor is a relief from current events.

We’re nearly finished the worst areas of erosion–and the weather is running out on us. We may have to do the last bit next spring. I’m hoping to get ground-cover transplanted onto those areas we’ve graded before the snow flies. We’re using periwinkle (aka creeping myrtle, aka vinca minor) as the ground cover, because its sturdy root structure can really hold a slope. Oh, and because it was free. I’ve been collecting and hoarding it for several years. For illustration of the scale of this, it’s one sprig of ground cover every four to six inches, covering a newly terraced area about 12 feet wide and 40 feet long. After planting, I carefully mulch it with pine needles, making sure that each of the little plants has its leaves above the mulch, and can see light. Of course, I first have to harvest the pine needles from the forest (because pine needles add acid to the soils, lock together to prevent erosion, dissuade the cats from digging, … and they’re free.) At this point, I’m looking forward to shoveling snow.

To take a break from grading, we took a walk in the woods the other day. We noted that recent high winds had taken down two big trees, right off the trail, an ash, and a beech. So, yesterday, we harvested those trees–cutting them into sixteen inch pieces (from the base of the trunk, up to three three inch diameter size.) The top bits we scatter in the forest to break down. These trees both exceeded eighteen inches in diameter at the base–so it ended up being a lot of firewood. Even we were surprised that it topped out at over two trailer loads. We got it all stacked and covered, just as darkness fell. This is what we do for fun, as a break from the grading work. This will be next year’s fuel, since we’ve already harvested all we need for this season. Since we harvest only deadfall, we don’t have to “season” our firewood for a year or more–to get it dry before burning. That makes us a little lazy about bringing it in in a timely way. Our ultimate goal is to get a year or two ahead of the game.

Today, it’s raining, hard and steady. The erosion control is working. And we are taking a well-earned break.

It’s November 4. The sun is out, and I have laundry, drying on the line. After a wet and chilly October, there are bees and wasps in the air. (Probably more, but I haven’t seen them.) The leaves are all down, largely because of a fierce windstorm over the weekend.

I understand that, for the first time in recorded weather history, there is no ice pack forming in the arctic. Perhaps this explains our return to balmy weather, but who knows? And I mean that, who knows? Because the weather pundits make it clear that they have absolutely no idea what to expect.

Late season warm weather is not necessarily a good thing for the honeybees. There are nearly no sources of pollen or nectar. It’s dangerous to provide liquid feed at this time–because you never know when the weather will turn–and you do not want to leave liquid feed in the hive once winter returns. (Bees can do cold pretty well, but damp is NOT good.) A good rule of thumb is that you should not open the hives is the mercury dips below 50 degrees Fahrenheit. So the bees will dip into their winter reserves–at an accelerated rate–because they are active, when normally they would be in clustering mode. Since it’s so warm, we’ll be opening the hives this week, to put frames of honey in, to make sure they’ll have enough for the winter.

The election results are not yet tabulated. So that future remains uncertain as well. What can one do? My solution is busy–two loads of laundry, a loaf of bread and an apple pie. It’s not yet noon.

Do you ever engage in symbolic behavior? Not superstition, exactly, but actions to give force to your intentions or hopes?

Rick and I cleaned house today. It wasn’t anything that didn’t need to be done, but it felt good to have it tidy and clear. We also took a walk in the woods to survey any damage from yesterday’s winds. We’re assessing the situation. Tomorrow, since Wednesday is Trash Day, we’ll bag up the garbage, and do a run into Cedar to clear out the recycling. It’s Election Day, and we’re literally hauling out the trash.

We had chicken-fried rice for dinner, but I don’t think there’s anything to that–other than it’s one of Rick’s favorites.

The sun is out and it is spectacular. We’ve had a particularly dreary wet October and now, on its last day, it’s showing off. Most of the leaves have already fallen but every puff of wind is rewarded with a renewed leaf release. The air is full of them. It makes for an interesting position when contemplating ‘home.’

We’ve been wondering if it is time to leave. We should know, by the end of the week. Regardless of warmth and beauty of our chosen home, we wonder if we can stay if the current strains of fascism increase. After all, just how much fascism and racism is too much? Even a little is a lot.

I have a back door advantage. Though born into an American family, I was born in Canada. We could move to Canada. I have friends in Canada and I’m a member of a Facebook group from my home town. I am dismayed that many of the issues that bother me here are just as virulent there. It seems right wing extremism doesn’t have a nationality. The Canadians are a tad more polite, and less armed, though. But names like Stephen Harper and Doug Ford are enough to let you know that Canadians are not immune to the appeal of corporate, right-wingism.

This fuels the argument that you cannot run, you have to stay, and fight. I have been politically active, mostly on environmental issues, for most of my adult life, a tree-hugger since, as a kid, the Cuyahoga River caught fire. I’ve stood on street corners with signs, walked precincts, and protested for decades. And I have to wonder if it’s done any good. Sure, we forced issues into the public consciousness–and had limited legislative success. But mainstream conduct hasn’t changed. It seems they need a crisis to even see a problem–and even then, the attention span is short.

Well, now we have no shortage of crises. Will climate change even get its due, when shoved up against the wall with a pandemic and fascist violence? With a government determined to hand our environment over to corporate interest, is there any hope? That may be all the reason to stand fast and roll up our sleeves and get to work. I don’t know. Just as the biggest issues of our era come into focus, I wonder if I’m too old to contribute.

I bought this property in 1990. I had many criteria for what I wanted. (I should’ve looked closer for better soil, sigh, but what’s done is done.) My parameters were formed in large part by what I saw, then, as looming climate change. In 1990. At the time, I hoped that people would wake up and turn this juggernaut around. If so, I’d get to retire to a beautiful piece of land. If not, I’d have a survivable retreat. At the time I didn’t give a second thought to rightwing extremism. Because…it couldn’t happen here, could it?

One wonders what the good people of Germany did and thought, in the mid-nineteen-thirties, when the handwriting was on the wall. Here in Michigan, we’ve already fielded a  plot to kidnap our governor. Granted, the perpetrators were two-bit idiots–the Laurel & Hardy version of terrorists. And perhaps that’s our salvation, that the extremists are drawn from the ‘arrested-development’ crowd. Not unlike their cult leader, our president. We may be safe, if the Rule of Law prevails. What will the rest of this week bring?

In the meantime, the sun is out. There are chores to be done. I’ve got to harvest the last of the carrots and beets, and put the garden beds to sleep for the winter. For now, this is what home is about.

The day started well enough; I woke to brilliant sunlight against the flaming leaves on the maple outside our window. A late season chance to do laundry and get it dry on the line! Even before coffee, I zipped down to the basement to get the first load into the machine. It is probably the last weekend of color, with wintery weather in the forecast. As if to prove me right, the helicopters were out early, sweeping the tourists over the valley for a vast bird’s eye view of the best color season in years.

By the time the first load of laundry finished, it had clouded over, and the temperatures dropped. Rick looked dubious as I wondered aloud about getting these things dry on the line. As if to punctuate his remarks, it started to rain. I sighed, and resigned myself to the dryer. In this one day, we’ve had sunshine, drizzle, hard rain, blustery winds, some more sunshine and cold and dropping temperatures.

Beyond laundry, all my big plans for the day were outdoor work. What else was there to do, but bake?

I gave Rick some options, and he picked “those cookies.”

I think he’s hesitant about the name I’ve given them, “Rick’s Everything Cookies.”

I stopped making cookies, years ago, when I learned I couldn’t have gluten. I’d tried a few things, but gluten-free flours have evolved a lot since then, and my early efforts were leaden, crisp to the point of dental concern, and flat. Try as I might, I couldn’t achieve a decent chewy cookie. I gave up.

Fast forward a decade or so to the era of experimentation. Information on the science of gluten-free alternatives is light years from where I first started. And, perhaps the biggest incentive was that I had a partner who wanted baked goodies that we could share. I’d offered to make him regular-people desserts, but he wanted something for the two of us.

The evolution of these cookies was a bit like today’s weather–a sampler of possibilities. We started with oatmeal-raisin. They were okay–but perhaps a little on the high-fiber, healthy side. Rick was looking for decadent. Then the search was on for a gluten-free chocolate chip cookie–soft and chewy. I searched and found a recipe which came close. Then Rick wanted nuts…then raisins, too… and then some oatmeal for good measure. We tinkered and toyed with it until I met all those needs, in one cookie. The result is an odd hybrid cookie–but maybe one of the best treats I’ve ever made. Here it is:

Rick’s Everything Cookies

Add the ingredients in the order in which they are listed. The usual “wet” and “dry” ingredients are mixed in order, to saturate certain dry ingredients, so they will add texture without interfering with chewiness. We make them by hand. If you decide to use a mixer, don’t ‘over fluff’ the sugar/butter stage. Otherwise, it’s a pretty straightforward recipe.

3/4 cup butter (softened)

1 cup brown sugar (compacted)

1/2 cup white sugar

1 1/2 cup chopped pecans (though walnuts might do)

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla

Beat or stir vigorously until combined smoothly.

1/2 cup rolled oats

1 cup chocolate chips

1 cup raisins

1/2 teaspoon xanthum gum

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 and 1/2 cup gluten-free flour

Chill for at least one hour.

Bake at 375 degrees for 15 minutes. DO NOT OVERBAKE! The objective is to have a blush of golden and golden edges–but no more, or you risk losing your chewy texture. To keep them uniform, I use a 2 tablespoon coffee measure to form the cookies. Let them cool on the cookie sheet for 6 minutes before transferring to a wire rack–or plate. Gluten free flour has no protein–so you’re using the binding power of the eggs to hold them together. If you try to move them too soon, they’ll fall apart. They’re best in the first three days–so good, in fact, that they rarely last much longer. You could freeze them.

I like Namaste GF flour. It’s a good “cup for cup” alternative to wheat flour. My close second choice would be Bob’s Red Mill. I haven’t tried it, but I imagine those of you who are ‘wheaties’ could make this with regular all-purpose baking flour. (If you use wheat flour, you may have to adjust the baking soda/powder levels, as GF flours have a little leavening in them already.)

So, that’s what’s up on a blustery day. Laundry, a loaf of bread and cookies.

Yesterday’s rain rising as early morning steam

Yesterday we had a storm. Autumn winds and pelting rain whipped the trees, stripping out some of the yellows and high reds. We are on the downside of peak color.

The polar vortex is weak this year, its perimeter winds at a mere 60 miles per hour. That’s barely enough to keep the cold artic air from spilling out across the landscape. With this weak spin, we can expect repeated cold spells this winter–one coming as early as later this week. So I’m enjoying the last of the color now.

I try to capture it in photos–but the ridge across the valley is too vast for me to get a handle on it. The pictures do not show the beauty and range that you get with the eye. So I’ll try with these closer shots.

Maybe intimate is the way to seize the moment of a turning autumn. Soon it’ll be snow, and an entirely different landscape and rhythm.

Out our north window.


Can I vent? I’ve been peevish for days–made worse by the fact that I’m split on the object of my anger. I guess, mostly I’m pissed at myself. After all, we are all the captains of our own journeys. In particular I am usually the first to question “the experts,” but in this case, I failed myself.


Not long after landing in Michigan, Rick and I decided it was time for a refractory check-up. He hadn’t had his eyes checked in well over a decade. I was at that awkward age, where one’s vision begins to go. My eyeglasses were woefully out of sync with my vision. We were new in town, so felt lucky when we found an eye care professional we really liked–and he directed us to a local outfit for the purchase of our new eyeglasses.


The new glasses were marvelous. If you let that go too long, the return to vision is, well, eye-opening. And, I loved the frames. Like the last pair, they are progressives, which can be a compromise. In exchange for not having to carry three sets of eyeglasses, you accept some loss of acuity, on one end, or the other. In this case, the reading end was never as good as I’d have liked.


It’s been five years. In that time, we’ve been busy, mostly building and planting. During that time, some things have fallen by the wayside as is normal during a busy phase. But I recently realized that a lifelong reading habit had waned, in part because I couldn’t see well. I’d given up needle-crafts–sewing, crochet and embroidery. I decided to make an appointment for an eye exam. Rick asked that I set one up for him, too. I was pleased that he wanted an appointment. I’d noticed that, when reading, he’s been sitting in a funny position, his head tilted oddly–sometimes, with one eye closed. What was up with that? Rick reads a lot–probably averaging five hours a day.


Now, the reason we like our eye doctor was because he shared our view that underlying health and nutrition are essential to all health–including eye health. For many years he’d taught at an out-of-state college, and had returned to private practice when family issues brought him back to Michigan. His clinic was attached to an Herbalist shop–so we saw him regularly there, even though we didn’t frequently visit for eye exams. This past year he’d moved his practice–when the Herbal shop fell victim to the pandemic. When I dropped by the new location to make our appointments, he asked what brought me in, and I quipped–because I can’t see well enough to read. He checked my record and replied that it’d been five years since our last appointment…so it was time.


When we appeared for our appointments, the first thing he did was drop our existing eyeglasses into a fancy scanning machine. In both cases, he exclaimed, and then manually examined our existing lenses. “No wonder you can’t read! These glasses have no reading level at all–they cut it off to fit the frames.”

Rick’s weren’t quite as bad, clipped deeply on one lens, but leaving a small reading field for one eye. The reason he was contorted while reading was because his defective eyeglasses had dictated the only posture where he could see. In my case, I just flat out couldn’t see well enough to read, because that part of the visual field didn’t exist.


So, at whom should I be angry? The optical company that sold me the specs? But why did I wait five years? Why did I let the world of reading go by the wayside? I am, after all, an author! Why did we trust some store-front eyeglass purveyor when our eyes were desperately trying to tell us otherwise? Five years! Part of it was that I was just figuring that it was a part of aging. Needless to say, I’m not going back there for the new eyeglasses.


Next though, I need to have my head examined, to figure out why I let this go on so long. I can hardly wait to get the new glasses. There are a lot of books I need to catch up on.

There is such a thing as being too good looking for your own good. We live in an area that is a destination location. Near Traverse City, and just a hop-skip and jump from the Sleeping Bear Dunes, this area is a tourist attraction–even more so in the past twenty years, having taken a page from California’s book of wine country. Travellers can enjoy Lake Michigan’s dunes, forests and trails and follow-up with tasting tours and award-winning wines, ciders and micro-brewery offerings. We’re homebodies, and it’s all a little precious for our tastes. But we do enjoy the area’s beauty.

This summer, Rick noticed an increase in air traffic. There is a local flight school that does training over us–much to our annoyance, and we do see Coast Guard helicopters doing rescue work–all too often. It’s one of the hazards of being a popular destination with boating as a side feature. But Rick kept mentioning how frequent and regular the choppers were making their way over our property. I confess, I ignored it.

But then, one day, he pointed to the sky and said, “Right on schedule.” I looked up, and noted that it was not a Coast Guard chopper. So what was it? Rick headed for the internet. Sure enough, new this year, there are helicopter tours! Their various routes are posted on their web site, and we are directly on several of the tour paths. To get the best views, they hug the edge of the valley, flying at low levels over our hills. Ugh!

Right now it’s color season–the forests, though not yet at peak, are blazing. It’s gorgeous. And, based on the intrusion frequency, very popular. Autumn is my favorite season, but I won’t miss it when the flight season wanes. It’s enough to make you a bit squeamish, to have gawkers overhead as we work the gardens or split wood. I feel like rustic peasants, dotted through the landscape as an added bit of interest for the privileged folk. Sheesh.

This has been hanging over us for some time. But, the time comes where you have to make up your mind to just do it.

And after all, winter is coming.

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We went away for a few days. Not like a big vacation or anything, just a quick trip up to my mum’s in the far north. It was beautiful, with color just getting underway. While we were there, the weather forecast warned of a hard freeze. I asked if there was anything in her garden that she wanted to bring in, or cover.

No, she was really ready. I know my sister and brother-in-law next-door were out in their garden, picking the last of the tomatoes, green beans, and anything else left from the season. I knew that, back at home, there was a frost warning, but I wasn’t worried. We’ve been gardening in Cedar for a number of years, and we’re pretty accustomed to our glide path into autumn. Usually, I can harvest the last dribs and drabs through the end of October. Had I been home, I might have thrown row covers over things, just to be sure. But I wasn’t worried.

Even up in Copper Harbor, the warning appeared to be a bit overblown. I’m not sure that their final harvest efforts were necessary. Morning came and, though it was nippy, their garden fared pretty well. Perhaps it was colder, inland. But the little town of Copper Harbor is on Lake Superior, and the summer’s warm water moderates temperatures in town.

Imagine my surprise then, when I got home. A hard freeze had taken out most everything! The basil looks burned black!. The tomatoes, lush and green on our departure, are dried and brown. The biggest shock was my late pototoes–frozen to mush above ground. I’ll have to harvest as “new potatoes.” They’ll be small–since I planted them late in the season. Only the beets and carrots fared well. They will actually have improved, since some vegetables do even better–sweeter for having been frost-kissed.

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And now, with the damage done, the temperatures have come back up. The days are lovely, warm and still. It’s hazy. The light, and the sun, have a red-filtered cast, the results of California fires, thousands of miles away. Otherwise, it seems like a normal early autumn. I have salvage work to do, and then an earlier than normal winter prep. Strange times, I tell you. Strange times.

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One of the things I’ve wondered about is the big picture regarding Covid-19. Somewhere out there, people are calculating the “savings.” But I’ve seen nothing of it in the press. It must have occurred to others that the target population for Covid mortality is largely the Social Security crowd. Retirees. I ran some numbers–it’s easy. You can do it in just a couple of minutes.

Assuming that we’re probably at 200,000 deaths now (the official numbers are a bit lower, but there’s a nodding acceptance that we’re not including all the Covid deaths.) Figure about three quarters of them are seniors…with complications and co-morbidities. Those folks are collecting Social Security and they’re on Medicare.

If they average $1,000 per month in SS benefits (again, I’m picking a lower number, intentionally), then it’s 150,000 times $1,000, times 12 (for an annual number.) Do the math. It’s staggering. That number doesn’t address the savings in Medicare (which must be amortised to first cover the averaged $46,000 expense per Covid case.) And that’s for immediate deaths, so far. Estimates on senior Covid fatalities indicate that, on average, they’d have lived another 9 years, but for the pandemic.

Experts are saying our mortality numbers could easily double if we don’t take social distancing and hygeine protection (masks and hand-washing) seriously. Honestly, I don’t see evidence that the general population is taking adequate precautions. Many others will survive the actual illness, but ultimately die earlier, because of the damage done to lungs and hearts. One wonders if the government has dragged it’s feet, not out of incompetence (though there’s plenty enough of that) but leveraging the savings and relief from the burdens of supporting an aging population.

I’m not a conspiracy kind of gal, but I read a lot about Covid-19, and I am curious that no publication has noted the potential budget-balancing “upside” of the pandemic. Not one. Is this the Social Security solution?

What’s up with that?

We’ve never started a fire so early in the season. But it’s been cool and rainy today–a cozy fire is just the thing to take the chill away. This may seem insane to my California friends, battling heat and fires. But it is perfect for conditions here. Time to settle in with a good book and a warm beverage.

Guarding His Turf

 

This crew marches through every few days. There are distinct patterns to their occupation of the area. In very early spring, ALL the turkeys are in attendance. It’s like a festival–the males in full display, with the females standing around the edges of the gathering, gossiping.

Then, they split up. Each female finds its own little safe place to nest and rear her young when they are very little. As soon as the young’uns are ambulatory (and can fly), the females congregate and forage in large groups, like the one above. Child care is easier with many eyes, and I’m sure there’s comfort in numbers–plus, they can gripe about the challenges of solo parenting a large brood. Early and mid-summer, it’s fun to watch the mother turkeys showing the chicks the finer points of the foraging arts. One year, I watched in awe as a turkey mom showed her clutch how to jump up to get the better raspberries.

Of course, those were ‘my’ raspberries they were gobbling up.

This year’s batch are lanky teens now. They meander through the fields and forests, making trouble. The cats are fascinated. The turkeys are cautious. I don’t now what either cat would do if they actually caught such a big bird. Mostly, the cats just make sport of them, stalking and flushing them, and then preening to celebrate their awesome success.

Here, Stanley is standing them off at the top of the path. While the cats may be forced to share their environment with the marrauding turkeys, he’ll be damned if he’ll let them near his house.

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It’s been years since Rick and I canned tomatoes. Back in Two Rock, we planted enough tomatoes to feed a village. In our best year, we harvested over seven hundred pounds of tomatoes…spread the wealth on the farm, donated some, and canned over eighty quarts of tomato products, whole plum tomatoes, diced tomatoes and tomato sauce.

Since then, we’ve been too busy–and we’ve had garden failures. This year, we finally had decent tomatoes–full, tall, leafy, abundant and delicious. Our first harvest we froze. We blanched and skinned them, and then chopped them and bagged them into the freezer (I even skinned cherry tomatoes, because we had so many. You have to be a little crazy to skin cherry tomatoes.) We got over a gallon of frozen diced tomatoes. While nothing compared to Two Rock, it’s a pleasure to be back in business again. You cannot beat the flavor of home grown tomatoes.

I’ve had friends question the wisdom of growing and canning tomatoes. After all, canned tomatoes, even organic, are not that expensive. But the flavor of home grown makes it all worthwhile. This is food. The stuff from the stores is mere fuel.

So yesterday was the second harvest. We’d had winds and rain, they were splitting and dropping. The culls will go to the chickens (who knew chickens liked tomatoes?) So I set up to make sauce.

In storage, we have a fancy manual tomato processer–you can turn out gallons of tomatoes into sauce in short order. But storage is something we’ll get to when “season” slows. And I only had about eight or nine quarts of tomatoes, so I did them all by hand. It looked like a lot. Rick went down to the basement and retrieved seven pint jars and lids.

How soon you forget. Sauce cooks down. A lot. For our trouble we got four pints of tomato sauce. We’ve already eaten one….it smelled so good cooking, I couldn’t resist. But the taste is incredible! It reminds us why we did so much of it before. We’re blending tomatoes–Amish canning tomatoes, San Marzanoes and Black Cherokees. Combined, they have a meaty heft–but are still sweet and aromatic.

I put half of those empty jars back in the basement. We’ll do it again–there will be more ripe in next week or so, but we have a long way to go before we’re actually productive. This year was a garden trial run.

Autumn is looming. No significant color in the forest yet…but those errant branches are far more intense. They’re trying to get our attention. Winter is coming.

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One day it’s muggy and unbearable, and the next…something has changed. The tomatoes are still there, hanging heavy on the vine. And the beets and potatoes…not quite ready to harvest. But the season has decided to shift. The scent of fall is in the air. The winds are just a little wilder. The warm days left will be wistful, seeking to wring every last moment, every last golden ray of sunshine out of it.

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The trees haven’t yet turned, well, except for those few errant branches that go early every year. But the sense of it is unmistakeable. Autumn. It seems early this year–but maybe we always say that. “No,” my mother insists, “It is early–the mice are coming in already, and it’s not even September.”

“It’ll be a tough winter,” decrees the guy at the local hardware. “The mountain ash are loaded with berries.”

According to the native lore of the area, the season is turning early. You can tell, they say, by the dropping of the white pine cones, and the low viscosity of the sap.

To me, it seems the garden is in a rush to finish up. The bumper crop of tomatoes, which often extends into September, seems almost ready for the final harvest and it’s not even the end of August yet.

The days are getting shorter; we’ve noticed that suddenly we’re eating dinner at a more reasonable hour. Mid-summer, our days are so long that we sometimes sit down to dinner at nine-thirty or ten.

I check my blog from last year, and we were still finishing end of season chores through to the end of October, and I’m left wondering if this sense of turning is all in my head. I’ve ordered a dozen or so fall-planting trees, and they won’t arrive until the first week of October. Will we be planting in an early chill? It will be fine if that’s the case. But we do love a lingering late season.

Already we’re planning winter. We’ve started consolidating the bees–though I’m sure they have weeks of foraging left–late season stuff from the goldenrod and spotted bee balm. They’ll make us richly colored and strong flavored amber honey from the late blooms. And we’re splitting and stacking firewood. Next week the chimney sweep comes to clean our stove-pipes, before the winter heating season.

It seems, with all the insanity in the air–the pandemic, upcoming elections and the summer’s social unrest–that summer got away from us. But seasons keep their own rhythms, and I think it’s us that lost track of it.

I want to dig in my heels, to slow it down, as though I had any control. But since I love autumn, it’ll be fine whenever it is that we slip into it. And I don’t mind winter, either. But I can hear friends and family, wailing. “No, no, not yet.” These, too, are traditions and we take them all seriously.

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As in all things, if you start with a proper “center,” the rest should fall into place. It’s a little different with a modern log home.

In pioneer times, you built with stacked logs, often green timbers, and chinked the holes. As time passed and they dried and shrunk, you’d get a solid, albeit uneven, structure. Homes were smaller then. Our little house would have been considered palatial on the frontier, when they shared the ground floor with livestock in the winter, and huddled around a fireplace or wood stove, because the uninsulated roof didn’t hold in the heat. There might, or might not be a sleeping loft for the kids. Often the whole family slept in one room, even one bed–glad for the extra warmth.

Modern log homes, especially the larger ones, have built in jack assemblies that have to be adjusted as the logs “cure.” (They say “cure” and not “dry,” because they’re supposed to be kiln dried when you get them. Yeah, right.)

The log part of our home went up in 2014–with the roof and upper  floor put on in 2015. (That added a lot of weight and accelerated the “settling” process.) The wood stove was installed in 2016–and heating in the winter accelerated the drying process. We didn’t actually move in until the end of 2017. We’ve adjusted the jacks several times already. We’re now ready for what should be our final adjustment.

What’s being adjusted is the height of the center supporting wall. As the perimeter log walls “cure” (dry, compress and shrink), they lower, as compared to the constructed, beam-supported, center wall. This gives us bowed floors upstairs, and uneven floors/ceilings along the center wall. Now is the time to do it, as we’re about to finalize the upstairs bath–which will have a tiled shower stall. Better that it find its final position before we tile and grout things–to avoid unnecessary cracking.

In the past, our crew assisted with the leveling adjustments. They’re long gone now, and we’re on our own. Rick is the leader, now. I help where I can, mostly handing things up when he needs them on the ladder or adding extra ballast (my weight) where he needs it.  But he insists it’s mostly a one-man job. It’s a noisy operation, and a little disconcerting–because the things you think of as “fixed” in place, aren’t really. The same is true, though to a lesser extent, in new conventional construction.

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It reminds me of when I first moved to California, and experienced earth quakes. So much for “terra firma.” Suddenly the things you thought of as solid, weren’t. Over time, I became nonchalant about earthquakes–after 1989 put me in my place. Just be prepared, and then ride it out. Is there anything else we can ever do? I actually came to like them–earthquakes have that same sense of wonder that I’d had as a kid regarding tornadoes. There is a Chinese curse/saying, “May you live in interesting times.” We’re certainly there.

Right now there’s a hurricane assaulting Louisiana, Texas and Arkansas. Climate change is supercharging natural storm systems. They’re wilder, stronger and more destructive than in the past. That, too, is taking mental adjustments about what is a given an anyone’s world. Plans for the future include abandoning entire risk prone regions, in a quiet acknowledgment of our failures to address the causes. There is no simple adjustment that can make us safe. My old haunts, Oakland and Sonoma County in California, have been burning all week. Are we to become a nation of internal refugees? My father, when asked for advice, always said the same thing, “Build on high land.” We’d laugh, but in today’s world, the concept of finding a place with fewer risks may be a survival skill.

I’m feeling lucky that a day or so of banging and torquing will put our little home back to rights. At least for now–we can adjust the center. We’re situated, protected, in the lee of a glacial hill system. I’m in a state that has plenty of fresh water, and, so far, a comfortable climate. It’s not that we’re without risk in these super-charged times. But you have to be prepared, and then ride it out.

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You may recall that a couple of years ago we started to build a barn. In our community, a barn does not require a permit. But, because we intended to keep the car in it (storage of personal, not farm property), a permit was required. We called it a barn, but the permit people know better–they call it a DURG (Detached Unfinished Residential Garage.) We are, just now finishing up enough to get the permit closed and squared away.

There’s a curious tension in this finalization process. The structure is, by definition, unfinished. If we were to finish it–insulate and put in interior walls–we’d be exceeding our permit. (This would trigger an whole new level of requirement and, I’m sure, additional permits.) So the push/pull is how finished does unfinished require?

Mostly it’s about safety. Apparently, it requires adequate lighting throughout. It requires that all wired items have proper fixture endings–either lights or plugs. And, though it doesn’t require interior walls, it does require a “finished surface to 36 inches,” or “code railing” in any location where there is an elevation drop. At our “rough” inspection, the inspector wouldn’t speculate as to what materials would suffice–just that it would need to meet those requirements.

Rick came up with the idea of fencing. It’s inexpensive, easy to install and can be re-used as fencing at such time that you might decide to actually finish the interior. As an added surprise, it has an interesting, post-ag look to it. So, fencing it is.

We are now ready for final inspection! Hopefully, we’ll pass. And then we’ll be officially unfinished.

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We like to think that we have planned all the things that have come to pass in developing our homesite. Honestly, we’re not quite that smart. We didn’t plan on a basement. It was a happy accident. So, of course, we didn’t plan on the laundry in the basement. And we didn’t plan on a basement door (because, no basement.) So we’re just lucky that, just a bit outside the basement door there’s a tree, located exactly one load of laundry from the house.

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Like success, the garden, in the distance.

 

Before we could get to the 2020 garden season, we had to make it through the winter. As all of you know, 2019/2020 has had its challenges. Mine started early.

In early December, our cat died. His acute health problems could have been addressed. But he was old, and this was just the beginning. We considered the approaching quality of life issues, and decided that the most loving thing was to spare him what was coming. It was tough–as all pet owners know. They give us unconditional love; we owe them.

Then Rick and I had our annual physical. The doctor came into the exam room with issues–she didn’t like my bloodwork. She has long been convinced that I practice internet medicine on myself–and now she had evidence of my excesses!

She lectured me about overdoing supplements. In particular, calcium. My levels were unhealthy, even dangerous. I stopped her, holding up my hand–I don’t take calcium! Well that put a furrow in her brow. What was she going to tell me? Don’t eat leafy greens! (Has anyone has ever had a doctor so prescribe?)

It was a mystery. There was supposed to be follow-up, but then came Covid.

Rick and I figured it must be the water. We knew we had hard water–but now we had to wonder…and had that figured into our cat’s demise? So we did some research and bought a carafe style filter that would remove calcium. Everything that passed our lips was filtered. Of course, we gave filtered water to the new kittens, too.

After a few weeks, I went to water our one and only houseplant, an African violet. I stopped short–it was only fair to give the houseplant filtered water, too, right? And so I started filtering water for all the living beings of the household.

Early in the spring, Rick and I were doing early garden prep, and I tripped and fell–just clumsy. But in falling, I broke yet another rib… Hmmm, the effects of excess calcium can be as bad for one’s bones as too little–and since coming to Michigan, I’ve broken several ribs. Well water. (Well, water.)

On the garden, we were still angling to use activated charcoal. It had been so successful the previous season. And we were excited about using spent grains for compost and in the garden beds–though that was before the pandemic shuttered our local micro-brewery. After a few weeks of filtered water, that African violet gave us something else to think about.

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It had never really thrived. It sits in a north-facing window and always looked…peaked. But just weeks after giving it filtered water, it completely changed.

What about the garden? Maybe that was why, each summer it started fine and then petered out. Didn’t the average summer get hot and dry, mid-season–causing us to water heavily? We decided we need to experiment with the water quality. Our resolve became even more determined when we learned that one treatment for too much calcium was to put activated charcoal into the soil. After all, that was the primary ingredient in the filtration system. That doubled the reasons to go with biochar.

Rick rigged up a big water filter for the garden hoses. We purchased bags of food-grade activated charcoal, and dug it into the raised beds. We planted, and crossed our fingers.

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It might be too early to tell, but early indications show a dramatic difference. The tomato plants–in previous years, spindly and weak, are lush and loaded with tomatoes. The bok choi and greens are incredible. Our late season potato plants are robust and sturdy.  Everything in the raised beds is doing incredibly well. Only the vegetables planted in buckets (which still have some native soils) are having trouble. For the first time, our beets are thriving and growing beets–and they’re delicious.

The next step will be a new whole-house and garden filtration system. The garden filter was the test run. With such remarkable results, there is no reason not to fully make the change–for our health, our plumbing and our garden’s well being.

Now I just have to figure out how to tell my doctor that she saved the garden.

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I have been an organic gardener for the better part of four decades. Each time I relocated, I would have to address problem soils, heavy adobe, poor in organic materials. I have been the roaming remedial gardener. But I persisted.

When Rick joined me in Two Rock, he too, became a gardener. It was our mutual refuge from trying times. Regardless what the world threw at us, we could always walk out to the garden, to plan dinner based on what was ready, fresh, in the moment.

And we had excess. We shared with everyone on the farm, and with our local food bank. In our last full garden year at Two Rock, we harvested over 700 pounds of tomatoes– not including what went directly to others. We grew winter squash by the trailer load–all of which we gave away–not being big fans of winter squash (but our landlord was.)

So when we relocated to Michigan, gardening was a big part of our vision. It turned out, that it was not so easy.

We had the soil tested, and the news was not good. Our soils, essentially glacial dunes remnants, are nutrient poor. And they’re alkaline. There was a clue–other than knapweed, one of the few things that grew was deer moss. Not a good sign. Deer moss grows in soils nearly devoid of nutrients. We amended–planting in amended beds, directly in the native soils, or in buckets set into the soils. Our garden was spindly, at best. Failure was a word that doesn’t come easy.

The next year we re-doubled our amending efforts, digging in blended compost and peat and manure. The garden started stronger–but petered out, mid-season. Another failure.

That next winter we learned how problematic knapweed can be. It out-competes neighboring plants, in part by poisoning the soils against them. This, we were sure was the problem. Those toxins can remain in the soils for years. We shook our heads. All of our efforts had been for naught. The only things we seemed able to grow–with even modest success–were potatoes and garlic. We couldn’t even successfully grow tomatoes or zucchini! I mean, who can’t grow zucchini?

The next spring we built a few raised beds and continued with the buckets. We removed all the native soils and filled them with blended soils and amendments. The gardens were a little better. Still, they faded mid-season, which we attributed to some neglect. We were still building and summer is the busy building season. Perhaps we were not attentive enough.

Last year, though still building, we renewed our efforts. Our raised beds and buckets were refreshed with compost and vegetables planted. I amended, weeded, babied, fed and tended. The results were barely worth the effort–except in one bed–which did much better. I racked my brains to remember what I might have done differently there.

I’d heard about using bio-char as a soil amendment. I didn’t really think of it for the garden so much as to build soil character in the amendment for orchard trees. Last year, when planting a couple of new trees, I’d taken the unburned charcoal bits from the wood stove, and crushed them up for the soils for the baby trees. (We have always planted orchard trees in heavily amended soils–and had great success.)

I’d thrown the excess crushed charcoal into that one garden bed. And it was the most productive of all. We were on to something. And about time, because we were demoralized by our garden performance. For 2020, we had a plan.

 

I am working on a chapter in which my protagonist suffers an anxiety meltdown. I am having some trouble with it–but I’m operating under the idea that if it makes me uncomfortable, there’s something potent here for me to wrestle. And, if this sounds familiar, when wrestling with my own discomforts, the mind wanders.

There I was, daydreaming, looking out the window, when I noticed just how dirty the windows are. I mean, why do we live in this beautiful place, with a worthy view out of every window, if we have to peer through filth? What is the point?

So I got up, figuring I’d wash just a couple of the windows–the ones we look through the most. One thing, of course, led to another.

We usually do the windows in October. It’s a big annual thing–messing with the screens and getting the windows cleaned while there’s no bugs. Once I started, I remembered that there’s another reason I usually wait until October. Spiders. At this time of year, every nook and cranny has it own spider occupant, and the windows and screens are no exception.

I am spider-phobic. In my procrastination against writing about anxiety and fear, I’d managed to launch into one of the few activities that places me, front and center, into my own phobic universe of anxiety and fear. Almost every window had its own little army of spiders, large and small, webs, and egg sacs. I almost quit when it became clear just how upsetting it was going to be, except, then I’d have two unfinished tasks at hand, and I’d feel doubly stupid and uncomfortable about it.

So I finished–in a cold sweat, hands shaking, heart pounding. I guess I’m ready now to write that chapter.

And the windows look lovely.

We knew they were around, you’d catch a whiff from time to time. And, comet or no, we haven’t been wandering around outside in the evening. Last night, just before dusk, we saw clear evidence supporting our caution.

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There are five of them. Mamma and four baby skunks. Mamma and two of the kits have all white backs. The other three are the more standard black and white. We keep our watching from a distance. This expains some of the digging–but not the attack on the chickens. That critter was far taller.

We couldn’t get a better picture–low light and playing defense. These little guys run around shoulder to shoulder. You cannot tell when one starts and the other ends. It’s a wiggling ball of fur. The cats aren’t interested at all, and that’s a relief. So, we’ll be careful not to surprise anybody and we’ll enjoy watching their antics, from a distance. Pretty soon they’ll grow up and move away.

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Both of them, works in progress.

IMG_2661Stanley has decided to help write the novel.

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Today, there are reports that federal “law-enforcement,” in camo-gear and unmarked rented vehicles, are kidnapping and detaining protesters in Portland, Oregon. These “officers” do not identify themselves, or the agency or authority under which they are acting.

Let me stop to let that sink in. The American government is kidnapping Americans who are engaged in lawful, first Amendment activities.

This is a significant point of departure. This is the threshold of banana-republic, dystopian, fascist dictatorship.

The ONLY legal rationale for federal involvement in Portland’s ongoing protests is to protect federal property…in this case the federal courthouse.

And yet, the individuals detained were walking home from the evening’s protests. They were not on federal property when the unmarked van pulled up and forced them into the vehicle. This was a kidnapping. These lawful protesters were then taken into the federal courthouse for search, and questioning, before release.

We’re not talking about some shady news report from some underground media site with an axe to grind. This is news from the New York Times and The Washington Post.

Remember the movie, “Missing?”

We’re talking about illegal behavior here, by our federal officials. How far up the ladder do these orders go? What agencies are involved? How far are we from Americans disappearing, because they do not agree with their government?

If the country isn’t screaming about this, we are doomed.

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This is the second time we’ve had visitors to the bee yard. The hives are surrounded by an electric fence. Though the jolt it gives is pretty beefy, it’s not a very substantial enclosure. Some beekeepers we know have gone all out Fort Knox in terms of fencing.

We have (had) two “swarm boxes” outside the perimeter of the electric fence. The objective of the swarm boxes was to capture any bees who got ideas about relocating. Our visitors, the bears, knocked down both swarm boxes–smashing one of them. There was nothing in them–so the loss is just the boxes themselves.

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These bears must have experience with bee hives and electric fences. I say this, because the fence controller is in a box that looks like a bee hive–and the bear(s) upended that. No luck there. But, they (it) never breached the fence line. The bees remained unmolested. We had a similar visit last year–again they took down the swarm boxes. But so far, the bees are fine.

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I’ve seen hives ravaged by bears. They just demolish the entire hive structure. We are holding our breath, hoping that the bears (bear?) are  put off enough by the wires to keep clear of the enclosed space.

 

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I lived in California for nearly thirty-five years. Californians revel in their relentlessly good weather. It is beautiful, nearly bug-free, and… a bit dull. I’m glad to be home. There’s a huge reward in it. It’s wildly green in a luscious, juicy kind of way. It’s a landscape that supports all kinds of life. Bugs are part of the bottom tier of the food chain.

Yes, it’s been brutally hot these past few weeks, and dry. But nothing we have here compares to the dry of a California summer–with no rain from April to October. Here, we usually get a good rain two or three times a week. But not the past few weeks. I suppose that the dry spell might’ve made the heat more endurable–you know…a dry heat.

Though the heat wave is supposed to continue until the end of the month, we got a break the past two nights–with thunderstorms and ample rain. It dropped the temperatures some, but brought the humidity up a lot. And rain always seems like an invitation for the bugs to make meals of us. I fend off the bugs with brimmed hats, long pants and long sleeves, regardless of the temperatures. My Michigan roots are northern. I watch the summer people slap and scratch, and chuckle. We’re part of the food chain, too.

Last year brought an unusually cool and wet season. We’re always left wondering, “Will this be the new normal?” And now, with the mercury in the high 80s and 90s, we’re asking that again. All bets are off.

We built our home without air-conditioning. In the summer, it’s in the shade for most of the day, by plan. If we close up during the day, and open for the cooler nights, we can keep the interior in the mid-seventies. In serious heat, we use a box fan to move more night air, and that works. We’ve been in the house for going on three years, and so far, nothing that climate throws at us has been a problem. We hope that continues, but who knows? This summer, the arctic has had hotter weather than here. It’s funny when the hot weather is coming from the north. Like I said, all bets are off.

From time to time, I get a reality check on where we are in the world. It seems that things are changing out there, like the view of the world spinning from one’s ‘fixed’ position on a carousel horse.

I saw an ad for kayak hoists. It’s an odd thing–but we could certainly use them. Our kayaks live on the forest floor. Now that we have a barn, we are trying to tidy things up around here. And, they were nearby. I made the connection and headed out Saturday, mid-morning.

I know my way around here, but there are areas where I have no reason to explore. This was one of them. A neighborhood of upscale vacation homes around a little lake. The street address was “Shetland Trail.” I made the left onto the trail and my suspicions were confirmed–it was a single lane through the forest, a gravel road, the kind that sends billowing clouds of dust behind you if you take it at any speed. I wondered whether this was even plowed in the winter. A big pick up followed me through the corner and down the trail. I was driving slow–because of the dust and because I needed to search for the address markers.

That pick up truck rode my ass, and I figured he was impatient at my slow pace. As soon as I found a place wide enough, I pulled over and waived him by. He pulled up, and stopped, pinning me in. He rolled his window down. I rolled mine down.

“You got business in here?” It came off as an accusation. It was rude.

Now, I don’t picture myself as much of a threat in the world. I’m older, female, alone and driving a sound, but dated Subaru down a backwoods trail. In the previous thirty seconds, my world view had shifted…I am effectively trapped by a hostile man, sporting a brush cut in an over-sized truck. Shades of vulnerable. And he’s accusing me? In fact, were it not for his bite of suspicion, I’d have been scared. As it was, I was angry.

I barked back the address.

He peered down at me. And, thus satisfied, he said, “That way,” and gestured.

Yeah, right. As though there was any other way I could go. He pulled a three point turn in the narrow trail and left me in a cloud of dust. I could not catch his license number. I proceeded to my appointment.

The rest was uneventful. I did ask if the neighborhood had private security. She said it didn’t, and asked why. I described the incident. Her brow furrowed. As I took my leave, she was repeating my story to her husband, who looked up at me for the first time from his newspaper. He nodded, as if to confirm…no threat here.

And I’m left, wondering. Was I followed by some neighborhood vigilante? Or was I targeted as a potential victim? And I’m reminded that smart phones have become the evidence of the next century. I don’t own one. And that’s where we are now.

The kayaks are now neatly stowed, suspended from their new perch in the barn.

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We’re ebbing towards the end of the rose chafer season. Part of me wants to claim at least a partial victory. Not that we didn’t suffer losses; we did. But we appear to be making progress in our annual war with them. Unlike last year, no trees were completely defoliated. That’s an improvement. And, we discovered that intense garlic spray can go a long way in protecting the trees. Next year, we’ll spray earlier, to give the orchard advance protection. It doesn’t eliminate them, but it appears to limit their numbers.

But it’s difficult to truly ‘know’ if we are making progress. We are only one small orchard. The main part of the orchard has only a dozen trees–none of them the same variety. Our tree mix is a complicated blend of what we like, what will grow here, what is needed for pollinating each variety, and timing, what will provide harvesting throughout the season. There is no way to do any kind of an A/B comparison, no control group, no double blind. Beyond that are the imponderable intangibles–weather and whatever other factors dictate the rose chafers’ numbers from year to year. We can only do what we can. And then there’s the open question of climate change–will it make insect issues better or worse? I even wonder if my manual efforts (daily bug squishing) could make a difference from year to year in the population. After all, through the season I am killing thousands of rose chafers. Does that play forward into the next year’s numbers? There’s no way to know.

One longs for the rigors of true science: single factor differences and the ability to identify true cause and effect. Sigh. It’s that Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” I have my own version, “TDMV.” Too Damn Many Variables. It’s the answer to so many of life’s current vexing issues. We just have to do the best we can, and recognize that we have no control.

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Last night something tried to get our chickens. It was late, into the wee hours and we’d been up reading. Rick opened the windows before climbing into bed, because it was a little on the warm side. We often use the night’s cool to keep the house comfortable. If it hadn’t been for the open window…

I heard a strange cry–I thought it might be the cats, downstairs. I walked to the top of the stairs–and it happened again, clearly from outside and from the chicken pen. It was far more of a wail, than a cluck. And if you know chickens, you know that they are near comatose at night. Something was very wrong.

I cried out to Rick–something’s after the chickens–and headed downstairs at a clip. I stopped in the kitchen long enough to grab a flashlight, and hurtled out into the night. I flipped on the flashlight as I stepped out on the path, and its beam reflected back a set of eyes in the dark. I couldn’t see the critter, but I saw it’s eyes glowing back at me. Then they disappeared.

I ran to the chicken pen. It’s a six foot chain link fence, about a 30 foot circle–the coop is a small wooden house, inside the pen. We’ve never had any problems with predators, and we’d become sloppy about security. We regularly left the coop door open at night. Einstein was on the west side of the pen–she’d been the wailing chicken. She seemed okay, so I played the light across the pen. Feathers, everywhere. A chicken lay prone a few feet from the coop. I assumed it was dead, and continued scanning for the third chicken. None in sight.

I opened the coop door–and there she was, still up on the roost. The inside of the coop was littered with feathers. One down, two okay. I closed and locked the chicken entry and turned to grab Einstein to return her to the coop. I’d deal with the dead one after the survivors were secured. While I retrieved Einstein, the “dead” chicken staggered over to stand next to me. It was our largest chicken, Alpha. She’d lost a lot of feathers, but I couldn’t see any blood. I popped both of them into the coop and locked it up tight.

By now, Rick was up and on the front porch barking questions. The whole animal neighborhood was alerted, and the night was peppered with unidentified weird night noises–and the call of a barred owl. I scanned the perimeter, but couldn’t see any sign of a critter having dug under the fence. I didn’t know what it was, or if it might be in the tree, above me. With the chickens secured, the rest could wait until morning.

Bright and early, I cut up some apple treats and went out to release the chickens. They seemed fine–and gobbled up the apple bits. Observing through the day, though, Alpha is a little worse for the wear. It’ll be a few days for her to recover.

We made several mistakes here. The chicken door to the coop was open, that’s obvious. Less so, though, is that we installed the pen several years ago. At the time, we were very careful to make sure that there were no overhanging branches that could give  predator access or egress. Things have grown. We can only assume that the predator came over the top–either jumping or climbing trees. We were lucky.

Rick spent today pruning and resecuring the pen. In addition to locking the coop, we’ll dust the area with flour tonight–just in case ‘it’ returns, maybe we can get some prints to identify it. Racoon? Fisher? Bobcat? We just don’t know. And until we know what we’re up against, we won’t know what strategy to follow.

I didn’t sleep much. Adrenalin will do that. And guilt.

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All trimmed up now, for safety. They sleep in the brown coop.

 

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We have dispatched the rooster. It was always a possibility–since we made the discovery after Christmas that he was a rooster. He was supposed to be a hen–but anyone can make a mistake. We keep chickens for the eggs. They are not pets. Roosters do not help in the eggs department.

The rooster was beautiful. A Barnevelder, a heritage breed. He had dark feathers, black to cinnamon, with an irridescent green cast. I marvelled at how exquisite he was. Rick was less taken with his appearance. We let it go, to observe whether our rooster might be good for the chickens. I’ve read that chickens are happier–and potentially more productive, with a rooster in the coop. And, we had one chicken who’d assumed the dominant position–and, we suspected, didn’t lay. We wanted to see if adding a rooster to the mix would change the hen dynamics.

But the rooster was a hefty food consumer. Unlike the chickens, he didn’t take his free range opportunities to forage. In the summer months, when the chickens spend a lot of time roaming, their feed consumption drops significantly. The rooster was unimpressed with free food.

And our egg production didn’t change. So the rooster wasn’t exactly carrying his weight. (It was interesting though, to see the female alpha get her comeuppance.) Rick would shake his head about that rooster, though. They are not pets.

It’s hard to tell if chickens are happier in one configuration over another. To me, the rooster seemed overbearing…even a bit neurotic. The chickens, who were older and had developed patterns before his arrival, seemed to endure and accommodate him. Still, to his frustration, they stuck with their old patterns. He had other ideas about how things should run, and they ignored him. The rooster spent his time corralling the chickens, and trying to keep them bunched together. This was not their way. I suppose he thought he was protecting them, in his preening and elegant sort of way. His energies–especially during free range times–were spent fussing over the chickens, and not foraging. For their part, the chickens were far more interested in foraging, than they were in the rooster.

Economically, the rooster was not pulling his weight, but that was not what led to his demise. Quite abruptly, the rooster developed a bad attitude. He began to harass the chickens. And then he began to threaten us. Rick does most of the chicken care, and he noticed it first. How could he not? That damn rooster started to attack him, every time he turned his back on it. He wanted to show me, so we headed out to the chicken yard (even though they were out, because they’ll always follow if they think treats are involved.) Rick took the lead and I was behind by a step or so. That damn rooster came up from behind and attacked me. Good looking only goes so far! The decision was made.

Beauty may be skin deep, but nasty goes all the way through.

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Got some nice feathers, though. Might be good for a hat.

 

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The problem is that there is no money in it. We’re struggling to find effective treatments for the various six-legged monsters that attack our fruit trees. We vehemently refuse to consider ‘standard’ agricultural poisons. Left to our devices, and the blessings of the internet, we are making progress. It’s slow, but we’re in no hurry.

Last year we suffered a plague of rose chafers. It wasn’t just us, the entire county was inundated with them. They are an annual problem–but not like that. We used our standard, herb-augmented, insecticidal soap–but they are beetles, and thus, armored. The soap helped, but was not fast enough to prevent them from damaging our trees. Though all the trees were affected, the plums were the worst. I was beside myself–and for weeks, visited the orchard up to five times a day–to hand crush the bastards between my fingers, by the hundreds. All over the county, farmers were alarmed by the onslaught. Most fought back with pesticides as deadly as the bugs themselves. I won’t do that, on principle, and because I keep bees. I know the costs of indiscriminate pesticide application. Bees are insects, too.

From an organic perspective, we do not want to coddle our trees. There’s wisdom in allowing some predation. The trees will respond by growing foliage that is less delicious, even bitter–at least from a bug’s perspective. And that change carries forward, year to year. Most of our trees are young, and too delicious for their own good. Modern fruit has been bred to be sweet. It’s its attraction and its Achille’s heel. Last year, two plum trees were completely skeletonized–defoliated. Though they did leaf out again after rose chafer season–it’s not a performance they can repeat year after year. So, we were curious, after last year, to see how the trees would respond this season to the annual rose chafer offensive.

This year, we are armed. If things get too bad, we have purchased the tree netting, which is the ultimate in protection. And we’re refining our organic spray options. But first, we are trying to be observant, to learn from the bugs and the trees.

The infestation is not as intense as last year. We have no insight into that–it’s a ‘too-many-variables’ situation. Last year was the thing that inspires nightmares and horror movies. This year, not so much. But, I was talking to a clerk at our local farm and garden store–and he was reporting rose chafer levels like we experienced last year. He had that overwhelmed tone to his voice. He reported that his wife wouldn’t even go outside. Perhaps our trees are not so delicious as before? Also, though the plums are still the favorite victims, this year the rose chafers are also going after the apples, and even the pears. Are the plums learning to defend themselves?

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In my research, I seen suggestions that intense garlic applications may make a difference. The theory is that the sulfurous elements in the garlic are absorbed by the leaves, and after a couple of days, become a systemic–discouraging the fine palates of our insect predators. Although I’d already done my pre-season mint and light garlic spray, once the rose chafers arrived I decided to give intense garlic a go. It’s working. That doesn’t mean that the pests are gone–but, since the spray three days ago, the levels have dropped to about a quarter of what we were seeing before. Of course, I have no way of knowing if weather, or seasonal variations, or even astrological influences are a factor. We are only one small orchard–with no control group. But, anecdotally, it’s working. We may try one more application in a week or so–if the numbers go back up.By the first week of July, the season ends and we can breathe a sigh of relief. Given that conventional farmers confronted with such an infestation will spray weekly with really toxic compounds, I’m feeling pretty smug about the garlic. Unfortunately, there’s no economic incentive to research the impact of garlic. There’s no patent…no way to milk money out of the bug-traumatized gardeners.

Next year, we’ll remember to start the intense garlic before the rose chafers arrive, to give the trees advance protection. I’m always perusing the internet for solutions–and I note that there is a product, ‘Garlic Barrier,’ offered to combat beetles. It’s probably much easier to use than my messy process of pulverizing heads upon heads of garlic, filtering it and then mixing it in water and a carrier oil. But my method was a lot less expensive.

We’re also looking at applying beneficial nematodes to the soil in the area. These microscopic warriors seek out underground larvae and eat them from the inside out. It might be of limited use, because, after all, rose chafers can fly. Who knows how far they come to eat our orchard? That plan would be for next year–to minimize their numbers, even before they leave their winter homes. It would also limit other forms of grubs, which can be pests in the garden. Every little bit helps.

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You hear it all over the internet, everyone is crazy for sour dough. The pandemic lockdown has brought a flurry of interest in cooking and baking. I guess it started because of shortages of staples in grocery stores. First toilet paper. Then bread. And then, surprisingly, yeast. Locked in their homes, Americans started to bake bread. And when the yeast ran out (which clearly happened before the flour disappeared), they reverted to old-fashioned, flavorful sour dough.

So did I. But with a twist.

You see, in my previous life I was a bread-baking maven, a yenta of yeast. I was so deeply into bread making, that I ground my own organic flour. By hand. You see, machine driven flour grinding heats the flour–not in a good way. I did this, every week, for twenty years. I would grind and blend flours–in the search for the perfect crust–the perfect crumb (the fleshy inner part of the bread), and to bring out the maximum flavor in various types of grain. My loaves were gorgeous–light whole-wheat sandwich breads, earthy, crusty french loaves with just the right heft and chewiness, hearty seeded loaves to go with soups or stews–or just some cheese and a good wine. I was a nut.

Then, in 2004, I learned I was a celiac. The very obsession that fed my soul had been killing my body. I had to go gluten-free. The end of bread.

For years, I just went without. I’d tried the commercial gluten-free breads. Leaden. Tasteless. Brick-like. In later years they came out with some better tasting varieties–lighter but not richer. And the ingredients. Oh my! I never saw so many additives and multi-syllabic ingredients. I’d buy a little, here and there. But if that was the best that bakeries specializing in gluten free bread could do, who was I to think I could do better?

Until the pandemic. For Mother’s Day, my niece gave my sister a gluten-free sour dough starter, a loaf of gluten-free bread, and a recipe. (She cannot do gluten, either.)  It was in the spirit of the current craze for sour dough. My sister was smitten and she sent me some starter–and a recipe. I was skeptical.

And yet…there’s something about homemade bread in the oven that brought back all those memories. It was worth a try.

And here it is, my first gluten-free loaf of sour dough bread. It rose beautifully. I think next time, a little more flour, maybe some sorghum. Maybe I’ll go out and find some teff. Even Rick likes it. There’s certainly room for improvement and experimentation. I might even pull out my old flour grinder. There’s lots to explore…maybe even to obsess over.

 

On nice mornings, I like to take my coffee into the garden and check on progress. That can mean: checking vegetable growth; looking to see what seeds are up; pulling a few knapweeds that have poked up; and squishing any caterpillars or rose chafers that come to my attention. Generally, my quest is to nip any trouble in the bud, but mostly, it’s nice to enjoy some early morning sun in the garden.

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A lovely morning stroll.

 

This morning was an exception. Someone had invaded. Someone who digs. Now, our garden has just been put in. Most of the beds are still seeds, just poking their noses out of the soil. So our intruder was not interested in our plants–it’s interested in grubs or worms in the soil.

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Wait! What’s this?

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Or this?

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Yikes! Or this!

 

Yesterday we did our annual orchard treatment with fish emulsion. Even though we flushed the surface afterwards with clear water–a fish scented garden was probably a strong attraction. That critter tried to dig under every orchard tree. Each tree has a mulch of tree bark, under which there’s some strong landscape cloth. So the intruder didn’t get very far, and certainly never found the fish for which it was searching.

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What we’d like, to be sure, would be a clear set of prints. I suppose every detective dreams of that absolute perfect clue for identification. No such luck. It made a mess of things but even with a bunch of digging in fresh soil, not one good print. We did find the place where it dug under the fence. We can fortify that, but, really, if this becomes a regular event, it would be a lot of work to bury over 300 feet of reinforcing wire. I’m hoping that the interest in the garden is a ‘one-off’ event, inspired by the search for fish.

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Ah-ha! Where it dug through.

 

We have noticed digging around the property of late. Rick has been burying rodent remains in shallow graves…the products of the cats’ hunting exploits. We’d noted that some of them had been dug up again. We blamed the cats. Grave robbers! Then, two nights ago, someone dug up our poor dead cat…buried last December. That raised the bar significantly–both because the cat had been buried deeper, and because it was just too gross to think of the cats digging up cats. We re-interred what we could find and put heavy stones on the grave. Now that the fenced garden has been breached, we have to take action.

We’re thinking it’s probably a skunk. We’re not thrilled about it–or how to handle it. They’re nocturnal. We’re not. And I don’t know if we could even see it to shoot it. We could trap it…but who wants a skunk in a trap? And then what would we do with it?

So my morning’s peace is suddenly punctuated with questions marks. I’m hoping this is a passing phase, so we can go back to the regular pests…the ground squirrels, birds and bugs that attack the garden. At this point, I think I need more coffee.

 

Post Script: It’s not a skunk. The footprints, though obscured are too small. And there are areas of excavation that only a smaller animal could have done. Maybe a weasel? It’s a partial relief, with a skunk, I’d need to be worried about the bees. Now, if it’s a weasel, I’ll need to worry about the chickens. Sheesh.

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The new queen has arrived, and has been installed in the hive with her new subjects. This finished up the day. All is well in the kingdom.

I’ve ordered a queen bee to replace our missing-in-action queen. When something is in short supply, it’s easy to get desperate. It’s worth it to take a deep breath and slow down.

Here in the north, it’s early in the season, too early for there to be ample queens available. We always try to buy local, over-wintered queens. We’re looking for hardy stock that can withstand our winters. At this juncture, I found three options. Two of them were local.

One local option wanted a queen’s ransom–literally. He didn’t want to sell a queen, he wanted to swap for 10 frames of drawn comb and bees! (A queen runs $35 to $50.) A nuc (five frames of bees and brood and a queen) runs $160. You do the math.

The other local option was $35. Although he indicated that his bees were Northern, we checked him out on Facebook. He overwinters in Florida (do his bees?) Hmmm. Looking a little more, it was clear he was a Trump-raving, gun-toting, conspiracy-spreading character. His business, but not my cup of tea. Could I trust his representations?

We went with the on-line Northern queen out of Iowa. Everything about her presentation said, solid bee-keeping without any wackyness. Even her shipping schedule was set up to best serve the bees and ensure survival. Sometimes, local isn’t the only, or best, alternative. I try to make my dollars reflect my values. It takes a little extra digging, and I may spend a little more. But I sleep better at night for the effort.