Extension News: March 2011 Archives

by Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

The other day I headed to an orchard in town to hike with my two dogs. They motivate me to get outside, even in questionable weather. It was raining, gray and muddy. The parking area was barely dry enough for me to pull in.

I carefully avoided the deep, soft wheel ruts from nature enthusiasts who couldn't wait a few extra weeks for the ground to dry out, causing them to become mired in the oozing mud. I'd been one of those unlucky ones two years before who'd become entrenched in mud there, escaping only with the aid of a tow truck.

I headed out into the orchard on a familiar path and soon came upon deep, impassable mud. Bypassing the worst, I headed down along the northernmost edge of apple trees up to the main paths. Tiptoeing around huge, foot-deep mud puddles and hopping from one clump of grass to another, I squished and squashed painstakingly, hoping my golden retrievers wouldn't decide to run and roll in the worst of it. Head down, focusing on not sinking deeper than the tops of my boots or toppling over with one false jump, I inched along.

In the midst of my struggle with the mud and worry about the dogs, something caught my eye. To my right I saw a silver shimmer, water droplets hanging from the tree branches, a magical glimmer dotting the bare limbs. As I stared, the sun came out and shot through the droplets, creating a yellow-white halo and splitting the light to launch rainbows into the mist.

The droplets hung on what looked like buds, not just branches. Could these be the first pussy willows of the season in an unexpected place, a place I'd walked many times over the years? Thrilled, I gasped and yelled to my dogs, "You have to be kidding! Those are all pussy-willow trees." How had a pussy-willow nursery established itself so secretly?

I detoured off my route, pushing through prickers and climbing over brush. How could I have missed these pussy willows over the years? Could the apple orchard have been so heavily pruned this past year that it now revealed this patch of young willows? Did another year of life bring new eyes and new appreciation, making me more open to the details of nature surrounding me?

There was always one swampy corner about 20 minutes further along the path that I'd come upon as a spring surprise. I knew if I came during the right few weeks of the spring that I'd find pussy willows. Amazingly, year after year, I was never ready for that turn of the corner and the aha! moment, that jump-for-joy proof of spring.

I love winter and hate giving up snow and snowshoeing. But each year when I see the return of the first pussy willows, I hoot and holler. I keep thinking that pussy-willow moments shouldn't keep causing me to stop in my tracks to breathe in the special sight, but they still do.

My faithful corner of swamp willows is aging. It produces fewer catkins each year; they grow so high in the trees I can no longer cut a few to take home to bring spring into the house. My discovery of the pussy-willow nursery gives me hope. The circle of life has brought young trees to the orchard as the old ones are losing their vitality.

My battle around and through mud brought a gift, a new site (sight) to visit each spring to pull me through my loss of winter. After my dogs and I got back from our hike, I hung up my gaiters to dry and welcomed the muddy paw and boot prints on the kitchen floor, because mud had brought the magic.

Photo credit: Meg Downey Hardy, Some rights reserved.

by Bill Dawson, UNH Cooperative Extension Natural Resources Steward volunteer

As I sit in the warmth of what I call my media room listening to a Roger Williams tape of some long-forgotten tunes, my mind flows back over the time six years ago today. I was standing about 50 feet from where I am now sitting, looking at a raw rectangular gash in the ground.

Bill the builder and Bill the man in need of a new house were standing side by side. They had similar agendas. Bill the builder was anxious to get started with this new project, and Bill the man in need of a new home wanted to see swift progress toward completion, because in about 20 days his current residence would have to be handed over to its new owner.

Bill the builder got right to work and the other Bill got busy emptying out the collected detritus of 30-some years, one room at a time.

Everything went swimmingly, and on May 9, 2006, we settled into the home where I'd seen only a dirty gash in the snow less than two months before. Even before Bill the builder handed us the keys at the closing, I got busy in the yard. I took my first trip to the State Forest Nursery in Boscawen in early April.

I secured 25 seedlings, an assortment of bare-root items all looking somewhat alike. Lucky for me, they were in bunches and labeled. I had five each of Norway spruce, crab apple, bayberry, silky dogwood and rugosa rose. And so started a process that has continued to the present.

I didn't realize then that I'd started something that has filled my retired life with a focus that has continued to pull me into the future. I seem to have more vigor than most men my age, because I know what I need to do through the seasons. I have a yard that differs from those in the neighborhood.

Sure, I have a grill and a picnic table with a lawn in the front, but I have focused my attention making my place friendly to the natural inhabitants that I displaced when I moved in and took over this particular acre.

In the front, I have a few decorative plants such as lilac, forsythia, flocks and hostas, but they have to share the space with the likes of bayberry, hawthorn and mountain ash. In the back is where the contrast to other places is most evident. There I've established crab apple, dogwood, elderberry, shadbush, elderberry and many other lesser-known species of native and critter- friendly plants.

I've created a water feature in the form of a waterfall-and-pond combination. Close to the house, I've sited my raised beds for home-grown vegetables and flowers for cutting and decorative beauty. When I need some inspiration, I visit with some other like-minded gardening friends to see what they have been up to since I visited the last time.

I must admit, there are days when I don't have as much vigor as I had at the age of 70 but as I approach 75 this April, I figure I can keep it up for at least another ten years. My new five-year plan will focus on converting more lawn to woody perennials and wildflowers. The final plan will have a 50 ft. x 100 ft. lawn in the front and just enough lawn in the sides and back to maneuver my little tractor and trailer. More raised beds and native species will cover all but my wildflower area over the leach field.

From my back deck I will be able to look over the tops of my little grove of dogwoods and other natives into the woods beyond. In this difficult season before spring arrives I have to content myself with the signs of it coming.

In early March, dressed to the nines in lined bib overalls, arctic boots, ski hat and a pair of snowshoes, I ventured forth with my pruning equipment. This is the best time of the year to get to the higher limbs. Later, I will get to those parts now covered by snow.

I gave all the limbs crossing over each other no choice; one of them had to go and I was the decision-maker as to which of them was cut. I agonized over my grape vines for more than an hour, and I still wasn't satisfied with the results. I am sure those passing by must have wondered what that old coot was doing walking around in circles, but it was the real me doing what I enjoy, and it was refreshing.

Before I went back inside, I found some daffodil shoots on the south side of the house. Spring is definitely on the way!

Photo credit: Bill Dawson (That's Bill pruning shrubs in his yard.)

by Lynne Lawrence, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener Volunteer

The northwest wind screams through the tree line behind my home. When the gusts hit 40, windows rattle and the metal roof hums. Several hundred pounds of snow and ice thundering off the roof­an unmistakable roar, terminating in a loud thump-­the sound of a giant heart that beats once and then is still.

Summer thunderstorms and winter snowstorms are ubiquitous, but "thundersnow," the unlikely combination of the two, makes for an otherworldly strangeness­-a wildness that draws you to the window in fascination but keeps you hiding just behind the curtains. Requiring an unusual combination of warmer surface temperatures and very cold upper level air, it is a dramatic reminder of the powerful orchestration that is winter; complete with cannon and fireworks, the living climax of the 1812 Overture.

Ice storms, on the other hand, are all too common in New Hampshire and have sounds of their own. Who can forget December 2008, when some sinister magic transported us from our living rooms to an artillery range?

Generations-old pine trees cracked like rifle shots as their seventy-foot-tall trunks split and toppled like a giant's game of pick-up- sticks. Telephone poles went down like dominoes, trailing their snaking, arcing wires behind them. Huddled in front of our fires, we marveled at the turmoil.

The next morning the sun came up on a transformed world of strange beauty and glittering devastation. The surviving trees clattered against each other and groaned under their ice coats as we watched in trepidation. We walked out among the ice-clad trees, giving wide berth to the leaners.

Even the smaller, more intimate sounds of winter are big in their own way: the crunch of boots on intricately-structured snow when it is cold and dry, the swoosh of snowshoes, the nearly silent shifting of the branch just over your head as it drops a tiny mountain of soft, white snow onto the back of your neck.

Some snowfalls happen in still, windless air, the settling snow laced with sound-muffling air pockets. The "good morning" you shout to your neighbor falls flat at your feet; a 2,000-pound car sneaks up behind you unnoticed. The clang of a metal trashcan lid becomes a dull thud, the vibrations dropping into the snow.

Instead of careening off packed earth and rocks, sound waves skim lightly across the snow's surface, pushing air down into the empty spaces, making the world a softer, more private place. There is a magic window of time where winter creatures hunker down and people stay indoors reading a good book, creating a comforting soup, or listening for the next weather report. This snow silence has its own spiritual quality­-a pause, a waiting, a time to savor because it will so soon be overwhelmed by the noisy re-emergence of all that must continue.

Outside, leaning on your shovel-­that seems one of the best ways to enter the silence­-you become aware of hidden creatures who share the world. A perfect line of tiny footprints appears in the snow behind you, running down the driveway, then dropping out of sight into the subnivean world below--a secret society of small mammals that exist in the layer of relative warmth between the frozen earth and the bottom of the snowpack.

Six feet above that level, we are too removed to hear the rustlings of its inhabitants--mice, moles and voles. But those with keener senses, operating closer to the ground, like coyotes and foxes, are well aware of this invisible stirring, using it as an audible signpost to the next meal. With uncanny accuracy they dive into the snow cover, ending some tiny creature's life in a whirlwind of snow crystals, yelps and squeaks. We aren't sorry for this small demise; it represents one less tunnel through our spring lawn, one less summer vegetable eaten from the ground up.

Simon and Garfunkel had it right. There is a sound of silence­-not just the absence of sound, but the positive presence of stillness, palpable, exhilarating. Depending on our lifestyles, we may not miss that deep, insulating blanket that defines our world from November 'til March, but when its profound stillness is missing, we long for the peace and centering it brings.

It's what makes us stop when the driveway is half-shoveled, not just to rest aching muscles, but to listen for that absence of sound, that invitation to walk deeper into the woods, to inhabit, for just a little while, that world where no one dares, or wants to, disturb the sound of silence.

by Judy Elliott, UNH Cooperative Extension volunteer writer

It's been a splendid winter for snow accumulations everywhere in New Hampshire. While city dwellers groan about the big, ugly piles of frozen brown crystals, out here in the country our landscape is blanketed with several feet of white wonder.

Today my path is hard-packed and noisy as I head out for a quick snowshoe jaunt after lunch to get some fresh air and escape from household duties. Crunch, crunch, crunch is the only sound I hear on an otherwise quiet walk.

Crunching along, I recall that the trail provided more quiet solitude on past adventures because the snow was soft and deep. The only sound I'd hear would be my own breathing when I reached the end of a steady incline.

It's a crisp 20-degree winter day with a real-feel of about 10 degrees due to the wind. The sky is a brilliant shade of periwinkle blue and the sun is making a strong showing.

Lengths of royal-blue grosgrain ribbon hang discreetly from a tree trunk here and a low bush there. I placed them strategically so they'd blend in but also remain visible enough to keep me from venturing off the beaten path.

That roll of ribbon came down through the generations from a woman's clothing store and millinery in Franklin in the early 20th century. Though other family members had wanted to throw out the various materials left over from the hat-making operation, a lot of it was still in good shape, so I kept it, including the roll of grosgrain I rescued and recycled to create my "Blue Ribbon Trail".

I created the trail many years ago because it was close to home and offered easy-to- moderate exercise. Its narrow path winds up hills through densely growing conifers, around mighty oaks and stands of beech trees, and over frozen wetlands. Old boulders from centuries-old stone walls peek through the white terrain, reminding me that the landscape used to be open farmland.

In the past I've invited my husband along to help me identify animal tracks. We'd pass over the imprints of deer, moose, coyote, fox, and squirrels. He often wondered why I was so anxious to have him lead the way, but this blue-ribbon trail guardian knows a great bushwhacker and trailbreaker when she sees one, especially in knee-deep snow.

But frigid temperatures and gale-force winds of the past few weeks have turned my blue-ribbon trail into a hard pathway that rises a few feet above the ground in the woods. The trail is strewn with small branches, pinecones, and a variety of forest debris.

I take advantage of the peace and quiet when I stop to take a break. I lean against a tall granite boundary marker that may have indicated the entrance to a homestead or was a convenient stone post to tie up the family horse.

From my vantage point I marvel at how bright the daylight becomes when the sun reflects on rolling open fields of snow in the distance. The same solar energy warms my face as I enjoy the absence of sound. I treasure these moments as mini-meditations that allow me to connect with the essence of Mother Nature and all that she offers, no matter what the season.

I add speed to my mostly downhill return journey, invigorating my workout with a bit of interval training. The crunching of my steps becomes louder and faster. I watch for distinct landmarks and the discrete blue ribbons that lead me safely to my backyard.

Photo credit: kirybabe. Some rights reserved.

by Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

Today I witnessed a five-second sight of two boys at the top of a hill in their yard ready to launch down the hill using their scooters as sleds. Their inventiveness, purity, power, and childhood bliss caused an eruption of emotions and memories for me.

First, my mind filtered back to my own three children and the sledding adventures we had as a family. I thought of the dangers our kids had faced, just like the two boys on scooters with no helmets.

Then I was pulled to older memories that came from my young self. Memories of the good winters filled with snow, when no January thaw eroded our fun, our sled courses, and our wondrous outdoor universe.

My family lived on one acre in a neighborhood. Our yard had a hill, the best yard in the neighborhood when winter arrived. We wanted lots of snow, cold, and days off from school.

On that snowy hill, we were engineers, race-car drivers, and daredevils, independent of our parents, in our own world for as many hours as we could eke out of each winter day. We hoped for the rare nights when our parents would allow us to stay out to sled in the dark with just spotlights to illuminate our special world.

We created games and challenges endlessly, many which I don't remember. We purposely created "courses," pouring water on them to make them slick and fast. We tested each other. Who could make it to the end? Who could go even farther and launch over the snowbank into the road?

When we became bored with that adventure, we made other courses. One went straight towards trees, negotiating a swerving curve just before hitting the tree. If you couldn't steer, you had to bail out and give up on being one of the successful ones.

Sometimes for a change, we went over to Joan's hill across the street. But that one was boring, just long and straight and gradual.

I remember the endless wait to get the best sleds. Our flying saucers were duds; they went nowhere slowly. The wooden toboggan was only fun when everyone jumped on one by one in sequence, with the last person responsible for the final push and a running leap to fit onto that last spot in the back. The newest addition, those rolled-up rectangles of plastic, were a struggle and could only be steered by the hands or feet, like the saucers, but worse because you slipped off them so easily.

The classic wooden sleds, Flexible Flyers, were the best. We didn't want to seem too eager to take the old-fashioned sleds. Each family only had one. The oldest ones, the sleds our parents had used, were the best.

Peer justice was at work. Everyone took turns with the slow, spinning pieces of plastic that couldn't make it down the sleek courses we built. No one dared to take two runs in a row on the best sleds. Those had to be shared and everyone knew it.

On the Flexible Flyers we had to choose between sitting up and steering with our feet or running with the sled in our hands, throwing it down, and jumping on stomach-down, hands on the steering wood, feet useless to help once they were on the sled. My husband still talks about launching sleds on his stomach. I still think of how much I preferred sitting up. Something about going head first, face next to the snow as I sped along, made me choose the slightly slower technique.

Sometimes we'd try fitting two to a sled, either both sitting up or (sometimes) both lying down, one on top of the other, knowing that the journey would be short and filled with laughter, as we gained little speed and almost no distance.

As a shy little girl in a family of boisterous sisters, these outdoor adventures affected me the most. The camaraderie of kids against the elements in that self-organized universe of peer justice, childhood power, and autonomy created a magic that still persists.

My sisters don't share my idyllic winter memories and are surprised at my continued enthusiasm for snow and cold. But I feel lucky. Living in New Hampshire I got to sled, my children got to sled, and my grandchildren will get to sled. Memories of my childhood winters dissolve the drudgery of bundling up, plowing the driveway, shoveling the walks, and braving brutal temperatures as I head for the hill.

Photo by kjarrett. Some rights reserved.