Every late April and early May my garden is flooded by a sea of bluebells. Strolling through the garden seems more like wading through a shallow blue pool. I typically go a bit bonkers over these blooms as they transform the landscape into a storybook setting of vivid color and wonder. The magic lasts about two to three weeks before warmer weather sends the bulbs’ activity back underground, and into forced dormancy and nutrient storage mode.
Video: A Stroll Through the Bluebells
I never tire of the view from back porch. A little wild, a wee bit weedy, but always interesting, the garden here provides a changing canvas with each season.
Hope you enjoy the view and the video garden walk.
2004: Of the eight structures original to the property, the machine shop is the only out building remaining.
The original farm, established in 1888, grew to cover 32 acres and to support a 20-cow barn, large fruit-storage house, three-story 1,000 gallon water tower, milking parlor, hog house, 70-foot chicken coop, and one tool and implement shed. Sadly all that remains of the out buildings is the tool and implement shed. In today’s mindset, it’s a barn; in yesteryear’s, it was merely a 12 x 24 shed to store machinery.
2005: Old barn, new tarp; sad barn, blue tarp
When I bought the property close to a decade ago, the shed-turned-barn was on its last leg. The beautifully weathered board-and-batten siding resembled a tattered hem at the building’s stone foundation, and the roof, oh the roof, it was a brittle wood sandwich layered with Swiss-cheese sheathing and a topper of crumbling asphalt tabs and rotting cedar shakes. The barn was just a year or two from total collapse.
My first task was to stop the rot, which meant keeping the rain out of the building’s interior. One ginormous blue tarp later, my barn went from charming old relic to hideous, albeit protected, eyesore. (In my head, I would hear dueling banjo every time I walked by the structure.) I began to worry; blue tarps are a slippery slope, a mere hop, skip and a jump to harboring a rusted Camaro on blocks, a confab of garden gnomes, and a herd of fiberglass lawn deer.
Truth be to told, I knew that the tarp really was my friend, an annoying friend, but a pal nonetheless that would stand by me and my barn through the storms. Unfortunately, my blue-tarp friendship was short-lived as the that particular tarp had the tensile strength and durability of crepe paper. So one year later, I upgraded the barn to a green tarp, thinking it would blend in better. Ah naive little Tommy, there is no blending with a structure covered by a 30 x 40 foot leprechaun green tarp. Mean green only lasted a year too, no thanks to high winds and my poorly executed use of bungee cords and kite string.
For my next tarp trick, I moved to brown and and a thicker woven material. After tethering the tarp to cement-filled tires (found on the property), I knew my city ways had been thoroughly consumed by country practicality. Ugly, but it worked, the tarp kept the barn and all its contents dry and and the structure stable. A couple years later I went space-age, and bought a huge (and I mean circus-tent-huge) tarp to cover the barn from top to bottom. And there it stayed, with but one replacement tarp, anchoring my property like a giant foil-wrapped bullion cube.
2010: While I jokingly called my first silver-colored tarp an art installation (my homage to Christo), I secretly feared a wayward UFO may mistake it for a homing device.
But the story is not over. Last week, the planets aligned; I met a man who said he could re-roof my barn for a reasonable price. Surprisingly, his reasonable price actually seemed reasonable. We shook on it and the next day the work began.
Seeing the light of day.
Now when I walk by the barn I smile, the weight of disrepair lifted. There’s something to be said about resolution, about addressing something that needs your attention. For nine years, I stared at a tarp-covered building suffocating under the weight of cheap vinyl and procrastination. The good news is now, both the barn and I can breathe.
A barn is reborn. The next few days I’ll spend time cleaning up the area, reattaching siding, replacing some rotted boards and apologizing for the indignity I had a hand in. Hopefully my tarp days are over. (Uh-oh, is that banjo music I hear?)
Outside my window, bluebells lap at the trunk of a bigleaf maple.
A few warms days on the island, and Mother Nature takes notice. The orchard trees are set to bloom, the days get longer (just like my chore list) and the memories of a chilly wet winter fade with each flower’s bloom and every flop in the hammock. I have a few farm photos to share, as well as what’s been going on.
I found the perfect finials for my work-in-progress kiwi trellis–such a noble and worthy breed to ward off pests and guard the fruit!
Art in and of the garden: My dear friend Phoebe came by to visit and share a gift from her hand and heart–a lovely watercolor of my cabin in the cottonwoods.
After a year without bees, I enlisted the help of my friend David, the bee whisperer, to mentor me in the fine art of beekeeping. Here the queen is about to be released to the hive, while her attendants set up housekeeping.
I picked the last of my various kales and sprouting broccoli (from last year’s plantings). This basket load is destined to top the best pizza on Vashon: Biondo Wood-Fired Pizza Oven
Garden gate: With age comes a fine patina and natural presence (which goes for people, too).
Narcissus Poeticus, aka the Poet’s Daffodil or Pheasant’s Eye, unfurls in a showstopping finale as one of spring’s most vibrant, fragrant and beautiful performers.
Garnering sympathy: Here I am doing my best pouty face, thanks to a root canal that devolved into a pulled molar, and a myopic month of ill-fitting, broken glasses. Ibuprofen has been my friend. (More pouting: did I mention my replacement frames and lenses were lost in the mail.) Not-so-golden silence: Algae got the best of my fountain pump, clogging it completely. I may have to replace the old pump with a larger one better suited to provide greater water circulation and aeration, and less perfect environment for green slime.
This week I also added a second layer to the hoophouse, pruned and weeded the orchard, grape arbors and berry patch, made a few orange cakes, did a couple dishes, failed to vacuum any rooms, weight tested the hammock, and relished our first streak of warm sunny weather. In all, a productive week, one that officially kicks off my summer of GSD, Getting Stuff Done. (The the G-rated version of a favorite line from my friend Karen.)
What’s next? After nine years and six tarp layers, my 120-year-old barn needs a new roof (among other things).
If I ignore Boz, he makes his case up close and personal.
Make no mistake, in this household I serve at the pleasure of my two English Bulldogs Boz and Gracie. As pawed partners in crime, they couldn’t be more different. Gracie, the Greta Garbo of bulldogs, ‘vants’ to be alone and is happiest when splayed on a sofa or soaking up sun on one of three porches. My role in her daily life is less top dog and more personal chef, cosmetologist, masseur and Boy Friday. I cook and provide for her delicate palate, keep her ears, eyes and muzzle clean, perform needed butt rubs and neck massages, and fetch her favorite chew toys at the first hint of a whimper..
How could you deny this face a treat?
Boz, on the other hand, rules the roost in a different way; he is master and commander of this vessel called Tall Clover Farm. For example, take a look at our morning ritual. (Who’s the dog and who’s the master?) I get up early, go downstairs, make coffee, pour a cup, sit down, log on to my computer, and wait for the thud–the thud of a 65-pound bulldog trading in the comfort and heights of a heavenly bed upstairs for the company and indulgence of his subordinate downstairs.
Bulldog beauty: Gracie and Boz channel their inner Vermeer
As I sit in the kitchen nook, I can feel the reverberation of Boz’s approach in the wood frame bones of this old house. Gambol, shake, gambol, rattle. His first job is to circle the kitchen and vacuum up any morsels left behind before hitting the water dish on his way to the nook. Next, he sidles up to the table and gently paws at my leg, as if I am unaware of his arrival. Each morning we revel in our heartfelt reunion, a convivial Q&A on how well we slept and if we’re hungry. The answer to the latter question is always the same for both of us: yes!
Once Boz devours his crunchy kibble, he heads back to the table’s edge and resumes the paw-Tom-until-he-responds move. I stop what I’m doing, and reward his persistence (and my weakness) with an apple slice, his favorite healthy after-breakfast treat. Three chomps and it’s gone.
Pausing under the table to formulate his next treat extortion tactic, Boz then heads outside to do his business, well, just some of his business. From the window, I can see my little man trundling about the flower beds searching out the rarest and most delicate of plants to lift his leg on.
But does Boz trot back inside through the same dog door? Uh, no that would be too convenient (for me). Instead, the Bozman detours to the front yard, laps up water from the fountain basin and deposits himself at the front door and barks until I get up and let him in. When I scold him for not using his dog door, I find myself at the receiving end of a look that seems to be the bulldog equivalent of “whatever” or “did you say something?”
Back inside, Boz is back by my side under the table, looking up, beaming like a potty-trained toddler awaiting some praise. He rakes his paw against my pant leg, whimpers, and persists until he gets his good-dog-you-went-outside-to-go treat. Another slice of apple is dispensed into the awaiting jaws of Boz.
“Uh Tom, this hammock isn’t going to swing itself. And did you find our fan yet?”
Back at my computer, Boz retreats outdoors once again. This time I can see he’s finishing up his business down by the barn. Back through the dog (this time), and back to Tom for round two of treats-because-I-poo, Boz is not quite ready to retire to his bed. He trundles back over to the glass front door and awaits his first deer sighting of the day. When Bambi appears, Boz barks until I open the door, and he tears out after the interloper. Deer now gone, Boz circles the lawn’s perimeter in triumph and returns for a victory rubdown and apple slice.
Now content to rest, Boz circles his bed like a lumbering top and settles in for a good snore and a break from eating. Back to the computer before my morning chores, I gather my thoughts. Then, like clockwork, a thud, a new gentler 55-pound thud rocks the ceiling. Gracie is up and heading downstairs.
And so the new cycle begins. Time to slice more apples.
Boz protects Tall Clover from an abominably-built snowman.
The hoophouse crowned: Clouds parted, the angels sang.
A Greenhouse Grows!
Building a hoophouse–make that a large hoophouse–has been a life lesson in humility. I believe I can still hear my naive and fateful words echoing in my head, “Just how difficult can it be?” Well, reality answered that succinctly and directly: a bit more difficult than I anticipated. While designing, figuring, staging, assessing, financing and erecting a 30′ x 72′ greenhouse structure has its challenges, basking in the possibilities and the good nature of generous friends makes it all worthwhile. Behold my radiant shrine to perseverance and helping hands (and paws). Here’s how we crowned the structure with UV-resistant greenhouse plastic.
Once Boz realized there were no snacks to be had, he moved on to more important things like barking incessantly at the rolls of plastic.
Step 1: With a metal pipe running through it, place the hernia-inducing, 120-pound roll of plastic on two sawhorses. Grab the end and walk the length of the hoophouse. Exceed the structure length by 2 feet on each end and cut the end off at the roll. Think the world’s largest (and most ineffective) roll of toilet paper.
Step 2: One on each end, two evenly spaced in the middle, tie a rope to the same side of the plastic. On the other end of the rope secure a small weight. Toss the lines over structure. (See the green line above.) Because the rest of us created impromptu bird nests and tangled webs, Jon (shown here in the brown jacket) became our official line tosser. Considering he was a former commercial fisherman, this should have been a no-brainer. The good news: our failed tossing attempts had immense entertainment value.Step 3: With the lines on the other side of the hoophouse, carefully pull the plastic up and over, one person per line. Have a couple helpers on the plastic roll side, lifting and creating loft in the plastic sheeting (and more comic relief). Step 4: When the plastic is drawn to the opposite side, pull the loose plastic to the ends of the structure to fully cover the roofline. Did I mention you should do this on a sunny, wind-free day. Warm plastic is easier to work with than cold plastic and billowing plastic is just plain impossible to work with. Here, Rick inspects and Karen holds on for dear life. Step 5: Rick the Nimble, secures the plastic first to the peak of the building, during which my lecture on safety first falls on the deaf ears atop an orchard ladder. Step 6: Exhibiting one of his famous Cirque du Soliel moves, Rick locks the plastic in the channel with wiggle wire, while John and Jon keep the plastic taut. The channel lock and wiggle wire hold the plastic in place on the top end edge and along the mid-span which is made of cedar.
Step 7: Step back and admire your handiwork. And yes, it takes a village to raise a hoophouse. Thank you Rick, Leslie, Jon, Karen and Jon; I couldn’t have done it without you. First ripe tomato (or pineapple) is on me. Late afternoon shadows find a rich canvas on the hoophouse’s new cover. Next step: build end walls and doors, then cover. Once everyone left, I thought I’d reward myself with a quick break on the hammock. I looked down to see a lawn in need of mowing. I diverted my eyes up, only to peer upon a porch roof dotted with moss and siding begging for a coat of paint. And that is why naps are so important. Close your eyes and it all disappears.
Fallgold raspberry: a sachet of sweet and delectable perfume.
Behold, the raspberry, the gold standard by which I judge other berries whether planted in my garden or in my mouth. As easy as this cane fruit is to grow, pruning can take good berries and make them even better berries–bigger, sweeter, and in greater abundance.
Shortcakes awaiting raspberries and peaches, a marriage made in Melba heaven.
And before you bristle about the pruning work involved in the cold soggy months of spring, may I remind you why you are doing this: shortcake and ice cream. Need I say more? Raspberries are a fruit that rewards you if pruned regularly, and judiciously, so lick your chops and grab the pruners.
Breathe, breathe…this is within your reach.
Tom’s Video Tutorial:
How to Prune Raspberries
My foray into one-handed video production and tutorial land may leave you with some more questions (and a seasick feeling). Should that be the case, here’s my how-to in photos and the written word. Take a look for more information.
Know Your Berries
First determine the type of raspberries you have: summer-bearing or ever-bearing. Why does it matter? Prune the wrong way and you’ll have a berry-free bowl of regret come July. To keep it simple, I’m taking my lead from Genvieve at North Coast Gardening who distilled it down so well, “just remove any canes that gave you fruit.” Though I have a couple caveats to add, that is the gist of it. Now you may be scratching your head and asking how do I make that distinction between ever-bearing and summer-bearing? Read on Grasshopper, the prune master is here to share.
The Difference Between Summer-Bearing and Ever-Bearing Raspberries.Summer-bearing : The Tulameen raspberry cane above shows last year’s fruiting bracts (the nubbins on the branching ends) are still intact.
Ever-bearing: Fall Gold also has spent fruiting bracts, but there is a difference between the two, which is shown in the photo below.
A Tale of Two Stems (when both show spent fruiting bracts)Summer-bearing (above photo, top cane )
Brown stem, inside and out
One crop
Variety: Tulameen
Spent cane: Last year’s fruiting cane dies after producing berries. It will send up new shoots in the same season for next year’s crop. Basically, it fruits only on the cane that sprouted the year before.
Ever-bearing (above photo, lower cane)
Green fleshy stem inside
Two crops
Variety: Fall Gold
Viable fruiting cane, year one and year two
The ever-bearing cane with bracts will have a live green stem when cut. Each cane produces for two years, a late crop from the first year’s new green growth and an early crop the following year from the same cane, now woody.
Summer-bearing Tulameen, before pruning (and some weeding). Note the light driftwood colored canes (last year’s spent canes) and the darker wood which will produce this year’s July berries. Summer-bearing, Tulameen, after dead wood has been pruned to the ground and removed (though tip pruning is still needed to keep canes at five feet). Ever-bearing Fall Gold (above) produces two crops, a summer crop from last year’s cane and a late summer crop from new growth this year. Even if you cut ever-bearing raspberries to the ground in winter or spring, you will still get one crop of berries in late summer from new growth. This is not the case with summer-bearing; if you cut down every cane, you will have to wait a year to get fruit from the new growth of the prior summer. Ever-bearing Fall Gold (shown after pruning) I tend to prune ever-bearing much more severely, leaving only the stronger, more robust canes, which (in my observation) leads to a better second raspberry crop in September. And again you can cut them all to the ground and have one big fall crop. Let me recap for clarification. For both types, look for canes with spent or old dead flowering or fruiting bracts.
Summer-Bearing Raspberries: remove all of the canes with dead flowering or fruiting bracts.
Ever-Bearing Raspberries:
TWO CROP option: For two small crops, one in July and one in September, remove the weakest, thinnest canes with dead flowering or fruiting bracts.
ONE CROP option: For one large late summer crop, remove all canes, and the crop will come entirely from the new summer’s growth and produce berries in September through October.
Summer and Ever-Bearing Raspberries: Prune the tip sections of both types, that is reduce the height of the cane to four or five feet. This helps create bigger berries, allows for easier picking and prevents the canes from breaking down during windstorms and heavy rains.
1. Too far from bud 2. Too sharp an angle 3. Just rightTip pruning: (left to right)
Cut too high: Too much stem left above the bud will cause rot.
Sharp angle: The cutting angle is too close to the bud and angled too severely, which may cause bud die-off or weak bud support and stem breakage when fruit appears.
Just right. This is how you do it, a moderately cut angle just above the bud
Raspberries as big as quail eggs, picked by a hand that needs a little scrubbing, And loved by a man who has a nose for sweetness (and theatrics). The End (well almost)…time for another bowl.
A perky plastic role model for me. (Photo, Iris Taboh)
I’m a man who tries to err on the side of optimism, but last week’s events took me on a detour to the less than sunny side of the street. And while I have no right to complain about anything, I did find something to grouse and whine about in the privacy of my own home and in the company of four furry sympathetic ears: a failed filling and cracked tooth.
Gracie, “No Tom, please tell us again how much your tooth hurts….oh that’s fascinating.”
Tooth nerve pain is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and this being my first time for such a dental misadventure, I hope it is my last. I tried to buck up and “be a big boy” as the saying goes, but it was a real struggle not to be a whiny baby, rocking myself to sleep in the fetal position and sobbing, “Why, why, why?” Countless phones calls and four days later I finally got in to see the first available Endodontist in a two-state radius.
And since I’m a silver lining kind of guy, I won’t dwell on the details of my root canal and scheduled fix, though I suggest for your own good (physically and financially) you keep popcorn kernels, ice cubes and corn nuts out of your mouth and treat your teeth like delicate eggshells.
Big Boy as Dough Boy: Working through the pain, rolling pizza dough for La Biondo Wood Fired Pizza at the Vashon Farmers Market.
As my mouth begins to heal, so does my attitude. I may have been out of commission for most of the week, but a bad tooth can surely remind you of your good life, and the friends and family who try to make you feel better, who call regularly (and suggest gargling with bourbon), who bring you homemade soup and fresh eggs, who sneak a pair of hand-knit socks in your mailbox, who drive you to the dentist and who keep you from using farm equipment when your medication suggests it’s not such a good idea. Here’s to your happy teeth, dental health and a pain-free smile.As for the greenhouse, a bad tooth and record rainfall kept me from finishing it last week, but a sunnier forecast on all counts should make its completion date a possibility in the days to come.
The week before last we enjoyed a spectacularly brilliant Easter weekend. This view is from Maury Island, looking south across south Puget Sound and Tacoma to Mount Rainier on a rare clear day.Wait, I misspoke; I did experience sunshine a couple times last week as seen here when my friend and neighbor Phoebe checked in on “Tom’s tooth.”
Nature has no rival when it comes to color and freshness.
This week I discovered a little thank you gift on my back stoop rail: one dozen farm-fresh eggs. A gift I don’t take lightly (just colored lightly), farm-fresh eggs stand cockscombs above their grocery store counterparts. The yolks are as sunny as any summer day, standing proud and dome-like in a pool of resting whites. A quick spin of a dinner fork transforms yolk and egg into a frothy broth of gold.Scrambled, fried, poached or boiled, the incredible edible egg is even more incredible and more edible when you know the chicken’s name or at least where it nests. Here’s to farm-fresh eggs! Treat yourself to a dozen and you’ll never go back to store-bought.
Organic fed and pastured, no wonder Ava’s chickens (and eggs) are happy. In case you’re wondering, she has about 80 chickens representing 14 breeds. Happy Easter, my friends.
As for my chickens (seen above), I lost them to some wily weasels or minks. I’m hesitant to restart the flock until I install gun turrets, land mines, and electric fences, and maybe even a crocodile-stocked moat for good measure.
I thought a break in the drizzle and my labor camp duties would be a fine time to revisit some garden curiosities with my camera, especially before the tiller tines erased all clues. Nature is beautiful even in decay, and the remnants of seasons past make for artful subjects.
A Closer Look at My Garden in Early Spring
Lichen weaves a feathery tapestry atop an apple tree twig.
Nature’s pinata: the dried hollow shell of a crookneck squash, seed treats long gone.
Golden petals a distant memory, a weathered sunflower crown still holds court in the garden.
Tomatoes may rot on the ground, but their skins survive.
Lacy skeleton: The tomatillo husk revealed.
Lacinato kale florets, as pretty as they are delicious.
Like shredded ribbons, sun-bleached vines retrace the path to last autumn’s pumpkins.
Exposed honeycomb: a sad reminder of an empty hive and the fragility of the honeybee .
Hope you enjoyed the images of my garden at rest. Under a full moon, and in earshot of a chorus of frogs, a new season approaches, the soil reveals life and seeds are planted. What is old feeds that which is new. Growing joy.
About a year ago, I applied for and received (after some time) a cost-share grant to build a high tunnel hoophouse, a greenhouse-like structure framed with steel tubular ribs and covered in a UV-resistant plastic. Its purpose: to extend the growing season in spring and fall, and in the case of some crops, through winter as well. A little more sun and a little more heat can do wonders for both soul and seedling here in the Maritime Northwest. I may just put in a wading pool, spread sand, add a chaise lounge and palm tree, and rent the space by the hour.
As I’ve never grown anything in a covered space before, I’m plowing through some unknown territory here, but I can assure you that I’m up for the challenge.
Interior view of Sun Island’s newly built hoophouse, I’m guessing the warmest spot of Vashon Island.
Let me introduce you to the concept. Hoophouses, or high tunnels as they are also known, trap heat much like a car windows do on a sunny day. The plastic sheeting inhibits air circulation and flow, trapping energy in the form of heat within its walls. Plants are usually planted directly in the ground, and pampered to grow up big and strong without the threat of pests and inclement weather. Because the hoophouse can get too hot, sides are designed to roll up, and let fresh air in and over-heated air out. Shown from left to right: the roll-up wall lowered and secured, the manual mechanism to roll a 72-foot wall of plastic sheeting up and down, and the wall rolled up about six inches above the base board.
The end walls sport a sliding barn-style rigid plastic door to allow tillers, tractors, sun and farmers access to the space. The soil in this hoophouse has yet to be cultivated and prepared for planting.
Sun Island Farmers, Joe and Celina, were wonderfully generous in sharing their hoophouse expertise and letting me drop by repeatedly to study their structures and building techniques. Though often referred to as a hoophouse kit, I’ve come to believe the term kit is aspirational at best; hoophouses are as custom and idiosyncratic as the farmers who build them and the land where they are placed. No two are exactly alike.
Big load: Tom pushes his luck, while Boz (yet again) tempts the scientific laws of balance.
Naively, I thought building this structure would be a piece of cake. My willing spirit was sucker-punched by my aching body the first day–a day which simply required moving all of the steel pipes, boxes and parts up to the staging area.
Of the 26 anchor posts to be pounded down to a depth of 30 inches, 24 found large granite rocks on their way, impeding my sledge-hammer wielding mastery, progress, and hope to have fully functional arms at the end of the day. Frequent breaks and whining kept me going.
Four days later, and the super structure is up with base boards and roll-up supports bolted into place.
What’s the next step? I need to build end walls and doors, add channel lock to keep the sheeting in place and oh, yeah cover it with plastic. That’s all. Stay tuned for the next episode of When a Greenhorn Builds a Greenhouse.
Special thanks to Bernie, Karen, Rick, Tamara, Joe, Celina and Jon for your help. Without it, I’d probably be in traction, and my hoop house would look like this.
Hope you enjoy the view and the video garden walk. 
Organic fed and pastured, no wonder Ava’s chickens (and eggs) are happy. In case you’re wondering, she has about 80 chickens representing 14 breeds. Happy Easter, my friends.
