Notes from the garden today (aka, too tired to write much):
I headed outside this morning expecting to spend a couple of hours weeding. Instead, I found that my strategy of packing in the plants was working. The flowers, vines and vegetables had pretty much crowded out any weeds, so my weeding took all of about 20 minutes.
With so many plants packed into the kitchen garden, it also means that real estate is hard to come by here at Bumblebee. I finally picked the last of the tomatoes on the plants that had rallied nobly against the fusarium wilt so that I could plant broccoli. I’m eying the Armenian and Burpless cucumber patch now because I have to find room for the Brussels sprouts and collards. And where will I put those savoy cabbages? Thank goodness the lettuce and spinach are planted.
I always marvel at the beauty of the garlic chive blossoms. But guess what? If you let them go to seed you’ll be dealing with thousands and thousands of little garlic chive plants in your pathways. Take my word for it. Don’t let them go to seed.
Why haven’t I planted Russian sage before? Note to self: Plant more Russian sage.
The container plants are lush and full. I recall reading in some design magazine that the container should be mostly concealed by the plants. No problem here. Do you see the container? I don’t see any container.
So, how are things in your garden this August?
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Robin
Yesterday was a sad day here at Bumblebee Garden. Maxine, our very new Polish chick, passed away.
First thing in the morning she was fine, chirping and hopping around with Minnie Ruth and Olivia. An hour later she was down and unable to walk. An hour after that she was on her side and unable to move. She expired shortly after.
I was in a wretched mood all day. Then my friend Cindy from A Texas Cottage Garden emailed a wonderful piece of writing called How to Mourn a Kitten. Here’s my own abbreviated version that I call “How to Mourn a Baby Chick.”
Marvel that the other baby chicks are clearly disconcerted by the problem with their friend chick.
Wrap the baby chick in a clean towel and place her in a box in a quiet place.
Examine her obsessively for cuts, bumps, bruises or other signs of trauma.
Spend 30 minutes sitting and observing the other chicks as they turn their attention back to pecking and chirping without their friend.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead.
Wander around the house and feel a sense of being out of control.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead.
Try to wrestle control issues by obsessively organizing the office, polishing the furniture and putting away books and papers.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead.
Email, Plurk and Twitter friends about the chick’s passing.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead.
Try to eat lunch—definitely not chicken.
Return to the box to make sure the chick is really dead. Feel the futility of checking to make sure the chick is really dead.
Obsessively clean the chicks’ playpen, rig new heat lamp and coo soothingly to the remaining chicks.
Meet son as he returns from school to share the sad news. Stand quietly, side-by-side with son, to make sure the chick is really dead.
Watch as the macho 17-year-old male insists on giving the chick a proper burial in the woods. Smile in appreciation to have raised a son who cares about such things as baby chicks.
Hope he made sure the chick was really dead.
Au revoir, Maxine. Bonne nuit.
Robin
After three days of calling my local post office to ask if any of their boxes there were making cluck-clucking sounds, I finally called the Omlet company to see if they had any leads on my chickens. Sadly, it turned out that my much anticipated chickens would be be delayed for two to four weeks.
Frankly, in two to four weeks I will be traveling or otherwise indisposed. So I took off to the local Amish market to see what they had to say about my chicken situation. That is where I fell in love.
Meet my new baby chickens.
Here’s Olivia.
I am told that Olivia is a White Rock chicken. She will grow up to be the prototypical white chicken that we saw in our children’s books. At two weeks, she is shy and does a good bit of peeping. She has warmed up nicely to being handled in just a few days.
Olivia is named after my maternal grandmother. Grandma Olivia was a bit, uh, prickly. Let’s hope that Olivia is a bit more friendly–and doesn’t bite.
This is Maxine.
Maxine is a Polish chicken. That means that when she grows up to be a big chicken she will have a fancy head of feathers that resembles a lady’s Easter bonnet. At two weeks, Maxine is very vocal. She makes all manner of PEEP PEEP sounds. When you pick her up, she makes a little chirp sound.
Maxine is named after my grandma Olivia’s younger sister Maxine. Maxine never married, but had a career, traveled and loved fine things, good conversation and–EXERCISE. I was fortunate enough to celebrate Maxine’s 90th birthday luncheon back in January. She explained how she still lifted weights three times a week and stayed in touch with any number of friends, young and old.
This is Minnie Ruth.
Minnie Ruth is an Araucana chicken, although not likely a purebred. Although she is supposed to be the same age as the other chicks, she is quite a bit larger and is usually the chick the other two gather around for protection and warmth.
Minnie Ruth is named after my father’s mom. She was the mother of seven children. She adored eating, Western romance novels and soap operas. She believed everything she ever heard or read, including what was published in the National Enquirer. She never met anyone she didn’t like and always had a childlike joy in the smallest things that life brought.
Perhaps you can see why I named my new chickens after family?
Join me in welcoming my new chickens. Long live the chickens!
Robin
