I don't care what anybody tells you, nobody can truly predict the weather. Any more than 48 hours out and they have no idea. "We've got a good guess," but that's about it. Watch the three day. Pay attention to that. 7-10 and 15 day forecasts are about as reliable as Sarah Huckabee Sanders doing her Alfred E. Neuman impression. Naturally, for two weeks, I watched the 3-7-10 and 15 day forecasts and convinced of the overnight lows, I jumped into planting. Put in the garden and voila! Sunday night, as I poured the last of the compost out of my shoes and into the carpet, the weather folks said that Friday night the temp is going down between 36 and 40, depending on who you listen to ... It's not freezing, but it's close. I just hope I can hardy the kids up before their chilly sleep over. Most accurate forecast my ass. The gardens went in Sunday in two sections: first, came the home grown seedlings, 7 tomato plants, two bean plants, one acorn squash. (The beans and squash were amended by new seed plantings.) We've been building up the soil all winter with compost, all the various fertilizers that have been sitting in the garage, fish spray and prayer. Now, we wait to see if any of it works. (I'm betting on compost and prayer.) As you can see, King Kong eating gnomes has taken his place in a prominent corner of the lower garden (Nora), once again in an effort to keep vegetable predators at bay. In an effort to keep the ravenous squirrel and bunny (Kneel! Kneel to your Rabbit Overlords!) populations from eating the seedlings, Furious went around pouring red pepper flakes on everything, followed by another jar of animal keep away he found in the garage and about two gallons of Liquid Fence. The Liquid Fence smells horrible and Furious got it all over himself, but I must admit he smells better now than usual. The gardens smell like an Italian salad. Mr. Bitterman planted sunflowers in a small plot we have up near the house. He covered them with the red pepper flakes and Liquid Fence, then wrapped a wholly inadequate fence around them which should hold the squirrels and bunnies out for about 3.5 seconds as they ask themselves, "What the hell?" You'll notice the fleur de lis on the cobbled together fencing. This is in honor of a distant family relative, Marshal Phillipe Petain, the hero of Verdun in World War I who said, "They shall not pass." Sadly, he was still around and in charge in World War II when he looked at the German Panzers and said, "Yeah. For sure. Come on in ..." I just hope these are not German bunnies we are trying to keep out. We finished off the gardens with a quick trip to Walmart, buying cucumbers (3), peppers (8) and cauliflower (6). The cauliflower might be this year's zucchini, as I like it, but am not crazy about it, and, without looking, we bought a six pack of it. Bitterman thought it was one big plant. It was six little ones. Looks like a lot of cruciferous vegetable dinners this August. Mmmmmmm. (Followed by a concert by Le Petomane, flatulist extraordinaire.) Whatever you do, don't pull his finger. One of the three acorn squash plants (the rest are in seed form) and two of the cukes. And, then, there's this guy -- we really have no idea who or what he is. It would serve me right if it was a zucchini as they took over the garden last year. We're waiting to see. No hints! Furious is convinced that he can keep the squirrels and bunnies out of the sunflowers and gardens better than Marshal Petain. He still has the cap guns and the hat from a Disney photo shoot he did some years ago. He lost the scarf and I replaced it with a long chunk of paper towel. It has got a floral pattern on it and he's not happy at all. Meanwhile, Mr. Bitterman took us to Walmart Sunday afternoon in his new car, a 1950 Chalyabinsk Krakozyabng. He got it for a song. A Russian song, but, as we all know, those have become very popular in Washington lately. The thing drinks oil like a drunken sailor on liberty in Iraq and has a turning radius of about two miles, just slightly less than an Iowa-class battleship, but the radio's great and he loves it like it was his first car. Which it is. Best thing about it is that the front is the back and the back is the front. You climb in through a little hatch in the front which looks like the back, then, put it in Drive (Reverse) to go forward (backward). Nobody ever knows if you're coming at them or going away. He caused a hell of stir Sunday on I-25. Until next time, kids! (Tomatoes not shown to scale.)
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The wind has been blowing like crazy today, just as the Weather Folks predicted with their Super Duper Doppler Look In Your Bedroom Radar. They actually did predict high winds today, which makes them 1-for-45 this month. Last time we had winds like this was last May. I had just put out three new containers of ladybugs, one for each garden, and the wind blew them all into the Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor's Yard next door. By the time the wind died down, I just had Mortimer, who threatened to leave if I called him a ladybug. (Touchy masculinity issues, I'd wager.) Furious George suggested we brand our ladybugs from now on for identification purposes. Problem is, he wanted to use HIS brand and the damned thing is about four inches high. Mortimer took one look at that and booked it for Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor Land. He obviously wanted to retain what touchy masculinity issues he had. Mrs. Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor, who we were convinced was buried under that fresh concrete patch in their garage, stuck her head over the fence and crowed, "Oh, Mr. Bitterman! You wouldn't believe the ladybugs we have this year!" Bitterman was not amused. Nor was I as that was just about $30 dollars worth of ladybugs gamboling in her pansies. The problem this year is not ladybugs -- yet -- but fresh topsoil in the gardens. It's flying into the neighbor's yard like nobody's business. I had just put down six bags of Cow and Compost (Richlawn -- again, not a plug for freebies, but a damned fine product that I could certainly use more of ...) and have watched it sail nowhere near gently over the neighbor's fence. Also flying today is the fertilizer I put down yesterday. (Tractor seen is not to scale, as it is just a big Tonka I stole from a kid down the street, but, the fertilizer is true to scale as it covered me from head to toe as I tried to keep it in our yard, rather than let it jump the fence to freedom.) By the way, did you know that there are images on the interweb of "German Girls in Manure?" No, really. It is amazing what modern technology can bring to us these days. My education is now complete and I can die happy. I found the site while I was looking for the above pictures. I only stopped for a minute. And only for the articles. What President Trump was doing in a few of the pictures, I don't know. Maybe he was the Manure Magazine Interview of the Month. That guy is everywhere. Except Washington. The newly rediscovered wife of the Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor (whether actual or a "crisis actor" brought in to replace the one buried in the garage) leaned over the fence this afternoon to exclaim, "Oh, you wouldn't believe the top dressing the good Lord left us this year." Yes, I would. I would. And I would also hope that the good Lord would blow $147.35 into MY yard to pay for his neighborly largesse. As for us, all that's blown into our yard is the expansive sand box for the grandchildren four houses down, fourteen newspapers with the puzzles completed, and, a copy of "Girls of Manure Magazine" (really, it exists!) But, Becky said that she would take care of that nasty magazine and I shouldn't worry about it anymore. I wasn't worried. I just had my "concerned husband face" on for protection. I was just wondering who in the neighborhood gets it. The guy I needed to really predict this high winds stuff is Buck Matthews, who did the weather for WOOD-TV8 in Grand Rapids, Michigan, for nigh onto 42 years. (I don't know how long he was there, but as 42 is the answer to life, the universe and everything, I thought I'd just toss it in.) Matthews, or Buck, as my mother called him, didn't use fancy-dancy electronics to tell you the weather, he drew on a glass board with a marker and made it look all the more real and impressive. It's easy when you've got a computer doing all your drawing for you. He did it by hand and he was right a lot more often than the guys we've got now -- especially that one locally I just can't stand. (Go ahead ... try to figure out who I'm talking about ...) And, believe me, the computers get confusing. All these computerized wind gusts suddenly resemble little spermatazoas heading toward some mystical Ovum of Denver. (In Milwaukee, that's pronounced Spermatosa and it refers to a small suburb on the west side of town.) I think its a shameless attempt on the part of the liberal media to induce viewers to stay up past the latest news of the Great Orange Circus Peanut and watch the weather. Buck didn't need that nonsense. All he ever had to say was, "It's going to snow tomorrow, friends," because it was West Michigan and that's all it ever did there.
Until next time, kiddies! (When we might actually have some gardening to talk about ...) It has been a weird couple of weeks here on the Moody Weenie Ranch and Collective Farm. We've been dealing with daytime highs between 45 and 80, along with nighttime lows from 23-38. I keep feeling myself drawn outside the door with trays of seedlings (the ones filling the kitchen table) and packets of seeds in the hopes of getting stuff started outside for Colorado's 10-minute growing season. Inside, the trays of seedlings are going to town ... the seven tomato plants up front are doing great, as is the sunflower in the background and two of the three beans. As for the plant in the lower right -- I THINK it's an acorn squash, but I'm not sure anymore. As long as it isn't a zucchini, I'll be happy with it. Meanwhile, the AeroGarden (the hydroponic planter) is doing its best impression of "Feed Me Seymour." (We haven't seen the cat in three days and we're beginning to worry) I keep inviting my annoying neighbor to come inside and stand next to the garden while I run upstairs for something I want to show him, but he just won't bite. Strangely enough, neither will the Giant Basil. (We have two Giant Basils, one named Basil, the other named Rathbone.) So, the annoying neighbor gets away. Still haven't seen the cat. After our adventures with the rototiller a few days ago, the boys and I have decided to add yet another round of Cow and Compost to the gardens. This product, from Richlawn in Colorado is marvelous. It's almost a miracle worker when it comes to building soil. (No, this is not a shameless plug for freebies. I feel ashamed you could even think that ... and I highly doubt that Richlawn will see these photos unless one of you sends them to the company.) Furious George, who, I gathered, failed basic biology, stored two bags of Cow and Compost in the manner seen below, all in the hopes of coming out to find numerous little bags of Cow and Compost that we could use in the flower beds. It doesn't work that way. I think they've got to be face to face. Our daughter Brynn found a new plaster geegaw for the garden, to go with the Dragon Burning Gnomes and King Kong Eating Gnomes and our Coffee Drinking Frog and numerous spinners which the squirrels pull down, dismantle and sell for parts next to the road. I do like the Lion, but I'd rather have Brynn sitting in the garden. There's little chance the squirrels would pull her down, dismantle her and sell her for parts next to the road. (Then, again, I wouldn't put it past the little bastards.) Mr. Bitterman is working on a new self-portrait as he waits for planting and growing season to officially begin. He says he was inspired by Vinnie "Big Tuna" Van Gogh, a painter, I take it, from South Philly. Furious George and I are convinced he's doing an impression of Kellyanne Conway and we think it is in questionable taste. Meanwhile, Furious has once again pulled out the rototiller, which is like some kind of soil-churning go-kart to him. He fired it up and tore off across the yard, completely out of control. He went through a fence into the Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor's Yard, just missing his shed and outbuildings (all still standing, as you can see below), then assuaged the BSCN's rage (he lost a patch of early season pansies) by claiming he was just digging the trench to create a small scale version of the Erie Canal to help celebrate the greatness of America. The Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor wiped a patriotic tear from his eye, took another shot of his third martini, and put his arm around Furious as if he had rediscovered his long lost, somewhat hairy, son and they retired to the porch for cocktail hour. In the photo below, notice that guy down right? That's my $420 limited edition Batman maquette (until about 20 minutes ago, still in the box) repainted and with a new hat to pose as an Erie Canal worker (NOT limited edition, NOT still in the box). You gotta love Furious George. You gotta love him cuz you can't cut him up in little pieces and mail him to Miami. Where, oh, where, do I get such horrible thoughts? It is as if I was influenced in my childhood by something. But what?' Can't imagine what ... (Oh, I'm just hand tilling the soil here. That's all. It's got to be in little tiny pieces to help the plants grow ... heh heh heh. See you next time, kiddies!) Two beautiful days in a row (sorry, New England), taxes done, house holding together for the moment, I figured it was time to work the peat moss into the gardens and then hope for some rain to set the growing season in motion. To do so, I went out and got some Compost (Year Old Manure recommended by my gardening advisor, Roseann) from my Three Year Old Sheet Metal Cow, Bessie. How she comes through with that year-old manure for me (Bessie, not ... never mind), each and every year, I'll never know. I also ran out and bought a Young Pioneer Collective Farm Rototiller, all in the hopes of making the work go a little easier. Fat Chance. Nick, with his hoops pulled, as I pull out a sharp utility knife to cut open the peat moss. Nora, the lower garden, as I prepare to slice open the peat moss and spread it around. Next, after ruining two towels in an attempt to staunch the bleeding, I wrap my hand in gauze, cover that with a large tube of Toluene flavored airplane glue I just had sitting around the garage for no particular reason, dance around the yard in pain, then, before the glue hardens, attach the handle of the rake to it, whereupon I can spread the peat moss, as well as a goodly chunk of my thumb, into the little corners of the garden, the one above being Nora. Once again, I do the same with Nick, before passing out from loss of blood. I awaken an hour later while being mistaken for a fire hydrant by my two loving Boston Terriers. I would have preferred them to lick me awake, but, whatever. I did have to get back to work. Now, it's time for the rototiller to get to work. It should be interesting, never having used one, but let's live and learn, shall we? I fire it up, the massive 43 cc, 2-cycle engine roaring to life (with a sound vaguely reminiscent of one of those Honda motorbikes from the sixties), and hit the throttle, engaging the tines and shooting the machine off across the yard toward the dogs who tried to wake me out of my coma moments before by sprinkling my head with holy water. Oh, man. I'm still not right. I've gotta sit down. The dogs get away. (Only to later get in a fight with a skunk.) It takes some wrestling to get the rototiller where you want it to go, when you want it to go, but after a few moments of trial and error, as well as one completely unexpected attack on the statue of Buddha in the corner of Nora, the tiller did its job, almost digging down to China, at one point. You learn quickly that If You Don't Push It, It Don't Go, Thus Digging Holes Through The Center of the Earth, where you will find heat, pressure and Brendan Fraser's movie career. (I should talk. Freelance this week has consisted of emceeing one bar mitzvah and two birthday/block parties. "Hi, kids! Yes, I used to be on TV -- wanna talk about the symbolism in 'Citizen Kane'?") The soil is now loose and ground up to about eight inches down. I'll do all this again when we get some moisture around here (likely, next St. Swithin's Day) and it all gets worked together a bit. But, I must admit, I am happy -- I got to work in the sunshine for about 90 minutes today, perfecting a comedy routine the Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor says I should take on the road. I would have continued on to the Butterfly Garden in the SE corner of the yard, but two rows in an I picked up a buried, abandoned paving stone left 24 years ago by the former owners. It stopped the tines real quick and didn't help any of the mechanics. I shut it down, turned it off, removed the stone and decided it was time for a break of the rest of the day variety. I seem to be picking up the work ethic of both Bitterman and Furious George. Meanwhile, a neighborhood cat found my thumb later in the dirt of Nora. Furious George luckily snatched it away, thinking it was a Crunchy Cheeto. I got it back from him after a mere two gnaws and have reattached it with Gorilla Glue. Man, that stuff will hold anything. (As for the skunk -- Roscoe has now endured two baths and one scrub down with a chemical that promises, PROMISES, to neutralize the scent. Sadie didn't get hit. She stayed back and kept shouting, "Got your back, bro!" in that Boston lilt of hers. Checked him carefully, can't see any marks or wounds. I think the spraying got him before they could tussle. Would anyone like my afternoon? Or my Buck O'Neil baseball jersey that caught it full on?) Just a quick note before I run outside and fire up the ol' rototiller (we've got two nice days in a row so I'm planning to work some peat moss and fertilizer down into the soil), but I may have found a book for you to enjoy while waiting for the official start of the 2018 growing season. Katherine Sergeant White was the fiction editor of The New Yorker for years and the wife of author E.B. White. She was quite the gardener at their home in Maine, and wrote 14 gardening essays over the years for The New Yorker. After her death in 1977, her husband collected the essays into this book. They are simply wonderful. From the joy of digging through seed catalogs to the peace of a properly tended garden, Katherine White touches the heart, mind and dirty fingertips of the obsessed amateur. She's been in all the same places as us, from success to failure to oh, my God, what is that growing among the azaleas, so she seems quite the kindred soul. Just one who can write fluidly and beautifully about nearly everything. The book is $17.95 from NYRB Classics. I'm sure you can find it for less on Amazon, but finding it through a local bookseller is always a pleasure and helps the local economy. Also, I suggest a real live paper book, so you can read it just before bedtime and fill your head with rutabaga dreams. NEXT WEEK: Wherein we discuss how putting Cats, Golf and Nazis on the cover will in fact sell just about anything. (In this case, humorous essays.) One of the joys of spending the money intended for your hernia operation on growing vegetables and herbs is watching in excitement as those first few shoots and leaves pop out of the ground and toward the electrified LED sunlight just above. This is an exciting time, especially on our first time out with the Young Pioneer Collective Farm Kit, from MiracleGro (known in this country as the AeroGarden), which comes complete with a non-functioning Soviet tractor and angry peasant farmers. The angry peasant farmers (not historically accurate) come with a pre-recorded track which demands better hours, wages and benefits before the Secret Police arrive to carry off the ring-leaders to the gulag. It's quite the absorbing political drama, even as it is set in farm country. Still, I remain all the more fascinated by the growth we're already getting and can hardly wait to take over the kitchen and start planting all the outdoor crops. Maybe this year I can plant rutabagas and sell them by balloon come August/September. I don't know where I got the idea, but it is a good one. It began on Saturday morning, when my mother in law mentioned that she and father had just picked up a room humidifier for a song at Bed, Bath and Beyond. (It began as a full concert, but once you added up all the little deals and coupons, it was merely a song.) Being that we needed a room humidifier for a bedroom with the humid-ery (See Albert the Alleycat, 1975, WITI-TV6 Weather) of the Sahara, we dashed off to get one. When what to my wondering eyes should appear but a good sized box with an indoor growing kit! And it was perfectly priced, as well, at a mere $149! My Medicare payment could wait! Oh, joy, oh, rapture! February 25th and I could start growing indoors! (After their $50 promo discount and with a 20% off coupon, it came to a mere $79! Which convinced my wife to push the icepick only an inch or two into my chest for spending money we don't have! How she puts up with it all, I certainly don't know. She can't go anywhere with me.) Herbs! Fresh herbs! Growing right there in the kitchen alongside whatever is under the refrigerator grabbing at the cat. We've got two kinds of basil, thyme, parsley, dill and mint. I wish we had oregano rather than mint, but shoppers can't be choosers. Well, they can, they just can't open boxes in the store and trade out product willy-nilly. Miracle Gro frowns on such actions, as does the lady at the store named Edna. My problem with mint is ... once you've got mint, you've always got mint. Damn thing grows like crazy and you can never quite get rid of it. Just like strawberries. Ten years after planting strawberries and digging them out after the Rabbit Overlords ate them all, they keep coming back. Their roots are indestructible, just like Superduperman, except of course in that movie where they killed him. Strawberries should get the big red S because they last longer than Superduperman. It's basically a hydroponic system, with nutrients added to water and then the seeds inserted in these little grow pod thingies. It looks just like the garden June Lockhart was always fiddling with on "Lost in Space," when she wasn't cleaning up after Debbie the Space Chimp. The LED lights provide sunlight for growing. Everything is on a timer and it tells me when to add both water and nutrients. And, once the herbs get going, they are supposed to flourish. You can also plant vegetables in the system -- cherry tomatoes and such. I don't know if I'll go that far, but I do like the idea of hovering over some plants for the next few weeks while I wait for the okay to take over the kitchen table for the main event and my Super Stalin Collective Farm Grow Kit, with miniature tractor and numerous unhappy serf figurines. Having just put it all together, I say a little prayer over the seeds and hope that the damned thing doesn't burn the house down. The Deluxe Set even came with its own guard dog. We have named him Wrigley and he is devoted to the herb garden. He is fitting in nicely. Until next time! Onward, my fellow gardeners to High Herb Adventure! (Not that kind of High. Not that kind of Herb. But -- that kind of Adventure!) One of the great things about Ferbryay, Febyouhairy, Febroorary ... the second month of the year, is the joy of digging through seed packets and catalogs, digging compost into soil and plotting out what you're going to grow and when you are going to grow it. That demands: a plot, a map, a plan, an idea of where everything will wind up this season. Every stinking little seedling needs to be placed perfectly, in order to ensure room to grow, ability to catch water and sunshine, plus have enough space between plants so that nothing is damaged when Furious George decides to do a drunken meringue in between the tomatoes in the middle of the night. Online vegetable plots are notoriously unreliable, as you're not sure what growing conditions or soils they are meant for -- and -- as they may be done in a language that you are not comfortable in translating. With the above, Socorro, I know, is a kind of Hatch Chile, but there's no way Bernalillo translates to "tomato" ("tomatoe" if you're a Republican Vice President). This map, for instance, tells me nothing about where to plant anything. The most it tells me is, based on the words, where I don't want to live. I think I'll stick with the Great State of "Underlying." This map might also refer to Growing Zones. I am in Zone 5, which, according to Benemann's Growing Zone Guide (See "Walsh, Growing Zones for Complete Idiots," Chapter 4, Page 15) translates into "Perma Frost with Slight Chance of Frozen Tundra Near Morning." In other words, I can plant only frozen vegetables. This is obviously not a map, but a message I'm required to place in today's blog by King Bunniculus the Third, Emperor of the Lower Garden. Why, you may ask, is a garden plot, a map, so essential to summer success and happiness? Well, many plants don't work well near each other, while others actually help vegetables along in their growth. With a good plot, set up and adhered to, you're not likely to wind up with a shit-ton of unwanted zucchini come August. (Unless you are bedeviled by the same damned little bastards who changed the labels on the plants last spring at the garden store!) You know where everything is, what everything is supposed to be, and in doing so, you eliminate surprises -- except, of course, for that unforeseen electrical cable you found six inches underground in the upper garden. (When I cut it, it buzzed, but nothing went out, even though the neighbor screamed at that same moment and was later carried away in an ambulance.) Here we see a fine example of a plot designed for an irregular piece of ground. In the southeastern corner of this plot, intend to plant one giant sunflower that looks like a glaring eyeball. Don't ask me why. Some strange little croaky voiced sumbitch told me it had to be that way, then tried to yank my wedding ring off my finger while screaming, "Precious!" What I like about this plot is its ability to be seen from a distance, also, its resemblance to the layout of a pizza. This would make a good tomato plot. Also, a good science fiction plot for Matt Damon. I was intrigued by this and determined to follow it this year in the layout of the lower garden, Nora, but then I realized that it was a map of my lower intestine from my last colonoscopy. This plot was loaned to me by an old high school friend who always brought an oscilloscope to school each day. He'd hook it up to various things and make notes about what the little green line was doing, then he'd nod and say things like, "NASA will want this information." He was also really good at Chess and AV Club. Go ahead, laugh at him. He can now buy us all 4-5 times over. This is a very nice plot, which from my vantage point, has numerous marijuana plants built into the scheme. I don't have a problem with it, but the Colorado Farming and Drug Growing Collective Extension Office is discouraging me from planting ... well, let's call it "hemp," shall we? ,,, as long as young people like Mr. Bitterman and Furious George are working for me. Now, I ask you -- would I let long tenured and favorite employees, both of whom are like family to me, go, simply so I could grow marijuana, ganja, mary-jane, weed, Aunt Mary, A-Bomb, Astro turf, Bamba, Cheeba, Pot, janju, peekaree, el humo torpedo, hacky sack, kiff, locoweed, Mutha, potlicker, sticky-icky, zoom, zol, zay or zambi and reap huge profits along with the eternal enmity of a certain Mr. Sessions and the entire Justice Department of These Here United States of America? ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...No. No, of course not. So, with no help from either the Interweb or the Guv'mint, I've had to lay out my own plot for this season. Here is the plot for Nora, the lower garden, not drawn to scale, because I can't draw so good. Bitterman and Furious got ahold of it before I could make a copy, which is why Utah and the Squirrel Poop are on there. The coffee came from me. The Amazon HQ2 came from Jeff Bezos. "Ah, where oh, where, should I place the jambalaya plants?" "Next to the Vodka saplings." In the midst of this bone dry winter we've been having (a statement that should anger the weather gods to the point that we'll get dumped on in the next few days), I decided to run out and test the soil and then work it to bring in more toward a middle ground pH than one side or the other. (You darned near have to be a PhD to understand the little soil tester machine. Hey, my brother is a PhD, I should call him.) To start, both gardens were in the green on the scale, yet both were leaning toward the alkaline side of the scale. (Al Kaline was a great right fielder. You just can't grow tomatoes in him. Society frowns ...) So, seeing that I had a few lonely dollars in my wallet, I headed off to O'Toole's and picked up some supplies. (See where a little money and boredom can drive you?) I had about 18 different opinions on what I should do with raising (ever so slightly) the acidity of the soil. I decided to try some Espoma Soil Acidifier. What does it do? I dunno, but it is Organic, so it's got to be okay. (I love that Organic argument: Hey, look, here on the ground! Arsenic! That's Organic, isn't it, so it's gotta be good for you? Yeah, let's eat some!) Actually, the product puts a little more Sulphur in the soil, so, after application, I smelled like a recent escapee of Hell. Actually, not Hell. Maybe Purgatory, as there was but a small scent of Brimstone upon me or my rather tattered soul. (Although the dogs wouldn't come near me.) I also put down some Espoma Garden Tone, continuing the fertilization process begun last fall. We're supposed to get some rain/snow tonight, then more this weekend, so the hope is, that it will seep into the soil and I can dig it in next week. (That is the hope. We'll see. The other hope is that I don't drive a pitchfork through my foot while turning the garden. We'll see. I always want to have something special for Becky to look forward to when she comes home from work.) I was also told (Opinions 7, 9, 14 and 18) that putting down a layer of Peat Moss, or, as this is called, "Tourbe des Sphaigne," oooh, fancy, will also boost the acidity of the soil slightly, as will the addition of some Cow and Compost come March. Then, again, as my friend Leo at the Garden Center told me, "Aw, just put some fresh dirt down there and you should be fine." Which is probably true, but nowhere near as fun, and leaving me with $$ that I would likely spend in some mindless, prurient pursuit. I did this, once, in a novel, thoroughly pissing off my mother, so, perhaps that is why I truly smell, every so slightly, of brimstone. Maybe it had nothing to do with the Soil Acidifier at all. As for Mr. Bitterman and Furious George -- The boys spent the day at Mr. Bitterman's Alma Mater, Colorado State University, Universitatum E Pluribus Unum, where he was honored with a PhT, Doctor of Thinkology. At least, that's what they told me. It might just be a story, but I can hardly blame them. If I had the chance, I'd run up to Ft. Collins and hit New Belgium Brewery for an afternoon. The train tracks run right behind the house, I might haul out the Motorized Gandy Dancer and run up there to join them. 'Til Next Time! Just when we thought January was going to be as dry as December, which was as dry as November, which was as dry as October, we finally got some moisture around here. The compost and the fertilizer should work themselves nicely into Nick, the upper garden. It's very pretty and incredibly beneficial, as we're well below the necessary snow pack totals for the season. The mountains are getting it as well, which is great, unless you're trying to drive I-70 in any one of 85 different directions, all depending on the quality of your tires. (All morning long, I've been listening to weather folks saying, "just as I predicted," which is my very favorite weather folks phrase, even above and beyond, "RUN FOR THE HILLS! THE DAM HAS BUSTED!" when there aren't really any dams around here. A few damns, but no dams. Well, there's that one, The South Fork Dam, just up the road, but it's part of the South Fork Hunting and Fishing Club, which is a private club owned and run by 1% Titans of Industry, Henry Clay Frick, Andrew Carnegie and the like, but they have assured us that they are always maintaining the damn dam and the Little Conemaugh will not sweep away our garden gnomes, or gardens, or homes, or lives. And if you can't believe the people with all the money, who can you believe?) The biggest worry, of course, are low water levels, which can lead to very a bad wild fire season and tight water restrictions. I'm already making plans to plan and plant for maximum water savings, and to avoid as much waste as possible. If we're growing it, it has to be used. With that in mind, I may put off my purchase and build of a Stalin Bust sprinkler. First, I can't imagine that it would be very efficient. But then, as I was calling to order, a shadowy government agency broke in to let me know that I would be of particular interest to them if I went through with the purchase. I let it go and decided to go for the four top of Marx and Lenin. The government let me get it because I told them it was Groucho and John, not Karl and Vladimir. I think I might have been talking to one of the Trump boys, as they seemed very happy when I told them that my new "Donald" water feature had just arrived. As soon as the snow melts, I'll hook it up and try it out. It should give me an incredible volume of spew. Some are telling me it's rude, but somehow, I think it's a good likeness. Til next time! |
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April 2021
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