Today, though: planning. Planning for next season and next year. This afternoon, I managed a tour around the rear garden to see the pitiful state of affairs. Blight has taken hold of several frames of tomatoes, and the bugs are munching on the cukes and zucchini like it’s their personal buffet (although I did manage to squash a few during my brief stay outdoors). The corn is dead, for yet another season, and I’m of half a mind to just give up on that altogether. The new round of lima and green beans are not thriving, as they say, and are either dead or dying. Some of the transplants I managed to get into the frames before going into the hospital are still alive, and even thriving, including a new round of Cherokee Purple tomatoes and some bell peppers. The watermelon and butternut squash transplants don’t look horrible, but they’re skinny things and I’m hoping they make it through.

The other part of planning involves chickens. We decided before I went in for surgery that next year we’re going to raise our own chickens for meat in addition to those we keep as layers. This is not without logistical issues, of course, and it’s likely that only my brother and myself will be able to actually butcher the birds, but that’s fine. Other family members can handle the less gruesome parts, like packaging the birds, whole or pieced out, once they’ve been dressed. That seems like a fair enough division of labor to me.

Since the birds are generally processed at about 12 weeks, and the chicks are available year round, we could do multiple groups per year if it turns out to be worthwhile. I can’t imagine it wouldn’t be, as how often do most people really get the chance to raise their food almost from start to a very definite finish? We’re not quite on the path to hatching our own chicks here, and probably never will be since that would require a rooster, and that simply isn’t happening around here. I’m content enough with ordering chicks even though it isn’t as completely self sufficient as would be the case in a utopian universe. Now, if it really comes does to the end of the world as we know it, complete with zombies, we’ll rethink that part of the equation. Until then, we plan for stocking the freezer with freshly butchered, pasture raised chicken, right off the property. There are, no doubt, worse things in life.

Most of the time, this does not bother me overly much. After all, I have a great deal many more hours at my disposal than most people, meaning I can come up with grandiose plans about various things, and also cement the reputation I have garnered of being a robot rather than a human being. Since the radiation from the cancer treatments still has not brought me any real superpowers, I suppose it’s as close as I will ever get, although I won’t be doing this anytime soon.

Some days, though, the lack of sleep brings out the cranky, especially if I am also not feeling well. Like today. This makes me want to kick someone’s ass right off the planet for tossing a nonsensical legal threat our way about information in a domain registration that she provided, even though we have pointed out what she is saying means nothing and she readily admits she doesn’t understand the “jargon” – and by “jargon”, I mean English. Apparently, she is simply terrified that one of her “fans” (she is an actress, apparently) will find out her address from a years-old cached pieced of information on google, something that we do not control, last time I checked, and do some stalker-like thing, or kill her, or both. Or something. This is the time when I want to state it flat out for people: you are just not that important. You are not fodder for the next American Justice where some crazed, obsessed person hunts you down and kills you. You may tell yourself, actress aspiring to be famous, that someone would care that much, but let’s face it here: you provided your own biographical information to IMDB which is quite handily on your own web site, and it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist or some weirdo even slightly off their meds to find you. I know: I tracked down someone, including their name, date of birth, current residence, current hobbies, other web sites they visit, and the fact that they coached little league from a single piece of information (an IP address attached to a comment they left on a blog we host). With all the information you have provided on your own, deranged psychos could track you down if they wanted. They haven’t. This should tell you something about your place in the greater universe.

A day where you think it would be nice to be able to eat and drink the way you used to. That an icy cold beer and a pile of wings would be great after sweating off a couple of pounds working on the ranch, except that you can no longer drink alcohol due to the radiation burning off the lining of your mouth and you really can’t eat wings any more because the chewing issues make it virtually impossible. That it would be great to settle in with a margarita and a blackened chicken burrito with extra sweet and hot chile sauce, but the spicy foods are offlimit now for the same reason alcohol is, and you know even as you sow the seeds in the garden that you’re unlikely to ever be able to eat habaneros or even jalapenos again any time soon, if ever.

On the other hand, on a day like today, where I’m having some trouble catching my breath and generally feeling like crap – oh, not to mention having a slight bout of anxiety over the fact that the doctor wants me to have a chest CT because of something they saw on the chest x-ray they wanted before I started hyperbaric dives after having yet another tooth pulled – it’s nice to Get Shit Done. Like sow the cukes from seed that I’ve wanted to do for several days now, for a total of about 140 seeds planted, with a little overflow from my nephew helper, who put half a dozen seeds in several holes while I tried to convince him that really, one was all that was required. I also directly sowed some more tomatoes and peppers, because let’s face it: there are rarely enough, and we intend to do a lot of preserving this year. If we have the space, I want to fill it with something. That includes the newest 8 x 4 frame I polished off today in the herb garden, with a little assist by my sister, who hauled a load of dirt and poop for me amongst the five others that I brought over and mixed in. Tomorrow, while we wrangle a scheduled CT from the hospital people and I stay out of the hyperbaric chamber until we determine what the hell is going on – and if I have walking pneumonia, I will, as I have told several people, be pissed – I will begin work on the final 8 x 4 frame for the herb garden. Tonight, I may just go ahead and sow some things in flats that really want the much hotter weather we will no doubt be heading into very soon, and set them up on the heat mats in the garage, turning on the lights for them in the morning.

It’s a day where you also get nice, chatty mails from certain clients, about their newest projects, and about being a test case who found a bad link on our site. Or from someone who understands the information (some of it erroneous) at some random, invisible data mining company is not the end of the world as we know it, which then leads in a roundabout sort of way to a discussion about critters and gardening/sustainability. Or from someone who congratulates us on ten years of putting up with all of this. Or where a pooped out puppy sleeps on the back of the couch while you work from home on a laptop, ass planted on the couch yourself, his tail slapping against the cushion now and then, his nose crinkling as he sniffs out a rabbit or turtle or whatever populates puppy dreams, every now and again his paws wiggling manically, chasing down a bird he will never catch, growling and then squeaking out what would be a bark were he awake. Or where you watch as your nephew, having discarded his swimming diaper at some point, stands on the patio in the shade, fresh from the pool, with only his water wings on, downing saltines with a slab of cheese between them, crumbs falling from his mouth and sticking to his wet chest. Or where you decide, apropos of nothing, that Saturday would be a great  time for a spaghetti dinner night, and that homemade pork/beef/veal meatballs in homemade sauce, with homemade Italian bread as a vehicle for carrying butter and garlic, would be a rather fine thing indeed, even as you muse about the possibility of making homemade pasta, just to top it all off.

Or where, in general, despite never having as much time as you think even though you don’t sleep, berating yourself for not writing nearly as much as you would want to (or anything at all, for that matter), and having a list of todo items that is constantly expanding, you think this is a pretty damned good life, overall, and that you wouldn’t trade a minute of it for anything.

It’s difficult to pull up plants that you’ve fed and watered and looked after and babied for months, but you do have to know when it is time (or past time) to take them out and send them on their way to completing the next cycle of what they provide beyond the food they give: compost. They had, as we say in the tech world, reached end of life.

We harvested and shelled quite a lot of peas from these plants, and those are all safely resting in the freezer, awaiting their turn in the pot on some future date.

Technically, by the calendar, it is still spring. Today, though, was what would be a typical summer day for us: hot, humid, and simply taking the step off the threshold and onto the porch was enough to draw the breath from your body involuntarily. Still, there is always work to do around the ranch. Today, that meant pulling the peas above and then beginning the second layer of framing on the frames where those peas had been. We have moved to double frames not only in the rear (now main) garden, but also in the very front garden, which at one time was in the rear of the property. After pulling the peas, and taking a break, I went back for round two, taking down the trellises and hauling lumber from the barn area, the sweat simply rolling down my entire body, from the top of my head to the sheen that covered my legs.

After one such trip in the middle of the afternoon, I thought for a few panicked moments that I was going to pass out or puke – or both – while toting an armful of lumber. This would not have been good, naturally, since the tiny bit of shade from the tree under which I was walking was beginning to shift as the sun sank off to the southwest, and I envisioned frying there in the sun, with no one else at home to wonder where I was after awhile. Luckily, I made it back to the house, managed to get some water, and had a seat, allowing the heat to fade.

After getting the roast I’d pulled out seared and into the oven for a braise, I headed back out into the heat to do the framing. The beauty of braising, like any other slow cooking, is that you can set it off, go do all the myriad other things that need to be done, and in the end, have a fantastic, and, in this case, hearty meal waiting to restore you.

The nine frames topped off, it was time to move into the herb garden.  My goal was to complete this area today, but I found a visitor in the black plastic I had left out in the rain yesterday: a snake a few feet long, curled up in one of the rolls, who slithered back and forth through the pools of water on the plastic, preventing me from getting a good grip on him. I took one of the shovels and boosted him outside the fence, but unfortunately, he refused to take the hint, turning back at me and slithering right back through the fence, shaking his tail as if he had rattles and trying to show me poisonous fangs, dripping with venom that did not exist. While I knew he wasn’t poisonous, I also knew that if he latched on to my legs, or on to one of the dogs, it was going to be painful. He squirmed too much for me to get him on the shovel and carry him all the way across the property to a safer place for him to reside, so there was only one thing to do.

With the snake dispatched and thrown into the wilder underbrush area for nature’s cleanup crew to deal with, I moved some mulch and laid some plastic around the perimeter of the herb garden before calling it a day. According to the scale, I lost just under two pounds today, and I’m certain all the sweat I dripped all over the property accounted for that.

And now, I return to my todo list, which never seems to shrink, and plan my assault on filling the frames I topped today so cucumbers can be started where the peas once were. This is in addition to filling the last three 8 x 4 frames in the rear garden to finish off the sixth row so the next row can be started.

“Great works are performed not by strength, but by perseverance.” – Samuel Johnson

She was ever vigilant, although not much of a hunter in her later years.

She was also a great help when I was working.

For some reason, she loved to be vacuumed.

She knew the value of a nap in the sunlight.

And mostly, she was my solid and constant companion for 18 years. Sleep well, Princess.

And this is Gandalf’s way of showing affection.

Not really.  This was the evening she was helping me go over my garden layout maps.

Mostly her help consists of ensuring the notebook doesn’t suddenly sprint off my desk. And there’s that whole “I’m so cute” thing she has going on.

I’ve taken her request for more catnip under consideration.

And now:

We had every intention of leaving the back wild, but last season found that weeds had completely overtaken one berm where wild blackberries were growing (not an easy task), that dog fennel and other weeds were running rampant, making it impossible to get to the wild blackberries anyway, and that we wanted, instead, to put the orchard out in that spot instead. At the very far end, somewhat behind that tree dead center in the photo, is another berm where blackberries are still going strong, and behind that is more wild area that will stay that way. For now. We had our tractor guy come out, mow, and then take down the berms and give us some leveling of the ground back there. Thus far, we have two almonds and a peach tree. Next weekend, we’re heading to the nursery for some citrus trees. Toward the left side of the picture, between the pine trees and the neighbor’s fence, is where I envision the bee hives going at some point.

It’s all very much a work in progress, as it always is. But spring is here – finally – and that means some serious gardening. How serious? Let’s just say that today alone, I popped about 50 plants into the frames out front, in addition to what we’d already put out there. More to come…

The carrots went in the frames in early October, as seed, not transplants. By this time, even with the cooler weather, I figured most, if not all, should be completely ready to come out. This is not the case. There were, to be sure, a great many to pull.

Two pounds, two ounces worth, actually.

The celery has survived being planted as seed, through torrential downpours, frosts, and hard freezes without cover and cheerfully continues what I hope will be a fruitful journey.

To remind me that while I may be the master of my domain, there are canny – or lucky – creatures out here as well, I also found poo inside the fenced area, although there were no tracks in any of the frames and no obvious easily accessible hole in the fencing.

There is also a weed I have yet to identify growing absolutely everywhere.

I pull the weeds I find and drop them on some black plastic to allow them to roast in the sun.

The broccoli was right on schedule based on its planting date out in the frames. Like the celery, it survived some rather brutal weather for a plant and came out the other side suitable for harvesting.

About twelve ounces of broccoli from seven plants, which I judge to be quite fine for their experience with the elements. Of course, what good is a harvest if you don’t do something with it…

What, you thought that meant something else? Sickos.

We’re trying to find another five or six chicks to go with the lonely girl out back. The group with which we ordered the chickens last year don’t need any more, got rid of theirs because of complaints from the neighbors, or are out of town (turns out one of the group is the daughter of the founder of Habitat for Humanity, who died this week). The problem with chickens – or, rather, chicks – is this: most hatcheries will not ship for orders fewer than 25 assorted chicks. Like my tender seedlings, curently sitting inside on the table here, they need to stay warm. More peeps equals more heat, and a better chance of all of them making it through the shipping process.

So, we’re looking locally to see if any of the more rural supply and feed stores will have chicks available. Eggs for everyone!

(Short interjection here to complain about people who send frivolous legal threats to us about a site we host, where said site has zero content, claiming that we are somehow infringing on their rights. Engage your brain before you fire off nonsense like that, people. Or at least engage an attorney.)

I thought today would be a good day to get out and do some maintenance outside – specifically, putting down mulch between the frames. Mild weather, coolish, perfect for that heavy lifting job. The problem is, the weather was much too mild, barely reaching 40 degrees here, with windchills in the 20s. That is not, to me, a “good day” to be outside. My pea and bean plants out there are probably going to bite it tonight, since it’s supposed to be around 18 here inland. While peas can take a bit of frost, I don’t know if they can take that kind of hard freeze – although the peas did come up out of the ground after a couple of nights of hard freeze, so there may be hope for them. Everything else will have to take its chances as well: the original batch of peas are due to come out of the frames to make way for the corn that will go in that spot in March. The broccoli and brussels should be able to handle the freeze without cover. Carrots and parnips? Fine in place in the frames.

Coming along nicely. Another month-ish, and this batch should be ready to pull completely. I have some seed soaking for the next round, to be planted tomorrow. Along with the potatoes and peanuts. Not all together, of course, no matter how alliteratively that would work.Tonight, flat five: more tomatoes to replace the seedlings that are much too leggy, and more peppers.

About a week and  a half ago – just before the frigied cold snap – I had planted more sugar snap peas (shelling peas) and some bush snap beans. I’d been waiting to water them, figuring that we’d pass through the freezes and then start convincing them to pop out of the ground.

As it happens, they had other plans.

These peas are more cold hardy than I figured. I’ll let these go, and start another round in a couple of weeks.

And now, a random puppy picture: resting after an arduous ball chasing session.

I headed out to the coop (with some disposable gloves) and sure enough, one of the girls was dead just inside the door of the coop where the wood has warped and there is an open space. Inside was clear evidence that something had gotten in and a terrific fight had gone on. There were feathers everywhere in the coop, and the poor girl had part of her back end shewed away. I think it likely the orange and white male cat I’ve seen around the property was the culprit, and he could not get the rather large chicken through the rather small gap through which he entered, eventually leaving her behind.

I buried the poor chicken out near the treeline, and we rigged a temporary additional fencing to use to cover the gaps until we build a real coop. We’ve decided to get another five or six layers, and we really do need a sturdy house-like structure for them to go into at night, given all the critters roaming around the country here (raccoon poo on the porch, anyone?) that will happily snack on a chicken head if one is unwise enough to poke out.