It's been a coon's age ...

... since I've posted this blog. How old does a coon get I wonder?

Standing and typing in the Manchester Airport, the New Hampshire version of Athena, the forecasted "nor'easter," outside the windows behind me.  It's a steady grey sog, traces of snow around the edges.  I drove into it from our place which is much colder and drier and snowless.  Post-election.  Maybe it's me, but everything and everyone seems a little bit spent, man and nature exhausted.  Recharge and renewal.  Talk of compromise, bi-partisanship, fiscal cliffs.   I'm just grateful that the television sets so noisy and ubiquitous and newsworthy in other airports are few and far between here.  A sense of quiet if you want it.


Home.  All the raised beds have been put to sleep, shredded brown leaves mixed in with a mixture of top soil and compost and covered over with a comforter layer of straw for the long winter snooze and reconstitution.  There's some new garlic planted, hearty big cloves from our first bountiful harvest this year.  What a stupendous plant garlic is.  It was the vegetable equivilant to daffodils this past spring, its curlycue stalks serpentining up through the straw and snow for a first showing of green.  The mint I experimented with had taken over and encroached under the herb hillside and through the hardware cloth at the bottom of the raised beds and up into the soil.  Tenacity thy name is spearmint.  Invasive tactics it picked up from bamboo.  I think I got it all; we'll see.  It brought back memories of my grandpa hacking away at it when I was little, trying vainly to prevent its Sherman's march through the southland of our side garden.   Its purple roots were everywhere, often bunched together in clumps with tiny, tiny tendrils feathering out like a miniature, landbound man-of-war.   They have been marginalized to far corners of the garden.

I harvested the last of our chard and lettuces last week before a steady frigid streak settled in.   Kale, parsley, and brussell sprouts are still going strong.  This is the first winter I'm going to try a mini-green house, a plastic pup tent over some kale and chard and an errant beet or 2.  I may even plop some more lettuce seeds down under.  So lovely the other day lifting up the plastic flap and feeling moist warmth inches away from 20 degree weather.  Wonderful.   A big pot of rosemary and a smaller one of thyme are inside where they'll test transplanting over the winter.  They seem to be enjoying the venture.   I moved our wood slatted compost pile about 4 feet down hill, tipping it over to reveal this miracle of rich new soil.   Humous, right?  Or is it still just plain ole compost?  I'm not quite sure.   I was just boning up on the do's and don't's of composting on line - the correct ratios of carbon and nitrogen, when to turn it, how much to aerate.  It seems I've been doing it all "wrong."  But nature has been a forgiving force.  She must appreciate the effort put forth, the aim toward sustainability.  It's incredible seeing how all our kitchen waste, leaves, egg shells, coffee grounds have been Cinderella-ed into this rich, rich friable brown substance from which next year's garden will grow.  It tickles me to no end.

Our birds.  Have I told you of our ducks?  There's 7 of them and they fill the air with ducky laughter throughout the day.  Everything's a great big yuck fest to them - our six geese, the chickens, our foibles, the concept of work.  "All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin."  Hilarious.  They are adorable.  Much more likeable than the geese.  The males have this rich dark green color that cover their heads and necks, very dapper those Beau Brummels.  They must have spent the family fortune on their duds because the womenfolk are pretty drab, beige, tan, white.  I love seeing them take flight which happens several times throughout the day, most of the times from our hill in back to the pond.  Some hidden signal goes off and they lift off like helicopters and fly in a straight line for a skid bottom landing on the pond's surface followed by laughter squawks.  You here them laughing in the middle of the night, someone cracked a joke at 3 in the morning last night.  They're a yucky bunch.  And always with a Buster Keaton mug.

Flock thinning will soon become the topic of discussion.  Richard and I put it off.  Some roosters and at least a couple geese seem destined for freezer camp.  It conjures up "Tale of Two Cities" scenes for me, the wagon creaking its way toward the guillotine.  Between now and Thanksgiving the axe will fall on many a bird.  Still on the fence about this taking of life.  Don't know if I'll ever be completely alright with it.

They have bid us gather at the gate so I'll send this off.  Have a great day everyone.  Be kind to your fine feathered friend - for a duck may be somebody's brother.  Be kind to your friend's in the swamp, where the weather is cold and damp.  Well you may think that this is the end ... well it is.

I wonder if Mitch Miller was a buddhist?