wideeyedfunk

Category: Garden

Stuff grows out of the dirt like magic.

  • Worm Bin Chronicles: Inception

    WideEyedSpouse says, “We are not having a worm bin in the kitchen.”

    WideEyedFunk answers, “Mm hmm.”

    The Worm Bin. In the Kitchen.

    I bought Worms Eat My Garbage in June of 2009 and I don’t know why. The Spouse saw it sitting on the sofa and instantly, no pause for contemplation said: “We are not having a worm bin in the house.” I simply did not acknowledge that he spoke.

    Kiska Harbor and the 2009 camp.

    Several weeks later two colleagues and I were lounging around on Action Packers in our tiny weatherport on the shore of Kiska Harbor. Outside of the weatherport Kiska volcano loomed over us to the north (albeit invisibly because of the low clouds), the waters of the harbor ruffled in a stiff, rainy wind, and the Kiska Island Valor in the Pacific National Monument layered over the hills around us as far as the eye could see. My colleagues were on Kiska Island to map WWII features. I – along with Brian H. who wasn’t present for the worm talk – was there looking for much older Aleut occupations. Anyway, three of us were in the weatherport waiting for potatoes to boil and for the simple pleasure of being inside, sheltered from the vastiness of the western Aleutian Islands.

    The topic of worm bins came up. I can’t remember who brought it up. But it is exactly the sort of topic that might arise in one of our field camps. Debbie C. was deeply intrigued. Of course she had heard of them. I mentioned the book. Janis K. actually had a worm bin, had had it for years. Debbie and I leaned forward on our Action Packers as Janis described the formation and care of her worm bin. I think I took notes. I looked at Debbie and she looked at me – oh yeah, we were getting worm bins.

    I came out of the fieldwork that summer intent on having a worm bin. But as it turned out, the WideEyedHousehold was going to move 1,500 miles in a few short months. The Spouse said, “I am not moving a worm bin to New York.” I sort of heard him on that one. Besides, I figured they had worms back east.

    Time passed. The worm bin lingered in the back of my mind. We bought a house and I built a compost area but it didn’t satisfy. I needed a worm bin. And then the miracle happened. My neighbors across the street mentioned that they have a worm bin. In the kitchen. Have been running it for years – no trouble, no smells, just great. My heart pounded. I hardly dared to ask…my neighbor offered me some scoops of her worms. Oh yeah.

    I told the Spouse. He said, “We are not having a worm bin in the kitchen.” I said, “Um hmm.”

    Inside the bin. The wellspring of nightmare horrors.

    Three days later I dumped a bunch of junk out of a bin in the basment, drilled some holes in its lid and handles, and headed across the street for my worm scoops. Ever since, two months and counting, there’s been a worm bin in my kitchen. So far, the Spouse has only had one nightmare about it. Apparently in his dream he was reaching in to feed the worms and one leaped out of the nesting material and burrowed under his finger nail. I guess in the dream he managed to tourniquet his finger and the worm wiggled out, but his success in solving that small dream problem hasn’t made him like the worm bin any better.

    We’ll see how it goes. For now, there are several dozen? hundred? WideEyedWorms munching away on tender veg scraps in my kitchen. And one WideEyedSpouse who prefers not to think about it.

  • Wretched Chores Made Less Crappy: Weed Pulling Cocktails

    Dangerously weedy driveway cracks.

    The weeds in the driveway now hit the undercarriage of the WideEyedRides. I can hear them smacking the bumper and the bigger sticky-er ones make tiny scraping noises as I putt-putt up the drive. Brush fires are a concern when I park the hot engines over the verdant crack weeds. I can’t turn my face away any longer. It is time to weed the driveway.

    Years ago the Spouse and I developed a system for undertaking this wretched chore – which, you may note comes about ONLY during the smoking hottest sizzling portion of the summer.

    Our system does not include herbicide. Have a look at that image over there on the right. If I blasted those tall, healthy, nearly blooming weeds with herbicide what would I get? Tall, dead, yellow weeds, even more likely to catch on fire, that’s what. And I don’t want to hear anything about maybe taking care of this before it becomes a problem, prophylactic herbicide application, whatever. This happens every year and has in every house we’ve ever owned. The situation exists. And the solution includes gin. Lots of gin.

    The WideEyedHousehold Driveway Weed Remediation System:

    WideEyedSpouse’s preferred components.

    First wait until the worst of the blasting heat fades. Tonight that’ll be about 7:45. Then assemble the ice, gin, tonic, and cucumber/limes, and mix up a couple of weed pulling cocktails –leaving the ingredients easy to hand. The Spouse and I find it useful to gather the weeding paraphernalia at this point. Now take a few moments to assess the situation, look over the weeds, measure the length of the drive, wave to passing neighbors – and end the assessment phase when the ice cubes no longer float, but rattle emptily.

    Ok, so it’ll be about 8pm by this point. Maybe a little later. About an hour of usable daylight left. Now you need to step into the kitchen to mix up another couple of weed pulling gin and tonics. Get your music – Elvis or Delta Blues are best here – and start with the weeding. You should be feeling pretty cheery as you move into your second weed puller cocktail. But here’s the key to this step: start at the end of the drive most visible to the general public and be thorough while you still have the will and ability to be so.

    WideEyedFunk’s weed pulling cocktail components.

    When the ice is alone in the glass again, return to the kitchen and mix new weed pullers with your muddy, weed stained hands. It’ll be moving on to 8:20, 8:30 by this point. Dusk really. This is when the really noticeable work happens. Crouching carefully, so as not to spill, yank out the really tall driveway weeds. They’re the ones causing the problem anyway.

    By 9pm it’ll be over and all will be tidy in the driveway – or let’s be honest here – it will be dark enough or your vision bleary enough to make it look tidy. Doesn’t matter. Effect is the same. Chore is done. Just FYI, it is tempting to mix another weed puller to sip on while appreciating the less weedy driveway for a little while but trust me, this is a Bad Idea. We’ll just leave it at that.

    Remember, don’t ever drink and drive. But by all means, drink and weed if necessary.

  • Thinning seedlings: I think they scream as I tear them out…

    A row of baby little marvel shell peas. All unsuspecting.

    I think the baby plants scream when I ruthlessly pluck them out of the ground. I know it has to be done. It is my job as a gardener to be a creative, even divine force. The choices I make about which of the little seedlings get to swell into tastiness, into full fruit and seed producing maturity, are irrevocable. My choices shape the future of plants in my garden through pollination and seed harvesting. The lucky ones spaced properly apart for effective growing survive. The particularly lovely, big, and cheery looking guys make it. A lot of not-yet, never-will-be plants will die though, and their unique random genetic mutations die with them. It pains me every time I tug on their little bodies and feel their tiny roots rending.

    A pea sprout gets it.

    I have already this spring killed baby radishes, peas, tomatoes, carrots, peppers, eggplants….and it isn’t just the vegetables who get it either. Zinnias, poppies, nasturtiums, wild bergamot, calendula: no one is safe. My seedling book says that I am doing no one any favors by letting them live too crowded. The book says unthinned seedlings will be stunted and weak. But thinning. It has such a Malthusian feeling.

    The radishes. Screaming as they lay shriveling in the mulch.

    Yesterday I thinned the peas. The tiny roots of the rejected seedlings clung desperately to the soil. I thinned the radishes. And I must admit that in an act of god-like absorption, I ate those tiny baby plants (and again, Malthusian!). I hovered over the beets, but they are too small for thinning. I can’t yet determine which are weak, which are unsightly, which are destined for the compost. The whole row of beet sprouts sighed and shivered in relief as I stood and walked away.

    Hamish is concerned by all the screaming, and carefully monitors the garden as I work.

    I told the spouse about my worries. That I think the little baby plants shriek and fight to live. The spouse patted the dog and looked at me over the garden fence. He reached over and snatched a tiny radish plant from its tidy row. His teeth crunched a little on the tender leaves. “They’re just plants,” he told me, and wandered off with the weed trimmer. I looked at the empty spot where that radish used to be and now was never going to be again. I really thought I heard it scream.