WATER WOES

            Our newspaper recently ran an article about a prominent former climate-change skeptic who has changed his mind about man-made global warming, and published a study of lots of other studies supporting his converted views. (Your tax dollars at work.) Mankind must be the reason the world’s heating up, he says: look at the temperature changes since 1950!!!

            To instill just a soupçon of sanity to the rather inane discussion of Who Caused Global Warming, I would like to point out that:

1.      By definition, climate is always changing;

2.      137 years of even the most scrupulous record-keeping doesn’t amount to a hill of beans, as Bogey might say, because…

3.       137 years do not a geologic age make; and

4.      It doesn’t matter who or what is at fault—the task now is to assess and adjust. That’s what humans do best. Theoretically. Although we’re also excellent at the blame-laying thing, too.

I’m just sayin’.

And now government hydrologists warn us a hefty proportion of the nation’s farmland is suffering from severe to extreme drought. Who caused that debacle?

            Here in southeastern North Carolina, we’re not so dry. In fact, since the 17^th of July, Oak Island has totted up 12.75-plus inches of rain (it’s raining as I write this), which leaves us only ten or so inches below Wilmington’s “normal” (average!) for the year so far. Based on my own ten-years-worth of weather observations, I posit that Oak Island generally racks up less rainfall than the Big City to our north anyway, due to sea breezes that push moisture-laden clouds inland before they dump their loads.

            Be that as it may, the availability of fresh water for the seven-billion-and-counting people on this planet is becoming increasingly problematic. Ergo, at the micro level, it behooves all of us who have automatic irrigation systems to tune them up so what we waste is whittled to the barest minimum.

            Bite the bullet and pay an irrigation guy to pop over at least once a season to check your spray heads for coverage (no point sprinkling the street or the house) and proper operation (sand eventually clogs nozzles and wears down rotational gears); and to ascertain the good working order of the electrics and pipes (solenoids, valves, pumps and clocks go bad, wires get cut, pipes shatter, crack and clog).

Tim and I shut down our overhead sprayers for good last year, when the price of water sinking into the ground became onerous on Oak Island. Of our five-zone system, only the two drip zones see any action these days. The most efficient, targeted and cost-effective aspect of automatic irrigation, driplines put water directly where it’s needed, as opposed to flinging it into the air to be evaporated and wind-blown. (Surprisingly, dragging hoses around is the least wasteful of all landscape water-delivery methods, if you don’t factor in your labor and aggravation. Which I do as summer temperatures ramp up.)

Trouble-shooting your own drip system is easy. Checking for malfunctioning emitters and breached, pinched and/or clogged lines doesn’t require a degree in hydrology. Besides, with sufficient pressure, careful zone-run timing and a few readily available supplies, a single drip zone can be extended indefinitely, a definite boon to plantaholics.

Because a picture is worth a thousand words, I shall show rather than tell you how to become your own irrigation guy, in 22,000 words or less.

Here are your basic materials: half-inch-diameter dripline; straight and tee connectors; emitters (these control how much water comes out per hour, usually one or two gallons); and the descriptively named oops plugs, for the odd emitter-placement boo-boo.

 

First you place the dripline where you want it to go…

 

…and secure it to the ground, using less-expensive-but-more-work insulation hangers (sold in boxes of 100 or 600 in the, er, insulation aisle of your home-improvement emporium). Tim demonstrates how in three easy steps: click on the pictures because the darn things are hard to see...

 

Step1: Hold

Step 2: Fold

Step 3: Push down

 

…or opt for the more-expensive-but-less-work sod staples.

 

 

You will also need to pinch off the end of the line, for obvious reasons. Tim and I use electrical cable ties, also known as Israeli handcuffs, as shown here. Because ultraviolet light breaks down all plastics, check these closures every year or so and replace as necessary. If you have a shallow well, the inevitable dirt the pump sucks up will eventually clog the line. We suggest uncrimping the ends once a year or so when the zone is on, blowing out any gooey obstructions. 

            This is how the connectors work, connecting  pieces of pipe in straight lines or branching off a new line from another.

On to the nitty-gritty. You can’t just poke holes in the dripline—you need to maintain pressure in the line all the way to the end, which is why the irrigation gods invented emitters. You also can’t use any old sharp thing to make the holes emitters go into: size matters here. This is why we have emitter tools, available wherever fine emitters are found. (Emitters come in various shapes and colors; the ones pictured here are just two I had laying around.)

Insert the emitter tool into the dripline thus. Listen for the snapping sound that means you’ve fully penetrated the line. If you don’t hear it, you may not have broken all the way through, meaning the emitter won’t go in.

 

Remove the tool and push in the emitter.

Emitter on left, oops plug on right

 If you put a hole in the wrong place, or if a plant dies or gets moved, you can stop watering a spot that no longer needs it by exchanging the emitter for an oops plug, using brute force.

With your new skills, you can run water to your potted plants as well (no more imposing on neighbors when you go away). A length of aptly named spaghetti line (three to four millimeters in diameter) and some tiny straight and tee connectors are all the additional materials you’ll need.

Here’s how the line looks with the connectors in place…

 

…and how it attaches to the regular dripline.

 

Put an emitter (or two, if your plants needs more than one, by using a tee) onto the business end of the spaghetti…

 

 

…run it into the pot, and secure it to the medium. Voilà!

 

If the pot no longer needs watering, you simply remove the entire spaghetti assembly and insert an oops plug into the hole in the big dripline. If it’s a pot you plant only seasonally, just pinch off the spaghetti line with a cable tie, leaving it ready to flow again next year.

Now let’s look at some common dripline problems. First is the pinched line, where a plant’s stem or trunk grows so large as to close off the flow of water. (This picture was staged. Due to correct placement at the outset, we don’t have any pinched lines in our yard.)  

Driplines need to be visible for inspections, additions and repairs. If your contractor buried the dripline on purpose, throw a major hissy-fit and get him to reposition it on the surface posthaste. Over time though, driplines tend to disappear from view on their own, covered by blown-in sand or dirt, soil amendments and broken-down leaf-litter and mulch. Roots grow over them, sometimes compromising function (see “pinched line” above). When this happens, you must raise them back to the surface. Here’s a line, originally laid a decade ago and neglected since, that I’m in the process of unearthing.

 

If you don’t like the look of hoses running free through the shrubbery, mulch over ’em. Just don’t forget to check every other year or so that they haven’t started to vanish.

Look carefully, and you'll see the teeth marks

A third problem, especially prevalent during dry spells, is pet- or wildlife-caused breaches. The animals hear the water, and paw and gnaw away until they reach it. Squirrels routinely chew holes in our dripline, including the spaghetti line that fills the birdbath. (Go figure.) If your drip zone runs at a civilized hour, stroll through your garden when it’s on once in a while, looking and listening for spewing where there shouldn’t be any. If your system comes on unconscionably early, turn it on at a more convenient hour to scout for anomalies. A related issue is the occasional emitter that pops off. Don’t bother searching for the old one: they can travel astonishing distances. Just go get a new one to replace the one that’s gone.

If I can add and repair driplines—and I can—so can you. Like most of successful gardening, irrigation boils down to paying attention, learning a few techniques, and having the right tools. And that’s really all there is to it.

Thanks for dropping by.

                                                                        Kathy

SOMETHING'S HAPPENING HERE

There’s something happening here

What is ain’t exactly clear

There’s a man with a gun over there

Telling me I got to beware

I think it’s time to stop, children, what’s that sound

Everybody look what’s going down

For What It’s Worth by Stephen Stills

            It’s not good.  

            Media’s unrelenting onslaught of “reality” TV programming and the fascination du jour with vampires, zombies, comic-book superheroes, and bow-wielding young ladies—they’re all bad enough. Throw in the insularity caused by machine-filtered quotidian human interactions, the NRA’s rantings that what this country really needs is a citizenry armed to the teeth and prepared to stand its ground (can you say “George Zimmerman”?), and a baleful sense of one’s rightful place at the center of the universe being denied, and what do you get? Mayhem. This time at a movie theatre.

            A character in an episode of the BBC series “Lewis” says, “All fantasy is infantile until it turns sinister, which it does if you don’t outgrow it. Arrested development is a dangerous thing. Nasty and dangerous.”

Even Al Franken—not someone I usually turn to for bon mots of wisdom—said, “When anything goes, everything goes.”

The Right Honourable Edmund Burke

            Edmund Burke tells us, “Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it.” He also notes that "Men are qualified for civil liberty in exact proportion to their disposition to put moral chains upon their own appetites." And chew on this, you NRA types: “The use of force alone is but temporary. It may subdue for a moment; but it does not remove the necessity of subduing again.” Too bad Burke’s not required reading, especially for politicos and firearms aficionados.  

A student of history, I have long maintained that the United States is but the latest in a long line of reruns of the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. The demise of integrity in our leaders; the overweening thirst for money and power at the uppermost echelons; the contracting of the middle class; and the mob's slack-jawed, insatiable, prurient hunger for spectacle echoes that of ancient Rome around 385 AD. “Barbarians” overran the citadel in 421. Right about now, I can’t wait for our comeuppance: in fact, I’m thinking it might be a good idea to learn some rudimentary Chinese.

For what it’s worth, it took us several hundred years less to blow through our nation’s time at the global center stage than Rome did. Let’s hear it for the lickety-split lifestyle.

*****

No, I haven’t moved into a survivalist camp yet. It wouldn’t be a good fit anyway because I’m afraid of guns, and the people who love them. What did ol’ Charlton Heston say? “Guns don’t kill people; people do”? Yeah, that may be so, but I imagine it’s a lot harder to kill somebody with a knife or Aunt Millie’s brass candlestick or your bare hands than with a bullet. Seems like the former methods require some thought, however skewed. Not to mention that up-close-and-personal contact. Sorry, cowboys.

(Click on picture to read caption)

 It can’t be denied that we live in a worrisome era. Last night, PBS started promoting Ken Burns’ latest documentary, “The Dust Bowl” (airing in September on your local PBS station: talk about must-see TV!). What with so much of the country’s farmland suffering severe drought, all those acres of genetically modified crops sown in chemical-drenched soils withering away, I wonder if we aren’t setting up for another one.

Really, it’s not good.

Tomatoes galore!

In reaction to this spate of scary news, I turn to my garden for solace. Nothing unusual with that, of course. Toadflax Farm is producing away—no home-grown tomato shortage chez Fitz this year! I spend so much time cosseting the front yard, the remodeling of the rear garden has received short shrift. The plants wait in their pots on the south side for me to get around to putting them in the ground. I’ve taken to using the north side to traverse between front and back to avoid the guilt pangs the sight of them engenders. Between the heat and other projects, time is at such a premium these days.

It’s those “other projects” that are the actual subject of this post, now that I’ve vented (some of) my spleen.

Water-bath canner & equipment

People who know me express astonishment at the latest bizarre turn my personality is manifesting. Long famous for avoiding kitchen-related activities of any sort, I am currently obsessively turning out canned and frozen jams, salsas, pickles and sauces. I scour the grocery ads for locally grown produce and haul bags of it home to process with my new water-bath canner and Victorio food strainer. I’m also baking bread again, after a 30-year hiatus. Merciful heavens, what happened?

 

I think it may a control thing. I don’t want to ingest genetically modified organisms any more. Monsanto and the industrial-ag boys’ lobby has pressed long and hard to not have their Frankenfood ingredients labeled as such on the processed things they predominate in. What? You didn’t know that for the past decade or so your breakfast cereal contains GMO corn and that the sweetness in your sodas and cookies comes from genetically engineered high fructose corn syrup? And if that four-pound bag of sugar doesn’t say “pure cane sugar” prominently on the package, it’s likely from GMO beets? Even your tofu’s not safe—commercial soybeans have been GMO for a long while now. (Need to know more? Go to LabelGMO’s website, linked here, and click on “Just the Science” on the left menu.)

Homemade freezer jams

 Anyway, I’m taking active steps to reduce my exposure. Preserving food, I’ve learned, doesn’t have to be the horrible ordeal I remember from childhood. (See “Raising Cain… and Beds.”) Jams can be made by stirring together crushed fruit, sugar and instant pectin for three minutes, decanting into jars and popping in the freezer. Who knew? Small-batch water-bath canning isn’t such an ordeal either, I’ve learned: Having the right tools (especially air-conditioning) makes all the difference.

 

Pickles, pickles, pickles!

There’s a picture of my home-grown salsa above, and here are the bread-and-butter pickles I put up yesterday afternoon.

 Ball's instant pectin & mixes

These endeavors were streamlined by the Ball Company’s line of salsa and pickle mixes, which I don't consider cheating. (But then, I wouldn't.)

The labor-saving Victorio strainer

Today—maybe tomorrow—will see the inaugural run of the strainer as I teach myself how to put up spaghetti sauce without the necessity of first peeling, coring and seeding 30 pounds of tomatoes. I am soooo psyched.

Kitchen DIY guides

 Intrigued? Check out these books: Ball’s Complete Book of Home Preserving, edited by Judi Kingry and Lauren Devine; and Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day: The Discovery that Revolutionizes Home Baking by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoë François. The latter was a real eye-opener for one who invested the time and energy of youth baking her own breads for a year or so, back in the day before children and regular gainful employment put the kibosh on lazy days spent proofing yeast and kneading. I plan to suggest to Tim we make the six-hour drive to the Asheville Food and Wine Fest in late August for the sole purpose of obtaining a stash of locally sourced and milled Carolina Grown flours. 

In case you’re interested just how far I plan to immerse myself in self-sufficiency, I’ve also signed up for weaving lessons. I want to learn how to make my own denim. It’s gonna be a trip.

Oh, and I’m seriously considering returning to weekly yoga classes too. It’s like a very healthy sickness.

Thanks for dropping by. Ommm…

                                                                                    Kathy

ON AND OFF THE ROAD

My famous brother-in-law,
Preston Jones

            Sorry about the hiatus. The Fitzes hit the road on July 5 to visit relatives in Maryland and Virginia, having grand times with my Boonsboro cousins, and mom, sister Donna and her husband Preston in Williamsburg. Preston’s the number two craftsman at the silver shop in the restored area, by the way; if you’re planning a visit to the vicinity, stop by and say hey. He’s waiting patiently for the big job as master silversmith. My brother-in-law’s also famous as the cover-guy for National Geographic’s 1776: A New Look at Revolutionary Williamsburg by K.M. Kostyal. He wears colonial garb well, doesn't he?

            Anyway. Surviving the trip back down always-harrowing I-95, Tim and I got home the middle of last week, kissed the cats and the carpet (after a quick pass with the vacuum cleaner), hugged our pillows, and settled onto the world’s most comfortable mattress for an extended lie-in. Since then, we’ve only moved to go to the kitchen for periodic infusions of Tim’s really good coffee. I’ve ventured outside three or four times to perform absolutely mandatory gardening chores. (Hooray for irrigation systems!) I harvested another phase of our bumper crop of ripe tomatoes, trellised the pole beans, and spot-watered any particularly wilted specimens, but that's all. I can’t even imagine having to get up and go to work for the foreseeable future. (Hooray for self-employment!)   

             Yup, it’s official. Needing two weeks to recover from a six-day vacation makes it impossible to deny: Tim and I are Old Farts.

While motoring around in the stultifying July heat, I couldn’t help noticing the number and variety of wildflowers edging our route, especially along the back roads. Thanks to Tim’s infinite good humor and situational awareness, we didn’t get killed any of the times I screeched, “Back up! Back up! Isn’t that purple fleabane?” (It wasn’t.) He also handled traffic control and first aid as I scrambled barefoot up hillsides and down into ditches, or crouched in the breakdown lane or on the verges of medians to capture the perfect shot.

And here’s what we got for all our (actually Tim's, if I'm completely honest) pains. I call your attention to the high-summer denizens of Mother Nature’s hell-strips in the country surrounding Boonsboro, Hagerstown, Funkstown and Sharpsburg, MD and Martinsburg, WV.

Hedge bindweed

Our first photo is of hedge bindweed (Calystegia sepium). It’s a morning-glory-like wildflower of cultivation, only living where people do. We found this particular specimen in the hedge of Carissa hollies bordering a McDonald’s just east of Hagerstown.

Maryland's state flower

The wild black-eyed Susan, plain ol’ species Rudbeckia hirta, is Maryland’s state flower for good reason: it grows everywhere. This particular batch adorned the byway above Burnside’s Bridge on Antietam National Battlefield Park.

Cerulean blue chicory

One of the things I miss about upstate New York is chicory (the flower, not the poor-man’s coffee substitute), probably because of my thing for blue blooms. I tried growing it from seeds I brought to North Carolina with me, but they wouldn't grow. I think Chicorium intybus is more of an upland plant.

Queen Anne's lace

Wherever there’s chicory, there’s Queen Anne’s lace (Daucus carota), blooming at the same time and nearby. The flowers are frequently confused with those of bishop’s weed (Aegopodium podogrania), but Queen Anne’s foliage looks like ferny carrot tops where the bishop has trifoliate broad leaves.

Blue & white border,
au naturel

Looking for garden design help? Take a page from Mother Nature’s book of companion plantings, like this one of white Queen Anne's lace punctuated by blue, blue chicory.

Adding a touch of yellow to the blue and white composition, common mullein (Verbascum thapsus) blends right in in its shorter incarnations, or towers above the crowd.

...& statuesque mullein

Stubby mullein...

The scent of clover (Trifolium spp.) revives childhood summers for me. I grew up next door to an old dairy farm, and my dad didn’t suffer from the epidemic of perfect-lawn-itis many of his generation of new-to-the-suburbs men did. Killing stands of clover in the yard is a mistake, as it turns out:  clovers are leguminous, fixing nitrogen in the soil to the benefit of everything else growing in it.

White clover (Trifolium repens)

Red clover (Trifolium pratense)

Wild spearmint

Another blast-from-the-past field flower is spicy-smelling and –tasting wild spearmint (Mentha spicata), or horsemint, as we called it back in the day. Chewing a leaf refreshed the palate after a lengthy foray into the blackberry bramble patch. Dontcha feel sorry for kids today, whose memories will feature cold, textureless, scentless electronica and summer days spent inside pecking at tiny keyboards below LCD displays?

 

Never did find the purple variety, but white Eastern daisy fleabane (Erigeron annuus) abounded on roadsides and in wildflower meadows, there as here.

I've always loved thistle flowers—if not their prickly stems and leaves—probably another legacy of being a kid playing in cow pastures. There are at least three genera and about a gazillion species of them (thistles, not kids in cow pastures) out there. This particular one is a bull thistle (Cirsium vulgare), photographed behind a couple of the monuments scattered over the killing fields of Antietam.

...but, ooh, those prickers

Lovely thistle flowers...

Cool-looking teasel

A resident of low places, teasel (Dipsacus sylvestris) resembles thistles on steroids; but teasel leaves are kinder and gentler, even if their stems and calyxes are not.

Common milkweed

Got milkweed? Host plant to monarch butterfly larvae, it’s another wildflower that grows, well, wild in uplands but gives coastal North Carolina a pass. We can grow lots of the other butterfly weeds—Asclepias (pronounced as-CLEE-pee-us) incarnata, A. tuberosa, A. curassavica—but not Asclepias syriaca.

You wouldn’t guess it from the war I used wage on the common vetch that invaded our lawn (back when we had a lawn), but I adore the sight of the banks of Interstate drainage ditches covered with blooming crown vetch (Coronilla varia), sown to prevent erosion of said banks. Great stretches of large (for vetches) globose flowers atop dainty compound foliage make for a welcome distraction from the blinkered idiot vehicle operators who seem to set the tone on our nation’s highways.

A swath of crown vetch

Crown vetch, close up

It’s good to be home. Thanks for dropping by.

                                                                        Kathy