Snow Peas

We don't have any true permafrost in Southern New Hampshire, but the earth can start to freeze as early as mid-October, and remain frozen as late as early-May, on the north slopes of hills. Therefore we should get credit for having semi-permafrost, at the very least.

As long as the semi-permafrost lasts, water cannot drain downwards into the subsoil, and instead pools and ponds at the surface, turning the soil into ooze and mire. This is known as "mud season," and few speak the words "mud season" with any sort of affection.

The semi-permafrost can last some time, because on the worst years the earth can freeze down to a depth of four feet. Usually this occurs on winters when the ground is bare. Even the softest sod on the most deeply turfed pasture feels like iron underfoot.

This past winter was an exception to the rule. After our terrible ice-storm in December we had a brief respite, in the form of a thaw, with temperatures up in the sixties. This was followed by a blast of arctic air filled with powder snow, which blanketed the earth in a way which kept the soil from freezing. The average temperatures were more than six degrees below normal in January, and the powder snow swirled in the wind, but the the soil never froze more than four inches deep, due to the insulating properties of the fluffy snow.

After the winter we went through, we needed a break, and the break was that we hardly had any "mud season" at all. The semi-permafrost melted away swiftly, and we were work the earth earlier than usual.

(I'm not sure this is a blessing, due to the word "work," in the phrase "work the earth.")

One of the first tasks I faced was digging post-holes, so we could expand our playground. This is one of my least favorite jobs, though fences go hand in hand with farming. In fact the very first task I was given, when I first came to this farm in 1968, was to dig a post-hole. About a foot down I met my very first rock. As I recall, I vowed to avoid post-holes for the rest of my life.

Now it is something like 12,757 rocks later, and the new playground fence is up, and I can get on to the side of farming I enjoy, which is planting seeds. The first seeds planted around here are snow peas, which are usually planted on Patriots Day.

Often it snows as you plant peas, but this year the day dawned a warming sun, and temperatures soared to fifty. I was feeling optimistic, until the wind shifted to the east. By afternoon the temperatures back down towards forty, and the blue sky had turned a steely grey. Right at dusk, as I was finishing up, I heard the patter of sleet.

It seems a tradition that it must snow on snow peas. Perhaps we need to rename them. Rather than calling them "snow peas" we ought dub them "thaw peas."

I am often working at dusk, because having children as observers tend to slow down the work during the day. (Answering questions, and involving youth, is a lot of fun, and I am reaching an age where I don't much mind working slowly.)

Caleb