Tag: New England

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Sweet Home

Some of my earliest adventures out of New York occurred in New England. I fell in love with the diversity of environment and society to be found in its comfortably sized environs. In 1965, when I launched from NYC, there was still an enormous amount of diversity in local language, mainly in pronunciation. Different areas within an hour’s drive had different takes on the pronunciation of common words. And then there were the uncommon ones not known outside a limited area. But most of my adventures occurred in only two of the region’s five states: Massachusetts and Maine. And even in those two states I found myself gravitating towards two areas.

Boston

It was Boston that I chose as my base of operation. I soon discovered that many of my friends were not proper Bostonians. They could easily detect the Rhode Islanders from the denizens of Southy (South Boston). Easty ( East Boston) was also distinctive. And that Cambridge was just plain different, being across the river. The arguments over community superiority could grow raucous and rowdy.

Boston was entirely different from East Cambridge, a short walk over the causeway. And the North Shore was geographically and historically distinct form the areas south of Boston.

Within the state of Massachusetts you did not have to travel far to enjoy large cultural and geographic changes.

Maine

Maine immediately drew me in. Not only was the accent different, but the variety of new words was amazing. In the community on the coast, where I ultimately settled for a while, I was described as “being from away.” That term was a lot more complimentary than being described as a “summer complaint.” A summer complaint had originally been summer flu. But came to mean summer residents who were pains.

Eventually, I was introduced to sailing and lobstering. And on the coast to the narrow embayments of the Kennebec and Androskoggin. Offshore, I learned to navigate and pilot by lights, buoys, and tides.

Homeward Bound

It was to Boston and Coastal Maine that I returned from expeditions elsewhere. Eventually, I found myself telling people when I was leaving that I was going home. Then I case my guitar, pack my pack, and hit the road heading back to Boston, Portland, or some similar location. Eventually, I just stayed, went to university, took jobs, and admitted that this was where I belonged.

I’ve settled in central Massachusetts, but given a second chance, I’d scurry with the family back to the coast. It is an adjustment of only sixty miles, but a huge distance in culture, geography, and history. As I said, that’s been the pleasure of the region, you don’t have to go far to get away.

But it is to the coast that I’d scramble. There, I can get really fresh seafood in a seafood restaurant, and the “flats” have their distinctive low-tide scent. You can predict the change in weather with the changes in the tide and wind shifts, and there is a real nautical twilight. Oh, yeah…I know which boatyards occasionally need a marine carver, and which boatbuilding friend can be inveigled out of lofting a boat for a long lunch at our favorite hole in the wall restaurant near Plum Island.

Home, there is nothing like it.

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Cultivating My Garden – Stream of Consciousness Saturday

I have tried a variety of gardening methods over the years. I’ve finally settled on high raised beds. It’s not just that my back, knees, and arthritic feet complain less. It’s about post-glacial New England. I live on a hill composed mostly of gravel, sand, and rock left behind by the retreating ice sheets. Soil is incidental, and thin.

When we moved into the house, the surrounding area was truly scrubby lawn. It was lawn that seemed to gasp out, “Please let me die!” It was onto this surface that I labored to create a garden. First, I trucked in soil, then I kept on enriching with compost, mulch, and any organic amendments I could find. Slowly I had a few inches of soil to play with. One winter I covered the garden with salt meadow hay that a friend offered. A brief experiment with straw bale gardening wound up composting and becoming an offering to the garden soil.

From a bare few inches to really deep

At last, a few years ago, I took the plunge and got some high beds. I have not looked back since. If you were to ask me what the primary thing I truly loved about these new beds is, I’d have to say it’s the soil profile. Each bed has a deep, deep soil profile. I no longer have a mere few inches of soil. My soil profile is over two feet deep.

Of course, every bit of soil from the old beds went into the new, but that was nowhere near enough. At the bottom, I started with a variety of small branches, maple leaves, compost, and other compostable materials. On top of this went the soil, minus the good old New England stone. Each winter, more compost, shredded leaves, and the ash from the wood stove go. Sometimes called the kugel, or lasagna method, the idea is that the organic material in the lower reaches gradually decays and builds soil. As things settle, you add new material on top. For me, it has turned out that my oldest beds (about three years old) are now quite stable and have a deep, rich soil filling.

With this depth, I can finally grow some root crops. Root crops on the old beds were a joke. But this year I have beets in the ground, and I may experiment with some carrots.

Perhaps the biggest advantage I’ve found is that the deep soil profile allows for better moisture retention and less frequent watering.

Grow Pots

The other method I use to extend my garden is grow pots. I use these for most of my tomatoes, and they work well. On a two-wheeler, I can even move them about to find the optimum location. I find these work out really well for those odd spots that are perfect for one plant, but not for an entire bed. Garden centers in my area do not seem to carry them. So I’ve had to purchase them online. The come in all sizes. From the tiny to the gigantic. They are made from landscape cloth and will last more than many seasons.

I’ve pretty much built out my garden. But the other day I was reflecting. Some of the best sunlight available is on the driveway. It just goes to waste there. Hmmmm. Let’s see, I could put some solar panels out there, a raised bed or two….would my wife mind parking on the street?

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Stack!

Three cords of wood stacked, at least three more to go. But not yet. We’ll wait another three weeks before ordering the next three. But what difference from this:

With the help of one of my sons, we “threw” the three cords up over four days of intermittent work. There are now three large stacks, several barrels of kindling, and a stack of short pieces. There is also a lot of bark and assorted small stuff. It would be foolish to think that bark and small stuff are waste. It’s going to get its assigned place in the garden very soon.

first the benches and mulch
then soil
this is what it looks like finished
an older cedar raised bed

The garden is now starting its siren call. A large raised bed is waiting to be built. We fill it in the kugel or lasagna style. On the bottom will go all the bark and unusable bits from the three cords of wood we just stacked. Then, we add all the branches we cut in the fall, layers of leaf mulch, compost, and soil. We top that with wood ash and leaf mulch mixed with a final layer of soil. Everything cooks, composts, and eventually settles. Fall, we top the bed off with more compost, leaf mulch, and eventually ( over the winter) wood ash.

Our older beds are now three years old and show wonderful fertility, and with all the materials composting, they will retain moisture well in the hot and dry times. Best of all, no rocky New England soil. Our soil on this hilltop is gravel, with some soil holding the gravel in place. These raised beds are all rich in organic material, no glacial remains.

Sorry, I have run; the cats want to know where the catnip plantation will go this year.

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Taxi!

I don’t often wind up in New York City anymore. It is the city of my birth. It’s where I grew up. And it’s where I had many of my earlier adventures. But Despite all that I have no relatives left there, and no strong reasons to visit. In fact the New York Times is my only daily tie to the city of my birth.
One day in the 1960s, I wandered away and found that I didn’t feel a strong need to return. In fact, I formed a solid and lasting bond with New England and made it my cultural and physical home. Solid friendships and many adventures facilitated this shift of allegiances.

The shift in regional alliances solidified when I went to grad school in Pennsylvania. I found myself homesick for New England, and the coast. I rushed “home” at every opportunity. As soon as I could I moved back, an I’ve never left since. I just stopped thinking about this. I was a New York boy, transplanted to a new home in New England—end of story.

But things have a way of doubling back on you. I worked briefly on a project in Manhattan’s historic South Street waterfront. I opted to fly rather than drive down from New England and deal with parking and traffic. After getting off the plane and recovering my luggage, I grabbed a cab.

After getting into the cab and telling the cabbie where I was going, we settled into a discussion of recent events. This discussion went on for a while until he asked where I was from. I responded that I lived near Boston but was originally from New York City, Manhattan—just uptown in Washington Heights. This was met with stunned silence. “No way; where are you really from?”

By the time he dropped me off where I was going, he was still convinced that I was putting him on and that I was not a New Yorker.

I’ve thought about this a lot. Actually, I’m probably a bit in two minds. One part of me is rooted in New England. I’ve spent my adult life and have strong family connections, friends, and significant memories. But a part of me has strong beliefs, attitudes, and behaviors that make me a New Yorker. I just never thought about the dichotomy before the taxi driver said something.

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Gardening In a Changing Climate

It’s called Indian Pink, and I have persuaded myself to allow it into the edge of the woodland garden. It is an East Coast native plant, but it comes from a bit south of me in Pennsylvania and Maryland. I have liked its appearance for years, and this year, I decided to see if it is hardy here in New England – yet. With climate change, It’s hard to tell. Yeah, I know…it’s a New England woodland garden. But I couldn’t help myself.

Is it a marker along my new path to being an esoteric, anything-goes gardener? How low can I sink into gardening perversity? Let’s see. Regarding climate change, my part of Massachusetts is supposed to level up to the Carolinas. Is it too soon to plant a Palmetto?

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Flowers

If you’ve visited this blog for a while, you may have noticed that in spring, my woodland garden is a top priority. The uninitiated assume I’m high on something, stumbling around the wooded patch, bent low, taking photos, and exclaiming over things too small to be seen from a distance. I’m checking out the plants and flowers as they appear. Looks can be deceiving.

This year, there were some surprises. The pitcher plant emerging in this spot is a volunteer from elsewhere in the garden

, and the nearby flowering Dutchman’s britches are another surprise.

Elsewhere, the golden seal is where it should be, and the Dahlbergia ( doll’s eyes for the white berries with dark pupil-like spots) and the Solomon’s seal are all ready to bloom—probably tomorrow.

From now on until the fall, something will be in bloom every day. It’s just that many will be small and hard to see, and you’ll have to bend over low to see them.

I’ve been re-wilding this patch since the fall of 1997 when we moved in. Seeing that the plants have begun to assume control of things is fun. They are spreading where they find suitable light and soil. They are increasingly in charge, and I am the sightseer out for a stroll, amazed at what I find.

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It’s Spring!

That’s right. It’s here in New England. – Spring! The trout lilies are blooming, and the peach tree is flowering.

Last year, a freak frost took all the cherries and peaches in bud—right around this date. 26 degrees was the right temperature to kill the flower.

But wait…frost is predicted for tonight. 26 degree. SHIT!!!!!

Yes, it’s spring in New England!

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Syrup

Sapping season has ended. It was an on and off experience this year, and procuction was down by about a third. But it is my most beloved late winter activity. I especially enjoy adding the product to ice cream, baked beans, and just about anything else yo can think of!

Here is a video I made years ago that sums up the whole process:

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Sleet, Snow, Sapping, and Spring

As I write this, the dog and the kittens threaten to strike if I don’t build the blaze in the wood stove higher. March has proven once again to be traitorous, and sleety snow covers everything, including the bird feeders.
I refused to do more about the bird feeder than creep outside in my slippers and knock off the worst accumulation. I am now facing an insurrection over the stove. I’ll need more than a few sticks shoved into the wood stove to satisfy my small union members. It’s a clear contract violation – if it snows, we get to lie around the stove and watch the flames (Chapter Five/paragraph two/codice 112), end of argument! We want warmth; when do we want it? NOW!!

Later this morning, I’ll plant some seeds for spinach and lettuce—those can go out under the Remay fabric and greenhouse covering very early. Many of my herbs are already up and are good-sized plants. With many herbs, an early start in late February is the only way I can get large enough plants to make growing my own worthwhile. So, the oregano, marjoram, and parsley are all vigorous plants. I use LED grow lights to give seedlings enough light. The greenhouse has been my workshop for many years now.
My cherry tomatoes have sprouted from the seed I planted last week. The timing is about right. It will be about seven to eight weeks before I put them out under cloches. I prefer to plant them deep. This allows the covered plants to develop deep roots. To appearances the plant is small, but it has a sturdy root system.
Years ago, I gave up competing with my Italian and Portuguese friends to see who got the season’s first tomatoes. Those guys either cheat or are much better gardeners than I am, and the second reason is not worth considering.

The change in the weather over this last week stopped the sap flow, so I am not boiling for syrup. This is when I start worrying that there will be a rapid rush into proper spring when the weather warms up again. Then the maples will bud out, the tree frogs will commence singing, and the sapping season will end.

I’ve been through this early spring routine in New England for enough years now that it no longer aggravates me. I see it as a challenge. Cold frames, Remay fabric, LED lights, and persistence mean I often prevail over climate.
Considering how rapidly things are changing, that’s about as good as you can expect.

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Trout Lily!

In preparation for the first day of spring this tough trout lily has dared to send up it’s first bronze and green leaves. soon it’s small yellow flower will follow. Well it’s spring in New England, and we male do with small signs of progress.

Soon it will be this: