Late July has brought the Triple H (don’t make me spell it out) weather to New Hampshire for the first time this summer. 2009 is in the top 5 for rainiest years on record. Looking to support this claim led me on a wild Google chase with no result, which was surprising since the weather is in the top 3 items to chat about mindlessly when one cannot think of something brilliant to say. Like right now. For example.
The tomato blight problem has provided new motivations to rotate crops around to different beds. We’re kind of stupid about that generally, and that’s really, uh, stupid. So the tomatoes will have to go somewhere really brilliant next year (to be announced) and the garlic will need to go somewhere else come October. Maybe. The largest bulbs (like the one pictured above) will be saved for seed.
The tomatoes are still suffering from the blight. Regular spraying with a 130-disease-killing chemical from Ortho has allowed the plants to grow some, but they’re still pretty bad. The corn is coming along, but deer tracks mean that Bambi and her progeny are monitoring it too.
The wet weather has been pretty good for the brassicas. We’ve eaten, frozen, and gifted cauliflower, broccoli, and green cabbages. The little cabbages headed up early and threaten to split open from all the wetness. The purple cabbage grows slower. Slugs are very happy with this type of weather. So are weeds. I weed almost every day for at least a half hour. Seriously. My hands are instruments of plant genocide. Mosquitoes bite me as I toss weed corpses onto various large piles. The slugs chew little holes in the bottoms of the cabbages.
Tomorrow is supposed to be a nice day. I should go for a nice long bike ride. My last bike ride was a bit of a disappointment, ending in a blowout of my back tire. My daughter came to rescue me in the driveway of the new middle school, where I’d intended to stop and have a Clif bar and a drink. While waiting for her I repaired the tire using the spare tube, wondering if it was really worthwhile to put the new tube into the old tire. The tire must be at fault when the tube (at 90 psi) manages to work its way between the bead and the wheel. There’s a little audible warning you get about 15 seconds before the tube explodes. It’s a little squeak squeak squeak of the rapidly growing tube-bubble rubbing against the bicycle frame. So it’s time for some new tires for the touring bike. Maybe even some new wheels. And a new drive train. I’ve put very close to 5,000 miles on the Fuji, and the previous owner probably did at least that.
In the last post you readers did a wonderful job answering the question of where the term “OK” comes from. I’m going with the “Oll Korrect” theory because how wonderful is an abbreviation fad? But I have another question now, which might seem odd, but I think it should be familiar to all you oxygen addicts out there. Yeah, breathers, this means you. You know how after every certain number of shallower breaths there comes a deeper breath that is somehow more satisfying and conclusive (for lack of a better word)? This breath is the goal of a yawn, if that makes any sense at all. My question is, is there a name for this?