Walden South
The weather last week was mild and agreeable to outdoor activities. And, so it was that I cleaned the Hillside Garden of last summer's spent vegetation. The tired tomato vines and wilted pepper plants gave way easily. Not so the blackberry canes.
A blackberry plant can live for 20 years or more. Each season it puts up a new cane on which blackberries will grow the next. And as for last year's cane, it bore this year's blackberries and then, come fall, died. Now, I know all this because I visited a proper English Web site on the cultivation of blackberries and what it said was that all those now dead canes need be removed for the new canes to "breathe". They advised the gardener wear "stout clothing" while performing this thorny task.
I was uncertain what "stout clothing" meant in the Queen's English but now take it to be something equivalent to artillery tank armor. The thorns, you understand, become stronger and sharper as the cane dies and take every opportunity, however faint, to prick you and rip your skin asunder. And, as for my briers, well, the Web site said that generally the thornier the canes, the more durable were the briers. I'm certain that my biers would thrive in both the blazing sands of the Sahara Desert and the frozen tundra of the Arctic Circle.
As I sat bleeding on the ground, I thought of Thoreau's beans out there on Walden Pond and their civility as a kinder, more gentle crop than the mean and capricious blackberry. But, then again, I didn't actually plant the blackberry briers by my own hand. They sprouted naturally from random bird droppings, prospered from The Great Fire of 2006, and now have new canes 6,7 and even 8 feet tall. And, so it is, by the additional virtue of my recent blood letting, the crows and I will feast well come summer.
I tilled a new garden patch on Monday and enclosed it in netting. It has the outward appearance of a giant rabbit cage, but is designed to keep the critters out, not in. The netting remains unattached on one post as Murphy snatched the sack of staples and carried then into the woods where the sack lies hidden in the new fallen leaves of the same brown color. We have until spring to find them when I may, in fact, plant beans.
The pleasant weather gave way yesterday. With wind blowing in gusts of up to 30 mile per hour and an average temperature of only 31°F today, we now have the first biting, windy cold of the season. The wood stove in the basement has struggled to compensate for the change in weather. As I arose every two hours last night to stoke the stove with wood, I thought of Thoreau's cabin out there on Walden Pond. The weather here on the mountain, you see, is the same as the weather in Concord, give or take a little. The difference is Thoreau's cabin, built for for $28 in 1845, contained in all 150 square feet on a single floor with two small windows and a door, which he heated with driftwood from Walden Pond. My house, built in 1999 for two orders of magnitude more money (adjusted for inflation), contains a full order of magnitude more space on two floors with a score more windows and three doors. I use a chain saw, wood splitter and tractor to gather wood from the forest and likely have a colder house than he ever did for my efforts.
I am happy to report, however, that the heat pump yet remains idol this season and has placed no demand on crude oil from foreign shores save those few watts of energy required to run the two small circulation fans recycled from old refrigerators. Consuming but 3 watts each, my total cost of electricity used in heating the house with wood comes to less than $0.50 a month.
Thoreau would have surely been pleased.
When I drove into town yesterday, I purchased ExxonMobil gasoline for $3.06 per gallon, the most I have ever paid. I was neither pleased nor proud for having done so.
And, as for Thoreau, he would have been displeased that I had not gone into town on foot.
A blackberry plant can live for 20 years or more. Each season it puts up a new cane on which blackberries will grow the next. And as for last year's cane, it bore this year's blackberries and then, come fall, died. Now, I know all this because I visited a proper English Web site on the cultivation of blackberries and what it said was that all those now dead canes need be removed for the new canes to "breathe". They advised the gardener wear "stout clothing" while performing this thorny task.
I was uncertain what "stout clothing" meant in the Queen's English but now take it to be something equivalent to artillery tank armor. The thorns, you understand, become stronger and sharper as the cane dies and take every opportunity, however faint, to prick you and rip your skin asunder. And, as for my briers, well, the Web site said that generally the thornier the canes, the more durable were the briers. I'm certain that my biers would thrive in both the blazing sands of the Sahara Desert and the frozen tundra of the Arctic Circle.
As I sat bleeding on the ground, I thought of Thoreau's beans out there on Walden Pond and their civility as a kinder, more gentle crop than the mean and capricious blackberry. But, then again, I didn't actually plant the blackberry briers by my own hand. They sprouted naturally from random bird droppings, prospered from The Great Fire of 2006, and now have new canes 6,7 and even 8 feet tall. And, so it is, by the additional virtue of my recent blood letting, the crows and I will feast well come summer.
I tilled a new garden patch on Monday and enclosed it in netting. It has the outward appearance of a giant rabbit cage, but is designed to keep the critters out, not in. The netting remains unattached on one post as Murphy snatched the sack of staples and carried then into the woods where the sack lies hidden in the new fallen leaves of the same brown color. We have until spring to find them when I may, in fact, plant beans.
The pleasant weather gave way yesterday. With wind blowing in gusts of up to 30 mile per hour and an average temperature of only 31°F today, we now have the first biting, windy cold of the season. The wood stove in the basement has struggled to compensate for the change in weather. As I arose every two hours last night to stoke the stove with wood, I thought of Thoreau's cabin out there on Walden Pond. The weather here on the mountain, you see, is the same as the weather in Concord, give or take a little. The difference is Thoreau's cabin, built for for $28 in 1845, contained in all 150 square feet on a single floor with two small windows and a door, which he heated with driftwood from Walden Pond. My house, built in 1999 for two orders of magnitude more money (adjusted for inflation), contains a full order of magnitude more space on two floors with a score more windows and three doors. I use a chain saw, wood splitter and tractor to gather wood from the forest and likely have a colder house than he ever did for my efforts.
I am happy to report, however, that the heat pump yet remains idol this season and has placed no demand on crude oil from foreign shores save those few watts of energy required to run the two small circulation fans recycled from old refrigerators. Consuming but 3 watts each, my total cost of electricity used in heating the house with wood comes to less than $0.50 a month.
Thoreau would have surely been pleased.
When I drove into town yesterday, I purchased ExxonMobil gasoline for $3.06 per gallon, the most I have ever paid. I was neither pleased nor proud for having done so.
And, as for Thoreau, he would have been displeased that I had not gone into town on foot.
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