We had a wind storm this past Wednesday which took a lot of leaves off our trees.
Nearly all the popple trees are bare and the birches are valiantly hanging on to about half of their leaves. Our front deck below this big birch has windrows of leaves on it.
Our driveway that was a riot of colors the first of this week is now looking close to November bare.
I took this picture at about 5 o'clock this afternoon with the sun quickly falling into the western horizon behind me.
After doing some serious thinking about the wireworm problem in our potatoes (I dreamed about it last night, for Pete's sake), I decided that the sooner we got the potatoes out of the ground and the unaffected ones safely stored by themselves far, far away from any hint of a wireworm, the better off our winter supply of potatoes would be.
What a job. We dug about half the potatoes today, carefully inspecting each and every one for those blasted worm holes, and sorted them into two groups. Good taters and bad taters.
I tried really, really hard to maintain my usual sunny disposition (ahem) and remain optimistic. Each time I discovered a big, beautiful potato riddled with holes and rampant with those ugly, wiggly, despicable worms (shudder), I put out a little sentiment of gratitude that not ALL the potatoes have been affected.
We could have finished the whole job today if not for a couple of other things on the schedule that needed tending to. We'll finish up tomorrow, be done with the task and then I'll start working on the "bad" taters prepping them (most likely) for the freezer.
Hubby and I both commented when we were working in the garden today that typically we're digging potatoes in damp, nasty, cold weather. So much so that we have to stop periodically to come in to the house to warm up our hands or get more clothing. Today was so unseasonably warm hubby was stripped down to his t-shirt and I had to go find a sleeveless blouse I had packed away with the summer clothes. We both actually got pretty darn sweaty working in the full sunlight.
Complaints, complaints. I promise to stop the kvetching if we get lots more of those gorgeous fall days that are perfect "sweatshirt weather." How 'bout, say, two more months of them?
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