Evening in late May

Evening sun on black poplar

It is a quarter to ten at night, and the sun is about to set. A tangerine glow surrounds it, more north than west now at the end of May, its intensity lessening further to the west, where it is present only as a faint pink blush edging the almost opaque blue of the advancing night sky. The moon, a few days past new, is gaining colour. At this hour the world – at least here, far away from war and other tumult – is at peace. 

I came in from the garden not so long ago, where I planted another row of lettuce and cucumbers after taking the laundry in from the clothesline. So soon this is taken for granted again, the days long, the breeze gentle, the humidity low. For the next few months the clothes-dryer is on standby, only used when it is raining, and I can revel in the incomparable scent of clothes dried in fresh air, burying my nose in a towel or a sheet when I unpin it.

There are other scents that weren’t there ten days ago: the mayday tree on the lawn, afflicted by a strange condition where some of its branches show ugly bulbous swellings and start to dry off, is still covered in greenish white blossoms, their intense sweet smell drifting over to the deck with the south wind today, almost overpowering when I walk right by. We sawed off the unsightly branches, hoping to delay the tree’s death which is likely unavoidable in the long run; maybe it will give it a few extra years. Maydays seem susceptible to this disease (or is it caused by insects?), which we didn’t know when we planted it in 1993, the second year we lived here. I will be sad to see it go: the trees are close to my heart, and I hate to lose even one of them. 

The weeping birch, one of my favourites, the mayday’s companion on the wide expanse of front lawn, has already fallen victim to the repeated ministrations of the yellow-bellied sapsucker combined with a few too-dry years. The pretty pattern the sapsucker leaves in the bark of birches, poplars, maydays and even the pine tree in front of the house is, in many cases, the mark of death for those trees. These birds bore holes in the bark where the sap seeps out in little pearly drops, a craved-for delicacy in itself and also an attraction to insects which, in turn, are then harvested by the sapsuckers. This, of course, is very stressful for a tree, especially if it has to succumb to it year after year, and with the added burden of drought many won’t survive. 

Saskatoon bush in bloom

So far, however, the mayday is still alive, and one of the first trees covered in blossoms in the spring. By now it has been joined by Saskatoon and chokecherry bushes, faithfully sticking to their May long weekend schedule for starting to open their buds. The first of the three apple trees is again covered in a cloud of huge white blossoms, and the other two are just starting out. After last year’s enormous apple harvest I expected the trees to take a break, but judging by their appearance at the moment they have decided to carry on. Many things can happen still, however, with frost the biggest threat at the moment. Night after night the temperatures drop to near freezing, even after days like today when the sun made it almost too warm to have breakfast on the deck, and it was pleasant enough for short sleeves the rest of the day. 

Apple tree

When I came in tonight it had cooled off considerably already, although I doubt that it will dip below zero. On this day in 1987 a spring storm brought twenty centimetres of snow, followed by temperatures as low as -10 Celsius. That year, lulled by several years of warm springs, I had transplanted my tomatoes early – and lost them all in one night. It is probably not without reason that the long weekend in May has traditionally been considered the right time to ‘put in the garden’ here. I don’t like to wait that long, but still hesitate to seed beans, cucumbers and squash much before now, and haven’t transplanted my tomatoes early since that experience.

This, however, is ‘only’ my garden: the crops face the same danger, with much more serious results. It has been a while since we lost a complete field because of it, but in the low lying peat areas close to the river it is a common problem. 

We finished seeding a week ago today, after two intense weeks of work, and several fields look nice and green already, especially after last week’s 45 mm of rain. The first two worries of the year are stilled: the crops went in on time, and the rain came right when we needed it. This is an excellent start, and we are thankful for it. The time of worrying, however, has only just begun, and many calamities can still happen before the grain is safely harvested and stored for the winter.

It is no different than any other year, and farmers learn to live with it and adjust to whatever happens. The weather is not obeying our will, after all, and, as the old German folk tale “The farmer as weather maker” illustrates, this is most certainly a good thing. Here, a farmer thought he could grow a much better crop if only he could be in charge of the weather for one growing season. He pleaded with God to leave it up to him, and God agreed. The farmer thought he had done a perfect job, making the sun shine and the rain fall when he felt it was needed, and the crops looked wonderful. Already he boasted that he had been right in thinking he could do it better – until the harvest was brought in. Then, it turned out that the kernels hadn’t filled, and the heads were empty: he had forgotten that wind, too, is needed, or the grain will not be pollinated. 

We cannot make the weather, but what we can do is hope that it all turns out well – and now enjoy the beauty that comes with spring and early summer.