The house smells like dirt and I’m happy. The seedlings are doing well and so far I haven’t forgotten to water once. Well, except for the little plugs of single-flowered Lemon Gem marigold that I left in the tray because they weren’t big enough to transplant into larger trays with all the rest of the babies. I want these for my salads this summer, so I need to start some more. The herbs and lettuce varieties are showing their individuality. The kale leaves have begun to ruffle on the edges and have that beautiful purple tinge, the red and green romaine lettuce leafs are becoming elongated and the cilantro leaves showing their bright green delicate selves. The five different kinds of basil are beginning to distinguish themselves too, with the Lemon Basil growing it’s diminutive leaves next to the Thai basil with it’s purple hued stems and green leaves where the Purple Ruffle basil is of course, painted completely in it’s indigo palate.
Last week I started some of the fussier quick growing seeds. These are the ones that don’t like to be transplanted such as cucumber, squash and melon. I’m planning on trying a different sort of cold frame this year and having all of these beauties out under it’s protection by mid-May. That’s definitely too soon to transplant to the garden, but not to soon to have them outside and getting accustomed to their new home.
I’ve got dirt under my fingernails. Life is good.
© 2008 Baggywrinkle Publishing
There were now 28 ugly teen-aged chicks living in my house. They were dusty, scraggly and smelly. We are talking wood shop dusty because they constantly scratch the sawdust bedding put down for them in the kiddie swimming pool in which they occasionally stayed. The rest of the time they spent flapping their wings, hopping up on the edge of the pool and doing what they do best – pooping. I hardly need to say – hence the smelly.
I desperately needed a hen house for these creatures. I have a very handy husband. He can make almost anything and often he does, but we have an agreement about the chickens which I think is only fair although at the time I realized I was now desperate for the hen house I sorely regretted making this agreement. The bargain was, I could get chickens IF Jon didn’t have do anything with them. No building, no feeding, no cleaning, no getting wood from the hardware store in his truck for the hen house, absolutely no nothing. You know when you are a kid and you want that puppy so badly you will promise almost anything? As in, "You’ll never have to do a single thing, Dad. I’ll always walk the dog, pick up the …. in the yard and feed him." And then, you go to college and your dad is stuck doing all the things he’s been doing for the past 10 years with the dog anyway.
It didn’t happen like that for me. My husband is soft spoken, but he’s no pushover. When he says something, he remembers and he doesn’t go back on it. So now I had to figure out how to build this ridiculous hen house by myself without spending gobs of time doing it because it’s now four weeks before our sailing season starts and life is starting to get really busy.
So I pulled the crew off the boat and made them help me for two days on the hen house. Which they of course loved. If you think two men who came to Maine from southern states to sail and have a grand summer adventure were happy about the boss making them build a hen house…. hmmm.
In any event, it got done.
© 2008 Baggywrinkle Publishing