Whiteley Creek Homestead

a minnesota winter

If you truly desire to gain an authentic appreciation for winter, just leave. For twenty-four years. That's what Dick and I did. Over the span of our dual state lifestyle, we always returned to our central Minnesota home to live during the spring, summer, and autumn seasons until, in April 2017, we sold our Florida winter home to reside full time on our homestead where we have shared forty-three years of marriage. There is a Mary Englebreit greeting card which I have saved years upon years for the message it holds that resonates through to my soul. It is a quote by French author, Marcel Proust. "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."

Jack Pines, which thrive in the dry conditions of a sandy woodland, are a predominant feature along one edge of our property. They are rarely intentionally grown as a landscape tree, as their drooping, crooked trunk and branches make them less desirable conifers. Let me just say that I've historically found the mature trees to be quite spooky. Until I reassessed my view of them. So much so, that Dick and I knew we wanted none other than a small Jack Pine for our Christmas tree in the north. After several treks through our woods, we spied a proud little tree which became our Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. The day before Thanksgiving, we set our tree into its stand, then we drove downtown to see Brainerd's Christmas decorations that had been put up the day before. "New eyes" saw them not just as pretty wreaths draped across the street's expanse and hung from light poles, but as memories of Christmas past. And then, as my camera recorded the moment, big, fluffy snowflakes began to gently flutter down. At that instant, I was in the moment and transported to my past. Simultaneously.

After a late-autumn hard frost, if efficiently trimming perennials to ground level is your normal routine, don't. There will be time in early spring for cleaning out beds to prepare for new growth. The dried stems and branches provide texture and interest to a winter landscape all on their own, but, when covered with snow, it's like an empty room versus one arranged with furniture adorned with little touches.

And the "spooky," less-desirable Jack Pine? Fifteen years ago, we intentionally transplanted a little one at the entrance to our house's front door. It is not so little anymore. My eyes no longer see the drooping, crooked trunk and branches. Instead, I see snowy cotton balls artfully positioned on its branches as I look upon it outside my living room window. I hear the whisper of my Jack Pine, "See, I am beautiful." And I smile. March 27th post note: This morning, the sky's brilliant blue, magnified against the snow's blinding white, was the view out our front door after yesterday's heavy snowfall.

 

   

end of season harvest

A tarp secured with bungees to outmatch the force of wintry winds covers our greenhouse, emptied rain barrels are turned upside down, late season veggies have been gathered, and dried vines removed. With the closure of this year's gardening season, it is time to celebrate the harvest measured by what our garden has provided to carry us through the winter months.

We have four hefty heirloom Sweet Meat Hubbard Squash, a bushel of predominantly large-size purple, red, and white potatoes stored in a quite dark, cool basement entry, and four overstuffed gallon bags of sliced green tomatoes in the freezer for pies. I was so hopeful of an abundant dry soup bean harvest, but deer jumped the wooden fence surrounding my garden space to eat all but the uppermost vines hanging out of reach upon the trellises they clung to. It is counterproductive to think that we inhabit the earth in isolation or have dominion over the creatures that inhabit our space, so, in the spring, we will install an electric fence above our garden posts to deter the deer. My rhubarb was spindly this year, so there was not enough to freeze for winter consumption. I will add compost and manure, gleaned from cattle raised properly, around our rhubarb because the plants have faithfully produced for many, many years in the same location, so the soil's nutrients have been depleted. Possibly transplanting to an alternate location is prudent. Although large in size, with prized deep orange flesh, the low yield in relation to space required of Sweet Meat Squash must be considered if garden size is limited. After sprawling across available garden soil, my vines trailed onto nearby bean trellises. I may consider a designated arched support to maximize available space. Alongside successes, one must evaluate failures. That is how we learn and become better at our craft. By devising solutions, we become less frustrated with wildlife and find peace in coexisting. Over time, soil amendments exhibit substantial results. We steadily increase our yield using space and time more efficiently. There is comfort in knowing that we are not alone in our struggles, as Kurt Timmermeister candidly documents in his book, Growing a Farmer, which I am presently reading. Farming, whether it be large or small scale, is hard work. Sometimes the rewards are less than hoped for, but nonetheless satisfying.          

 

firewood

A rabbit has made a cozy winter home inside a mammoth wood pile behind our house. It should entertain no concern of needing to move its family anytime soon, as is required of a field mouse named Mrs. Frisby when Mr. Fitzgibbon's plow is destined to destroy her home in one of my favorite children's books, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. No, we shall not totally deplete the pile, as we have two additional piles of equal size, all acquired when the local power company felled trees that were threatening to cause outages to our property's power lines. A gas powered log splitter makes quick work of turning logs into firewood.

When our old, rusty pickup box trailer is filled with firewood, we stop.

 Until that day when the firewood we have cut has served its purpose. It is then that we start anew.