THE BANE AND BLESSING OF GARDENING

As I sit here typing this, I can look out the window and see a lot of my garden. The dahlias are beautiful, the cosmos almost finished and the tomatoes are ripening. If I could sit in my swing and type this, I could hear the sound of the water trickling into my little pond…so relaxing. But, this is also the time of year when I am more than ready to be done gardening. The only problem is that there’s at least a couple more months before frost and rain arrive, and I must retreat into the house.

 

Every fall, I make a serious attempt to clean up the flowerbeds, rake up all the leaves, and prepare the garden for winter as well as have it ready to go when spring arrives. Since I am only a fair-weather gardener, I don’t always achieve all the fall tasks I set myself. Last fall, for the first time, my husband was unable to keep after all the leaves from the big red maple. I managed to blow them into the flowerbeds for the winter. Imagine what a mess when I began to clean out those flowerbeds in the spring. I vowed I would hire someone this fall to make sure all those leaves are in the compost pile and not in the flowerbeds. 

 

Throughout winter, I peruse the various seed and bulb catalogs that arrive in the mailbox. I make lists of the various bulbs and plants I would like to have for the garden.  I also peruse the photographs I took of last year’s garden and make lists of what I want to move, divide, yank out, or change in some way. That usually leads to my tossing the wish lists of what I don’t have because by the time I divide,  move and transplant, there won’t be room for anything new.

 

Come spring, I am excited to begin. While working, I would devote entire weekend days (or take time off) to getting the front or back garden in shape and ready to go. This, of course, often led to injury even if nothing worse than a sore back. Now that I’m retired, my mantra is, “You don’t have to do this all in one day.” This seemed to work pretty well this past year, but often I’d find that once I’d finished everything, it was time to start back at the beginning.

 

As spring progresses, I anxiously await those little spears of green that indicate the dahlias wintered over (I know…you’re supposed to dig, separate, store and then replant in the spring…too much work.) or that the cosmos, nasturtiums or sunflowers reseeded. I purchase tomato plants, squash, pumpkin and cucumber starts, plant pots of snow peas, green beans and lettuce. I water, fertilize and watch them all grow and grow and grow.

 

This last spring, I even tried something new…straw bale gardening. I bought a couple of straw bales (one had to be a hay bale because it grew grass like you wouldn’t believe) and placed them in the area of the garden that gets the most sun. I then prepared them as directed with water and fertilizer and inserted a tomato plant, zucchini squash and pumpkin starts in one and Danish and delicata squash and lemon cucumber starts in the other. Amazingly, all these plants have done really well although the pumpkins are already ripe and almost all of the plants (except the tomato) are suffering from powdery mildew. I’ll probably do this again next spring.

 

But, to return to the fact I’m ready to be done now. This happens every year and while others say my garden is beautiful, my eyes find, without even trying, all the areas that I’d like to change or fix. For instance, I want to dig up the entire bed of hostas, divide them severely and replant small divisions all along the back of that flowerbed. Then, I’d like to dig up three dahlia plants of the same kind, separate and replant them in front of the hosta. Well, this isn’t something that can be done right now. Well, it could, but most likely both hosta and dahlia would not survive…maybe in October unless the weather is really horrible.

 

I think my problem with wanting to be done this early is that in the past I’ve paid too much attention to the bane of gardening and not the blessings. Amazing how typing this blog brought me to that realization. So, when complimented, I’m going to accept the compliment with pleasure and not look for what could be better. I’m going to concentrate on all the satisfaction and enjoyment I get from working in the dirt as well as sharing and eating those tomatoes and vegetables. And, just for fun rather than sadly I think I’ll relish imagining what my garden might be like next year as I sit in my swing, listen to the water burble and delight in the beauty that’s now before me.

 

HUCKLEBERRIES

As a young girl in Idaho, my family would take me huckleberry picking. My daddy would hide in the berry bushes and growl, pretending to be a bear. I would yell and scream and beg daddy to rescue me (even though I knew it was him all the time). My mother would make huckleberry jam and huckleberry pie with these dark purplish berries. Huckleberries mean happy memories. 

When we moved to Seattle, the only time I had huckleberry anything was every year at the big family reunion. My great aunt would always bring two huckleberry pies and I always made sure I got a piece of that pie. 

Sometime in the mid-1970s, my husband took the family on a Sunday jaunt to some ghost town. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure exactly where it was and when we came to the top of the road we were following, he stopped and we asked the people camping there where we were. After they told us and we all had a good laugh about how we were about 100 miles from our goal, I asked why they were camping there. Their response was, “picking huckleberries.” I thought they meant the red ones, but, no, it was the purple ones. 

Of course, at a time like that, you’d think there would be something in the car that would hold a pie’s worth of huckleberries. A short distance down the road from the other people, we stopped and picked using everything we could scrounge up that would hold berries. And, I vowed we would return the following year and pick gallons and gallons. 

This we did every single year after that. For years, this location provided at least two gallons of huckleberries per trip. I’d clean and freeze and then make huckleberry pies throughout the year. I even wrote an essay about those trips that was published. Eventually, the pickings became very lean and I have no idea why. Did we go too early, too late; was spring too cold, too hot; did other people (or bears) get there before us?  

Not only did the lack of huckleberries sadden me, but my husband confessed how much he had actually hated those excursions every single year. I was very disappointed to learn he didn't share in my happy memories, but I guess he gets points for going along even though he didn’t enjoy it.  

A few years ago, my son and his family took me huckleberry picking, but again, the pickings were few and far between. My granddaughter ate most of what we picked directly from the bush, but I did get a picture of her holding a handful of berries. Last year, my granddaughter and I made the trek alone in the pouring rain. It did stop raining long enough for us to get out and look around to find that there were no berries. 

So, back home, I bit the bullet (or Visa as the case may be) and went on line and ordered two packages of frozen huckleberries. Each package made one very spendy pie, and I was loath to share with anyone. But, while researching how to buy huckleberries, I also found a site that listed huckleberry hikes…I saved that site for easy reference for this year. 

Last week, I spent some time on that site deciding which huckleberry hike my granddaughter and I should take. It couldn’t be 11 miles round trip which some of them were, and so I decided on one that was three miles round trip. On Friday, Haley and I ventured forth, picking cans, Tupperware, water, lunch, towels, in hand to pick huckleberries…we weren’t going to return home skunked.  

We drove to Snoqualmie Pass in order to follow directions to hike the Mt. Catherine trail. Amazingly, Haley recognized where we were…a place she had vowed never to return to.  Her sixth grade class had gone cross country skiing last spring and she hated it. She never wanted to see Hyak again in her life. Even though it was covered with snow then, she recognized various places of import…the bridge which had no side rails then and was covered with ice, the tree where she did a face plant, the point where she took off her skis and walked, the point where she put them back on and skied back to the beginning. 

But, I digress. We followed the gravel road for miles and miles, but never came to the Mt. Catherine trail. Instead, we came to a jumping off point for the Pacific Crest Trail, and I recognized a vast field of huckleberry bushes. We stopped there. We picked huckleberries…enough for at least one pie.

This year I also found another source of huckleberries right at the bottom of my hill. I knew there were lowland huckleberries because I have three nonproductive bushes in my back yard. One morning on my walk with my neighbor, I recognized the bushes in the landscape on the corner…covered with small purple berries.  

The house is empty and for sale, so I went back a couple of days later and picked enough off those bushes for a pie. Then, last Saturday, I returned and did a second picking and again, enough for a pie. It’s entirely possible (if the house remains empty) I might get in a third picking this coming Friday if the green berries ripen by then.  

This coming winter I won’t have to be quite so selfish with my huckleberries, plus I’m secure in the knowledge that next year, I can return to Snoqualmie and that huge field or continue on the road to Mt. Catherine. And, if that isn’t possible, I can always throw myself on the mercy of whoever moves into that house…or sneak down there at the crack of dawn when those huckleberries begin to ripen. In any case, huckleberries will continue to bring back great memories while making more in the coming years...at least that's my hope.

MY NEW GRANDSON XANDER LOUIE KARLBERG

You know that old saying, “Good things come to those who wait.”? Well, it’s true and much of my life, at least the important parts, is proof of that.  

My son AJ was born in 1970 and although we began to try for a sibling after a few years, it wasn’t until 1980 that his brother Thor was born. Yes, a ten-year wait, but absolutely worth it. 

My granddaughter Haley was born in 2001, and she will turn 13 in October. Obviously, this is the only child my eldest son plans to have. For these last almost 13 years, I have been extremely grateful (and will continue to be so) to have this one grandchild to love, spoil and share with important things like school functions, shopping, The Nutcracker, huckleberry picking, movies, overnights, birthdays, holidays, etc. Currently Haley has left her girly-girl phase behind, but Nana has high hopes that it will return in a year or three so they can once again shop for gorgeous dresses and audacious shoes. 

Today, my grandson was born, the son of my youngest son. Most likely, he will be this son’s only child, but again, I am extremely grateful to increase my grandchildren by a factor of one. Actually, my grandson’s mother has provided an older brother and sister for him, so you could say by a factor of three…perhaps when Xander begins to call me Nana, they will as well. 

It was an honor and a privilege to be present as he came into the world. The nurse said he arrived with a hand up by his face (his father sucked the first two fingers on his left hand) and holding on to the umbilical cord. Xander weighed 7.6 pounds and was 19 inches long. He was the most alert newborn I’ve ever seen, opening and closing his hand as though reaching out to us as he lay on his mommy’s tummy. He kept opening his eyes, blinking and appeared to be looking around. He also blew little bubbles with his mouth. Can you tell Nana was fascinated?  

What a joy to hold him the first time, to look between his face and his father’s and recognize the brow and eyes as well as the mouth. Xander also has long feet with almost prehensile toes…his father and grandfather are able to pick up tennis balls with their toes. His hands are large with long fingers, and already pianist and surgeon have been mentioned; but if he is as good as his father with those hands, he’ll be able to accomplish anything he desires.  

Haley pointed out that when Xander is as old as she is now, she will be 24. By then she will be a grown woman and Xander will be half grown. I look forward with great anticipation and joy to watching them both grow and develop into the wonderful woman and man they’ll each be one day. So, yes, it’s true, good things do come to those who wait.

GREAT AUNT LOLA'S DILL PICKLES

Shortly after I was married, my great Aunt Lola had me and my husband over for dinner. I don’t remember what she served beyond the dill pickles. They were the best dill pickles I’d ever eaten, and I raved about them. Being the kind of woman she was, Aunt Lola told me she’d give me the recipe and help me make my first batch.

True to her word, Aunt Lola provided me with the recipe; and when the time came, I went out and bought 20 pounds of cucumbers (medium and small), 20 bunches of garlic, a couple bunches of dill weed, canning salt and vinegar. Of course, I had to purchase canning jars as well.

That evening, I put the cucumbers in the washing machine (yes, washing machine), filled it with cold water and let them sit overnight. I also sat down and peeled those 20 bunches of garlic…my hands smelled like garlic (a good smell to me) for days. The next morning, I set the washer to spin and voila, the cucumbers were clean and ready to use. Nowadays, the energy efficient and electronically run washers don’t allow me to wash my cucumbers that way. Instead, I soak them overnight in cold water and then wash them one-by-one with a vegetable brush…so much more tedious and time-consuming. It’s also possible to purchase peeled garlic in big jars, but I enjoy the peeling time.

Aunt Lola and Uncle Ike showed up that morning and while my husband and uncle entertained each other, Aunt Lola showed me how to pack the jars with cucumbers, garlic and dill…you want to use as much dill as you can cram into the jar. Jars ready, we brought one cup of canning salt, three filled-to-the-brim quart jars of plain water and one, filled-to-the-brim quart jar of apple cider vinegar to a rolling boil and let it boil for a few minutes.

While the vinegar mixture was boiling, canning lids were placed in a pan of hot water so they’d be ready to seal the jars. Then, one-by-one, the quart jars were filled to the brim with the vinegar mixture. Using a clean wet cloth, the rim of each jar was wiped clean, a hot lid put in place and screwed down with the jar ring.

When Aunt Lola and I were finished, my counter was graced with 20 quarts of yummy dill pickles…well, they’d be yummy after they cured for about a month in a cool dark place. We also figured out how much it cost per jar and the total was 33 cents per jar. Aunt Lola also provided one additional piece of advice before she and Uncle Ike left that day:  “When guests compliment you on your pickles, don’t give them a jar because you’ll soon give them all away. Do what I did and provide the recipe and assistance if wanted.”

That was in 1968, and since then, I’ve made Aunt Lola’s dill pickles every single year. There were years when I made as many as 30 jars because I gave them as gifts at Christmas time with jars of homemade jam to family, friends and co-workers.  I also took Aunt Lola’s advice and over the years helped friends make their first batch of pickles.  Sadly, I know of only one individual who kept the recipe and made her own the following year. She may still do that, but we’ve lost touch, so I’m not sure if she’s continued.

Today, 16 quarts of Aunt Lola’s dill pickles are sitting on my counter waiting to be transported to the pantry where they can cure for the next month…the cost per quart was $1.65. I make fewer jars than when I was working because now I gift just family and close friends at Christmas time.

Great Aunt Lola was my favorite auntie, and all those years ago, I hoped at some point in my life, I’d be able to share her recipe with my daughters-in-law or grandkids. I’m not yet as old as Aunt Lola was when she shared with me, so there’s still time for me to pass this wonderful knowledge down to a family member. Perhaps this is the year when someone will rave about the icy-cold pickles I serve at dinner and want to learn how to make them.

Failing that, the instructions are within the body of this blog. If you decide you want to make dill pickles as a result, all I ask is that you call them Great Aunt Lola’s Dill Pickles and pass her recipe forward to anyone who loves your pickles.

And, for those of you who decide to make these dill pickles one additional note. Sometimes, you’ll find the lid on a jar hasn’t sealed. You don’t have to throw that jar away. Put the liquid in a pan, add a little water and bring to a boil. Refill the jar, seal with a new hot lid. One year, more than half the lids didn’t seal (old lids, worn out rubber), so I had to do this for all those…they were still yummy.