On January 17, we’re offering a day-long workshop during which participants build their own 30-gallon turnable composters, complete with wooden stand. We held one of these in October and had a lot of fun.
Come for the day (or come the night before or stay the night of) and return home with a composter that works great (it’s easy to turn) and looks very handsome in the backyard. Plus, you’ll learn lots about composting (including a peek at our worm villages) and meet other composting-people. You get the satisfaction of having built something yourself and turning those kitchen scraps into a fine gift for your garden.
Register soon (by Jan. 3, so we can get supplies ordered) by clicking on “Workshops and Retreats” at our website: www.turtlerockfarmretreat.com.
One of the joys of the holidays is having our grown children come home and enjoying the wonderful young adults they are. Besides playing ping pong, chess and Scrabble, cooking and sharing stimulating conversation, one day we worked together on the farm.
The pecan grove our father started seven or eight years ago needed tending. The trees had never been thinned since they were planted and were growing too close to each other. It is sad to have to cut down trees. But like so much in nature, if the trees are too close together they can’t grow to their full potential. So in cutting down the smaller ones, we would give the remaining trees room to mature.
We loaded the pickup truck with tools, found enough work gloves for everyone, packed snacks and headed to the pecan grove.
We recently learned a slogan from the Findhorn community in Scotland: “Work is love in action.” The more we’ve made this something to live into (with every toilet cleaned, every dish washed, every change of sheets) the more we’ve come to love our work. But we especially loved thinning the trees in the pecan grove alongside our children. Sore and tired at the end of the day from dragging heavy trees to the brush pile, dealing with ailing chainsaws and heavy loppers, we were the happiest of workers.
Twice this week
I’ve found dead animals.
First, a fluffy gray kitten
in the wicker chair on the front porch.
Laying there stretched out
rather than in a circle,
which would have been warmer,
so I knew something was wrong.
Don’t know why it died,
how it got up in the chair.
Then a large opossum
in the backyard.
I know how he died.
A dog did it.
I carried each off
where they will become meals
for coyote or vulture.
We all die.
It is natural.
More natural,
perhaps,
in Winter.
