Mother's Day, "What Could I Have Done More for My Vineyard?", and an Announcement

Mike gave me this fun ring watch for Mother's Day. Isn't it delightful?

But perhaps even more generous of him: He gave me hours of labor. (And of making the kids labor.)

Between time constraints and the eighty million projects needing our attention, I had resigned myself to the probability that I wouldn't be able to have flower beds this year. 

 

But then Mike and the kids spent the better portion of two Saturdays taking rocks from the beds, shoveling the tractor-scoop fulls of soil and compost that Mike kept driving over from by the barn, hurling rocks out of those piles, and spreading soil out. 

Mike came with me to choose out a million flowers for my annual flower bed by the front porch. Cosmos and Zinnias, lantanas and dahlias, marigolds and snapdragons. 

And a few days later I found black-eyed susan, coneflower and poppy starts for my perennial garden by the garage. 

Since then, many of my green, lovely, leafy starts have been wilting and dying. (Weep.) Was it "transplant shock"? Was I overwatering? Was I underwatering? Was there too much manure in all the loads we mixed in from the farm? I'd researched full-sun plants and chosen varieties I knew were hardy (knowing how hot west facing areas can get in our summers here). I'd bought worm castings and carefully added them to each and every hole to soften the transition for my little plants. 

By Sunday night--when freezing temperatures had crept into our forecast and Mike and Jesse had helped me haul buckets and rocks and posts and tarps to put over every already-struggling plant, I was thinking sadly to myself, "And it came to pass that the Lord of the vineyard wept, and said ... What more could I have done for my vineyard?"

Not enough dunging, Mike teased.

Perhaps I ought to have tried grafting, Abe suggested.

Who knows, but our two nights of freezing are past, and we shall see what remains to thrive. I suppose nobody ever became a master gardener in a day. :(

Above are some gardening-weary kids at Costco where we fed them all pizza and hotdogs. Below we have Daisy pulling the truck from its stuck location in the pig pasture.

But! There was more to Mother's Day than ring watches and hours of potentially fruitless gardening! Daisy and Mette made a delicious dinner (and Daisy made eclairs!--those and lemon pie are probably my two favorite desserts [odd for someone who generally wants pure chocolate base to everything]). And we drove it all down to my mom's for a Mother's Day dinner at Polk's End!

That was a happy way to spend Mother's Day!

And, because a Mother's Day post seems as fitting a place as any for this type of news: After decades (literally decades) of announcing my own pregnancies, we have entered a new stage of life. 

Now I am announcing a daughter's pregnancy! 

Goldie and Wyatt are expecting a baby boy this September. 

As I unpacked things in the new house and wondered if I really still needed toys in the kitchen pantry and board books on the bookshelf, it was fun to think, "Well, of course I do. Just as my kids are beginning to outgrow some of these things, grandkids are coming along to take their use up again.")

And to end, a lovely mother's hairstyle (compliments of Starling).

Animal Scat

All our chickens got eaten. 

In like a day or two.

It was rather a shock.

And sad.

And boggling.

Whatever got our three huge geese must have come back for everything else.

(Actually, one chicken still remains. Our rooster. And he appears to be in a state of great depression over it all.)

We set up a game cam--hoping to find what has been getting them. 

So far it has captured only four suspects: 

1. Our van 

2. Anders

3. Mike

4. ... Some doves

(Until we can prove one of the four above was truly to blame, Mike suggested we tie our rooster to a stake--like in Jurassic Park--as bait so we can finally get whatever has been coming onto the farm on camera. He was joking. He was JOKING! We've locked our rooster safely in a run near his coop. ... So he can continue on his lonely little life.)

The other day Mike went to the farm to look for animal scat in hopes of identifying what we are dealing with. (Most likely foxes or coyotes, but there are different rules about trapping them, so we would like to know which animal is actually responsible before deciding how to proceed or daring to get more chickens.)

Several of the kids went with Mike on his scat hunt.

When they arrived at the farm Starling climbed out of the van and cheerily called, "Dad, can I climb a tree while you look for poop?" And then she dashed off without a second thought.

And when Mike told me, I wondered just what we've become. (As if Hans touching the electric fence the other day because a friend dared to isn't enough. ...)

Anyway. Here they are. Some of these backwoodsy kids we are creating. (Note: the chicken below is not one of our deceased chickens, rather, a neighbor's that wandered into our goat pen.)

Of course mostly Mike is to blame. 

I just follow where he leads because I like him so much. (Making me some tiny bit more of an innocent party to this madness of goats and geese and chickens and coyotes and their scat and so forth!)