The Homestead Gardener: Inviting nature home
by Derrick Gentry –In spite of early doubts and insecurities, I have discovered that one clear benefit of writing a regular column like this one is that it is a great way to meet people and strike up conversations. A few weeks back, a reader sent me an email containing one passage in particular that is so charming and vividly rendered that I feel I must quote it in full:
“We’ve always had a compost pile. It seemed like a good thing to do with all the plate scrapings generated by our little family of young, picky eaters. I would occasionally see a crow flapping away with a giant flour tortilla from the vicinity of our pile, but I never fully appreciated the ecological niche we had created until one spring evening when I dumped the compost. We had used all the cinder blocks we’d found on our property to create a very substantial three-sided compost bin behind the barn, and the blocks made a good solid thing to bang the bucket against to knock loose the last remaining goo. That evening, it was as though I had rung the dinner gong, because when I looked up the hill towards the kitchen door, there was a baby skunk bouncing towards me unable to contain itself until I had moved aside. Another evening, we took our flash lights out to investigate loud squeals and found a big family of baby raccoons rolling around in it, looking pretty darned ecstatic. I finally realized the service our compost was performing: attracting all kinds of little critters who in turn attracted their own, bigger critters, i.e., their predators, owls, hawks, coyotes, fox — and so on. Not just a place to dump scraps!”
I love this. Who among us, seasoned gardeners or aspiring wannabes, has not been possessed by this Edenic vision of the garden (and the compost pile) as a niche-filled ecological commons, as a longed-for reconciliation between the wild with the domestic, as a natural and unforced merger between home economics and the economy of nature? I am confident that deep down, every gardener wants far more than a casual snacking garden. We want the squirrels to come through an open window and eat breakfast with us every morning. I suspect that Bob Ross, who could stand in front of a television camera and paint canvases with a squirrel perched on his shoulder, experienced as well the joy of gardening and more than likely left his windows open during the warm months.
There are many cozy niches to be found in and around the garden and on the average homestead. Look under a rotting log, and you will see some ecstatic-looking creatures nestled and scurrying and wriggling around. Whether you have a mess of a wood pile or a row of neatly stacked firewood, both will attract and provide a habitat for snakes (in much the same way used bookstores once provided natural habitats for lounging and bookish indoor cats). Snakes are good to have near the garden. They are always welcome, along with the outdoor cats. One day, I would like to dig a larger pond that will attract frogs and other creatures, and I would like it to be as near to my garden as possible.
In the course of our conversation, my correspondent and I discovered another shared interest: We are both fans of the 2007 book Bringing Nature Home, a manifesto outlining the many ways we can all restore planetary biodiversity (currently in dire straits) by planting native species in our gardens and by converting our lawns into more ecologically inviting spaces. Tallamy is an entomologist and therefore focuses on insects and birds and the plants that attract and host them. This is obviously an important sector of the food chain from gardener’s point of view. And it turns out that Goldenrod and Joe Pye Weed, which grow wild along roadsides, are among the best native species hosts for diverse insect populations. That is good to hear. Any insect-attracted pollinators or hosts that I include in my garden will add to the attractions already visible across the road.
Experience has certainly taught me that an open-borders policy is the best defense against most of the things we are afraid of — provided there is a balanced and diverse guest list. Lacewings, parasitic wasps, ladybugs, pollinators of various kinds: the guest list of beneficial and most welcome insects is a long one. I would also put a word in for a mixed flock of chickens and ducks as one of the best methods of pest control, particularly for cleaning up the overwintering insects (such as squash vine borers or potato beetles in the garden, and a variety of other insects in the orchard). As a friend of mine likes to say: “You don’t have a slug population problem; you have a duck population problem.”
And I am grateful that my ducks, who lay eggs outside the enclosure on occasion, help to attract crows who want to steal their eggs. We sacrifice a mislaid egg (yes, I believe that qualifies as a pun) every now and then, but it is a price that we willingly pay to keep the egg-loving crows around, since they keep the chicken-eating hawks and eagles in check.
I love what Tallamy has to say, and I am all for open borders and mimicking the balanced ecosystems that we see in nature (or is it what used to be seen in nature?). Having a flock of chickens or ducks, however, dramatically changes the rules of the game in the homestead ecosystem. In practice, under the current set-up, I cannot quite keep a happy, open borders, throw-it-on-the-compost-pile type of attitude. That is actually one trade-off that paradoxically occurs when one attempts to domesticate animals and integrate them within the nutrient-cycling ecosystem. It is a quantum leap, one that comes with many benefits as well as a new perspective and set of concerns. As the steward and guardian of a small population of chickens and ducks, I would be quite alarmed (to say the least) if I found a family of raccoons rolling around in my compost pile, or hanging out anywhere on my property. Walking into a chicken coop the morning after a raccoon has entered uninvited would be for most people a nightmare vision. The last raccoon we spotted on our homestead was one stricken with rabies who had been attracted by some bird seed that had spilled on the ground. And raccoons are only one predator on the list of guests to whom we do not want to extend an open invitation. In early Spring, foxes with babies to feed can fixate on a site where they know there is food to be had and return again and again. I have known people who free-ranged their flock of chickens at the wrong time of year with no protection and no cover. And then (as they say), there were none. Such is the price of freedom in the wild.
Part of what makes stewardship and the practice of gardening so fascinating to me is that they are built around such an ensemble of contradictory fantasies and ideals. Do we contradict ourselves? Very well, then. We are of two minds (and possibly three or four). At the one pole, we are attracted by the vision of Henry David Thoreau and his rousing language: “I wish to speak a word for Nature, for absolute freedom and wildness. In wildness is the preservation of the world.” Right on! But at the other pole is our steward’s concern for preserving our flock of layer hens, not to mention the veggies growing in our fenced-perimeter garden. Before we have any scraps to compost, we need some fully grown plants. Better put up a fence.
So, yes: We sometimes want to have our cake and compost it too … remembering, of course, that cake is one of the many things on the list that one should not put in a proper compost pile (if we want to distinguish it from a refuse pile or an open buffet). Generally speaking, the food scraps that would attract unwanted visitors — predators like raccoons or foxes or rodents — are things that I feed directly to my resident animals rather than put on the compost pile. I have no trouble disposing of scraps in this way, since chickens are broad-minded omnivores and far from picky eaters. Let the chickens eat cake, and they will. Yes, chickens will even eat chicken.
On the wild side of things, I read recently that the numbers of bald eagles in New York state are continuing to rise. The population has increased dramatically from the handful remaining only a few decades ago. This is an inspiring victory for wildness and for human stewardship of the environment. It says to future generations: we cared enough to do this.
At the same time, however, I cannot help but think of the young bald eagle that killed one of our white-feathered Ancona ducks last year. It was a young eagle, probably a year old, as it did not yet have the white head and tail feathers that make adult eagles so easy to spot. This one was also also too small in body and wing to make off with his substantial meal. It seemed he was still learning the rules of the game, including the laws of physics. Not knowing what to do with his serendipitous kill, he left the bloody carcass where it was — which left either me or a turkey vulture next in the buffet line. I gathered the mess of feathers and buried the duck, not far from the final resting place of the rabid raccoon.
A day later, I saw the persistent young eagle perched atop a wood pile, the same wood pile that harbors the snakes, waiting for a second chance near the site of its first unconsummated meal. Our other ducks had wisely been relocated to a more secure place. Nevertheless, I felt almost as if we had disappointed our return guest. I even felt a little twinge of paternal concern, like a parent who wants to teach a child how to fish (even though I am not good at it myself). I thought of how I might encourage the eagle, still young and impressionable, to turn his attention to the nearby lake and consider the merits of a seafood diet. But it has been several months since he last visited, and of course part of me is relieved that he has moved on. Perhaps he will have his white feathers when we see him next.
I hope I continue to receive emails from kindred spirits like the one I quoted from above. It is always fun to share experiences and compare notes. No, I have never seen a crow fly off with a tortilla. But I have seen a speckled hen walking around with cake frosting on her beak. This is a crazy town we live in…
No Chocolate for the Worms
I want to speak a word (several words, actually) for vermicomposting — an indoor form of composting carried out by a population of domesticated worms who reside in a bin (or some other form of container). We compost in a variety of ways, some methods slower and some faster, but the 25-30 gallons of compost in the form of worm castings (worm poop) that we harvest from our worm bin every Spring serves a special set of needs. The castings produced by our worms are among the most intensely fertile substances known. Often referred to as “black gold,” worm castings are highly valuable, but if they are used topically and locally and in small quantities. A little bit goes a long way. It is compost, in other words, but it is not the kind of compost that you spread in a two-inch thick layer over several hundred square feet.
We use the castings for starting seeds in the Spring and into the summer. It makes an excellent seed starting medium, and seedlings grown from it tend to be particularly robust and healthy. We also add some vermicompost to the soil when seedlings are transplanted out. And in early Spring, when the soil is warming up, we add small quantities of the microbially rich castings to five gallon buckets of water, add food to grow the populations of bacteria, aerate the mixture with an air pump, and produce aerated compost tea that can be used as a soil “drench.” It is a great way to give a boost to the microbial populations in the soil and bring the soil back to full life in the warming months of the season. (I will write more on making and using aerated compost tea in a future column…)
The best worms for vermicomposting are Eisenia foetida, also known as “red wigglers” or “red worms” or “manure worms.” These species are specially adapted to breaking down and feeding off of decaying organic material in piles and containers, where they feed on the surface rather than burrowing (the way earthworms do). They are in many respects different from earthworms; in fact, red wigglers are rarely found in soils.
Because they feed on the surface, it is important to keep them in a bin with a fairly large surface area as well as some depth. Worm bins come in many different designs. A 30-gallon rectangular plastic bin, drilled with holes for ventilation, will work just fine. And if you do not want to use plastic, you can use a wooden box or re-purpose a large dresser drawer (again, with drilled holes to allow for air).
One thing to keep in mind is convenient access to the finished castings. Since the worms feed on the surface and create layers of castings beneath them, the castings are best harvested from the bottom of the bin. You can always move the worms to the side and dig down below the surface, but you will likely harvest a few worms as well that you will need to pull out and return to the bin. One simple design for more convenient hrvesting involves a burlap bag hung from a stand, in the shape of an inverted cone, with a tied off opening at the bottom that you can undo when it comes time to harvest. This design and many others are available online if you do a search. There are also a number of ready-made vermicomposting set-ups that you can purchase, though I find most of them to be a bit over-priced and prefer to build one with re-purposed material already on hand.
Worms have gizzards where they grind their food (like chickens do), and they need some grit in order to do this. Coffee grounds work well for that purpose. Food for the worms is placed directly on the top surface. We feed ours a variety of chopped-up foods; they particularly love green leafy foods, such as kale and lettuce and dandelion greens. There is a long list of foods, though, that should never be fed to worms in the bin: No acidic foods (no citrus fruits or onions); no meat; no greasy or fatty food; pelletized manure from herbivores (goats and sheep and rabbits) are fine, but avoid “hot” manure from poultry and other omnivores. Some people who raise rabbits even set up their worm bins under the rabbit hutch so that the manure pellets fall and accumulate underneath and are slowly converted to worm castings.
In addition to holes for air ventilation, it is a good idea to keep a soft, fluffy three-inch or more layer of mulched leaves or straw on top of the surface to keep the worms’ environment from drying out. The mulch also keeps insects away from the sweet banana peel and other food that might attract them. You can place a screen on top as added protection.
I am fond of my worms, but I do not know if they return my affection. They are among the least expressive creatures in terms of their physiognomy. You can nevertheless tell when they are healthy and content and even (it seems) excited by food they relish and prefer. When I chop up a banana peel and drop it in the bin, they do gather around it and look pretty darned ecstatic (for worms, that is).
Young children who visit our home sometimes ask how many animals we live with. I tell them approximately 10,000 non-humans, including the cat and dog. Then I show them the worm bin. It is fascinating to see how children respond with an almost confused sense of wonder at the sight of worms in a worm bin. They have seen worms before; it is nothing new to them creature-wise. Perhaps it is the strangeness of seeing common worms in an uncanny and exotic setting, above ground in an enclosed environment (Why do they make their home here?).
Most children I have seen do seem genuinely fascinated, and they like to watch and handle the worms for a certain amount of time. But I am still not sure how much vermicomposting appeals to young children in terms of what they used to call “moral education.” Is raising worms anything like cultivating silkworms in elementary school? Do the worms teach kids patience and the virtues of non-virtual slow time, reverence for the natural miracles of metamorphosis and transubstantiation? (And by the way, are silkworms still to be found in elementary school classrooms these days?) In any case, it is probably best to let a child see things through a child’s eye; they can come up with their own moral to the story, so long as it is a story that captures their interest.
One thing I have observed is that vermicomposting seems to appeal to kids of a certain age who get satisfaction from observing rules. It also seems to appeal to those who relish the role of looking after small creatures as if they were younger siblings. “No, no, you’re not s’posed to give them chocolate! You’ll make them sick!” “Yes, that’s right,” I say. “Just like with dogs.”
Supplemental thoughts from The Homestead Gardener- on defining a homestead garden and the evolution of his homesteading experience can be found online this month at: www.owllightnews.com/the-homestead-gardener-defining-homestead-gardening/.
