Full of Beans

As the photos disclose, I am a "has bean." In his southwestern drawl, Mr. Armbrister used to call me his "podner," which always made me feel rather beanish. They are called string beans, though they are really wind instruments, as everyone knows. (Percussion for some, but we will avoid being too clinical here). They are flourishing in a cedar box above ground. Before I added the rich soil, I stapled a sheet of rust-resistant wire mesh at the bottom of the box, intending to frustrate my devious gophers. Now I can stand by the grow-box and imagine I hear the gophers beneath it, banging their heads on the wire mesh and muttering because they can not get to the beans. There's one I've named Captain Kirk because I think I hear it shouting, "Bean me up, Scottie. Bean me up." Out of love for George and Georgie, I pretend that they never venture to my garden. "Cause dey knows I has de hose."

If it grows in a pod, it's good for the bod,

But there are no beans for gophers

For the moron learned a lesson

And put the wire mesh in

The bean is of the genus Phaseolus. If you want a satisfying and happifying experience, try singing that last sentence as if you are in an opera. Well, it works for me. I sing to my beans, and they respond. Songs like "Let it Bean," by the Beatles. (Actually, the name of the band was originally the Beantles, but the nunation was assimilated by the dental ultima, according to basic philological principles). I have noticed that the bean plants at the end of the box, where I normally stand to sing to them, will flower first. This is consistent with the maxim oft-repeated among America's bean growers:

"The closer to the crooner,

To the grocer all the sooner."

I expect a great harvest this year.

CORNRISE!

At the request of the Lovely Hannah Bee, I will begin to post pictures of the Angelo Ercoli Memorial Garden of Eaten. This year, I have planted 15 rows of an early variety of sweet corn. We have a short growing season up here on the mountain. The special heirloom corn seed I ordered, which requires about 100 days to mature, was delivered late, so I was forced to choose a substitute to make up for the lost time. The heirloom seed, Stowell's Evergreen, will wait in the bottom drawer of our refrigerator until next year.

I love the power inherent in corn. It is inspiring to me to see how the Lord has endowed these simple seeds. I rejoice to be able to participate in a small way in the creative process, to reenact a tradition that was instituted in the very beginning by God Himself. To till, plant, tend and dress our gardens is an activity rich in similitudes, designed to teach everlasting principles. It is a process both temporal and eternal. "Behold, we will plant a garden eastward in Eden."

Over 30 years ago, I planted corn on borrowed land in Provo, Utah. The soil tended to clump together there because of the presence of clay. I still remember my delight at the sight of those first corn plants pushing up through the hard soil. There was power in those leaves! I remember one, though, that was bent under a clump of clay, working against the weight of it. I thought I'd do a kind deed and lift the adversity from off the plant, thereby freeing it to grow faster. That was a mistake. I learned a lesson as I observed its progress. The plant that I, in my innocent ignorance, "assisted" by giving it ease at a critical period of growth, was stunted and barren. I believe our personal struggle against the weight of adversity develops a spiritual strength and fruitfulness in us that can not come in any other way.

Here is a view of my backyard corn patch, which is now about one month along.

Dig It

Mikayla brought her rock collection to show me. She has a good eye for beautiful specimens of common stones. She loves geology. I thought it might be fun for her if we conducted an archaeological dig in the backyard. So we built a simple soil sifter from spare lumber and wire mesh, like the ones I made for fossil sieving in days of yore. We chose an empty plot of ground beyond the corn, dug a shovel's worth, dumped it in the sifter and shook out the dirt until only rocks and other things were left. To our surprise and gratitude, we enjoyed immediate success. There were Native American artifacts on the screen! Pieces of corrugated pottery and chipped agate, proof positive that Indians once stood in my backyard. We continued and found more artifacts, together with an old penny and a button. Mikayla said, "Grandpa, this is addictive, because you never know what the next shovel full will have in it." And we never know what the next hour or day will uncover in our lives. We keep digging.

Hens Again

Three new layers of responsibility were added to my life yesterday. (Puns are always intended here). Our friends, Kelly and Eileen Rogers, who raise chickens in Clay Springs, AZ, brought us a gift of three hens. We have missed the amusement of backyard poultry since Henny Penny was repossessed, but that's a tale for another time. We opened the cage in which they were transported and gave them the freedom of our large, fenced yard. They didn't know what to do with their newfound independence, congregating most of the day near the gate. Our initial attempts to herd them to the Chicken Catchatorium, where they'll have plenty of egg-room, and acquaint them with their new home were unsuccessful. They are so fast and elusive! My hens of days-gone-by would run to me and stand on my feet, making it easy for me to pick them up. These have been suddenly thrust into unfamiliar territory and are, in a word, perplexed. By the grace of good friends and other mysterious powers, they have been spared the cruelty of the butcher's blade and placed on permanent vacation at St. Holiday's Chicken Resort. Their henherd is a vegetarian, so they are in Fat City. If I can protect them from the large hawks, they will have a free-ranging, bug-rich life of chicken felicity.

Big Eyes and her family came to visit from the valley yesterday on the Day of Chicken Deliverance. She and Dave and Mikayla and the Lovely One and I were given quite a run-around last sunset, as we tried to chase down the hens and put them in the Catchatorium for the night. There was lots of leaping and lunging and grabbing and missing. We caught them one by one after much exertion and heavy-breathing. It was almost the death of the Ancient One. After all the running around, the hens will probably lay scrambled eggs today.

They don't have names yet. Each is a different variety, but they huddle together as friends.

The Lovely One is in charge of chicken appellation and photography. My job is to feed them, to water them, to protect them and otherwise look to their health and welfare, and to come running at their every peck and caw. I am their servant.

Araucana

Barred Rock Hen

Pearl-White Leghorn