​            It is the Saturday after Thanksgiving and as is typical in most years the Season of Advent begins for most Christian denominations on Sunday.  One of our local churches celebrates a “Hanging of the Greens” Service to mark the beginning of Advent and their spiritual journey toward Christmas.
            For years they have included the Farm in their service by procuring Farm-made wreaths and a garland for the church entrance area.  We have always welcomed the sale of the greens and hung them as a small service to the members of that important community pillar.
            The afternoon is amazingly pleasant for late November and it shouldn’t take very long to hang the garland.  Before I start, I add some fresh nails and begin to wire the fresh garland around the church entrance.  But damn—there is a little bit of a problem.  The garland is too short; if left in place it would look like someone wearing pants that are a couple of sizes too small—not very flattering especially as a symbol of everlasting life.  So I take down the garland and head back to the Farm to get a 30’ rather than the usual 25’ garland that we have used for years.  Apparently my new nails have rounded out a more attractive but slightly longer path for the garland.  And our new garland winding machine is equipped with a totally accurate builtin measuring gauge so the garlands from years past may have been a little longer than they were meant to be.  It is kind of maddening but on this pretty afternoon I remain calm.
            Back at the Farm,  a family of accomplished musicians are taking turns playing Christmas carols on the Farm piano located on the Big Barn porch.  The carols are so beautiful wafting across the landscape.  While Taylor goes to work making my new 30’ garland, I get ready to take a walk with my son Ben who is visiting from Florida for the holiday weekend.
            We amble off to strains of Pachelbel’s Canon coming from the piano.  It is just the beginning of the piece as drama and tension build.  Our first stop is to overlook the River’s quiet flow.  The water is darkly clear but its mirrored surface reflects the streaky sky’s myriad of late afternoon color.  Then we walk around the field past tall weeds and prairie plants and grasses as the sun drops toward the horizon and finally sets.  I think that Canon in D still playing in my head is an apt accompaniment to a really pretty walk and sunset. 
            Outside of Greenhouse 7 I grab the new 30’ garland and then head the truck back to the church even though it is now nearly dark.  The church entrance is well illuminated by a sign and I am able to quickly hang the fresh garland, trimming just a bit off of each end.  Then I hang the two 24” Fraser Fir wreaths with hand-tied red velvet bows, one on each door.   In my opinion the church’s simple traditional entranceway looks beautiful with the addition of the garland and wreaths.  I’ve done my Hanging of the Greens service for this year.  Of course the real “Hanging of the Greens” Service will come in the morning.  But I feel very lucky, the greens have framed a late afternoon/evening full of beauty and camaraderie.  I have been blessed. 

In our kind of business we hear and witness a lot of cancer stories.  Not all of them have very happy endings.  Sometimes folks ask us about why we are involved with Relay for Life, usually wondering whether we have a cancer story.  It turns out that we do have a story.

Nancy's mother went from colonoscopy to colon surgery in a day.  The cancerous mass was large and advanced.  There was no time to think about it.  Arlene, still half-sedated from the colonoscopy procedure, went marching into battle against a dangerous aggressor.  She didn't have a lot of choice but at least her medical generals had some weapons and a plan that just might work if she was tough enough.  As the initial shock of the situation moved into good recovery from surgery, one begins to sort things out.  Nancy, just starting to get ready for a new season at fledgling Redbud Creek Farm had a little problem.  First her mother had a really serious health problem.  That same mother was also her only real employee at the Farm.  Without this key employee, how will enough of the various tasks for a new season ever be completed?

As soon as Arlene regained a semblance of good health her next step was chemotherapy.  In those days, not that long ago, chemotherapy was a really big deal for most colon cancer patients as these amazingly toxic chemicals were administered aggressively enough to terminate the cancer without quite terminating the patient.  With each administration of the drugs the negative effects on Nancy's Mom zoomed, several times sending her back to the hospital.  As the situation worsened, Nancy faced increasing concern about her mother and it became increasingly obvious that Mom wasn't going to be deadheading plants anytime soon.

Amid all of the trauma of watching your mother grow sicker and wondering how this crazy business was going to get off the ground, a customer named Kim appears in the checkout line and asks Nancy how things are going.  Nancy tells Kim about her mother and the fact that she is not only really sick, but Nancy's only day to day worker.  Kim mentions that her own mother whose name is Phyllis just quit her job and might be able to help out.  Nancy wonders if this exchange about a potential new helper was arranged in heaven.  Within a few days Nancy has hired her first employee-Phyllis is working at the Farm.  And the wonderment about that conversation with Kim and the gift of Phyllis has never diminished.  Phyllis has brought so much to the Farm-her can do attitude, her generosity, her friendliness, her skills and work ethic, and all her props and furniture and connections-she has very much contributed to the unique atmosphere and mission that make Redbud Creek Farm so special.

Nancy's mother went through two regimens of chemotherapy until she nearly died from it.  Apparently the cancer cells were killed or retreated so deeply that they haven't reappeared yet.  Arlene slowly recovered and eventually resumed several tasks at the Farm.  And even now, well beyond normal retirement, she still keeps track of employee hours, compensation, and reports to the governmental authorities.  It has grown into quite a job-there were 17 different employees to keep track of last year.

And Phyllis too, still works at the Farm mostly on special projects.  She did most of the seeding this year which is kind of a big deal since we grow all of our vegetables from seed as well as some annuals.  Phyllis has been dogged by several cancer episodes too including all the diagnostic routines followed by surgeries, additional post op treatments, and watchful waiting.  Through it all she has managed to retain her positive attitude and sense of humor.  

At the Farm we have been blessed in many ways including the contributions of two special women;  Nancy's mother. Arlene, and our first employee and very good friend, Phyllis Hecathorn.  Not so many years ago cancer would have claimed both these womet.  Instead their lives have continued to unfold in fairly normal ways, and all of us at Redbud Creek Farm have been enriched.  We are grateful to have Relay for Life, it could not be more aptly named or more important to the essence of who we arte at the Farm.  Won't you join us?

The book The $64 Tomato by William Alexander (Algonquin Books ©2007) was a Christmas gift from our public defender son.  If his legal choices are half as right on as was this book for his two aging, yuppyish, gardening parents, it would appear that his clients are getting very competent representation.

At its heart, The $64 Tomato is a compelling saga of establishing and growing a super garden, interwoven with home, family and their Hudson River Valley locale.  The narrator and chief gardener is a manager of computer systems at a Research Institute and his wife is a medical doctor.  They have two children.  The narrative spans approximately 20 years as they progress through middle age.

Alexander’s writing is remarkably pleasant; for Nancy and me it was a spring day that we just had to embrace.  Though he is articulate and obviously bright, he is funny with a refreshing sense of humility and candor.  His overall story is entertaining, occasionally poignant and sweet yet wistful.  The prologue titled “Gentleman Farmer” (reproduced here without permission, so please don’t bust me) typifies the author’s style and sets the stage for what to expect from this little tome:

                “Why can’t Dad be more like other dads?” Katie asked my wife recently.  “All my friends’ dads spend Sundays watching football and drinking beer.”  Then for good measure she added, “I wish we had a normal family.”

                I was flabbergasted when I heard this.  This is a thirteen-year-old’s ideal of a father?  Belching beer in front of the TV on a Sunday afternoon?  I realize that most teenage girls think their families are weird (and their friends’ families cool), but still I was a little hurt.  While this conversation was taking place, I was in the garden, of course, even though it was December.  The first hard freeze of the season was coming in overnight, and I needed to harvest the remaining leeks.  Later, while the Jets were blowing a close one, I was in the kitchen, making steaming leek-potato soup that Katie positively swooned over at dinner.  And she wanted to trade me in for a beer-drinking couch potato?

                Granted, I have my obsessions and eccentricities, the garden being most obvious, and maybe I’m not a typical dad, but I’m certainly normal.  I decided to visit Zach’s bedroom for a reality check from a levelheaded seventeen-year-old.

                “Zach, you’d say I’m a normal dad and we’re a normal family, wouldn’t you?”

                “Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…”  He nearly fell out of his chair, where he might have vanished for days beneath a deep pile of unwashed laundry, sweatshirts, textbooks, magazines, a trombone and a euphonium, and two guitars.

                “I’ll take that as a no?”

                “You’ve got to be kidding,” Zach said, turning to face me directly.  Zach has mastered the teenage art of subtly turning the tables on parent-child roles and making me feel the child, sheepish and a little embarrassed as he assumes the role of a wise parent.  “Nothing is normal about this family,” he lectured, not smiling.

                I’ve long known that I’m a little short on self-awareness, but this gap between my very own kid’s perception of our family life and mine was shocking nonetheless.

                “In what ways, Zach?  It feels pretty normal to me.”

                “Dad, just look around.”  Zach said, becoming exasperated with my denseness.  “Take this house, for one.  And you just came in from the garden.  In freakin’ December.”

                “How was that leek soup tonight?”

                “And you cook.”

                “It was good, wasn’t it?  I think the leeks are sweeter late in the year.”

                Zach spun his chair back to his computer, sighing and shaking his head.  “December,” I heard him mutter under his breath.

While the book has relevance well beyond the garden, it is the experienced gardener who will find the author’s perfectly-paced stories and segues so eminently familiar and enjoyable.  Book reviewers often mention the words “cautionary tale” or some such phrase and I’m pretty sure those words have been applied to this text.  So while the veteran gardener might identify many aspects of this book as her story, it is the aspiring gardener who might take some cues from Mr. Alexander and prepare for some of the issues in her immediate future.

Nancy and I especially liked The $64 Tomato because so much of it reminded us of our experiences in gardening (the weather, the weeds, the pests, the chemical dilemmas) and in other aspects of life; owning an old house, living and raising a son in a not quite typical 20th or 21st century American existence.  As garden center proprietors we found the book full of insights and challenges for though William and Dr. Ann Alexander might (unfortunately) not be our customers, we know and serve many who are replicating significant aspects of their adventures.   

(The book, The $64 Tomato is available at Redbud Creek Farm.)

Once again I am working on the rock garden, the one just to the right of the “Welcome” structure as you enter the garden center from the main parking area.  There is a lot of grass growing into the creeping thyme and it is a never-ending job to keep it out.  It puts me in a foul mood.  I’m wondering do they have tasks like this over at the “big box” stores?  And of course I know the answer—because they don’t have an actual planted garden, or tree, or even a real grass strip anywhere near their paved garden centers.

I’m remembering the beautiful May morning in Atlanta 2008 when our son graduated from Emory University.  The commencement speaker was Bernard Marcus, one of the co-founders and first CEO (for 19 years) of Home Depot.  Though Mr. Marcus’ speech was not exactly legendary (as say Steve Jobs’ commencement address at Stanford in 2005), he told enough about his life and his experiences that you knew he was very bright and very rich and to his credit, very generous with his money.

As a first generation American, the son of Russian Jewish immigrants living in Newark, NJ, young Bernie was accepted to medical school at Harvard University.  But because he was Jewish and at that time there was a quota of how many Jews would be allowed to attend Harvard’s medical school, Bernie Marcus’ admission had a “little” prerequisite.  He was required to make a “special” contribution of $10,000 to Harvard before he would be allowed to attend medical school, an amount that was simply impossible for the Marcus family.  As I dig in the clay containing the offending grass rhizomes, I’m thinking such discrimination is sickening and I sure wish that the Bernie had been treated fairly and gone on to medical school and a great career in medicine.  I guess I’m also wondering why he couldn’t have applied at some other institutions but apparently this prejudice against Jews was quite widespread among medical schools at that time.

Bernie thought he wanted a health career so he went on to become a pharmacist but couldn’t have spent much time filling scripts.  Instead he found his niche in the retail part of the drug store business and eventually ended up as the head of a home improvement chain based in Los Angeles called Handy Dan’s.  Bernie then 49 and his future partner at Depot both got fired from Handy Dan’s after some kind of management squabble.  I am finding a lot of very well-rooted grass in the thyme.  As I keep pulling it out I am thinking it’s too bad that Handy Dan’s was so stupid.  Why couldn’t they have kept things going and like my favorite fast food chain, In-N-Out Burger, just continued to do their thing in California or on the west coast.

The truth be told, I like Bernie Marcus and Home Depot and the fact that people with a good idea can succeed and make oodles of money in our country.  I think their philosophy of “stack it high and watch it fly” is great when it comes to lots of items—even some in the garden area; tools, pots, fertilizer, chemicals, seeds and the like.  I’m not so sure how well it works in so called green goods, especially with most of the live plants, but of course it doesn’t matter what I think.  We have been told by suppliers to the industry that Home Depot alone does as much garden related business as all of the independent garden centers in the country.

Bernie and his team and his successors are great marketers.  They have established a network of stores that are easily accessed, full of well-displayed merchandise that lots of folks can use.  They have made the shopping experience relatively pleasant and made buyers feel that they are getting a pretty good deal.  They are so big and so rich that sometimes you wonder why you would even try to compete with them.  And how is digging out this damn grass going to help this little Garden Center on the hill above Redbud Creek be competitive with Bernie Marcus’ Depot and all the other big boxes conveniently located on major highways with paved parking lots and cartloads of factory grown plants stacked head high.

Actually the answer is simple.  We are going to have a pretty place so if you are able to spend an extra 10 or 15 minutes getting here you will be rewarded with that simple beauty.  Perhaps, my delightfully grass-free aromatic thyme will welcome you as you amble across the gravel from your parking spot.  And from my perch on my knees, I am going to greet you and see how we can help you.  If by chance you’re looking for plants I’ll direct you or (if I can get up quickly enough) I will walk you past all kinds of beautiful plants, most of which were grown right here, to what you are looking for.  If you want I will suggest alternatives.  I will show what combinations are really stunning.  I will help you to find the look you are seeking with colorful vigorous plants and the price will be very fair.  And I will not let you plant creeping thyme bordering Kentucky bluegrass.  Ever.    

 

Before Carole A left the “monotony” of Southwest Florida weather to return to the Chicago area where she was born and had lived most of her life, she asked my father if we would take in a few boxes and store them in our machinery warehouse until she picked them up.  Within a few days UPS delivered a total of 26 white “file storage” boxes (sometimes called “Bankers Boxes”) to the warehouse.  The boxes were piled on a large double axle cart awaiting Carol A’s arrival.  The anticipated rendezvous never occurred.  For though Carole A returned to Chicagoland, she almost immediately became very sick and was hospitalized; the diagnosis—end stage lung cancer.  She died within a few weeks.

After more than six years of waiting for Carole A’s son to claim the boxes the task has fallen to me to deal with them as we prepare to vacate the machinery warehouse.  I’m thinking that the contents of the boxes probably belongs mostly in the dumpster but maybe there are some items I should take to Goodwill or save for her son in the unlikely event we can track him down again.  With my Swiss army knife drawn, I tackle the tape on the first box.

The tape on the box is consistent with the Carole I once knew; applied quickly, haphazardly, and in great abundance.  The tape job may not be stylish but it is effective—getting the top off the box requires quite a bit of effort.  And I’m not sure the effort is worthwhile.  The box yields a bible in a wooden box plus some paperback self-help books, two damaged ceramic statues of elephants, a rather nice tall Virgin Mary statue wrapped in a towel apparently for protection, unfortunately the haloed head has broken off in transit.  The box includes a couple of oversize t-shirts and lots of business cards proclaiming, “Carole ‘A’” and listing the real estate brokerages with which she was affiliated.

Our long time shop supervisor, now retired but moonlighting for a few hours a week as his place of employment for fifty years finally closes, comes over and decides to go to work opening boxes.  After attacking the layers of sticky tape and dusty cardboard for several minutes with a dull box cutter, he finally manages to open a couple of boxes.  One yields several old sweat shirts and the other a number of pairs of shoes and boots.  In disgust he says to me, “why don’t we just stack these boxes in the dumpster—they’re so damned hard to open and you know this stuff’s just gonna be all junk.”  I demur telling him that I’ll open them.  He heads home (probably with a stop at a favored local “watering hole”) and I continue.  It’s just me and Carole’s memory in a big industrial structure full of production metalworking machinery that needs rebuilding.  The building is old with lots of windows and skylights so there is plenty of natural if somewhat muted light.  Various furnaces drone on then flick off keeping the place around 40 degrees.

I slit open some more boxes.  More clothes for relaxation; loose fitting and large.  I wonder if Carole gained some weight since the days I knew her.  Then there is a little collection of Christmas stuff, more paperback books and lots of purses and handbags that will be great for Goodwill.  I first met Carole when I started working in the machinery business as a high school junior.  She was what was then called a secretary.  She could write in shorthand faster than ordinary people could speak and even more incredibly, she could actually type finish quality documents as a person spoke normally.  I was 16 years old; she was 32 and the mother of a 10-year-old.  She and her child shared an apartment with her mother.  Carole loved to talk especially about politics, religion, and general gossip.  She was hardworking, dedicated to her son, and very attached to her church.

I am getting almost adroit at opening the boxes.  There is a space just under the lid which becomes the target for the knife so I end up cutting mostly layers of tape and very little of the cardboard.  The flow of items continues:  well used hair dryers and heated curlers, a hot pot, all shapes of paper containers, a like new little blue clock, lots of oversize loose fitting clothes, a National Geographic coffee table book on elephants, theology/philosophy books by Jacque Maritain and Dietrich Bonhoeffer and lots of feel good pop psychology by Leo Buscaglia.  Not long after I got to know Carole she went to work on helping me gain admittance to my dream college, the University of Notre Dame.  That was typical Carole—fired up in pursuit of an impossible cause that really wouldn’t benefit her in the slightest.

Her efforts were huge and brassy beyond belief.  With her sometimes infectious enthusiasm she got her friendly very well -connected parish priest to get three other very prominent clerics to write letters of recommendation on my behalf.  Whether her efforts were responsible we’ll never know for sure; but I ended up in one of the most selective colleges in the country.  And so while I can’t say that Carole was a saint or that I never had serious disagreements with her, she will always occupy a very special spot in my psyche.

As I continue the great unpacking, I think about Carole.  By the time I returned from college all full of business school knowledge and youthful vim and vigor, Carole had probably worked for the company for 10 years.  She worked well enough with my father, his partner, and me, but with everyone else there was always some kind of issue or conflict brewing.  Still we were productive and profitable.  She drove out a kind of all-around-guy who did sales, managed projects in the shop, handled shipping, and did the company’s books. 

My sister joined the company as the bookkeeper and cost analyst.  Carole had a hard time with that.  She didn’t like working with women and she felt cheated that the job didn’t go to her despite her lack of accounting knowledge.  I thought Carole was pretty good with customers and I encouraged her to learn more about the machinery, but my father was firmly rooted in that Don Draper pre-contemporary era where women could work hard—just not have any significant power or salary and in truth there were very few women in the industry in those days.  So Carole secretly began studying to obtain a real estate broker’s license.  I figured what she was up to and I remember the day she learned she passed the test; she wouldn’t reveal what she achieved but she was very happy.  So it was no big surprise when she blew some slight or disagreement into a big deal and quit.  I empty at least three boxes filled with real estate books, manuals and test materials from both Illinois and Florida into the dumpster.  There are parts of listings, contracts, and memorabilia from some of her successful transactions.

And beyond more purses, shoes, and oversized clothes, there are all kinds of books on sales, self motivation, and religion.  When I worked with Carole she was a liberal Democrat.  From conversations through the years I knew she had veered politically rightward.  I chuckle as I unpack books by Limbaugh and O’Reilly and religious tomes by Rick Warren and other conservative pastors.  There are a couple of books on food and then there are loads of VHS tapes; a couple on nature themes but mostly Sopranos episodes she probably recorded.

In one of the last boxes I come across a special newspaper section on Hurricane Charley, a category 4 storm that smashed SW Florida in 2004 not long after Carole had moved there.  Carole found the whole thing pretty traumatic; the damage, the heat, the initially slow pace of recovery, the algae growing in her soaked carpets all the while with no way to generate income.  As I look around at the piles for Goodwill, the dumpster, additional consideration, and all these ugly oversize clothes, plus dirty cardboard and too much tape now in all kinds of random messy shapes strewn everywhere, I get the feeling of a natural disaster. 

Fortunately, there is not much in the way of personal memorabilia.  There are a few death notices and prayer cards, a single black and white photo of Carole, maybe from high school, a few pieces of inexpensive jewelry.  I take about 45 minutes to get the Goodwill items packed, the cardboard ready for recycling and the balance in the dumpster.  I keep a little set of handy tools, a tall pretty vase, the little blue radio and book on elephants.

In the overall, I don’t suppose that Carole was dealt the greatest hand.  Still she sought to better herself—and at a time when many are settling back she undertook the great adventure of seeking her fortune in Florida.  Of course her timing wasn’t the best between general economic malaise, a hurricane, and local overbuilding and speculation.  I admire her spunk and her guts.  And as we mop the tables with her old towels, arrange flowers in her pretty vase, and enjoy the convenience of her little blue clock in Acorn Hall, I hope a little bit of her spirit will be present helping us to fearlessly embrace a very scary future.

It is snowing again, it’s cold enough, say 14 degrees, and it’s March with not the slightest hint that there might be a spring in our future.  It is 7:30 am, gray and full of snow propelled by a cold Northeast wind; there is already 1-1/2” on the ground burnished to a 1/8” icy compaction by thousands of tires in the traffic lanes, especially at the intersections.

I have managed to miss most of these rush hour events this year, but not today.  I am bound for Chicago to await the delivery of two big pallets of perennial roots at my old machinery warehouse.  If this was December I might love this storm, but it’s March.  These storms have been a regular occurrence since mid-November and each traffic light is taking three or four cycles to get through.

Ahead of me I watch a young mother and her three-year-old son cross the street.  Then with the little guy in the lead they walk single file on the snow covered sidewalk that parallels the street in my direction.  Traffic in front of me finally starts to creep but I am able to focus on the kid for a few seconds and it makes my morning for his face radiates joy, and wonder, and celebration. 

He delights in the magic of the fallen and falling snow—his world freshly whitened and sculpted.  He steps gently sensing the little crunch and slips underfoot, his eyes follow the glide paths of snow flakes, he is oblivious to the cold, the traffic, the ordinary.

Today is Ash Wednesday, a not necessarily immediately uplifting day to its observers.  Along with that splotch of dirty gray ash from last season’s desiccated palms there is that Genesis quote, “For dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.”  Our spiritual leaders seem naturally compelled to remind the rest of us about mortality, which is a rather significant fact whatever your religious beliefs.

I have come to believe that the state of being alive is kind of an interwoven path that includes a lot more than whether you are physically in the land of the living or not.  I’ve found it has to do with zest for life; with the capacity to think, and nurture, and enrich and with the ability to empathize, appreciate, and cherish.  I guess it has to do with the soul, the spirit, our essence.  And it’s not hard to damage or diminish the spirit.  A long winter, a bit of bad luck, ill health, or a loved one’s issues can all do it.  At the Farm we are trying get 2014 growing and so far it has been one problem after another mostly caused by the weather.  I spend the whole day in Chicago and the promised perennials (between 9 am and noon) never arrive.

It is easy to focus on the difficulties and adversities at hand.  If I can remember the child in the Ash Wednesday snow storm and his sense of wonder, enchantment, and celebration, I will be a lot better off.  It should be easy—I was that child once.    

A merchant in Ottawa recently posted an announcement on her Face Book page that began “For those of you who can’t or won’t read…”  While hopefully we would never address our friends in such a pejorative manner (even if they don’t or won’t read), I feel that Ottawa merchant’s pain.  Lately we’ve had a few incidents where people seemed to have issues with basic reading or listening.

We always like to find a cause for negative behaviors believing that it’s a lot better to ascribe errant behavior to some outside cause like lack of concentration brought on by the bad weather rather than simple lack of interest, or lack of ability, or some evil intent or worse.  This season’s weather would seem to provide a good reason for all kinds of “screw ups.”  For us the bad weather had a start date, Friday, November 15, when we had our initial Christmas/Winter open house at the Farm and an outdoor booth at Three French Hens market held at the county fairgrounds north of Morris.  Between the winds and the cold on Friday, the winds and the rain on Saturday, and tornadoes and the weirdest hail we’ve ever seen on Sunday, the season started on a low note.  Except for the very lovely black Friday when Santa visited the Farm along with two reindeer, the weather has generally left something to be desired.  And it has only gotten worse.

By mid-December about a month into this bad weather the reading problems started in earnest.  Consider this exchange of texts:
     Customer.  Hi Nancy, we were wondering if you have an area for a baby shower; if so how many people can you hold?  Early April sometime.
     Nancy.  We do rent Acorn Hall for showers, birthdays, etc.  We have seated 35-40 but really 25-30 is better.
     Customer.  So no opportunity for baby shower?
     Nancy.  Yes!—opportunity for baby shower unless you have over 35 people.
So this exchange starts badly but reading and understanding, while initially delayed, does occur.
     Customer.  OK got it, how much for an afternoon.  $.
     Nancy.  $125.
     Customer.  OK we will be in touch—thanks.

January has been a frenzy of active winter weather with almost every day bearing some kind of weather advisory or warning.  On many days the Farm’s hilly entrance lane has been impassable and so there has been a little time to address a few long-postponed tasks on the home front like closet cleaning which results in substantial piles of unneeded clothing.  We used to be canvassed regularly by callers like Vietnam Veterans announcing “a truck in your area” and asking if we had any donations.  Now you go on line, select your charity and voilà, a pick up time is scheduled.  Only sometimes there are reading issues.  Consider this exchange of emails:
     Charity.  Thank you for choosing Vietnam Veterans.  The next available pickup date is Feb 18th.  Reply by 3pm on Feb 17th.  If this works for you, please let me know.
     Nancy.  I’m sorry that date will not work.  I'll have to try for a different time.
     Charity.  Your pickup has been scheduled.  Please have your items outside before 7am with a sign attached saying “VVA.”

Now Nancy and I have plenty of our own issues beyond reading.  The Farm is a major user of propane, though normally we don’t start burning the fuel in great volumes until the end of February or early March.  By that time the big winter push is over and often prices are declining.  And we start with a couple thousand gallons of propane already in our tanks, having been placed there during the previous summer when prices are supposed to be at their lowest.  Somehow last summer or fall, though we had almost $2000 on deposit with our supplier, the result of our having paid some of their confusing (to us, anyway) bills twice, we managed to never order that the tanks be filled—so they weren’t.  We did order a fill of the tank that supplies the Big Barn in late fall (at the very reasonable price of $1.95 per gallon) so that at least the Big Barn would be toasty warm when folks came seeking wreathes, roping, décor and gifts in the approach toward Christmas.  But by last Sunday as we left the Farm just ahead of another round of sub zero temperatures, plus wind, plus snow that tank was at the very low level of 14%.  The storm began as predicted Sunday evening and the resulting drifts grew quickly.  When the winds began to abate on Tuesday we had a nearly 5’ drift across the entrance lane below the second hill and the temperature was below zero.  We knew that we didn’t have equipment or manpower to deal with the drifts and we knew that the propane truck was not going to get down the driveway.

Enter Bernie Freiders Snow Removal which was contacted around noon on Wednesday.  They promised to have the entrance lane cleared by Wednesday evening.  After the Frieders conversation Nancy called the propane supplier, explained the situation and ordered a fill of the Big Barn tank for Thursday.  It was not decided whether to fill the remaining tanks.  After considering for perhaps ten minutes Nancy called the propane supplier back and talked to another gentleman.  He was aware of the order to fill the Big Barn Tank.  They talked for a few minutes regarding the direction of propane prices and supplies and they decided that there was a chance that the price might come down a bit in the next several weeks and that they would wait to fill the other tanks since that propane wouldn’t really be needed until the last week of February or first week of March.

Back in the driveway the Freiders Snow Removers had already cleared a path to theback of the Garden Center by about 1pm.  And not long after that the propane truck rolled in and filled the Big Barn Tank and then proceeded to fill the other three tanks as well.  The driver left a bill for over $8000.00 ($4.96 per gallon).  And the truck wasn’t even supposed to come until the following day.  So the weather has apparently affected some folk’s ability to listen as well as to read.  I think Bernie Freiders’ Snow Removal price of $125 was pretty fair considering the scope of the job and their excellent work.  And it’s hardly Frieders’ fault but when you realize that the damn propane truck couldn’t have gotten within a quarter mile of the tanks without their efforts, the ironic result is the most expensive plowing job I’ve ever heard of.

Our propane supplier calls themselves the “comfort pros” which is also kind of ironic.  I am calling them the “discomfort pros” because I do think this communication issue has imposed a burden which we just didn’t need right now.  On the other hand it’s not their fault that two of the tanks were not totally full and of course this whole propane shortage has nothing to do with them, it’s just the weather (an act of God?).  I guess I am glad our supplier has propane; I’ve heard some companies don’t have it at any price.  It will be interesting to see how long this propane price problem persists; I think a corollary of Murphy’s Law predicts it will be over and business as usual by the time we don’t need it anymore.  I know Nancy and I need to be trying to improve our reading and listening skills because running a successful plant business involves a lot more than just knowing how to grow and use plants; you’ve even got to be prepared to deal with winter weather madness when most plants are dormant or exist only as seeds.  We’re all eyes and ears for any ideas on where to find another $10,000 or $15,000 to cover the unbudgeted increased propane costs.         

I have composed a little verse in observance of the Winter Solstice/Christmas season for many years.  I began the 2013 version as I awaited our son’s arrival from warmer climes in the oasis parking lot on I-294 just south of O’Hare Field in the waning minutes of Friday, December 20.  The verse was completed in the course of the following day.  Like a painter who uses her environment as a backdrop for sharing her message, I was using my observances of the weather and the days at Redbud Creek Farm as a setting for communicating my thoughts and hopes.  And while it is normal for our northern Illinois weather to oscillate between colder and warmer, I had no foreboding that a “polar vortex” was lurking in our near future.

 Freezing, Easing, Dreaming
Winter Solstice 2013

The longest night in northern Illinois
Starts rainy and cold changing to light snow
Followed by a gradual temperature decline

The weather outside is not frightful
Just miserable with no chance to seek
A comet, satellite, or star in the east

Sleighing snow is mostly melted or icy armor plate
Though the brightening dawn unveils fluffy snow
Frosting each dark stick, branch, and trunk

It is quiet at the Farm above Redbud Creek
The hubbub of growing time a memory or mirage
Just a bit of pre holiday scent still in the air

Pundits predict the demise of all things presidential
Amid the continuing slog back from the brink
With nary a glance at the ticking thermometer

Above the creek and along the river full of ice
The Farm runs on beauty’s spark and shared delight
Laced with hopes and dreams amid the flow

Above the field a bald eagle flies into the cold wind
It banks and soars, suddenly abandoning the hunt
To float in the moment, gliding on a breeze full of grace

In a few days the bitter cold will ease, ice will thaw
A time to stretch and inhale the sun, thinking of fresh growth
Before an even more powerful cold leaves you breathless.

The intersection of two well known and appreciated plants’ life cycles provides an interesting image of the calendar year’s midpoint.  Common daylilies have begun to bloom.  A myriad of fat buds are arranged on stems above the strappy foliage.  Each day groups of buds burst into that familiar orange color, silently proclaiming summer as eloquently as booming 4th of July fireworks.  Nearby the now tall reedy leaves of the daffodil clumps from which lovely yellow blooms proclaimed that spring was for real (even when it really didn’t feel like it) have finally finished performing their most important task of recharging the plant with energy collected from the sun.  The leaves lie prostrate now looking more like woven mats than one time harbingers of another growing season.  They will be completely gone soon.  And so the first half of another calendar year is history.

 

In the garden center business the half year coincides with the finish of the second quarter and the virtual conclusion of the planting season when the largest proportion of revenues are generated.  At Redbud Creek Farm we have worked mostly seven days a week since early March to ride the planting and growing wave and we view its dissipation with a mixture of emotion.  Initially there is a sense of relief that this most intensively active period is over.  It is nice to rediscover the simple joy of resuming tasks around house and leaving the Garden Center before it is dark.  We have met many new people and have seen what seems to have been a healthy increase in activity despite a not always very cooperative climate.  As I am thankful for increased revenues, I am also asking what we could have done better to attract more folks to the Farm and make their experiences more fulfilling for them and more financially rewarding for us.

Because of the nature of the year with lots of weather events beginning in late winter with a very cold and wet spring, much outdoor activity was curtailed and then pushed into very small windows of opportunity when semi -decent weather was at hand.  This gave the early season a sense that we were always running to catch up and never quite getting there.

My most vivid memory of the early season will be the very wet cool Friday, April 19.  I spent much of the day in Acorn Hall warmed by a lively fire blazing in the stove, assembling new wagons and repairing old ones while rain drummed on the roof and the radio brought alternative stories of local flooding and vague details from Boston where the city was locked down as police searched for the younger Marathon bombing suspect.  Though April was a lost month, somehow those wagons finally began to roll in May and while the weather often presented issues, it has remained relatively comfortable and in response people have been doing a lot of planting.

Due to the more than adequate moisture and fairly cool temperatures this has been a great growing year.  Many customers called to ask about blooms on trees they never recalled seeing in previous years.  With much longer bloom periods many shrubs and trees were especially noticeable this year.  Through June we enjoyed the locust and discovered the pendulous wisteria-like white bloom of the yellow- wood—a not very well known but quite handsome larger native tree—followed by Japanese tree lilacs which have bloomed for weeks.  Lately we’ve been admiring the lindens, noting that their blossoms like the lilacs are lightly but sweetly scented.  Almost everyone has noticed the “flower power” of the roses this year.  Some of our suppliers have already exhausted their stocks of roses grown for this year.

My favorite trees, which like the daylilies define this time of year and proclaim summer with panache, are the tart cherry trees now hanging low with copious amounts of perfect red fruits.  Last year after most fruit trees bloomed very early and were then hit by successive heavy frosts, most produced few if any fruits.  Sages said that the trees were getting a rest and that this year would be spectacular.  Well, for cherries it is.  Our three Montmorency cherry trees have a produced a crop that is stunningly pretty.  I love looking up at loads of clusters of bright red cherries, shiny and unblemished, framed by green leaves under a cloud-streaked blue sky.  The cherries are natural thirst quenchers, juicy and tart with a hint of sweetness, great for picking and eating and the finest in a pie.  Could the cherries be an omen, predictors of a sweet and satisfying summer and remainder of the year?  Well, probably not—but cherries are a nice way to begin the second half.

Conventional wisdom suggests that if you start flipping coins and heads comes up five times in a row it is pretty likely that the next flip will result in tails.  Statisticians remind us that such logic is wrong.   The probability of the next flip being tails is only 50% and yet since intellectually we know that something that has a 50% probability will end up happening approximately 50% of the time given a large enough number of tries, it seems pretty likely that the coin will start coming up tails.  Lately, I have been applying that logic to the weather.  I keep saying that with a very few exceptions (those were the days we recovered two greenhouses with fresh layers of plastic); the weather has been quite adverse since we began the 2013 growing season, and it is due for a change.  Well, in the overall it may be due for a change and that change will surely come, but in truth there is no prediction or increased probability for change in the near future.  So we’ll just have to live with it.

And live with it we are.  Last March was so benign that we didn’t even fix all the various little flaws in the greenhouses that allowed excess penetration of outside air.  But this year is a different story; as each greenhouse is readied for operation I seem to be adjusting doors, attaching new boards and patching the houses’ plastic and plywood skin always in what feels like a full gale.  And of course we are doing our part to melt the polar ice cap (if not the remnants of snow in our midst) by burning gallons of propane.  And just in case our regular contributions of treasure are not enough for the greedy weather gods, we just added a special little offering, ordering a couple of the tall propane cylinders that we can use for supplementary heat upon hearing that there was a chance for a storm packing possibly significant accumulations of heavy wet snow (the kind that knocks out electricity).

What is so amazing about all of this weather is that spring is truly at hand.  Over a week ago, I was unloading the van near Acorn Hall.  I kept hearing a “crinkling” noise like a sheet of plastic being crumpled up.  And since in our plastic recovering operations a piece or two of blanket-sized plastic will sometimes get carried away in the wind, I start looking for where that crinkling piece might be lodged.  I don’t find any plastic.  Eventually, I realize that the noise is emanating from the rain garden which having filled with water after heavy rains and snow melt developed a light coating of ice.  Now in the clear morning sun the thin ice was melting and basically shattering, each time making that crinkling sound.  As I listened and watched the rain garden, a pair of blue birds perched on the roof of the blue bird house that is in the middle of the garden.  Earlier that morning we saw our first red wing black birds and then later that day we became aware that the turkey vultures had just returned.  A few days later amid snow squalls and strong cold winds, I watched and listened to several groups of sand hill cranes determinedly winging their way northward.  They fly high and I could see them approaching from well south of the river and watched until they disappeared quite a way to the northwest.

We can complain about this weather – I know I have been doing so.  To me it is colder than midwinter even though the temperatures are not really that bad.  I don’t know whether it is my unfilled expectations of spring or whether I should be wearing some heavier clothing.  The trouble with the heavier clothing is that as soon as the sun comes out and I am out of the wind, all of a sudden I feel like I am on fire and drenched in perspiration.   The sun is packing quite a punch – I have already experienced sunburn and now am wearing my (Tula UPF 50+) hat trying to stave off skin cancer for a while longer. 

But given a choice (and no one gets such a choice) I would still prefer these conditions to the unnatural warmth of last year’s March.  I enjoyed last March very much.  But I did not enjoy the damage to so many trees, shrubs, and plants which leafed out way too early and were caught in the inevitable sub freezing nights of April.  And I very much missed most of our local apples and cherries and other fruits which were similarly ruined.  Actually, I can recall plenty of unpleasant weather in March; some much worse than what we have experienced so far.  I especially remember those late season snows with significant accumulations.  If only there was such a thing as a normal; maybe I would choose that.  Then again, maybe that would be boring.