Extension News: October 2010 Archives

In the corner of the old chicken coop, I discovered two electric incubators with the manufacturer’s directions still attached to the bottoms. I volt-tested the heating elements and time-tested the timers. Everything seemed in order, so I ordered fertilized eggs: 50 chicken, 10 ducks, and two Toulouse goose, a perfect project to accompany starting seeds, birthing goat kids, and staying warm while waiting for spring.

The eggs all hatched, and the chicks peeped and pecked as I moved them from the incubator to cardboard boxes, to free-range cages, and then to their final destinations. The chickens joined the other 50 in the henhouse, the ducks took ownership of the frog pond in the back of the farm, and the geese became my constant companions.

Even though I never did learn their genders, I named the larger goose Festus and the other Molly. By midsummer they’d grown tall enough to tug at my belt and weighed 25 pounds each. They paraded around the farm paddocks, gardens and yards at will in their shades of grey, slate and mauve layered against mottled white bottoms and bibs. Their long, thick necks waved with each waddling step, as they whistled and cooed with their big orange beaks.

They wandered my gardens as I worked, finding grubs, bugs, and seeds. A few times each day they skirted the buildings and paddock to the frog pond to take a dip and harass the ducks.

Dawn brought the hen-house rooster, Hannibal, crowing to his egg-layers. He’d be joined shortly by Ralph­the barn-dwelling bandy rooster­in a back-and-forth competition for the best morning announcements. Then Festus and Molly would join the chorus with their long, low hisses and honks. It was time to start the farm day.

After two hours of morning chores, I’d open the farm stand. Festus and Molly would often join me to dust themselves on the edge of the driveway or to amuse the customers.

My day usually ended a few hours after dusk. I’d sit on a long wooden bench near the back porch door. The outside light attracted moths, which in turn attracted spiders, great-end-of-day snacks for Festus and Molly.

They’d sit on either side of me as I stroked their sleek bodies. They’d stretch out on one side and then the other as I pulled at their wings and rubbed their bellies, all the while whispering to each other whatever they were thinking of this activity. They’d pick at my boots and tug my pant cuffs in the flickering light. After a few minutes they’d disappear under the porch into their reinforced and screened enclosure for the night.

That fall the ducks flew away with the migrating wild flocks. The chickens were either laying productively or had become roasters. Festus and Molly were full-grown­beautiful, proud, and serene. They noticed the absence of the ducks and wandered the edge of the pond looking in all the spots once crowded with color and quacking.

A flock of Canada Geese flew over one cloudy afternoon. Festus stretched out as long as he could. He began to run low to the ground, beating his great wings. Sadly, a 500-year ancestry of farm domestication, coupled with the fact that he was a very well-fed goose, made it impossible to transform his runway antics into flight. He honked, rolled, and ended up flopping in an undignified pile. Molly rushed over to assure him that no one had seen, that his place on the farm was secure, and that he was right where he belonged.

Later that afternoon we three slowly strolled and padded back to the big barn, where I introduced Molly and Festus to their winter home, a sturdy straw-filled stall with chicken wire above and a large three-turn covered ramp to an outside door facing south. This would be much better than under the porch for the coldest weather.

Molly never did lay an egg, so for all I know both geese were boys, but she stayed Molly
‘til the day she died. I continued my end-of-day ritual whether the geese were in residence under the porch or in the barn. We’d become friends of a feather, and would stay that way for many years.

By Stephania Pearce, Master Gardener

Henry Ford never cut wood with me.

It was Ford who said, “Chop your own wood, and it will warm you twice,” meaning the woodcutter enjoys both the warmth of the burning firewood and the heat generated by the physical work of cutting it.

Now I don’t know exactly how Ford cut firewood in his time, but I know my own personal “warmings” are several times more than his.

The first warming begins when I pull the starter cord on my balky chainsaw to begin the process. My “Easy-Start” model never lives up to its name. Repeated pulls never fail to generate body heat, and the saw rarely kicks over in fewer than 20 attempts.

Then, with the saw puttering perfectly, I fell the tree. That’s the easy part. Now begins the log cutting. Again, only mildly thermic. After all, it is a power saw (not like the two-man crosscut Henry may have used).

Now comes the second warming. I take each 16-inch section and set it upright in the snow no easy task, especially with big oak and beech logs. By the time I’ve finished this job, my first layer of outer clothing has come off.

Taking up my maul, I begin to split the upright pieces. Depending on whether the tree is straight red oak or twisted swamp maple, this can either cause a faint flush on my brow or an all-out blast-furnace effect that has the steam rising from my now bare head.

At some point I stack all the slash and tops in a burn pile for disposal the following winter. Hauling the slash to the pile is a fairly energetic process, so I tally that as another warming. (I will not, however, count the near-baking that takes place when the pile is finally touched off, as that’s clearly a claim outside of Ford’s premise.)

As I cut my wood way out behind my house, I now begin the transportation process. I have a heavy black plastic sled that I can load with exactly 22 pieces of split wood. I pull each load anywhere from 50 yards (if I’m lucky) to nearly 200 yards across a stretch of wetland, and the slog is mostly all uphill. (I am at times reminded of Colonel Knox and his colonial militia sledging cannons from Ticonderoga to Boston.)

Needless to say, I am more than warm at the end of each trip. But for purposes of this account, I will only count it as one instance of warming.

Now begins the stacking. I stack each piece one by one in face rows for maximum drying. Bend over, pick up a piece, place it next to its tree mate, then repeat until warm.

Months pass as the wood grays and cracks in the sun until at last, sometime in late October, the process begins again. Since my woodpile is far from the front porch, where the winter’s supply is stacked a week’s worth at a time, I begin the transfer process. Whether by wheelbarrow or trusty black sled, the transfer warms me, 22 pieces at a time and largely uphill (again!). Then, I restack it.

My personal relationship with each piece of wood finally ends with its entry into my soapstone stove, where, yes, it finally warms me in full with its intended purpose.

For those of you keeping score at home, that amounts to being “warmed” eight times give or take a stray restacking or two due to receding frost heaves or my poor wood pile architecture.

My personal relationship with each stick of wood is nearly ended at this point, except for disposing of the ashes. (How does a ton of wood turn into a five-pound bucket of ash?)

I usually spread cold ashes on top of the snow, so they will sink into the early spring ground. After smudging the snow with a broadcast of ashes, I hustle back into the house to park my rear end a foot from the blazing stove to be, yes, warmed one more time.

By Greg Lowell, Coverts Cooperator

Artist: Maria Levandowski, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

In September I harvested sweet potatoes for the first time ever. Last December I’d noticed sprouts (“slips”) peeking from the top of a brown paper bag left beside the refrigerator at work. Instruction provided by our Cooperative Extension fruit and vegetable specialist steered me in the right direction, and I was off on a new gardening adventure.

The Yukon Gold potatoes were small, the harvest sparse, and the tubers have Black Scurf, a disease caused by a fungus called Rhizoctonia solani. This disease is in the soil, and there is no remedy. It may not be a concern for my next year’s garden, because I might not be here.

My house is for sale, which means my gardens are also for sale. It’s unsettling, not knowing the fate of the gardens I’ve nurtured for eight years. Will it be me planting the seeds next year, or a stranger? Will it even be planted?

Volunteer tomatillos are scattered around the garden, lanky plants whose small, green fruits are covered by papery husks. New Hampshire is a bit cold to mature this southern crop successfully, but I can’t bring myself to weed the seedlings when they appear. This is the third generation I have let take up precious space. The originals sprouted from a year-old bag of tomatillos I discovered in my freezer and tossed into the garden on a whim.

My strawberry bed has two bright red berries ready to pick. Why these June-bearers have fruited again in September is beyond me.

Asparagus ferns lean gently over the basil. The first row is five years old, the fronds longer and fuller than those sprouting from the new roots I planted in June. Three years until the first harvest is the rule of thumb I follow. Will the new owners know this? Will they recognize the stout shoots peeking through the leaf mulch in May? So much time and energy invested in this area.

And so much history entwined in garden plants: the French tarragon from a high school friend, the rhubarb from my dad’s backyard garden at my childhood home, the bee balm from my mom’s garden. The hummingbirds come to it as soon as the spiky red flowers start to bloom.

The emotional investment is larger than I realized. When I turned this grassy area over, I believed it would be my forever garden. I spent eight years establishing herbs, blueberry bushes, brambles and fruit trees, nourishing the soil with compost, wood ash, and fish fertilizer. This past spring I built nine raised beds for the vegetables. The previous summer’s rains had eroded the free-standing beds, rivers of rainwater flowing in the low lying spaces.


Can I walk away and start anew? Will my history here be lost? Will the lemon balm regain its stranglehold on the northeast side? Will the relentless crabgrass take over without my obsessive nightly weeding in the early season? I don’t have answers.

A slight breeze stirs the air; acorns rain down from the large oak near me. I hope I don’t get bonked. I never considered cutting down the tree to let in more sunlight. It stands tall, regal, and straight, and possesses many board feet of good lumber. It survived the fencing that ran along the property before I lived here. The scars of rusty wire poke out the backside. The oak has survived my garden’s need for sun. Will it survive new owners?

I planted the Ginkgo tree on the edge of the garden as a temporary home when my parents moved. This is its second summer. It has thrived, surviving the relocation, and will come with me. I’ve noted in the home disclosure that it will not remain on the property. The family ties are too strong to leave behind.

I sit back on my heels, wiping the dirt from my hands. Who knows, I may still be here next spring. I’m learning that moving is a lot like gardening. There are unknowns, things that are out of my control. When is it safe to plant sweet potatoes? Will someone make an offer? Will the first frost come early? Will the Ginkgo tree survive another move? Will someone make a higher offer on the house I’ve decided I want to call home?

I may not have answers, but I do sense that connections to place are important. They give a feeling of belonging, of family history. I will leave the soil here, but I can take memories of sweet potatoes and tomatillos with me.

The next person who digs in this garden will create her­or his­own ties here, as I will create new ties. Maybe the green tomato hornworms won’t follow me to my new garden.

By Suzanne Hebert, Volunteer