Tomacomas, Murder Winters, and Other Spring Traditions

We’ve never owned an actual rain gauge. Instead, we use the wheelbarrow. It only needs to be emptied once a day for “accuracy,” and it doubles as a bird bath and drinking fountain. Efficient.

It’s that time of year where it rains every day. The yard is squishy. My fake wood floors are decorated with muddy paw prints, and the air smells clean unless Moose is nearby. Then you’re getting his best rotten egg performance.

Garden Chaos & Murder Winters

I started my garden plants a wee bit too early, and now they are aggressively ready to be planted. Around here, it’s a general rule: don’t plant anything before May 1st unless you want it murdered by one of the many “winters.”

We’ve got dogwood winter, red plum winter, blackberry winter. As far as I can tell, we just name the freeze after whatever is blooming at the time so we know what died.

I planted muscadine grapes I rescued from Lowe’s last fall. They started leafing out, got hit by dogwood winter, and were promptly plunged into 17-degree temps. One survived. The rest did not.

RIP muscadines. I hardly knew thee.

The Hydroponic Jungle (aka My Poor Decisions)

The tomatoes and green chilies in my hydroponic setup are absolutely unhinged.

The tomatoes are twice as big, blocking out all the light, acting like invasive species. The chilies are up front being polite and reasonable. In hindsight, these two should not have been roommates.

Now I’ve got a tent full of chaos. The tomatoes are flowering like crazy but not producing fruit yet. I’m either getting tomatoes soon or a moldy science experiment.

Fun fact: people used to think tomatoes were poisonous. They’re part of the nightshade family, same group as belladonna and henbane, so fair enough. But the real issue was pewter plates.

Wealthy folks in the 1700s were eating tomatoes off lead-containing pewter. The acid pulled the lead into the food. Poor people ate tomatoes off wooden plates and were just fine, but no one connected the dots for a while.

By the early 1800s, tomatoes were cleared of their murder charges, and the Italians took it from there.

All hail pizza. All hail pasta al pomodoro.

Moose vs. Tomatoes

Not everyone loves tomatoes. The texture, the seeds, the slime. It’s a whole thing.

Moose disagrees.

He once got into the garden and ate so many tomatoes that I found him lying on his side with red dripping down his chin like he’d committed a crime. He went into what I can only describe as a tomacoma.

He pooped ketchup for a few days but otherwise recovered fully.

A legend.

Garden Plans & My Ongoing War With Canning

The garden box is finally full of compost. It’s settled some, but it will do for this year.

I’m expanding the garden, but I’m not using all the space yet. Between not knowing what to plant and the looming threat of bears showing up to wreck everything, I’m pacing myself.

I always take before-and-after garden photos because I constantly feel like I’m not doing enough. The “after” reminds me that all this chaos turns into something.

Usually more work, but still.

I’m also attempting canning again this year.

I hate it.

It’s hot, messy, and comes with the bonus fear of botulism or accidental explosion. I usually stick to dehydrating or freezing, but a lot of excess produce ends up going to the forest mafia.

This year, I’m focusing on heirloom tomatoes. Maybe paste, maybe salsa. If you have recipes or just want to come do it for me, I’m open to negotiations.

Solar Panels & Chicken Opinions

The solar project is slowly coming together. Rain makes digging holes miserable, but Dennis got the frame concreted in this weekend.

Next step is mounting eight panels and figuring out the tilt.

I suspect the chickens will claim it immediately.

Honestly, I would too.

Wildlife Rehab: The Slow Roll

Getting into wildlife rehab has been slower than expected, but that’s probably a good thing. I have a tendency to jump in headfirst and regret it later.

There are rules. Lots of them. Many not followed, but still required knowledge. You pay for everything yourself. Cages, food, medicine. Then someone comes to inspect your setup, and if it’s not up to par, you get fined.

It feels like a system.

I understand the need for oversight, but it would be nice if more effort went into helping people get started.

We’re converting a 10x10 kennel into a soft-release enclosure for possums. Once they’re ready, the door stays open and they come and go until they leave for good.

Possums eat ticks, rarely carry rabies, and are harmless. They only live 2–3 years, so I want to give them a decent shot.

Also, biologically speaking, they’re insane. They can have up to 25 babies but only 13 nipples. So it’s basically a survival sprint at birth.

Nature is brutal.

Chickens, Regret, and Larry

We hatched some eggs we impulse-bought off Facebook. Drove two hours to get them, naturally. Seven out of twelve hatched using Dennis’s DIY incubator, which outperformed the store-bought one.

We may hatch more, because it’s fun.

Unless they turn out like Larry.

Larry is an asshole.

He’s rough with the hens, and it makes me irrationally angry. Dennis says it’s just nature. I say the hens would disagree. They would prefer a little dinner and wine compared to a super short trip to pound town.

We definitely need a leadership change in the Dekker Peckers.

Quail: Still a Mystery

The quail situation remains confusing.

We’re only getting eggs from the original five. The others should be laying, but they’re not.

Sexing quail is ridiculous.

You flip them over, blow on their backside, press on a gland, and hope something comes out. If white stuff appears, it’s a boy. If not, it’s a girl.

I remain unconvinced.

It’s awkward, takes forever, and leaves me questioning my life choices.

Nursing Homes, Death, and the Business of It All

Volunteering at the nursing home has been eye-opening.

The care seems good. The residents seem okay. But the cost is staggering.

From what I understand, when someone can’t pay, their assets get taken to cover the cost. Homes, property, everything.

Then there are hospice patients still getting routine tests and procedures. Why?

And funeral homes. They show up while people are still alive, selling caskets like it’s a showroom.

We’ve turned death into an industry.

At some point, we outsourced the care of our dying and our dead to strangers and wrote a check for it.

I’m not saying there’s no place for professional care. But I am saying we don’t have to blindly follow what’s become “normal.”

We can question it. We can choose differently. We can take care of our own when it makes sense.

You can live and die your own way.

Chattanooga, Ice Cream, and Crimes Against Humanity

I took a trip to Chattanooga with a friend just to get away for the weekend. We walked all over town, froze our asses off, and ate an unreasonable amount of ice cream.

And then… the nights.

This otherwise lovely human turned into a biological weapon after dark. I’m talking full-blown, room-clearing, wake-you-from-dead-sleep levels of destruction.

It was shocking. It was relentless. It was honestly impressive in a deeply concerning way.

I suffered. I survived. I will never forget.

We also accidentally wandered into a protest without realizing it until we were already in the middle of it. It was loud, passionate, and honestly a bit confusing.

At the end of the day, I don’t pretend to have answers. The world runs on money and power, and the people who have it rarely give it up.

So I focus on what I can control.

Like not paying $70 for a meal I can make at home in my underwear.

I may be turning into a hobbit.

I’m not mad about it.

Morse Code & Quieting the Noise

I’ve gotten into Morse code lately through ham radio.

It’s one of the few things that quiets my brain. Just sound, rhythm, patterns.

Blips and bleeps that actually make sense.

I’m learning by ear first. The rest will come later. Hopefully.

That’s It for Now

That’s life lately.

Thanks for the comments and emails. They make yelling into the void feel a little less void-y.

What have you been up to?

Grow anyway,

Stacey