The end of March

It seems that I often mark the passage of time by the expiration dates on milk. This week, I was surprised to see expirations dates in April. My goodness, it’s the end of March already!

Certainly a walk outside would be no clue to spring coming. One morning this week, the temperature was 17°F. We’ve had a Big Wind for several days now. Even though the sun was out today, the wind sucked all the heat out of it. I keep thinking one of these days I can give up the wool socks, but not yet.

Our visitors this week included this pair of Canada geese. Terry thinks they are foolishly looking for a nesting site. I think we don’t have enough water. They just seem to be grazing.

Canada geese by the fifth oak

We also saw three tom turkeys amble by one morning. It was a workday. I wasn’t able to run out with my camera.

Yesterday was just dismal. Cold, gray, wind howling. So, of course, I made bread. Pita, this time. The recipe only makes 8 pita, so not a big commitment. 7 of the 8 poofed. I served them for supper with chicken noodle soup, and I ate the flat one. I had a lovely lunch today of pita stuffed with lettuce and egg salad.

The first four pita out of the oven

I took a walk this afternoon to check on my work from last week. One strip of paper and straw was intact. One had caught the wind. As fragile as that paper seemed last week when I put it down, it was still in one piece. I hauled one of the hay bales over, straightened the paper, and weighed it down with the bale. I covered it with straw again and got some sticks from the burn pile to, hopefully, keep it where it belonged. The newspapers that I’d put down along the narrow strip at the edge had blown all over the woods. My first inclination was to let them rot there, but I finally did the Grown Up Thing and retrieved them from the underbrush. I repositioned them and got more sticks for weight. I became a seed dispersal vector and had to spend several minutes picking burrs off my sweatpants when I got back to the house.

The bed for the woodland native plants, now secured with a hay bale and sticks from the burn pile

And yet, there are some signs of spring. The rhubarb is starting to sprout, which is pretty darned amazing considering how dry it has been (note cracks in the soil).

Rhubarb buds breaking through the dry soil

And Hilda did a little tutorial with me today about how to start onions. She fills trays with wet potting soil, sprinkles on package of seeds on top, covers with dry potting soil, and waters the tray. She puts the trays on heated mats until the seeds sprout. It was good to smell damp earth and think of summer.

Hilda preparing trays for onion seeds

Playing in the dirt

Walmart sucks. I had just been shopping in the civilized world on Friday, but I had a false memory that I had recently purchased wheat bran and had not put in on my list. Imagine my surprise when I began measuring ingredients for muffins Saturday morning and could not find the new box anywhere. Harvard has limited options for groceries. We used to have Sullivan’s for groceries and the World’s Smallest Walmart for other things. Then they built the new Super Walmart, and Sullivan’s pulled out. It was replaced ever so briefly by Cost Savers, but it couldn’t compete either. There are several small Mexican groceries which are fine if one is looking for items for that cuisine.

So off to Walmart I went. I first asked Hilda if she had wheat bran, which she did not. But she needed ice cream, bittersweet chocolate, and unsweetened chocolate for a recipe she was making. I made a list and set off.

One problem I have with any store I visit infrequently is that I don’t know where things are. I looked in places where I find bran at Meijer and Woodman’s. Nothing. I found a number of Bob’s Red Mill products, but they were in the Gluten Free section, which is not the place for wheat bran. I saw a young woman in a blue vest checking the meat section. “Excuse me,” I said, “where would I find wheat bran? Sometimes it is in the baking aisle and sometimes it is with the cereal, but I don’t see it either place.”

“What is that?” she countered.

I am the wrong person to ask. I know too much. I resisted the temptation to deliver a lecturette on seed structure, but was at a loss for a simple explanation. “It’s, uh, the bran of wheat.” Now I sounded condescending.

“I figured that much,” she said. “What is it used for?”

“Baking, usually. Do you have an organic section?”

“I got organics all over the place,” she answered. She got her phone and started searching inventory. “I have All-Bran. Let’s see--is it different from wheat germ?”

Twice was too much for me. “No, wheat germ is the embryo. Bran is the seed coat.” I’m sure that cleared everything up for her.

“So it would look like this?” she asked, showing me a picture of Bob’s Red Mill wheat bran.

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t have it.”

“Okay, thanks for checking.” And by the way, your store sucks. I didn’t say that last part. I don’t think of wheat bran as being an unusual food. How can they not have it?

I was able to find everything that Hilda needed. I stopped at La Rosita’s on my way home. There were more varieties of dried chiles than you could shake a stick at but no bran.

I had to go home because of the ice cream. I was thinking of going to Sentry in Walworth, but Hilda talked me out of it, saying that they didn’t have much inventory either. She had some All-Bran. I read the ingredients and decided it would do in a pinch. It was not, strictly speaking, all bran, but there wasn’t too much else in it.  I wasn’t taking an hour out of my day to drive to Woodstock. The muffins turned out fine.

After lunch I went for a walk. It was 63°! Beautiful day. I had been hearing killdeer for weeks, but this was the first time I saw them in the yard.

Killdeer in the yard

The creek had gone down. The height of the floodwater was apparent by the debris caught in these branches. This is the first time I noticed that a barbed wire fence had fallen into the creek. You can see the wire behind the fallen tree. There’s a fence post parallel to the water and on top of the log at the left.

Evidence of the flood plus a fallen barbed wire fence

Terry finished burning the parts of the field that were too wet two weeks ago. My restoration area burned really well this year. Maybe it got hot enough to get rid of the reed canary grass. I’m not holding my breath.

The restored wetland thoroughly burned

Terry has been saying for weeks that the grass was turning green. There is finally evidence to support this claim.

Green grass

A few weeks ago, I was inspired by an email offer to order a Woodland Garden of native plants. This assortment of shade-tolerant plants is supposed to fill up 75 ft². I thought a good place would be where we took that big buckthorn out last fall. Because of the former shade, there wasn’t a lot of woody undergrowth. I had to prep the site right away to keep anything from sprouting.

The buckthorn stump around which I propose to plant a shade garden of native plants

I sent Terry out for two bales of straw. His usual supplier had only one bale left, so he got two hay bales as well. He put them out by the site along with a roll of tablecloth paper he had in the shop taking up space. We were short on newspaper. I got a shovel, rake, hand pruners, and scissors from the garden shed and took the long walk to the creek.

First I measured 75 square feet. I did it the easy way—10 ft x 7.5 ft. I put pin flags in the corners, and it did not turn out to be exactly rectangular. Jimmy Crack Corn. 

Measuring and flagging

I raked away the branches and leaves, cutting out a few grapevines (which put Marvin Gaye in my head, as always with grapevines).

Flagged and raked

I started spading. It took me awhile to realize that I should be surprised that the ground was thawed. The soil was fairly loose making my task easy at first. Not surprisingly, as I moved closer to the stump, I began running into buckthorn roots, readily identified by their orange color. Roots are such a bitch. Sometimes they loosened as I pulled them. Sometimes they gave way suddenly, showering me with black dirt as I fell over backwards. Sometimes I dug and dug just to find where the root was and struggled to cut it with the hand pruners. As long as I was on my knees, I pulled out garlic mustard crowns without number. So much garlic mustard.

Spaded

At length, I was ready to roll out the paper. It was quite thin. I put down three layers, weighing one corner down with the bucket holding newspapers. I covered the paper with straw to hold it in place while I did a second row.

The first row of paper and straw

The second row of paper just about covered the area. I filled in the rest with newspapers and covered the whole thing with straw. That should shade out any garlic mustard I missed. I only used one bale. Oh well. Terry will find something to do with the hay.

All done. Now we wait for the plants to be delivered

As with every spring, I’m having the day when it is obvious that working out is not the same as working. My whole body hurts, and it will be worse tomorrow. It is not, however, the mysterious and maddening aches and pains of growing older. This is the soreness of getting stronger. It’s a good pain.

Murphy's Law

Ups and downs. Last weekend, it seemed like spring could arrive any day. That was followed by a week of 18°F nearly every morning. The only sign of spring was the damned ground squirrels coming out of hibernation.

They're back

Dad developed a fever on Thursday and wasn’t able to stand on his own. Hilda called the ambulance that afternoon. I stopped by the hospital on the way home. She was sitting out front in the general waiting area while he was in Emergency. She didn’t know why they wouldn’t let her back there with him. I stayed until it was time to go home to make dinner.

Hilda called later to say Dad had the flu.

“That explains why they didn’t want you back there with him,” I said. They didn’t want her to be contaged.

Hilda went on to say that Dad was going to be transferred to Janesville because there was some problem with his heart, and there was no cardiologist on staff at Harvard. She would wait until the transport arrived and then come home.

A long time later, I heard her come in. Dad had actually gone to Rockford. Hilda and I both find Rockford difficult to navigate. “But I have the GPS,” she said, trying to be brave.

The next morning, I was chatting with Jane on the way to work. She offered to drive Hilda to Rockford. I called Hilda to see if that would make her more comfortable. She hesitated, not wanting to inconvenience Jane. I pressed, and she acquiesced. After a few more phone calls back and forth—it would have been much easier to give Jane Hilda’s number, but I was driving and I can’t remember it—it was all arranged that Jane would pick Hilda up at 9:00, and I would head over to the hospital as soon as I was done with lab at 11:30 to visit Dad and ultimately take Hilda back home. I was glad I’d packed a sandwich for lunch. I could eat that on the way.

It turned out that the hospital wasn’t that hard to find, but I had to go through a round-about. I hate round-abouts. I managed to get off and the right spot and not end up going straight back from whence I’d come. I had a cup of decaf while Jane had a sandwich in the coffee shop. Jane went home. I sat in the world’s most uncomfortable couch by the only outlet in the waiting area by the elevators and graded lab papers. When I was done with most of them, I joined Mom and Dad in the world’s smallest hospital room. We had to wear masks because Dad was in isolation. He looked better and was getting out of bed with just a little help. Perhaps he would be discharged Sunday. An aide brought me a folding chair to squeeze into a corner. At least it was a private room, for which I am completely willing to forgive the tiny size.

Having been to the hospital once, Hilda was confident that she could get there on her own. I went about my usual Saturday, having lunch with Jane and doing my grocery shopping. Hilda called with the good news that Dad would be discharged that afternoon. I headed home so I could be there to help get Dad in the house. They had to wait a long time for the doctor to come and the papers to be signed. “I’ll have to go to Walgreen’s for the prescriptions, but I think I’ll take him home first”

“I can get the prescriptions,” I offered. Easy peasy. It would take half an hour, tops.

I got home first, at 4:00. I went downstairs to put away my groceries and do the mise en place for my fajitas. That done, I went upstairs to wait. They got home about 5:00. We got Dad settled in his comfy chair, and I took the two prescriptions—an antibiotic and Tamiflu—and set off for Walgreen’s in Harvard.

I strode purposefully to the pharmacy. Imagine my surprise when I saw that all the windows were secured behind rolling metal shutters. A sign stenciled on the shutters told me that the pharmacy was closed for the night, and the nearest 24-hour pharmacy was in Crystal Lake. Crystal Lake? That would take me 45 minutes just to get there!

I found an employee. Was the Walgreens pharmacy in Woodstock open later, perhaps until, say 7:00? Yes, he thought it was. He would call to find the hours. Happy day—they were open until 9:00.

I contemplated my choices. Go home and make dinner or go to Woodstock straight away? If I went to Woodstock, dinner would probably not be until 7:00. I went home. I was getting hungry.

I was ready to set out again by 6:10. I pushed the button to open the garage door. It went up about a foot and stuck. I pressed the button again. It went down. I tried again. Same result. I checked the sensors to see if they were lined up straight and unobstructed. That looked okay. Damn. Back downstairs to get Terry.

“What’s wrong?” Hilda asked as I passed through.

“The damned garage door won’t open!” I answered.

“When I came in from putting the chickens to bed, there was a terrible noise,” she said. “It sounded like a big animal crashed into it.”

While Terry looked for problems on the inside, I went outside to see if there was any sign of damage. No.

We tried a few things to get the door opener to work. The clock was ticking. I lobbied to release the catch on the ceiling and lift the door. That’s when I found out how wicked heavy that door was. As Terry and I struggled to lift it, I thought, “Why, oh why didn’t I just leave my car outside? Car outside. Wait a minute….There IS a car outside.”

I said to Terry, “We have an alternative that I just thought of this minute. I could take your truck.”

We let the door drop, and he went to get his key.

On my way again, I began to wonder if the pharmacy would even have Tamiflu. There had been shortages, but we were, I hoped, past the peak of flu season. I got to Woodstock at 7:00. “Let me see if we have the 30 mg tablets,” the girl said.

Oh, please, please, please have the 30 mg tablets.

They did! But wait. “There’s a problem with the prescription for the Tamiflu. It says twice a day for 7 days, but it also says to dispense 7 capsules.”

Clearly that did not add up. Who thinks about reading the prescription when the doctor is standing right there? No one.

“We have to call the doctor.”

Good luck with that. The next update was “The doctor has left the office.” At 7:15 on Saturday night? Shocking.

And yet, they left a message with the answering service, and the doctor answered his page quite soon. I was on my way at 7:34.

When I got home, Terry had determined that the problem with the garage door was one of the two giant springs across the top had been rent asunder. The noise Hilda heard must have been from the moment it gave it up. We hypothesized that it was because the door had gotten bent years ago when Hilda backed into it. It could only take so much stress from being slightly out of alignment. Hilda was sure we would need a new door.

Sunday all seemed right with the world, except for the garage door. No one had to go anywhere, and it was so good to have Dad home again. Terry called the garage door repair number on the door and was pleased to get someone who promised the repairman would call on Monday.

A week before, I’d remember that it was about time to think about corning beef for St. Patrick’s Day. Before I knew it, Hilda had secured an 8-pound brisket. Good lord—8 pounds? We started the brining right away. 

Brining the brisket, cut in half and stacked

Six days were up on Sunday.

After 6 days in brine

I had to put it in two Dutch ovens.

"Put in Dutch oven with sachet of spices and 2 quarts of water."

It turned out very well. Hilda and I marveled that we could make such fine corned beef. Her goal was to have plenty of leftovers for Reubens. Check.

The smaller piece of brisket with potatoes, carrots, and cabbage

The garage door guy showed up at 8:15 this morning and had both springs replaced in 30 minutes. It turns out that the springs typically only last 7 or 8 years, and this one was 11 years old. Note to self: get springs replaced in 2026.

What will this week bring?

Bird-a-licious

March came in with a promise of spring. The weather turned warm. Terry was the first to spot robins.

Robins--a sure sign of spring

I took a break from grading exams Thursday night to walk out to see the full moon rising. Kildeer were calling wildly. I did not know they were so active at night. Then I heard “peent.” Could it be? I listened. “Peent. Peent.” It did indeed sound like a woodcock. We have not had woodcocks here before. I did not have time to investigate, but I promised myself I would go out at sunset the next day. I went back inside to finish the exams.

The following morning, the setting moon was beautiful. While I should have been exercising, I was busy trying to get a photo. I turned off the flash, which made the shutter speed too long. The craters of the moon were bleached out. After some experimentation with various settings, I found out how to manually set the shutter speed! I had never done that before and was pretty proud of myself. I got this picture, and was nearly late for work.

Full moon Friday morning

Friday was Dad’s 92^nd birthday. As always, I am amazed at the rapid passage of time. Mom had decided on Seafood Pasta, but her copy of the recipe had been lost. I still had mine. Neither of us had made it in a long time. We were surprised to see it called for mushrooms. Fortunately, I had some on hand that I had no plans for. That was my contribution to supper. Hilda had the shrimp and other ingredients prepped, including home-made noodles. While she went out to close the chicken coop, I started sautéing. It wasn’t dark enough, however, and the girls ran out as soon as they heard Hilda at the gate. The pasta came together quickly, and we were soon sitting down with champagne for a birthday celebration.

Terry reached for the pasta just as I was taking the picture. I took another picture without his arm in it, but Dad had his eyes closed. So here is the better picture of my dad, with Terry’s arm.

Dad's birthday dinner

We had such a nice time. I forgot about checking for the woodcock. We all forgot about the chicken coop until Terry wondered aloud if the chickens were in bed. It was pitch dark by then, so I went out with a flashlight. I didn’t want Hilda to trip on something and fall.

Here is Dad with his birthday cake.

Birthday cake

I went shopping with Jane on Saturday. We drove all the way to Kildeer through a lot of traffic to see the store for the first time. It turned out that they didn’t have anything we needed, but it was a fine adventure. We had not been out recreational shopping to a new store in a very long time.

That night I went out at 6:15 and heard nothing but kildeer. I tried again at 6:45. There it was again. Peent. Peent, peent. I walked slowly toward the willows. The calling stopped. I stood still. It started again. I moved closer. Silence. I waited in the cold wind for a while, and then moved up. A plump bird with short wings flapping furiously flew in front of me, silhouetted by the last light in the western sky, and disappeared in the direction of the solar panels. I hoped I had not spooked it for good. I haven't been out since.

Sunday was a fine day. When I went out to do the chicken chores, I was greeted by raucous bird calls unlike anything we’d had all winter. The redwing blackbirds were back. This guy was practicing his display to no one in particular, wings down, epaulets visible.

Redwing blackbird

Although the ground did not seem to be thawed more than an inch down, the robins were pulling up foot-long night crawlers everywhere. I had been wondering if they were able to find anything to eat. It seems so early for them—and all the other birds—to be back.

We had not had rain in several days. The wind was from the east. Terry thought it would be perfect weather for burning the field. The first plots did not do so well. It was partly because the frost had not burned off and partly because there were a great many weeds that did not carry the flame. It burned enough that the voles came charging out by the dozen. Often they charged right back in. One ran right between Hilda’s legs to get to an area that we’d burned previously. She didn’t even notice.

All though the day, waves of sandhill cranes flew by. We heard them first, which is usual, and then we scanned the sky until we could see them. Often they were way up high and hard to spot. Sometimes they were lower down. They flew in lines or Vs and then broke ranks to form clusters as they glided in circles on the thermals, up, up, up, until they drifted northwest on the wind. Hundreds of cranes in each group. Dozens of groups, one after the other. As they say in Central Wisconsin, “If dere was one, dere must’ve been a t’ousand.”

After lunch, though, we had more success. Hilda and I didn’t even have too much to do. Some of the firebreak were literally still underwater, and the wind was strong enough that the fire didn’t have much of a chance against it. It carried the flames well in the direction it was blowing, however. I took a bathroom break and missed an entire section, from lit to burned in 5 minutes.

Here is Terry lighting the east side of one of the last pieces. Hilda is sitting in the background near a puddle, which does not show up in the photo. As this piece burned, she saw voles charge into the puddle and swim furiously across it.

Terry lights the edge of the grass while Hilda watches for flames creeping into the firebreak

Now he is lighting the northeast side.

Lighting another side of the plot

And here it is a few minutes later. We were surprised at how thoroughly it burned since it looked like the grass was matted and the soil soggy.

A good, complete burn

Like the warm spell in February, the weekend weather was a tease. Today is cloudy and cold with the wind blowing at 40 mph. We are expecting snow overnight. Poor birds! But it is March. We can now dare to hope that spring is on the way.