Farming with a Trowel

I was about six years old when I started tending my first garden. Even then, I loved pulling away the chaotic weeds to make room for orderly groups of flowers and herbs, relishing that satisfying accomplishment of checking in later and seeing them flourishing.

Over the years, the gardens I've tended have gotten larger and more complex, to eventually include ponds, fruit trees, wide assortments of bulbs, roses, trellised vines, lush ground covers and, of course, vegetables. Does everyone enjoy the taste of home-grown tomatoes or strawberries warm from the sun?

Despite the increased sizes and complexities, I've consistently had the problem of running out of dirt. It's too hard to choose between a rose bush with vibrant yellow blossoms blending into deep orange edges and one with rich, purplish pink blossoms. Just get both. Find room somehow.

And then we moved to Oregon.

I remember our first spring, exploring the friendly, neighborhood nursery, with greenhouse after greenhouse burgeoning with plants of every size, shape, scent, and color. Oh, Lordy. Thank goodness for the cargo van waiting for me out in the parking lot.

One variety that I brought home that was new to me was artichokes. I bought three, 4" pots and carried them up to the empty patch of soil that I thought would make the perfect home for them. THAT'S when I read the label advice. "Plant 5 feet apart." What!!!! That's ridiculous. How could they possibly fit? And then I looked around at the empty patch of soil and realized, no problem.

I'd also picked up some bare root strawberries, which I'd never heard of before. They were on sale for $2/bundle, so of course I bought 3 bundles. As I untied the first bundle, I again read the label advice. "Plant 1 foot apart." It also said, "25 plants." What!!!! I had 75 plants that needed to be planted 1 foot apart? I looked around at the still-waiting patch of soil stretched out next to the new artichokes. Actually, no problem.

Ahimsa on the front lawn

Our farm is 2-1/2 acres. Of course, a healthy chunk of it is taken up by buildings and driveways, and most of it is in pasture, but there is so! much! room!

So we're migrating over from gardening into something larger: Farming. The thing is, I've spent 50-some years gardening with a trowel. And hand clippers, loppers, and rakes. I love the heft and power of a grub hoe, but that's as big and powerful as it ever got.

But you know what? It still works.

Our first summer, we tackled the overgrown blackberry briars, intertwined with hundreds of thistles and tall grasses that engulfed the upper third of our hillside. Our tools? A lopper and an electric hedge trimmer. Foot by foot, our little tools chipped away at the chaotic, waist-high thicket, and the contour of the hillside slowly emerged.

That was how we discovered that we had a pond. Who knew? But there it was, a full-fledged pond at the top of our property.

Dambara discussing calmness with the ducklings

It was an entire summer of discovery. The pond has a dam. The formerly inaccessible pluot tree is actually peacefully poised on it's own little plateau. Another plateau overlooks the pond and is a perfect place to linger, with an expansive view of our beautiful valley. We uncovered lemon verbena and an entire, miniature stream, gurgling along the lower edge of our pasture.

Our tools? Every one of them was easily held in our hands.

Now, if we were trained as farmers, we probably would have borrowed a tractor and powered our way across the gentle contours of our hillside, wiping out everything in our path, tossing about new pasture seed, and getting the job done!

Big shovel Little shovel

We have borrowed a tractor from time to time, for jobs that are mightier than our four hands. But for the most part, we wield scythe, lopper, rake, and yes, trowel to tame the chaos and nurture the beauty inherent in every inch of our hillside. By working with our hands, by using our own muscles and breath, surrounded by shining sun or drizzling grey, we feel a connection to the hillside that holds us on its flank. We become a part of all that is. We join the Whole.

Seasons

This is a blog post I wrote seven years ago, when we lived on Llamas and Niyamas Farm outside Portland, Oregon. Even though we're spending this October on Camano Island, the essence of the season is the same.

Seasons

It's mid-October and the world is changing. Greens are blending to golds on the trees outside my window. The sun is lower in the sky, sending softer light onto our hillside. The days are shorter, the nights longer. Rain falls regularly on our summer-parched pastures, soaking the llamas backs, and sending the chickens to hunker closely under their overarching tree. The season is changing.

I spend most of my days outside, working on this project or that, and I find that I'm more aware of the season's change than ever before. For one, it's more pronounced than in the Bay Area, so there's more difference to note. But more, I'm blending with my surroundings now, watching the sky and birds, the trees and wind. I'm learning about our hillside, the pond, the new orchard, our llamas and chickens.

The fruit trees are bringing life, an energy of their own to the pasture above our house. I'm taller than them still, but their aura is bigger, richer, softer. They've learned the sun's pattern, and have built their leaves to match, drinking in sunlight to fuel their hard work of growing up. Their roots have taken hold and explored their underground neighborhood. They've discovered water pockets and mineral caches, sending massive supplies of materials upward to the leaf factories breathing in and out, in and out. I spread wood chips and llama droppings in a lake at their feet, gifts to help them thrive.

The chickens murmur softly as they wander about their chores, checking this, pecking that. They scurry to meet me, as I open the gate, running, flying, calling out; I'm an exciting event in their day. I might bring treats or fresh water or mounds of grain. They follow along around me, remarking busily, ready to be a part of whatever I might have in mind.

The llamas watch intently and gather close in, sizing me up, looking for apples or pears. After a leisurely greeting, they turn to graze alongside while I dig or lop or rake. They clomp gracefully along, with an occasional cavort, gleefully snorting.

The pastures are turning green after the summer drought while the trees are turning golden in preparation for the cold; a changing of the guard, trading dormancy for robust vitality and vice versa, a biannual handoff amongst hillside companions.

I wade through this rich tapestry, watching the sky, the clouds, the sunset, and I say to myself, what a wonderful world.

Global Connections

I’m a scientist by temperament and by training. For many years, I worked as a biologist in a pharmaceutical company. Our research department had a sister department located in Japan. Because of this partnership, our lab had a series of visiting scientists from Japan. They were always young people, with a spouse and perhaps with a fledgling family, trying to fit into this foreign place. Since science is internationally interwoven, we had visiting scientists from other countries as well: Australia, Brazil, England, France, Spain, Switzerland, Sweden. They would stay here for perhaps two years, and then return to their own labs in their own countries.

Halloween is a traditional American holiday. It can easily appear silly to people from other cultures. They just don’t quite get it. So every Halloween, my housemate and I would invite the visiting scientists and their families to our home to carve pumpkins. We’d also invite a couple of Americans and their children, to create a balance of experience and bafflement. We’d all sit on the floor throughout the house, newspapers spread in front of us, fresh pumpkins at hand with more on the lawn outside, and tea candles ready next to the front door. We’d start to carve our first pumpkin.

You know, if you’ve ever carved a pumpkin, that it can be a gooey mess. If you’re from another culture, like Japan’s, where food and body are kept very clean and very separate from each other, pumpkin carving could appear completely puzzling, intimidating even. But all of our guests politely started, regardless of inner turmoil, watching nearby friends for clues. The experienced carvers would offer witty advice wherever necessary, and generous encouragement to cautious skeptics.

Imagine the surprise and dismay of opening your first pumpkin and looking down into all that pale orange mess, the strings, the seeds, the oddity of it, the slippery randomness of it. Imagine reaching your hand in and feeling the slime and the endlessness of those inner curves. But looking around, others are doing the same thing, talking and laughing, so you bravely move forward, scooping out the seeds, scraping out the strings, cleaning out your hollow. Okay, now what?  Draw a face??  A scary face???

The first set of jack o’ lanterns are simple and a bit awkward. Two eyes, a mouth, sometimes with teeth, maybe a nose. As each person finishes his pumpkin, he stands up, carries it to the front door, inserts a tea candle, sets the pumpkin in the garden outside, and lights the candle.

Night is falling, and slowly the garden fills with jack o’ lanterns. The candles softly glow, brightly, then even more brightly against the darkening backdrop. The Japanese eyes fill with delight.  The French man grins and scurries off to get his next pumpkin. The Australian scrutinizes the others’ handiwork and tackles his next globe with blooming creativity. The carved faces become haunted, or lecherous, or jeering. Carved flames leap from mouth corners; carved eyes glower. The jack o’ lanterns are no longer consigned to the lawn; now they’re lurking behind rocks, gaping up from under a bush, cackling down from a tree branch.

The transformation is complete, for pumpkins and humans alike. We gather with hot apple cider and wander around the garden, delighted. My Finnish friend puts her arm around my shoulder and says delightedly, “Now I understand Halloween. Now I get it.”

So here I am on the spiritual path.  I have arrived at the party and understand portions of what I’m encouraged to do.  I look around at people I trust and admire, and pay attention to the example they set.  I’m learning that the way to learn is to do.  I’m delving into my pumpkins, each and every one of them, creating the most magnificent jack o’ lanterns that I can.  And I trust that by the time I’m standing in the garden, sipping hot apple cider, watching the glowing faces around me, I will understand why God is expending so much energy to create us, waiting for us to search for Him, and then helping us to find Him.

Irrigation for Camano Summers

I've always thought that the Pacific Northwest had rain all year round. Maybe rain used to fall during the summer season; it doesn't seem to now. Global warming is inching its way up our coast, parching our little farm on Camano Island, a hop, skip, and a jump south of the Canadian border.

We started transplanting all of our flower and veggie seedlings in April, right after our last-frost date, starting with our cold-hardy varieties of onions, lettuces, and cresses. We plowed right along on our transplanting schedule, populating more and more beds with their tiny populace.

And then, the rains stopped early. With thousands of fragile seedlings taking their first breaths in their new beds, we spent hours each week hand-watering those beds. With the beds stretching long, the seedlings raising skinny arms to the sun, and hoses thick and heavy, we teamed waterers with hose managers to navigate the delicate edges of each planting bed.

We had calculated another month before the rains stopped, and so found ourselves suddenly behind on our irrigation-building plan. We shifted gears and, in between hand-watering and transplanting, we built our irrigation systems.

Wobbler warriors.

They were twofold. We needed overhead watering for the tiny seedlings to supplement the main system of drip tapes. Once the seedlings grew large enough, we could abandon overhead watering for the more efficient drip watering. We used wobblers for overhead systems, four wobblers to cover each planting section. We set them up for manual management, since we wouldn't use them for long. 

Connecting drip tape.

Happy seedings. Happy plants.

Separately, we stretched drip tape along the extent of each bed, four tapes for the wider beds, three or even two tapes for the narrower beds. 

Wobblers and drip tape, both.

All of the drip systems are on timers, five timers in all. It's too easy to forget to turn off a sprinkler, or even to turn it on in the first place. With summer drought on our horizon, timers ensured that everyone would have enough water to thrive. Sun, water, good soil, healthy seedlings; a successful formula.

Each timer gets its own post. Prashama is a strong post-pounder.

Then our water pump gave out. We noticed lower and lower water pressure whenever we were hand watering. Drips were smaller and less frequent, all along every drip tape. Our showers dribbled; our washing machine stalled; our water bottles filled languidly.

Then it all stopped. We had no water.

Upon consultation with our cooperative-farm directors, we stretched four, long hoses from the neighboring pump house and hooked it into our water-supply line. Upon consultation with several well-professionals, we eventually replaced our 18-month-old water pump with a new pump. The well-wizzard also hauled an impressive pile of metal debris out of our well, clearing the space for the new pump.

The flower beds under the summer sun.

Thriving.

We continued borrowing our neighbors' water for a few more weeks for the gardens, while our well supplied our household water. We were finally able to switch to our well exclusively, and fingers crossed, we've made it through the drought summer. We still need to install a pressure tank to protect our water pump from all those dripping tapes come next summer, but that's another story for another day.

Planting Seedlings Early, Late, and Just in Time

There are times when two people cannot contribute enough hands to get the job done. We were extraordinarily blessed in the spring of 2021, when our friend, Dora, offered to come and help us get our planting beds up and running.

Dora at the prana table.

There were a few preliminary projects. We had to remove the bird netting, roll it up, tying each bundle securely, and stashing them away. Ditto for the landscape fabric, the twine, the fabric staples, the rocks, the branches.

Our hard work paid off.

As we unzipped each bed, it seemed clear that our over-wintering strategy had worked. The beds were pretty much weed-free. We scattered some soil supplements and tilthed the top layer of compost, mixing everything together easily and neatly.

We had two types of seedling trays. We had set our sights on using a paperpot transplanter that we had inherited from a friend. In theory, we could transplant 256 seedlings in less than a minute. I had used it successfully in another garden and was enthusiastic about our success in getting all of our transplants into their beds.

Unfortunately, the straw underlayment had not broken down completely. It caught in the furrower of the transplanter, and hiccuped our progress into frustration and despair. Luckily, Dora and Dambara were able to persevere, and they got all of the paperpot seedlings into the ground.

We also had 50-cell tray seedings. Each seedling went into the ground as we scooted our way down the beds. With three of us scooting, we were able to get all of these seedlings into the ground as well.

We up-potted many of the seedlings, to allow them to gain size and resiliency before going into the ground. Especially the sprawlers, the squashes and cucumbers, would benefit by being older when they went into the ground, when the days and nights were warmer.

The veggie beds, a month into transplanting.

The three of us got it all done. But we had adversaries: one pint-sized and a trillion pea-sized.

The robin who owned our veggie meadow delighted in pulling up our fragile seedlings. He didn't eat them; he merely pulled and dropped them, gasping, at the cusp of their former lodging. He did this over and over, and we determinedly followed after him, replanting the gasping youngsters.

It was the trillions that worked faster than we could. Pill bugs. Trillions of them. They had overwintered, snug as a bug in a rug, under our brilliant solution of landscape fabric, feasting our our brilliant solutions of straw, compost, and wood chips.

We lost 90% of our onions, shallots, and leeks, and most of our spinach and lettuces. There were trillions of them. They didn't care for cilantro or arugula, asparagus or carrots, so we had many successes, too.

Flourishing flower beds.

Researching strategies for combatting pill bugs: Eliminate all decaying straw, wood, and compost. Well. Then we'd be back to native soil, so those strategies won't help. Spraying: Not part of our farming strategy. The one that would work: Transplanting older seedlings so they can outgrow the munch rate of the pillbug hordes. I'm thinking it will also help if we eliminate the winter covering of landscape fabric. That's a happy thought, since keeping the fabric in place was a huge pain last winter.

Transplanting older seedlings also eliminates the paperpot transplanter. That's actually okay, too, since that allows us to use straw again this winter to help further build our soil.

So. We learned a lot. We accomplished a lot. We conquered a lot. And if it hadn't been for Dora, it wouldn't have happened. Dora saved our spring and our farming year. Thank you, thank you, Dora. You are a jewel.

A jewel of a friend.

Tranquility.

Sowing Seeds to Build Our Farm

We were lucky enough to order our seeds in November, 2020. We had moved through the fearful covid year, with hope dawning in the new year. It was easy to think expansively.

I've grown plenty of veggies in my tenure as gardener, so those seeds were easy. And fun. I've not grown flowers, not many anyway, and only landscape flowers; never cut flowers.

Our main source of inspiration came from Floret Farm. They are only about 45 minutes from our farm, so what worked for them would surely grow on our farm as well. We downloaded their recommendations for the best cut flowers: Focals, spikes, disks, fillers, and airs. We ordered almost all of our seeds from Johnny's and some from Osborne. They all arrived promptly, and I promptly entered overwhelm.

So many seeds! So many varieties! So many colors, heights, support needs, germination times, dates-to-maturity times. I couldn't wrap my mind around it all.

Luckily, I'm a whiz with excel spreadsheets. I painstakingly entered all the relevant information about germination times, transplant-before-last-frost times, heights, and quantities. I let excel do all of the date calculations for me, and then I transferred the varieties onto another spreadsheet organized by weekly, calendar dates.

Everything fell into place. On the biggest sowing week at the end of February, I would have to sow 15 varieties. Other weeks would demand sowing of 5 or 6 varieties. With 7 days in a week, we would have to sow 2 varieties per day during that big week. Most weeks would need only 1 or 2 sowing days. This plan was completely feasible.

Every variety was new to me.

It was feasible in theory, and low and behold, it was also feasible in reality. Joyfully feasible. With our new greenhouse sheltering the growing expanse of seedling trays, my heart grew and expanded. As the seeds germinated, and the tiny seedlings lifted their faces to the warm sun filtering through the greenhouse panels, my heart quite simply exploded.

We opened the greenhouse doors every morning, helping the air stay cool under the spring sun. We closed it every night, helping the air stay still and safe under the spring moon. We watered the trays, seedlings dancing and jostling under the gentle spray. We pinched off stray weed seedlings. We started succession sowings of the seasonal powerhouses, both veggie and flower.

The window vents open and close automatically, according to air temperature.

Our plan was working. Our greenhouse was working. The sun was working. The seedlings were working. Our farm was beginning.

Our self portrait.

A Greenhouse to Withstand the Winds

Creating a small-scale farm in the Pacific Northwest requires creating a greenhouse. The cold of winter lingers. The chill of spring lingers. Then the warmth of summer hits full force, with long days and temperate nights, and then all too soon, the cool of fall descends, and another farming season coasts to an end.

A greenhouse lets us start seeds early, early, early. We can get seedlings going and keep them happy in the daytime warmth of a greenhouse for several weeks. Once we pass our last-frost date, these happy seedlings can go into the ground and turn their faces to the warming sun and burst into serious chlorophyll production.

Original greenhouse site, by the blue tarp.

We had originally planned to build our greenhouse down by the veggie beds. We wanted it to be a pretty greenhouse, so nestled amongst the veggie beds, we would see it whenever we glanced out our windows. And it would be right there! Short trip from greenhouse to planting beds. Made so much sense.

But our planting beds are bordered by mature trees. We realized that the greenhouse would be in the shade by 2:00 in the afternoon during the spring months, those all-important months when the fragile seedlings would need all the light and warmth the greenhouse could muster.

Improved greenhouse site; flat and sunny.

So we changed plans midstream. We relocated the greenhouse site up near our shop, where the ground was super level, and the trees were a considerable distance to the east and west. Our pretty greenhouse would greet friends and neighbors when they came to visit. We could still see it from our windows; we just had to peer a bit.

We have considerable winds on our island. Two or three times a year, storms can bring winds that howl across our property at 50-60 mph. We also get a little snow, so snow load could be a factor. We chose a model that was sturdy enough to withstand our winds and shaped to slough snow.

It was expensive, about $5,000. But I just happened to land an editing gig that would cover the cost. We took the plunge. We had to have a greenhouse if we wanted successful planting beds, and the universe gave us the means to procure the perfect one. We clapped our hands with glee.

We drove two hours to pick up our new greenhouse and they piled and stacked and wedged it into our 20-foot RV. It came in flat packages. It barely fit inside our RV. It had thousands of screws and hundreds of pieces, and they all had to go together just so.

The instruction booklet was sparse and vague. The instructional videos weren't very instructional. We're not builders, but we're pretty clever. We got it figured out, and we finally, finally got it built.

Gravel and crushed-stone pad

Help from our friends.

A ways to go.

The marketing information claimed that two people could build the greenhouse in two days. It took us all of January. ALL of January. We laid down gravel. We laid down crushed rock. We scrutinized, read, videoed, experimented, put together, took apart, climbed ladders, scooted on our knees. One of us came to tears several times. One of us stayed calm and cheerful. We persevered, and we finally, finally got it built.

Thousands of screws, with tension pulling in several directions.

Light at the end of the tunnel.

Our farm cooperative, gathering to ooohh and aaahh.

Busily growing seedlings.

Never, never have I ever, ever had such a wonderful venue for sowing seeds, peering at germination, watering seedlings, crooning, and grinning. The greenhouse made our farm possible. I am in joyful love with our pretty, enduring, nurturing greenhouse.

Ready to grow a farm.

Flower Beds

As we finished up the planting beds that we laid out in the pasture to the west of our house, I began counting on my fingers. These beds were huge, in my experience, but our list was huge-er. Where would we put the flowers?

An easy glance over our shoulders offered the obvious solution. Our shop was situated on the opposite side of a gully from our house. Between the shop and the gully was a gentle, south-facing slope that was obviously perfect for flower beds. They would get so much sun. We would see them from our windows. They were right next to the shop, which housed our tools. There were two water-hydrants already in place. It was obvious.

The obvious choice.

I was at a loss as to how to orient the flower beds. How wide? Which direction? How many? I brainstormed with friends and husband, staring at the slope from our deck, imagining. It wasn't obvious.

Then, one sunny winter day, I walked along the slope, along the edge of the shop, along the driveway. I got out some stakes, twine, and a hand sledge and started marking off a pathway along the shop, wide enough for frequent foot and cart traffic. I marked off the slant of the gorge, the stretch of driveway, the most direct route between house and shop. It all became obvious.

We could fit nine beds on that slope, 45 feet long, which echoed the length of our first set of beds, and 3 feet wide, for ease of flower harvesting. The paths could be narrow, since these flowers wouldn't sprawl. We'd trim back the maple tree that did sprawl across the center of our slope. It all took obvious shape.

We ordered more straw and dairy compost and mowed the pasture grasses and weeds that had crammed themselves onto that gentle slope. We dealt out the compacted straw pads, spread 5-6" inches of dairy compost, covered with fabric cloth, bird netting, and zigzagged twine, and stepped back to take a look.

A direct path between house and shop.

Laying down straw, topping with compost.

The diagonal layout dictated by the gorge left a large, empty triangle next to the driveway. We could put perennials there.

We spread cardboard, burlap bags, and wood chips, and left the flower beds to work on their winter steeping.

Fabric, netting, and burlap in place for the winter.

Wood-chip paths and tilthed beds in the spring.

The triangle bed completes the layout.

With 14 veggie beds steeping to the west of the house and 10 flower beds steeping on the shop's slope, we were ready for spring.

Chipless on Camano

 Our small farm is on the south end of Camano Island, making it a bit far for some professionals to make the trek. That includes arborists and all ranks of tree-tenders. It's hard for us to get wood chips.

Being a no-till farm, chips are a vital ingredient, providing coverage for walkways throughout our planting beds. Being a no-till farm, we add straw and compost on top of the native soil and build UP. Chips add height to the pathways, stabilizing the edges of the beds. Straw, compost, and chips create amazingly bountiful harvests.

Now, we could buy chips from a nursery or landscape supply business, but it's hard to fork out $400 - $500 for a load of chips knowing that they are available for $0 - $25 a load. Plus, we're on a tight budget, living on a fixed income, so practicality dictates that we spend money when we have to and save money when possible.

A local tree-trimming business did drop off one load, but they admitted that we were just too far away to make it practical for them to drop off more, even with a cash incentive. But we did get one load! That was a huge step forward.

How to make up the difference? We needed a second load.

Dambara, my husband, spent most of the winter months uplimbing the mature trees that encircle our property and taking out the tangle of smaller trees, bushes, and, you might have guessed this, brambles. A Pacific Northwest staple, those brambles. I'm in love with them for about 5 weeks each fall, when they offer up those delectable berries, but their prolific nature pushes them to invade every inch of land possible. So, Dambara has worked and worked, taming them back into a reasonable, manageable form.

. . . to this.

From this. . .

In the process of uplimbing and clearing, Dambara created two, gigantic mountains of brush. Enormous piles, stretching about 50 feet, 5 feet high, and probably 15 feet wide. Enormous. We joined forces with some local friends and rented an equally enormous chipper for a week, and we got to use it for three entire days.

To get this.

Three days was enough time for us to chip our way through those enormous piles, shooting the chips into the back of a friend's pick-up truck, and dumping them into the middle of our garden plot. From there, we wheelbarrowed them onto each pathway and spread them out with a rake. We laid down cardboard first, as a weed block. We covered the cardboard with burlap bags, to stabilize the layers.

To get . . . Chips!!!

That cardboard was a godsend come spring and summer. Our weed burden was minor. Minorly minor. We could pull weeds throughout our entire garden once a week, taking about a half an hour for the entire garden plot. Cardboard is a small-scale farmer's best friend.

Victory.

So, we conquered the chip challenge. Stage Two chip-challenge is approaching, since we'll add another layer of straw and compost to the planting beds, necessitating another 2" - 3" layer of chips in the walkways. We're on the list for chip-drop, so wish us luck. We can conquer the world with just two loads of chips.

First Beds

Our new house was surrounded by pasture, pasture that had been mowed and mowed and mowed. Underneath the over-mowed pasture was sandy sand. Our native soil can't hold water, can barely support grasses and pasture weeds, and is full of rocks. Luckily, most of the rocks are friendly, being smallish and round; leaden ping pong balls, snuggled into their bed of sandy sand.

Not much can grow in this native soil.

25 yards makes a huge pile.

There's a roadside sign along the highway as you drive onto our island. "Garden compost, $15/yard." Feeling adventuresome, we called the number, and sure enough, our local dairy farmer would bring his dump truck to our property, filled to the brim with 25 yards of dairy compost.

There was hope.

Lovely, lovely straw, ready to become soil.

Another local source delivered 20 bales of straw. We had the makings of healthy soil that would feed the microbes and worms and an entire universe of burrowing beings. We rolled up our sleeves.

This bounty arrived mid-summer. We had visions of a fall garden, burgeoning with cabbages and squash and onions. We were ready.

However, the dairy compost was hot. The high nitrogen would cook any tender seedlings we handed over to its care.

Undeterred, we refocused our lens and looked toward spring. We pried apart pads of compacted straw from each bale, nestled them cheek-by-jowl onto our newly mown pasture, creating ten beds, 4 feet wide and 45 feet long, with a wide central walkway.

The planting beds take shape.

Ten beds, leaving room for a greenhouse.

We carted our hot compost and piled it, 6 inches deep, onto the 5 inches of straw pads, and watered it all down.

Our hopeful scheme for keeping the landscape cloth in place.

To deter fall weed seeds from setting up house on these inviting stretches of richness, we covered each bed with landscape cloth, holding the edges down with burlap bags.
It looked a mess, but we knew that each bed would cook over the winter and be ready for spring planting in just a few months.

In the meantime, we needed worms.

Build it, and they will come.

They did. In droves.

The first watering.