As we flail headlong toward October, the harvest of Sweet 100s and Various Chiles (Hatch and Oaxacan) continue apace. We've lost a number of tomatoes to end-rot and not many that have missed that lovely disease have made it to full size, so the winter will likely be a long, highly educational course in "soil management 501." (I'm figuring sand, manure and calcium. Sounds like an old farm poultice from 1853 -- "Well, it may not cure your warts, but sure as hell my ErmaJean will lose interest in ya.")
On the other hand, even though the weather is turning and crimping off some of the pumpkin vines, we've got a good crop this year, the best, by far, we've ever had -- six viable pumpkins -- only one of which has been attacked by the squirrels. (We might get another one that is growing in the shape of a Whitehead Torpedo, but her vine is looking particularly frail and I'm not sure she's getting the nourishment she needs to make it.)
They're not huge, but they are lovely. After five years of trying, we finally got growth, thanks to deep soil (new soil) and plenty of room to grow. Now, if only the Voles would stay out of the pumpkin patch and leave the roots alone, we'd be fine. Any ideas of dealing with Voles, short of a 12-gauge or various scenes from "Caddyshack," would be greatly appeciated.
We've got these two already hidden away in the garage, trying to protect them from a potential freeze and squirrel nips. Mr. Bitterman and Furious George are waiting for their pumpkins to get bigger. Bitterman wants to do one of those elaborate "prize-winning" carving jobs, while Furious George simply wants to punkin chuck his gourd over the fence and onto the deck of the bat-shit crazy neighbors since they stopped inviting him for afternoon cocktails. Something about an "enthusiastic excremental bombardment."
Don't ask me.
As long as he doesn't chuck Mr. Bitterman again, I'll be fine with it.