Two Feet or Two Miles

Standard beekeeping wisdom says that, if you're going to move a hive, you need to move it only two feet, or move it two miles for a day or two, in order to completely reorient the bees. Then you can bring the hive back to its new place on the farm.

Happily, I checked online and found that there are easier ways to do it. Today was the day, so I smoked the bees as much as I could (which didn't look like much: I'm not sure if the smoke was more invisible than I remembered, or if it was just nonexistent). Then I took off the outer cover, and carried the upper hive, which probably included the queen and brood, about 30 feet to its new home in the moon garden.

It was heavy and unwieldy. The last eight feet or so, I worried a bit that the box was slipping, but once moving, I didn't really want to set down a box of bees, only to pick it up again.

A standard hive body, filled to capacity with honey, weighs about 80 pounds. I don't think this weighed that much, but I would guess 50 pounds, easily.

I set it next to its new bottom board, and went back for the second, lower hive box. This one is where most of the mature bees, with mature venom glands, work. The foragers leave from and return to this box, so I was concerned there would be more activity of the crawl-around-inside-Amy's-protective-gear sort. I temporarily put on another cover, just to cut off a little extra access to my face.

But the hive didn't change its pitch: it stayed at a dull, calm hum the whole way. There wasn't an uptight bee in the bunch. I carried the second box up, saying over and over, "They shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint."

I put this lower box on its stand, put the queen box on top, opted not to actually open up the brood box this day (if they are close to swarming, I'll know soon enough; and just how much disruption does a hive really deserve in one day?), and covered the hive.

Back at the former home site, the faithful foragers returned to find their home ... vanished!

Periodically, I would carry pieces covered in foragers up to the new home. I think most bees, though, did what they were supposed to do: a spiral flight away from their previous home site, until they found their hive. By nightfall, there appeared less than a dozen confused bees still buzzing.

Though it didn't take too long, moving the hive was a huge highpoint for me. I also found about seven more jujube sprouts, which made me happy. They're coming along!

Phil was down in our mass daffodil planting, and commented that he didn't think the daffodils were doing a great job keeping back the grass. Then he said, "Wait: maybe this isn't grass." There were patches of grass growing around all the spots he fed the pigs.

Looks like we have spots of wheat.

Since the sheep have been meandering all around the farm lately (faithfully heading back into their pen by mid-morning, so they can rest and ruminate in the shade), Phil finally corralled them with a hot wire in the orchard. He's left a lane down the driveway so they can reroute to the shade periodically.

Phil also mixed up a batch of tree paste: a concoction of equal parts fresh cow manure and red clay (which we have in abundance), mixed with whey. Amazingly, I had several gallons of unused whey from the last time I milked (now about a year ago), and since they're not smelling any fresher, I was happy to add them to the mix.

Tree paste was the primary reason Phil bought the wheelbarrow: a convenient receptacle in which to mix and move. He had a good muscle workout: shoveling the sloppy mixture over and over until it was well combined.

At first, he tried painting it on. As an engineer, he was doing it perfectly, missing no spots. When he thought about it, the first few trees probably took five minutes each. Five minutes times 300 trees = too many hours for what is, in some ways, a peripheral task.

So we put on vet gloves (the only disposable gloves we have), took handfuls of the mix, and covered the tree trunk all the way down.

It's supposed to be both a nutrient boost for the tree, almost like a salve for any wounds, and, perhaps, a moisturizer for bark that expands. Also, it's supposed to be a rodent repellant. We found one tree girdled and dead, and it presumably happened recently, as we pruned the tree, and it had (dessicated) buds. Rotten rodent.

The few daffodils that are just blooming now are, in many ways, the most interesting we've seen. Extra petals, or a bit more orange. The little extra time in the orchard was a good chance to observe these outliers.

We had folks come and take three puppies today: the three males that sort of ran together for us, so alike in coat, color, and temperament that we could not tell them apart. Before they arrived, we had a family meeting to figure out which of the puppies we'll keep, and we reached no consensus.

The three in the running: Mom (not to be confused with Bitsy, the actual mom), the largest and spunkiest of the girls, who is the one most often at my heels. Also sleek Socks, the only one identifiable by his marking, and, as such, the favorite of the boys since his birth. It's nice to have one puppy you can always tell apart. And Curly Boy, with the lightest of undercoats, who has really jumped out at us this week; Phil's current favorite, the smallest boy. He is gentle and submissive almost past belief, happy to be held, even on his back. He'll stand on his hind legs to greet you, and fall over on his back. He's on his back a lot.

Which is the one for us? We head to bed yet undecided.

Orchard Drenched in Crimson Clover

Wednesday night we had a freak windstorm blow up for about five minutes. The strong gusts knocked out our power for about seven hours (which always makes us nervous with so many freezers of meat), and we spent an evening by lamplight and flashlight. Puppies didn't appear to notice the outage.

When I went outside today, I noticed the leaves on the redbuds had broken out.

I went out to water my little greenhouse sprouts today. So few of the seeds have taken, and so few that have sprouted are growing well, that I almost despaired of continuing. But one of my jujube seeds had popped this morning. One-hundredth of my seeds is up! Even one is infinitely more than yesterday, and I watered with renewed good hope.

I am doing my best to keep up with the weeds this year. I picked one variety that the sheep won't touch. It's just forming seeds now, so I think I caught it in time. And as I notice Johnson grass poking up, I go and dig until I get all the massive roots out. Will this actually stem the tide? We'll see. (One lecturer, Malcolm Beck, said that the only ways to get rid of Johnson grass are Round-Up or two years of sheep. Neither sounds great to me. For now, I'll dig.)

Phil commented at dinner that he probably needs to start rotating the sheep through the orchard. When I expressed disbelief, he urged me to look at the orchard. Where he had spread compost last fall, the clover has taken off.

I was shocked. The variance between the composted row and the untouched row was as stark as if a knife had cut the clover off (Abraham is standing at the boundary).

A few sections of clover and grass were thigh-high on Phil. Then, a few feet away, the grass would be only inches tall.

Three years ago, what is now the orchard was abandoned land, with wild blackberries, staghorn sumac, and poison ivy. We're pleased to see the riot of clover and grass, amidst flowering fruit trees.

Final Four (Days of Puppies)

We have confirmed homes for one-third of our puppies. I tried to take enticing photos to lure people in, but it is hard to take good photos of fast-moving black-furred bodies. They are speedy babies!

We had a FedEx delivery today. The driver had almost had a head-on collision with a school bus as he took a curve near our house. On the gravel road, his brakes weren't very effective, but somehow they avoided a crash. But I think he was a bit shaken by the time he turned into the drive. When he saw the puppies, he got out his phone and snapped photos for a few minutes. I think it soothed his nerves, and he left feeling a bit better about his day.

Puppies can do that.

The Jumping Seeds in Asparagus Beds

Sunny Monday, in the 60s, was the most perfect day to be outside digging. My back was sore and sunburned after a few hours of forming new beds in my moon garden, and weeding the next moon garden space, and planting a 6'x6' bed of the 36 little osage oranges that were grown up enough in their peat pots that I needed to either pot on or transplant, and transplanting seemed the easier. Though the 36 sprouts aren't apparent in their little mulched square, I hope that in the year to come, they will grow robust and well.

Then Phil noticed that, indeed, we had asparagus in the asparagus patch.

And, a few seconds later, he noticed that we had massive weed takeover in the asparagus patch, many weeds now setting seeds. The most disconcerting was an unknown weed that, when touched, shot its seeds into the air. I started to close my eyes when picking that one, and felt the tiny seeds bounce off my eyelids.

For once, I was the optimist. I figured it was better to get 90% of the weed seeds into garbage bags for them to bake before going to the compost pile or dump, rather than simply hoeing the plants and returning 100% of the weed seeds to the ground. Phil wasn't sure the extra effort was worth it, but he complied. I did the hand weeding, and he did the hoeing.

It was a massive project. I fell asleep last night, sore in body and tired in mind. This morning we just about finished both beds, and were pleased to see how many stalks were up. But we need to figure out a better way to manage the asparagus. How much more efficient to have the hoeing done before the weeds are ready to set seed. Next year, perhaps we'll mark the rows somehow, so we know where to hoe and where to avoid.

And after all the flurry of planting and pulling, I sank into my chair and saw that we had a freeze advisory. A good reminder to continue to check forecasts: last I had checked, there was no cold weather predicted for the foreseeable future. And I had just planted some small peppers and tomatoes. Not many, only perhaps fifteen; fifteen that I just didn't want to pot on, that I figured would be okay in the warm soil after weeks of days at 85. Abraham prayed that the little plants would be okay, and I went out this morning to find them unharmed (especially the little pepper).

In other news, Phil propped the borrowed broken bush hog on its side, and, after a liberal application of Liquid Wrench, WD-40, and elbow grease, he managed to remove a bolt that had given him fits for the last half year. (Great rejoicing!) Then he was not able to get off the next piece, because he lacked the proper "gear-puller" or something like that. (His has three prongs, and it needs a two-prong, or something like that.) Perhaps, in the end, he will have to take the massive thing to a repair shop after all.

My garlic has shot up significantly after the weekend rain. I watered it with kelp water today, and I hope for a healthy crop.

And as for puppies, if we don't want to play, we have to sprint everywhere around the farm, lest our legs and ankles be ambushed. It's interesting to watch the different levels of playfulness, domination, subordination, curliness, and overall spunk. The boys play with them for hours, and still the puppies come back for more.

Visitors in Fairyland

What a pleasant week of visiting we've had. New friends and old have made the trek down, including a special visit from a long-time Boulder friend. There aren't many people who saw our home and life in Boulder, the land before we moved to it, and the farm today, but Stan is one. What a joy to hike around with him and show the changes the last three years have wrought.

Apple trees in bloom.

The neighbor's land growing a beautiful stand of clover, with grasses coming up, too.

A good number of the 1000 chestnuts poking out buds and leaves.

And I couldn't imagine a better week to receive visitors. With the warm weather, spring has been condensed into a week of fairy land. What normally is meted out over a generous month, has been compressed into a glorious week. As I've gone visiting this week, just driving up my road is enough to make me catch my breath.

The land is a profusion of color: yellow forsythia, lavender redbuds, light green leaves, white cherry, pink peach, and now, the white dogwoods just breaking out....

Add a red cardinal, and the world is aglow.

Someday, perhaps, we'll have a cherry tree like this magnificent tree we passed.

For now, our little transplanted cherries have just a blossom or two.

And after days of jubilant gasps over the colors and the sunny warmth, Friday night we welcomed a gentle rain. And then more rain Saturday night, which our ground has mostly absorbed. Unlike the pounding rain that sheets down the driveway, this has been exactly what we'd wish for: gentle, continuous soaking.
We were especially pleased with the rain, since the day before, Phil and I had spread a couple of hay bales over the freshly tilled and cover-crop sown fields. It felt like exactly the right timing: soil covered, ready to receive the rain.

I had hoped for this year to be a blooming year for our farm. It's been a blooming year thus far, for sure!

Day of Discoveries

We bought a lemon tree shortly after we moved to the farm, and even had a few lemons that first year (early 2010). I had no sign of lemons last year, and this year, I lost all the leaves all at once early this spring (since the tree was near an exterior wall, a good ways from the heater, I figured the tree was chilled).

We went to a party on Tuesday, and I noticed a magnificent potted lemon, with a beautiful fruit growing. The next day, when the tree owner came to visit, I asked her to look at my tree.

"Oh! That's scab. I've never seen such a case," she said.

Scab, apparently, is a type of insect that looks like a little dot. As I understand it, scab attaches to the tree and poops or dies, and sucks the juices, and ants come and eat (something like aphids). Since I hadn't known what to look for, the tree just looked like an odd bark, but once Rachel started to scrape the insects off, I could see how flakey and covered the trunk was. Disgusting.

I cut it back (perhaps not far enough), and we will see whether the tree lives. Sometimes you just don't know what you don't know.

It was very fun to have Rachel visit. She looked at my garlic and said it looked great for this time of year. That was a relief, as I have wondered if the soil was well-enough prepared.

And I mentioned that the few blueberries that I had imperfectly heeled in hadn't shown signs of surviving the winter. But when Rachel bent down, she said, "There's buds on this one!" And sure enough, there were buds on all I checked. Marvelous!

Rachel also mentioned that her bees swarmed early last year, much earlier than she expected. In fact, she thinks maybe in March. With the early spring we've had, I would not be surprised to see a swarm soon, so this morning I took my empty hive apart, scraped off propolis and any comb in the wrong spots. Generally, I just wanted it to be ready for splitting (or, less desirably, swarming).

I don't think I'm a day too early: a mass of bees clustered around the entrance, and stayed there well after dark. The energy coming from that hive was intense: the buzzing louder than normal. Apparently bees hang out on their "front porch" when the heat and humidity are a bit much in the hive, as well as when they're about to swarm. Since it was only in the low 80s today, and since the noise was more than normal, I think swarming is a definite possibility.

Another thrilling discovery centered on my nightcrawlers! I had a small container for night crawlers on the table in the motor home (which we don't use for eating during the cold winter weather). Whenever I've found an unusually hefty nightcrawler, I put it in my little container.

But with the warmer weather, I want more nightcrawlers, and a larger home. So I found a large container and filled it half full with manured hay, then covered that with clay soil. The new home dwarfs the old (set inside temporarily for comparison).

I emptied the worm container handful by handful, which was so fun. Joe watched, and he would exclaim over the size and activity of the big worms. They had generated a marvelous pile of castings.

Especially compared with what the soil looked like to begin with: hard, unstructured clay.

But the best bit was the discovery of the worm eggs. I had looked for them before without success, but today, with casual searching, I found perhaps a dozen. Once I saw one, I couldn't miss the others.

They are luminous, vaguely translucent, and reminded me of little glass beads.

I have seen them, very occasionally, when digging. What a pleasure to know that each little sphere holds the promise of new worm life, and with the worms, new castings and fertility, new soil structure, new protein for chickens. Worms are awesome!

To continue the recital of wonders, I am thrilled to see some almost white daffodils now popping up among the yellow. Although lovely, daffodils don't have a very long shelf life. A week into the blooming period, we feel like we're on the tail end already.

The redbuds grow more glorious by the day, their purple spray a backdrop for the happily grazing sheep. The sheep haven't finished grazing one section of cover crops yet, after three days, but in a few places we have the perfect "lawn mower" look.

I have peas poking up through their heavy mulch. I think perhaps the chickens took out a few along the side, but only a very few.

And in the uncovered greenhouse, I have leaves on the blackberries. As bad as they looked last fall, that's a wonder!

The greenhouse itself perhaps has gotten away from me. Phil commented a few weeks ago, "We should probably have sown a green manure." We'll keep learning.

In the midst of all these wonders and discoveries, Phil sprayed a tank of rootlet growth spray on the cows' pasture next door. (The chestnuts there are leafing out now, too!) He also did a fairly massive clean up and site renewal around the RV, because we had friends come for dinner (although, truth be told, the real draw was the puppies).