Whiteley Creek Homestead

gravel roads

Driven by the need for a durable surface to accommodate heavy loads, increased traffic, faster travel, and simplified maintenance, dirt roads are becoming less and less commonplace as they are being covered over with asphalt. Laura Ingalls Wilder, author of Little House on the Prairie, tells of her first encounter with an asphalt pavement.  She was on a wagon journey with her parents in 1894 that took them through Topeka. "In the very midst of the city, the ground was covered by some dark stuff that silenced all the wheels and muffled the sound of hoofs.  It was like tar, but Papa was sure it was not tar, and it was something like rubber, but it could not be rubber because rubber cost too much.  We saw ladies all in silks and carrying ruffled parasols, walking with their escorts across the street.  Their heels dented the street, and while we watched, these dents slowly filled up and smoothed themselves out.  It was as if that stuff were alive.  It was like magic." Source: History of Asphalt National Asphalt Pavement Association

As beneficial as asphalt may be, it is a nostalgic sound to hear the crunch of gravel through opened car or truck windows as tires slowly roll along on a dirt road. Or the rhythmic cadence of feet tucked into the confines of shoes pressing slightly into the rock embedded soil. And, if the ground should happen to retain the right amount of moisture after a rainfall prior to vehicles with varying tire treads traveling over it, a lovely patterned imprint remains. The chevron and rowboat shapes were so perfectly stamped that I would have liked to have not driven down our driveway ever again so as not to flatten them.

Growing along each side of our dirt driveway are lovely, tall, variegated native grasses. It wasn't anything I planted. They just started growing there. After convincing Dick that we didn't need to mow along each side of the driveway, the grasses happily thrive from early summer through late autumn.

 

field tree planting

A farmer planted our field for many years. But he got old. He decided it was time to retire. Dick and I knew, that when that day came, we would plant trees where once buckwheat, triticale, clover, and winter wheat had grown.

To give us a jump start, we started with three burr oak trees that were maybe 4-5 years old. For the remainder of the field, I ordered 50 tree seedlings from the Crow Wing Soil and Water Conservation District, during their January 1-February 28, 2018 tree sale. They were available for pickup at the Northland Arboretum in Brainerd (Minnesota) on May 11 and 12. 

Contained in a garbage bag to keep the roots wet, we immediately began digging the 25 red oak and 25 balsam fir tree seedlings into the ground. The organic farmer's rotation of carefully selected crops had transformed our sandy soil into rich loam making digging a cinch with the aid of a planting bar I borrowed from the DNR's forestry department.

making newspaper pots

Throughout the year, I save newspaper pages so that I can make newspaper pots for spring planting. I discard pages with colored ink which leaves basically the crossword puzzle/cartoons, obits, and employment/want ads. Sometimes the rolling and tucking results in sweet, unexpected surprises like these two pots printed with "Lakes Area Growers Market" and Plant Sale" imprinted upon the page.

With a quarter sheet of newspaper and a simple metal can emptied of such contents as diced tomatoes, pinto beans, or pumpkin, a seed pot is formed.

Generally, the pot will hold together on its own, but, if necessary, a paper clip can be used to secure it then removed after filling with soil. For instructions, Renee over at "Hip Chick Digs" provides precise video instruction.

http://www.hipchickdigs.com/2009/03/video-newspaper-seed-pots/#more-1031

 

wild turkeys

A fence surrounds our coop to keep the chickens safe at night. It provides extra security from invaders like raccoon, skunk, fox, and hawks. Fence door latched. Coop door locked. In the daytime, as our chickens roam freely about the yard, they are not bothered. But, at dusk and beyond, the stalkers prowl. The fence needs repair, but winter preparations last fall left no time. Now, spring planting has taken priority. Sadly, there will be no chickens this year. But, look!

 

We have wild turkeys that come to visit each morning just outside our living room window! Nine of them! The surrounding woods is their home the remainder of the day. They also stroll into our field to dine on spoils leftover from last autumn's grain harvest.

leaning silo folk & homestead school

One thing leads to the next. Oftentimes, we don't know where we'll end up until we get there. To retrace the steps from whence one came brings understanding to know how it all began. Therefore, I begin at the beginning. Most every summer, Dick and I attend the weekend-long "Old Wadena Rendezvous and Folk Festival" near Staples, Minnesota. Last year, on August 13, 2017, my sister, Rita, and I stopped by a table to make a cornhusk doll and accept the gift of a fire starter made from an egg carton section. It had a business card inserted into the wax that supported a wick. 

The owners, Tim and Jen Poland, of the "Leaning Silo Folk & Homestead School" near Swanville, Minnesota shared that they were nearing completion of a building renovation on their farm that would become a classroom with an adjacent commercial kitchen to prepare lunch for workshop participants. In the spring of 2018, the school began offering its first classes.

On April 7, 2018, I attended a workshop titled "How to Grow Your Own Mushrooms." There was a sense of peace mixed with excited anticipation as I drove down the driveway and caught my first glimpse of their homestead. Then. There was the leaning silo. So sweet. And the building that would be my classroom for the next nine hours. 

We learned so much from our passionate experts, Ron and Margaret, and took our logs inoculated with mushroom spawn home to tend. I chose to spend the day wearing my father's red flannel shirt in memory of his hard-working life on the farm where I was raised to love and appreciate tending a garden, raising chickens, and foraging in the woods for food and medicinal plants. I have already registered to attend my second class.

dried grass and leaf bird nest easter basket

In March, before the first sign of tree budding or greening of vegetation, I walked along the edge of our woods to gather crisp oak leaves and tall thin spires of dried grasses. To create a bird's nest.

Formed in an aluminum foil lined paper soup/cereal bowl, glue-soaked tufts of dryer lint act as a sponge to bind the grass and leaves.

I repeated layers until the nest began to retain its shape and form a solid base upon drying.

Filled with eggs naturally-dyed and speckled Jelly Belly Organic Jelly Beans tucked alongside, it became an Easter basket. Mimi's Sketchbook has graciously provided concise step-by-step YouTube video instructions titled, "How to Make a Bird's Nest."

 

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.

campfire donuts

If you truly know me, you will not ask me to eat out on my birthday. Unless the interior space and/or exterior architecture is unique. Unless the menu is healthy fare. Unless the meal is served in an unusual setting. Oh, just put me outside. Hiking a trail somewhere. Happiness guaranteed. Or at a friend's pumpkin patch. And, if there is a hayride, apple cider, happy people, and homemade cinnamon sugar donuts...even better. Dick and I did just that. On my birthday. 

In preparation for the canned biscuit dough, a cast iron pot of oil was set atop a grate over a fire built of split wood.

Homemade donuts rolled in cinnamon sugar...and the pumpkin I selected as a memory of our day? The large one. Center right. Positioned ever so slightly at an angle. To catch my attention. Like a wink and a nod. The annual pumpkin sale is held on September's final weekend. Go south of Brainerd, (Minnesota) on 13th Street, which becomes Co Rd 45, approximately ten miles to the driveway preceding Jim and Pat Puetz's property.