First Hard Frost

On Thursday morning the thermometer read 27 degrees, and white covered anything that was not in direct sunlight.  The first hard frost of Autumn had hit, signalling the soon-coming end of the gardening season.

A conflict is raging within me.

The sentimental side of me is sad, realizing that the days of fresh-sliced tomatoes from the garden are over until next year.  The dreamer in me regrets that I did not preserve (either canning, freezing or drying) more of them, and remembers that last spring I really thought that I could put a much larger dent in our annual processed tomato budget.  The realist in me is thinking, "Oh, thank God!  I'm so sick of the piles and containers of tomatoes in the front room and in the kitchen.  I'm sick of cutting boards that can't hold back the pools of tomato juice.  I'm sick of tomato juices dripping all over the kitchen floor.  I'm sick of cleaning the kitchen floor.  I'm sick of peeling skins off of partially frozen tomatoes.  I'm sick of tomato seeds sticking to everything and everyone.  I'm sick of feeling guilty for not doing more.  I'm sick of the color red.  Oh, thank God."

Back in the garden, the kale, swiss chard and broccoli all look really good.  It appears that the cabbage plants are actually trying to make a second run at producing.  The root crops (beets, rutabagas, and turnips) are crazy big.  But everything else is done.

Weather permitting, I will be cleaning things up in the garden this week and roto-tilling all the areas that are done for the year.  Then it's time to plant and mulch the garlic, and wait for the 2012 seed catalogs to arrive.  There is something seriously wrong with me.

A Tale of Two Horrors

Something died outside.  It made its presence known on the afternoon after the big heat.  After a quick inventory of children, livestock and pets I began tracking the intensely unpleasant smell.

The smell of decomposition, or "decomp" for those in the real life C.S.I. business and for those of us in-the-know is unmistakable and sickening.  I know this because I read a book --a very disturbing one that I would never recommend.  I wish I hadn't read many parts of it cause now it's stuck inside my brain forever.

My worst fear is that it might be a heifer down in the pasture across the road from us.  That was the direction that my olfactory sensor was taking me.

We do not own the pasture.  It is owned by a family corporation, most members of which live in nearby towns.  The land is rented out to one of our neighbors whose farm is about a mile away "as the crow flies" from ours.  This neighbor recently hired Katherine to help milk their dairy herd 10 to 12 times a week.  She is such a natural at this that she began milking the herd on her own after the second day.

The problem with dead cattle is that dead cattle are big.  Really big.  When big cattle die and go unnoticed, they stink.  Really stink.  It takes turkey vultures, coons, possum, coyote, and other various members of nature's, "Waste Material Removers" a great deal of time to consume a full-grown cow carcass (yes, I wrote heifer earlier and that was in fact the accurate term to use, but cow worked better in this sentence and no I am not going to run through the not-so-subtle differences between cows, heifers, steers, and bulls at this juncture).  Consequently the smell of rotting flesh can invade the nostrils for days or weeks if the carcass is not properly dealt with by a rendering truck.

To have come through the horrible temperatures and humidity victoriously only to emerge from the house and be greeted by a wall of pure stink... well, it just ain't right.  I groaned, my mind reviewing what I had endured the previous 48 hours while simultaneously imagining life for a week or two under a invisible cloud of serious stink.

The temperature outside at 3:00 am Friday morning, the day of the big heat, was 80 degrees Fahrenheit.  The dew point was in the high 70s meaning the humidity level was sadistically high.  By 9:00 am we had already reached 90.  Our friends Tom and Emily called offering to take the kids along with their son, Henry, to a movie, dinner and shopping in Platteville.  Every activity on the trip was focused on air conditioning and kid-friendliness.  Our kids, of course, jumped at the chance.

Katherine was in Madison with a couple of friends.  They were housesitting for one of the friend's grandparents in a home that I presumed was air-conditioned.  Lisa worked that day at her new job as a staff Public Defender for the State of Wisconsin.  Her new office, located in Lancaster, is air conditioned.

That left me.  With the exception of our two dogs who played dead in the front room all day, I was completely alone.  And hot.  And sweaty.  And feeling increasingly grumpy and helpless.

I discovered however that one advantage of being alone was that I could freely roam the house and grounds in only my boxer shorts.  In retrospect, I suppose doing the full Monty was possible as well but the underwear-only approach was as risky as I was willing to be on that day.

There is something absolutely extraordinary about strolling through your grounds clad only in undies.  It's liberating.  Exhilarating.  Primal.  It's almost pre-fall in the Garden of Eden kind of stuff.  It's red, white, and blue, oh thank God I live in the good 'ol U.S. of A. material.  It's a William "BraveHeart" Wallace face-painted-every-muscle-contracted-reach-down-to-the-very-essence-of-your-being-and-scream-"FREEDOM!" kind of a moment.

Then I heard the unique sound that tires make when they leave pavement and touch gravel.  Someone was coming up our driveway.  It has been at least a decade since I have moved so quickly.  My mind was racing, "can I make it around the house before they make it around the garage?"  I did and in moments I was through the porch, through the kitchen and in the front room pulling up shorts and pulling on a T-shirt.

What a bizarre experience, going from such a state of contentment and exhilaration to one of complete shame and terror.  As it turned out, it was a false alarm.  The "tires touching gravel" sound that I heard was made by the postal lady as she delivered our mail to our mailbox.  I had been, unknowingly, safe from view the entire time.

Our house was closed up for nearly 24 hours.  In that time the temperature never dipped below 83 degrees and reached 90 degrees at the day's worst.  While local newscasters said we hit a high of 99 degrees and a heat index reading of 114, our thermometer topped 100 in the afternoon.

I realize that to those living in the U.S.'s deep south, or the jungles of southeast Asia, or to those along the Amazon river basin that I am coming off as a major league whiner.  I don't care.  I have chosen NOT to live in those places because I hate the combination of heat and humidity.  And because they have some really scary snakes.

Trying to fall asleep under these conditions is next to impossible for me.  I slept for a combined 2 and 1/2 hours on the worst night.  At  4:30 in the morning as I stood in front of a fan, leaning over a chair in my boxers, sweat rolling down my face and watching TV to try and get my mind off the heat, I almost gave up.  I came within moments of going to the foot of the stairs and calling up to the rest of the family in utter defeat, "That's it!  Come on down!  We're heading to a motel!"

I did not give up the thought completely.  That experience was early Friday morning and Friday was to be the dangerous scorcher.  I could not see any way possible that I could make it through another night like that.  While the weather forecasters promised some relief through Friday night/Saturday morning, I had already learned not to trust them.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, pleased to note that had i had both slept and that I was still alive.  I began to rejoice.  While struggles of any type are not something that I pursue, the sense of accomplishment found on the other side is remarkable.  If only it could be canned, sold and served in six packs.  As the morning wore on I began to notice that Barry Manilow's hit song, "Looks Like We Made It," was playing in my mind.  Truly a sign that I had lost it.

Saturday rolled on and the temperatures remained about 10 degrees cooler than the previous day.  Humidity had also dropped noticeably.  As the evening approached I looked forward to opening the windows and letting all the stale, musty, moisture laden air out of the house and to bring in the cooler, drier outside air.  I opened a south-facing window in the living room, turned on the fan which blew inward, and faced a sudden horror: something died outside.

Preparing for the Heat

Whenever I'm away from blogging for a significant length of time I find it difficult to re-engage.  Generally this is due to the number of things that have taken place since my last entry that I think people would find interesting or at least entertaining.  I am continually overwhelmed with material.

I also feel some self-generated, frustrating, suffocating pressure to write a novel once I've returned to the world of blogdom.  Whether this is due to a supposed need to properly update what few readers I may have out there who actually give a flip or perhaps some form of self-imposed penance, I do not know.  What I do know is that I find myself puzzling over this blog for a number of days before jumping back in.

So, here I is again.  Puzzled, overwhelmed with material, and ravaged by guilt.

A crazy amount of things have taken place since May.  I can not and will not attempt to cover them all.  Suffice it to say that it is nice to again enter a season of breathing in and out.

The weather this year has been a rollercoaster ride of high heat and humidity for a few days and then down to clear, cool, near fall-like days, leading back up to the heat and humidity.  We're moving back up the track again today, leading to a peak tomorrow of 95 degrees F, and very high humidity.  In short, a typically unpredictable Wisconsin summer.

We got rid of our window air conditioners two years ago.  We have survived up to this point by opening the windows up at night to cool down the house, and then shutting everything up in the morning to retain what cool air we were able to lure in.  It works remarkably well for the most part.  However, 95 degree days brutally test my resolve.

One of our reasons for doing away with the A/C was the realization that we became lumps in the house on hot summer days.  The coolness of the air conditioners, the soothing hum they create, and the darkness created by the window shades make perfect, though artificial, napping weather.  Once prodded (either by guilt or a disgruntled spouse) to go out the door and actually get something done, the sudden blast of furnace-like air would send me whimpering back into our cool sanctuary in search of mercy and understanding.

We have discovered our productivity has increased dramatically since leaving the window units in storage.  As an added benefit, our summer electricity bills have decreased dramatically as well.

You learn rather quickly to properly prepare when extreme heat is forecasted and you live without A/C.  Pasta salads are made and stored in the refrigerator.  Bread and lunch meats are inventoried and resupplied if necessary.  Lectures are repeated to little ears (and not so little ears) about the need for keeping doors shut, unnecessary lights off, eating foods that are either cold or microwavable, showers to be taken at night and then only after parental approval, and bedroom fans blowing out during the day and blowing in at night.

Outdoor work is done in the cool of the morning or after the sun goes down.  This morning I weeded, mulched and watered some of the remaining tomato plants that I transplanted from their seed trays last evening.  These plants were the "replacements" for anything that did not make it in the garden thus far.  Fortunately most our original tomato plants survived the move to their permanent beds, leaving us with many extras.

I have about a dozen more plants to go which will find a home in the remaining open raised bed.  I would have liked to have transplanted them this morning, but after soaking through my second T-shirt, I decided to call it a morning and headed for shade.  Besides, plants respond better to transplanting when it is done in the evening rather than in the hot, mid-day sun.

The big garden related mystery this year is our sweet corn.  More specifically, the lack thereof.  I tilled a large area behind the barn in early May.  It's nice and flat with plenty of sunlight and well fertilized soil.  Lisa put in a few rows and later the kids and I planted about a dozen more (each approximately 20 feet long).  I've yet to find anything growing but weeds and a single stalk in the area that Lisa had planted.

The seeds were not leftovers from previous years, but purchased this spring  We planted well after the last frost and have had plenty of rain to soak the seeds.  Still, nothing.

I considered the possibility of raccoons digging up the seeds as there are plenty of coons around here and they are crazy about corn.  Yet there isn't even a hint of any soil having been disturbed.  Even if some had been dug up, the odds of losing every one of them are astronomical.  Further still, they've discovered our grain bags in the machine shed and have had loads of fun feasting on grain.

We also have plenty of rabbits.  I nearly ran over some bunnies while mowing to clear the area and  unearthed their nest.  But again, the odds of them getting all the plants are unlikely and even if they had there's usually some sort of evidence such as partially chewed stalks.

And so the mystery continues...

Feasting on Fiddleheads

It's  cold and rainy on the farm today.  While the weather has put a damper on my outdoor plans for the day, it does allow a little time to catch up on my posts.  While I feel increasing pressure to get all of the planting done in gardens right now, it is rather nice to exhale and reflect on the recent whirlwind of activity.

Things have been extremely busy around the farm with all of the spring rituals of tilling, planting, building, repairing, pruning and enjoying the change of seasons.  For some reason this past winter seemed particularly long and hard to me.  I can't ever remember longing for spring as much as I did this year.

Our oldest daughter, Katherine, will be graduating from high school this upcoming weekend.  The big graduation party scheduled for the middle of next month is also requiring activity and a critical eye when looking about the place.  All of the, "Fix It," and, "ASAP," and, "Honey Do," lists have melted into one overwhelming (and at times discouraging) enormous list of tasks that have reached critical mass.  My procrastination tendencies have been humiliatingly exposed once again and the success or failure of Katherine's party hangs in the balance.

It's amazing to me how perspective can change so dramatically.  The piles of lumber and tools and benches in need of repair and the camper in need of a new camper aren't really an eyesore to me.  They are symbols of my ambition, my handiness, and my industry.  However, being mechanically-challenged, a procrastinator by nature, and overconfident in my own"fix-er-upper" abilities, these symbols tend to sit for a long time.  A VERY long time.

But then something like a graduation party comes along and my perspective immediately changes.  Suddenly I am seeing things the way I think my relatives may see things.  And I am embarrassed for me.

In this condition my two-year debate about which type of hinge will be the right one for the garden shed door comes to an abrupt end.  The second guessing is no longer as important as the fact that my brothers-in-law are coming out to the farm and the garden shed is still doorless.  They wouldn't say anything about it, of course.  They are too nice to do that.  But I'll know that each of them will be shamefully shaking their heads on the inside, feeling pity for me and sorrow for their sister.

I can have none of that.  I must not allow my manhood to be questioned by them or anyone else.  My male ego needs to remain firmly intact.  I must be seen as a, "Man's man," an "Everyday Joe."  Especially since I sometimes write about cooking.  And not just cooking but sometimes even cooking with flowers.  And I haven't mentioned this before, but I like interior decorating too.  Drives Lisa nuts.

So projects have been slowly but steadily removed from my lists.  I have found new motivation to overcome my fear-of-failure for anything requiring a saw or a hammer or a drill.  As each task is completed I have experienced the added benefit of sticking out my chest and showing my handiwork to my lovely bride.  "Yeah, baby, I did that.  Built that thing from scratch.  Even cut down a tree and made the lumber myself.  It was hard work, but I got 'er done.  Guess I'm still a stud-muffin, eh?"

Despite the fever-pitched activity around here, I have still found time to forage for spring-time goodies.  The fiddleheads that I gathered were delicious and a hit at our dinner table.  They also worked well with my overloaded schedule as the prep time was about as minimal as it gets.

Our patch of Ostrich fern behind the house.  The area allotted to this delicacy will be increased dramatically next year.

The most time consuming aspect of preparing fiddleheads is cleaning off the brown debris from last season's crop.  I rinsed them in a colander but then cleaned each individually under running water.

I melted a couple tablespoons of butter and added a drizzle of olive oil to a pan.  After it was heated I threw in the fiddleheads and added sea salt, fresh ground pepper, and a little onion powder and let them saute away.  When they were fully cooked I set them in a dish and sprinkled some wood violets over them.  While not really adding anything to the taste of the fiddleheads, they did help make a rather nice presentation.  Besides, if you're going to eat fern, you might as well eat flowers too.

Much like the morel mushrooms on Hillsong Farm, my only complaint about fiddleheads is that there aren't enough of them.

Scenes of the Season

 

These are Nanking cherry bush blossoms that are located along our garage and near our gardens.  Always loaded with beautiful flowers this time of year, the bushes buzz from the hundreds of honeybees and other insects that stop by for lunch.  The berries are quite small (smaller than a grape) and quite sour.  Still, the kids try to eat some off the bush every year.  Lisa made a batch of Nanking cherry wine a few years ago.  I'm hoping to use them for jam this year.

Lisa's tulips survived yet another Wisconsin winter.  Some seem to have slowly disappeared, but this group does well every year.

These little yellow flowers are all over our southern-facing slopes in the spring.  I'm not sure what they are.  They look a little bit like Cowslip but the leaves are different, the petals are thinner, and they are not located in a marsh.  Whatever they are, I look forward to seeing them each spring.

Wood violets are everywhere this time of year.  They not only carpet the woods and hillsides in purple each spring but they are also quite edible.  Most people use them in salads or to garnish everything from roasts to birthday cakes.  I thought I'd try using them to top off the fiddlehead/stinging nettle soup that I plan to make next week.

You know, I occasionally write stuff that flows out from me quite naturally and sometime afterward I look at it and go, "Oh mama, what's happening to me?!"  It's like having a sudden identity crisis.  It's like waking up in some foreign land and wondering how you got there.  It's like that sudden jolt of terror that strikes you when you finally let go of all denial and surrender to the fact that you are about to throw up.  I just had that experience once again as I re-read the previous couple of paragraphs.

This is the view from the southern-facing slope where I took the wildflower photos.  I tried planting about a dozen grape vines on this slope seven years ago, but only two have survived.  Too bad, I always thought this slope would make a beautiful vineyard.

Nathan is filling in one of the raised bed frames that I built recently (and Addison and Grace painted... exterior only).  This one is for russet potatoes, which Lisa planted as soon as Nathan was finished.

And these are fiddleheads.  The four of these, located closest to our foundation wall, popped up before all of the others due to the warmth provided by the wall.  It's easy to tell from this photo how they got their name.  I resisted harvesting them, preferring to wait until there's enough for a meal.

Weekend Activities

This past weekend was a busy one on the farm.  The weather turned out to be far better than what had been predicted, enabling us the opportunity to knock a few things off our very large, "To Do..." list.  I also found time to sneak away to search for a few morel mushrooms.  Sadly, I did not come across a single one.

I did find that our fiddleheads are about ready to be plucked.  Fiddleheads are the early spring shoots of the Ostrich fern.  Last year Lisa discovered that they are edible.  While rather skeptical at first, I tried a couple that she had sautéed in butter.  They were incredible!  They actually reminded me of the rich, earthy taste of morels.  The ones in the above photo are conveniently located just outside our back porch door.

They were named because of their shape, which looks very much like the tuning end of a violin when they are ready to be harvested.  While other types of ferns produce similar looking shoots, it's important to pluck only those belonging to the Ostrich variety as they are the only ones that are edible.

I found most of my time consumed with building a couple of raised bed frames for the garden and preparing an antique door that will be installed on our garden shed.  Lisa spent much of her time in her flower bed, while closely watched by our two dogs, Stella and Dugal.

Nathan spent much of Saturday putting together our newest wheelbarrow.  I have found that you can never have too many of them.  The same can be said of shovels and landscape rakes.  It seems to me that I have bought a dozen of each since we moved out here nearly nine years ago.  I would be fortunate to locate three of each around the place if I had to. 

It never ceases to amaze me how things can disappear and yet our four kids are quite certain that they had absolutely nothing to do with the vanishing garden tools.  They also profess their innocence relating to the numerous disappearances of my hammers and screwdrivers.  It all remains a great mystery.

Despite the ongoing vanishing tool saga, good progress has been made this spring.  We haven't completed nearly the number of projects that I was hoping to at this point in the year, but overall things are shaping up.  I find myself cautiously optimistic that we might actually put a good-sized dent in our annual food bill this year with the fruits and vegetables that we will be able to grow ourselves.

Morel Mushroom Season is Here

It’s the time of year when the first morel mushrooms start popping up through the ground.  Every year, when the very short morel-hunting season is over, I run across ads for kits that enable you to grow morels in your back yard.  Every year, because I’m hungry for more morels than we were able to harvest, I’m tempted to send for one of those kits.

I have always resisted because the ads seem cheesy and too good to be true.  They remind me of those old ads for Sea Monkeys or X-Ray glasses (okay, I bought a pair of those, and no, they didn’t work) that I’d find in the back of my comic books when I was a kid.

I don’t know anyone who has purchased one of those kits and have been successful.  If you are out there, I’d love to hear from you.  I did, however, run across a little blurb at Mother Earth News that actually makes sense and gives me a little bit of hope.  The following is a snippet:

“Submerge a batch of morels in a pan of water with a plate on top and place the pan in the refrigerator. After a few hours, take the pan to your back yard (or other "secret spot") and pour the water around a tree. The idea is that the soaking water now contains tiny morel spores. Twice after having done this, I had yellow morels grow in my suburban yard, miles from the woods.”

      “Letters,” Mother Earth News, June/July 2003 issue

I don’t quite understand the “yellow” morels, but maybe that’s the color of morels in Indiana, where the writer is from.  Perhaps he lives in a suburb of Gary.  I think I’ll stick with the grey and brown one’s here in Wisconsin.

I’ll be trying this technique this year.  I normally soak my morels in saltwater overnight to kill the bugs.  I don't know what saltwater might do to spores so I've decided to soak them in water first, drain the water in a good spot, and then re-soak in saltwater for a few more hours.  Unfortunately it will be a year before I can report on the results.

No Pay, No Poop

I have tried to avoid political topics on this blog.  My reason for this is purely selfish.  If I were to offend a reader with my political views they may never come back to this blog.  If people don’t come to my blog they will not click on any of the advertisements (those things to the right that google doesn’t want me to point out, even though the ads are frequently humorous and contradictory to my writings).  If people don’t click on my advertisers’ ads I cannot make any money.  If I cannot make any money my children will die from hunger.  If my children die from hunger I will be very sad and very lonely until my body finished consuming all of my excessive body fat and then I too would die.

So I have made a business/personal/self-preservation sort of decision to avoid political commentary.  “Leave the serious offending to others better versed in the intricacies of politics than I,” say I. If I were to offend I would only hope that it happen unintentionally and through less volatile subject matter.  For instance, using a tasteless word such as ‘poop’ in this blog could be found offensive by some.   It's a mildly comical word, but potentially offensive regardless of innocent intentions.

That said, I feel compelled to speak out about a piece of legislation that was passed by our state’s legislature a couple of years ago.  This piece of – uh -- legislation deals with poop.  So I find myself in the uncomfortable position of writing a post about politics and poop.  The potential for offense and all of its ill effects runs quite deep with this post.  Yet there are some times when one must take a bold stand without reservation, choosing to flinch not if the poop hits the fan.

This new law now requires all owners of septic systems to have their systems pumped and inspected every three years.  Now I enjoy seeing a honey truck roll down the road as much as the next guy.  I can’t help but smile in a schoolboy sort of way whenever I see one.  But I feel uneasy having my state government tell me how often I need to see one roll down my driveway.

The program started from an E.P.A. (Environmental Protection Agency) study focused on rural septic systems and their impact on wells and ground water.  The study concluded that many septic systems across the country are either functioning improperly or needing to be replaced altogether.  The result of these system failures is that rural drinking water, as well as lakes, rivers and streams are becoming contaminated by human poop.

I find this shocking.  Nauseating.  Absolutely intolerable.  I am in total agreement to right this horrible wrong and am greatly concerned if our septic system is part of the problem.  The welfare of our environment is extremely important to me as it is to my family.

I would feel tremendous guilt and shame if I knew that some of my poop made a duck sick.  And I would be absolutely mortified if some of our poop showed up in a downstream neighbor’s glass of ice water.  How downright embarrassing for them as well if they happened to be entertaining dinner guests.

Fines are issued to those who choose a path of noncompliance of the new law.  But how could I not comply?  The intention and ultimate goal of the law are both very good and important things.  However it’s roots were not, and that is what has caused the rumbling within me.

I got the scoop on the poop from someone in the government who will remain nameless.  I was told through this source that the plumber’s union came across the original EPA study.  As the housing market was beginning to take a plunge and plumbing jobs no longer flowed, the union hired lobbyists to educate state legislators about the study.

It was not only union plumbers, but plumbing supply companies, plumbing contractors, etc., that also stood to benefit financially from a law that would require the building of new septic systems.  So they jumped into the mire and hired lobbyists as well.

Pretty soon politicians were shoveled all kinds of things about poop.  Being downright familiar with poop shoveling, the politicians got their hands dirty.  They pledged to flush privacy rights of landowners down the drain for the sake of the environment.  After a great deal of paperwork, the new law was passed and county governments were given the task of sniffing out faulty poop systems.

I have never, ever, subscribed to the philosophy that the end justifies the means.  In fact I believe that the means are not just equally, but in some cases even more important than the end.  Politicians seem to be just fine with the former concept.  If big money tramples on the little peoples but they (politicians) smell good in the end, so be it.

So I drug my feet for a number of months. “This’ll show ‘em,” I thought to myself.  “I’ll flush their toilet.”  In retrospect it was a rather weak, passive/aggressive protest.

I must also admit that I feared that our system would not pass inspection.  While not knowing a lot about septic systems, what I did know is that they cost a lot.  After waiting until we were three months out from the first fine, I finally called for a honey truck.

The arrival of the big truck driven by a big man with a really big hose turned out to be a weird sort of “family time.”  We gathered around the hole in the ground like some folks gather around a Christmas tree on Christmas morning.  Like wide-eyed children filled with anticipation and wonder, fixated on the treasures beneath the tree that longed to be freed from their decorative wrappings, we too wondered what we might see when the big man lifted the boards that covered the tank.

What we saw was not what any one of us was expecting.  The top of the tank was covered with a thick, off-white foam.  There was also far less of a smell than one would imagine.  Not that it smelled good, it just wasn’t overwhelming.

We peered into the hole and watched as foam disappeared into the hose and revealed a brown liquid underneath, more like what we had originally expected.  Slowly the level dropped and we were hooked.  We were mesmerized, like standing in front of a front-loading washing machine at the laundramat watching the clothes rise and then disappear into the suds.

Eventually the big man reached the bottom of the tank and slowly shook his head.  Our septic system, as we had fearfully suspected, did not pass.  It was an old metal tank and he showed us, using the hose as a pointer, where holes were located in its bottom.

There was no more hiding.  No more passive protests.  No more denial.  Regardless of how the law came about we needed to do the right thing and invest in a new septic system.

And so I pay.  And I pay.  And I pay.  $275 to the State of Wisconsin to approve plans that I paid a plumber $500 to draw up (which probably took all of ten minutes with his plumbing design software).  I’ve paid the county for the septic system permit, for various other permits, and for permits that allow me to have all of those permits.  I’ve shelled out over $2000 since we started this project last fall, and to date we haven’t even broken ground.

When you boil it all down I guess it’s the ridiculous amount of money for and number of permits required to do the right thing that eats at me.  In these difficult economic times (I would use the word ‘recession’ but my government has told me that the recession is over) it feels as if we have become our state and county’s economic stimulus fund.

But it’s all right.  I have devised a plan of revenge.

After committing to the septic system project I began pondering about how one might get by without a toilet in this day and age.  Building a two-seater behind the house was out of the question.  That would simply duplicate the problem that already exists.  Composting toilets are a possibility, but I think they’re creepy.

I then settled on a new plan that I named, “Visit a Different Neighbor Each Day.”  In short, we would slyly invite ourselves over to an unsuspecting neighbor’s home for tea.  Once at our neighbor’s home (obviously one that does not live downstream from our septic system) the lead person (pre-designated in the planning meeting) would ask if they might use the bathroom.  That person, concealing an extra roll of TP and a mini can of bathroom spray, would complete their task, hide the TP and spray in a predetermined location, and make their way back to the tea party.

Once that person returned, the next pre-designated person would quietly count to 100 and then discretely ask if they might use the bathroom.  This pattern would continue until the final family member had his or her turn.  That person would have the additional responsibility of recovering the extra TP and mini can of bathroom spray.

In my mind the biggest problem with this plan is that it targets our neighbors rather than our state government.  After discussing this with my wife, we developed a different plan of attack.

We launch this operation with the purchase an annual state park admission sticker.  Each day thereafter we will run the family up to Governor Dodge State Park, a mere15 minutes from our home.  We will use their facilities and save the wear and tear on our new system as well as decrease our own water and TP costs.  Additionally, beginning in April and running through October we will take our daily showers at the park using as much of the State’s hot water as we possibly can.  Who knows?  We may even bathe our dogs.

The mission and its objective are two-fold:  run up the state’s bills like they’ve run up ours and reduce the use of our new system.  I realize it will take a long while to settle the score financially, but I’m also certain the showers and the, uh, well, you know, will be the most satisfying that I’ve ever had.

Michael Perry FREE Live Performance April 21st in Monroe

For all of you Michael Perry fans that live in southern Wisconsin/northern Illinois, here is something you probably don't want to pass up:  a FREE, live (always better than those dead ones) performance tomorrow night in Monroe, WI.  While the picture above shows Michael with his band, "The Long Beds," I believe his performance tomorrow is his, "Clodhopper Monologue."  The following is the info that they e-mailed:

 "Here are the basics (as usual, more details and active links available on the Live Events page of sneezingcow [dot] com) [NOTE: just to be sure we both wind up at the same place, we always recommend you confirm dates/times/details with the venue]:

Thursday, April 21, 2011.  7:00 p.m. Monroe Arts Center.  1315 11th Street
Monroe, WI 53566-1744.  Reading and discussion will the held in the Gunderson Stiles Concert Hall.  This event is free and open to the public."

For those of you who don't know Michael, he is a local (northern Wisconsin) author/humorist/farmer/musician/volunteer fireman/EMT who also hosts, "Tent Show Radio from Big Top Chautauqua," which can be heard on Wisconsin Public Radio and other listener supported stations across the country.

Lisa and I went to see him with some friends of ours (neighbors as well... nice when that happens) a few months ago and the Mineral Point Opera House.  I highly recommend seeing him.  The guy is an absolute hoot and the price for this gig is certainly right.

Foraging for Food

I went foraging today for the first time this year.  Too early in the year for finding morels or fiddleheads, so my prey for the day was stinging nettles and dandelion greens.

I’ve read that stinging nettles make an awesome tea and have had dandelion greens in salads in the past.   But today I wanted to try the two together as cooked greens.  Fortunately, or unfortunately depending upon your point of view, my journey took me no farther than our garden.

Gathering the stinging nettles was remarkably easy as their stems are hollow and break off easily.  Gloves are recommended for obvious reasons, and the pair I wore made the task painless.  I ended up with about 30 six to eight inch sprigs.

Finding dandelion greens always proves to be somewhat tricky for me.  The most desirable dandelion greens are those that are young and have not yet flowered.  The problem is that we have an abundant supply of chicory here as well and the first chicory shoots and leaves of the season look an awful lot like dandelion to me.  Chicory leaves are edible as well so it would not be a big deal to end up with some in the basket.  Yet for this concoction I preferred to make it with dandelion only.

While gathering my stinging nettles and dandelions I noticed the burdock shoots had shot up over the weekend.  After inspecting a few clumps I decided to go ahead and harvest some leaf stalks.  Most were only three to six inches long and I was concerned about the difficulty that I would have trying to peel something so small.  Throwing caution to the wind I quickly collected a couple dozen stalks.

Back in the kitchen I decided to hold on the stinging nettle and dandelion prep work until dinnertime.  Instead I focused my attention on the burdock stalks.  I thought it would be fun to cook some up for lunch if I could somehow peel off the outer layer.  As it turns out not only were they difficult to peel but cleaning them also proved to be a chore.  For whatever reason I stuck with the task until I had about two cups of clean, peeled burdock stalks.

I decided to sauté the stalks in butter and a little bit of water.  I also added onion and garlic powder, sea salt and fresh ground pepper.  I peered into the pan skeptically as the burdock sizzled.  I wondered how such a frustrating, fast-growing, fibrous, downright nasty weed could possibly taste good?

As it turns out, burdock stalk was a big hit in our home.  While our oldest daughter, Katherine, was unavailable for the taste test, the rest of the clan found it tasty and wanted more in the future.  Who woulda’ thunk?  To me the best way to try to describe it would be as a cross between swiss chard and asparagus.  Shockingly good would be the next best way to describe its taste.

For dinner I decided to mix my “weed” greens with pasta.  I cut off the stinging nettle leaves from the stems and placed them in a colander.  I then tossed the dandelion greens in as well and washed thoroughly.  I chose to steam rather than boil the leaves.  I reasoned that they would soon be ending up in hot butter and pasta and I did not want to overcook them in the process.  What’s more, I hate boiling anything and leaving behind so many good vitamins and nutrients in the water.

I chose to use penne rigate as the pasta.  It is one of my all-time favorite pastas.  While the penne cooked I steamed the greens for about two minutes and set them aside.  I reserved about half a cup of pasta water and then drained the penne.  Placing the pan back on the burner, I put in a stick of butter and added chopped roasted garlic.  I then added half of the pasta water and put in about a teaspoon of freshly ground lemon pepper, and a tablespoon (or so) each of onion powder, extra virgin olive oil and sea salt.  I then stirred in the greens.

After they had time to blend together I added a half-cup of chopped chives and the pasta. While everything cooked together I added the remainder of the pasta water.

The result was not quite as enthusiastically received as the burdock, but was also a hit.  I preferred the pasta dish over the burdock, but I seemed to be in the minority.  Regardless, it was very strange to be eating something that until now represented burning pain.  I grinned as I watched the rest of the family gingerly taking their first couple of bites, anticipating a soon-following stinging sensation.  But it never happened.

In reality cooked stinging nettles taste very much like spinach and the texture is almost identical.  Nutritionally, I discovered that it has a higher level of protein than any cultivated vegetable.  It’s also reported to be full of anti-oxidants and vitamins, and has even been used in the treatment of respiratory ailments.

When it’s all said and done however, I just had a really good time today eating weeds.

Garden Plans and Projects

I’ve spent a good deal of time working on the main garden recently.  Weeds and the last remains of last year’s crops have been pulled and burned.  I also pulled up surrounding T-posts that I had driven into the ground our first year out here.  They had at one time supported poultry fencing (used to be known as chicken wire), but have been nothing more than an eyesore the last few years.

On Saturday I drove down to Platteville to raid Menards.  I bought enough 12-foot 2x12’s for three deep beds.  I will be using two of them for our root crops:  carrots, turnips, rutabagas, and beets.  Lisa will be using the third one to plant potatoes.

My plan is to attempt to freeze, can, and/or dry as much of our veggies as possible.  The ultimate goal is to eliminate the need to purchase any produce except for items that cannot be grown in this climate.  I know, for instance, that we purchased roughly $350 worth of canned tomato products last year.  If I could eliminate just that one area from our annual produce bill, it would be awesome.

Lisa and I discussed the distribution of garden responsibilities a couple of weeks ago.  She will be growing some of the items that I want to store, as well as others that I will not be growing.  For instance, she will be planting two rows of tomatoes.  As one of our trellises can manage 13 plants, Lisa will have a total of 26 plants.  Because we need far more than that, I will also grow three rows (39 plants) in a different garden to make up the difference.  It may sound goofy but is seems to be working as we had no disagreements during our discussion.  This delights me but also makes me a little nervous.

While at Menards I also bought various lengths of translucent roofing panels, which will be used in building hoop houses this week for the broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, lettuce and other greens.  I will also be pulling them back out this fall to cover plants when we hope to extend our growing season.

While I’ve yet to get any seed trays started, the purchase of our hoop house materials may have eliminated the need for them altogether.  Sowing directly into the ground is so much easier and rewarding in my opinion.  We’ll find out if it will work starting this week.

Mother Earth News Releases Garden Planner

For those of you who are beginning to design this year’s garden, there is a new tool out there that you really should consider. Mother Earth News has come out with an on-line garden planner. You can design your garden at this site, as well as access information on everything from frost dates for your zone to crop rotation suggestions to seed spacing recommendations. This thing will even send you an e-mail to remind you that it’s the proper time to plant your tomato seedlings.

Their garden planner looks great, is user friendly and is receiving glowing reports. That said I’m afraid that I have to withhold my full recommendation of this tool. It missed one of my most basic and highest level criteria: it has to be free or it has to be really cheap. Preferably free because I often pass on stuff even when it’s really cheap.

While the first 30 days are a free trial period, after that time continued access would cost you $25 for a year ($40 if you sign up for two years). I’m using it for 30 days to design my new herb garden and a couple of other projects. After that it’s back to the pad of paper and a pencil for this tightwad Scotsman.

Burdock Burning in the Veggie Zone

 

Few things on Hillsong Farm are quite as satisfying or downright necessary as the elimination of burdock.  It grows everywhere out here, testimony of a farm that had been idle for too long.  It thrives like nothing else and heartlessly consumes the dreams of gardeners and farmers that ignore its first tender shoots.

Goats are great at destroying burdocks.  While most livestock will munch on it, goats place it at the top of their culinary delights.  What’s more, while cattle tend to ignore it once the burdock stalk becomes mature and turns “woody,” goats will continue to clear it.

The problem with goats is that they have to be securely fenced in or else they will eat all the other things that you would prefer to keep around.  They will seek out the dreaded multi-floral rose but will chew the bark off your apple trees before they tackle the invasive weeds.  They are vegetation-clearing machines and do so with reckless abandon and without prejudice or regret.  So the use of goats as clearing instruments is only recommended in certain applications.

We have battled burdock in our garden since our first spring on the farm.  We’ve burned it with some success.  We’ve mulched over it, again with some success.  But it has never given up the fight.  It is a stubborn fighter, throwing unexpected jabs and uppercuts when you think it is finally down for the count.

I spent most of the weekend clearing the long, burr-covered stems that grew in last year‘s garden area.  I also cleared a 30x50 foot space beyond last year’s garden.  Then I burned it.  I did so enthusiastically, joyfully, sadistically.  Lisa and Nathan were drawn into the euphoria that I was experiencing and ruthlessly cleared as well.

This year I will be adding a new tactic to our all-out war on burdock.  Last Christmas Lisa bought me a copy of Samuel Thayer’s book, “The Forager’s Harvest.”  It is a book I have wanted since first reading an article by Thayer years ago about making sumac tea.  While paging through the book I was surprised to discover a section devoted to burdock.

I knew burdock root was edible.  Lisa cooked some a number of years ago.  Our initial response was underwhelming and we haven’t tried it since.  However, Thayer states in his book that while the leaves are edible if treated carefully, the stalks of young burdock plants are positively yummy.  Well, he didn’t use the word, “Yummy,” but that was the gist of it.

So this year we will burn it, mow it, pull it and feed it to the goats, and eat the stuff ourselves.  I’m so hoping the last approach experiences rave reviews.  What a perfect way to combat an old enemy.  It reminds me of Abe Lincoln when he explained his strategy for defeating his opponents, he stated, “I will defeat my enemies by making my enemies my friends.”

In the end I’m hoping to greatly increase our garden space this year and the area cleared this weekend already surpasses last year’s ten-fold.  Whether all the space is utilized or not, the killing of the hated burdock seed and it’s ever-present shoots already makes this weekend’s endeavor a victory.  It may not be a great victory by most standards, but a victory nonetheless.  When battling weeds in our garden, particularly burdock, any victory is welcome.

Cats

I am a dog person.  I like dogs, usually.  Our German Shepherd attacked me when I was five years old, nearly tearing my left ear off until I blocked his attacks with my forearm.  Still, I like dogs.  Over the years my dogs have chewed not only me but favorite pieces of clothing, toys and furniture and still I like them.  They have cost me thousands of dollars in vet fees and still I like them.  They have left gargantuan piles of poop in my walkways which I have stepped in numerous times, and still I like them.

I don't like cats.  I'd say that I hate cats, but that would get me into hot water with some of the cat lovers in my home.  I view cats as a necessary evil around the farm.  I tolerate them, but I don't like them.

I discovered the hard way what it is like to not have cats around the farm two years ago.  We have had cats here since shortly after moving in eight years ago.  They have all been barn cats.

We started with four.  That eventually grew to seventeen.  Then they began getting sick and we were down to three for about a year.  Eventually those three became ill and died.

That is when I learned the value of barn cats.  Our garage, which is detached from our house, has always been a nice home to mice and an occasional rat or two.  The barn cats kept the population down, but never fully eliminated the rodents.  Once the last of our mousers died off the garage experienced a tremendous population boom in the mouse community.  Rats began appearing as well.

They became so comfortable in their cat-free environment that they would scurry about the place even when I was in there with the radio on.  Nothing I left unprotected was sacred to them.  They chewed up notebooks, receipts, a favorite hat, insulation, a $250 bag of pasture seed, cardboard boxes, and anything made of plastic.

They also had free reign of the barn and milkhouse.  I would frequently have a big fat rat run off in front of me when I went into the barn to feed the goats and chickens.  I really dislike using poisons, so I tried traps.  Mouse traps and rat traps were everywhere.  I caught a total of 21 mice or baby rats in the garage alone, and still it didn't seem as if I was making a dent in the population.

So I reluctantly agreed to get some more cats.

We started with four again.  That was not a conscious decision but rather what was available at a neighboring farm.  One of them met its end in my truck's engine compartment.  Apparently it thought that hanging out by the truck fan was a good idea.  I was in a hurry to get Nathan to a 6:00 am football practice and forgot to honk the horn before I started the truck.  I felt a "thud" when I turned the engine over and instantly shut the truck off, knowing immediately what had happened.

I looked over at Nathan and asked, "Did you feel that?," hoping that I had imagined it but knowing that I hadn't.  "Yeah," he said, confirming my fears as I got out of the truck and looked underneath just in time to see Ditzy fall onto the ground.  I felt sick.

There is no way to easily communicate the death of a loved one to a seven-year-old kitty lover.  There were tears, even for me.  My tears weren't from a sense of loss but a sense of guilt, and for the pain my little girl was experiencing.  I also feared how she might view me from here on out, being the killer of one of her beloved.

Life has moved on from that day.  Grace has long since forgiven me.  The remaining three cats are still with us, and two seem to be "with kitty."

I'm not sure which is worse:  more cats or cats in heat.  While two are now silent, the one that continues to go into heat is driving me crazy with it's constant and unusually loud cat calls.  Part of me hopes the local tomcat makes its way back over and the other part of me hopes he never hears her.  I am so conflicted.  All I know for certain is that our mouse and rat populations are down and that I really dislike cats.

Meal Review and Other Springtime Musings

The woodstove soup was a definite hit the other night.  I had never attempted making beef soup from scratch before.  I've done it with chicken soup, but that is relatively safe.  It's hard to screw up chicken stock.  Beef, however, is a completely different beast.  I can never seem to resist throwing in some beef bouillon for fear that the stock will otherwise be too bland.

This stuff was anything but bland.  I went heavy on the celery and thyme and both were noticeable  but not overpowering.  In fact, I think it was just about perfect.  Hope I can remember the amounts the next time around.  I hate writing down recipes even more than using them.  It takes the adventure and artistry out of cooking.

Spring has sprung today on the farm.  There have been numerous hints over the last few weeks:  The robins and red-wing blackbirds arrived on the same day.  The snow, with the exception of northern sloping hills, has nearly disappeared.  My truck is covered with mud.  The kids' clothes are again retaining turf stains.  Flocks of Canada geese have been flying north.  So have the sand cranes.  And the once hidden mounds of dog poop are appearing all over the place.  I can live without this last spring siting.

The clearest indicator that spring has sprung was seeing our neighbor, (and frequent commenter on this blog) Tom, driving by on his motorcycle the other day. He was, however, wearing jeans rather than his usual shorts.  I also noted that he was not wearing his sandals.  Both good calls, I believe.

The temperature today is near 50 degrees, and all forms of life seem to be responding.  Unfortunately, this includes the flies.  I was greeted by a low, consistent buzzing while walking out the front door this morning.  Turned out to be hundreds, perhaps thousands of flies.  They seemed to be sunning themselves on the side of our house and throughout the lawn.  Perhaps they are resting after feasting on the numerous mounds of dog poop.  I hate flies.


The only sound louder than the flies right now is the voice from our garden, beckoning me to come and visit.  Hoping to get a little time there later this afternoon.

Woodstove Soup

After spending much of the day cutting wood, I decided to enjoy the fruit of my labors by cooking vegetable beef soup on our woodstove. Seemed like no better way to beat the system than to heat the house and cook supper at the same time. I'm certain there are far better ways to beat the system, but I'm satisfied with this approach for today.

I had never messed with soup bones in the past, but ended up with around twenty pounds of the things when we had one of our steers butchered last fall. A few weeks ago I roasted two pounds worth with chopped onions, celery and carrots for a couple of hours. Then I simmered the concoction for six hours. Next I strained the stock through a colander. After refrigerating overnight and skimming the fat off the top the next day, I poured my homemade stock into containers and froze them.

After letting one of the containers thaw yesterday, I added a little water, seasonings, salt, pepper, barley, carrots, celery, onions and diced tomatoes in an old crock-pot. After some searching I found a lid that kind of fit, and set it on the woodstove.

I'd love to say that everything in the soup, with the exception of some of the seasonings, were raised on the farm. But alas, only the beef and the stock came from here. My previous post may give insight as to why this is so.

Even if my soup adventure does not turn out, seeing that crock-pot on the woodstove and smelling thyme, beef and onion in the air gives me the warm fuzzies. A food review will follow tonight's meal.

The Annual Pursuit of Gardening Greatness

Few people, including those who live with me, know that I am actually a master gardener. Granted, it is only for about three months of each year. But during those months I am nothing short of spectacular.

In December I begin thinking about seed purchases and ponder possible improvements over the previous season’s gardens. January finds me in the throws of meticulous planning. I consider rotations, plant placement within rotational beds, locations of new gardens, made-from-scratch drip irrigation systems, compost piles to be built, and take inventory of material needed to build a couple of late winter cold frames.

February preparations increase dramatically. Seeds on hand are inventoried and a shopping list created. I pull out seed trays and prepare them for March’s plantings. The seed catalogs that have finally arrived are studied and price comparisons computed. Job lists are made according to priority and placed in chronological order. Materials for new trellises are found and positioned for use.

Every year I plan to have my seed trays completed by the third week of March. They are to be placed in our home on shelves sitting in front of southern facing windows. Yet every year, usually by the second week of March, I am frustrated and disappointed. It is seemingly inevitable that each year’s Ides of March are destined to bring my delusions of grandeur down into the pit of reality.

Why can I never rise above life’s obstacles and stay on the garden track? Be it a bathroom drain that suddenly needs replacing or heater in the milkhouse that needs repair, life’s unexpected curve balls have derailed my well-intentioned plans every single year.

The remainder of my garden year also plays out the same as previous years. My seed trays won’t be touched until early April. Some years I surrender completely and just sow directly into the ground. In April I will begin clearing the garden of last year’s weeds, plantings, discarded tools, and trellises. Each of these tasks should have been completed in March.

Early crops (Broccoli and Greens families) should have been planted in April but won’t make it into the ground until after May Day. The second week of May should find me transplanting tomato and other late spring seedlings. They won’t find their way home until the end of the month.

The seemingly endless disappointments continue throughout the growing season. I forget to water. I avoid weeding. Weeds overtake what had been neat, well-tended rows. Some crops (potatoes and onions last year) disappear all together. The failures culminate in November when once again I fail to get garlic in the ground for the following year’s growing season.

Early on, usually some time in April, I begin conversing and reasoning with myself. “I really was set on putting in about ten rows of corn this year. Guess I’ll settle for two. Those rows of new veggies will have to wait until next year. Wonder if I can return the seeds? Potato beds? Forget it. Besides, spuds are really cheap at the grocery store. But they’re not organic. So what? One more year of non-organic russets won’t make that big of a deal.”

Soon I find myself arguing with, err, myself. “You really suck as a gardener. No I don’t. I am just overloaded with responsibilities. That’s a crock. Master gardener? You’re just a master procrastinator. That’s not true. I’d like to see other people try to handle all the stuff I have to handle. You are constantly writing checks that your body can’t cash. Oh yeah? Well you couldn’t find the positive side of a free lunch. Really? I think you’re just a self-absorbed whiner who never intends to get anything of value done and then points the finger of blame at everything but yourself. You bastard! Who are you to judge me? If I listened to you I’d never accomplish anything because you write failure on it before the first step is taken. Well that’s only because every step you take is destined to land in one big heaping, steaming pile of fetid failure.”

Then it gets really ugly and I refuse to speak to myself for a week or two.

Over the last few years my wife, Lisa, has taken pity on me. Either that or she has become so frustrated with my garden that isn’t that she takes it upon herself to put in her own garden. I’m not sure which motivation moves her to action, but in the end she somehow ends up with something that actually produces vegetables.

Lisa does gardening all wrong. I can’t point that out of course, but deep down we both know it. She sometimes plants seeds and genuinely doesn’t care if they come up or not. If they do, she rejoices. If not, c'est la vie. This attitude completely befuddles me, though I must grudgingly admit that I frequently admire her for it.

She never has a “big picture” plan for crop rotation. Wide beds are never considered. Seeds are scattered haphazardly on the ground. Some make it in, some don’t. She even uses our children to assist in planting (I have to find other things to do on the far side of the farm when this happens). But the truth remains that the beautiful, bountiful gardens of my mind remain securely locked in there somewhere. Lisa’s gardens somehow produce despite their obvious flaws and awkward management. How this can be I do not know nor understand. But they do and come harvest time I will be quite grateful for it.

I planned to have most of my seed trays done this week. They remain vacant in the garage as they do each year at this time. Lisa? She has little onion stems just beginning to sprout from the seeds she planted last week. This fall I will enjoy their sweet flavor on a hamburger made from beef that was raised on our own little farm. At that time I will be grateful, pleased and satisfied. Right now they are bitter reminders of my failures in agronomy and bring home the painful realization that my annual stint as a master gardener is over for another nine months.

February

February is a weird month in Wisconsin. It is confused, double-minded. It’s never quite certain which season to align with: winter or spring. It can warm the hills and valleys with temperatures in the fifties as it did two weeks ago. Yet overnight it can plummet to near zero with Alberta clippers bringing fresh snow and ice as it did here last week.

Those of us who live here view February as bittersweet. It is brutal and beautiful, depressing and inspiring. February is filled with hope and despair.

A couple of weeks ago I was up in Dodgeville and stopped in at the local Kwik Trip to gas up the truck and pick up some staples (milk, wine, butter, bananas and bread). The sun was shining. The temperature was just a fraction shy of fifty degrees. The snow banks were shriveling mercifully like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz. Melted snow flowed furiously to form streams and lakes in the streets.

Everyone was smiling. Everyone was patient. There was no jockeying for the prime parking spaces nearest the store door, for no one minded walking a little farther on this day. In fact, we preferred it. It gave us more opportunities to say, “Hello. What a day, huh?” to fellow marrow-eaters of life. The glory of the day brought out the best in each of us. We were decent and good. And we were decent and good to each other.

Then the weather turned. So did we.

I was back at that same Kwik Trip the next week. The temperature was in the twenties, the sky overcast. A steady breeze from the north made it feel much colder than it actually was. After gassing up I walked into the store. Faces, both shoppers and employees, were long. They looked neither angry nor sad but just let down, ripped off. They carried the grimace of Charlie Brown who foolishly believed once again that Lucy might hold that football long enough to kick it. But instead they were lying flat on their backs again, feeling stupid for believing that winter was over.

I paid for my gas and walked out of the store, pulling my hood up over my head as an arctic wind blew against the back of my neck. As I pulled the truck away from the pump I was nearly hit by a speeding car. Without so much as an, “I’m sorry, I goofed,” wave, the inconsiderate slob pulled into the parking space nearest the door.  I resisted giving a one fingered salute with great difficulty, settling for a few choice words released in my passenger-less truck.

We in Wisconsin become February. We can’t decide if we are gentle or aggressive. We are both patient yet petty, warm yet frigid, gracious yet demanding. We are conflicted in our emotions and attitudes not because of who we are, but because of the environment in which we live. It brings out both the best and the worst in us.

On the upside, this all makes for a good excuse when needed. Who can't use a little extra guilt deflection? "That wasn't me kicking the cat tonight. I didn't drink the last beer. Well of course I wouldn't leave hair in the sink. I'd never leave the toilet seat up. It was February."

No Way. Has it Really Been Two Years?

I feel so bad. I knew that it had been some time, but how quickly days, weeks, months add up.

I was caught in a trap. Not the animal-catching type that produces swift, immediate and decisive action from P.E.T.A. folk, but the mental type that is sometimes painful and always paralyzing. I kept thinking that I needed to take the time to write one of those "catch up" posts. One of those common things other blog writers use when they disappear for a season. The trap is that the longer you wait, the longer the unwritten post becomes.

Large writing projects without enforceable deadlines should not be in my life. They lead to instant procrastination. And eventual guilt. Guilt leads to denial ("Yeah, I'll get to it as soon as things slow down"). Denial is only a temporary sedative and its decreasing potency reveals greater guilt that is well on its way to outright shame.

Oh, what a wretch I am.

Yet time can be a wonderful thing and a gentle healer. So much time has passed that it is completely unrealistic to consider (on my end) or expect (from your end) a two-year catch-up post is in order for this blog. Therefor I believe that I have arrived upon a seemingly reasonable and far less painful solution: I will just begin writing and when it seems appropriate, I will try to inject some things that have taken place over the last two years into those posts.

That said, err, written, I would be remiss not to express my sincere apologies to those of you who check in every now and then just to see if I'm still ticking. I am, and I will try to do a better job of proving that from here on out.

More to come... very soon. Seriously. I mean I really mean it. I honestly do.