Archive for November 2021
Forensic Guessing
Looks like we have some competition in the wood chipping department.
Analysis of the evidence by amateurs came up with guesses like porcupine, or woodchuck, or possum. What animal would have spent so much time shredding the bark of this downed tree overnight?
Would you guess that it might have been a bear?
That’s the opinion Cyndie received from the person teaching her Master Gardener classes.
Must have been a good collection of insects beneath that bark to keep the animal’s attention engaged. Or maybe just shorter days and longer nights are triggering the urge to gorge zealously on any possible morsels of protein.
Logic indicates the days of warm temperatures are running out. It won’t be long and the only bugs to be found will be frozen “insect-icles.”
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Blocking Weeds
Still attending classes for Master Gardener, Cyndie has already put some of the information gained into practice. Over the weekend, I moved multiple bucket-loads of compost with the big diesel tractor to her newest raspberry patch where Cyndie had laid down a layer of cardboard to block weeds.
Yesterday, I was moving wheelbarrow loads of woodchips to the labyrinth where she was applying a paper covering that we buried with four inches of mulch.
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We’re going to need to chip more downed tree limbs. As fast as the chips were created, they can get distributed even faster.
I’m pretty sure I’ve made it clear we have no shortage of piles to be shredded. I did some clean-up by the road when I was clearing the buckthorn there and the result created one more collection of trees and branches for chipping.
We have a new tool to augment the ratchet pruner we previously used when trimming branches and cutting up fallen trees.
After hearing our friends, Pam and John rave about this slick little battery-powered chainsaw pruner, Cyndie bought one the next day.
The first day we used it, we drained the battery and needed to get the ratchet pruner to finish the job. At least that taught us the workload it can handle. It worked great for me the next time I used it and only dropped to half a charge on the battery.
This is going to be a wonderful addition to our assortment of tools.
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Pernicious Invasive
It never stops. The unending intrusion of Common Buckthorn spreading anywhere that birds perch requires equally persistent vigilance to thwart. While I have given our largest segment of woods the most consistent annual attention, the small grove near the road dominated by poplar trees seems to have slipped my notice last year.
There were a couple of inch-plus diameter trunks that I had cut in the past but forgot to watch the next year. They had sprouted twice the new growth since I’d made that cut. Oops.
When I come upon tree-sized specimens, I often cut the trunk off a few feet above ground to leave the stump visible. The next season, many new sprouts will erupt from around the cut and my plan is to simply break those off enough times the root system finally stops trying and dies. Sometimes I forget to follow up.
In addition to the big ones, there were a frustrating number of little sprouts scattered all throughout the small segment of trees.
Luckily, those little ones are easy to pull out, roots and all, by hand. I just need to spot them and navigate the tangle of undergrowth to reach each one. And even when you think you’ve pulled the last, there’s always one more that I somehow missed.
At least I’ve given this challenge enough attention that it’s manageable at this point and the progress is noticeable. The surrounding woods of my neighbor’s property are filled with many tree-sized sections that haven’t been tended to in all the years we’ve lived here.
The difference is obvious and significant.
Speaking of that property to our north that was supposedly auctioned off on the courthouse steps in July, another neighbor recently mentioned a possibility that the sale never went through for some undetermined reason. Saturday afternoon the guy was mowing the weeds on the field that had been left fallow all summer, supporting the likely assumption of continued ownership.
The more things change, the more they seem to stay the same.
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Stocking Up
Always one of my favorite projects for the dual reward, yesterday was dominated by cleaning up brush piles by turning them into wood chips. We started with our main storage location empty and finished with it filled.
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Toiling away in the remarkably summery heat in the first week of November, it was surprisingly quick work to reach that goal. The problem with that is we didn’t begin to put a dent in the number of limbs lying everywhere around our property.
Honestly, we could work on chipping downed branches every day for weeks and likely not exhaust the supply. In fact, as I was traversing one of the trails through our trees after putting away the tractor, I arrived at a freshly fallen branch that wasn’t there when I passed moments earlier.
Our stock of chips is full and our stock of branches awaiting future chipping is even fuller.
Plenty of fodder to allow us to get two things done at once when that next becomes the project we choose.
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Midday Sprint
I did recently swear off mowing grass in November but this is different. This isn’t lawn grass I was mowing yesterday with the garden tractor. On an uncharacteristically warm November day, I brought out the big diesel and pulled the brush cutter across the back pasture to cut down a problematic invasion of Canadian thistle.
We were aware of the toxicity risks for horses, yet it was Cyndie’s recent Master Gardener classes that pointed out how the thistle will spread and degrade the quality of grazing pastures if left unchecked.
But, honestly, it still felt a little too much like mowing grass.
My presence on the big machine riled the horses into a bit of sprinting that Cyndie captured on video.
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I had closed gates to isolate the pasture I was going to mow and that was the first step in raising the curiosity of the horses. When I showed up on the big tractor and started cutting, it was unclear if they were upset to see their grazing options disappearing before their eyes or just worked up over the strange-looking noisy contraption rolling along.
They started racing in and out of the paddocks from the front hayfield.
It is beautiful to watch them sprint in the manner they were bred and raised to do, knowing it is their choice to run and they are free to stop whenever they wish.
Soon after their little spurt of racing, they wandered out into the hayfield and stood for a little nap while the tractor droned on. When I finished in the back pasture, Cyndie opened the gate to the hayfield and I rolled out there to mow the strip along the paddock fences where we had planted acorns. The horses didn’t move a muscle at that point.
They quickly get over the initial alarm about me showing up on machines with engines.
Using the knowledge Cyndie is gaining from her Master Gardener classes, we have a new plan to transplant some yearling oaks next spring and protect them from animals and crowding from surrounding growth for the first few years. Yesterday, she scouted and marked the candidates we hope to use when the winter snow disappears from the ground.
I mowed the grass short and Cyndie dug holes in advance to mark the spots. That alleyway will end up getting a more permanent barrier to keep horses away while future paddock shade is being developed.
Beware the work deemed necessary when you start learning the wealth of valuable details included in Master Gardener lessons.
It will be much more marathon than occasional sprints.
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Talking To
Yesterday, I received a text from Cyndie asking me to remind her to tell me about the “talkin’ to” she dished out to Mix. Sounded like a scene I’d like to have witnessed.
Last weekend I noticed Mix behaving like a bossy mean girl, chasing and nipping after the two chestnuts, Mia and Light. She’s done it before, so I wasn’t surprised, but it seemed so unnecessary. The other two hardly appear to be challenging Mix’s authority.
Well, it seems Mix is still feeling a need to behave badly. In front of Cyndie, she not only pinned her ears back and nipped after the chestnuts but she continued on, pushing them down to the bottom of the paddock. Then she turned her backside to them and forced them toward the willow tree with threats of a kick.
That was enough for Cyndie. She rushed up to Mix and let her know this was an unwelcome level of abuse against the others. Sounds like Cyndie basically gave Mix a dose of her own medicine. She kept after the mean mare and sternly forced her to run around the paddock until Cyndie said she could stop.
Cyndie said the other three horses looked on calmly, recognizing the issue was Mix’s alone. They went back to grazing as Mix darted to and fro around them and Cyndie chased her.
After Cyndie sensed that her point had been made, she turned to leave, and Mix slowly approached her, ears forward. Cyndie took a big breath to drain her amped-up energy and Mix lowered her head contritely, as if in apology. They stood together for a moment, nose to nose.
After hearing this story, I felt a little sympathy for Mix.
I’m pretty sure I’ve been on the receiving end of a couple of these “talking to” sessions myself.
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Mouse House
If you have ever heard anyone who owns a log home say their place is sealed tight against rodent intrusion, feel free to question their grip on reality. We could crawl around our foundation day and night, scale the walls to inspect every inch around the soffits, and climb to the peak of our stone chimney and still, I wouldn’t think we’d identified every teeny space of potential access.
We are well into the season of incoming mice and Pequenita is only doing her bare minimum to fatally “play” with the surprise toys. The other night it was hour after hour of romping around our bedroom floor, talking to her latest playmate while Cyndie and I feigned solid sleep in maximum avoidance mode. I was just sleepily aware enough in the morning to only step partway onto the cold, dead remains before catching myself and stopping.
Two nights ago, just after lights out in the bedroom, some busy rodent started making its presence known with repetitive scratching/chewing in the attic space above our ceiling.
Last night, as Cyndie was working on her laptop at the dining room table, something fell from one of the log beams in the ceiling by the front sunroom. It was a mouse.
From my position in the bathroom shower at the time, I heard muffled stomping and banging that instantly had me wondering what in the heck could be going on out there. Then, the sound of Cyndie saying something affectionate to Delilah. I assumed they were engaged in an energized activity to drain some dog energy before the end of the day.
Soon after, Cyndie pops in to announce, “I have a story for you.”
She grabbed a fly swatter and garbage bin that were right there and tried to capture the mouse. Delilah noticed what was going on and jumped up to help. It was Delilah who caught the mouse. Then, our canine carnivore wasted no time in consuming her prize before Cyndie had even a second to decide what to do about it.
I think that was the moment I heard Cyndie offering the dog a kind word.
After my shower, I came into the bedroom to find our cat contentedly curled up on the dog bed, clueless about being one-upped by the dog in the mouse control department.
Cyndie has contacted our pest control service again. “No, it’s not another woodchuck. Nope, not a nest of bees in the ground. Uh uh, not raccoons again. Not bats. Not this time, anyway. Now it’s just a plain old mouse problem.”
They won’t need directions to our house.
Is there such a thing as kevlar shrink wrap? If it came in a wood grain pattern, that would be cool. Just cover our whole house like the blue stuff they stretch over boats to winterize them.
You’d think the multiple prowling neighbor cats would do a better job of controlling the mouse population around here. Come to think of it, that could be increasing the incentive for mice to find new ways inside.
I’m sure pest control will be happy to invoice extensive time and effort to de-mouse our log house.
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Last Last
Honestly, even if the grass continues to grow, I refuse to mow in November. Yesterday will be the last “last time” that I mow this season. I’ve already mowed for what I hoped was the last time this fall three other times. Admittedly, the first “last time” was hopeful thinking that didn’t pan out. The rest could’ve/should’ve been the end of growing blades but warm sunshine and some rain have kept the grass happy and active.
Yesterday, I almost wasn’t able to finish what I started. Just after I got done cutting the front yard and was working my way around to the back, the mower shut down on me. I wondered if it was making a statement about also wanting to be done for the season. It was certainly the coldest air temperature I’ve been out mowing in –mid 40s(F)– so I wouldn’t blame the tractor for not liking it.
Turned out that it was a fuse that didn’t want to be forced to work on Halloween.
Now it’s November and that means deer hunting season is near. Already, the sound of gunshots is an almost daily experience as neighboring farmers are adjusting their sights and perfecting their technique in preparation for the big day. Delilah is ferocious about wanting to defend us from the sound of a rifle “carrrrack!” She rushes toward the sound until her leash abruptly hits its limit, barking all the way.
Then she barks some more. As in, over and over again, ad nauseam. Poor girl almost barked herself hoarse yesterday.
With the majority of our trees now void of their leaves, the sound of gunshots travels from miles around us, so it’s not just the next-door neighbors we are hearing from.
At least Delilah quieted down enough while on a walk that we were able to sneak up on a flock of turkeys that were hanging out in our field near the road. They initially thought about running away and then took to the air toward an unplanted field to our north, offering a gorgeous display of the emergency version of wild turkey flight.
The turkeys were probably loving that I had cut the grass short down by the road.
In case they are wondering, that’s the last “last time” I’m going to do that this year.
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Relative Something 