It happened when I wasn’t paying attention. It must have been a year when the day after Thanksgiving had me focused on leftover turkey or pie. Perhaps it was a year when the day after Thanksgiving seemed like a bonus day off from work or school—a day to go hiking or off to the beach. Whenever it happened, one thing’s for sure: Continue reading
The song of the white-throated sparrow. The crackling, rumbling crescendo of a pickup truck approaching on the dirt road, fading again into quiet. Muffled barking from across the valley, through the woods and up the hill: a place I’ve come to call Continue reading
Fermented milk, or kefir, is one of the most powerfully probiotic foods we can eat. Until recently, I didn’t give it much thought, beyond purchasing a bottle now and then, usually sweetened and berry-flavored, tasting like an oddly zingy milkshake. Kefir, which means “feel good” in Turkish, has been around for thousands of years and is known to traditional societies for its immune-boosting and anti-aging properties.
About a month ago, after receiving a care package of living foods from Vermont, I began making kefir myself. Continue reading
What a perfect March day it has been, here in Craftsbury, Vermont. With sadness, I’ll be packing my bags to go home in a couple of days, but the memories of this special place will live on until I return next month. By then, it’s likely there won’t be three feet of snow on the ground, and some version of a Northeast Kingdom spring will be well underway. Continue reading
Just when I knew in my heart that I wouldn’t be able to handle another snowstorm at home, emotionally or physically, I packed up a few of my most precious belongings (and a few necessities) and headed to Craftsbury, Vermont, which had just cleaned up from more than 30 inches of new snow. Continue reading
Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom is lush and green, with agriculture around every bend on its winding dirt roads. And, still, farmers markets abound. I believe one was available every day of the week within twenty miles of where I stayed during my vacation. Considering the small size of the towns (Craftsbury has a population of just over 1,100), that’s a lot. Given the sheer number of farms and gardens I passed on those roads, that’s really a lot.
Even with the close proximity of Pete’s Greens, the perfect farmstand, I couldn’t stay away from the farmers markets. Visiting farmers markets, no matter what the season, is one of my passions. It didn’t matter that I had plenty of vegetables, blueberries, blackberries and cheeses already in the fridge. Curiosity prevailed. Last week, I visited markets in Greensboro, Hardwick and Craftsbury.
For two weeks, I’ve been shopping at the perfect farmstand. Yes, that’s a strong statement. Farmstands are as varied as farms, farmers, farmers markets and the countryside where we find them. So many interesting ones; so many that are just right the way they are. Even so, I’m convinced this one is the perfect one.
In the end, it’s about the produce and products a farmstand sells. A farmstand is nothing without quality and, ideally, a little variety. But, there’s so much more.
All is well here.
Now that the Korean spice viburnum has passed out of bloom in the front yard, the beautiful doublefile viburnum is coming into its full glory, in the backyard. What it lacks in scent, it more than makes up for in drama.
I received this shrub, now about six feet in height, about fifteen years ago as a gift. I made the classic error–one I’ve repeated many times since–of planting it way too close to the house. Either I didn’t read the tag, or I didn’t believe that the doublefile reaches a height of 15 to 18 feet. I am not sure what variety this one is; at the time, as a beginning gardener, remembering “viburnum” was challenge enough.
Just a few years ago, when painting the house, I was forced to prune it harshly to create space between it and the house. It’s recovered beautifully, and sort of wraps around the corner of the house without touching it. Though I’ve moved many other shrubs to correct similar planting errors, I never did move this one. I continue to like it right where it is, crazy pruning and all.
When it’s at its best, it has a distinct Asian flair, because of its unusual shape. It has a dramatic, lateral branching habit that creates a cool, shady spot that my lab calls his own. And, nothing finds enough light (or water) underneath it to grow, making it a perfect garden spot for dogs. In the fall, it will turn a beautiful orange in color, and it will form dark-colored berries, ending the year with even more drama.
I have two other viburnums that I suspect are other varieties of doublefiles. With so many varieties of viburnum to choose from (150 or more, I believe), I may never figure it out. I lost the tags for each long ago.
I’d love to add a native to the mix, and I’m thinking of the northern raisin viburnum. With white flowers in the spring and dark blue berries in the fall, the northern raisin will max out at six feet–perfect for a tiny city yard that’s sure to run out of space some day soon.
The lily of the valley reminds me of my mother, in a way that instantaneously connects me back to early childhood memories.
I think she liked this flower, too. With both her birthday and Mother’s Day falling in May, and an abundance of them growing in our yard, the lily of the valley was an obvious choice for my gift bouquets, and she received them graciously. Never do I recall being told not to pick them, or to watch where I was stepping. Ours was not a fussy garden. In fact, I don’t recall hearing the word “garden,” ever. It was simply a yard, and it was there for me and my sisters to use as we pleased. Along with our dog, and all the other kids in the neighborhood.
My lilies of the valley are just coming into bloom now, along with the twinkling blanket of tiny white star flowers that is the sweet woodruff, and I love each and every one. A few years ago, I acquired pink lily of the valley from a friend’s backyard, a wild tangle of a long-neglected garden, once lovingly tended by her grandmother. I’ve heard some people complain that the lily of the valley is invasive, but mine are not. Under the relatively dry shade of the white oak, they spread slowly year by year, into the “wild corner,” where they are completely welcome.
I’m not sure what my mother would make of my crazy gardening projects. My digging, endless moving and reconfiguring of beds, trying crazy vegetables like the pink banana squash. No doubt, she’d be glad to know of the joy it all brings to me. She’d also be glad to know that mine is not a fussy garden–although it is a garden, not simply a yard–and that it also welcomes children and dogs.
Even perennial-trampling dogs with compost in their hair.
This Mother’s Day, in my garden, we celebrated with what has become an annual tradition: the turning of the compost heap. It’s definitely a task that flies along beautifully with the extra help of my strong son and, once again, it was exhilarating to turn the big beast (the heap, that is) over and open up the main bin for a new season of garden materials.
The big pile got turned into two smaller piles, and watered well.
The bottom of the pile being turned was pretty wet and compacted, without air, and exuded interesting smells.
Although I shrieked every time those big paws pounced through the “garden,” I know that none of my plants are so delicate that they won’t survive the adventure with my exuberant grand-dog. Perhaps I can take a cue from my mother and my childhood “garden,” and let my garden be just a yard–a place where all are welcome and memories are born.
