The April 2012 Cover Contest was Joshua Stough of Calhoun County.

The March Cover Contest Winner is Cassie Elkins of Chloe, WV with “Cowboy Jacob.”

I just haven’t gotten the gardening bug yet. I had my seed order ready, and then a friend of mine brought me all of his seed catalogs. Even with all the extra options, I just haven’t been able to get my hopes up.

I thought browsing the new catalogs might do it. But no. I did redo my seed order, for better prices more than selection. I didn’t expand the list any — if anything, I trimmed it back. I just don’t have the garden dreams I had before.

Instead, I’ve been sewing. Frank spent a day cleaning out the hot beds while I sat at the sewing machine or the computer. Perhaps he thought it would inspire me.

It didn’t.

Oh, I still want to taste those home-grown tomatoes. Still want those days in the garden under the sun. I just don’t feel the excitement about it I did before. I feel disconnected from something that is (or once was) an integral part of our lives.

It’s a sobering lesson to lose all the work and investment in a garden and come up with nothing, like we did last year.

I find myself investing time and learning in other projects. Chickens, sewing, etc. Last year, by this time, in spite of an actual winter, I already had seeds started indoors. This year, I haven’t even placed my seed order yet, nor have I reviewed what seeds I have in our little seed bank. I’m just not there yet.

Perhaps when spring starts to show itself. Someone in the county reported hearing peepers the other night, and though I know they always freeze their little buns off at least once each year once I hear them, I hope that perhaps spring intends to arrive early this year — maybe that will get me going.

In the meantime, I’ve been sewing garden aprons. I thought perhaps a new garden apron would inspire me to get in the garden mindset. It didn’t. Instead, I ended up inspired to sew more aprons. I made 20 aprons in a weekend. At least I’ll have something to sell besides eggs at the spring farmer’s market…

Over the weekend, on a break from the world of small business taxes, I filled out my seed catalog orders. In the end, the full flow of garden dreaming excitement never hit me. I didn’t find myself attempting new challenges outside our norm (like eggplant) like I usually do. In catalog orders of the past, I’ve been eager to at least try some new things. Not so much this year.

Last year, I went to our seed stash before placing my orders, taking inventory of saved-over heirlooms seeds, and filling in the gaps or supporting certain varieties. This year, I didn’t do that either. I pretty much know what’s there — nothing from last year, and only remnants from the year before. So, I figured I’d just stick to the basics, and basically start from scratch. Other than pumpkin seed, we pretty much needed all the basics.

The list started with a pound on Gray Mammoth Sunflower seed, which I grow and harvest for our hens and feathered friend feeders. They have huge blooms that make harvesting a little easier, but I have a second use for these towering stalks — fence reinforcement and bean poles.

Two years ago, I happened to just pick up a pack of this seed somewhere while shopping. The garden was already started, and so I just stuck some seed in around the new fence line at the end where we’d just expanded. The fence there was shorter than the 8 foot fencing we have around the original garden plot, so I figured the sunflowers might help.

They were helpful — to a point. A row of 12 foot tall sunflowers each a foot apart from the others, just inside the fence did deter some deer from just leaping over the short fence into the garden. When dealing with deer, any deterrence is a good thing. The problem is, I can only plant the sunflowers along the fence on the north side of the garden. Planted on the southern side, they’d cover three rows of carrots and onions with shade.

I also have been known to use the sunflower stalks (that get up to 3 inches thick) as support poles in the green bean rows. Instead of bean poles, we run fencing down the rows of beans, so they can just climb the fence. But we’ve always had a problem with the fence sagging as time passed, the more the beans grew, the more the fencing sagged. So last year, about 2 weeks before we even planted the beans, I laid out the rows and planted a sunflower seed about every eight to ten feet. Two, and then four weeks later, we planted the beans, and put the fence down the row. By then, the sunflowers had a good head start, and looked as though they would offer the additional support needed later in the season — but then the big wind storm came and flattened them, fence, flowers, beans and all.

I’m going to try that again this year.

Some may think it odd that we grow these huge sunflowers to harvest and we really don’t eat the seed ourselves. The hens and birds get the seed, the fence and beans get support from their stalks and we — well, we get to enjoy the beauty of foot-wide blossoms towering high above our heads all summer. That’s good enough for me.

About the time I forget she exists, a large manilla envelope arrives in the mail. The minute I see the hand-written addressing, I smile to myself, “The Bee Lady.” Brenda Koch, from Tallmansville, WV, has been writing a quarterly column on bees for more than three years now. She called, on day out of the blue, explained that she had committed to writing the column for another quarterly publication that never made it off the ground, and asked if we were interested.

We talked for more than an hour. She’s a beekeeper, a honey and wax product producer who wants to share her knowledge. As new beekeepers ourselves, were we interested in her column? Of course we were. Hers is the only quarterly column we publish.

The Bee Lady does not have a computer. We don’t communicate by email, I don’t “see” her on facebook, she doesn’t tweet. And to be honest, I think we’ve only spoken on the phone once since she started writing for us. I’m not even sure where Tallmansville is. We’ve never met in person, and I don’t even have a photo of her to post with this entry. In my mind, I picture her about my age, with long hair and mud boots in a bee suit.

Since she’s not online, and not nearby, and quarterly — she has a tendency to fade in my mind. We run her column, then one, and another months pass by. And then, there she is, a manilla envelope in the mailbox.

Her columns come as copied pages, paper-clipped on the upper left hand corner, the original handwritten in all capital letters on wide-ruled paper. I try my best not to insert typing errors in her column as I enter it into the computer. Sometimes I do, and then don’t catch them in editing. I admit now that any typographical errors or spelling errors in her column are my mistakes, not hers.

Brenda is the first in our “Meet the Columnist” series, because that manilla envelope arrived in the mail today. The next installment from The Bee Lady will appear in our March issue. If you’ve been enjoying our quarterly column on bees, feel free to send her a letter or card (by snail mail of course) to: B. Koch, HC 36, Box 184, Tallmansville, WV 26237.

Like anyone else, I get a case of the blues now and then. Also like anyone else, I have the benefit of people in my life who make it a point to develop and create those blues for me. As much as I appreciate their efforts and attention to my life, I’m afraid the blues just can’t compete with an unseasonably warm day.

Most often, this time of year, I tend to dread the trips outside to check on the chickens, collecting eggs, feeding and putting the hens up at night.  Mud, cold wind, grey skies — not on my list of favorite things. Imagine my surprise today when I opened the door to sunshine and a warm breeze.

Our honey bees were already active, raiding the chicken feeders and buzzing around the porch. I’ve long-since learned the bees have little interest in me, as long as I’m not doused in perfume and cosmetics.

Even in mid-winter, our garden needs attention after the way we abandoned it in the fall of last year. So, I tossed my coat and hat on the roof of the chicken pen, and wandered out that way, with Daisy Dewdrop on my heels. Both the chickens and the bees seemed interested in what I was doing, clearing weeds and moving dirt. Both likely hoping I would uncover something for them to eat.

It didn’t take Daisy long to find the rabbit hiding among the high grasses, and if you know beagles, you know the chase was on. Since she can run up to 24 miles and hour (we’ve chased her in a car before) I tied on her leash and did my best to keep up. It frustrated her, me holding her back, but didn’t keep her from following the trail through the prickly Autumn Olive bushes, which scratched my arms. When she lost the trail (at the same spot she always does), I led her back to the house. Along the way, she stopped at the edge of the lake to get something to drink, and I took time to lift my face to the sun.

I don’t claim to have all the answers. I only claim to be constantly in search of them, and I’m often eager to share any I’ve discovered. One of the main truths I’ve found is if you can find joy in sunshine and warm breezes, it’s easier to survive the mean and nasties of the world.

Sure, I may seem crazy, offering buzzing honey bees warm greetings. Even more crazy still to think they’ve come to know me, know the sound of my voice, my scent. Crazier still to think they are my friends — but I have yet to be stung by any of our honey bees.

I know the wild ducks on our lake better than I know most people. I know who has mated who, which side of the lake they prefer to eat breakfast, and lunch, and dinner. I can sing to my chickens and they’ll sing back to me.

It’s difficult, among these friends, to be haunted by the pettiness of a few people. To bees, beagles, ducks and chickens, the words of men and women are meaningless. Tell a chicken someone hurt your feelings, and they’ll squat, poop and move on. Frankly, I think that’s good advice.

If animals and insects have food, shelter and water — they’re happy. Humans are the only beings who believe — for some reason — they need (or deserve) more. We’re the only ones who torture ourselves (and others) to achieve far beyond what we truly need.  We spend lifetimes making ourselves (and others) miserable simply because we want.

Part of simplifying our lives has taught me though — we make ourselves (and others) miserable only if we want to. And while there are those who obviously want to share their misery with us, I have to remember, that is not what we want. People don’t believe it. Because they want that misery and to share it, they assume we want the same.

But the bees know better, the hens know better, the ducks, the beagle and the sunshine knows better.

In many ways, we wanted to find the simple joys in life, like the blessings of an unseasonably warm day.

I mentioned yesterday that I have fallen in love with certain tomatoes, which I consider as staples in our garden. There are two, specifically, that I feel I just can’t do without.

Brandywine (Lycopersicon esculentum)

As far as I’m concerned, Brandywine are some of the most beautiful tomatoes grown. More pink than red, they are considered to be “the benchmark” for real tomato flavor.

Brandywine have leaves that look more like a potato plant’s than a tomato. Once, I gave six plants to a neighbor, who pulled them up from her tomato bed and tossed them, thinking I had given her the wrong thing…. (Alas!)

We love them sliced, with salt (or sugar) and they make an awesome tomato sandwich. Two years ago, we had such an abundance, that they were used to make our pizza sauce — which turned out especially sweet and tangy.

Dating back to Amish Country near Philadelphia in 1889, the fruit grows deep pink and plump, up to one pound.

Twice I have tried the Amana Orange tomato seed, referred to as the “Yellow Brandywine.” They germinated well, but I had a more challenging time getting them to survive the transition from seed tray to garden bed. In all, I had one plant survive, which produced about 8 tomatoes — but they were really, really good as well.

Black Krim (Lycopersicon lycopersicum)

I just wasn’t sure about “purple” tomatoes until I tasted one. They are amazing, with an earthy, almost smoky flavor. The Black Krim is a Russian heirloom that originated in Krim, a Crimean town on the Black Sea. The baseball sized fruits are dark, purple/black.

Black Krim is known to be one of the most reliable of the “black” tomatoes, and our seeds have always germinated and sprouted well.

I like them sliced, but the Black Krim have become the “secret ingredient” in our home-made ketchup, which is more like a tangy barbecue sauce than ketchup. They darken as they cook, so my ketchup actually looks like tar in a jar.

Sure, I have other favorite tomatoes — Money Maker, Mortgage Lifter, Red Oxheart to name a few. But the Brandywine and Black Krim will always be mainstays in our garden.