Master (Gardener) Class

Yesterday was the first day of school for the Master Gardener certification course I am taking this spring. Although we learned a lot about botany in this first class, it was also a chance for people to do the typical round-robin style introductions to the group so we could all get to know each other.

I was surprised how many people talked about their beginning attempts at gardening, and, like me, most began digging in the dirt well before the age of 10. It seems the urge to grow things is pretty much a pre-existing condition for a certain segment of the population. I also noticed that for every person who started gardening in childhood, the urge to plant and grow hit them regardless of where they lived -- whether that was in New York City or the wilds of Montana. 

Stories of attempts to grow everything from corn to pansies in city yards were discussed laughingly by the urban-born folks, and those born in similar circumstances nodded their heads vigorously in understanding as these stories were shared. Alongside the gardening stories were also tales of career successes in places like the Silicon Valley, San Francisco, and Phoenix, and the flight from them as acreage was purchased and lifelong dreams were chased down and caught (for some reason, dreams always have to be chased to some extent, they are never handed freely to us). People talked about what ultimately mattered most to them: To farm. To grow. To become what they always knew they were supposed to be.

It's interesting the many bends and turns that the road to our destiny takes us, and what we sometimes have to do first in order to eventually get to where we know we need to be. And I can't help but wonder how many others were "called" to this life, but for whatever reason, where unable to make it here. Are they still in the city, unable to leave because of costs, burdens and responsibilities? Or just fear of the unfamiliar? It's a poignant thing to look at where you are now and realize others may have tried and failed to find their way to where you stand, losing the trail of breadcrumbs only to end up back where they started, in an unending circle.

I'm sure there is another corollary to this; a tale of a rural-born "out in the sticks" kind of kid who, from birth, longed for the city -- the art museums, symphony halls, late night jazz clubs, and hustle and bustle on the sidewalk. I hope those folks eventually "home" as well, in all the great cities of the world. 

For me, after so many years of feeling passionate about growing things both edible and admirable, it felt good to be in a roomful of about 40 others who felt exactly like I did -- the lucky ones who made it out of what we thought of as a kind of Egypt, into the Land of Milk and Honey.  That's the key...to find your people, find your environment, and run down that dream, capture it and lock it down in a half-Nelson, whatever it is and whatever its locale.

I am looking forward to learning not only more about farming and gardening, but also about these people, as new lives take shape and new skills are mastered. Because once the dream is captured you start a whole new chapter, with its own challenges, changes and problems. The dream come true is not the ending of the story book, but rather the beginning.

Fall around the homestead

Fall color in the vines of Big Ag's vineyard and our own olallieberries. Our table grape vines are still kinda green (upper right of second pic).

Fall has meant that chores are much more comfortable to do outside now, and so in addition to continuing our back yard project, we're also pruning, trimming and making the first early preparations for spring. 

By far our biggest success on the property has been our olallieberry, blackberry and raspberry vines down in the pasture. While last year was short on berries, the summer proved very hospitable for growth, so next year's harvest should be a good one.

The year before this, I had such a bumper crop I ended up selling quite a bit to a local restaurant, which was a nice little bit of extra income I was happy to have. I'm hoping 2016 is the same, but since I don't know what the weather is going to do, I don't want to count my berries before they hatch, so to speak.

Yesterday was such a nice sunny day I decided to finish up trussing the vines and clipping the ends off the really long ones, since I'd rather have some nice lateral branches with berries on them than one looooong strand.

Stepford Wife vine/root...can be whatever you want it to be. Spooky

I discovered while down there that there are blackberry shoots with roots on the ends of their vines trying to dig down into the ground, which must be how brambles get established.

I just find it amazing that anything can be so versatile that it was be a root or a shoot, depending on its environment. We should all be so flexible.

Around the rest of the property, we finally have chairs and a fire pit for the back yard. Perhaps we'll actually get around to lighting a fire in it this weekend. 

And Valentina is still happily fostering with us, she has laid an egg nearly every day and since I'm currently getting none from my other girls, she was literally the hen who saved Thanksgiving. She can stick around as long as she likes.

Valentina frolicking among the rose bushes.....

Big Ag and I frolicking among the vines.

The Season of Green

Green is slowly returning

November typically marks the return of green to our area, after what always seems to be an endlessly long and brown summer.  We've had an inch and a half of rain over the last couple of weeks -- not enough to end our drought, but definitely enough to replenish the dry ground to a point where the green grasses and other native brush are just starting to emerge again.

Not just grass, but roses too!

When people come into the winery at the end of the summer and I tell them that in November all those brown hills will emerge in a kind of green haze which will grow and become more colorful until we positively look like Ireland by springtime, they always look at me like I'm slightly daft. After all, the vineyard grapes are turning various shades of brown, orange and yellow by then, which is what most folks typically equate with fall. But for us, November not only marks the end of the grape-growing season, but also green season for everything else -- everything native -- and this will last until about June.

And even the backyard vegetable gardens start to spring forth with new life again, as winter gardening is not only possible, but quite popular here. Truly, fall, winter and spring in this area are the seasons of life. Summer is for surviving. 

I know some folks love fall for the beautiful turning trees and the coming of snow, but for me, I'm always excited to see the return of green after many long, brown months.

Pretty red pomegranates, ripe for the picking.

 

 

Onions, scallions and lettuces are coming up, too.

Tsunami seed

Our local coastline is currently being littered with debris which was carried across the Pacific ocean from the 2011 tsunami that devastated parts of Japan's coast.  The other day I was walking along the beach and, in an area where debris has been washing up, found a piece of fruit that looked like nothing I'd ever seen.

Loquat pit/seed

Always the adventurer, I put my tongue to it in order to help identify it by its taste, but at that point it had been in the water too long and it was too salty to tell.  But I did make a mental note of what the fruit looked like (it was in fairly good shape) and removed the pit and brought it home.  Later that evening I went on the internet, searching for exotic fruits, and found out what it was:  A Japanese Loquat.

Since it was found in the area of tsunami debris, I'm wondering if this Japanese Loquat actually made it all the way from Japan to the California coastline.  If it was packaged until recently, or was just lucky enough to hitch a ride in something which kept it shielded from the elements, I suppose it's certainly possible.  

So today I planted it in a pot with some good soil and we'll see what, if anything, comes up.  The salt water may have damaged the pit, but I figure it's worth a try.  After all, fruit trees have spread throughout many tropical island chains by fruit and seeds being carried via the ocean and washing up elsewhere.  

So in a few weeks, perhaps I'll have a living souvenir of an earth-changing event.  It won't make up in any way for the awful things that happened that day and the subsequent environmental disaster which followed, but it might be nice to think that new life follows death; that renewal comes from the rubble and debris of disaster.  Maybe a little Japanese Loquat seedling will be one way that new start can be observed, and appreciated.