Pussy Willow Pompoms

Actual size is about 3/4" per blossom.  Any idea what kind of Willow?

Central Oregon is not a swamp.  It is commonly referred to as "high desert," though high is a relative term.  At 3800 feet, there are many other places in the state that are higher.  The surprise of my morning walk was finding a willow tucked in amongst the pines flashing its little pussy poms.   Most willows like water.  Sandy, volcanic soil holds little of it for the brave vegetation that grows here.  I'm clueless as to the type of willow tough enough to hold its own in this dry setting. Any knowings out there?

A Birder's Thrill

Thanks to the Nat. Geo. Soc. Field Guide to the Birds
of North America

The feeders are all a-squabbling-scramble with birds.  They are common birds, but birds nevertheless:  House Finches, Pine Siskins, Sparrows, Scrub Jays, Mountain Chickadees (east of the Cascades version of the Black-Capped Chickadee we've seen commonly on the other side).

The freshly leafing tree off the kitchen window holds momentarily a flash of brilliant ruby. Years of absorbing images from the Field Guide to the Birds of North America (National Geo. Society), longing to see something other than all the LGB (little grey birds--or brown birds) of the Northwest had somehow tuned me to respond, "Redpoll, Hoary Redpoll."  I am quite certain I've never actually seen a Redpoll.  Later, with bird book in hand, several of us agree that it is definitely not a House Finch.  Toward afternoon the ruby darling reappears.  I confirm with thumping heart that this brand new bird on my list is a delightful, glamorous Common Redpoll.  New land. New birds!

Can't garden in Bend, you know.

Hang on little tomatoes!

Well, I don't know.  I'm new here. Great things are born from not knowing, from experimenting, from just giving it a whirl, from watching with wide eyes while magic happens.

Their first real home

And, you know what? There's magic in a bucket of composted chicken poo left from my generous hens in Portland.

Room to grow

All Northwest gardeners know that you start tomatoes from seed in February or March. When danger of frost is past (late, late May), you set them out on their own in the garden. Our new land turned things totally upside down.





Two magical little tomato plants sprang up this fall in the bucket of chicken compost from seeds of my own growing a year before we moved.

Blossoms

My bewildered brain couldn't sort out the sequence of events till harvest for these babies.  But when the first frost in September and the second frost in October didn't destroy them, intervention was in order.  They moved into the house.

Yellow and orange tomatoes
on the snowy deck (you may need to squint)

The Christmas tree went up. The Christmas tree came down. All the Presidents' Days were observed.  Even St. Patrick had his show. Then one day nasty little webs and spotted, sick leaves appeared on the five-foot-tall plants.  I was pretty sure this was the end and dragged the tomatoes out on the deck.  I was sad, and it snowed that night.

Waiting for warm

One plant is a yellow cherry tomato with five fruits--three of them ripe.  The other is Jeunne Flamme' with over a dozen golf-ball sized tomatoes.  When you are a tomato, and you live in Bend, and you are able to produce a ripened fruit before the end of March, before other tomatoes are even in the ground, you've done an exceptional job.  The webs are now gone, and even though there's been snow on the vine, the plants aren't giving up.  Looks like there are things to be learned about gardening in this new land. Snow on Monday.  75 degrees on Thursday. Hang on little tomatoes!

Garlic Tells You a Story

Half already peeled.  Half left here to do.

They were halfway finished loading all our possessions into the moving van.  I was in the strawberry bed digging garlic.  They say you can't take it with you.  Speaking of the hereafter, that may be correct, but when it comes to garlic ready for harvest in the moment, I'm pretty sure you can.

That was June 25th, nine months ago nearly. And now today, I find myself peeling, sticky-fingered from the juice of the garlic, with surges of gratitude for the dense heads dug from between the strawberries. The heads and cloves have rested on the shelf in the pantry of our new home in Central Oregon through summer, fall and winter.  Spring called powerfully, and the sharp, green points of growth on nearly every clove told me today was the day to peel it up, mince and freeze it.  It's a very detailed and contemplative process--cleaning the cloves.  Somewhere in the budding garlic, I could also feel a blog beginning to grow.  So I took a break, washed my sticky fingers and sat down to tell you a bit about this new life in a new land.  See you again soon.

Soon to be minced and frozen