It seems as though everywhere one looks, there's a fawn with a doe close by.

June 21, 2016 - Tuesday

49 degrees/clear/calm winds

Pentoga Road

Supposedly, there's a once in every seventy year Strawberry Moon out there this morning. The problem is, it's so bright I can't see the moon, let alone know if it's strawberry-colored or not. 

Speaking of strawberries, the darn chipmunks are stealing ours as quickly as they ripen. I set a trap, but those wily munks aren't falling for it, the little buttheads. They seem to skirt the opening in favor of the ripening berries surrounding them.

One thing is certain, this is the last year for this variety of strawberry. They are heavy on foliage and blossoms, light on production. I'm more than a bit disappointed with the current crop... again. It's time for a change. I'm going back to the good, old-fashioned, June berry. I'll stick some of these plants in the ground along the woods. If they make it, fine, if not, good riddance.

Strawberries aren't the only fruit going away. I grafted two apple trees (the stick in the middle) six years ago to make "southern" apple trees. They live, barely, but die back every winter. It's time they go away. (I discovered there's a reason why they are a southern variety.)

All is not lost in the fruit department on Pentoga Road. Sargie and I picked honey berries for quite sometime last evening.

 A fruit that many have never heard of, honey berries are a northern-hardy cultivar that originated in Russia and has been further developed in Alberta, Canada. 

They taste similar to a blueberry, perhaps a bit more tart, but are much easier to raise domestically. Supposedly, they are bomb proof. The two bushes I've had for the past four years appear to be that way. The three younger ones, two years old, are quickly catching up and produced a small crop this year. When fully grown, the bushes will reach up to eight feet tall and create a hedge across the entire width of the garden.

We'll put most of what was picked last night in the freezer for next winter's eating.

A flock of wild turkeys walked through the back yard early Monday morning, several hens being pursued by a couple of amorous males. Tis that time of the year when turkey hormones run rampant.

Time was spent thinning and weeding the rutabagas on Monday. With the cooler weather we've experienced this spring, it appears the root crops are doing quite well.

I also emptied out the last of the compost from the trailer, filling the potato pots and side dressing and hilling the row of spuds that are growing in the new garden addition.

If top growth is any indication of what should develop on the bottom, we'll be tater-rich with the Red Norland variety this fall.

Grady's potatoes that he planted several weeks ago

We enjoyed our usual afternoon drive through the country Monday afternoon. 

At one point, we came across a vacant lake home with an auction sign by the road. Curiosity killed the cat, but thankfully, it didn't harm Tom or Sargie as we parked and peaked through the windows.

Sargie and I decided that after she wins the lottery, we'll be purchasing this one as a weekend place... a little get away. 

It's fun to dream and see how the other half lives, but in the end, home is where the heart is and our's are right here on Pentoga Road.

Still, having a weekend place, complete with our own float plane in the back yard wouldn't be a bad thing, would it?

Once home, I headed to the popple woods pushing the trim mower to cut thistles while Mom and Sargie watched from the back yard.

Try as I may, I couldn't get either to help. Brutus was luckier and succeeded in getting their attention as they spent most the time playing fetch while talking.

OK, it's time to get busy doing something. I really want to get that side lattice finished on the garden arbor. Maybe I'll head out to the shop first thing this morning and see if I can accomplish something more than just talking about it. 

Or, maybe I'll pour another cup of coffee and gab with Mom. It's not an easy choice, but then as we all know, a man's work is never done.

The double-ruffled peonies are now in bloom

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...