Hemlock funnies

It rained. 

No mud work today...later, after some drying out.

This is part of Matt Bourbina's pig pen, in operation from the nineteen-teens until his death in 1964. It's changed quite a bit in the past fifty years. This had been plain old dirt with a few varieties of sticker plants that pigs won't eat. (Jimson weed was one such; if you accidentally got a spine from a seed pod jammed into your skin, that area would go numb for a while.)

I have a few walnuts, maples and oaks in pots and they're not dead yet! They will be going into this row between and beyond these scraggly old maples, along the northwest perimeter of the old pig pen.

Mmm, that tingles

The hemlock is starting to flower. I've whacked most of them at least once this season but there are still plenty hiding out deep inside the brush and rubble. These I cut one-at-a-time using a hand clipper - and my hands.

The stems are hollow and quite juicy. Just think how much of that juicy poison is atomized and airborne when cutting these with a gasoline-powered machine.

Heading back to the house, I pause to take a picture of Blackie and whistle for Wally. I use my fingers to make the whistle noise. Left hand fingers. The hand that manipulates the plant that the right hand cuts with the tool. The hand that gets doused with hemlock juice.  My tongue goes a bit tingly after a couple of whistles. My lower lip feels "fingerprints" from the whistle. Mmmm...!