All Mulches are Not Created Equal

I don’t know about you, but weeds are the bane of my gardenfarming existence. Not bugs, not slugs, not diseases, but weeds. And don’t give me any of that one-man’s-weed-is-another-man’s-whatever … I’m talking about anything that grows repeatedly where you don’t want it, that interferes with what you’re trying to grow by taking nutrients, sunlight, moisture away for its own purposes.

It’s particularly challenging here because nine years ago, when we moved to this farm, we started by tilling a field that hadn’t been cultivated in many years. We’re talking grass, the kind with horizontal rhizomes that, when you till or pull or break them in any way, simply turn into multiples of the mother plant. There’s bindweed, almost impossible to eradicate. There’s any number of other species that happily spew their seeds all over the field and hillside.

Most weeds can be kept under control pretty easily by timely hoeing or cultivating. Not so with quackgrass. The roots grow deep and spread horizontally for a pretty impressive distance. If you dig carefully and follow the rhizome, it can go, and go, and go, until you’re just plain amazed at its ability to thrive no matter how hard you’re trying to get rid of it.

So up in the field, I’ve been turning to a combination of cover crops and mulching. Last year I sowed a peas/vetch/rye mix in a difficult patch, and it did a great job of suppressing and crowding out the grass. Were I to cover crop it this year as well, there’d be even more improvement … but we’re going to add compost and plant corn.

I’ve been mulching my garden beds in the yard for years with the typical wood chips found in any garden center, and that’s a huge help; but doing that up in the veggie field, or the daylily beds, would be waaaaay too costly (not to mention that many of those mulches are treated with dyes and fungicides, and I don’t want that in my vegetable beds!). Mulch hay, it turns out, is full of weed seeds; found that out the hard way. Straw doesn’t have the weeds, but grass grows right through it unless you keep piling it on thickly throughout the season. And I found out in a painful way that some softwood chips actually inhibit growth, due to the chemicals released in their decomposition.

Last year, I saved lots of old newspapers and used them in combination with straw. This was a winning combination, and not terribly expensive. Both the paper and the straw eventually decompose and add organic matter to the soil, and this spring, when I pulled them aside, the soil was crumbly and lovely, the few weeds shallow-rooted and easy to pull.

The key is to use plenty of layers of paper … say, 8-12 sheets at a time, nice and thick. Wet the paper down as soon as you lay it to keep it from blowing around, then lay the straw on top. Easy. Where to get newspapers if you haven’t been saving them all winter? – ask your local library for the old ones they periodically need to get rid of; I bring home a big armload every two weeks. And don’t use the shiny colored advertising inserts. Even better, use only the newspapers that use soy inks (as does our local paper).

We just planted a 100-foot row of raspberries, and mulched them in this way as well; raspberries don’t like to compete with grass, and so adding more straw, or chopped leaves, as needed should keep them happy. And anything that eliminates hours of weeding makes this gardenfarmer happy as well.

Greenhouse improvements

Ah, there’s nothing like a week of rain in the spring to put Mother Nature into high gear. Everything is growing fast and furiously – the weeds in particular, of course; isn’t that always the way? So many early perennials are blooming now, and the flower gardens are already lush with color and foliage.

For the last several years, my dear husband has taken a week’s vacation at the end of April, generously offering himself up as my farm slave and asking for a To-Do list. (How lucky can I get? I mean, seriously?) This is the time for those pre-season construction projects, and this year the major one was two wonderful raised beds for the greenhouse, ten feet long and about 18” deep:

I’ve been growing tomatoes and peppers in the greenhouse for awhile; peppers, in particular, simply won’t do well outside here on the hill in zone 5. Just too short a season, and the nights are often too cool. Up until now, I planted in the largest pots we had available, of varying sizes and shapes, not the most efficient use of space. Earlier this spring, we went to visit the farm our son manages, and were inspired by the first-rate greenhouse setup there:

So John got to work on creating a version for us. Sounds simple, but not really, of course: the south end of our greenhouse was carved out of a hill, and the floor on that end has never been level. He dug it out further, leveled it better, added more landscape fabric, and improved the lower edge of the walls:

Then he built the raised beds and got two pickup-loads of a mix of loam and compost to fill them, which involved lots of shoveling and wheelbarrow loads. There are eight plants now in each bed, which means they replace 16 pots quite nicely. Given my penchant for growing LOTS of produce, there are still many more potted peppers and tomatoes in the greenhouse – but the plan is to build two more raised beds at the other end of the season, chiefly to grow greens in the winter, as well as more tender plants in the summer. (Our overwintered spinach experiment worked out wonderfully – we are STILL harvesting spinach, but it’s finally beginning to bolt in the warm greenhouse.)

As great as the raised beds are, here’s what makes them extra-wonderful: John added an irrigation system that will free up at least an hour of my time each day. Gotta love that! A new spigot inside the greenhouse, drip tape on the raised beds, and emitters in each pot … just turn the handle and there you go. As he says, why on earth didn’t we think to do this years ago?

Oh my, it's dry ...

Here in the Northeast, we usually enjoy the benefit of good winter snow cover, abundant spring showers, and frequent enough summer rains so that most everything is fairly green and lush throughout most of the growing season. Typically we’ll turn on the irrigation lines when new seedlings have been set in the ground, or to supplement rain on the veggies midseason to insure their steady growth.

Some years are wetter than others, some are dryer. Nothing unusual there. But this year? … well, we’re a little concerned about the way it’s coming out of the gate.

Very little snow all winter. Precipitation about a third of usual. A very dry spring so far, with record-setting heat. Predictions, of course, are not very useful, and anyway, they’re all over the map.

The young frogs in the little pond at the bottom of our hill have gone silent; the water level has dropped precipitously, leaving dried-mud banks and what looks now like a large, murky brown puddle. This is late-summer dry; usually it’s overflowing at this time of year.

In the gardens, the perennials, at least, have deep roots; while some are showing signs of stress, most are still holding their own. The spring greens, though – sorrel, dandelion, and the like – are shorter, thicker, and a bit tougher than usual, doing their best to conserve what moisture they can access. We’ve held off on direct-sowing parsnips and carrots, which need steady moisture in order to germinate, although the parsnips should have been started by now. Other seedlings, already planted, need daily watering.

Drip irrigation uses only about a third of the water that overhead sprinklers use; nearly all of our watering is done this way. We’re ever mindful of our dependence upon well water; the flower gardens around the house don’t get watered at all – the Sink or Swim approach to plant selection – but this spring the daylily nursery is getting irrigated regularly. Daylilies can withstand drought conditions, but the quality and quantity of blossoms depends upon spring moisture. Nobody will want to buy a daylily that’s just foliage!

The forecast is for rain this weekend, and beyond. Sure, we’ve heard this before, and watched clouds that held on tight to their moisture day after day, refusing to let go. It’s got to rain sooner or later … right?

Early spring brings so many delights, doesn’t it? Today is a more seasonable day than we’ve experienced for awhile – cloudy skies and a wind chill in the high thirties (and going down into the teens tonight) – but still, there is a quickening of energy, an anticipation as we go outdoors to see everything greening up. And every day there is something to notice: crocuses in bloom, daffodils on the verge, trees budding out, late-fall transplants showing evidence of surviving the winter (phew!), and, of course, the daylilies growing apace after those balmy days last week.

One of the most pleasing aspects of this time of year, I think, is being able to start harvesting for the salad bowl again after a long winter of store-bought greens. Young sorrel leaves add a lemony bite …

Chives go into scrambled eggs as well as salads …

And there are early dandelion greens, last year’s overwintered scallions in full growth, and the beginnings of herbs to add flavor as well.

Lettuce, kale, and cabbage seedlings are coming up under lights, but given the forecast for a week of below-freezing nights on the way, they won’t be going outdoors any time soon. But here’s what I’ve saved for last: a bountiful crop of spinach from the unheated greenhouse …

We're putting it in everything: salads, egg dishes, smoothies, sandwiches, soups. Planted in the fall, the spinach sprouted before the coldest days and nights of winter, then laid dormant under row cover until reawakened by the late-winter sun and warmer daytime temperatures. This was a first-year experiment; and despite a midwinter shearing by whatever little critters find shelter in the greenhouse (chipmunks, most likely), growing this winter crop of spinach has proved to be a great success.

For several years we’ve intended to get serious about growing winter greens. As is typical, though, our To-Do list is always longer than our available time and energy. Maybe this lovely early spinach will give us more incentive. The combination of perennial greens, requiring very little attention, and some covered raised beds planted to a variety of cold-hardy greens might just supply us well enough that we won’t have to buy any more commercial salad mixes. Organic they may be, but packed in plastic and shipped all the way from the west coast, hardly a sound environmental choice; and what’s easier than harvesting the freshest greens possible, a few feet away from your door?

There’s a great little article in Mother Earth News this month about perennial edibles; sorrel is amongst them, and others that come later. Check it out online ... I can't seem to get the link posted here! ... just go to motherearth.com and search for perennial edibles. Good stuff!

Mega Pumpkinsquash!

Maybe you remember this gigunda-sized volunteer squash photo I posted last fall … pumpkin-big, and looking like a cross between that and a delicata or sweet dumpling, by the coloring. I have to confess that I fell for this big old gourd; it was just stunning, perfect in its voluptuousness (okay, now I am revealing how weird I am), beautiful to look at. I couldn’t stop admiring it

There it sat on the kitchen island, waiting to be carved up and eaten ... but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was an emblem of the richness of the garden, a beacon of nature’s fecundity, an amazing surprise that had emerged from a shaded compost pile under the trees in a far corner of the yard. Never watered, only getting a few hours of sun each day, this squash grew in spite of those less-than-ideal conditions. It was the most perfect squash I had ever seen.

And so it remained on the counter through Thanksgiving, through Christmas, through the long month of January and halfway through February, subject to the warmth and on-and-off humidity of the kitchen. Lesser squashes, tucked away in the pantry, began to show their age; this one merely turned its greens into oranges, its skin still firm, a rap still producing a satisfying thump. Could it be too good to be true?

Finally, fearing that if I waited much longer it could go all squishy, it seemed like time. This gift should not go to waste. As I plunged our largest knife into the flesh, it felt like carving a fresh pumpkin – it was work, the meat was firm, it took some effort to cut it open. And … amazing! Still moist inside, seeds plump, a lovely squashy aroma.

It was cleaned, cut into large pieces, one sent upstairs for my extended family, two roasted as they were, the last cut into cubes and roasted with carrots and ginger for soup.

Squashes vary in their tastes, depending on the type; some are bland, some dry, some tasty. This pumpkin-squash, aged to perfection, is delicious. Butter and salt were added to the roasted squash, and mashed together; chicken stock, curry, turmeric, cinnamon, and coriander were added to the roasted soup mixture, and pureed with a stick blender. After sampling the mashed squash -- delicious! -- the rest was put into the freezer.

(These silicone muffin pans, by the way, are terrific for freezing portion-sized servings … once they’re frozen, the contents can be popped out quite easily and placed in freezer bags.)

The seeds were saved, of course, and if anyone would like some to plant this year, let me know. Because this one plant grew so, so far away from any other squashes – probably 100 yards away – I expect they should come true. But you never know … and that’s part of the fun of growing.

Winterspring?

Another warmish, sunny day in a strange winter with many such days. More and more people comment on the season by saying, I’m not complaining, but … It’s an odd thing, having such a mild winter, and while we certainly do enjoy being largely free from shoveling and slippery driving, and marvel at the bulbs and perennials already sending up shoots, we also know it’s freakish. And we know that we could still get slammed with winter weather at any time (as we did in October), although the forecast isn’t predicting any of that for us any time soon.

And those of us who are perhaps more tuned in to environmental issues know that a warm winter means less winter kill-off of bugs and pests and perhaps, even, plant diseases. We wonder what the summer will bring; hordes of black flies, mosquitoes, and ticks? – and correspondingly higher rates of Lyme disease? Squash bugs and potato beetles? (maybe even a biblical plague of locusts? ;-) I figure there’s lots more I don’t realize, about what will be different without the usual cold winter temperatures and the usual deep snow cover.

But for the meantime, what can one do except enjoy this Virginia-like winter? We sat out on the deck at midday to eat our lunch in the sun; it was still chilly enough to require sweater and sweatshirt, but we have a protected spot out of too much wind and it was delightful. The lawn is bare and the grass is pretty green, considering. I mean, it’s February. We shouldn’t be seeing the lawn at all. Sorrel and chives are beginning to poke up in the herb garden, and the leaves of burnet, primroses, and clary sage are green.

The chickens are happy beneficiaries of all this warmth as well. Usually they are cooped up throughout the usual frequent cold snaps and blizzards, not liking to step out into snow; this winter they are able to gad about freely in their pen most days, scratching through the used rabbit bedding and kitchen scraps that are thrown in. Something has been coming through the yard in the wee hours, waking our dogs, and we suspect that our local black bear might not be hibernating in the usual way. Can't look for tracks, though, when there's no snow.

I feel for the ski areas, and the guys who bought new plows this winter, and the kids who got sleds and snowshoes for Christmas. And, I suppose, for those people who actually love the snow and revel in seeing the landscape covered in a thick white blanket. I just wish that I could enjoy this unusual weather without that nagging worry in the back of my mind, wondering about the causes, the implications, and what might lie ahead for those of us who work the land.

Not Your Grandmother's Library

In the work that I actually get paid for – as in a regular paycheck – I work in two different libraries, one fairly large and one fairly small. If you’re of a certain age, maybe your idea of a library is like mine used to be: a quiet, comfortable place filled with wonderful books and periodicals that lead to knowledge, enjoyment, entertainment, enlightenment; a few tables and chairs, some upholstered, placed here and there so that one can sit and read; perhaps a lively book discussion group. And maybe your idea of a librarian was a genteel, or at least gentle, older (usually) woman (typically) ready to assist you in finding a particular book, or magazine, or to retrieve some bit of information at your request. Maybe you knew it wasn’t a hush-up sort of place any more, but still, a place of modulated voices and intellectual curiosity, of abundant information and good literature (including children’s books, of course).

Ah, the good old days. Not that this has all gone by the wayside, but changes are underway, and like everything else in modern life, those changes are coming faster all the time. And the major agent of change is, of course, technology. Patron computers, wi-fi, DVDs, Playaways, e-book readers, downloadable audiobooks; interactive websites where patrons can reserve, renew, and make requests; video game rooms, networked library systems and interlibrary loans; computerized circulation systems and information databases; it seems that every few weeks there’s something new to learn. Expanded offerings expand the patron base, bringing in folks who have no interest in books but take out tall stacks of movies, or just come in to use the computers, or want someone to teach them how to use their new Kindle. And then there are the patrons who rarely enter the building at all, but avidly borrow the ebooks and downloadables through their home computers.

For a number of years, I had toyed with the idea of returning to school to get my masters degree and become a librarian. This was, of course, based on that old idea of what the job was like. Now that I’ve actually been working as a library assistant for several years, my eyes have been opened to some new realities, and frankly, I don’t think I’m really cut out for the job of a “real” librarian. This has, at least, relieved me of the occasional pangs of guilt I used to feel whenever I berated myself for not getting that degree.

“Real” librarians, nowadays, might be more properly called something like Information Technology Specialists. In order to be a proper one these days, you have to embrace your Inner Geek … and I don’t have much of one. Marilyn Johnson, in her book This Book is Overdue: How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All, divides librarians thusly: if you were to describe people in terms of technology, only those born after 1980 could be called Technology Natives; the rest of us, born before that date, would be Technology Immigrants. We may have learned to speak the language to varying degrees, but we’re talking with thick accents, and we’re walking around wearing babushkas.

I don’t mean to disparage the many real pre-1980 librarians I work with, many of whom are brilliant and technologically savvy and keep the library as current as possible. But I belong to that other group of Immigrants who are always one (or more) steps behind, who can search the database for a title, teach a patron how to sign up for an email account or download an audiobook, but who haven’t been particularly thrilled at the idea of e-readers replacing real books, need detailed written instructions to reboot the server, and marvel at the people who've been using computers since they were babies and are able to use new technologies intuitively. My group is not the future; that is quite clear. We are struggling to keep up and are still often towards the back of the pack, sometimes marveling at the new gadgets but often muttering under our breath and wondering why the buttons are so damned tiny and everything changes so often.

So I’m okay with being a library assistant, not a “real” librarian. I still get to enjoy getting to know the patrons I serve, chatting with some of them about books, doing the occasional Story Time and setting up displays; I marvel at the advanced knowledge and skills of my better-educated colleagues. And I’m proud to be part of an institution devoted to information, egalitarianism, non-censorship, and privacy.

But my heart is still in the garden, where it’s always been. I like the tangible, hands-on, physical work, the very primal connection to the earth and what it provides us. It’s always miraculous to me, the way that nature wants to grow, how we just help to facilitate that manifestation by planting seeds, clearing weeds, providing water, and standing back to watch. It feels like sharing in a legacy, a continuation of what endless generations before us have done. There’s a high-tech struggle going on, sure, with organics and heirlooms on one side, and industrial ag and Monsanto’s GMO Frankenfoods on the other (no, I’m not biased ;-). And it’s great to have access to the latest ag studies, extension reports, seed companies, to networks of gardeners and farmers online; there’s always so much more to learn. But really, a gardenfarmer lives in the very real world of soil, air, sun, seasons, weather. As a species, we are wired to be attuned to these elements, and our very lives depend on them. It’s a strange experience, having one foot firmly planted in the soil and the other stumbling along, trying to keep up with the swiftly-evolving outside world; a disjointed experience, often. Maybe the geeks have inherited the libraries (and lots of other things), but the survival of the species depends on our stewardship of the earth. And maybe it's not your grandmother's farm any more, but she'd feel right at home here.