Gardening is a passion. Have you ever heard someone say that and wonder what it means? Let me explain.
If you’ll remember one of my past entries I moaned about how I feared voles would eat all my corn seed. In spite of those fears I did plant the corn . . . and waited for it to sprout. Days went by and nothing seemed to happen. This was all feeling sickeningly like the previous year when I lost a lot of corn to the voles, so I dug up a small section of one row in search of seeds. I found no seed, and I did find a vole tunnel. The sight of that new vole tunnel confirmed my worst fears–a dirty little beast had eaten all my corn seed.
I was in a foul mood after that. I put out a trap baited with more corn seed, but no vole showed up. I could do nothing but stew in helplessness and frustration . . . until it came time to mow the lawn. I was driving the DR Brush Mower across the lawn when I noticed the tell tale rustle in the grass which gave away the hasty flight of a vole. My first inclination was to let him get away–in past years I always took speical care to avoid killing the little creatures. But as I drove on by a little thought popped into my mind. “Why on earth are you letting that creature get away. That vile . . . that despicable . . . that thing ate your corn seed. Does that vole deserve anything more than an instant death sentence?
Needless to say, I was of a different mind the second time I came around the lawn and saw the vole rustling through the grass. I turned off my course and deliberately ran the creature over. I had to run it over several time to make sure it was dead. (I didn’t kill it with the mower blades, I simply squashed it.)
The above is an example of gardening passion. Working with farmers I’ve had a few occasions where a mouse would go running by and the farmer would yell “Stomp on it! Stomp on it!” I, of course, wanted to do no such thing. Shooting a mouse, trapping a mouse, or poisoning a mouse are all somewhat gentlemanly methods of murder. Stomping always struck me as too vulgar and gross. I have some inhibition against feeling something living going squish under my feet. That is, until such creature eats my corn seed. So I can understand the farmers perspective, now.
This story wouldn’t be complete without me admitting that the vole was, in the end, somewhat exonerated. Most of my corn did sprout in the end. There are a few thin spots, but overall it came up well enough. All that passion wasted.
Other good news includes the fact that I seem to have overcome the aphid infestation on my cherry tree. This makes me feel very good. No more aphids. At least I’m good for something . . . aphid killing. Alas, but I’ve gone from one success to another crisis. Some vile and despicable deer has chomped off the ends of my cherry tree branches. Not satisfied with this, the said deer has taken to chomping off some branches from my full grown apple trees. This has me incensed. If the deer chomped off the top of my freshly planted baby–my most recent apple tree–I would probably go into an apoplectic fit, have an aneurysm, and die.
Well, maybe not quite that serious. But it feels like that. The fields are ripe with grass and the stinking deer have to come all the way down from the woods and cross the field, just so they can nibble on my trees!
Ahem.
Gardening is one of those things of such emotional extreme. I thought my corn wasn’t going to sprout and so I was very angry. Then my corn sprouted and I was very happy. None of my winter squash or cucumbers sprouted, so I am very sad again. In fact, I feel like I will be in a bad gardening mood for the rest of the year.
I have no more winter squash seed, so that is out of the question for this year. Nobody really cared for cooking it, so I suppose it isn’t a great loss. I still had some cucumber seeds left so I’ve started them indoors and will replant them outside. Maybe we will actually get some cucumbers for pickles. Maybe not.
Enough about the soap opera of my garden. Life in the chicken yard is going better. I’m fully convinced the turkey will not hatch any eggs, and I’ve gotten over it. I just wish she would give up on the futility of sitting. The grown chickens are having a grand old time, though they miss the mash I used to be feeding the chicks. They loved to pig out on the little corn chips. They also loved to sit on top of the chick play pen. This was hysterical to watch. The chick play pen was sitting out in the middle of the chicken yard and in the morning I could see the hens perched around the rim, sitting there and enjoying the day. They looked like some knitting club.
Hens are also particular in their laying habits. Some hens will quietly lay their daily egg like it is nothing more than their duty. Other hens will make it into a hysterical procedure (with much clucking and bwawking) and I don’t know why.
Hens also have various feelings about me taking the eggs out from under them. Normally I try to avoid taking eggs from under hens. I have always figured the hens would find it less mentally disturbing if they were allowed to lay their eggs in supposed secrecy and have them somehow “mysteriously” disappear each day. Sometimes this isn’t possible and they must live through the indignity of me fishing eggs out from under them. Reactions are various and as unique as each chicken’s personality. Some hens glare at me and sit still, trying to pretend it isn’t happening. A few hens will take off, flying from the chicken house in screaming hysterics. Some hens will fight me. Recently I felt bad for one hen that I was taking eggs from because she was fighting me valiantly, and, more than that, she seemed to grow upset as the number of eggs beneath her grew less. She stood up and craned her head, peering between her legs at the emptying nest. This display of consternation and concern made me have pity on her. I left one egg behind so she could shuffle it around beneath her and feel happy again.
The chicks are growing up. Yesterday I decided they were big enough to spend nights in the chicken coop now. This means no more carting them out in the morning. No more little chicky-poos making flying leaps from their pens toward the gate. They still like me, though, and I take some consolation in that. They like eating wild grass seed. I can strip a handful off from the tall grass growing around and squat down and feed it to them out of my hands.
Pretty soon they will get really big and then they won’t be so cute anymore. It’s only been a month and already they are sleeping out with the big chickens. Some of the chicks have already begun having little mini cockfights. (And I’ve noticed some of the chicks have a mean streak). Soon they will grow up into rude and rambunctious roosters and have eyes only for the hens.
Then we eat them.
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