Get up early and head for the garden ~ May 13, 1999

David Heiller

May 13, 1999

Frost sprinkled the grass of the lawn Sunday, morning, May 9. Water in a bucket on the deck had a pane of ice on top.

The thermometer read 30 degrees at 5:45 a.m. I was glad that I had covered the plants in the greenhouse the night before.

I made a pot of tea, grabbed Saturday’s paper, and went back to bed. Cindy stirred beside me.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Oh yeah, OK,” she mumbled. She was still asleep, and regardless of the occasion—or perhaps because of the occasion—she did not intend to wake up at 6 a.m. on a Sunday.

I don’t usually either. But there comes a time every year when the early sun and the crisp air get me going early, and that time is now.

After I read the paper I walked outside with my cup of tea, strapped on my kneepads, and started mulching the garden. I had been waiting for just such a morning to do this job, one with no wind, because I mulch with newspapers and you can’t lay a newspaper down outside if even a slight breeze is blowing.

A bird called out fee-bee, fee-bee in a voice that sounded like it had chain smoked Camel cigarettes for 20 years. It’s not a pretty call, but I like it, maybe for that very reason. That, and I can actually say to myself, “That’s a phoebe,” which I can’t do with many other birds.

A robin nesting in the spruce by the sauna took off with a scolding call, something that will be repeated until the babies fly away. Hey robin, it’s not my fault you put your nest in the middle of Grand Central Station.

Queen Ida is helping me with the
tomatoes in one of our raised beds.

The garden is a big reason why I like to get up early these days. On a gorgeous morning like last Sunday, it can be heavenly.

It doesn’t look heavenly yet. It’s shaggy with weeds. The garden is like an ugly caterpillar that is slowly transformed into a beautiful butterfly. I like making that happen, which it does little by little. Weeds get pulled. Some flowers get moved to new locations or given away. Once a bed is clear of weeds, then manure, bone meal, blood meal, and lime get spread on top. I till it in with a Mantis tiller, a small machine that works perfect for raised beds. Then I shape it with a rake.

A finished bed looks like a big grave where someone has recently been buried, my mother pointed out a few years ago. She has an old-fashioned garden, and wouldn’t want to have anything resembling graves in her back yard for the whole town to see. I like the look of all those graves when they are ready for planting. It’s a great feeling of accomplishment for me to see a bed free of weeds. If only they would stay that way!

Part of the broccoli harvest.

Plants and seeds get planted as my time and the season allows. So far, we’ve only got potatoes and onions in. Peas, vines, and tomatoes are next, if it ever stops raining.

Last year we planted tomatoes on May 15. They were the best I’ve ever had, thanks to a great growing season and a great variety of to­matoes called Daybreak, which, by the way, were “Best of Show” at the Askov Fair. (I couldn’t resist mentioning that, Hilma.)

The seeds came from Johnnie’s, a nursery in Maine. (No, I don’t receive anything for that free plug.) Normally you wouldn’t plant tomatoes so early. We use Walls of Water to protect them. (No endorsement fee from them either.)

Walls of Water are plastic cones, open on top that are filled with water. They are placed over the plants, and serve as mini-greenhouses. Last; year, on the night that I put them over the tomatoes, it froze so hard that the water in the cones had ice on top. But the tomatoes were fine. Walls of Water add about three weeks to the growing season, which can come in handy when an August frost isn’t uncommon.

For mulch, I first lay down a layer of newspapers, mostly leftover Askov Americans. Askov Americans seem to work better than other newspapers. Imagine that. Then I scatter straw on top of the papers. It creates a carpet of straw that weeds can’t penetrate. It’s pleasant to look at, and fun to walk on. I bought the straw last, fall for $1 a bale from Gordon Swanson.

I mulch in the rows between beds, and in new areas that I want to make into garden. After about three years of mulching, the grass has died and the soil is ready to be made into beds.

The nice thing about mulching is that it decreases weeding. Anything that does that is a good investment.

After spring-in-all-of-its-glory comes the yard and garden in all of its glory!

Once things start to grow in the garden, that’s when the butterfly emerges. That’s when the miracle occurs, and you realize all the work is worth it.

I could go on about gardening. It’s a great hobby. But it’s not gardening that gets me of bed before 6 a.m. on Sunday. It’s the call of the birds, and the cool air, and the promise that something good is going to come of the day, something that is part of you, something to which you can give life. You can substitute your favorite hobby. My bet is you feel the same calling when spring, in all its glory, arrives.

Burning grass is great, if Mother Nature lets you ~ April 25, 1985

David Heiller

Last Thursday evening was a nice night for burning the grass in back of our house. The day had set record highs—88 degrees in Minneapolis, 94 in Fairmont, Minnesota. Dry conditions, yet the ground underneath the grass was spongy wet. Little wind. Clear sky, frogs starting to peep in the swamp. Grass burning weather.

First step—go to the local fire warden and get a burning permit. Every township has one. Next step—make sure you are prepared. I watch my fires with a five gallon pail of water and a wet burlap sack. The fire gets out of hand—flop that sack on it, and it will generally come to a halt. If the wind suddenly picks up, or you hit a patch of canary reed grass, stand back and hope for rain.

David and the tall grass.

I take an extra precaution and burn a narrow strip on the perimeter of my burning area. That way, if the fire gets out of control, it should go out once it hits the ring that has already been burned.

Last Thursday, everything was set up perfectly. Noah was asleep in the house, with Cindy there too. I finished burning my perimeter strip, then burned carefully around the five weeping willows that Cindy planted in 1982. If those trees get singed, so does the over-grown kid out there burning.

The wind puffed weakly from the south, spreading the fire north toward the rim of the garden, and around to the west where the tall reed grass grows. I stood in the blackened grass left over from the advancing flames, holding a garden rake across my shoulders, like some modern day warrior who is winning the battle.

As darkness settled on the line of flames, I began to glance over my left shoulder to the western horizon. A storm had popped up from the woods to the west. Already three fingers above the treetops, and lightning scratching my way. The flames crackled yellow in the dusk. The wind switched from south to west. I shifted the rake across my shoulders, getting a firmer stance. Man and Mother Nature would do battle on the Plains of Birch Creek. Water and fire, the classic match-up.

The stars overhead disappeared, covered by black clouds. The wind dropped, scared off by thunder and lightning, now nearly overhead. The calm before the storm. Patches of reed grass burst into flames to the left and right, struggling in the calm.

Then came the wind, first in a gust, then a steady flow. The flames jumped with excitement, but like a miner with fool’s gold. For with the wind came the rain, and the mighty line of fire broke down, fizzled, shrunk into a meager patch of burning reed grass on either end fighting to see who could endure the longest.

I stood in the field, rain falling, watching the age-old confrontation, just as Indians must have watched the prairies flicker and go silent under the thunderstorms of 500 years ago.

I hear the screen door slap shut. Cindy’s voice called across the field. “David, what about that lightning?” She could see the reflection of the rake across my shoulders in the flashes that came from overhead. The rake was serving more as a lightning rod thank leaf stabber.

I headed toward the house, as the rain poured down. The fire went out. Mother Nature won. And Man went in to watch the Minnesota Twins lose another game.