Yes, we have four seasons.
Many people think of California as beaches and palm trees and endless summer. And parts of the state (primarily the southern third) indeed conform to that stereotype. But California is a big place, and the farther north and inland you travel, the more varied the terrain and weather. Here in the Coastal Ranges of Northern California, we enjoy four seasons, much the same as anywhere in the Great American West. True, our hot summer lasts longer and is hardly ever interrupted by rain; likewise, our winter can be warmer than similar mountainous areas and most of the precipitation falls as rain. And we have a short but pronounced spring (punctuated by dozens of species of multihued wildflowers) and a subtle autumn (where the oak leaves turn all shades of yellow, from amber to ocher). Still, a newcomer can be surprised by how varied the weather is. Which is good; we don't get bored by any one season that outstays its welcome.
Snow!
The winter of 2011 will go down in the books for two big (and fairly rare) snowstorms. The first arrived on New Year's Day, leaving the ground blanketed in about six inches of white stuff. This was a first for Gertie, and she tore around, quite pleased at the gift from above. Joe was initially enchanted, then worried that the heavy, wet accumulation would bring down the hoop houses he had built the year before to keep birds from decimating our summer crops. Though the snow made the greenhouse covering sag, we swept it off before it could collapse the whole thing on our thriving broccoli, spinach, and herbs -- a strenuous task, but one whose infrequency was its own reward (in case you haven't guessed, we like hard work around here--in moderation, of course). The second snowstorm came in mid-February, and it was a doozy, heavy and wet, knocking limbs out of trees, cutting off power (fortunately, we were out for only a couple of hours, but friends not far away on Cobb Mountain were without electricity for as many as four or five days), and leaving roads in and out of Lake County impassable. All told, we got just shy of 10 inches here at QQR, as much snow as most locals had seen since the 1960s.
Spring Awakening
California poppies proliferate throughout spring at QQR.
Spring of 2011 was atypical for a number of reasons. First, it was among the longest on record in Lake County: lasting well into June, with final rains coming the last week of the month (and not just a shower: the storm dropped more than two inches at a time of the year when any rain is basically an oddity. As a result, the grasses and shrubs and weeds flourished, growing four and five feet high, with blossoms (and pollen) galore. Second, all the precipitation saturated the ground, such that St. Helena Creek flowed almost to the first of August, leaving fine swimming holes for Gertie to cool herself in when we make our late-afternoon foray to the Post Office. Third, the rainfall left its legacy in the form of higher humidity, which has beleaguered us on and off throughout the summer. Though it kept the mercury from soaring into the 100s for the most part, it also meant that 90 or 95 degrees felt more oppressive (as it does in such muggy environs as the Deep South or the Atlantic seaboard).
Gertie follows the does as they nibble the field's seasonal greens.
But we are thankful for all the water, as it has recharged our wells -- an essential during our long dry seasons (generally May through September). And the moisture-laden soil has made planting trees and bushes (or transplanting the ones we had to more felicitous spots with better soil and exposure to the sun) a lot easier, rendering the job of digging a hole (or, as Joe likes to say, "punching a cavity in the rocks" [we have soil that is half rocks and stones, half clay]) a lot easier. We put in four pear trees (three Bosc and one Bartlett) and moved an apple from under another tree to a big, sunny expanse. We know we won't get any fruit this year, but we harbor high hopes for following ones, loving as we do both the luscious flesh of pears and the tart and crunchy meat of apples. Most farms in the self-sufficient times of the 19th and early 20th century had a small orchard and a number of berry bushes, and they made all sorts of simple delicacies from their yields: pies and crumbles for immediate consumption, followed by apple and pear butter, then jams and jellies; some rendered the leftover skins and seeds into stiff cider or even brandy, while others just returned it to the earth, to fertilize the next year's crops. Spring lets you dream about such things, and makes you itch to get your hands dirty.
'Summertime, and the cotton is high...'
Our raised beds come to life in summer's heat; hand-watering is the preferred means of irrigation.
It takes only a few warm, sunny days to make the little seedlings we've nurtured in the greenhouse (and indoors, on the window sill in the utility kitchen) erupt in a profusion of green leaves and multicolored blossoms. John loves the contemplative hours he spends watering, weeding, tending and otherwise bonding with these plants, justifiably proud (if not smug) at how productive he makes them, coaxing gorgeous greens for the table, tomatoes to slice into salads and put up for the winter, squash to savor now and also freeze or store for a rainy day, and herbs to perk everything up, now and later. Though we can't say we're entirely self-sufficient (we still make trips to the grocery store for staples like rice and cornmeal and condiments--and yes, wine!), we do at least pass up the produce aisle year-round (John likes to brag that he no longer knows the price of lettuce or peppers or basil or spinach, not having purchased any of the foregoing for a couple of years.)
And don't let's forget tomatoes. Two things money can't buy: true love and homegrown tomatoes (or so the Guy Clark ditty goes). Enjoying a sandwich with nothing but a slather of mayo and slices of a warm, just-picked tomato is surely God's way of saying he loves us.
And don't let's forget tomatoes. Two things money can't buy: true love and homegrown tomatoes (or so the Guy Clark ditty goes). Enjoying a sandwich with nothing but a slather of mayo and slices of a warm, just-picked tomato is surely God's way of saying he loves us.
Joe is rightfully proud of the sunflowers he grew.
Summer also brings a profusion of blooms, from exuberant sunflowers to gaudy zinnias to soothing alyssum, its white and purple and magenta blossoms draping over the ground like a sweet-smelling blanket. Though it seems extravagant to spend time and precious water nurturing flowers, the simple pleasure they give merits the expenditure. And there's nothing like a patch of Technicolor blooms to greet you in the morning or, in the midst of some tedious task like pulling weeds or thinning carrots, to make you smile when you look up from your labor. Quite simply, flowers are essential.
The Fleeting Fall
A mature walnut changed color almost overnight.
FALL FALLS fast in Middletown, and 2011 was no exception. After a couple of early downpours early in October and then a couple of weeks with unusually warm temperatures that "tricked" the trees into believing it was still summer, autumn's short days finally exerted their influence, resulting in a profusion of yellow and gold leaves that literally changed overnight.
We had only a few nights of frost in the last weeks of October, so the garden tomatoes and eggplants and squash and other later producers kept on giving, and we relished many a feast of just-picked vegetables. The work of canning--sterilizing jars, packing them full with peppers or tomatoes or even boiled chicken, then pressure cooking them for the required time--will fill our days, but nothing elicits satisfaction like a full pantry of homegrown produce, the jars all lined up, their contents the only label necessary. And it's a treat to grab a jar from the shelf in the middle of winter and be reminded of summer and its bounty.
We had only a few nights of frost in the last weeks of October, so the garden tomatoes and eggplants and squash and other later producers kept on giving, and we relished many a feast of just-picked vegetables. The work of canning--sterilizing jars, packing them full with peppers or tomatoes or even boiled chicken, then pressure cooking them for the required time--will fill our days, but nothing elicits satisfaction like a full pantry of homegrown produce, the jars all lined up, their contents the only label necessary. And it's a treat to grab a jar from the shelf in the middle of winter and be reminded of summer and its bounty.
If only these days could last--the benevolent sun low enough in the sky not to prickle the skin, the air balmy and still, the green and gold and amber all around. Fall is truly fleeting here in Middletown, and it's the realization that we have a precious few weeks--four or five at the most--that makes us want to hold on to this time when the skies are blue for the most part, the ground fragrant from the first showers, the Mayacamas Range to the west illuminated so that you can pick out a single pine tree miles away. We know winter's rain and cold are not far off, and the pleasures of autumn are enhanced as a result of that anticipation. We can't stop time from marching on, but we can at least stop what we are doing and observe its effects.