I think these threats against Punxsutawney Phil are a symptom of winter mania.
I have to admit, my patience for the slush stuck on my car and the windy bad hair days is also running out, but groundhogs aren’t the only sources of nature’s news.
During a hike with my husband, a skunk surprised us, hissing as he emerged from a shadow at the base of a tree.
We were able to make our getaway without a dose of stinky perfume, but skunks, like coyotes and fox, are finishing up their breeding season. Since it was Pep? Le Pew and not a black cat that crossed our path, I’ll consider our encounter a sign of spring’s approach.
I witnessed another heart-warming scene this weekend when four wild turkey wandered into my yard.
Though I’ve noticed turkey and their tracks around all season, I’ve been hearing the honks of geese announcing a change.
Soon migrating predatory birds like eagles, hawks, and owls will join the chorus, but it might be more than the urge to travel that’s drawing them here. According to The Farmer’s Almanac, the best days for fishing are coming up as we head into the end of the month, and just in time nature may offer something to bait your hook.
On March 27, a full moon known to Native American tribes as the Full Worm Moon will rise.
It was so-named because right around this time of year the earth starts to soften, and you’ll soon be spotting earthworms and their casts, which means Robins will follow.
I’m not saying there won’t be a few more overcast days ahead, but nature’s telling us the clouds will clear and the ground is starting to warm up.
As a March rhyme in the Farmer’s Almanac tells us, ‘Storms, then sunny ? it’s mild enough to walk your honey! All of a sudden, everything’s buddin?.?
It may have snowed on the vernal equinox, March 21, but whether the weather knows it or not, spring is just around the corner.
So, lay off that oversized groundhog, and try not give in to March madness just yet.

As soon as I get home, my dog (Killeen) is ready for a hike whether it’s been snowing all day or not. She may be covered in fur, but I’m the softy.
It isn’t only because of her brown puppy eyes or the need for exercise that I give in, but also because the snow captures nature’s history, and I don’t want to miss it.
Killeen races ahead, jumping over downed limbs and smelling every stone in her path, but I like to take it slow and see who else felt like a wintery sojourn.
Among the familiar dog paw prints, two-pronged hooves of deer are easy to identify, and sometimes they lead to trails worn from generations of use. Where they’ve smeared to a halt, I can tell it’s slick and layers of snowflakes have hidden the ice beneath.
Tiny mouse tracks that look more like dots with a wispy tail line at the center reveal their whiskery noses have been poking under leaves or the tall grass offered the perfect place to take cover. I spot the large, fork-shaped prints of a crow among the teenier tracks of smaller fliers and know why my birdfeeder is empty again.
I follow the lope of a rabbit to where the outline of his feet is deeper and more distinct. I can even see where his fluffy white tail pressed into the snow. Maybe he stopped there for a rest or slowed down to perk his ears up and listen for another’s approach.
The tracks regularly lead away from my path and deeper into the woods or under low brambles I wouldn’t dare crawl through.
All the activity etched in the snow explains a sprinkling of pine needles, a sheet of birch bark ripped away from a trunk, or a single stray feather waving in a breeze.
While the next rain or snowfall will leave no trace of yesterday’s story, a new history will be written on nature’s fresh slate.
If I don’t throw on a few extra layers and tug on my boots, Killeen and I won’t leave any marks for other critters to ponder.

While some critters hibernate, local gardeners don’t. Instead, growers are planning, learning, gathering together, and flexing their green thumbs indoors.
‘There’s reading to do to keep the ongoing education refreshed,? said Clarkston Community Garden Manager Jim Tesnar. Since winter’s chill has blown in, Tesnar’s looking through seed catalogs to find new hybrids and varieties.
He keeps an eye on the temperature too. Once the ground freezes, Tesnar will cover his strawberry plants with straw. In late March, he’ll pull the mulch back to make way for a new batch of strawberries.
Roots to Fruits co-owner Mark Angelini feels the colder season gives gardening ideas a chance to germinate. ‘I spend time reading and researching, ordering seeds and plant stock, eating lots of stored produce and pickles, reviewing garden plans and designs and formulating a game plan for the upcoming season,? he said.
But don’t think rooting through catalogs, reading, and researching gives growers cabin fever. Instead, they often seek out one another. ‘The monthly Oakland County Permaculture Meetup is a fantastic social gathering, plus we have skill shares for seed starting, vermicomposting, and a seed swap,? Angelini said. The Oakland County Permaculture Meetup occuring in Clarkston once a month is just one event attracting green thumbs.
American Roots owner Trish Hennig attends ‘upcoming presentations locally sponsored by our North Oakland chapter of Wild Ones, but also on a state level we have the WAM (Wildflower Association of Michigan) conference with nationally recognized as well as Michigan-based speakers,? she explained.
When growers aren’t together, you might find them testing farming methods at home. For gardener Lacie Greives winter is a time for experimentation. She’s trying out seeds collected from her flowers and vegetables over the summer. If sprouts emerge under her indoor light, she’ll know they have spring planting potential. If nothing happens, she’ll need to order new seeds.
In addition, ‘I plan for crop rotation,? Greives said. Greens don’t grow well in the same patch of soil year after year, so Grieves keeps track of where she’s planted during the previous season. While the snow falls outside, she’ll think of new places for next season’s veggies.

When flakes fell outside the front windows of The Clarkston News office last week, I thought of snow days. Those glorious unexpected holidays from school meant sledding, fort building, and cracking through the icy surface of what had been a puddle just the day before.
If I was lucky, we’d get a blizzard right around my birthday on Jan. 12, and discovering school was out felt like getting an extra present.
Dressed in layers and unable to put my arms down like Ralphie’s little brother, I threw myself down onto the snow without worry of getting hurt because I had plenty of padding.
The snow crunched as I created snow angels just my size, then I would lie there for a while feeling the soft, cool kisses of snowflakes tickle my nose and cheeks.
Hundreds of fork-shaped footprints were etched in the snow beneath the bird feeder, icicles formed along the edges of the birdbath, and I watched as individual flakes landed in my gloves.
The power of so many tiny snowflakes to transform my backyard overnight was like magic!
A similar wintery spell was cast on downtown Clarkston when it turned into a frosty wonderland.
The Optimists? rink froze for skaters, snow blanketed the roof of the gazebo in Depot Park, and ducks sprinkled with snowflakes swam in the stream beneath the bridge, oblivious to the cold.
The evergreens and red ribbons in the Clarkston Farm and Garden Club planters along Main Street looked even more festive with a layer of frost.
Under the snow, the lights hanging from shop windows emitted a cheery glow, and the Mill Pond took on a picturesque quality with its white sheen.
Unlike my school days, I didn’t get to stay home due to the falling snow, but the beautiful winter scene downtown inspired that carefree snow day feeling.
As I left tracks around Clarkston, I realized I’m younger than I’m ever going to be right now, and even though my birthday is just around the corner, I’m not too old for sleds and snowballs yet. Wishing you lots of magical snow days in the New Year!

My dog’s been frustrated lately. I can tell by the heavy sighs and pathetic brown-eyed gazes.
‘It’s cold and wet out there,? I plead with her, but the pup doesn’t care. Wind, snow, sleet, hail, it doesn’t matter; she wants to go outside and doesn’t want to be out by herself.
My furry friend is right, of course. Hiking isn’t just a warm weather activity, and it never hurts to get a little exercise. All her tail wagging and ear perking has inspired me to start compiling my New Year’s Resolutions.
To top the checklist, I will not be defeated by cabin fever in 2013!
This winter, I’m hoping to try snowshoes on for size ? only if we get that white stuff Michiganders keep telling me about, of course. Another on my list is cross-country skiing at Independence Oaks. Maybe I can just grab hold of the leash, yell mush, and my dog will take me for a spin.
Once the snow melts away, I’m checking off finding my first Michigan Morel. I missed the 2012 mushroom season, and I’m still bitter about it. With the pup in tow, I’m hitting the trails to do some foraging. No leaf will go unturned, no fallen tree unexamined, no shady spot unexplored! My bag will be full of spongy edibles or I’m not leaving the woods.
When it really warms up, I’m packing up the dog and husband ? whiners get tied to the hood ? and we’re going camping. Last summer we were too busy to pitch a tent, but excuses won’t get in my way in 2013. Now that the cool air has driven me indoors, a day of canoeing in the sunshine capped with a marshmallow toasted over a campfire under a star-filled sky sounds like heaven.
All the hiking, camping, and mushroom hunting will have me famished. So, my fall garden harvest had better be the best one yet! In 2013, I’m writing a big check mark next to a plate of root veggies (the Achilles heel of my green thumb) or my name isn’t Mary Keck! I don’t need too many since my dog doesn’t like carrots and potatoes, but I suppose I can share one forkful with my husband.
With all this outdoor activity planned for every season of the New Year, my canine can’t guilt me into more doggy biscuits, right?

I’ve noticed the fallen leaves have taken on a sparkling fringe of frost, but it isn’t just along the ground where winter’s d’cor has started to appear.
Against the backdrop of evergreens, blue jays and red cardinals perch like ornaments come alive just for the season. Even the scent of pines and sound of geese honking as they fly south add to nature’s winter greeting.
Clarkston’s downtown is getting into the spirit too.
Shops are decked in red ribbons and green wreaths. Snowflake lights and frosty garland line Main Street where the Farm and Garden Club’s planters overflow with evergreen trimmings.
The twinkle of holiday lights in store windows creates a festive atmosphere and adds warmth to the otherwise chilly air of winter’s approach.
It’s time to bundle up and buckle down for the cold season. Just like gold finches trade in their yellow feathers for beige and brown, we’ve boxed away our tank tops and flip flops opting for long sleeved sweaters and hefty waterproof boots.
Although I’m feeling a bit anxious about the snow and wind, thinking of Thanksgiving turkey, stuffing, and cranberries makes the changing weather a bit more bearable.
It’s more than delicious food, though.
I’ll be traveling to see family in Indiana for Turkey Day, and I can’t wait to see how tall my nieces have grown.
I’m looking forward to the familiar smiles of my sister and brothers and those warm hugs that only my mom can give.
After dinner, we’ll play some euchre or snuggle up on the couch to watch Charlie Brown try to kick that football.
Even though it means a seven-hour drive and sleeping on air mattresses, I’m thankful for an opportunity to slow down and spend some time with the people who have shaped who I am.
Before we realize it, Thanksgiving will be over and winter will be too. Like the puff of your breath visible for just a moment in the cool air, time is always disappearing.
Those holiday decorations may come down and the fox may don his red coat again, but not before I’ve had a chance to admire icicles and say ‘thank you? to my family for welcoming me back home.

Like a trick-or-treater shedding her mask to reveal a fun-loving kid, fall has shed its cloak of gold, maroon, and orange to reveal the cold, brown truth: winter is on its way. Just as the beautiful leaves distracted us from the transition into a cooler season, reflecting on this year’s harvest offers a welcome diversion from the rain and wind.
This year’s garden was my most bountiful, and I think it’s due to the sunny spot we picked, raised beds, and nutrient-rich soil. Plates of fresh cucumbers, cauliflower, green peppers, tomatoes, green beans, cilantro, and dill were frequent.
On the other hand, my potatoes, carrots, onions, and garlic were pathetic, and so I’m thinking about improvements for next year.
In my defense, some troubles were unavoidable. Due to my late move from Indiana to Michigan, I couldn’t start my own seeds or break ground as soon. I also didn’t have a chance to accumulate a compost heap.
When the snow and ice melts next spring, however, I’ll have seedlings started and lettuce, broccoli, and peas in the ground early. I’ll have a nice pile of compost to add nourishment early and often too.
In addition, I’ll make deeper raised beds, a likely reason for my measly carrot and sweet potato harvest. I’m also going to be more proactive with succession planting; my tendency to keep plants past their peak robbed me of produce this year. In the future, I’ll toss old plants on the compost a little quicker to make way for new vegetation.
I need to study up on more natural methods for reducing pests and disease. My beer remedy for slugs worked like a charm, but I wonder if I could have saved a couple of droopy, spotty tomato plants that came down with an illness.
After a successful experiment with canning this fall, I want to read about other techniques for drying, freezing, and storing my harvest. Building raised beds was fun and beneficial, so I’m eager to increase my architectural acumen. Perhaps I’ll still be growing this time next year because over the winter I learned how to construct a hoop house.
Whatever the case, the lessons I’ve learned while wrist-deep in dirt aren’t enough. While the winter wind and snow whips outside, I’ll be curled up by the fire with a cup of hot cocoa reading gardening books.

NASA landed a six-wheeled rover named Curiosity on Mars last month. Touchdown tested the limits of human innovation, and required a supersonic parachute, radar mapping, rocket motors, and a crane that lowered the rover on a 20-foot long tether.
I wonder if our drive for space exploration is fueled by a desire for permanence.
We seem to think the universe won’t forget us if we make a big enough bang.
Curiosity’s tracks in the red sand may seem rare and wonderful to me but only because I can’t grasp the great depths of space and time since the cosmos? birth.
Instead, I mark time based on our planet’s revolutions around the sun and can’t imagine tracking the 100,000 light-year diameter of a Milky Way full of stars in various stages of implosion.
Yet in spite of Earth’s relatively insubstantial place, humans seem determined to leave a lasting impression.
But when I consider the history of soaring comets, exploding supernova, and solar flares, our interactions with the solar system remind me of just how brief and inconsequential are the cataclysms of human life.
Still, I find comfort in the fact that my role in the cosmos is tiny.
If I were able to comprehend all the time that’s passed and all the events that have occurred in my galaxy alone, the corner I’ve experienced might not seem as exceptional.
Recognizing my own insignificance is a little bittersweet, however. It is nice to know heart-wrenching experiences don’t have the same resounding impact of two stars colliding.
But sometimes it feels like a black hole has swallowed me, and I want to shake my fist at the universe for its callous indifference.
While moon phases and kittens may seem cosmically insignificant, I’m able to appreciate those little things.
My limited human perception offers me a sensitivity that’s lost on the universe. So, I’ll raise a glass to the autumnal equinox on Sept. 22 and pity the moon that’s too big to notice the flag stuck in its backside.

This weekend I daydreamed in a canoe on Crooked Lake in Independence Oaks County Park.
I paddled in the front, and my husband steered in the back while our dog slept at the bottom of the canoe between us.
Herons swooped in to land on the water’s edge and swans preened their feathers among the cattails as we floated along in the sunshine.
While we snacked on slices of the cucumber we picked from our garden that morning, we listened to the buzz of electric blue dragonflies and watched kayakers race in the distance.
Seeing so many fathers fishing from rowboats and pedal boats with their sons and daughters reminded me of my dad who gave me my first fishing pole. It’s been many years since I’ve tried catching anything, but I’ll never forget waiting patiently for my bobber to slip beneath the water’s surface.
My first catch was a largemouth bass with greenish brown scales and a gaping mouth.
I was afraid to touch its wriggling body, so my dad helped me unhook it. When we finished celebrating, my dad held my fish in his open palm in the shallows.
We watched as its fins started waving slowly; then, as if waking up suddenly from a deep sleep, my fish shot away into the deep water.
We always practiced catch and release when I was lucky enough to hook anything as a kid, and I noticed it’s Independence Oaks? policy, too.
For me, fishing wasn’t necessarily about what you took home but about sitting along the shore, spotting turtle noses when they came up for a breath, and listening to my dad’s tales of hooking fish with my grandpa’s help.
As my husband, my dog, and I listened to lily pads brush against the side of our vessel, I remembered that like fishing with my dad, canoeing is about more than the exercise.
It is about sharing the peace of the water and the feel of the warm sun with the ones I love. Memories that might otherwise drift on by flow easily when the pace of your life slows to canoe speed.

Slugs have broken through our first line of defense: the robins.
Covered in translucent mucus, the marigolds lining our garden bed can’t hold on much longer. Under ruthless slug attacks, some have lost leaves, blossoms, and a few are nothing but chewed up stalks.
We vow to make our enemies wish they’d never squirmed into our flowerbeds!
Thursday, June 14, 2000
Operation Slug Termination begins. Armed with bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon, we leave a minefield before the next slug invasion begins at dusk. Filling leftover take-out containers with beer and placing them in the soil around our gold and orange marigolds, we lie in wait for slimy intruders who we expect will slide into our garden at moonrise.
Friday, June 15, 0630
We wake early to find dozens of gray slug corpses drowned in their wet, fermented graves. Like the others, our enemies couldn’t resist the sweet smell of PBR. Although victory seems certain, a few slimy adversaries still cling to our marigolds? stems and petals. We also notice a few empty beer bombs with their bottoms busted out. After a thorough investigation, we realize the drunken slugs made easy targets for our bird allies whose sharp beaks broke through our take-out cups.
Saturday, June 16, 2045
A few old Tupperware containers replenish our broken defenses, and we unleash a new weapon in our arsenal: eggshells. After some Googling, we discover the snail’s intolerance for gliding across broken shell pieces, and drop shell crumbs around the base of our flowers. Operation Slug Termination: Beer and Shell Defense is initiated!
Sunday, June 17, 0930
The battle against the slugs is almost at an end. The robins, PBR and eggshells have overtaken our gastropod foes, and we have reduced the numbers in beer-laden graves by half. Birds fly crookedly in the morning air after enjoying a breakfast of slugs marinated in beer, and soldiers raise their coffee mugs in salute to the fallen marigolds that never recovered from the slug onslaught.

I’ve heard you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer, but in the case of gardens, I’m not so sure this saying holds true.
Vegetables like to form cliques. So when we planned our garden, we kept companion planting in mind. Our tomatoes grow right next door to garlic while our pole beans share space with carrots. As the upward growing veggies rise, their rooty buddies will have plenty of room to ripen below ground.
With our neighbors? help, we filled our raised beds with their composted manure, which has a fluffy texture and a rich, dark chocolaty color. Our tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots took to it right away. Usually when you think of gifts that keep on giving, dirt isn’t the first idea to pop into your mind; however, our friends? dirt offers the essential ingredients our veggies will need all summer.
As thanks for helping us, I baked our neighbors a cobbler made from fresh rhubarb sprouting up in our backyard. Just one plant provided enough for two batches. Since it’s one of my husband’s favorites, I couldn’t give it all away.
Some garden pals can’t be rewarded with sweet treats, though. For example, our unexpected neighbor, a light brown snake we call Woody, has graciously offered to pick off pesty invaders.
On occasion, Woody rests in the sun on a log near our garden, and we’re hoping he’ll snatch unwanted insects. Although our cat, Snickers, had Woody shaking in his scales for a while, he’s since returned to observe our garden on sunny afternoons. If he can slither clear of felines, he’ll likely catch snacks as they come scurrying by.
Unfortunately for us, Woody’s got his work cut out for him because our enemies are neighborly too. Our spinach, basil, and cauliflower have already had visitors who’ve left behind holey mementos. To counter their social calls, we’ve sprinkled our leafy greens with biological insecticide.
Next time caterpillars come hankering for veggies, they’ll get a fatal case of indigestion when they drop in.
I think I’ll keep my friends close and my enemies as far away as possible, for now. Otherwise, I may not have much to harvest at summer’s end.

My mom, who lives a few hours away in Indianapolis, planted the seed of my love for gardening.
Even in the smallest plot, my mom can find a way to grow something beautiful.
It’s because of her that I can’t walk by a bed of daisies or hyacinths without commenting on their lovely blooms.
If I see a flower that’s unfamiliar, I can ask my mom for help identifying it, and each spring we talk about what’s growing in our gardens.
Since I couldn’t be with my mom, it seemed appropriate to spend Mother’s Day building a nest for my veggies and herbs.
My husband and I started by laying out the groundwork for a raised bed gardening system. We’re trying out raised beds for the first time and hoping to plant the usual suspects like broccoli, beans, tomatoes, peppers, and lettuce.
In our previous gardens, we’ve just dropped the seeds or plants into the tilled dirt already available, which offered varied results.
On the other hand, my mother-in-law’s raised bed garden looks spectacular every season, and she’s got plenty of vegetables and flowers to share.
According to a copy of Organic Gardening I picked up at the library’s book sale a couple of weeks ago, raised beds are the best cradles for growing greens.
The Vegetable Gardner’s Bible also recommends them because you’re guaranteed to know what’s in the soil. In previous gardens, I dropped my baby plants into unknown dirt that may have contained weed seeds or chemicals.
By using raised beds, I know exactly what’s in my soil, and an enclosed bed system should also provide protection from weeds and critters.
After finishing our veggie beds on Sunday, I called my mom, and we talked gardens.
There may be many miles between my mother and I, but when I’m working out my green thumb, she doesn’t feel so far away.
As I wait for my little sprouts to break through the ground and stretch toward the sun, I’ll keep my mom (and you) posted on my raised bed experiment.