I will blog when…

I get all my photos uploaded from my phone.
I make enough space on my computer for all the photos from my phone.
I find the right blogging app.
I become a computer genius.
I overcome my fear of man.

I have everyone’s health under control.
I get the meal plan figured out.
I clean out the refrigerator.
The laundry is put away.

The garden is in.
The harvest is put up.
The fences are mended.
The animals are fed.
I know what the hell I’m doing.

I get the school schedule figured out.
Everyone adjusts to the time change.
We get through this developmental stage.
I learn the next parenting skill.
I finish reading this stack of books.
My spiritual discipline is rock solid.

I’m working out consistently.
I’m doing anything consistently.
My back feels better.
I’m taking my vitamins.
My hair is clean.
I’m not so tired all the time.

I have only nice things to say.
I’m not a hypocrite.

I’m dead.

State of the Garden, July 2017.

The fact that I hesitate to tell you about July in the PNW feels like evidence that maybe I have truly made it my home. I have adopted the protective nature of the locals — just hush about the summer weather. Allow the perception of the deep darkness, the depressing wetness to perpetuate in the mind of the rest of the world. When strangers wander in and marvel at the clear bright skies, let them think it’s a fluke, they caught us on a good day.

That seems a bit sinister. Maybe it’s that talking about it seems a bit too cruel? Beloved friends down in Texas are persevering through 100+ degree days, 90+ degree nights and we’re up here picking blueberries at 3 in the afternoon, never breaking a sweat, sleeping with windows open and waking up a little chilly.

My friends really don’t want to hear about it anymore, so it’s probably fine that I don’t have many pictures to share this month.

I was convinced that my June pneumonia had cost me the garden. After months of obsessive planning, prepping, and finally planting, I was taken down at the critical moment. Everything went in late, was neglected, left uncovered or unwatered or in various stages of UNGARDENED *horror movie scream*.

But it’s sort of like when you have your second baby and you realize that 85% of the skills you worked so hard to teach your first child are just things infant humans do.

So, yeah, the garden gardened.

When we go out to the garden to get food for dinner, our bellies are full before we come back inside. I had to let an entire row of the garden go, be swallowed up by the earth, because we have such an abundance we cannot keep up, more than I can even pack up to give away before it disappears into the soil (we are working on this). The kids are permanently stained with berry juice and never eat at the table.

The only pest in my garden is a barn cat.
The only seeds that didn’t come up are the ones I failed to plant.
The only problems are the ones I’ve invented for next year.

My lack of documentation is not due exclusively to the fullness of the outdoor garden. There’s been a lot going on inside, too. Coming from a climate where we were forced indoors by suffocating heat, we have always started our school year in July. And though I was hesitant to keep this tradition thinking I ought to give them the fullness of the 18 hour PNW summer days to just do whatever people do outside in July when the sun doesn’t kill you, my kids were insistent that 4th and 2nd grade start on time. So school and the garden are both in full swing and I am now very, very grateful for that month long nap I took in June.

State of the garden, May 2017, a delirious retrospective.

After the “coldest, wettest spring ever”, May brought the sun and the heat and squeezed all the wetness out. Where we had only ever known mud, dry ground and grass filled in the girls’ well worn paths.

“Mother’s Day,” everyone told me from day one, “Mother’s Day is when you plant the garden.” I had impatiently waited 6 whole months, my longest non-planting stretch in 10 years without a newborn as an excuse, poking at the ground, squeezing hopeful, premature mud-balls, drawing charts and graphs, doing all the things around the garden, waiting for the day I could grow anything. I played with soil testing kits, I dutifully checked the temperature of the dirt.

(Now, if you’re from the north, and you’re a good gardener, you’re reading this going, “Well of course you did. This is what gardening is. Why is she whining?” But if you’re like me, and from the south, you’re like, “She checked the temperature of the what? How does a person even do that?” I know. It’s weird. They make a thing.)

Everyone was right. Mother’s Day arrived and conditions to grow things in the garden were perfect.
Conditions to grow things were right everywhere.

The earth, bombarded by 14+ hours of sunlight, goes a little insane. As a gardener and amateur naturalist, of course I had been paying some attention to life beyond the borders of my vegetable patch. Of course I’d made my kids sketch the drooping maple blossoms and the ferns as they uncurled. We watched in feigned horror as the blackberry shoots pressed up into the yard, and cheered heartily when Dado ran them over with the mower. I googled new things every morning, trying to decide if something was a weed or just another kind of geranium (it was often both, but once it was a calla lily).

Turns out that everything that’s so lovely and interesting to watch grow in March and April will swallow you whole in May.

By the time I figured out what everything was, it was clear that May was about six weeks too late for figuring to be very helpful. Weeds that were two inches high in April were two feet high in May. Grass that had just barely begun to wake up in March needed to be mowed three times a week in May (yes, you could sit on the porch and watch it grow).

From sun-up (4 something) to sundown (10 something), I fussed with the farm, stopping only to visit the chiropractor 3 times a week. We crammed school into a couple hours midmorning, then did the rest outside. When my body had to stop, I was in my notebooks, farming on paper. Whether with the pitchfork or the pen, I was digging, mowing, pulling, hauling just to keep up. It was the first time I had the thought, “My goals might be a little aggressive.”

But toward the of May, despite the shocking heat wave that helped us discover yet another way we could become millionaires in the PNW (after the breakfast taco stand), ceiling fan stand, I was feeling genuinely optimistic. I’d cleared and hand tilled three of the five beds, weeded the raspberries, blueberries (where I’d found rogue asparagus!), and grapes, skimmed two ponds, hauled 22 loads of compost, and planted the first round of summer crops. I was going to make it after all!

And then I got pneumonia.

Now the photos:

The garden in early May. Note how it looks like I’ve done absolutely nothing. This is a lie. The results of my mulch experiments are pretty obvious (never -don’t- mulch, maple leaves were best):

The garden on Mother’s Day. All the dry, workable soil ready for planting. Everything unworked is still very wet. Soil temps under cover just barely at 55 degrees:

Lest you think I do it all alone:


A morning hunt. The population reduced radically once the soil was worked and cleared:

Sweet Duck on the job. By the end of the month she was sitting on a nest. Look for updates on that soon:

It was all going so well:

State of the Garden, March and April 2017.

It’s been a cold, wet spring.  That’s what everyone tells me. I wouldn’t know. I’m still new. “It’s a wonder you’ve made it through this spring with such joy,” my priest said last week,”it’s really not like this. I promise.”  My neighbors have all been exasperated by the weather, coming by to see how we’re faring the “coldest, wettest, longest spring ever”.

The rain here is like the heat in Texas, it seems to bother the locals far more than the transplants. I’ve yet to meet someone from out of state who hasn’t said, “It’s really not that bad! Why does everyone say it’s so bad!?” or a local who hasn’t said, “Welcome to the Pacific NorthWET!”

If I weren’t a gardener, I honestly wouldn’t have noticed. The blessed otherness of the weather here has been so welcome to our family after a lifetime of oppressive central Texas heat.  My kids are thriving in the constant 50 degree days, running and climbing and swinging until they pass out at the end of the day, hair matted with moss and sticks, knees crusted with mud and slug effluence.

Dado built an epic swing that hasn’t killed anyone yet.

This is the whimsical before photo of the “fort tree”. I did not take an after photo because my children’s use of cardboard and blue tarp insulted my aesthetic sensitivities.


Harriet and the chickens finally made peace. Put the kid behind a fence, it all works out.

If I weren’t a gardener, all I would know is that the sun comes up at 4:00am, cheered on by a ridiculous chorus of birds, and stays that way well past my bed time, illuminating approximately 80,000 plants that I can’t identify (yet) but am tasked with caring for before they swallow up my house Planet of the Apes style.  Since I am a gardener, I am painfully aware of the weather, and the impending doom of being swallowed by plants, and the fact that if this were the real Oregon Trail we would totally die of starvation. Unless we figured out how to eat the beavers.

Behold, a 36 hour photo essay of that time I thought I could outsmart a beaver:

The garden would’ve been late this year anyway, since I did something stupid with a pitchfork in early March and wrenched my ribs out of place.  Only up side to that was the discovery of an 8 year old fractured vertebrae, the missing link in the long saga of my back woes. Story for another day, but the arthritis and general instability of my thoracic spine turned out to be somewhat incompatible with my ambitions as a first year homesteader (and 5th year homeschooler, and 30th year writer).

There have been many other things, a steady flow of house guests, a long trip to help my sister-in-law with her first baby, the uphill march of homeschool, the horror of delayed potty training, and a cluster of infuriating health problems that have made my deep desire to be an excellent farmer and mediocre writer impossible. So I’ve just been an okay farmer and a shitty writer. And that seems to be working out for me.

Dado and Beatrice bend hoops for the garden. She’s very strong.


Seedlings in my ultra hardcore grow room/laundry room. Because who wouldn’t want to fill a room designed to make things clean and fresh with lots of dirt and fish emulsion?

And finally, an adorable, free spirited kid with lots of beautiful and fascinating weeds. Otherwise known as everything that bites me in the ass with my parenting and gardening philosophies.


State of the Garden, February Redux 2017.

February was a trickster. I thought I had it all figured out. The grapevines and raspberries were pruned to perfection, the beds, all cozy in their horse manure blankets, got a fresh layer of leaf mulch (well, two of them, the others seemed just fine!). There were days that inched above 50 and the girls insisted it was officially springtime and, though my feet were still firmly planted in thick wool mountaineering socks, theirs were bare. To be fair, back in our homeland, this is when the bluebonnets would be making their appearance, so our internal clocks still chimed with all the alerts of impending flip flop weather. 

We graduated our “baby” chickens (which we’d raised in a horse trough in the garage over the winter, yeah…don’t do that) in with the big birds and felt like champion farmers when they didn’t kill each other.

We celebrated two birthdays, super-style, with a hybrid Wonder Woman/Little House theme in which no ultra-flammable costumes combusted while cooking exclusively on a wood stove.

And we welcomed our fourth wave of house guests in four months, while trying our damndest to maintain homeschooling and the appearance that we knew what the hell we were doing out here. It mostly worked.