Three Years and a Few Days

Our third anniversary on the farm happened to fall on the day we drove back from New Jersey: not one minute in that 24 hours was actually spent here.

Perhaps it's an annual frustration, but I have been fighting discouragement looking back over the last year. The list of where we are hasn't changed much: we're still without any permanent structures (though the metal building is getting close); we're still partway done with fencing, without progress on a dwelling, without milk production, without a well-functioning greenhouse.

Really, reading the list of what was undone a year ago felt like we had been standing still for the last year.

So what have we accomplished in the last year?

• We sold off our sheep, focusing our efforts elsewhere.
• Phil has been rotationally grazing land to the north and south. He's mowed down blackberries, and we've been pleased with the few worms we've seen in the cow patties. (There used to be none.)
• Fencing on the land to the north now divides the slope into paddocks. Automatic waterers mean we don't need to cart water around daily. Cow moves go more quickly.
• The greenhouse is one quarter full of comfrey. That will hopefully multiply to plants across the orchard.
• We've had three surviving calves born this year, bringing the total to fifteen. We've had no milk from any, but perhaps next spring.
• I went from two hives to one last year, and the one hive multiplied to three.
• I grafted some apple trees. Some continue to do well, despite no additional irrigation.
• Phil cleared a good bit in the lower pasture. We chipped piles of trees, though there is plenty more to finish.
• Phil spent much time felling trees and sawing them.
• The metal building framework is finished, leaving only the skin to be completed.
• We have a farm plan that we are working towards, slowly.
• We planted 10,000 daffodils.
• We grew garlic in the ground, rather than in raised beds. In some ways, disappointing in size, but to get a crop from this ground is satisfying.
• The peach orchard is laid out on contour. The cherry orchard is moved to the lower pasture.

I was rereading an old favorite, The Wounds of God, recently. One man, after being told he was going downhill, said that no, "The road climbs upwards, upwards to the light. It must do. It wouldn't be such hard going if it was going downhill."

In some ways, that helped me. As I struggle on, it helps to think that the road is not always uphill only for me. It's helpful that I'm going uphill to the light, not just trudging on, endlessly and unsuccessfully.

Double Fie on Second Chances

Phil must have eaten something that gave him a migraine from 2pm Sunday on. (I don't know what is in Subway cookies; it could have been an accumulation of too many strange foods in four days.) He would take homeopathic Nux Vomica which would put him to sleep for a few hours. He'd get up, do something like move the cows, then take another dose and sleep again.

Today, though, he was ready to work again. He caulked the base of the building and worked on putting waterproof corners on the building. And he put up four and a half panels almost single-handedly (I helped for about five minutes total). He came up with an ingenious method of tying the panel up and attaching the base first, which made general installation much easier to do on his own. Between the tie, the shim strips, and a slightly revised order of putting in screws, he's come up with a method that works efficiently with just himself. Brilliant.

Maybe four and a half more panels and he'll be done with one long side.

Today was Bitsy's day to be spayed. She had been scheduled a month ago, but when the power went out, we had to reschedule.

Praise the Lord with us—she was actually in heat (totally unknown to us). If we hadn't had this appointment now, we would have been faced with puppies again in five more months.

So that was a relief to finally be done with her. Now I just have Shadow on my mind. I was surprised to learn that girl dogs can start cycling at six months; she's six months now. I am in fervent prayer that she will not be bred before she can have her shots and surgery.

My tragic, horrible news came mid-afternoon. The SPCA will not take Socks. "Due to his chicken predation, he's simply too high risk."

This scenario had never crossed my mind, frankly. So we have again placed an ad in the local paper and have in pleas to every shelter and rescue place within two hours. Thus far, things don't seem hopeful. Rescues are overrun and underfunded.

I like to know what my options are, so I called the vet to find out about putting a dog down. I mean, if we can't keep him here because he's destroying our livelihood, and we can't find a shelter that will take him, that really restricts our options. But even the vet will only put down dogs that are terminally ill.

I know that farmers have had to kill dogs throughout history. And I suppose if it comes to that, we'll do what we have to do. Better a swift death by his people than fourteen years of life, tied up.

But this scenario is just wretched.

And what's worse is that, had we brought him up to the SPCA after he killed Tux, that would have been a single killing at eight weeks. But by giving in to the guilt of surrendering a pet, by hoping we could work with him and train him, we're stuck. Stink, stink, stink.

I have been morbidly upset about this. But when I downloaded photos of Socks, I saw pictures from today that I had completely forgotten: Isaiah came in, butterfly on his hand. "I see his proboscis! Look!"

And then it fluttered onto his face, and he grinned as its little feet gripped his nose.

I need to remember the beautiful things, because otherwise I think I would just wallow in misery perpetually.

An Unexpected Day

On our way up to church, Isaiah started to vomit. And it wasn't just car sickness. So Phil turned the van around. The boys and I stayed home, and Phil headed up to church and community group.

I let the boys watch a movie, and I went and had an hour and a half of quiet and solitude. I don't know that there was anything life-changing about that time, but it felt restorative, deep within.

Some time later, I looked at Isaiah, and he still looked unwell. I put in a second movie, and thought about another quiet time. But I really wanted to learn something practical, and I thought of the herbs, the wild plants, growing around the farm. I wouldn't have to tend them, but simply read about them and pick them.

And so I spent a fascinating hour or so learning about four plants. Queen Anne's Lace can be used as a natural birth control. Yarrow has a wide range of uses, but I was interested to read that it is especially good for cuts to the bone—had I know that thirteen months ago, perhaps we wouldn't have needed three sets of stitches. Stinging nettle is good to relieve burns (Phil burned himself yesterday: if I had only known a day earlier!). And plantain is nature's drawing agent: it draws out splinters, pus, mucus in the lungs, infections in the teeth (use as a gargle).

I left that time almost walking on air. I had smelled the sweet yarrow, tasted several herbs in various teas, started several tinctures for future use. I had learned something new, made something healing out of the plants around the farm (three native, one planted).

So it was an unexpected day, but a good one.

Fie Upon Second Chances! (and other things)

Phil woke me Saturday morning. "This is heavy to have to say so early in the morning." And I waited for news about the death of one of the cows.

"We have no more ducks."

The night before, we had three. None lost in their months here; since they arrived on the farm, we'd had no deaths from disease, accident, or predation. But then, in one night, the dogs took all three.

I suspect the ducks had glimpsed the stock tank and, wishing for an early morning swim, left their secure electrified pen and walked into the yawning maw of Socks and Co. I don't know what day Socks will leave this farm, but I think he's had far too many second chances. Boo.

Perhaps it was wise of Isaiah not to play with his ducks too much. He knew which duck was Daffodil and which was Daisy, though they looked fairy similar to me. He still grieved, but it was managed grief. I am sad to never again see the funny tuft on the back of Dandelion's head, or to glimpse the beautiful colored feathers on the three birds' wings.

But there wasn't much time to think of this loss. We had a team of five willing men come down from church. One of them dealt with grilling ribs for lunch, and I had to do nothing at all.

Phil put them to work in a variety of ways. They moved the insulation over from its year+ resting place. Phil said there were a lot of mice. One bag even had a black snake wiggling around! I love having a clear view of the orchard again.

They put caulk along one wall. They cut wood to ensure the long beams would not sad (the wood will be knocked away when the building is finished).

Then they put up the first several sections of the actual skin: insulation trimmed and taped up, blue panels screwed into the metal structure.

When they left in the early afternoon, one man said, "All that effort, and just that little bit of paneling up to show for it."

And from the downhill side, it didn't look like much. But up close, the panels made the building look incredibly enormous.

I went up to help Phil in the afternoon. We put up another two panels. I'm afraid my help was imperfect at best, as the first panel angled down a bit and the second panel showed a little bit of insulation along the bottom ("Diaper showing" said Phil). He's going to regroup, to figure out a better way to get the skin of the building on.

It took a lot of strength to drill through the metal structure: each screw pushed in with aching muscles.

Post-Travel Stupor and Run-Away Trailer

The day after travels feel a bit off balance. Empty the car, check on the animals, reacquaint with what's growing, what's thirsty, what's next. Unpack and put away, settle petty disagreements between tired children with 48 hours of unusual food (chips! candy!) to make them feel a bit off.

Phil slept, on and off, most of the day. Seventeen hours of driving in 36 hours (plus driving hither and yon during our stay), often in stressful conditions: he was worn out.

Midafternoon, he dragged himself out to move a trailer out of the way. He pulled it up the driveway and stopped the truck: only to realize that the trailer had come unhitched.

This is an amazing story, a beautiful story. But it came so near tragedy to be almost unfathomable.

The trailer escaped at the top of our driveway, about the highest point of the property. If it had continued down the driveway, it would have taken out our van and tractor. Had it veered south, it would have wiped out the barn and RV, or perhaps the chickens and the home construction trailer (though that is a bit improbable).

Instead, it left the driveway just feet above the electrical box and electrical panel, not taking out our precious electricity.

It took out a single pear tree, perhaps ran over the fig tree (which bounced back, if affected at all), somehow skirted both small greenhouse and large greenhouse.

Then it must have become airborne, as it came to rest right before the precipitous hollow, stopped by a sturdy tree with all wheels off the ground.

Looking at it, Phil thinks the trailer looks intact.

Looking upslope, there is, literally, this one spot on the driveway where a runaway trailer could take out a single tree and damage no other permanent structures or plants.

How great the Father's love for us.

We'll get the trailer out, someday. For today, we just shook our heads with thankfulness and went back to cleaning and resting.

And even a runaway trailer seems like not a big deal. Stuck trailer? Who cares! As long as I'm not stuck driving around DC for three hours, life is good.

Our Day in New Jersey

We all slept in, which was good. Because four boys, who were wired the day before from the excitement of imminent departure, wired from ten hours in the care, have plenty of energy to contain once fully awake. Isaiah wanted to try to be the Princess and the Pea, so he stacked up all the pillows on one bed.

Then the boys decided one bed, good; two beds, better. So they created quite the stack, though it was too tippy for true relaxation, pea or no pea.

By the time they had eaten yogurts, muffins, and scones, their energy was at a fever pitch. They changed into swimsuits and we headed to the pool. Which was a little disconcerting, because Phil was up ironing, and I didn't want to get my foot wet, so I really hoped the boys would not drown. Isaiah self-propelled for the first time! A few feet of inelegant swimming, but swimming it was.

Phil's father and sister brought the boys clothes: shirts, vests, ties, pants. We met our little nephew for the first time, too. After a whirlwind of dressing, we went to church (and almost weren't on time).

I've never been to a Catholic service before. The priest seemed a genuinely nice man; he had transferred to the diocese on July 1, which was not a lot of time to get to know the family. After the service, there was a military salute. (Uncle Richard was injured in Vietnam.) A bugle played Taps, and I hadn't seen the musician until he started playing. It brought tears to my eyes.

We all went to lunch, then, at a seafood place right on the water. The boys were interested to see the fishing boats head out to sea, and the sightseeing boats come and go. A long time family friend heard that I wanted to take the boys to the boardwalk (their energy increased by the minute). She was horrified to hear that I wasn't intending to take them on the rides, and pressed some money on Phil.

We had a great time for those 90 minutes. The boys and I rode a little train around a track. It was slow and rather silly, but fun in a "I can't believe I'm doing this" sort of way.

Next I took the three older boys on a miniature roller coaster. I don't think any of them enjoyed the five times around very much ("It was a bit too fast for me,") but when they staggered off, there was Joe, waiting to go on, too.

He wasn't quite tall enough, but if I held him, he could ride. So I held on tight. He didn't particularly like it, either. But he was brave to ride.

The older boys flew.

That was their favorite.

And Abraham had seen a carousel from the train, and he had wanted to ride the carousel. So off he went, with Grandma. He was the perfect age, and as the ride went around, he had an ear-to-ear grin each pass. "My horse's name is Racer!" he called.

By that time, we were extremely thirsty, walking the boardwalk in almost 100 degree weather, so we splurged for the fresh squeezed lemonade, with tablespoons of white sugar lurking at the bottom of each quart-sized cup.

The boys and I walked down to the Atlantic. I think the tide was coming in, so they touched the water of a recent wave, without getting too close.

And then we left. Ninety minutes of vacation at the boardwalk, just about perfect.

Aunt Barbara had a lovely pool, so the boys got on their swimsuits. Even Abraham got in this time, as did Phil for a while. He had to take a nap, so we didn't leave quite when we had hoped: a 4:30pm departure would have put us home around midnight. But it was almost two hours later before we finally tore ourselves away.

Happily, we didn't get lost. Unhappily, we hit inclement weather.

Well, the worst moment was going over the Delaware. An extremely strong gust hit while we were over water, and actually displaced the car. We were in the outside lane, and though I'm sure it would have taken much more to actually push us into the water, it was a heart-stopping moment.

But that was a brief moment. Later, we hit mile after mile of torrential downpour. Perhaps sixty miles of intermittent downpour and let up. With the wipers going as fast as possible, it was still a wall of water in front. And though we didn't ever hydroplane, the idea that we could, at any moment, was disconcerting.

It was raining so hard, the cars around us turned on their distress lights, presumably just to alert all cars around that they could not see the road well.

Two miles from our turnoff in Fredricksburg, we hit a traffic jam. It was right about midnight, and as far as we could see, there was a mass of red taillights. When we turned off, even there we could not see the end of it.

A few miles later, and we were driving through the less populated sections of Virginia. It had been almost 36 hours since we were in the country, and it was a relief to return to the quiet, the lack of press of humanity.

But at 12:30, Phil said, "I could probably go to sleep." Seventy-five miles from home, and we were both tired enough that conversation felt almost impossible. Phil parked, but the boys woke up and interrupted any napping.

Phil got out to stretch, and we pressed on.

Shortly before two, we turned in. The dogs were enthusiastic in their welcome. The house, without air conditioning, was warm. But we fell into bed and were grateful to be home, safe, a day of vacation and family, of sun, beach, pool, and fellowship to look back to with happy memories.

Three Hours in DC

Wednesday morning, Phil got up well before 6am to go to a men's meeting from church. He came home to find me working away at the computer, mostly immobilized. He emptied the car of minerals and various other tools and such, brought hay for the cows, filled large containers of food for the chicks, chickens, and dogs, and then packed his clothes.

By 1:30pm, we were on the road. Phil's uncle passed away very unexpectedly last Friday, and we were going to the funeral in New Jersey.

After a stop at Whole Foods for the fun car food we all enjoy, we headed north.

We drove by a little local airport, and a small plane took off, right next to us. It started after we drove by, and caught up with us. I've never had that experience, driving parallel a hundred yards away from a plane taking off— exhilarating.

All went well until we reached DC. I don't know how it happened, but somehow I missed an exit or construction had changed it or ... something. Truly. I could see the signs I needed, and I was directly Phil, and then the next step simply never materialized.

And because Phil had forgotten to grab the atlas out of the truck, and we don't own smartphones, and the little maps from Google were confusing at best ... we drove around.

Three hours passed. Three hours of one way roads when we wanted to go the other way. Red lights. Children playing happily in the backseat (but noisily). I eventually despaired, wishing only that we could go back home and be done with this city where we finally find Pennsylvania Avenue, part of the directions missed so many hours before, only to have Pennsylvania quit. I called my Dad, who gave us good directions, but because we didn't see the big picture, we ended up not trusting our instincts and returning to the maelstrom.

There are no convenience stores with maps. We looked. The directions we had printed were so convoluted (two miles here, six miles there, half a mile next), we didn't even have a way to ask where we wanted to go. We considered asking a policeman, hiring a cab to lead us, but how do you ask for guidance when the immediate destination is unknown?

I really don't know how to express how bad those hours were. If there was some hope that we could eventually escape and go the right direction, that would have been one thing. And sometimes when you're going the wrong way, you can meet up with where you had originally intended to go. But, apparently, that doesn't always work.

Sometimes you drive around DC for three hours.

I finally said to myself, "I give Phil three more hours. If we haven't figured out what to do by then, I'll make us go back home." And then he found his way out. And we drove to New Jersey and go to the shore right before midnight.

Happily, we had a hotel room waiting for us. I took my first bath in three years. I was ready to soak out the stress of the day in hot, hot water. And the four boys went to sleep in a King bed.

Third Stitches in Thirteen Months

When I got up this morning, my foot didn't hurt too badly. I peeked beneath the bandaid and it looked okay. I hoped to maybe avoid a doctor's appointment.

Then I put a sandal on. Ouch! That bunion part of the foot touches exactly where the sandal rests. The Dansko clogs also grip at that widest part. Hmm. So do flip-flops. And sneakers, of course, touch all over.

The idea of living shoeless for an unspecified period of time was untenable. I called the doctor.

Happily, within a few hours, I had the numbing shots, the irrigation, and the FIVE stitches needed.

Phil had taken me to the doctor's office so he could also run to the hardware store and get a new tape measure. I don't know if it's the third tape measure or the tenth we've had since we moved here, but we've had a hard time staying in tape measures. They break after a few weeks of work.

He had been laying out the colored panels that will close in the metal building, but rainfall this afternoon stopped progress.

I'm enjoying convalescing, as Isaiah creates art nearby.

Foot Gash

With a thundershower predicted today, and no shorts to wear that were even semi-clean, Phil headed out to do laundry. No building progress. The few drops of rain we did get could have been worked around, but you don't know in advance. And clean clothes are always a treat.

When I went to make dinner tonight, I pulled a jar of stock out of the little overflow refrigerator. Apparently it was dialed down too low, since the jar had frozen and cracked into about ten pieces. I carefully disposed of the shards in a trash bag, and set the beg near the door to take out when I was done with dinner.

Horribly, I went to get some cheese for Phil's tortilla soup and must have jabbed my right foot right on a shard, right on the bunion area. It spurted almost before I could think, but I got to the shower and rinsed the wound, compressed it, and sent Phil for Arnica. (After he brought it, he took the trash bag out.)

It's the deepest cut I've ever had, definitely through both layers of skin, but it's not ridiculously long (probably under an inch), and the idea of heading to the hospital didn't seem worth it. It hasn't been bleeding, despite occasional walking, so I'll check it again in the morning and see what needs to happen.

I've decided I'm not a great patient. Since I'm usually the one saying, "Oh, that looks pretty bad, but it'll be okay," when there's no one to say things to me in a strong, calm, soothing voice, I get stuck in a mental rut of, "Subcutaneous fat, blood, burning, ouch."

I have always hated broken glass.

Periodic Sprinkles

Three years ago yesterday we left Boulder. It's been interesting, thinking about the last three years. When I asked, Phil said he thinks of the last three years as, "Enjoyable." Though he's been surprised at how hard it is to do well.

We've been so dry, even the comfrey has been cooking. So we welcomed rain. Except for the fact that sprinkles prevent progress on the building. The next step is laying out the insulation and installing it along the siding. So we're ready for the shell, but the shell needs dry weather. And dry weather isn't predicted for almost a week.

The two-tenths yesterday and two-tenths so far today seem very little to totally halt progress, but I will keep trying to remember that God knows.

With the rain, the soil softened, and I weeded more in the greenhouse.

I leave you with Joe's comment, sleep-talking last night. Very clearly he said, "Get off, Isaiah, you're going to ruin the marbles!"

I'm surprised Joe even knows what marbles are!

Concrete Shooter

Phil and I took the boys swimming yesterday. Phil hasn't been in a pool since Christmas break, and he was unenthusiastic about another day in 100+ heat. A few hours cooling in the pool was restorative.

We then stopped by the hardware store to get a gun that shoots fasteners into concrete. The last time Phil used one, several years ago on a job site, he simply rented the equipment. Since then, OSHA has decreed that if a person is working for someone else, they have to be certified; if they aren't certified, that's a $25K fine (or something like that). So rental places don't rent them out anymore.

I don't know when we'll use such a tool again, but we now own one, shooting fasteners into the concrete to attach the flashing around the concrete; the flashing will shed water. Water tight buildings are good.

It's pretty neat. You load the chamber, press the flashing, and shoot. I mean, it's pretty neat if you're a guy. Yet another task I'm thankful I didn't have to do.

Today our friend Creigh came to visit. He helped Phil with the framing on the front. He was better at shooting (for some reason the fasteners went in further for him), so Phil let him do them all. They both put up some angle supports, which helped Phil: some of those tasks are tricky.

So good building progress, good fellowship.

I picked our peach harvest: 40 small fruits, about the size of golf balls. Good flavor, but just not much quantity.

The yellow jackets and hornets are greedily pursuing our apples now. The boys and I shared several. They are flavorful, but very dense (Phil said, "almost woody"). We think irrigation is in our future.

All Day in the Hot Sun

Before I woke up this morning, Phil and Butch were already at work on the purlins. After a few hours, Butch headed home, and Phil spent most of the rest of the day outside. Twelve hours or more, putting together the building. The boys enjoyed sitting on the lift with him. He would rig up a towel, so they would sit in the shade, suspended in the air, admiring their Dad's muscles and efforts.

The heat index was 106. A few times he came down to the house to rest: his left hand would seize up. Based on a bit of internet research, I think that was mostly dehydration, probably compounded by a need for more calcium, magnesium, potassium, sodium—basically, he needed some good chicken stock, rich in all those minerals. And lots and lots of fluids.

I asked him at one point why he was continuing, despite hand cramps and fatigue. "Because I'm making such good progress! It's coming together."

I can understand that pleasure.

I spent about three hours this evening (once the heat index dropped to 99). I did the five wheelbarrow loads of compost that I've set as my daily goal, carting them from the pile uphill a short ways to the greenhouse. Then I did some weeding. When there's a significant visual change, weeding is quite fulfilling, really. And to move the weed seed laden plants before the seeds drop: that's fabulous.

Apples: Various Colors

Rafters Up

Early this morning, Butch and his forklift came.

By 10am, the three top rafters were in place.

Butch left for a meeting, but came back a few hours later. He and Phil started to put up the purlins, the additional supports for the root. Phil had to climb up and down ladders, one side and the other. He did three of the edge connectors between rafters, and six of the purlins. The sun beat down, the humidity was high, and after about two hours, he realized he would not be safe working more, and sent Butch home.

(The year before we were married, Phil worked much of the summer in New York, rappelling tall buildings in the heat. In a job where his safety depended on complete focus, he learned quickly when he was reaching his limit. He said he hasn't felt like that since his time in New York—he was definitely over-heated today.)

The apple orchard was getting overgrown. Yesterday he let the cows graze up along the 20' or so near the road: they mowed that well. He opened up some lanes down the aisles today, something I've been almost obsessively opposed to. It went really well though.

Until a few cows escaped (that rascally Catherine and her two offspring). Then, between one bored cow munching apple leaves, Socks making the cows run riot through the orchard and then twisting, serpentine, as we tried to hold him back; between accidentally approaching Snowman more abruptly than he was expecting (whoa, sorry, big guy!), and electric line running here, there, and everywhere: it was a mess.

In the end, though, it was mostly okay. Some of the trees were a bit defoliated, but none were trampled entirely, and the cows returned to the pasture to graze.

Phil spent some time in the evening putting up another purlin on his own, with just the tractor and special extension he built. It took longer than with the forklift, but he felt like he could spend a bit more time thinking about what he was supposed to do; he felt more relaxed.

We are into summer storm season. Like previous years, in the afternoon, the sky to the west shows beautiful clouds and light.

The sky to the north shows lots of rain falling everywhere but here. The rain shadow. It's a bummer.

I wheeled five wheelbarrow loads of compost into the greenhouse. The compost had dried out significantly, which is not ideal.

In the greenhouse, I had planted the six elderberries that survived potting on. The roots had snapped off on some, and one plant shriveled up entirely. I resisted digging it up to find a dessicated root, and then, one day, an elderberry sprout poked up! Yay for second chances!

And in the moon bed, I have been thrilled the last few days to find calendula volunteering. I think my Mom sent me seeds, and I made seed balls and scattered them. Not many flowers came up anywhere, but the four or five calendula make me so thankful! What a beautiful, useful herb, growing for the first time here at Spring Forth.

I think the ironweed, growing around the farm, is also beautiful, even if it is a weed. That rich, luscious purple.

To close: the thunder and lightning offer one extra treat, even if heavy rain isn't one of them.

Could a Garden Come Up from This Ground?

Yesterday, while waiting to hear if Butch was able to free his forklift from its prison, Phil figured out a way to make a height extender for the tractor. He figured that he was able to get the beam up within just a few inches of where it needed to be, but the bucket height was simply not quite enough.

So he built a contraption (explained it to me, too, though I'm functionally illiterate in mechanics and don't really understand). It'll give him the extra height he needs.

We woke up this morning to find a text from Butch: the forklift is free. So the contraption won't be tested, but how freeing, to know that, forklift or not, the building progress will continue.

***

One of the songs we sing could be written just for disappointed farmers.

All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found?
Could a garden come up from this ground at all?

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust.

When we sang that today, I wondered about my greenhouse, newly cleared, ready for lasagna beds of compost and seeds. Could a garden come up from this ground?

I was amazed today, when watering today, to find that many of my little okra seeds, planted four days ago, had sprouted! A garden could come up from this ground.

And, really, for all the lack of watering and weeding and overall neglect, I have fairly productive plants. I get a cucumber or two daily; the tomatoes are starting to put off red, albeit somewhat chewed, fruits.

The comfrey looks better by the day.

Some of the leaves are a foot long.


***

The puppies did me a great service today. Last fall, I buried cow horns with manure mashed in. After six months or so underground, the manure changes texture and form and becomes BD 500, a biodynamic prep that, when stirred for an hour and sprayed on the land, improves soil tilth and health. I suppose you could call it homeopathy for the earth.

And I do love homeopathy.

I was terribly disappointed this spring: when the time came to dig up the horns, I could not find them. The $49 worth of horns was disappointing to lose, but the preps: that felt tragic.

Phil walked up today with a horn. The puppies had dug one up.

And we found them all!

Much more dried out than I'd prefer, and perhaps not as potent as I might wish, but there they.

A garden will come up from this ground.