Providential Confluence

As we wait for the snow to melt, the children and I have done almost all of the Core 2 science experiments. Yesterday we did neat things with batteries and electrical wire (made a buzzer sound, lit small light bulbs, made a switch out of a paperclip, and mostly learned that electricity needs a closed circuit!). Today was human body, with things like swirling glitter in water to imitate what happens in the inner ear when you’ve been spinning for a long time (when you or the spinning bottle stops, the liquid keeps spinning for a while).

I had an unpleasant surprise today. Phil and I bought a twin-sized mattress shortly after we moved, once it became apparent that camping pads were not giving us the quality sleep we wanted. We kept the plastic wrapper on it, because everything here gets dirty after a while. But the mattress plastic gradually tore more and more. When it fell off in shredded tatters, I finally ordered mattress covers, but the snow prevented their timely arrival. When I went to put them on the mattress, I found that the bottom of the mattress was quite wet and had started to mold.

Was this a condensation issue? The rest of the mattress was dry. I’m guessing that, with seven people and two pets all exhaling all night, somehow the moisture pooled beneath our mattress. And, effectively, ruined it. A quick Google search suggested vinegar as a kill agent, but, preferably, “life’s too short to sleep on a moldly mattress. Get a new one.” Would a plastic cover have saved it? Or would the humid climate and somewhat cramped conditions simply repeat this experience ad infinitum?

The pigs devoured a 50 pound bag of feed in about two days (so it’s costing us $10 a day to feed those girls!). I went to give them another bag today. They were so excited, they jumped up on the feeder and tore into the paper before I could cut it open. Only a handful or two were lost, but it was a strange experience, standing there with two hungry animals, both of whom outweigh me, both of whom are more sure-footed in deep muck (which is what their pen is, in the melting snow). I was thankful to get out of there with only muddied pants and not a nipped behind.

A wonderful, surprising breakthrough happened today. I was listening to a three-hour lecture from the Acres 2008 conference that began, “I hope I have enough material to present to you,” and went downhill from there. As was my policy in college (mostly strictly adhered to), I figure that if I paid to be educated, I’ll take advantage of it as best I can. In college, that meant I attended every class I could, and took the maximum number of credits each term. Today, that means I listen to every lecture all the way through at least once.

After 40 minutes of excruciatingly dull question and answer, I began to question my sanity. Should I break my policy, just this once? But then, at minute 57, an unexpected boon.

I planted fruit trees the way I was taught: dig a $100 hole for a $10 tree. Dig it big, add lots of expensive amendments. But my soil was hard clay, and I had perched water [when he mentioned “perched water,” I almost yelled to the iPod, “Yes! Yes! I have that, too!”], so I was making not holes but little ponds. So the trees rotted. And if they didn’t rot, they might grow a bit and then fall over. I had to dig out the rotted ones, and they smelled terrible. And the sides of the holes were just covered in rotten, stinky filth.

So, what did I do about these holes? How could I break the polished clay walls of my holes? Hydrogen peroxide. I poured a couple pints into the hole, and it cleaned out the gunk and left the sides friable. Then I added carbon [humic acid, to be specific] and inoculated the soil with mycorrhizal fungi, and the trees started to grow really well.

Now this was fantastic news. I needed to know more. So I called the presenter directly—desperation leads us all to do “brave” things, I suppose—and spoke with him. He said that he digs holes the same depth as the rootball and just a bit wider—maybe 15 inches, instead of 12. He’ll do the hydrogen peroxide, and then plant the tree (just with the same soil he took out of the hole—nothing else!) with his humic acid and mycorrhizals. And that’s it.

Now obviously this appeals to me simply because the scope is much more manageable than the amazing holes we were digging. The price of his products I’m sure is nowhere near what I would pay for 90 cubic yards of compost. Phil can (I think) dig holes the size of a rootball fairly quickly and easily by hand. And I really like that he did this on land with perched water! He’s speaking my language.

As I reflected on this, though, I was grateful that I heard that little comment, perhaps one minute in a three hour Q&A, now. In December 2008, it would have meant nothing to me. Even last fall it would have meant nothing, since I had never heard of “perched water” and had no context for why it might be a problem.

The confluence of my need and the answer came together today. I would take that as another gift of our good God.