Season's Greetings: the Holiday Letter...

"Every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!"
                                                                   Ebenezer Scrooge

Or for those readers not prone to salutatory offense: "Merry Christmas!" And for the rest of the readers who just want all the fuss and bother behind them, "Happy New Year!" A hearty thanks to those who felt compelled over the years to put pen to paper and chronicle their family's annual adventures, accomplishments, and experiences to share with those to whom they sent holiday cards. May it be a comfort to know that taking the time to read these missives at this, the busiest time of the year, provided the recipients a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle, frenetic hurry, scurry of the season.

The narrator guiltily admits that as long as he can remember he has included little more in his Christmas cards than a hastily scribbled sentence or two followed by the sender's scrawled signature.  After receiving a goodly number of holiday letters over the years the Editor decided it was high time to reply in kind.

For some curious reason the holiday letter is composed in the narrative third person which appears to be the proper etiquette for this seasonal genre.The author's intent is to share his year with the reader, yet lest he seem to be boasting, chooses to couch the details as if they were not about his family's exploits but those of the neighbors down the block. Staying true to that format of detachment, the following holiday letter begins its maiden voyage.

In April Terry and Trecia journeyed to East Washington for the annual Johnson family crab feed where they spent a couple of days breaking garlic bread with his mother (ninety-five years old and a gracious hostess), the family, and exchanging gossip in the presence of a good deal of freshly cracked crab and mountains of potato salad (the latter replete with three kinds of pickles). The event was not without mishap, however. While engaged in a woodcarving project, Terry's chisel slipped and deeply speared the hollow between his left hand thumb and forefinger, sending the blood gushing, as the saying goes "like a stuck hog." Brother Keith performed first aid on the victim, staunched the flow of blood with an abundance of bandage and tape as if instead of suffering a self-inflicted puncture wound the victim had lost an entire limb. The loss of left handed assistance precluded the handicapped from cracking crab, unfortunately a two-handed operation, but Trecia kindly came to the rescue by shelling out a tasty plateful for the hapless injured. Except for a fleeting concern about tetanus, the remainder of the event passed without incident.

In September Terry and Trecia made their annual pilgrimage to Hood River, Oregon. They split their stay at the Best Western Plus to attend the nuptials of niece Casey and fiance Brendan. The happy couple's ceremony was held at Camp Namanu, a former Girl Scout Camp nestled in the rain forest on the west slopes of Mt. Hood. Terry and Trecia rendezvoused with daughter Marika Finkel, husband Avi and grandsons Atticus L. (seven years old come February) and Augustus T. (three years old in January). Vows were exchanged in a forest amphitheatre accessed by a heady climb up an old game trail once explored by Lewis and Clark. Without the assistance of oxygen the ascent challenged the older guests (namely the Editor and his wife). Surrounded by towering cathedral firs the bride and bridegroom tied the knot in the company of friends and family, most who managed the climb without cardiac arrest.

The night was spent in Cabin Kanga , one of the few campsites with heat and indoor plumbing (an hour's drive from the amenities of the Best Western). Lying on a foam rubber mattress in a bench-like cranny, rain drumming on the shingles, surrounded by the echoes of giggling Girl Scout ghosts made for a long and restless night. With the exception of the tittering ghosts the experience recalled memories of the week Terry spent as a Boy Scout at Camp Scout A Vista. The only thing missing being the acrid smell of sun baked tarpaulin and the uncomfortable lump of earth that spoke to the small of his back through the thin kapok of a sleeping bag. Hot showers at the Best Western helped wash away the trauma.

Sometime in June Terry began a merry jaunt down medical lane when an aortic calcium score returned numbers much higher--unfortunately--than those of his GRE. Thus began an odyssey by which he was introduced to a variety of tests (many ending in the suffix "gram") and a cardiologist whose bedside manner presented much the same as Margaret Thatcher's. Issuing a brusque edict, Doctor informed him he was about to take a cruise on the Mediterranean Diet.

In November Terry was able to scratch "ambulance ride" off his bucket list when the ER doctors, instead of dialing Uber, mistakenly dispatched an emergency vehicle. After a rock 'n roll ride in the "meat wagon," the EMTs offloaded him at the ER entrance of Providence Hospital in Everett where they wheeled him unceremoniously through the labyrinthine corridors of that vast edifice to a "room already waiting for him."

After a night similar to the one spent at Camp Namanu (a bevy of nurses having replaced the giggling Girl Scouts) Terry was treated to a 5:00 a.m. tonsorial procedure a night nurse had earlier scrawled on the room's white board as a"groin prep." At one minute of five a diminutive female nurse armed with an electric razor swished in as if by magic and performed a procedure Terry would not have dared ask his wife, a hair dresser of forty-three years, to perform. With purring razor in hand and the work site nearly at eye level, the "little shaver" as Terry chose to call her, performed her task professionally and much to the blushing patient's relief, quickly.

The next few hours were a swirl of events stemming from the medical opinion: "I don't know what the hell to do with him." After a lengthy consultation with her "team" Terry was told, "If he were her husband, she'd have him undergo an invasive procedure called an 'angiogram,'" from which he concluded that her husband must lead a very interesting life indeed. As he was pondering that conclusion, Terry was whisked off through more long corridors again and wheeled into a large room furnished with glaring lights, an array of mirrors, and a refrigeration unit that filled the sterile compartment with arctic air. Almost immediately he was set upon by a team of masked men and women, one of who told him "not to move...especially his right arm." Best to obey a masked man, he thought, and given the ambient temperature it was easy to comply. Then off again through the corridors to the room "still waiting for him." After dozing off and on through a Seahawks game, fussing with some paperwork, and cruising five circuits of the nurses' station, he left the long corridors behind him in his own car, driven by his own wife where he arrived at his own home without further incident--clean shaven.

Terry and Trecia were able to take a break from matters medical long enough to host the family Thanksgiving gathering and after taking a few days to catch their breath rushed headlong into preparations for the family Christmas Doin's at which they hosted twenty-nine guests.

Now that the first (and last ever) holiday letter is composed and posted, it's on into the New Year and whatever snares and pitfalls most certainly lie awaiting. And for those so inclined to send future holiday letters, by no means feel obligated to do so.

To each and all a Happy New Year.

The Editor

To Every Thing there is a Season...

                                                                                        
                                                                                       

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up
that which is planted.
                                   Ecclesiastes 3:2

Mid-October and it is strangely silent here on our one slim acre. Normally the raucous scolding of the jays would shatter the Valley calm from dawn til dusk. The stealthy flight of those blue thieves leapfrogging from tree to tree along the property lines was as regular as the daily commuter traffic out front. But not this fall; the noisy marauders are nowhere to be seen, have taken their thieving ways elsewhere.

"I'm going to pick up a walnut tree for my arboretum," Herman Zylstra, our retired dairy farmer neighbor told me. "Do you want me pick up one for you?" With the holiday baking in mind I told him, sure, it would be nice to have a walnut tree on the place, and that's how we came by the tree at the back of the property. That was over forty years ago....

I planted the sapling, watched the slip of a tree grow. It definitely liked the Valley soil, was quite at home here. The tree grew with a surprising vigor year after year even after its kin, light deprived, stunted, died in Herman's arboretum. Patiently I waited for my first walnut crop. Seven years, eight years, perhaps ten went by until I spied a few green orbs peering from the foliage. It was a crop, however, not destined for holiday sweetmeats. A flock of crows appeared out of nowhere, descended on the tree like the Black Plague and in five minutes the first ever walnut crop disappeared into the blue (or black).

The tree, a species (a Bastogne walnut) different from its the kindred English walnut, grew to a height of eighty feet (my estimate) and 127" in circumference chest high (my tape measure). The tree's vast canopy shaded the garden from the heat of summer sun, made afternoon gardening bearable. Its shadow spread across the backyard like a thunder cloud, cooled the west end of our house those hot summer evenings. The first hard fall frost would send the large leaves spiraling to earth nearly en mass and until early May the next year the branches would be bare.

Not only the robbing jays but also smaller bird species would flit about the leaves and branches. From their sentry posts atop the tree, hawks scanned the garden below for unsuspecting songbirds foraging at the feeding station or in the garden. For two or three seasons we had a nesting pair of mourning doves raise young in the branches. The tree's main trunk was riddled with cribbage board holes, each a feeding station for sapsuckers which performed their drilling with such stealth I never spied a single one. At harvest time squirrels, as many as a half dozen at a time, performed acrobatics among the branches as if they were part of an act for Cirque du soleil. A wound from a pruned off branch healed into a scar that put me in mind of a barn owl's face The tree trunk gave me a critical stare every time I passed by on the mower.

In latter years the tree bore so heavily feathered and furry thieves hardly made a dent in the crop. We gathered walnuts by the buckets full, many dislodged by hungry jays whose harvesting technique made gathering the mast easier. The nuts would shower down through the branches ricocheting from limb to limb like caroming pin balls in an arcade machine. From time to time I'd be pelted by husk shrapnel. After giving the nuts a good washing in a bucket of water, agitating and rinsing them a few times to remove husk residue, I'd pour them into our garden cart to dry. The cart had a metal mesh floor that allowed for good ventilation. A day or two to dry and I'd dump them on the hearth behind the wood stove to dry and cure.

The last few years the walnut began shedding branches, not an indicator of a tree in robust health, but I dismissed this self pruning as part of the "maturing" process. After storms tossed and whipped the branches winters and early spring, I would find downed limbs, some the size of my forearm, dry and brittle as bone, scattered about the trunk. Before each mowing session I'd have to carry or drag the fallout to the brush pile. But the tree continued to bear fruit, some years more heavily than others. This year the tree had a prodigious crop of walnuts. The branches bent under their load, the lower boughs scraped the ground under the weight. Summer pruning was in order just to be able to mow beneath the tree.

One morning in late July as I stepped out on the deck to don my garden boots and head to the chicken coop I heard what I thought was automatic weapons fire, a ripping, staccato kind of noise. I first thought of the firing range west of the Valley and thought this gunfire was dangerously close to the back fence. Stunned and amazed by the awesome sound I froze for a moment, confused, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar. I gazed toward the sound and then I saw the scar, a white slash gleaming in the morning sun, a parting of the bark where before there had been a limb.

The limb now sprawled across the back of the property. It had crashed down narrowly missing a pie cherry tree and now lay splayed out over the backyard. The rending sound brought my wife out of bed to ask about the commotion. I pointed to the tangle of branches, leaves, and globes of walnuts. In disbelief we walked out for a closer look and saw the large leader had split at the trunk, sheared off, leaving the other half still defying gravity. My wife approached that side of the tree for a closer look. I warned her to stay out from under the half leader still attached. It was a warning well heeded because not five minutes later the second half splintered and fell, coming to rest neatly around a hive of bees on the stand beneath. Branches and leaves had gently enfolded the hive as if hesitant to disturb its occupants which now swirled about in confusion trying to get their bearings.

Walnuts lay thick on the ground everywhere, made walking difficult--like traversing a skate deck covered with marbles. We now had a mess to deal with...and a big problem, a problem beyond us, a problem that required professional help. The two tree services we consulted both reached the same conclusion: pruning or trimming the tree would only prolong the inevitable. I had hoped to save the tree; perhaps a canopy trim, a pruning back of the limbs all around? The loss of the two large limbs, we were told, had the tree off balance, the weight now unequally distributed because of the heavy crop. In its weakened state more branches were sure to suffer the same fate. (In fact yet another large limb came down a couple days later.) Fate was a concern of mine, too. How often had I mowed beneath the tree over the years...that summer in fact? One thing for sure: having a leader that size crash down on me would have caused a headache no aspirin could cure. No way around it: the tree would have to go. A date was set.

The executioners arrived at eight in the morning. (Because of the sentiment involved, I say "executioners" although the tree service crew were polite and very professional. Still, as the tree was dismembered limb by limb, we felt like we were watching the execution of a longtime friend.)

The grand old walnut didn't go peacefully. The limbs were so heavily laden, the first one bucked back, narrowly missing the young sawyer. Compensating for the load per branch, after the near catastrophe the team made sure to set their chokers back up the branch, balancing the weight of the fruit against that of the leader.

The sawyer severed limb after limb from the trunk, working his way earthward one leader at a time. Swinging in space, freed from its parent trunk, the leaders were swung over the fence line, lowered, and then fed into the maw of a chattering chipper where each was shredded into thousands of chips off the old block.

Finally all that was left of our summer shade and the year's monstrous walnut crop was the last  twenty feet of the trunk and two heaping piles of rounds salvaged for firewood.

  













Walnut lumber is prime woodworking material. The owner of the tree service helped broker a deal for the trunk which helped defray some of the removal costs. The thought that someone somewhere might have furniture or wood crafts for their home fashioned from a tree that grew, flourished and shaded our property for decades helped somewhat to bear the loss of a significant part of our landscape.

It took a forty-eight inch bar to cut through the butt of the trunk which came down with a thud you could feel in your knees. To fit the truck bed, the trunk was halved, each half lifted skillfully and placed strategically for a balanced load. Then the old longtime resident left our one slim acre and rolled on down the road leaving giant hole in the sky where it had once stood. Gone now is the favorite perch of our avian visitors. Gone our summer shade. Gone the supply of nuts for holiday baking. Gone, too, the seasonal sunset displays bleeding through the tree's barren branches, a technicolor chiaroscuro of crimson fire. 

                                                                   *          *          *          *

The other day I saw a curious sight. A gray squirrel anchored on his haunches, sitting up in that quaint way of squirrels, tail puffed and curled at attention. He appeared to be pondering what was left of the walnut tree, looking at the slab of trunk as if it were a dance floor and he looking for a partner. It seemed to me his face wore a quizzical expression as if to say, "Seems to me I remember a walnut tree around here somewhere." He then scratched his head, obviously confused. He held this pose for a couple of minutes. Then in the way of all squirrels he darted off to parts unknown, taking the memory of the walnut tree with him.

For the Land's Sake! Thanks!

 

         
"...And little can we call our own
Save death and that small pattern 
Of the barren earth that serves as
Paste and cover to our bones."
                         Shakespeare
                         Richard II

The wildfire news out of California staggers the mind. Thousands of homes incinerated over night. An entire town, gone. Family homes, gone. Possessions, gone. Memories, gone. Shelter, gone.  People missing. Lives turned upside down. Lives lost. Photos of the scorched home sites and landscape bring to mind WWII photos of towns and cities in ruins. Displaced people standing amid rubble. It's hard to wrap one's mind around such personal devastation. What do the victims do now? Where do they go? How do they begin to dust off the ash and begin again? What would I do? What would you do?

There seems to be one common thought among victims of natural disasters whether they be hurricanes, floods, tornadoes...wildfires: "At least we have our lives. At least our families are safe." That's the blessing of Providence, surely, but really, what more can you say except to give thanks for being spared?

We bought our one slim acre of pastureland in 1974, built our home here in 1975. Over the years we have landscaped and groomed our piece of the Valley to suit our tastes and needs, keeping in mind that for one brief moment in the continuum of time this land, this piece of earth is our home. Although the property description comes up a bit shy of an acre, the family has for years called our place "Green Acres." Over the years our little expanse of rich bottom land has produced a bounty of walnuts, fruits and vegetables, countless bouquets of lilacs, dahlias and sweet peas. It has served as home base for my honeybee colonies which over the years have gathered hundreds of pounds of Valley wildflower honey. And a nature preserve, also, home to resident and migrating birds. There is always something of interest here on Green Acres, always something to see, whether a tiny miner bee or a great blue heron. This place has served as playground for our daughter, her pets, her friends, a field of memories, both hers and ours. We are comfortable in this place.

I've always been puzzled by those whose goal seems to be acquiring more land, more acreage, their philosophy that buying up land is a good thing: "Because they're not making any more of it." I'm reminded of the Tolstoy short story "How Much Land Does a Man Need," a tale about a land greedy man whose greed ends up killing him, whose final resting place is six feet of earth, all the land he really needed in the end. With Green Acres we have land enough and are thankful for it.

So a heartfelt "Thank-You," Green Acres, for what you've given our family. I am thankful for a sound roof over my head, thankful for our home, thankful for the chance to turn your rich soil into fruit, vegetables and honey, thankful to live in a Valley free from wildfires, hurricanes and tornadoes.

Still, on this Thanksgiving holiday I think of the hundreds of families who are sifting through the remains of their former lives or searching for lost family members among temporary shelters, and especially of those making funeral arrangements for their loved ones, victims of the California burning. For the displaced I imagine this holiday, the joy it brings, is the farthest thing from their minds, a sobering thought, one that should give those of us more fortunate some pause as we celebrate the holidays with homes and possessions intact, family members alive and well.

2018 Valley Antique Tractor Show Flames Out...

Celebratory turned funereal this morning at the Frohning farm. Funereal, that is, for the landmark old barn that has served the Antique Tractor Show venue so well these past thirty years (thirty years, hard to believe, isn't it?). Valley folk were awakened early this morning by sirens, growling klaxons, and flashing lights as Monroe, Duvall, and Snohomish County fire crews descended on the blazing old structure as rows of sad-faced old tractors looked on.

A Facebook post captioned "fire at Frohning farm" sent The Ripple astride of Gladys out to gather the news. The post photo showed a large blaze but just where and what the inferno was couldn't be determined. My fears it was one of the Frohnings' dwellings were put to rest when I met Andy Werkhoven and learned the barn was the only casualty. "You missed all the excitement," Andy told me through the window of his truck. "Hard to sleep through all that commotion," I said. "I guess I'd better roll on out there before the news story cools off. "No one hurt, I hope?" "Nope," said Andy, "everybody's ok, but the barn's just a smoldering heap." Off I headed toward the flashing lights and the plume of smoke. On down the road Ginnifer Broers flagged us down to share the same news. She'd heard about a fire in the Valley and was returning to work after leaving her shift at Fred Meyers to check on Broers' Farms property.

Gladys and I wobbled to a stop where the fire rigs blocked the road. A fireman in full gear manned a hose, directing a forceful stream of water into the rising smoke. From time to time the arc of water drummed on a sheet of metal roofing. A few charred and smoking timbers, the only remaining forms vertical, stood forlorn in the smoke and spray. Roadside on the north access road Serena Kossian, one of the vendor's wives, with sons Jacob and Caleb waited for clearance to help husband Mike dismantle the display, pack and load his honey products. "They called us this morning and said to come get our stuff," she told me, a sure sign that Antique Tractor Show 2018 was now cancelled. The August show draws a large crowd and Mike and family who live in Sultan consider the venue a prime place to peddle their summer honey crop; most certainly a disappointment for Mike as his show sales this year, excepting day 1, unfortunately went up in smoke.

The Ripple snapped a few photos for this post, unsuccessfully tried to engage a couple of the fire crew in friendly banter, perhaps not the time and place as fire fighters' work is serious business, and left the crews to roll their hoses and store their gear. I had just donned my helmet when at the helm of a tractor and bucket rig, Matt Frohning rolled up the road. "I figured the news was bound to show up," Matt said, extending a big meaty hand and giving mine a hearty shake. "By the time I got here," he shared, "flames were shooting out the roof." Matt and family have had their share of bad luck, all of which they've shouldered with strong stoic resolve. The loss of the old barn and cancellation of the thirtieth annual Antique Tractor Show yet just another misfortune to buck up and weather. The Ripple's condolences to the Frohning family.

"Any idea what caused the fire?" I asked. "Not a backfire from one of the old "Poppin' Johnnies, I hope." Matt smiled, shook his head, "No, nothing like that. Probably something electrical. It's a very old barn, you know...." With that, The Ripple headed home to breakfast, saddened by the fact that for some time to come Elmer's Kitchen would no longer be serving up breakfast to the tractor show crowd.

The Ripple's Latest Scoop...

You heard it here first. Tomorrow, July 25, 2018, a Wednesday, preliminary work begins on the replacement of County Bridge #155 over Riley Slough. This project has been in the works for three years. Work was postponed because another County bridge replacement up north somewhere was deemed a priority, and because the County is fueled by our tax dollars, there just weren't sufficient funds to upgrade two bridges at once.

This morning Gladys and I stopped to take photos of the County work order and the rustic cabin that was home to the Kevin Olson family for twenty some years. As we pedaled on, I heard hammering beside the last outbuilding to the north. Standing behind his work van, a young man was pounding away on some sort of construction. The Ripple has a nose for news and I smelled some now. I asked the worker what he was cobbling together. "A temporary power pole," he replied between blows. Further queries revealed the stanchion would provide interim power for a construction company who employed him. "A crew is coming in tomorrow to demolish the house and these outbuildings," he replied. "I guess they're going to replace the old bridge. They'll need a power source while they do the work."

Call it Karma, if you believe in such a thing. Turns out the photos attached to this post will be the last ones taken of that quaint little bungalow perched on the shady north bank of Riley Slough. Tomorrow it will be hauled off in splintered shambles. From its forlorn appearance and unkempt lawn I knew it must no longer be occupied. The cabin was always neat and trim, flowers in window boxes and hanging baskets, the lawn close cropped...a sign that someone cared. Now just a few odds and ends in the carport and a faded American flag give testimony to its former residents. There's just something depressing about an abandoned home.

Three years ago this October, Kevin Olson and property owner Ginger Mullendore met with Councilman Dave Somers to discuss the fate of the bridge and its impact on her property. Kevin, tenant and current resident, who has seen the property change hands a time or two, was most concerned as the proposed bridge approach would pass only two or three feet from his doorstep. The Ripple was on hand to record the meeting (The Meeting at Bridge 155, 10/6/2015). Somers listened to their concerns but as the County's right-of-way had been breached, there was little he could do to find a solution. As part of the bridge replacement project County engineers had decided to straighten out the "dog leg" blind corner on the north bridge approach. To adjust the "kink," the County would realign the bridge approach by moving the Upper Loop to the west. The real estate required to effect the move would include part of the lawn of the old Victorian home on the south bank of Riley and nearly the entire front yard of Kevin's cabin.

The Ripple has frequently referred to the Tualco Loop as the Tualco Valley Speedway and for good reason: its many straight stretches.

I'm afraid the engineers' "safety measure" will have unintended consequences. My fear is that by straightening the stretch of road between the Upper Loop and Lower Loop intersection Valley speeders, namely motorcycles, "crotch rockets" and testosterone fueled hotrodders will have a quarter mile more in which to accelerate before they reach the next section of straight roadway stretching from the south bridge approach all the way to the Tualco Grange. The 35 mph speed limit is already a joke for the many scofflaw speedsters passing through our Valley and having nearly a half mile of straight road will serve as an invitation for them to "see what this baby will do." What has been a leisurely passageway through a scenic, pastoral Valley will now become an unregulated, unpatrolled race course, putting all who live in and commute through the Valley at risk.

Livestock that Wriggles...

Even though you're farmin' just one slim acre, there are the routine morning chores. I tend the chickens first, release them from the coop into the run, make sure they have food and water (old farm tenet: "Feed and water your animals first, then go to breakfast"). After they're flushed from the coop, I check their food supply, watering "trough," and scatter about the run a handful or two of hen scratch and sunflower seed. Then it's on to the potted plants, see to their irrigation needs before the day heats up. Perhaps I'll hoe a weed or two....

This summer, however, I've added one more task to the morning's routine. I mosey past the chickens out to the willow tree and gather a bundle of leaves, this season's growth, lush and tender, pasturage, you might say for my summer's strange experiment: tending caterpillars, a project that began when my environmentally sensitive friend Nancy L brought me a large moth she found clinging to some new construction she had going. Instead of dispatching the moth in the deep freeze overnight, I left it in the jar in which it came. Next morning I was dismayed to find during the night the moth had tried to escape its confines (Moths? Creatures of the night? I should have known better...) and badly frayed one of its forewings. Before its escape attempt the moth deposited nearly four dozen bluish- green eggs on the bottom of the jar. Thus began my ongoing project.

A bit of research turned up a website for PNW moths (Plate III) and as I knew my specimen belonged to the family Sphingidae (sphinx moths), it took little time to find the moth among its cousins. My bug was a blind-eyed sphinx moth (Paonias excaecatus), a misnomer because the moth wasn't sightless (most likely named for the eye spots on the hindwings). More research revealed the moth's host plants were willow, cottonwood, and poplar, helpful information should the eggs prove viable which at this point I had no way of knowing. (Sometimes under stress the unmated female will lay eggs, her last ditch effort to reproduce.)

Checking the jar each morning became routine. Four mornings passed. The eggs remained unchanged, cemented to the bottom of jar as deposited. Day five I noticed a few eggs had lost their color, were white, translucent. Curled next to the shells and not much larger than a point 12 font  comma were a half dozen larvae. I had read that a caterpillar's first meal is usually a portion of the egg case from which it emerged. Nonetheless, I headed for the pussywillow bush for some fresh leaves for the 'pillars' main course. Over the span of a week the other eggs hatched and I had some three dozen little wrigglies to tend.

I wasn't sure the little hatchlings would feed on the willow. My Pennsylvania friend Ron who has had considerable experience rearing moths suggested I include some cherry and apple leaves as well, both of which I added to the willow. Whether the tiny larvae were feeding on these provisions I had no way of knowing until a couple mornings later I noticed tiny specks of "frass" (caterpillar "poop") on the bottom of the jar. Next, ragged little notches in the young leaves of the willow, which, I learned, were the preferred browse of the larvae; the apple and cherry leaves were ignored.

The caterpillars' voracious appetites put me in mind of Eric Carle's children's book The Very Hungry Caterpillar, whose principal character's gustatory behavior was represented by larger and larger holes in the cardboard pages. The larvae consumed handfuls of fresh leaves daily, leaving only twigs and stems behind. The stage where they were able to escape through the toothpick holes in their saran wrap ceiling lasted only a few days. I soon had to transfer them to a larger container and chose a gallon bucket covered in tulle netting. The growing larvae continued to consume quantities of leaves and sometimes required two feedings per day.

In the early stages of my caterpillar tending I remained in contact with Ron, asking his advice on how best to tend the fast growing larvae. The larval stage of the moth, as with most insects, is the second of four stages in the metamorphosis cycle (egg, larva, pupa, adult).

My moth species, Ron told me, pupates in the ground (unlike butterflies that pupate above ground, hanging by an integument beneath a leaf, twig or stem); the sphinx moth larva burrows into the soft soil at the base of the host plant and there evolves into a pupa or chrysalis.

In order to accommodate the larvae's subterranean rite of passage, I had to provide a third container for their convenience and chose a wooden nuc box in which I had received a small colony of honeybees this past spring. I filled the bottom with five or so inches of loose compost, an excellent medium for whatever burrowing they needed to do. First supplying the larvae with a bundle of fresh willow leaves, I transferred them to their third container.

(Note: In the world of Nature infant butterflies and moths have an astounding mortality rate: less than one percent complete the cycle from egg to adult. In addition to the whims of weather, floods, fires, parasitic wasps and parasitoid ichneumon flies ravage eggs, the larvae, the chrysalids, the latter two literally eaten from the inside out by the ravenous larvae of the parasites.

It was my intent to boost the survival rate through human intervention by providing the caterpillars a secure incubator. As some of these parasites are tiny themselves, I worry that some might enter the nuc box through the small gauge ventilation mesh. As things stand, whether for lack of food or water or natural mortality, some  larvae have already perished; only two dozen or so survived for the third transfer.)

As of this posting there are fewer than a dozen of the fat grubs feasting on the leaves, and I have yet to see any deceased wrigglies lying on the soil. It is my hope the others have burrowed in, exchanged their soft exteriors for the carapace-like shells of the chrysalis. When the last larva has disappeared, I'll store the box in the shed, hopefully protecting any chrysalids from marauding parasites. This fall I'll sift through the compost and retrieve whatever (if any) chrysalises lie beneath the surface. I'll follow Ron's instructions: "Layer them in paper towels in a large container, mist the contents once in a while and be sure to include something for the adults to climb and cling to while their wings inflate and dry." I'm crossing my fingers that the fall harvest will include at least a pair of pristine sphinx moths, wings unfrayed, to join their mother in her collecting case. The surplus, if any, I'll set free in the Valley night.

The Memorial Strawberry: A Sweet Legacy...

Two years ago this past May farmer Tim Frohning left our Valley and this life (The Valley Loses another Farmer). In attendance at his memorial  along with a standing room only crowd were a thousand strawberry plants (outside in the parking lot), one of the farming projects Tim was unable to finish. Guests were encouraged to take a four inch potted plant to celebrate a farmer's life. I chose two, one for my daughter who was unable to attend, and myself.

In a vacant spot in the garden, at end of a short row, I watered in the little start. If you're a gardener, no need to tell you about the strawberry's penchant for self-propagation: one plant becomes a patch by summer's end; come season two, the patch has doubled. As the patch expanded, it became an aggravation to till around and weed. I vowed to contain it in a raised bed, a permanent patch I could easily tend and cover.

This spring, two seasons later, I finally tackled the job. My finished project was a 4' x 4' square made from 2" x 12" stock, the joints tightly lag screwed in place. The four foot square was the perfect size for the four foot wide heavy gauge plastic mesh pieces I knew would be necessary to protect the crop from the berry farmer's nemesis: those thievin' robin redbreasts. After I filled the bed with compost and garden soil, I dismantled the patch. Tim's solitary strawberry had runnered off three dozen or so offspring. I chose twenty of the most vigorous plants and set them in the raised bed, watering in each with a liberal dose of fish fertilizer. I was able find foster homes for most of the remaining sprouts; the rest I tilled under.

The plants bloomed and the fruit set. As soon as the first berries blushed pink, I put the bird barrier in place...just the perfect size to protect the raised bed, the cover easily peeled back to access the crop. From three of four pickings I've treated myself to fresh, sliced berries with my morning's dry cereal and had enough fruit leftover for a homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie.

My little patch, its berries recall the memory of Tim Frohning, that mischievous twinkle in his eye, his quick wit, hearty laugh, and gift for helping others. Perhaps it's only imagination but for some reason these strawberries seem extra sweet to me, maybe because of the work I've put into the patch, but I suspect it's the memories of Tim that enhance their sweetness....

Goji, Goji-ing, Gone...or so I Thought...

My brother Kevin has a penchant for horticultural exotics. On his forty acre "experimental" farm in Orting, Washington, (Chippingtwigfarms) you'll find a curious variety of strange plants: bamboo, kiwi fruit, several species of pussy willow, borage (?), horseradish, paw paw, persimmon. Berry esoterics: Aronias, honeyberry, high bush cranberry, goumi berry, jostaberry. The 'Twig farmstand also stocks the more conventional berries in season: blueberries, raspberries, thornless blackberries, blackcaps (NOT thornless), currants, red and black. Then cruising the cutting edge of the envelope, brother forges on with mulberries, elderberries (an elixir for winter's coughs and colds: black elderberry syrup, "winter's tonic,"one might say). And lets not forget the figs and gingseng.

My three brothers and I have gardening in common; each of us, however, gardens at our own level. Kevin, whose goal has been to have a farm stand from which to market locally grown organic produce, gardens more on a commercial scale. The other brothers three are more backyard gardeners with gardens scaled down to family size but always with an excess to share with the neighbors or the local food bank. We pride ourselves on the produce we can lay aside for the winter months...an ant vs. grasshopper sort of thing. Whenever we find a new variety of vegetable, berry or fruit, it's been a family tradition to share our gardening discoveries with each other.

And that's how three years ago at our family Christmas Doin's thanks to Kevin's plant exotica I was given the gift of the Goji. I had never heard of a Goji bush but the novelty of the plant had its appeal. A little research in a seed catalog touted the Goji as: "renowned in China for centuries (should have been the first red flag--excuse the pun) for a nearly boundless list of health benefits (a Goji berry a day keeps the Dr. away")... "...the fruit ('These sweet, super nutritious berries') are high in anti-oxidants and contain more beta-carotene than carrots." "Wow!" I thought, "Only to step into the backyard garden for "a virtual shelf of vitamins, minerals and health aids" and armed with this stunning information, in mid-March I planted the eight inch sprig.

As so often happens in life, beneath the good news, lurks the bad. I should have read the "small print" that followed, especially the sentence that said: "The plants have a dense, spiny, vining habit, and prefer well-drained soil with full sun exposure." The Goji and the garden's sunny, "well-drained" soil hit it off immediately. By summer's end Goji had grown to a sizable bush. A few delicate star-shaped flowers bloomed, sprinkled here and there among the vines. Flowers, yes, but not a single berry. After all, I thought, it's just the first year.

Next spring I pruned the bush back to the ground, only to learn later the Goji fruits on last year's growth.  Goji responded to its bushwhacking with a vengeance. To encourage it to climb, I built a trellis which the spiny tentacles soon covered. Mid-summer pruning did nothing to deter its prodigious growth. By fall Goji had commandeered a sizable portion of the garden, claiming ever more real estate by snaking its spiny feelers every which way.

Wherever the tendrils touched down, Goji established roots, cloned itself like the principal in a sci-fi movie. More blossoms than the year before, yes, but of those little red nubbins of health...not a sign.

On our slim acre I have certain expectations of the plants I tend. All I ask is for reasonable payback. Seems only fair for the watering, pruning, and weeding attention I lavish on the plant, a gardener's quid pro quo, you might say.

For the plants that fail to produce, I'm hanging judge and executioner, and I soon built a solid case against Goji: three years and no"super nutritious berries,"only healthy exercise from pruning the thicket and rooting out the baby Gojiis that sprouted willy nilly like mushrooms. We, Goji and I, had developed an adversarial relationship. Because of its invasive tendencies I referred to Goji as "the bush that ate the garden."

"Goji," I decided, you gotta go," and moved the thicket to the head of my list of spring pruning projects. Come "G" day, I honed the pruning loppers, grabbed a shovel, a new pair of work gloves and went out to do battle. I soon realized my task was like untying the Gordian Knot. The spiny vines were so enmeshed, I had to cut away lengths of vine, unraveling each section by section until I freed it from the grips of its fellows. Finally after an hour of bushwhacking, Goji's trunk hove into view. Shovel at the ready, I moved in for the kill. But Goji, as in the old pioneer saying, had "set down roots" and was not about to relinquish its stubborn grip on the garden's "well-drained soil."With much grunting (me) and roots popping (Goji), we went at it for a quarter of an hour. One final decisive thrust of the spade and with a loud pop, I severed the last of the tap roots and yanked the root ball free.

It was a hard fought battle and out of respect for Goji, I decided to commute its death sentence: instead of the burn pile, give it a second chance off the property on the right-of-way across the road. It would prove a formidable foe against Riley Slough should it flood come fall. It'll serve as a verdant dike, I thought.

Here's the sequel. Big Goji was gone, but all summer long infant Goji remembrances popped up here and there, testimony to the vast root system still lurking in the "well-drained" soil. I extended my hoeing routine to grub out these less than fond memories. Come fall, I thought I'd eradicated Goji's next generation, so imagine my surprise when just the other day I noticed a suspicious type of foliage masquerading as a currant bush: Goji had returned: the gift that keeps on giving.

As brother Kevin shared, there are two varieties of Goji: a summer variety and a late summer. The latter will flower, set, but the fruit will never mature because of our short growing season; however, if you are so inclined to give the Goji a go, be sure to ask your local Master Gardener: "Is this Goji right for me?"