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Sunday, May 24, 2015

You can almost hear it growing

A late spring evening on an acre in the country is lovely if one gets to see it. Many of my neighbors, I fear, are indoors watching television, poor things. Toto and I are carrying out a few late chores -- carrying straw to the paths around the summer squash and winter squash beds and weeding, mostly.

Earlier in the day we moved firewood from the woodshed by the driveway to the "house" piles. This is California oak, Douglas fir, Oregon ash, apple and pear prunings, and birch. The birch logs are from a tree damaged in last year's ice storm, which was especially hard on oaks and birches. They were piled on the post office lawn when we first saw them, and we asked for them and the postmistress was glad to see them go to a good home.

There might be some maple and willow as well. Willow burns up too fast to count as firewood, but it makes decent kindling if you dry it for a year or so.

They say not to lean firewood on your house and it is very good advice, except that this house is buggier than the firewood. So it goes.

The evening sun backlights the pea vines. Today we ate our first Sugar snaps of the season -- all three of them.

A longer view of the light in the peas also shows the potatoes, rhubarb, corn, tomatoes, scarlet runners, sunchokes, and apples.

Looking in the other direction. The evening sun only touches the north wall of the house like this for about six weeks of the year. They are my favorite six weeks of the year, and the evening in the exact middle of them I dance barefoot around a fire and offer it flowers, wine, oil, salt, and song.

Back to work for a bit. We're taking out wild amaranth from the potato bed for the ducks and chickens.

All done. Beloved has been away most of the day, but is due home any time now. The swing is the best place to watch for her to turn in to the driveway and enter through the Rose Gate.

Tomorrow it will be time to cut some comfrey for the garden beds. After those two days of rain, you can almost hear it growing.


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