New Hampshire Outside

My Summer Garden Party

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 14:29:38 -0500

by Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener Some gardeners have fantasies about lounging in an Adirondack chair under the arbor, sipping iced tea with fresh-picked mint, and enjoying the results of their hard work. But sitting under my arbor is too close to the action for me. I feel a need to pull the weeds or deadhead those flowers that I missed--everything that doesn't meet the perfection idealized in magazines and books. So, I enjoy and observe from above, from my second-story bedroom window. Working in my garden is like meditating to me. The physical labor of maintaining and nurturing all that life pulls me in, and hours go by without a thought of anything else. After hours in my yard, I retreat to the cool house to rid myself of my wet, mud-drenched clothes and shoes. I scrub my grime-filled fingernails and my weathered skin of sweat, sun block and insect repellent and I settle down to my quiet reflections from my upstairs window. When I am in the garden, I work because I can't help myself: deadheading a plant here, staking a plant there, watering another plant, pulling weeds or snipping blossoms and foliage to bring pieces of my garden indoors. My hands are full, and I scatter tools around the garden as I jump from one task to the next. I carry scissors, clippers, a shovel, a bowl of water, ties for stakes, plant identification labels, and my glasses. My garden is a party I am hosting; my guests need attention and I need to offer it. The distance and perspective from my bedroom window offer a different kind of meditation. The view from above allows me to soak in the multitude of summer colors and patterns, each flowing into the next with the changes between colors varying from rigid angles to fuzzy and soft blends. Some areas are explosive and wild, catching my eye and demanding attention, while other parts of the garden seek my eyes with a quiet, understated presence. Plants have personalities. The garden party that I witness from above is full of drama. The sun-gold, majestic daisies stand firm and rigid next to the fuzzy lavender and red of the bee balm, equally as tall but fighting for attention with less gusto. My eye travels away from my tall, egotistical friends to the shady corner where the comical mauve and white astilbes bob their feathery heads, daintily dancing over the bold-leaved, no-nonsense hostas of white, green and yellow. Next my eyes rest on the soft, muted lamb's ear reclining next to the splashing purple, peach and plum pansies bobbing along the edge, holding their own with mirth and good humor. Fragrant mint spreads to every vacant spot; fragile multi-colored cosmos add their dainty touch, and sturdy, bold marigolds work hard to fend off uninvited insects. My 2011 tomato crop leans limply against stakes. As their hostess I hope for a harvest like a few years ago that kept me in the kitchen for hours with friends cooking and freezing pasta sauces and chili. But from above, my tomatoes are only a small part of the party. Some of my gardener friends choose to invite one type of flower friend to their party. Some want peaceful, calm attendees. I like interesting parties that deliver surprises. So I expand my guest list to wild unknowns. I welcome native weeds to add their spunk and stubbornness. My husband groans as I find new loners along back roads or swamp edges or the untended fringes of our yard. He thinks they are ugly and should be kept out. I look for diversity. I like underdogs. My mothering nature demands that I include these vagabonds, and I tend to their needs just as I tend to all the needs of my invited guests. I admit there are times when my need to include everyone leads to chaos and confusion. Colors and styles clash, pop, and zing. Some of my new guests end up towering over shorter invitees that need to be in the front. It gets crowded with my open invitation, and every year I need to redirect the quieter, smaller plants towards the front of the crowd. When a guest gets too aggressive, I replant it at the fringe of the party. Every day new surprises await me. Guests come and go. As one flower drops its faded blooms, a new one of a different height, color, or shape appears. I enjoy inviting guests and tending to their needs. I like the succession of guests and the varying moods of the party. And I cherish stepping up and away to watch them from above seeing the guests intermingling and enjoying the party as a whole. Photo credit: Meg Hardy

Know Your Limits

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 12:03:55 -0500

by Bill Dawson, UNH Cooperative Extension Natural Resources Steward After you retire and are free to move about the world without the restrictions of regular 9-to-5 work schedules, you tend to fill your calendar with volunteer activities. Some are coerced and some arise because you have chosen to do this or that particular activity. Being a grandpa fits both categories so I try not to be grumpy about minding the third generation. I must say though, my patience has been sorely tried a few times. Since I have taken some training as earth team/tree steward docent, I get involved in some dirty jobs in other people's back yards. After church a group of us "older folks" gather over coffee and doughnuts and discuss the world problems in our usual erudite fashion. During a pause in the conversation, one of the "really older ones" said that he wished the he had the strength to prepare a place for some spring bulbs. Being a robust 73 year old male still somewhat invincible, I blurted out, "Let me help!" That's when the trouble began. My friend explained that the spot where he wanted to put the bulbs was currently occupied by a plot of blue flag irises that had not been attended to for about eight years. I stopped by his house during the next week to check the location. I tested the surface of the bed with a shovel and found it resistant to penetration. I told him that I would be back with some additional tools in a week or so. He said that he would order the bulbs in the meantime. I have been known to do battle with rocks in the past, so I have some tools not possessed by the average gardener. I gathered my mattock, a sledge hammer, a spade and a heavy-duty hoe and set off to do battle. What a battle it was! First I drove the spade into the bed about six inches. I continued across the bed in similar fashion. Feeling good about how things were progressing, I moved over about 18 inches and repeated the procedure. It was now time to pause for a drink--of water, of course. Now it was mattock time. I drove the flat blade into the fissure created by the spade and began prying chunks of the lily mat out and tossing them into the garden cart. That was easy enough but the plot was about 6ft. by 20ft. By the time I had removed the entire mat, a couple of hours had elapsed and my back was complaining. I was overdue for another drink and some pain killers. The soil under the bed was hard packed and very dry. Since it was getting close to my labor limit for one day, I quit and retreated to my recliner for some much-needed relaxation. After a spell of respite, I returned with my spade and hoe. I brought along a bag of peat moss, spread half the bag on the surface, and spaded it into the soil. That was no easy task I'll tell you! The rest of the bag was dumped on the surface and chopped in with the hoe. Last came a thorough watering of the bed. Time for another break while the water percolated into the soil. We developed a plot plan for the assortment of tulips, daffodils and large bearded irises. The last step was to place the bulbs according to the plan with a bit of fertilizer for each. Hopefully the squirrels won't find them before the freeze. I can't wait to see what comes up in the spring! Would I do it again? Probably not for someone else. But, on my own plots, I am constantly digging until the snow comes between me and

Will Anyone Even Notice?

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 11:23:02 -0500

by Helen Downing, UNH Extension Master Gardener Living on a busy rural highway can have its advantages: We don't have far to plow in winter and hardly ever suffer power outages. On the downside, I can't just run across the road to open the chicken coop in my bathrobe. That's because the road divides our property; our house is on the west side of the road, the barn, chicken coop, and gardens are on the east. The road, I need to add, has only been around since 1810. At that time, if the state decided to expand its highways, residents on the road itself were required to help in its construction. The once-quiet, unpaved highway between the county seat and the nearest district court has evolved over time into a paved thoroughfare. It still connects the court with the county seat, but now serves a stream of tourists, businesses, and local traffic. That same visibility from the highway also caused me some embarrassment with our scarecrows. One year while I was away, my husband put up two scarecrows. One looked kind of like him--plaid shirt, baseball cap--and the other, looked like me--straw hat with flowers, flannel shirt, garden pants and...chubby. (Gasp!) It's amazing how looking at a scarecrow that resembles you and includes negative attributes can make you feel crabby. Needless to say, that scarecrow got a change of clothes and lost some its stuffing in a hurry. It's one thing to fight the battle of the bulge, another to scream our overstuffed condition to every trucker, bus, and RV that goes by. Anyone passing by must have wondered if we'd finally lost all of our marbles the day we dragged our chicken coop across the highway. This was a brand new coop built by my husband, who is well known for overbuilding even the most trivial of wooden devices. He had built in our dooryard (Yankee for front driveway and place to work on really big projects). He and our adult son, also genetically inclined to participate in projects of dubious and complicated strategies, dragged it on skids across the road to its resting place using our Ford tractor. With four grandkids sitting beside the road staring in disbelief and cheering wildly, the coop made the trip smoothly and remains in place to this day, housing 20 chickens who just don't know how lucky they are. Two generations of chickens and their byproducts have lived in that coop and keep the garden compost heap and perennial beds healthy and fertile. A few years ago as part of a fall display, I placed a four-foot tall, smiling scarecrow dressed in red, yellow, and blue in my garden facing the road. My dentist's receptionist, who drives by daily, commented as I entered the office one day how much she enjoyed my "frog." It took me a few days to realize that from her viewpoint, in a car traveling along the highway, a scarecrow could resemble a frog! Ever since, frogs have become another staple in my garden, only now they don't look like scarecrows. A few autumns back, while I weeded in a bed of perennials, my husband mowed across the field from where I knelt. He could see a medium-sized bear approaching from the opposite direction, getting closer and closer to where I was stationed, head down and oblivious. There was no way he could warn me, since I was too far away to hear him yell. Cars passed, the sun felt warm on my back, and all seemed well with the world. I remember having the distinct impression I could hear a dog panting, but rather than look up, I just continued to exist absent mindedly in the moment. Later, my husband would tell me he watched as traffic distracted the bear, and it crossed the road heading for the woods behind our house. I doubt that the bear ever endangered me, but still my mind's-eye view of the near encounter made me realize that we all remain too oblivious to our surroundings, including most of the passing drivers. Over the years, I have noticed that rarely do the tourists and shoppers look left or right as they pass our house and grounds, so my fears of being as the crazy old lady were unfounded. (Okay, my reluctance to become the topic of local gossip still inhibits any urges I might have to cross the road in my pj's and fetch some eggs for breakfast). Like my obliviousness to the bear in my garden, most drivers are focused on their immediate business. Whether beauty or danger confronts us, we've often become so accustomed to our surroundings that we forget to pause, look, value, and anticipate the amazing choices we have each day. Hmmm. Maybe I'll add a life-sized bear facsimile to our garden displays. Will anyone even notice? Photo credit: battlecreekcvb. (Not Helen's scarecrow!) Some rights reserved.

Searching for Treasures

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 11:16:28 -0500

By Suzanne Hebert, UNH Cooperative Extension volunteer writer There is very little sea glass on the beach this year. I try to smother the disappointment that threatens to squeeze in. The waves are bigger than usual, pounding the sand. They rise, pause and loom, then crash in a white froth that ends in a trickle as their energy is spent. So far, this trip has yielded only pieces of sand dollars. My daughter patiently waits, floating in the ocean on her surfboard. The black of her wetsuit makes it easy to see her small, youthful frame, silhouetted against the dark blue-green Atlantic water. She is new to surfing. She paddles hard with her arms as the water rises behind her and shakes her head when it continues forward without her. I sense her disappointment. The sun shimmers on the salt water at the distant horizon line. I can barely hear the drone of a single-engine plane as it moves down the coastline. The tide is coming in, the water inching its way to where I sit. My toes are buried in the sand at last night's high-water line, and I wonder if the incoming water will reach me. When my daughters and I picked this beach cottage through an internet search we didn't know it was in the same set of cottages my parents had rented 40 years ago. My memories of this beach, then, are dim. Maybe the only reason I can conjure up that time in my childhood is because I've seen the slide of my sister and me playing in the sand with plastic buckets and shovels. The image was large on the white sheet hanging in the family room when my dad hauled out the projector and we would relive the family vacation. The seaweed is scattered in haphazard lines. Bits of wood, straw-like sticks and lathe from old lobster traps have become driftwood. There are small blue and yellow rubber bands, presumably off the claws of lobsters. Bits of unidentifiable plastic from unknown human sources contrast against the natural black of the seaweed and the white of the sand. Numerous large clam shells lie split open in random places where the waves have deposited them. I see people walking with these treasures in their hands. I do the same. But my daughters no longer want to walk with me looking for gifts from the sea. The days of toddler legs running to the water's edge with me hovering close have passed. Instead they are clad in bikinis that show the figures of young women. As the tide continues to rise and fall, so do our lives. Later in the day I walk alone again, searching. This time, I am lucky. Nestled in the sand, face up is a small perfect sand dollar. I gently cradle it in my hand, excited to bring it back to show my girls. The seagulls skitter along the water's edge, facing up the beach into the wind. Why do they do this? The rocks are tumbled smooth by the sand as they roll in and out with the waves. I carefully side step around the jagged edges of broken clam shells in my bare feet. Some days my teenage daughters smile at me, acknowledge me, and I remember being a rock in their lives. Some days I am smooth and some days I am still jagged. I pause, close my eyes, breath in the salty air and listen to the waves break, hopeful for a smile when I unfurl my fingers and show them the fragile sand dollar with the perfect star etched on the top. It survived the rough-and-tumble environment of its home. We will too. Photo credit: Suzanne Hebert

Cultivating the Blues

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 10:19:15 -0500

by Casey Pike, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener Melancholic by nature, I associate the color blue with a mood I am too often clawing to emerge from. So every year I find it ironic that, just as I am shaking the winter blues, my perennial garden goes through its blue phase. Purely by serendipity this little path of dirt has evolved into a place where the blues are acceptable. Buddhism teaches us to stay with sadness and it is in my blue garden that I have found a place to rest and allow blue and purple hues to become part of my emotional vocabulary. The ubiquitous lupine represents both naiveté and good fortune to me. Naiveté because I planted the indigo-colored plant before I knew just how rapidly it spreads. If one is good, two are better. Right? I must admit it can be maddening to constantly pull young lupine out of the garden confines, where it borders on weed status. But what good fortune that they have descended upon and begun to take hold on a portion of lawn I would like to forgo mowing. From my first day in New Hampshire I have been dreaming of fields of lupine. The irises render thoughts of abundance and surprise. One day I was surprised to find mounds and mounds of iris bulbs in the parking lot of the town's corner store with a For Free sign. I excitedly loaded several large clumps into the car. The established irises immediately took root and produced a proliferation of shades of blue violet with white, yellow and brown splashes on three different varieties. Then last fall a friend bestowed upon me what he claimed were stunning brown and peacock-blue miniature irises. And he had basketsful if I was so inclined. I'm practically beside myself waiting for them to bloom. To my delight it seems that many more came up than I planted, which should be no surprise. The fragrant salvia is one of three blue plants that evoke memories of my mother and her gardens. A favorite of the bees, salvia will produce deep purple spikes well into October, evoking long hot summer days spent at Mom's beach house on the Connecticut Sound. A second is Stokes aster, the metallic periwinkle-colored, scraggy beauty, which to my dismay has yet to survive in my Zone 3 habitat. Blue hydrangeas were abundant at Mom's as well. Mop-heads and lace-tops, ranging in color from pale cerulean to deep, vibrant psychedelic purple. Unfortunately, I have yet to succeed in establishing one in my neck of the woods. Not even with Endless Summer, the blue hydrangea promoted to be hardy to Zone 3. I have tried three locations in the yard to no avail. But I remind myself that new cultivars are being developed all the time. A stately shrub-sized False Indigo in the garden is reminds me of the fervent strength of the human spirit. It is the sole survivor from a garden that was my refuge during a difficult period if my life. Not only did it survive, but like me, it has thrived. The light-amethyst aliums pose in the garden like the modern sculpture of a minimalist artist. Sleek and simple from afar, intricate and detailed up close, they remind me of Whoville in Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Suess. The corn-flower blue of the perennial bachelor buttons remind me of my ex-husband. And as I do with my ex, I have a complicated relationship with this cultivar that teems with blossoms all spring and summer. While charming at this point in the season, the leaves and stems will brown up in shortly, and for the remainder of the summer I will hem and haw about whether to cut it back completely or enjoy it for the blossoms alone. Part of the garden is outlined by pieces of an old granite foundation I installed to give the space definition and texture. Without my having intended it, these slabs also act as benches. It is here that I sit with the blues and in the blues, establishing new neural pathways and improving my vocabulary. Immersed in my blue garden I am able to experience those precious little states of grace I so crave. Photo credit: Casey Pike

Midsummer Night's Dreaming

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 10:17:16 -0500

By Carol White, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener I love summer. I live for it. For about 30 years or so I have spent the summer solstice in my garden, usually with friends, watching the sun set, the fireflies flit forth, and the pale moon come glimmering in the sky. Sometimes we were a wild bunch. Oh yes, with cookies, lemonade and iced tea. In the years when I had hundreds of rosebushes we would walk barefoot on rose petals and have masses of roses in vases, buckets, and once or twice, we stuffed pillows with rose petals and slept on them that night. Cleopatra, eat your heart out! At midsummer I feel sorry for people in more southern areas where night falls like a window shade. Bang-daylight's gone. In the days of the rose garden I kept thinking that it might, just might, be possible for a unicorn to appear out of the cool, blue, firefly-lit twilight. None ever did, but now I think they may prefer to make a more striking entrance from the hemlock-scented darkness of the northern forest surrounding my rather small clearing. They'd certainly be welcome. I think anyone living at this latitude feels the same way about summer: make the most of it. When I visited cousins in Husqvarna, Sweden in midsummer (the only possible time to spend time there according to my aunt), the light lingered on until after 11:00 p.m., as families all over Sweden celebrated summer with huge meals of crayfish and boiled potatoes, eaten picnic style in yards or parks with paper lanterns shaped like suns and moons dancing overhead. (And akvavit, let's not forget the akvavit, true Scandinavian firewater.) Oddly enough, the crayfish reminded me of home. The native Swedish crayfish all succumbed to some dread disease many years ago and were replaced by stocks from the U.S. and, of all places, Turkey. But guess where the best and strongest crayfish came from? Yep, right here in New Hampshire. I travelled how many hundreds of miles to eat New Hampshire crayfish boiled with dill? I haven't had it since. Perhaps if a bottle of akvavit turned up? Like many New Hampshire folks, the Swedes are mad gardeners. I know the English have the reputation as a nation of gardeners, but even in Sweden's capital city the most modern, black glass pyramid of an apartment building had pots and pots of veggies and flowers burgeoning on ultra-modern balconies. Little red garden houses in the middle of a garden plot are ubiquitous on the outskirts of the cities. Those who can have slightly larger red houses in the countryside or on the scattered islands of the tideless Baltic. No one stays inside on a summer evening. Just like home. On the solstice evening this year I grilled my dinner on the deck, drank something fizzy, and sat watching the light slowly fade. Here in the Lakes area I can always count on volleys of fireworks as darkness finally falls. The fishermen who stay out on the lake, where it is light long after darkness falls under the trees, call to their friends on the shore, homing in on their docks and moorings. As the dark deepens, stillness comes. If I sit quietly enough, long enough, I often think I just might see, well, probably not a unicorn, but the bears enjoying these long summer twilights, too.

Rock-Chopper

Mon, 23 May 2011 10:12:21 -0500

by Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener When I was little, I was the black sheep of my family because I loved to explore the world outside. I remember in fourth grade we had the traditional study of rocks and minerals. I became enrapt with collecting rocks to chop. Before chopping, I wrapped each rock in a rag so that chips wouldn't fly into my eyes. Having a hammer gave me power. I thought I could do anything if I had the power to break rocks. Rock-chopping brought me comfort for reasons I never thought to analyze. I proudly carried around my self-made collection kit containing a hammer, a magnifying glass, a dull knife, rags to wrap the rocks in and an egg carton for organizing. I felt like a real scientist as I used my magnifying glass and consulted my mini field guide so I could label my precious collection I had a rock-chopping desk on a large flat rock of the stone wall behind our house. Yes, as a nine-year- old, I had an office, or should I say a laboratory. Powerful and smart, I spent many hours alone collecting, chopping, identifying, and labeling. Rocks were my friends. They spoke to me, but not to my three sisters or my best friend, Joan. They didn't want to scour the neighborhood to find rocks to chop and catalog. Sitting at a rock desk on a stone wall seemed dumb to them. It didn't matter. For a year or so I had to work among my treasured rocks. I still find myself picking up rocks to bring home. The little girl in me still searches for unique rocks, thinking that maybe I'll uncover hidden treasure on the trails of New Hampshire. I miss my rocks in the winter. When the snow begins to melt, our New England rock walls begin to emerge from their cover. Gradually, the multitude of rocks along trails and in my garden reappears. For seven or eight months I will have another of nature's wonders to pick up, look at, and either toss or bring home to add to my adult rock collection. Lucky rocks, with rings of white quartz all the way around them, no break. Skipping rocks, flat and thin; just the right proportion of size, shape and weight to hurl at the water. How many skips? Only one? What a dud. Did I pick wrong or throw wrong? Mr. Wilson, a family friend, taught us how to skip during one of our annual breakfast picnics. Every year I seem to find a different type of rock beckoning to me, catching my attention, drawing it away from competing rocks. Last year it was black mica shining in the sun, forcing me to stop to stoop down; shocked that the thin slices of mica held together against their host rock despite the many times they were trampled by hikers. Previously I was drawn to any rock with colored quartz. Pinks, greens, and purples made me wonder, even as an adult, if these rocks were valuable to someone besides me. Maybe the pinks or the greens or the purples were gems hiding in New England for people to find. I enthusiastically brought them home and bubbled with excitement to my husband about their beauty and their possible worth. He just laughed and told me that I was saving too much stuff from nature and asked when I would stop lugging things home. I still have those rocks, and I still wonder if I have priceless gems waiting for someone to acknowledge. As a teacher, science unit or not, I read the children's picture book by Byrd Baylor, Everybody Needs a Rock, to every class I have. My copy of Baylor's 1974 book shows the wear and tear of a beloved object. It has survived the annual purging of books we do as a family so our attic floor doesn't collapse. In fact, it's one of the few children's books I save limited shelf space for in the house. I like stumbling upon the book, often at the perfect time. The illustrations by Peter Parnall inspire peace, so I go back to the book again and again and I share it with anyone who is open to its 10 rules for finding a rock. Rule Number Ten is, "Don't ask anybody to help you choose. I've seen a lizard pick one rock out of a desert full of rocks and go sit there alone. I've seen a snail pass up twenty rocks and spend all day getting to the one it wanted. You have to make up your own mind. You'll know." Do you have a rock? Do you need one?

Photo credit: Brian Reynolds. Some rights reserved.

Material Too Good to Throw Away

Thu, 19 May 2011 08:16:02 -0500

by Bill Dawson, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener Most of us throw away a lot of material that could be recycled and put to a new use around the house and grounds. For instance, I no longer take newspapers to be recycled at the transfer station. About five years ago, I found a unique shredder at the local office-supply store. It looks a bit like a big harmonica, about 14 inches long and four inches wide. It has a sort of smiley mouth that you can feed paper into and watch as it chews its way through the newsprint. Out the underside come quarter-inch strips. I have the shredder mounted on a tall box that I designed expressly for it. I place a kitchen trash bag inside the box that just fits the chamber with a little bag left over to drape it over the top of the box before I mount the shredder over the top. Once I have a bag full of quarter-inch strips, I begin the mixing part of my recycling process. During the warm seasons I go directly to my compost set-up with the paper. I lay down a good layer of the strips mixed with shredded leaves from my yard. In goes a layer of grass clippings from the lawn, maybe some weed tops (I don't add the roots), and whatever green prunings I have that day. From under the sink I retrieve a large coffee can of kitchen scraps and add them to the mix. The coffee can usually contains a mixture of kitchen scraps and, of course, coffee grounds. To make all this material "cook" properly I usually add a generous amount of horse manure that I get from a neighbor at no cost. The manure has been mixed with sawdust and some grass clippings and allowed to age for a year or so. The final ingredient is water. I go through this layering process once a week during the growing season. There's a bit of labor involved. I have to turn the product until it's done, as the cooks say. There are commercial products with crank handles available that would lighten the work. None of that for me! I do the required labor the traditional way. It keeps me in shape and gets me out outside into the sun. I've constructed a two-chamber composting system. There is a rather large stump of in the corner of my lot. The loggers cut it off about three feet above the ground. With salvaged lumber, I built two chambers; one on either side of the stump and slightly taller than the stump. To facilitate the turning process, I installed some drop-down doors on hinges. When it's time, I drop one door and flip the product over the top of the stump and into the other chamber. Just before the leaves begin to fall in September, I do what I call the sifting process. I have a small trailer that I pull behind my lawn tractor. I built a screening frame that fits snugly against the sides and is hooked to the front of the trailer end. I scoop well-rotted but still-coarse compost material onto the screen with quarter-inch mesh and separate the fine material from the coarser stuff. Thus separated, the fine material goes into covered trash cans next to the bins. I use it in the spring at planting and potting time, usually mixing it in equal parts with some screened loam. Great stuff for raised beds and for side-dressing flower beds. In the winter I use a different process. In my unheated garage, I have a couple of regular trash cans situated so I don't hit them with the cars or the snow blower. These receive the shredded paper and the material from the coffee can under the sink. To make sure there isn't too much of a mess or stench on warm days, I line the cans with large trash bags. Sometime in April, I wheel my garbage cans to the compost bin with my hand truck, drop the door and dump the bag into the bin. Once the bag is in the bin, I slit it open and mix the contents with materials already in the bin. As it warms up in the spring, the neighbors who subscribe to another lawn-care philosophy have mounds of grass clippings they want removed as soon as possible. Enter Bill with his trailer to accommodate them. I also use the shredder attachment on my leaf blower to reduce my piles of raked leaves to provide a good balance of materials for my compost operation. I usually sprinkle on a gallon or so of lime and some wood ash if available, add water, and go off to plant some flowers while nature takes its course. Photo credit: paperfacets, Some rights reserved.

Mud

Thu, 19 May 2011 08:14:38 -0500

by Helen Downing, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener Here's mud in your eye, don't muddy the water, stick-in-the-mud, stuck in the mud, slinging mud, your name will be mud, mud pies... Mud is the glue that binds winter to spring. When it's gone, spring really begins. Although traditionally we think of mud season as a transition between winter and spring, some people even consider it a season in its own right. Sometimes, in particularly wet years, the mud never totally dries out. Humans have little tolerance for wet summers: Black flies and mosquitoes looking for donors. Ticks dropping from shrubs and trees. Slugs penetrating our gardens, making dainty foliage lacework. Fungi spotting and splattering leaves and flowers. All of it brings gardeners to their knees. In pre-modern times, mud was everywhere in spring. Traveling often meant following muddy river banks on foot, or "shank's mare." Since a pair of shoes was an expensive purchase, bare feet did the walking and shoes did the "talking" by making a good impression upon arrival. Children today still consider mud between their toes and fingers a treat, stomping in it, scooping it in their hands, making it into mud pies and balls, gleefully smearing it on buildings, faces, and clothes. My grandson Oscar experienced "stuck in the mud" at kindergarten one day. Rather than risk losing his boot, he yelped for help, and a nearby "muddy buddy" gingerly galumphed to his rescue. We have all experienced the feeling of being swallowed by the earth as we walked or cavorted in the mud. Especially when small, this can be an unsettling experience. In Oscar's world, spring is an "untrustworthy" season. Ducks of the puddle-duck family (such as mallards) love mud. Eons ago, they adapted to their watery homes and learned to forage for tiny invertebrates that live in mud, even eating an occasional frog. Anyone who has ever kept ducks knows their love affair with mud. In ponds and lakes we often see them tipped bottoms-up to avail themselves of the delicacies below. In America birds such as the barn swallow and cliff swallow use mud and mix it with their own saliva to make their nests adhere to shelf-like structures on buildings or cliffs. They might even find an eave of your barn or house a suitable place to nest. If this bothers you, hold on: Did you know that there is a fine of up to $15,000 and a possible sentence of up to six months in jail for removing the eggs or destroying the occupied nest of a migratory bird? Alternatively, put up chicken wire around overhangs to prevent swallows from nesting up and under eaves. Since both of these mud-loving birds also eat mosquitoes and other flying insects, you might weigh the advantages of having these flying insect-catchers as neighbors against the temporary inconvenience they might cause. Last spring rain was abundant, and a small pond formed in a low-lying area my husband was excavating to bury a culvert for drainage. As the pond formed and my husband waited for drier weather to work outside, the cedar waxwings swooped back and forth drinking from the man-made pond. That experience impressed upon us the importance of water and its companion, mud. It inspired us to create a rain garden nearby to collect water that drains at the base of a forested slope. Strictly speaking, this is an area built to aid storm-water drain while sustaining shrubs and other moisture-loving plants. It may not hold water until fall but in spring and early summer, it becomes nirvana for the birds who've returned ready to set up housekeeping. The small four and six-legged creatures of spring find muddy, wet places divine. For a short time only, they lay eggs, their young hatch, and begin life in water. Only later, when the water has evaporated and the tiny young have morphed to an adult stage, are they ready to repeat the same patterns their parents have followed for generations, first upon the land and then later, in these same vernal pools. There are many types of salamanders, including a large aquatic species called mud puppies. The amphibious salamanders and many insects that lay their eggs in streams and pools will travel from their winter homes beneath the frozen mud, and once they have left their progeny upon water, retire to summer shelters. Since pools like these evaporate with summer's approach, the obvious advantage is clear: no fish to eat the tiny salamander and insect babies. Even though this is a major advantage, there remain others who might find these eggs delicious. Frogs, turtles, and even larger insects, some that hatch from the same pools as the salamanders, will find them and partake, teaching us a clear lesson in nature: more is often better. Hopefully, of the prolific number of eggs, enough will survive. Here's to mud in your eye! Photo credit: timparkinson. Some rights reserved.

Nest Building

Mon, 02 May 2011 21:46:01 -0500

By Susan M. Poirier, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener, Carroll County From the treadmill I can view a corner of the beaver swamp behind the house. The heron nests are hidden from this angle, but I can often see the birds themselves as they work on their aerial structures. In mid-March the first bird returns and stakes out a nest. Despite the work of winter storms, the nests, which appear to be no more than flimsy stacks of broken, dead branches, are still intact. The early returnees get first pick of the nests. Those which have been used for five or six years now are significantly larger than those newly constructed in the last year or two. Once the females return (I assume, though I don't know for sure, that the early arrivals are males), the nests get spruced up. A male flies off to a dead tree. Using his strong beak, he breaks off a branch and returns with it to the nest. He sets it down. I've watched while a female eyed the branch and then gave her assent for mating. Afterwards, she took the branch and arranged it carefully into the collection. The finishing touch seems to be small pine branches. Once again a bird flies off in search of a tall pine. Now I can clearly see the action, as one pine is directly in line with the window. A landing on a branch, a stretch of the neck, then a pull, and a branch is broken off. From the ground, it's easy to see which nests are occupied even if I can't see the female on the eggs. If the nest has sprigs of green showing, I know that nest is in use. Back and forth the birds fly, for more than an hour each morning. Lots of trips to dead branches mean a new nest is being built. Trips to pine trees mean mating has occurred. By the middle of April, several herons are sitting on nests while others are still standing guard at their nests, waiting and watching. Last spring, the final nests of the season were being built in mid-May. After my morning exercise on the treadmill, I head downstairs for breakfast. The dining room faces the front of the house, and from there I watch a robin as it starts its nest. Robin nests are very different from heron nests, and not just in size. The herons appear to use only dead branches (with a dressing of pine). How do they ever get that collection of dead wood to remain stable, staying on the tops of swaying trees even in storms, and hold two to four large youngsters? It's amazing! Dead branches can't be woven together the way supple small live branches can be. I've stood on winter ice beneath the nests and seen daylight showing through. I just don't understand how they manage to remain intact. The robin's nest makes far more sense. It's constructed of much finer material, glued together and to the branch with mud. Now think about this: the robin has no bucket or wheelbarrow and no hands, so every bit of mud must be carried in its beak. Thousands of trips from a mud puddle to the nest, back and forth and back and forth, one dab at a time. Imagine if you were building a brick wall and had to carry each brick singularly and from a distance. The labor involved is immense. The mud, of course, is only part of the story. The nest is started with strands of material, including dead grass, string, peeling bark; whatever fibers the robin can find, remove, and carry. Once I watched a robin pulling repeatedly at a length of string still attached to a fence post in the raspberry bed. It grabbed the string in its beak, flew up, and then...back to square one. Finally I got some scissors and cut that string. Today's robin had found a nice strand of something about eight or nine inches long. It flew to a low branch of a fir, looked around quickly, then went up into a hidden part of the tree. All day long that robin will work, and by tomorrow it will have a nice cozy nest. Twice, robins have nested above the bay window in the dining room. We had a wonderful view of the nest-building process. A few trips to the nest, then a quick break to hunt for food, followed by a return to nest-building. It's easy to see why it is illegal to move an active nest or to collect used birds' nests. The amount of labor involved is extreme and it's all done after the arduous migration back from winter quarters. Do the birds a favor: Watch from a distance, don't disturb, and leave the nests alone.

Something's Bruin

Mon, 02 May 2011 21:44:33 -0500

by Carol White, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener "Something's bruin in New Hampshire." I have the bumper sticker hanging in the guest bedroom under a series of pictures of our native black bears. I should have added the tagline, Meet the neighbors. We have a large family of black bears for neighbors. At least I consider a mom with four yearling cubs to be a large family. The bears went to bed late last fall and apparently rose early this spring. Usually we have the feeders in before the bears are up and about, but this year we were guilty of providing sunflower snacks to the yearling bears. At least they were healthy snacks. We were very slow to catch on to what was happening. My husband and I were standing on the deck at dusk, wondering what was upsetting Summer, our German Shepherd, when John commented, "Isn't there something missing?" Indeed, the wire suet feeder was gone. Not chewed, not empty, just gone. I blamed raccoons. A couple of hours later Summer growled. John flipped on the outside lights to illuminate a young black bear sneaking along the base of the deck, obviously headed for the snack bar. The lights confused him and he scooted up the slight ridge immediately behind the house to hide behind a tree maybe 25 feet away from the deck. John went out to clap his hands and shoo the bear away. The bear simply "oofed" back at him. Summer was going ballistic, dashing back and forth between me and the now-closed sliding door. She was bellowing, "He's out there with BEARS. With bears! What is wrong with you people? How can I protect him if I'm locked in here? Argggh!" John re-entered and explained to Summer that the situation was under control, reducing her to grumbling under her breath. Then he fetched our box of M100 firecrackers. We two humans stepped out on the deck, matches and fireworks in hand. John lit the first M100 and tossed it towards the slope, not too near the bear. Said bear was peering at us from behind a large hemlock, but only the midsection of Bruno was hidden. Not very effective, but neither was the M100. It made a "pop" that was quieter than a cork exiting a bottle of cheap champagne and did nothing to discourage the bear. A second M100 likewise piffled out. At this point, the dog and the cat were craning their necks, looking out the glass door trying to discover what we were doing. The dog has a low opinion of our ability to protect ourselves. The cat has a low opinion of our abilities period. The bear was undecided. John, in his capacity as Chief Engineer was annoyed and went inside to revamp the plan. As I stood in the now-quiet night, I realized that we didn't have a bear, but multiple bears. At least one other youngster was now up in a tree to my left and I was quite, quite sure that the crunching brush noises from the other side of the ridge were yet another bear. Enter the Chief Engineer with Plan B, a portable high-wattage floodlight and a fresh box containing strings of firecrackers. We flipped on the light and tossed several strings of 'crackers toward the not-very-hidden bear and another string off to the left to share the excitement. Exit bears at a high rate of speed, snapping branches as they descended from trees and fled over the ridge. We heard brush crashing down the back of our ridge, through the swale and over the next ridge. We and the bears have achieved a modus vivendi. I can have my hummingbird feeder, but I must bring it in at night. The one time I forgot, a bear politely unscrewed the bottle of nectar from its base, leaving the two pieces unharmed except for minor scratches. Not wanting to help a good bear go bad, I am now scrupulous about bringing in the feeder. In the very early mornings when Summer tries to herd me away from the slope going down to the deepest, brushiest woods, I figure she knows her job, and I stay in my own yard. Let sleeping bears lie, I say.
Photo credit:Beth Sadler. Some rights reserved.

Keeping the Outside Out

Thu, 14 Apr 2011 10:19:00 -0500

by Donna Jensen, Extension Energy Answers Volunteer, Master Gardener and Community Tree Steward On a bright winter afternoon I sat in my kitchen wearing my blue-striped wool hat and reading the mail. My husband Jeff and I are proud tree-huggers, and by keeping our home's thermostat at 64°F, we minimized our consumption of propane to fuel the furnace. On that brisk day I needed the hat to stay warm. We didn't view a cool home as a tremendous hardship. We live in New Hampshire. It gets cold here, and we were taught by our respective Yankee parents that you put on a sweater when you feel a chill instead of turning up the heat. On extremely cold nights Jeff would start a fire in the auxiliary wood furnace in our basement, which really banished the chill. Between very cold evenings and the occasional power outage, the wood furnace got considerable use. That day the mail contained a survey from the Jordan Institute designed to determine a home's energy use. Your home received a score at the end. I immediately completed the survey, assured that our sweater-wearing and intermittent wood-furnace use would give us an excellent score. Besides, we built our home 10 years ago. Its exterior walls are filled with thick pink insulation. The home is equipped with double-paned argon-filled windows, and the antique wooden front door is covered by a cold-blocking storm door . Imagine my shock when the survey result indicated that our home was energy-inefficient. But when I thought about it, the result made sense. Our house was typically cold in the winter and hot in the summer, particularly in the second-floor bedrooms. Furthermore, during the winter we always had huge icicles hanging off the roof, indicating that heated interior air had reached the attic and warmed the roof's underside. The following spring, Jeff and I decided to investigate the possible reasons for our poor survey score by hiring an energy auditor. The auditor arrived carrying a large blower-door instrument. With all the windows and secondary doors closed tightly and the fireplace damper shut, he fit the blower and its tight-fitting skirt over our home's front door. When he powered up the blower, it created negative pressure inside the house and simultaneously measured the rate at which air was sucked into the house through all its "cracks." According to the findings from the blower-door test, our home's air exchange rate (its "draftiness" measure) was 19. An energy-efficient home would have an air exchange rate many times lower. Thus, the survey result was confirmed. Our house was a real fuel-consuming stinker. I remembered that whenever I sat beside a fire burning in our living room fireplace, I'd feel a merciless draft in the room. A roaring fire in the fireplace actually made our house feel colder. Our auditor explained that when the fireplace burned fuel, the warm indoor air went straight up the chimney and was replaced with outside air sucked into the house through unsealed nooks and crannies. For this reason, many homeowners fit their furnaces (and other appliances such as clothes driers) with fresh-air intake vents. Installing air-intake vents to our propane furnace and clothes drier was just one of our auditor's recommendations. He explained that we must also prevent the comfortable, conditioned air inside the house from leaking out. So we installed weather stripping around every exterior and interior door, including the knee- wall access doors to the eaves and the door used to reach the pull-down staircase to our attic. We also stopped air from leaking into the attic by caulking the large gap around our masonry center chimney and the attic floor. The auditor also told us we needed to keep the outside air outside. To achieve that, we followed his suggestions to prevent undesirable air leaks. Working within the knee wall of the second floor, Jeff fitted each floor joist with a block of foam insulation to prevent the soffit-vented air from entering the floor space. After replacing all our recessed light fixtures with new models rated for direct contact with insulation, we removed the carpets, drilled holes in the floor boards, and blew cellulose insulation into the space between the first and second floors, as well as into the attic floor, mounding it high around the edges where the attic floor meets the roof. It was a lot of work, but we spent less than $1,000 on insulation and fixtures. It's already paying big dividends. The house is no longer drafty. On the hottest days of summer, it's only a few degrees warmer in my second-floor bedroom than in the first-floor living room. In late February the fuel delivery person came to fill our 500-gallon propane tank, but didn't bother. He claimed we had plenty of fuel in the tank, but said he'd check again in a few weeks. It's now early April and he hasn't come back. Imagine that! We estimate we've cut our propane use in half. I now wear my blue striped wool hat only when I go outside. Photo credit: Blower-door test, by Andy Duncan. Used with permission.

Pussy Willow Magic

Wed, 30 Mar 2011 11:27:48 -0500

by Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer The other day I headed to an orchard in town to hike with my two dogs. They motivate me to get outside, even in questionable weather. It was raining, gray and muddy. The parking area was barely dry enough for me to pull in. I carefully avoided the deep, soft wheel ruts from nature enthusiasts who couldn't wait a few extra weeks for the ground to dry out, causing them to become mired in the oozing mud. I'd been one of those unlucky ones two years before who'd become entrenched in mud there, escaping only with the aid of a tow truck. I headed out into the orchard on a familiar path and soon came upon deep, impassable mud. Bypassing the worst, I headed down along the northernmost edge of apple trees up to the main paths. Tiptoeing around huge, foot-deep mud puddles and hopping from one clump of grass to another, I squished and squashed painstakingly, hoping my golden retrievers wouldn't decide to run and roll in the worst of it. Head down, focusing on not sinking deeper than the tops of my boots or toppling over with one false jump, I inched along. In the midst of my struggle with the mud and worry about the dogs, something caught my eye. To my right I saw a silver shimmer, water droplets hanging from the tree branches, a magical glimmer dotting the bare limbs. As I stared, the sun came out and shot through the droplets, creating a yellow-white halo and splitting the light to launch rainbows into the mist. The droplets hung on what looked like buds, not just branches. Could these be the first pussy willows of the season in an unexpected place, a place I'd walked many times over the years? Thrilled, I gasped and yelled to my dogs, "You have to be kidding! Those are all pussy-willow trees." How had a pussy-willow nursery established itself so secretly? I detoured off my route, pushing through prickers and climbing over brush. How could I have missed these pussy willows over the years? Could the apple orchard have been so heavily pruned this past year that it now revealed this patch of young willows? Did another year of life bring new eyes and new appreciation, making me more open to the details of nature surrounding me? There was always one swampy corner about 20 minutes further along the path that I'd come upon as a spring surprise. I knew if I came during the right few weeks of the spring that I'd find pussy willows. Amazingly, year after year, I was never ready for that turn of the corner and the aha! moment, that jump-for-joy proof of spring. I love winter and hate giving up snow and snowshoeing. But each year when I see the return of the first pussy willows, I hoot and holler. I keep thinking that pussy-willow moments shouldn't keep causing me to stop in my tracks to breathe in the special sight, but they still do. My faithful corner of swamp willows is aging. It produces fewer catkins each year; they grow so high in the trees I can no longer cut a few to take home to bring spring into the house. My discovery of the pussy-willow nursery gives me hope. The circle of life has brought young trees to the orchard as the old ones are losing their vitality. My battle around and through mud brought a gift, a new site (sight) to visit each spring to pull me through my loss of winter. After my dogs and I got back from our hike, I hung up my gaiters to dry and welcomed the muddy paw and boot prints on the kitchen floor, because mud had brought the magic. Photo credit: Meg Downey Hardy, Some rights reserved.

Aging with Vigor

Wed, 23 Mar 2011 13:12:06 -0500

by Bill Dawson, UNH Cooperative Extension Natural Resources Steward volunteer As I sit in the warmth of what I call my media room listening to a Roger Williams tape of some long-forgotten tunes, my mind flows back over the time six years ago today. I was standing about 50 feet from where I am now sitting, looking at a raw rectangular gash in the ground. Bill the builder and Bill the man in need of a new house were standing side by side. They had similar agendas. Bill the builder was anxious to get started with this new project, and Bill the man in need of a new home wanted to see swift progress toward completion, because in about 20 days his current residence would have to be handed over to its new owner. Bill the builder got right to work and the other Bill got busy emptying out the collected detritus of 30-some years, one room at a time. Everything went swimmingly, and on May 9, 2006, we settled into the home where I'd seen only a dirty gash in the snow less than two months before. Even before Bill the builder handed us the keys at the closing, I got busy in the yard. I took my first trip to the State Forest Nursery in Boscawen in early April. I secured 25 seedlings, an assortment of bare-root items all looking somewhat alike. Lucky for me, they were in bunches and labeled. I had five each of Norway spruce, crab apple, bayberry, silky dogwood and rugosa rose. And so started a process that has continued to the present. I didn't realize then that I'd started something that has filled my retired life with a focus that has continued to pull me into the future. I seem to have more vigor than most men my age, because I know what I need to do through the seasons. I have a yard that differs from those in the neighborhood. Sure, I have a grill and a picnic table with a lawn in the front, but I have focused my attention making my place friendly to the natural inhabitants that I displaced when I moved in and took over this particular acre. In the front, I have a few decorative plants such as lilac, forsythia, flocks and hostas, but they have to share the space with the likes of bayberry, hawthorn and mountain ash. In the back is where the contrast to other places is most evident. There I've established crab apple, dogwood, elderberry, shadbush, elderberry and many other lesser-known species of native and critter- friendly plants. I've created a water feature in the form of a waterfall-and-pond combination. Close to the house, I've sited my raised beds for home-grown vegetables and flowers for cutting and decorative beauty. When I need some inspiration, I visit with some other like-minded gardening friends to see what they have been up to since I visited the last time. I must admit, there are days when I don't have as much vigor as I had at the age of 70 but as I approach 75 this April, I figure I can keep it up for at least another ten years. My new five-year plan will focus on converting more lawn to woody perennials and wildflowers. The final plan will have a 50 ft. x 100 ft. lawn in the front and just enough lawn in the sides and back to maneuver my little tractor and trailer. More raised beds and native species will cover all but my wildflower area over the leach field. From my back deck I will be able to look over the tops of my little grove of dogwoods and other natives into the woods beyond. In this difficult season before spring arrives I have to content myself with the signs of it coming. In early March, dressed to the nines in lined bib overalls, arctic boots, ski hat and a pair of snowshoes, I ventured forth with my pruning equipment. This is the best time of the year to get to the higher limbs. Later, I will get to those parts now covered by snow. I gave all the limbs crossing over each other no choice; one of them had to go and I was the decision-maker as to which of them was cut. I agonized over my grape vines for more than an hour, and I still wasn't satisfied with the results. I am sure those passing by must have wondered what that old coot was doing walking around in circles, but it was the real me doing what I enjoy, and it was refreshing. Before I went back inside, I found some daffodil shoots on the south side of the house. Spring is definitely on the way! Photo credit: Bill Dawson (That's Bill pruning shrubs in his yard.)

Winter Sounds and Silence

Thu, 17 Mar 2011 15:29:53 -0500

by Lynne Lawrence, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener Volunteer The northwest wind screams through the tree line behind my home. When the gusts hit 40, windows rattle and the metal roof hums. Several hundred pounds of snow and ice thundering off the roofan unmistakable roar, terminating in a loud thump-the sound of a giant heart that beats once and then is still. Summer thunderstorms and winter snowstorms are ubiquitous, but "thundersnow," the unlikely combination of the two, makes for an otherworldly strangeness-a wildness that draws you to the window in fascination but keeps you hiding just behind the curtains. Requiring an unusual combination of warmer surface temperatures and very cold upper level air, it is a dramatic reminder of the powerful orchestration that is winter; complete with cannon and fireworks, the living climax of the 1812 Overture. Ice storms, on the other hand, are all too common in New Hampshire and have sounds of their own. Who can forget December 2008, when some sinister magic transported us from our living rooms to an artillery range? Generations-old pine trees cracked like rifle shots as their seventy-foot-tall trunks split and toppled like a giant's game of pick-up- sticks. Telephone poles went down like dominoes, trailing their snaking, arcing wires behind them. Huddled in front of our fires, we marveled at the turmoil. The next morning the sun came up on a transformed world of strange beauty and glittering devastation. The surviving trees clattered against each other and groaned under their ice coats as we watched in trepidation. We walked out among the ice-clad trees, giving wide berth to the leaners. Even the smaller, more intimate sounds of winter are big in their own way: the crunch of boots on intricately-structured snow when it is cold and dry, the swoosh of snowshoes, the nearly silent shifting of the branch just over your head as it drops a tiny mountain of soft, white snow onto the back of your neck. Some snowfalls happen in still, windless air, the settling snow laced with sound-muffling air pockets. The "good morning" you shout to your neighbor falls flat at your feet; a 2,000-pound car sneaks up behind you unnoticed. The clang of a metal trashcan lid becomes a dull thud, the vibrations dropping into the snow. Instead of careening off packed earth and rocks, sound waves skim lightly across the snow's surface, pushing air down into the empty spaces, making the world a softer, more private place. There is a magic window of time where winter creatures hunker down and people stay indoors reading a good book, creating a comforting soup, or listening for the next weather report. This snow silence has its own spiritual quality-a pause, a waiting, a time to savor because it will so soon be overwhelmed by the noisy re-emergence of all that must continue. Outside, leaning on your shovel-that seems one of the best ways to enter the silence-you become aware of hidden creatures who share the world. A perfect line of tiny footprints appears in the snow behind you, running down the driveway, then dropping out of sight into the subnivean world below--a secret society of small mammals that exist in the layer of relative warmth between the frozen earth and the bottom of the snowpack. Six feet above that level, we are too removed to hear the rustlings of its inhabitants--mice, moles and voles. But those with keener senses, operating closer to the ground, like coyotes and foxes, are well aware of this invisible stirring, using it as an audible signpost to the next meal. With uncanny accuracy they dive into the snow cover, ending some tiny creature's life in a whirlwind of snow crystals, yelps and squeaks. We aren't sorry for this small demise; it represents one less tunnel through our spring lawn, one less summer vegetable eaten from the ground up. Simon and Garfunkel had it right. There is a sound of silence-not just the absence of sound, but the positive presence of stillness, palpable, exhilarating. Depending on our lifestyles, we may not miss that deep, insulating blanket that defines our world from November 'til March, but when its profound stillness is missing, we long for the peace and centering it brings. It's what makes us stop when the driveway is half-shoveled, not just to rest aching muscles, but to listen for that absence of sound, that invitation to walk deeper into the woods, to inhabit, for just a little while, that world where no one dares, or wants to, disturb the sound of silence.