Oh Christmas Tree

Sume Christmas Tree 2013

My husband and I may have set a new record.

I believe we have our search for the nearly perfect tree down under the ten minute mark. No, I am not kidding. This is how we roll: truck pulls up to the Christmas tree farm, I am out of the passenger side door before the Ford has finished its final cough. Shane heads off to find the owner and keeper of red SOLD ribbons to mark our pick while I head off in the opposite direction to walk a critical circle around the tree we spotted on the way in. Yes, just as I had hoped, this tree has all five of the required elements.

 1) Is it taller than our children?        Check. 

2) Is it shorter than our ceiling?        Check. 

3) Is it the proper shade of green?    Check.

 4) There should be no SOLD ribbons already affixed to its branches.      Check. 

And best of all, it has the Special Sume Requirement # 5) all of its flaws, bare spots, oddly shaped branches and any other Charlie Brown-esque elements are all on the same side—the side we are going to cram up against the wall anyway. Check. SOLD.

On our way back to the truck, carrying the 8 foot noble fir between us, we spot The Sume Christmas Tree version 2015 and tag it for next year—this is a first for us, usually we just note it in our memory banks and then look in the general vicinity when the time comes., but this really ought to speed things up next year.

TIME: under ten minutes from pickup door back to pickup.  Done and dusted. But not decorated, the tree is still sitting in a bucket of water in the garage and won’t be gussied up until after finals are over. Term papers and tinsel are not cohabit-able terms in my world.

Next time: the secret to turning a Nearly Perfect Christmas Tree into The Best Christmas Tree Ever.

'Tis the Season

‘Tis the season--- for spreading chicken poop on your garden. I’ll bet you thought I was going to talk about Christmas time and twinkling lights and gaily-wrapped packages and a fat man in a red suit, but I’m not. I’m talking fertilizer.

  Once the garden freezes over it’s the perfect time to go out and mulch your flowerbeds with chicken poop. This time of year you don’t have to worry if the poop in question has been properly aged, because it doesn’t matter. It’s not like anything is green and growing and in danger of being burned by fertilizer that is too “hot.” You can apply liberal amounts without fear. And—not to be indelicate—but the cold weather helps keep the “aroma” to a minimum. Applying chicken poop mid-July with open windows...well, let’s just say that the timing could be better.

   Why chicken poop, you ask? Here is a list of my Top Ten Reasons 

Why Chicken Poo is the Poo to Do.

10) The internet recommends it.

9) Tim Kelly does it, and has the beautiful gardens to prove it.

8) Elk hate the taste.

7) It’s all-natural.

6) Comes with free feathers.

5) It’s “cheep.”

4) Things grow better.

3) The delivery guy is cute. At least mine is. Your mileage may vary.

2) The smell will keep pesky door-to-door salesman away. Honest. I haven’t had one in years. Sadly, it does not seem to detour telemarketers but you can’t have everything.

 What can I say? Shane loves me.

And the number one reason to put chicken poop on your garden is:

It’s a good way to find out how much your spouse REALLY loves you. Especially if he helps you shovel it.

Garden Junk

I am a garden junk junkie. I have all sorts of wonderful things tucked into my flower beds: bird houses, found objects, interesting pieces of drift wood, and chunks of marbles. One of my favorite pieces of “junk” is a scrap metal dinosaur—or maybe it’s a dragon, I can’t really tell---that my oldest son welded together when he was nine years old and went on a “take your son to work day” with dad. The dragon-saurus is wonderful and deserves a name, but somehow has never acquired one. Nevertheless, it faithfully stands guard in my garden, and gives maundering elk the evil eye.

There are all manner of stepping stones that my kids have made over the years. My favorites are the ones they made in Mr. Westerberg’s 3-4 grade class that include the hand print of the “artist” pressed into the back. It’s hard to believe my towering six foot sons ever had hands that small, but I have the proof, imprinted in cement.

My gardens also seem to be a repository for forgotten toys. Every so often, when transplanting a seedling, I’ll unearth a long-lost Hot Wheel car or a Match Box bull dozer that was abandoned when the Worst Mother in the World made the construction crew come in and take a bath. And then there are the plastic animal figurines that wander around the edges of my garden. And, unlike the real life elk, they never nibble. 

I have a T-Rex that menaces a hapless giraffe, a great white shark that I am convinced functions as a scare slug—that’s like a scarecrow, but for (obvi) slugs. At times, the T-Rex and the Shark have ganged up on poor Mister Giraffe but they usually hang out in different flower beds. And it’s for the best, really. Someone has to keep an eye on all my “junk.”

A Season of Gratitude

It is that time of year again where we gather together with friends and family to count our blessing and consume lots of turkey. And mashed potatoes. And gravy--lots of gravy. I find that it is very important to get the gravy to mashed potato ratio just right; there has been many a Thanksgiving feast that I've had to revisit the mashed potato bowl and the gravy boat---at the Sume house it's actually more of a battleship sized gravy boat---to get the ratios to come out evenly. And, as I often say, anything worth eating probably could be improved with more gravy. But I digress.

Thanksgiving is a time of gathering, of gratitude and reflection. It is taking the time to stop and number my many blessings, to remember just how much I have to be thankful for: close family, dear friends, reunions and re-connections. I have my health, and a job I love, an opportunity to learn new things and meet new people. I have silly pets, one of which has brought a leaf in the house and is now busily poking it behind one of the sofa cushions. At least I hope it's a leaf. That would be another thing to be thankful for.

Lemon Meringue Pie ala Cameron

I am thankful for the handing down of family traditions. My son Cameron has learned to make his Grandmother's famous lemon meringue pie and will make it for all of us again this year. Grandma's lemon meringue pie is one of the few things in this life that isn't enhanced by the addition of gravy. Yes. It is that good.

Cameron's pie: the early years. Grandma helped.

Another time honored tradition is the Thankful Wall. Every year we post a long piece of paper on the wall and everyone in attendance lists at least one thing they are thankful for. It's fun to look back over the years and see what things we were thankful for in the past. Football and pie seem to be perennial favorites.

So as you gather the people you love around you, and begin to count your blessings let me wish you a Happy Thanksgiving. And lots of gravy to go with it.

The Winds of Change

    November seems to have blown in with winter on its mind. I went from a mild October waiting for the ground to cool down enough to plant my daffodils to a wild November wondering if the ground is going to be frozen solid before I get the chance to plant them. Or--for that matter---wondering if I am going to be frozen solid when I try to plant them.

   These November winds blew away than more than just my good intentions. There have been lots of downed trees and lots of folks with out power, from High Valley to Mossyrock, and in Ashford and beyond. We were lucky here on the Cline Road, thanks to the foresight of the PUD and the hard work of the guys from Ashp, Asplu, Asplundh--well, whatever that company is called--you know the one---with the big orange trucks and their name on the side? Yeah, those guys. We were able to continue on, business as usual, with only the occasional power blink---and for some reason, temporary loss of the Internet, but that’s a topic for another day.

And God bless the guys from the power company who roll out of bed at the will of the wind or snow and come out into the nastiest of weather to get the power back on so the rest of can stay warm and snug indoors. Those guys are AWESOME. It’s the guys from the power company who keep the rest of us civilized, able to shower, have our hot beverages and play with our electronic devices. If you want to see things get decidedly UN-civil, come hang out at the Sume house during a power outage. Let’s just say that not being able to play Xbox isn’t the only thing that stinks...

First Frost

I am still waiting for the first frost of fall. October seems to have been divided into two distinct halves---the first half, in which the sun was out and the daytime high temperatures edged towards the 70’s. It felt as though Indian summer might stretch on into some glorious infinity. Then the second half of October was upon us and the rains came---at times in what felt like Biblical proportions---and I started wondering if the ark had a two bag limit and if so, was one of them required to fit under my seat.

Non-slimy Petunias: Good

Still no frost though, at least not at the Sume house. My dahlias are still blooming; the marigolds are still glowing, their colors a perfect match for this golden season. I have, however, pulled up all of my petunias and deposited them in the compost pile. If there is one thing petunias cannot tolerate it is rain. A few little sprinkles a precipitation and the blossoms get all slimy. And if there is one thing I cannot stand it is a slimy petunia, so into the compost they go!

Dahlias need the frost though. I wait until the first frost of fall has come and sent all the living energy from the plant back into its roots before I did them up for winter. That is, if I remember that I have dahlias and where it is that I have planted them. Once the frost comes dead things kind of look alike, at least they seem to from the warmth and comfort of my couch. Sometimes I don’t remember I have dahlias until the following spring. I’ll stab my trowel into a slimy mess of something that looks like it was once—oh yeah---a dahlia. Oops.

Dahlia planted in a "safe" location.
Ignore the tomato in the foreground.
I do.

This year I planted a lovely dahlia the color of a sunrise in the big pot on my back deck where I can’t help but remember to dig it up. Now I am just waiting on Jack...

Garden Reverie

    Gardening is such a lovely word. It conjures up images of broad brimmed hats, flat bottomed wicker baskets and cute little gardening gloves with a floral motif.

How I imagine gardening to be.

    My reality seems to be a little different, less Jane Austen and more Charles Dickens.
True, I have cute little gardening gloves, but whatever motif was on them is long gone, they are usually crusty with garden grime and have a couple of holes in the finger tips. And while a wicker basket is picturesque, my trusty, rusty wheelbarrow is more practical; I've invariably taken off my hat--provided I even remembered to put it on in the first place; there is a lot of sweating and---if I'm being honest--even a little swearing.

    Elk. Moles. Soaker hoses that manage to get themselves cut in half. Some days in the garden do have more swearing than others. But all that swearing has to have a therapeutic value, right? "Better out than in" as that famous philosopher Shrek once said. And certain words seem to lend themselves to garden use, being agricultural in nature.

    This is the perfect time of year for moving your plants around, relocating them to spots better suited to their needs; more sun for this one, less moisture for that one. Sometime the need is that they go live in someone else's garden. I suggest making a list of friends with gardens and then pawning off some of your extras on them. That way, you only have to dig one hole, not two. Your friend is responsible for the replanting, you seem very generous, and now you have freed up some space in your garden. Win, win, win.

      I have a friend driving over from the east side this weekend to visit, and as luck would have it, I have a few perennials sitting around in pots, waiting for a new home.

     I'll put on clean gloves, find my hat and hide my wheelbarrow. I think she'll fall for it.

How gardening really IS.
PS only one of those brown lumps is a slug.
 The other is evidence of elk with digestive up set.
Serves him right.