A gritty twist on personal history

It rained today. It was a lovely rain. A million dollar rain if you're engaged in the business of farming.

I try to spend rainy days tidying up the farmhouse, and today was no different. I sorted through stacks of laundry, mail and old magazines trying to reduce, reuse or recycle as much as possible. In the midst of my cleaning, I picked up the 2009 Farmers Almanac, and while trying to determine its fate, I found something I had to share:

"Historians tell us that among the useful items the first European colonists brought with them to the New World was one that we might not have suspected: the earthworm. Earthworms didn't occur originally in much of the north, it seems; rather European species were carried here in the colonists' ships, hidden in the soil those vessels loaded as ballast and in the root balls of plants they carried.

Properly reflected on, the idea that a creature as familiar and ubiquitous as the garden worm should be an exotic can do us good. It can enlarge our perceptions of history, including personal history. For consider: If earthworms came to our continent with the colonists, then they necessarily have their places on the same historical timeline as their human importers. Just as the millions of today's descendants of the first European colonists can trace their ancestry to specific people and places, so the descendents of the earthworms who accompanied those pioneers must arrange themselves in a like heirarchy of arrival. Therefore, should you repine that your colonial pedigree isn't all that you might wish, five minutes' work with a garden spade can turn up an aristocrat, a Mayflower worm whose very presence in your vegetable patch must gentle your condition."

This seemed the perfect sentiment for a day when all the birds are smiling; their rainy-day quest for earthworm meals seems assured.

My one-way conversations ...

A few months ago, I entertained the thought of pulling the plug on this blog. But I didn't and today, especially today, I'm glad I didn't.

There are days when, beyond a few brief cellphone calls, my only connection to other people is found right here. I don't say that to elicit pity. This is the life I chose for myself after months of deliberation; those of you who've followed this blog since 2007 probably remember those cryptic essays I posted while I was talking myself into leaving the familiar and resettling here. And at my age! Then, as now, the blog is my way of keeping in touch with you as much as it is (I assume) your way of checking in on me. The latter is a leap on my part, but the regularity in which some of you post comments tells me it's not a huge leap.

I like this blog because it allows me to share with you the unexpected treasures of living in this wonderful place on the prairie, this place that requires so much work yet delivers so much reward.

Last week, on the long road to Michigan, I was rereading my grape-growing text to bone up on the goals of second-year vine pruning. I'll spare you the jargon and condense things to two words: air flow. In most of this breezy vineyard, air flow is not a problem. And then there is Row 16. This is the row closest to the road, the row that tells passers-by that I am a grape-growing goddess, the row that was planted first. Row 16: It will be the death of me, I'm sure.

I was in Row 16 with my pruners this evening trying to create air flow. If you look at the picture below, you'll see this is no easy task. There's a post in there if you look closely. The actual vines are planted four feet on either side of the post. Keep in mind, these are second year plants. This is Row 16. If these grapes had been planted by the government, I'm sure there'd be some sort of investigation into why these plants are growing like this. Surely, there's be a Senate sub-committee... I cut and pull and cut and pull and toss the clippings into the trailer that hubby has rigged up behind the golf cart. The cuttings in the photo below come from six plants. I know!


And then this... as I examine the growing pattern of Row 16, Plant 2, in order to see where I should cut...this...

A smile washes over me. The little nest is about the size of a teacup saucer and inside, three tiny blue eggs. It's this discovery that reminds me why I love it here, even when there's no one to talk to. Then I remember that I can share this surprise with you here, on this silly little blog that I almost deleted but didn't. Another smiles washes over me. Thanks for listening.

A week away, and...

I returned to the ranch this evening to find the lawn has sprouted a pretty healthy crop of clover. No biggie, though. The Cub Cadet has new blades and a full tank of gas.

More importantly as I reviewed the property, is that the dawn application of Roundup I made early last week gave me the best coming home present a girl can ask for: rows clear of weeds. A quick walk up and down the rows revealed several plants in need of some light pruning, which isn't so much of a chore as it is a lifestyle nowadays. But the chore that is weeding, a true chore indeed, has been taken care of by the good folks at Monsanto. A respite!

Maybe my fingernails will stay clean through to the weekend.

A quick escape from the prairie...

We celebrated Independence Day by breaking away from the ties that bind...i.e., the green tape and T-bands that we use to tie our vigorous vines to their trellises. For three days, we set aside all thoughts of green to drink in the varied hues of blue. Jason and Becky have this power boat moored in Saugatuk, Michigan. It's a 30-minute steam up the channel from their slip to the open water.

There was room for all of us, plus fishing gear, scuba gear, and refreshments.

Jason rigged 6 lines for trolling. The guys pulled in three salmon, which amounted to about 25 pounds.

This is the only evidence of traffic.

Waiting for a line to trip. Then all hell breaks loose.

With only a few trips in the afternoon, there's plenty of time to take in the serenity of the lake.

Blue. It stretches to the horizon where it melts into precious silver and gold. Sometimes, it only takes a few days away to rejuvenate the spirit. I can now return to the rows of overgrown green with fortitude knowing there are three months remaining to manage the tangle of green we call a vineyard.

And when I tire of green, which I will, I can come back to the memory of a blue that stretches forever.