August

 

Nostalgic ... I get nostalgic when it's August and the bird egg bean vines have reached their apex and the pods on those rangy vines are swollen. Inside tough rosy striped cases are the beans that are part of our heritage here on the farm.

Not ever a crop to be sold (I resisted using today's term 'marketed'), these beans have been grown here since the 1940s for the family's use. Every family member will tell you their favorite recipe. Arthur likes them any way but particularly the way his grandma fixed them, simply boiled on the stove with lots of butter, salt and pepper, best enjoyed with a thick slice of real, homemade salt rising bread. They make great and hearty baked beans in the Boston tradition with molasses, brown sugar and salt pork, slow cooked in the oven. And they adapt to more modern baked bean recipes from the my shelf of vegetarian cookbooks. We often use them for refried beans in tacos for a quick lunch. 

And for me, the farm wife who's lived here for 50 years, the ritual to harvest, shell, blanch and pack them for the freezer tells me summer is almost through. Even if I didn't notice darker mornings, yellowed leaves scattered across the grass, Golden Glow blooming next to the clothesline and the field grown so tall only the furry antlers of deer appear as they make their morning forage.

Blackboard Wisdom

 

So TIred

 

19 November 2025

 

Though it's November, wintry weather has arrived on Crandall Hill. Captured this morning - freezing fog after a little burst of snow. Now the eaves are dripping in the sunshine, a breeze stirring the trees as always.

Welcome and Unwelcome

The prompt for my writing practice was "weeds sprout overnight." This is my effort - pictures added later.

Left to its own devices, it will carpet the soil with leafy foliage, some variegated milky green, some just green. The roots run everywhere, eventually shooting up stems that flower, broadcasting seeds far and wide to begin again.

Last summer I dug and I mulched and still this spring, there it was again, and now, the calendar turned to August, I’ve dug and pulled and still new colonies everywhere. I should just give up and let it go. 

But still, I try to resurrect some semblance of beauty from this flower bed, tucked up against the house. There’s an oak leaf hydrangea purchased at a half price sale to complement the old fashioned ones that flank the front porch, planted so many years ago by other hands. It took years for it to thrive - perhaps it was the actions of the woodchuck trying to burrow under its roots and into the foundation that kicked it into survival mode. Now it is lush and puts out lots of the blossoms that dry beautifully for fall flower arranging.

And the lilies - the orange ditch lilies and yellow stello d’oro and the deep burgundy ones that Marybeth gave me. 

There are a few lupines and orange poppies and bachelor buttons and forget me nots and random foxglove in pink and deep pink and white.

And this year, after a hiatus, there are hollyhocks. Years ago, Grandma Metzger had hollyhocks marching along that side of the house - those old fashioned flowers in pink and white and purple. They bloom only every other year, the first year putting out foliage and then the next year the tall blooms, which if left to go to seed, spread those seeds for the next year’s plants. It was with great delight that I spotted the distinctive foliage this year. I await their blooms as the summer begins to fade.

Weeds sprout overnight. In the hoop house, self-seeded calendula and marigolds and nasturtiums and dill and cilantro are almost weedlike in their habits but I cannot bear to just tear them out - opting rather to relocate to bare spots elsewhere like my flower boxes and the holes in the stumps left behind when two maple trees had to be cut. A riot of color for late summer.

Even a few sunflowers grow tall in the hoop house every year and I leave them for the birds, hoping they'll leave enough seeds behind for next year.

More About Apples

I sometimes find the long-ago voices* tell a delightful story. While the words are from another, the photos are my own!

They are wonderful things, these apples: packages put up in convenient size, just about right for a lunch. Their sparkling pulp is spotlessly clean, "untouched by human hands"; filled with its delicious and refreshing juice, yet packed so it does not spill when the container is opened. Solid enough to stand handling well, yet soft enough to open readily and yield its delights to the pressure of the teeth.

They are "non refillable bottles"; their contents germ-free, pure and sanitary. They are cased in waterproof covers, that do not soil readily and are easily cleaned. They are smooth and cool, beautiful decorated with color. Lastly they are given a touch of perfume, delicate, elusive, but irresistible; and then, pleasing to the sight,  the sense of smell, the touch, the taste and the appetite, they are given clearance papers by the 'factory' and are ready for market.

A dozen, a hundred styles and flavors, a full line, for all tastes and for every month in the year, yet every style is a uniform quality, year after, from one or thousands of 'factories' in mass production,

What a marvelous thing it is for trees to do! A tiny seed sprouts in the earth, grows a stem and bears leaves and lets them fall.

For six years or ten, it does this, and then from the bare twigs of winter, from hard wood and bitter bark, the secret which it held deep in its heart from the beginning comes to birth: pink pearls with their crimson flame, that spread into the glory of fragrant bloom, pink and white and lavender, and in them another secret, only to be revealed in months to come.

Bees come and go, and warblers flutter and sing; the petals fall; and the tree that never moves from its place, with only sunshine and rain and summer winds and bits of rock to work with, and the patience of a few short months, gives us such lovely gifts as these!

*These are the words of J.C. Galloway, described as a 'student of nature, well versed in the flora and fauna of the local area'. Mr. Galloway wrote "Nature Notes" for the Port Allegany Reporter newspaper for many a year and was a good friend of my newspaperman grandfather, who often published Galloway's essays in The Potter Enterprise. I shared Galloway's study of buckwheat back in 2022.

Milkweed

May 24, 2025
Milkweed growing in the hoop house
has a head start on the outdoor ones!
 

We let milkweed grow in select spaces in the hoop house as an attractant for butterflies. But it's edible too. My newspaperman Grandfather, W.D. Fish, refers to himself as Golly in his weekly newspaper column, widely read - even by the Metzgers and Mattesons who lived here before this present generation.

He writes in 1965:

Ever eat milkweed greens? If not you missed something good. At any rate, 'way back about 1885, when this old timer was ten years old, we had some. We'll tell the story and some readers may be interested.

Our family lived about a mile from Whitesville in a small one-story cottage at the mouth of Hazletine Gully. A tiny stream ran down the gully but it was so small it would run out of water in a dry season. There were three other families that lived nearby. One was Calvin Jones. 

Neighbor Jones had fenced in about one acre of land along the stream for pasture for two or three calves. During one summer there were no calves and milkweeds thrived.

Golly's mother – bless her kindly heart, gathered the new and tender ends of the plants. Where a tender stem was broken off a new growth would quickly appear. This meant a consistent supply of greens for weeks or maybe for months. How mother prepared and cooked the milkweed Golly was too young to remember, but they were excellent food

The greens cost nothing. mother made our bread – salt rising of course – eggs were 10 to 12 cents per dozen and butter was 10 to 12 cents a pound.

At the head of the gully was the Hazletine farm. Ed Hazletine had a large orchard with many varieties of apples. He kindly would give all the apples you could use. We believe the man would have been insulted if you had offered to pay for them.

He had a box mounted on the fence bordering the orchard with large letters "Hungry Box." When early apples became ripe, the box was filled. They were free as the air we breathe.

Some folks scoff at the words, "the good old days" but there were some good old days almost 100 years ago. Golly knows!

Golly, so old he lives much with his memories, recalls his mother telling, after he was of adult age, of my awakening her in the dead of night and demanding that she sing "Minnie." It was a real task but dear, kind mother did it. Now we can remember neither tune nor words.

Interested in trying to forage milkweed? Up-to-date information can be found here.  And I'll have to keep looking for "Minnie" but I'll save that for my personal blog.