Arbitrary prologues.

First off, this isn't One Man's Quest to do anything, nor is it My Spiritual Journey towards the higher plane of blahblahblah. This is a more easily kept track-of journal. With pictures. And stories, and most likely quite a bit of rambling and screw-ups. 

I need some way of recording my garden and "homestead" (there has to be a hierarchy of these things, and I suspect I'm somewhere between rental house and true homestead) doings. In this day and age of ease of electronic publishing, you can pretty much say what you want anywhere, anytime--so...now I get to say this. 

There are no discernible beginnings or endings in this way of life, but the rearing of late spring chicks has to be a good breakpoint. I got 16 more (Plymouth Barred Rocks, Americaunas, and a Golden buff rooster) Even on a June night I have a fire going in our ancient farmhouse because it's dipping down to around 50 tonight, so of course I have the chicks closed in a room with a radiator, much to the cats' dismay. Week-old and younger chicks need temps of 85 to 95 degrees, dropping 5 degrees a week until their feathers...feather out. I've been watching them and occasionally handling them. I've heard stories of hens that crawl into laps and demand attention. I've never had the pleasure of such a bird, although this is only my second year of the chicken.

By the by, I was raised in a former agricultural area that is had started becoming yuppiefied long before I knew what that was, but long after my parents bought the place. Two acres, a pond down the street and a huge plant nursery next door to play around in. No chickens, but my mother was very adamant about gardening, freshly cooked dinner out of real ingredients, TV was there but I rarely watched it...TV was an event for multiple family members; not a babysitter. I can grow veggies; chickens are still a novelty, although less so when they scratch up a freshly sown bed of lettuce. Now, after bouncing through various OH cities and tiny, cramped apartments, my girlfriend and I rent a ancient, crumbling farmhouse from her aunt and uncle. We have access to roughly 60 acres of woods and pasture, which borders on a major national park. I'd like to say, without the hint of a smile, that my life isn't as flashy as I'm used to, but that it's humbly rewarding. Truth is, that I still get stressed out, place too much pressure on removing any and all toxins/chemicals/poisons from my environment (and get triply bummed when I  a--realize they're everywhere b--crave several dozen cookies and realize that's highly hypocritical, and  c--find it very expensive). I still have a job, and while it would be wonderful to drop out and live off the grid, I enjoy being a park biologist and playing with bats, dragonflies, owls and such, doing a little research and preserving land that would otherwise be developed. See-I foretold of the ramblings. Anyway, we try to make it down home, much to the landlord's chagrin. Welcome to Dogpatch, OH. 

I got a late start on the garden this year due to an illness. It's in now, and as I recover, I add more and more, trying to break myself of the habit of rows and squares. Leagues better than last year, with old telephone poles for bed separation and a homemade PVC and chickenwire trellis. It will soon be covered in birdhouse gourds and various bean plants. 

My fava beans had aphids all over them, and the only thing I could remember was garlic. So I chopped a head of garlic, put it in a quart of vegetable oil (lacking mineral oil at the moment) and set it in the sun for half the day to cook. Then I mixed it with a sprayerfull of warm water and dishsoap. I sprayed it on one of the smaller plants as a tester. Why does size correspond to plant health in our minds? Maybe that plant could have produced the heaviest crop. Anyway, no harm done after a day and I sprayed the rest of the plants. The aphids were 95% wiped out, without chemicals. Not bad for a wannabe farmer, eh?