Putting the Garden to Bed

I am a perennial optimist; I always hope next year’s garden will surpass this year’s. But hope alone won’t make it happen. So, when mornings sport a coat of frost and all but the hardiest crops have died, it’s time to put the garden to bed. I layer on my grungiest clothes and go play in the dirt.

Black twiggy stalks are all that’s left of the string bean plants that produced such abundance in the summer. The pepper stalks look identical. The only way I know what they had produced is by their location in the garden. I pull them all up and shake off the dirt.  Pull up those hardy, opportunistic weeds too. “Out with you,” I tell them. If they stay, they’re apt to reproduce and then I’ll be greeted by a harvest of weeds in the spring.

The kale is still doing well, as is some of the lettuce, so I’m careful to work around them. A plastic dome goes over a patch of lettuce.  We’ll be able to harvest it for a few more weeks.  

Then it’s time to dig. To my happy surprise, I find my composter filled with beautiful black compost. I layer it under the top foot of soil, and try to transfer soil from one corner of a plot to another. I’m not sure why it works but garden wisdom tells us to mix it up.

Then I cover the garden plots with straw. It’s supposed to keep down the weeds and, when it degrades, adds to the nutrients in the soil. The work in the autumn chill tires me out. With a warm cup of cocoa in hand, I look out at the beds neatly topped with straw comforters. We are ready for winter. 

Hurricane Sandy Made me Grateful

The real victims of Hurricane Sandy—those who lost loved ones and/or homes, those who remain in shelters—remain in my prayers. Though we were certainly inconvenienced by “Super Storm Sandy,” and though, while experiencing 11 days without power we felt we were living in Colonial times or the Twilight Zone, I’ve found a number of things Sandy reminded me to be grateful for:

       1.       The opportunity to give our refrigerator and freezer a total cleaning

2.       The opportunity to clear stacks of kindling wood from our garage and to finally get rid of the logs from the tree we lost in the Microburst of October 2006

3.       My Girl Scout training that enabled me to consistently build a start-with-one-match fire in our fireplace

4.       The money saved by not using electricity and heating  for 11 days

5.       The money saved on gas for the car—who could take a long trip when gas station lines stretched half a mile?

6.       More time with my husband since he couldn’t watch the Tennis Channel

7.       The free time to patch cracks and paint the upstairs hallway

8.       More time—during the day at least—to read

9.       Missing all the political commercials and robo-calls

10.   The Montclair Library, that provided warmth and Wi-Fi 24 hours a day

11.   Terra Tea Shop that consistently served hot, delicious soups and warm drinks, even delivering them to my “work station” in the library auditorium.

12.   Montclair and all the houses of worship and organizations that opened their doors to support those who were in the dark and cold

13.   More evidence for those who consistently deny climate change, hopefully leading them to rethink their position.

14.   The generosity of neighbors near—those across the street who extended a power line when their electricity came back—and far –the people who drove from their southern states to help NJ neighbors, political differences notwithstanding.

15.   The opportunity to appreciate what I have, and, as we begin National Homeless Awareness Week,  to better understand the plight of our homeless neighbors who must always seek places of warmth, light and the next warm meal.

 

Early Snow - Nov. 7th

my backyard this morning

               The snow is truly lovely to look at. And sun on snow makes everything look brighter. That’s particularly important to me today, since it’s day 11 that we are without power after Sandy’s roar-through.

                In the 21 years we’ve lived in Montclair, we may have used the gas heater, installed in the basement room, on five or six occasions. But during this power outage, we’ve run it while we’ve been home. It’s managed to bring the heat in the dining room up from 52^o this morning to 58 ^o now. Still cold, but with the outside temperature at 40 something, much more tolerable.  The fireplace in the living room gives us light, some heat, and comfort in the evening.

                I have developed great admiration for both the indigenous Native Americans of the area and the early settlers. I can’t imagine anticipating an entire winter in a poorly-insulated shelter, where the only heat is from wood I’d either chopped or gathered, and the only evening light from candles, previously made, and moonlight. However did they survive?

                This is the second year in a row when we’ve had an unseasonably early snow storm. Prior to last year, I’d almost have bet my bank account that it would not snow before Thanksgiving in this area. I remember how unusual it was that I actually went skiing the weekend following Thanksgiving one November in the late 1960s.

                Yet early as it is, we are not talking an insignificant flurry; yesterday’s snow dropped three packing-perfect inches, the kind of snow that just begs you to build with it. Normally, I’d respond. But today, knowing there was no chance to warm up afterwards, I had to merely take its picture and hope I’ll get another chance to sculpt snow this winter—when I have heat in my home.

Sandy!

Oct 29^th 5:00 PM

                Mother Nature reminded us that humans are not running the world, that we are, after all, just another species of animal living off her bounty.  Today she’s telling us in no uncertain terms that she is in charge.

                The fiercest hurricane I've experienced is raging outside as I write. I watch branches of a tall oak—twice as tall as my neighbors’ house—wave over their roof like a giant hand about to rip it off. I pray that the tree holds strong in its roots and leaves our friends’ in safety. They were kind enough to give us C batteries a little while ago se we could use a battery-operated radio to hear occasional news. We lost power two hours ago and with it, our heat that triggers from the electrically-controlled thermostat.

                The radio says the worst is yet to come. At least the rain is not heavy. If the ground becomes saturated, our basement will likely flood, since the sump pump, of course, runs on electricity.

                I find myself thinking of all those Jane Austin books I’ve read, wondering how they managed with no electricity. Maybe it was easier. You shoveled coal into the burner to keep the place warm and made sure you had enough candles and/or kerosene for the cold months. How many candles must they have burned to light up the evening balls they attended—or even to play piano by? I try to read by the light of five candles, backed with an aluminum tray for reflected light. It’s daunting.

               

Oct. 31^st—Halloween

                We can finally drive off our block. The power line was down at the corner was removed. Being at a dead end, we were cut off.  We drive carefully through town. We encounter no school buses or crossing guards. Schools must be closed for a third day. I wonder how people were informed. Most people’s cell phones have run down by now. The YMCA has power! And heat! The warm pool is wonderful, ditto the shower and sauna. But we return to a 59 degree home.
                The radio says not to expect power until Monday. Burrrr.  My daughter tries to call on our cell phone—we recharged at the Y, but I hear only every other word. Seems some transmitting towers are down. She doesn’t have power in Newark either. No surprise, Sandy knocked out the power station on Raymond Boulevard, not so far from her place, I couldn't hear if she has heat. I hope they get Newark back on line soon.

Nov. 1^st  1:00 PM

                No trick-or-treaters last night. All was dark and cold on our block. Seems the Governor postponed All Hallows Eve until Monday. And school has been cancelled all week. Unprecedented!

                We drove to the library—it stayed open late to accommodate those out of power—and discovered that most of the town was either walking about downtown or there.  Returned home to build a fire in our fireplace. It added a little warmth and much comfort.

                Thank goodness it hasn't rained since Sandy—and our basement hasn't flooded. So many people in New Jersey have been flooded out. Whereas, though incredibly inconvenient—and cold—this lost week is tolerable. And, thanks to our wonderful Montclair library, I’m able to use my computer.

Autumn Hike

September 30th

Autumn is here in the wind, the temperature—54^o at dawn, the scattered clusters of blush and yellow leaves among the green. The lake is too cold to consider a swim and the wind-driven waves are stronger than I want to fight in my canoe.

But it’s a perfect day for a hike in the woods. I locate a trail on my map–“Parker”—on the north-east side of Sussex State Park.  As predicted, the trail enters the forest near the area where we park the car.  The path descends rapidly to a stream about 15 feet wide, then parallels the water.  A pleasant gurgling accompanies us as water flows and we stumble over rocks. Soon pine trees skirt the brook and the path opens up. The rocks are replaces by a soft blanket of pine needles.  It’s a pleasure to walk here. The spongy ground welcomes our feet and springs back. We are enveloped in quiet.

As a child, wandering in the woods behind my aunt’s home in Ronkonkoma, I often tried to walk “like an Indian” –silently. I never succeeded. Dry leaves and twigs always betrayed me. Now I imagine that Native Americans may have chosen paths through the piney areas.

The map shows the trail crossing another stream which flows into ours. I expect to find a small bridge, or at least a log, but instead there is only a chain of rocks, breaking the surface of the water from our side to the opposite bank.

“The water’s too cold to cross now,” says my husband. “We’ll have to come back here in the summer.”

I agree. I wouldn't want to fall in and ride home chilled and wet.

Reluctantly we turn around and retrace our steps through the pine-scented woods.

Butterfly Tragedy

On Monday I brought three fat caterpillars with milkweed to teachers in Nishuane School. By now they should have formed chrysalises and, if all goes well, will emerge within 14 days to be joyously released by second-graders to begin flights to Mexico.

That left me with only one chrysalis yet to open in my butterfly box. Last night it appeared almost black—a sure sign that there would be a butterfly in the morning. Often they take their time, emerging after 9 AM. But my glance at the top of my box this morning at 6:30 showed nothing, neither black chrysalis nor butterfly. Something was wrong.

At the bottom of the box, a partially developed Monarch female lay struggling—legs kicking in the air, wings about half filled out.  I hurriedly found narrow objects—a pencil, a thin candle—and tried to get her to grab onto them. She clutched but let go repeatedly, seeming not to have strength to hold on.

When butterflies first emerge, their wings are no longer than the length of the chrysalis case, about 5/8 inch. Their abdomens are full of liquid. They must cling to the top of the empty case and pump the liquid into their wings to fill them out, then let the wings dry out, before they can fly. If the butterfly releases its grip and falls at that critical time, the wings will not properly open and it’ll be crippled.

The wings of my poor butterfly were creased. I tried, very gently, to straighten them, but it was too late. All that time she had spent stuffing herself with milkweed as a caterpillar, shedding skin and turning inside out, then waiting for the promise of flight. And now she is doomed to be a crawling insect.

I carried her outside and placed her on a flower. She fell. I tried again and again, several times, until she managed to cling on. Then sadly, I left her.

Tomato Attack!

I looked up three times from the book I was reading before my brain registered that something was amiss.  Four tomato plants grow in nearby pots. Some held tomatoes in shades of green turning to red. Yesterday, all had had lush foliage and blossoms.  Now, it was all but one; the left-most plant was almost denuded.

I stared at the plant, wondering if the groundhog had attacked it. I doubted that. Broccoli and cabbage leaves, yes—he devoured them –but tomato leaves? Never before. Besides, the groundhog usually eats top down. This plant was empty from the bottom up. Two sprigs of leaves were left on top.

As I watched, one of the leaves moved—continually, rhythmically, up and down. Weird. And that leaf was a more apple green than the others. It was segmented too. Putting my book aside I approached the plant. It wasn’t a leaf. It was an ugly green bug masquerading as a leaf! Its relatively large head was actively— continually— chomping on one of the few remaining tomato leaves.

I am not unfriendly to insects. I raise Monarch caterpillars. I smile benevolently at spiders. When I find an ant in my kitchen I carefully capture him and let him go outdoors. But this creature was ruining my chance of eating fresh tomatoes. At the rate it was eating, I was certain it was just a short matter of time before it moved on to the next tomato plant.  But I couldn’t touch it. It horrified me. Its busy mouth appeared full of huge teeth. I needed backup.

I called my son out to look. “Yuck, that’s ugly,” he said. “What is it?”

“I don’t know but we have to stop it.”

“You stop it,” he said. “I’m not touching it.”

Joe retreated to his computer to look up the bug, Googling on “worm” and “tomato.” Seems our marauder is a Horned Tomato Worm.  This picture came from http://grapeseedfarmproject.wordpress.com/.

Meanwhile, I called my husband, who saved the day—and the tomato plant. He removed the twig on which the segmented green monstrosity feasted, plunged it into the bird bath, and held it down. I admit to feeling a twinge of guilt about our taking a life. But at the same time, I hope the deceased has no relatives nearby.