Powered by Twitter Tools

Powered by Twitter Tools

Pre-pink apple spray: Sulfur 90W 2.0-4.0 Tbsp., plus 2.0 fl oz. permethrin and 2.0-4.0 Tbsp esfenvalerate. For scab, powdery mildew, apple rots, fire blight.

Believe me, I do all of the non-chemical intervention that’s recommended to keep those fruit treees healthy. They are mulched and pruned and fertilized. We pick up the dropped fruit from the ground (to quote the current Virginia Tech “Home Fruit: Disease and Insects” circular, my fruit-growing Bible, dropped fruit “can harbor inoculums of fruit diseases”). We rake up all the mummies (the dried old fruit and pits) that lurk in the dirt.

Pink spray, peaches: 2.0 Tbsp Captan 50W, plus 3.0 tsp 336WP, 1.0 Tbsp Daconil 2787, 1.0 Tbsp Sevin. For green aphids, tarnished plant bug, blossom blight, black knot.

None of this provides any help at all against aphids codling moths, apple maggots, mites, redbanded leafrollers, scab, powdery mildew, rust, fire blight, twig blight, sooty blotch, bitter pit, black rot, brown rot, white rot, bitter rot, (there are a lot of different kinds of rot), leaf curl, fly speck, or oozing canker. Yep, that’s a fruit tree disease, not just a complication of Civil War battlefield surgery.

Petal fall, apple: Sulfer 90@ 2.0-4.0 Tbsp, plus 2.0 Tbsp Thionex 50W, 2.0 fl oz., 2.0-4.0 Tbsp esfenvalerate. For scab, powdery mildew, rots, fire blight, curculio, codling moth, aphids, mites, boron deficiency.

This is the ugly backside of living in a part of the country where winters are mild, growing seasons long, and rain plentiful. Yep, you can grow lots of stuff. But if there’s an insect, a fungus, a disease, or a predator, we’ve got that too. These trees are susceptible to everything this side of hemorraghic fever. The spray schedule for apples and peaches have at least eleven different applications. Leave one out, and fruit starts withering, decaying, imploding, exploding, oozing, cracking, and transporting to alternate dimensions.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the idea of organic farming. And on alternate days, I feel guilty about putting this stuff into the air, nervous about getting it on me (because I haven’t yet done a fruit-tree spray without getting at least one faceful of fungicide), unhappy about getting it near my kids. And not thrilled to get a good whiff of malathion when I walk by the orchard.

The other days, I’m tickled pink to have fresh fruit off my own trees. Not to mention sugar-free applesauce, frozen and canned peaches all year, and jam.

The alternative? Apparenty, for us, not eating fruit. Or eating only store-bought fruit. And I am also a fan of eating seasonally and eating locally. Without spray, there’s no seasonal and local. Just oozing canker.

Petal fall through fifth cover, peaches, at fourteen-day intervals, five applications. 2.0 Tbsp. Captan 50@ plus 1.0 tsp malathion 57EC, 2.0-4.0 Tbsp esfenvalerate, 2.0% solution JMS Stylet Oil.

I mean, we could always grow tobacco, which turned out to be pretty darn resistant to southeastern Virginia fungus infestations. But that has other complications.

Peachtree borer sprays, apply July 15 and August 15. 2 Tbs Thionex (endosulfan 50W. Applyt to trunks and large limbs only. Do not apply within 21 days of harvest. Highly toxic.

Powered by Twitter Tools

That’s two updates about future plans, but–as my favorite writing handbook points out –triads are always rhetorically effective. So here’s the third part of the update.

Next year, I’m taking a break from conference travel.

Since 1999, I’ve been going to conferences, speaking at educational gatherings, schools, retreats, you name it. I have always loved talking to parents and teachers (and fans of my history books) face to face. But there are three reasons that I’ve been turning down invitations for 2013.

First, I’m a little burned out. I’ve been doing conference travel for fourteen years. Conferences are hard work. There’s a dead day on either end for travel; hotel rooms, which are like little tiny Gardens of Eden when you have a houseful of toddlers, are less exciting over a decade down the road, when you can actually sleep and eat and shower in your own home without anyone sticking their fingers under the door; restaurant food really packs the pounds on, once you pass that fortieth birthday; and when you’ve been saying the same thing in workshops for one-third of your adult life, sometimes it’s just time to stop and rework everything from the beginning.

Second, I need a year to take care of things back on the farm. Home education conferences are at their height in the spring, which is exactly when lambing, fruit-tree spraying,pasture-planting, chick-hatching, and a host of other things are right smack at their height. We’ll be doing lambing for the very first time in March and April of 2013; I’ll feel better sticking around. My parents are older than they were; I don’t want to leave them to watch over the farm in my absence. And the kids are older than they were too. They miss me when I’m gone, and they’re not going to be home that much longer.

Third, I’m discouraged by the conference scene, which is becoming increasingly polarized. Those of you who attend home education conferences may have noticed this.

I love to teach; I love to help parents and teachers teach. That’s part of what I do. But conferences seem, increasingly, less focused in education and more on lifestyle: whether that’s back-to-the-earth, drop-out-of-the-system, or build-God’s-kingdom-through-home-schooling. Check out the workshop offerings at your nearest conference, and look at the percentages: how many of the workshops are dedicated to teaching and learning? and how many focus on parenting, marriage issues, family dynamics, church matters, theology, bread-baking, organic gardening…?

Let me be clear: I don’t pay for the hotels, the meeting spaces, the tech support, the insurance, or anything else for these conferences. If the leadership of a conference wants to make it an Education Plus Preferred Lifestyle sort of get-together, no problem. I’ll still come and talk about education.

But in the past few years, I have been asked, by multiple different conference organizers, to promise to NOT talk about certain theories, or certain types of education; to give any appearance of endorsing certain organizations, life choices, or philosophies; to swear I won’t bring certain books for my book table; to mention certain words. None of which, I should say, have anything to do with what I normally talk about: grammar, history, writing, reading, learning. I have been told that I am not welcome, in some cases, because I talk too much about the psychology of learning, and not about the Bible. Or because I have a theological degree and am obviously pushing a Christian agenda. Because my “professional associations,” however loose, are too liberal, or too secular, or too Christian.

And many of the conferences that put these restrictions on me don’t advertise themselves as “A Conference on Education For People Who Hope To Follow X Philosophy of Life.” They present themselves as “The Official State Home Education Organization For Your State!” or “The Only Education Conference You Should Attend if You Teach Your Kids!” or…

I’m weary of it.

I’m not sure where we go from here, to tell you the truth. I just know that I am increasingly frustrated, and that my particular set of gifts (I am darned good at teaching people how to do things; I inherited that from my mother) do not seem to be what many conference organizers are looking for.

So those are the three reasons why I won’t be at 2013 conferences.

Honestly, I’m hoping that in 2014, I’ll be able to speak at home education conferences again (and that this post plus my sabbatical won’t deep-six that possibility). But that remains to be seen. I do think there’s an increasing need for education-focused conferences that don’t require parents to affirm a particular set of beliefs at the door. The need for home education is only growing greater, not less. I may experiment, over the next year, with some smaller local workshops, and with some online options. I expect there will be some History of the Renaissance World-related events. I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime, though: if you want to come hear me speak before 2014 (or possibly ever, depending on how my brief exodus is received), you might want to check out my 2012 dates.

Powered by Twitter Tools

After struggling with the History of the Entire World for the last ten years, I’ve come to two realizations.

First: I love what I do. I can’t not write.

Second: I moved back to the farm with my family because I loved working outdoors and keeping livestock. And in the last ten years, I’ve spent almost no time doing either. I am always working against a deadline, usually late, and I can’t spare the hours.

That’s what’s burning me out.

So we have a plan, which we’ve already set into motion and which I’ll be able to devote more time to as soon as the History of the Renaissance World goes to my editor.

About two years ago, the land next to our farm came up for sale. Long ago, it was part of the original Peace Hill property. So I bought it. This gave us (my husband, me, my parents) a total of a hundred acres combined. Plus, the new land had a gorgeous old house on it that had been used as a bed and breakfast. We found a wonderful hospitable couple to run it for us and turned it into the Bed & Breakfast at Peace Hill. (Website here. Have a look.)

We’ve decided to work towards adding an agrotourism slant to the farm. (Agrotourism: “Visiting a working farm or any agricultural operation for the purpose of enjoyment, education, or active involvement in the activities of the farm or operation.” Check it out here.)

More and more people want to know how to do small-scale agriculture–growing some of their own food, keeping a few chickens or a pig, planting and caring for a fruit tree or two–but have no idea where to start. All of these things, I grew up doing. And we still have the garden and trees…

and livestock…

and unused room for a lot more.

So over the next year, we’ll be working on a website for the farm business that will allow visitors to the B&B to come learn how do some of these things. We’ll also begin, very cautiously, expanding our reach…which means, I’m finally getting sheep! We’ll have a starter flock of Leicester Longwools (an endangered breed historically raised in this area) beginning in June. Here’s one of my lambs…still on her home farm until she’s weaned.

Wool-bearing sheep seem to make sense here; we’ve got Angora goats, and we’re currently growing cotton around the B&B, so expanding into different kinds of fiber is a logical direction.

I think that this is partly a mid-career writer thing. I have been startled recently by how many writers, fifteen or twenty years in, go and farm or raise livestock or start organic gardening or do SOMETHING that involves doing rather than writing about doing.

Or not rather than. “As well as.” I can’t imagine not writing. But there’s an increasing pull of the physical for any writer. E. B. White, who started working in the 1920s, had reached mid-career in the 1940s…when he started raising sheep and wrote.

For me, always looking for an excuse to put off work, a farm is the perfect answer, good for twenty-four hours of the day. I find it extremely difficult to combine manual labor with intellectual, so I compromise and just do the manual. Since coming to the country I have devoted myself increasingly to the immediate structural and surgical problems that present themselves to any farmer….I have drifted farther and farther from my muse, closer and closer to my post-hole digger.

I understand that. I spent most of today working outdoors. Weather (cool, clear, yellow and blue) and calendar (spring: fruit trees need spraying and mulching, goats de-worming and foot-trimming, horses picketing out on fresh grass) had their own demands. (On a farm, unlike in urban/suburban life, November and December are the months where you can arrange your schedule as you like without other agendas horning in.) At the end of the day, having poisoned various horrible grasses, surrounded trees with chipped wood-bark, attended to goats, and chased horses through three sets of neighboring fields (OK, that was kind of an accident having nothing to do with spring), I felt good. Better than I usually feel after a day of parking my bottom in my chair and cranking out word after laborious word.

So there is a distracting force to working on the farm. There’s an immediate payoff, for one thing: you can see exactly how much you’ve accomplished, which is very unlike spending six hours sweating out a page or so of prose which no one will read for at least another year.

But on the other hand, E. B. White wrote his best-loved books, including Charlotte’s Web, after he picked up his post-hole digger. He didn’t drift away from his muse; he opened up another channel of communication with her.

Which is what I’m hoping for. And thanks for sticking with this very long entry. Keep following the blog, and I’ll update you on the farm as well as on the writing.

Before I tell you about those “other things,” I have to supply some historical background (which is appropriate enough, after all). So I’m going to give you a brief photo-essay for this preamble.

When my brother and sister and I were still toddlers, my father got out of the Navy and my parents moved back here, to the farm where my mother grew up. Back then, it was a chicken farm. Here are a few of the chickens, circa 1941. (For those of you who’ve followed my blog for a while, the nearer chicken house is now my office.)

And here is my mother on the farm, circa 1941.

(Actually, this is my favorite picture from that decade, although it’s not as clear. That’s my mother on the left, in 1949, having just shot a possum. Yep, that’s the possum.)

So the farm is where we grew up too. This is my brother with my mother’s father, Papa Tench. My brother got to ride on the combine because he was a boy.

And here’s my brother with my father, shortly after we moved back. As you can see, there were a number of things that were, er, guy territory. Although not possum-shooting, obviously.

And not grass cutting, because I got to do that too.

We raised hundreds of chickens, and we ate the eggs, and the chickens too. We raised pigs, and ate the pigs. We raised geese and ate the eggs (but not the geese.) We had a dairy cow named Taffy who ate the garden.

(My sister Deb on the left, me on the right, my mother with the grain bucket and the stylin’ pants. And yes, that is a Volkswagen van back there behind the grape arbor.)

We chopped our own wood and used it to heat the house.

We rode our ponies everywhere.

(My sister will kill me for putting that photo up. For some reason, she thinks our seventies-era clothes are less than flattering.)

We had acres of peach trees and apple trees and the world’s most enormous garden.

(I’m not completely sure who all those people are, helping dig the potatoes. We had a lot of random people living on the farm in those days. One of them used to clog in the living room. Another one lived in a tent down near the chicken houses.)

We canned peaches, and froze peaches, and canned applesauce, and froze vegetables, and stored root vegetables. We didn’t live entirely off the land. But we came close.

What does all this have to do with new directions? Stay tuned for the next post. In the meantime, you can admire our vintage farm-wear…

Powered by Twitter Tools

In November 1277, Llewellyn was forced to agree to a peace treaty, the Treaty of Conway, that took away from him everything but his original small northwest corner of Gwynedd. Edward I handed out Welsh lands to his barons in reward, took the Perfeddwlad for the crown, and gave Llewellyn’s younger brother Dafydd the rule over a chunk of the Gwynedd principality that had once belonged to the older sibling.

But in five years, this arrangement fell apart. The English barons, as overlords to their Welsh tenants, were both dismissive and demanding; the English sheriff appointed to supervise Welsh affairs, Reginald de Gray, was harsh, dragging up decade-old offenses for trial and threatening petitioners with the death penalty; Dafydd himself was forced to obey English law in his own lands. “All Christians have laws and customs in their own lands,” complained one Welsh nobleman. “Even the Jews in England have laws among the English; we had our immutable laws and customs in our lands, until the English took them away.”

Just before Easter 1282, Dafydd rallied the Welsh princes behind him. The first act of war was the sudden attack on an English-held castle, Hawarden, on the Saturday night before Palm Sunday. Within a week, Llewellyn had joined his brother (the English were now a greater threat than his sibling’s ambitions), and almost the entire country was in revolt.

This time, Edward I brought more men. Fighting in the north of Wales, fighting in the south of Wales: in December, the balance was still tipping rapidly back and forth between the sides. But on December 11, Llewellyn was ambushed by a band of English soldiers at a bridge crossing over the River Irfron. “Llewelyn ap Gruffydd is dead,” wrote the commander of the ambush, in his report on the incident, “his army defeated, and all the flower of his army dead.”

In fact, Llewelyn had only a small detachment with him; but with Llewelyn’s fall, the Welsh resistance lost its heart. Dafydd immediately declared himself Llewellyn’s succesor as Prince of Wales and carried on the fight, but in June of 1283 he was turned over to the English by a handful of his own companions.

The war had been expensive and vexing, and Edward authorized a new punishment for Dafydd. He was drawn, hung, and quartered, a barbaric punishment carried out on a still-living rebel: dragged through the streets of London behind a horse, as a traitor; hung as a thief; and then cut down when still alive, disembowelled and his intestines burnt in front of his eyes, an ancient penalty for homicide. Finally, says the contemporary Chronicle of Lanercost, “his limbs were cut into four parts as the penalty of a rebel, and exposed in four of the ceremonial places in England as a spectacle.” His right arm went to York, his left to Bristol, his right leg to Northampton, his left to Hereford. His head, bound in iron to keep it from falling apart as it decayed, was stuck on a spear shaft at the Tower of London.

Edward then took the title Prince of Wales for himself. The 1284 Statute of Rhuddlan formally added Wales to the English empire. Llewellyn became known as Llewellyn the Last; Wales would never again have an independent ruler.

I guess not; those decaying arms and legs must have put quite a few potential Welsh rebels off the idea of defying the English.