Astoria, Arctic Blast Aftermath & Our Feathered Friends

Plus a Bad Actor in the Garden

Repurposed yard art…see more below!

Last night I came home to a sky full of stars.

I’d spent the previous nine days in the extraordinarily scenic little city of Astoria, Oregon. Situated at the mouth of the immense Columbia river, Astoria has traditionally been famous for the Lewis and Clark expedition camping there in 1805.

Since 1985, however, it’s been beloved as the spot where “The Goonies” was filmed!

With loads of historical sites and cultural amenities, Astoria is a bustling little tourist mecca—and one of my all time favorite places.

From this visitor’s standpoint, the lone drawback to this gorgeous spot is the state highway running smack dab through the middle of town. Wherever you are, the cacophony is unrelenting: semi-trucks, diesel pickups, and sirens…plus late at night, you’ll hear garbage trucks manhandling dumpsters.

When visibility is low, there’s more: foghorns from the ships on the river will blast you right out of bed.

I’d gone to Astoria to help with our grandkids, and I would have endured far more racket to be with my darling kiddos! But still.

When I gratefully stepped out of our car after the seven hour journey, all I could do was take in the quiet with my whole being. Yet there wasn’t silence— a stiff Northeast breeze whistled through the tall firs, a soft whissht filling my ears.

I drew in deep lungfuls of pure, bracing Foothills air, and gazed overhead.

After a long rainy/snowy spell, it had been weeks since I’d been under the stars. Now, just before midnight, I was filled with gratitude to see the constellations my husband John and I think of as our lodestars.

Pleiades winked in the West, while a gossamer-thin cirrus cloud stretched from Orion in the southwestern sky, to the Big Dipper soaring above the hills to the Northeast.

It was heavenly, in all senses of the word. I could have stargazed all night…but wearing a raincoat, I was dressed for Astoria’s mild weather, not a Foothills night in the 30s.

So I hustled into the house, eager for the next morning so I could see my garden in the daylight!

Keep reading for another kind of “heavenly”…

Before & After in the Garden: Ornamentals

When I left, remnants of January’s 14-inch snowfall still covered the ground. In my absence, the snow had finally melted. Earlier today, as I stepped outdoors, I was eager to see how the plants had fared after the Arctic blast a week before the snow.

With several nights below zero (Fahrenheit!), it was the coldest weather we’d ever experienced in the Foothills.

When it comes to my perennials, I don’t fuss over them, but they do add color and texture to winter’s monochromatic landscape.

Yet with one quick glance around the garden, I could tell many perennials had suffered. Brown and dry, they’d been “fried” by the extreme cold.

Here’s a few of the vibrant native foxglove that had somehow gotten established all over the garden (well, okay, I’d let it!)…

Robust foxglove in early January, building their mojo for their June bloom

…Which were now badly wilted.

After the Big Freeze

My purple Heuchera, which I’ve planted throughout the garden, had lost all their lovely burgundy color.

The native salal just outside our garden’s perimeter is an evergreen. But this February, after the cold, it looked to be an ever-brown.

As for another plant…

When “Heavenly” is Deadly

The green and orangey-scarlet foliage of our two Nandina, or “Heavenly Bamboo” as it’s often called, was transformed.

On one plant, the leaves had had turned completely brown. On the other, every single leaf had dropped to the ground.

Which turned out to be a blessing in disguise…

Because I just learned it’s a major Garden Bad Actor! I looked up Nandina today to check the spelling, and discovered Nandina isn’t heavenly, it’s deadly! Its berries contain cyanide—thus it’s poisonous for people, pets and wildlife.

If the ground stays thawed, you can bet I’ll be digging ours up ASAP!

Before & After: Food Crops

As we all know, in the winter food garden, there doesn’t appear to be a whole lot going on above ground. But I still had some plants I was keeping an eye on.

Like my wintering-over spinach. “Bloomsdale” is a reliably hardy variety, and ever since the first frost, my largest spinach patch had been unfazed by numerous nights below 18 degrees.

The leaves were still thriving in the first days of January; I’d even scavenged enough pickable ones for one garden-fresh spinach salad.

I had hopes of another fresh salad by mid-April. But after the Big Freeze? Well, the plants had pretty much shriveled away.

Spinach bed before the freeze and after

I had another bed filled with spinach seedlings, surrounded by a cozy leafy mulch, that had been holding their own since October. I’d hoped the mulch would keep them safe through the winter—but they too had shriveled into nothing.

In the same bed, I had a clutch of tiny parsley seedlings as well, where I’d let one plant go to seed—and these seedlings had completely disappeared.

Our most robust Marionberry crown lost its remaining leaves, and at the tail end of each cane, 12 inches or more had died back.

The strawberry plants in one bed—the one our visiting bear had liked so well it damaged the fencing twice!—looked deader than a doornail.

Of course, it’s early days yet. The crowns of the strawberries, and even some of the spinach plants may be very much alive. Some tiny shards of green could always show up in a few weeks. Although I wonder how much of the marionberry cane ends I’ll have to prune back.

As with just about everything in the garden, only time will tell.

A Little Farm First

John and I aim for a garden that’s as friendly for birds as it is for pollinators.

Despite allowing Black-eyed Susan, prodigious self-seeders, to take over way too much ground, we don’t deadhead them. At our place, their seeds are one of the few bird goodies we can offer.

Then came last month’s big snowstorm. Watching this plucky little chickadee foraging around the Black-eyed Susan—the dark bits on the snow are seeds—we made a big decision:

Can you see the tiny dark dots? Chickadee braving the cold for a few seeds

Time to bring on the birdseed!

All these years, we never, ever put food out for birds. Even before our bear adventures this past year (see previous posts starting in June), I figured we have enough bear magnets in our yard… why add yet another one?

Besides attracting bears, birdseed would only bring more rodents around.

Then over the past few years, the birds just seemed to vanish from our place. It wasn’t hard to figure out why: they were all over at our neighbor’s, who have a gigantic bird feeder filled year-round!

But a couple of weeks ago, when the chickadee showed up several days in a row, something dawned on me. Wait…two somethings.

First, snow must have been covering up the neighbor’s feeder. And second, the bears were still hibernating!

We could put out birdseed (almost) worry-free!

Despite my concern about mice, John made the trek to the farm supply store and came home with a lovely 20 lb. sack.

We still didn’t have a proper birdfeeder—I felt it would be tempting fate. That is, bring bears out of hibernation early.

Besides, we were just taking the bird-feeding experience out for a few dates—not settling in for a long-term relationship. So we set a bunch of feed out on a leaky, decrepit birdbath that once belonged to John’s parents.

No takers.

Apparently the birds over at our neighbor’s hadn’t yet sniffed out our wonderful, high-quality seed!

Maybe the birds required a classier food-delivery system. Something with panache—and maybe an overhead cover.

Well, I thought of one. It’s the photo at the top of the post.

I cleaned out John’s little wrought-iron Japanese-style lantern, and for the first time—we’ve had the lantern for 20 years—I noticed there was a bird on its tiny door!

Opening it, I carefully poured some seed inside, and hung it on the stub of one of our grape plants.

(If you read my November post, you’ll remember why the poor grapes got pruned into a stub!)

So far, our sweet little seed-laden lantern been out for nearly two weeks…and still no customers.

To lure some birds, I briefly entertained the idea of creating little piles of seeds in a trail, going from our neighbor’s yard to our house, Hansel and Gretel-style.

But didn’t entertain the idea for long. Again—mice.

So I have a burning question for you: how do you help birds find your feeder?

Bookshelf

I rarely read a book twice in the space of four months, but for author Jenny Colgan, I make an exception! I just finished The Summer Skies,  a novel set in the U.K., mostly on a remote island on the North coast of Scotland.

Falling in love over a Twin Otter plane and living off-grid!

Morag, the main character, is an airline pilot, who can fly huge Airbus aircraft as skillfully as a puddle-jumper like an 18-seat Twin Otter.

I’m in awe of Ms. Colgan’s assurance in describing the technical aspects of flying aircraft. And when she relates the breathtaking exhilaration Morag feels piloting a plane, you feel it too.

The novel features intriguing family dynamics, including Morag’s connection with her beloved pilot grandfather, as well as one of Ms. Colgan’s delightfully unconventional love stories.

So along with the Scottish Highlands, you get romance and some farm animals—to me, this novel has it all!

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Many thanks to two marvelous Substackers, Erin and Amanda, who gave Little Farm Writer and me a shout-out last month!

I hope you’ll check out Erin, gardener extraordinaire and Tolkien geek over at The Suburb Farm…

She makes ancient festivals and present-day holidays—and her food garden—come alive with her warmth, wisdom and wit.

Winter Storms, Winter Weather, one of her latest posts, is full of Erin’s usual fascinating historical and weather lore.

Amanda, at The Splendid Mess, shares the small moments of family life with gentle humor and great generosity. Reading The Suburb Farm and The Splendid Mess, I’m always intrigued, entertained, and completely captivated! I heartily recommend both. Thank you again Erin and Amanda!

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To all of you, subscribers and visitors, I appreciate you so much. Thank you for being part of Little Farm Writer!

~Susan, from the Foothills