Thursday, April 22, 2010, 12:55
Hosta Comeback
Six years ago, I dug up some hosta plants from my mother-in-law and father-in-law's yard. At their invitation, of course. The hostas were growing by their garage, and they were huge and lovely and green and lush. At that point, I had not seen many hostas that looked quite that healthy and happy and robust.
I planted the hostas underneath the cedar tree in our yard where they would have shade. The hostas grew for several years, and while they were not as large and lovely and healthy looking as they were at "home" they were doing all right. They managed to survive the kitties and Charlie napping in their midst in the shade.
Our Springer Spaniel, Charlie, died almost two years ago, so then the hostas did not have a dog napping on them. But as it turned out, they had something that was even worse for their survival -- severe and unrelenting drought.
By last summer, the hostas were just little sprigs sticking up out of the dirt. I tried watering them, but they were in a spot that was difficult to water. So, at the end of the summer, I decided to dig up what was left of them and transplant them in the back of the house where they were easier to water and where I would see them and be reminded to water them.
They did not have much time to acclimate to their new location, but I did notice that they grew a few new leaves last fall. Then the weather turned very cold and the ground froze, and that was the end of the hostas for the year.
All winter long, I have been wondering if the hostas would survive and if they would come back this spring. I cannot tell you what kind of hostas they are. I know there are hundreds of varieties. These just look like ordinary hostas -- green and white leaves and a tall flower stem with small purple flowers when they bloom. Since the hostas were not in a place before where I could easily see them every day, I had no idea when or how they first started coming up in the spring. I had no idea whether they came up early or whether they waited until the ground was warmer.
I now have an answer as to how hostas start in the spring. A week or so ago, when I looked down at the spot where I had planted the hostas last fall, I could hardly believe my eyes. The hostas are sending up shoots! They must not need to have the soil be completely warm because they are in a shaded corner in the back of the house where the sun only hits for a short while in the morning.
I am already envisioning that if the hostas are able to grow and make a good comeback, I will be able to divide them up and start a row of hostas along the back of the house and next to the porch. But maybe that is putting the cart before the horse, so to speak. Perhaps it should just be enough for me for now to know that the hostas are sprouting and that they did, indeed, survive the winter.
LeAnn R. Ralph
Tuesday, April 20, 2010, 13:02
It's Always Something
Sunday afternoon we had just loaded up the third and last manure spreader of horse manure to haul out to our hay field. Randy had borrowed a manure spreader from a neighbor, and up until that point, it had all gone quite well.
As my husband headed out to the field, I went up to the house to put in another load of laundry. From inside the house, I can't really hear the tractor, so I was surprised when a few minutes later, Randy walked into the house.
"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry," he said.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I turned the corner and the 460 popped out of gear and it won't go back in gear."
"Oh?" I said.
"I think it's either the clutch of the transmission."
Neither of those, clutch or transmission, sounds easy to fix -- or inexpensive.
"So now what?" I said.
"We're going to have to tow the tractor and manure spreader back up to the barn with my truck," Randy said.
"Not the manure spreader. Drop that and we can tow that up later. I'm not crazy about the idea of paying for a new transmission for the truck, too," I said.
"Good point," Randy said.
"And maybe we'd better find out from someone whether we'll hurt anything if it's either of those two things if we tow it," I said.
"Like who?" Randy said.
"We have lots of tractor experts in the family. Pick one," I said.
There's my brother, brother-in-law and two nephews.
Because Sunday was a lovely day, no one was around the house. Randy finally reached my sister, and my nephew, who is a John Deere mechanic, just happened to be over there. It was his opinion that we would not hurt anything by towing the tractor.
"It's going to be expensive to fix," Randy said. "Maybe a couple of thousand dollars."
"It doesn't do us any good as lawn ornament," I said.
My dad bought the tractor in 1962 when it was brand new. It's a 460 Farmall, and Dad used it for all of the field work. I spent many hours driving it, too, while we were baling hay when I was a kid, so you might say that I have a slight sentimental attachment to the 460. I bought it on my brother's auction quite a few years ago now. I was the only woman there that day who bought a tractor, and I noticed people giving me sidelong glances all day, as if they could not believe a women had bought a tractor. I could not stand to see Dad's beloved "Big Tractor" go to someone else. I drove the tractor home that afternoon.
Randy and I took the truck out to the field and unloaded the rest of the manure spreader by hand. Thank goodness there wasn't much left in it. And thank goodness it was the last load.
We unhooked the manure spreader, and then we hooked the chain to the tractor and to the truck. Randy drove the truck. I drove the 460 while he towed us up to the barn. Fortunately, the field is fairly level so we did not have any problems getting the tractor back up by the barn.
Then we went back and hooked up the manure spreader to the truck. That was a somewhat more challenging project. I stood by the tongue of the manure spreader and called out directions. "A few more inches to the left." "A few more inches to the right." "A few more inches back." "A few more inches forward." It took many long minutes, but finally the tongue of the manure spreader was fairly close to the tow bar on the truck.
"Fairly close" meant that there was about an inch difference between the two holes.
As it turned out, I didn't know my own strength. I was able to pull the manure spreader over far enough to drop the pin in.
"Got it!" I yelled.
We drove up to the house, and Randy took the manure spreader back over the neighbor's and then returned home.
"I can't believe you're not mad," he said.
"Why would I be upset? You couldn't help it. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Good thing you weren't out on the road with it," I said.
Later on, the neighbor, who owns a machine shop, came over to look at the tractor. He thinks it is most likely the clutch and not the transmission. Randy talked to my brother Monday evening, and he said the 460 has never had any clutch work done it. The tractor is nearly 50 years old, so I don't think anyone can complain about the clutch not holding up well enough. . .
It really did turn out to be an expensive weekend. Randy and I both got our eyes checked on Saturday. It has been quite a few years since we've had our eyes checks and have gotten new glasses. Last week my glasses fell apart in my hands as I was cleaning them, and I had to put them back together and use a tiny screw driver to put the tiny screw back where it belonged. I figured maybe it was time I get a new pair of glasses. All together, it cost $1,200 for glasses for both of us. Those progressive lenses are getting quite expensive. And of course, our insurance does not cover progressive lenses. And then there was the tractor on the Sunday.
Like Dad used to say -- "It's always something."
LeAnn R. Ralph