News from November

Can it really be nearly December? And no updates here since mid-summer? Disgraceful, I know. Never fear: Now that I'm finally sitting down to the task, the customary avalanche of posts will follow.

First, let's flip through the months in fast forward.

Green explosion in the garden, late August.

The colors of harvest season, early September.

Blustery day on the beach, mid-September.

First frosty morning, early October.

Gorgeous purple radicchio finale in the garden, mid-November.

Snowfall on the front bushes, the first of the season, this very morning.

More soon, friends!

A Little of Everything

On August 8, I paused in front of the calendar, trying to figure out why the date seemed significant. Later that day I remembered: I moved back to Michigan exactly four years ago. I started writing a timely post on the anniversary...maybe that counts for something?

In any case, to mark this milestone I wanted to expand on some thoughts I've been mulling over lately.

Earlier in that summer four years ago, I spent a week at Sterling College in Vermont attending the Wildbranch Writing Workshop. It was memorable for many reasons. (Sandra Steingraber was there! And Janisse Ray and David Abram! And Scott Russell Sanders was my instructor!) But I was particularly struck by one thing that had less to do with writing and more to do with living well in general. I found that those Vermonters were good at being generalists. Craftsbury Common is a tiny town surrounded by rolling green hills and not much else. To make a living and a life there, it seems that one must be good at more than one thing.

In the van to Craftsbury from the Burlington airport, we chatted with a woman who taught poetry at the college but also led art workshops for elementary schoolers and raised a flock of chickens. (She had tagged along on the airport run to pick up chicken feed in the city.) Later we met the director of the Wildbranch program; in addition to his work at the college, he also turns wooden bowls, raises sheep, and built his own root cellar and outdoor oven, which we admired at a group gathering at his home down the road from campus. Sterling College itself has a working farm and appears to turn out students with a remarkably diverse set of skills.

After more than three years in northern Virginia, this atmosphere was refreshing and inspiring. In my experience, the Washington DC metro area is dominated by people who devote the better part of each day to a (single, capital C) Career, and then spend most of their remaining time mired in traffic on the commute there or back again. The reminder that one person might be both curious about and competent in a wide range of pursuits was a timely one as I prepared to make my move back to my home state.

I may have been a bit of an anomaly in Reston, with my community garden plot and my canning jars and my sewing machine parked on the dining room table. In any case, I was eager to have more space and time in my life to make things and grow things and put things by for days to come. And I suspected that I would be in good company back in my native northern Michigan.

Well, it turns out I am in good company. This community is full of people who are smart and skilled in a multitude of real ways. They grow food, they raise chickens and pigs and bees, they bake bread, they raise hops and brew beer, they run massage practices, they write music and perform music and mix music into new arrangements and host radio shows, they take photos, they make clothes, they drive tractors, wield chainsaws, and forge metal. As for me, I find that since making my move, I've stopped cataloging the many things I want to do "someday" and dabbled in doing nearly ALL of them. It was easy to put off most of my interests when every moment was consumed by school, or when I was living in a small apartment with several roommates, or otherwise felt that my current situation was temporary and less than ideal to embark on a big project. But now that I'm in a place I intend to stay for a long while and my time is more my own than ever before, those limits have largely fallen away.

The to-do lists that pile up on my desk have so many categories these days that a spreadsheet might be appropriate. My work task list now has not one, not two, but three columns: Ranger Rick, Eco-Schools, and Young Reporters. Then there are house projects; yard and garden projects; cooking, canning, freezing, and fermenting projects; writing goals, photography goals, exercise goals; correspondence to keep, books to read, paperwork to sort. For this year's Great Lakes Bioneers conference (my third year on the planning committee), there are meetings and responsibilities and a workshop to prepare. And then there's my latest obsession: an ever-growing lineup of sewing and knitting projects that could keep me busy until the end of my days. On top of that, and to make it all possible, I have aspirations of streamlined housekeeping procedures and supreme organization.

From "patch and re-paint the cracking ceilings" to "dig a trench for the chicken run" and "research nontoxic remedies for the dogs' persistent fleas," from "make pickles" to "make a path through the debris piling up in the basement" to "make pants," there is always something to capture my attention. It's nearly impossible to get from one end of the house to the other without being sidetracked by yet another unfinished task. Not to mention that I now live with another person with his own enormous list of interests. Nick's projects have become mine, too, in varying degrees - from his ongoing dream to start a creamery to the daily details of running a tree service, milling lumber, building a yurt, experimenting with oil seed sunflowers, and whatever endeavor catches his interest next.

Is there a point at which this freedom to dive into everything I've ever wanted to do is too much of a good thing? I've mostly been operating under the assumption that a little chaos is good, and that diversity breeds resilience and strength. By having a wealth of interests and abilities, I ensure that 1) I'll never, ever be bored, and 2) I'll be better prepared for whatever life might throw at me.

In ecology, diverse ecosystems are healthy, happening places. The zones where different ecological communities intersect are especially fertile places, with "edge effects" contributing to an even greater number of species and opportunities for interaction. In my garden, a wide variety of plants keeps the weeds and pests at bay, the beneficial insects busily buzzing about, and my harvest basket full of a delightful assortment of colors and shapes and flavors. In my life, I hope that my wide-ranging interests complement each other, too, in enriching and sometimes unexpected ways. "Well-rounded" has always been a goal to strive for, and my current situation lends itself to that pursuit very well.

But sometimes I find myself questioning this approach. Would I do well to pare down my projects? Or at least tackle them one by one instead of all at once? Surely I'd have a better record for completing things if I could concentrate on just one or two at a time. Isn't focus and dedication the key to becoming more than just passably competent at any one thing? I often feel called to focus more intently on writing outside of my work obligations, and I always tell myself that I will - just as soon as I get to the bottom of my to-do lists and find the top of my desk. Meanwhile, I've been loving my online sewing classes and eagerly collecting patterns and supplies; if I focused on that pursuit single-mindedly, no doubt I'd complete all sorts of handmade items, bringing joy to me and other recipients, and I'd get more skilled and more inventive with every finished object - wouldn't I?

Certainly the answer to all these questions is "yes." But wouldn't that mean saying "no" to lots of other things I can't dismiss? "No" to tending the garden, hiking and biking and camping, hosting potlucks, reading my way through piles of books, playing countless rounds of canine frisbee and starting every day with a dog walk. "No" to my ongoing struggle to keep the house tidy and make it ever more cozy. "No" to cooking dinner with my sweetie and chatting about our days and our dreams... Well, "no" to that!

Somewhere there is a healthy balance. Have you found it? Do you know the secret to well-roundedness without stretching yourself painfully as you stuff in more and more wonderful ways to spend your time and soak up life fully?

This is a conversation I hope to continue, and I invite you to share your thoughts.

Funny

What do our dogs do when we are hard at work milling, stacking, and loading lumber?

1) Find a cool spot in the shade to let their tongues hang out.

2) Watch us at our labor.

3) Discuss how great it's going to be to have a deck to lounge on, and how great it is that they're dogs and therefore have no responsibilities to make it happen.

4) Howl with mirth at how good they have it.

Joke's on us!

On Deck

The biggest work-in-progress on our list is to build a deck in the backyard, tucked into a corner of the house with access through the french doors into the dining room.

Bella currently spends much of her time stretched out in the dirt in the place we plan to cover with a deck. We kid that we may need to leave her a little trap door.

I've considered various options for this space. Before I even moved into the house, I thought about building a sunroom here. But after the many other construction projects were complete, I dismissed the idea of still another one. Last year I was certain it was going to be a patio. First I thought I'd make it from the rest of the "urbanite" from the old driveway. Then we got excited about wood rounds and even went so far as to start cutting them. But that plan was riddled with technical concerns. Next we decided that a stone mosaic would be lovely, and probably worth the significant time investment. This spring, I changed my mind yet again. "Let's just build a basic deck," I proposed. "It'll be fast and we can disassemble it if we ever want to put something else there instead. And we can just get it done and sit on it this summer!"

Well, it may not be as quick and easy as I hoped. Especially not the way we're doing it, which is starting completely from scratch, with trees Nick cut down. With a curving shape on the outside edge and some sort of trellis/pergola overhead. But - it is now underway. And it is going to be great. And we will get to sit and relax there someday.

We started the process last weekend at the overgrown farm property in Lake Leelanau where Nick's yurt remains another work in progress. To the left of Nick and the dogs in the photo below is a huge pile of logs that Nick has saved from various tree jobs.

We borrowed a portable sawmill and got to work on a collection of cedar.

The Wood-Mizer renders logs into lumber with considerably less effort than I expected.

Nick maneuvers the carriage with its spinning blade along the length of the log, creating a flat side.

With all the edges squared off, I slice off the first piece of usable decking from this log.

It was another hot weekend, and hauling around logs and lumber is hard work indeed. We milled cedar for the decking and white oak for the understructure. Personal experience confirms that wet white oak is HEAVY (and much heavier than cedar). The wood itself is gorgeous. "We should be building a boat," says Nick, who has a formal education in wooden boatbuilding. These are both durable, rot-resistant woods well suited to outdoor use.

The pile of decking grows.

Did I mention that it was hot? We took a midafternoon break to fetch more water and jump in Lake Leelanau. Back at the job site, Maisie dug herself a cool bed in the sawdust beside the log pile.

Although we were tempted to join her, we persevered with the logs, milling until 9:00 both Saturday and Sunday evenings - the latest we thought we could get away with and still be good neighbors.

Later in the week, we returned to haul our finished pile back to Traverse City. Here it is:

• Cedar decking ~ 1 inch thick and in various widths
• White oak joists 2 x 5 inches
• White oak posts 4 x 4 inches

We loaded it piece by piece into the bed of Nick's tree truck.

This is the tree truck, not loaded with lumber at the moment, but parked in its usual place behind the vegetable garden.

Back at home, we upended the wood in the side yard and stacked it into a pile. Ready to build! If you know anyone with a post-hole digger - or some free time and an interest in carpentry - send them our way please!

Fruit in Front

Works-in-progress abound around here right now. That's always the case, of course, but is especially true at the moment - right down to the the face this blog presents to the world. (I'm experimenting with a new look after four years(!) of the same template. Don't be alarmed if things look different.)

More on other projects to come, but first the results of a mostly complete task: the transformation of the front yard into a fruit orchard. Let's call it Project Fruit in Front.

Last year I planted a peach tree and a plum tree on either side of the front walk.

Peach on the left. Plum on the right. And a couple of fruit loops in the middle.

This year we have a handful of cute, fuzzy little peaches!

These are peaches of the donut-shaped variety.

Also last year, I moved the raspberry and blueberry bushes from the backyard to the side of the house (in preparation for building a chicken run, one of the other works-in-progress). The blueberries look a little sad and may need yet another move, but the raspberries are thriving.

Raspberries on the left, blueberries on the right.

These raspberry bushes are descendents of the ones that inhabited my grandparents' backyard in Mt. Clemens, Michigan; my mom dug some out and brought them up to Burt Lake where they've been steadily expanding for years, and I harvested some of the ones overstepping their boundaries there to start my own patch here in Traverse City. They get around.

Yield from one picking session at the peak of the harvest.

On the other side of the raspberry patch is lonely Mr. Kiwi.

I need to get him a lady friend if we are to have any kiwi fruit, but I have been assured that this hardy variety of kiwi does indeed produce in our climate. My plan was to remove the ivy climbing up the chimney and replace it with a trellis and the kiwi (which is a climbing vine). The ivy is thriving and lush, but it's nearly impossible to keep it from overextending its welcome, climbing onto the new siding, and - eventually - engulfing the whole side of the house. So it really should go, but I haven't yet brought myself to do anything more drastic than hack it back from time to time. So that's why Mr. Kiwi is still hanging out in his bachelor pad with no permanent home or family to call his own. I really should get on that.

Meanwhile, two years ago, I started Project Turtle Bed. I tackled it with a "just do it" attitude, instead of my usual thinking and planning to excess. But now I've paid for my haste twice over. Last year I had to reorient it away from the peach tree. This year I took it completely apart yet again in order to build up the sides. That's because the dirt was mounded up too high, causing water to run right off instead of soaking in. I used more of the cement chunks from the old driveway to piece together the border. Then I filled it with strawberry plants, so it fits the fruit theme nicely.

You must imagine what this will look like once the strawberry plants fill in and spill over the sides. The center is a clump of lavender.

I still have another big (but fun) project awaiting me here: creating stone mosaics for the turtle's head, feet, and tail. I've started making the molds from some garage-saled metal lawn edging.

Now I'm collecting stones and design ideas. I have high hopes for this, folks!

In the meantime, I'm munching raspberries, speculating about whether we'll actually get to eat those first few peaches, and feeling pleased that the front yard looks more or less presentable, in addition to being edible.

Edited to add: Two days later, all the peaches are GONE! They weren't ripe, so it seems unlikely that some person or critter harvested them, and they aren't lying on the ground under the tree, either. They've simply vanished. Any of you Sherlocks have a theory?

Fireworks

It's here: The time of year that, around these parts, draws the crowds and puts us on the map. Certainly I look forward to summer, to sun and warmth and beaches, to biking and swimming and fruit in every color and green growing things everywhere. But at the same time, I sometimes feel bombarded.

For one thing, it's been HOT. We've had an onslaught of 90+ degree days, sun beating down, no rain, the grass turning brown and crisp underfoot, the air in the house still and heavy, a fan whirring all night long as we try to sleep on top of sticky sheets.
 

Hot dogs lounge in the dust bowl of our backyard.

Hot chickens enjoy dust-bathing in the same popular spot.

Add to that the sheer volume of people in town. Traffic surges, boats line up shoulder to shoulder in the bay, the beaches throng with people prone in the sand and splashing in the shallows, even the bike trails teem with riders.

On top of that, there are the sounds of what could almost be a war rather than a huge, explosive celebration. Fireworks snapping, crackling, and booming after the sun goes down. Concert speakers thumping as a searchlight sweeps across the sky. The dizzying midway in the middle of it all, with flashing lights, whirling shapes, shouts and screams. Parades with their horns and sirens. The air-show jets that seem to scrape the treetops as they pass directly overhead with window-rattling, deafening roars. Ahh, Cherry Festival.

Having watched the sky light up with colorful explosions lately, I noticed (while taking shelter in the relative peace of the backyard) that the summer garden is exploding with its own fireworks.

Bee Balm

Butterflyweed

Dill

Sunflower

The sunflowers are in full bloom, and we've already tasted the first of the tomatoes. Between the early spring and hot summer weather, we're weeks ahead of schedule.

However, the hard frost that followed summer-in-March decimated the cherry crop, so, while there were local cherries for Cherry Festival this year (not always the case), there aren't many. Farmers are reporting a 90% loss in the crop, with tarts hit worse than sweets. For a region that produces 75% of the nation's tart cherries, that's a big boom of a whole other kind.

Nature Notes: Nesting

The monarchs weren't the only ones whose life cycle we got to observe at close range this summer. Some bird neighbors moved in to raise a brood, too.

It took me a little while to put it all together. I'd seen some blue jays looking busy in the backyard, and idly wondered if they had a nest nearby. I'd also noticed something curious one day: half a wiffle ball lying on the back stoop, with no explanation for how it got there. After a day or so, it disappeared and I forgot all about it.

Then cousin Sarah shared a picture of a perfect robins' nest she noticed outside her bedroom window, all smooth and sculpted with two beautiful blue eggs inside. It got me wondering again about those blue jays. Later that day, I watched one fly up to a branch in the white pine tree, straight above the back door. Sure enough, there was a messy pile of sticks that did, indeed, look like a nest. And when I looked closer, I saw that they'd decorated it with a special treasure: the very same wiffle ball I'd seen earlier. I imagine they discovered the ball somewhere and eagerly carried it up to their branch. It must have fallen at some point during nest-building down onto the back stoop. Then, marvelous treasure that it is, they hauled it back up again and carefully placed it just so beside the nest. (How I wish I'd seen that maneuver!)

Look to the right of the pile of sticks, squint a bit, and you'll see the wiffle ball.

It looked a bit of a mess, frankly. If the robins' nest was a house with a neatly manicured lawn and potted petunias beside the front door, then this was just the opposite. You know the type: overgrown grass, peeling paint, an old car or two rusting in back, and plenty of lawn ornaments of questionable taste. But sure enough, I could see the tail of mama blue jay poking out of the nest as she dutifully incubated her brood.

Some days later, it occurred to me that I could probably see the nest from the window of the upstairs bedroom, if I took off the blind and craned my neck a bit. What did I see? Four baby jays, all beaks and beady eyes! (I know you can only see two or three in these photos, but I definitely caught sight of four at times.)

With the window open and my camera held out at an awkward angle, I was able to get some photos. I even got lucky and captured feeding time, with mama or papa jay and some wide-open mouths.

 I could almost imagine the little jays taunting each other as siblings do, all piled into that nest on top of each other.

Bet you're too scared to hop out on that branch and flap your wings! I dare you!

Oh, yeah? Just watch me!

Life isn't easy for a baby bird in the early days, and sadly one of these guys tumbled out of the tree and met its end right here in the yard. The others have fledged and we'll just hope they're making their way in the world. No news is good news. They're probably scoping out lawn ornaments for their own new digs already.