This morning it was 32 degrees and we had our first frost of the year. It was more than three weeks early from our average frost date. The last few days we have collected flower pots and trimmed them placing each in the greenhouse to over winter. Yesterday, Eva and I took cuttings of some of our favorite plants and started to root them for next spring. Having a greenhouse is a wonderful. For six months of the year to stands idle and blazing hot inside. Then in the blink of an eye, it is full of plants and flowers, cuttings and in time seedlings. I love to go in there on the coldest of days and see the summer flowers still in bloom.

On the farm we have almost finished insulating water pipes that for some reason every year loose their protective wrapping. Water boxes are closed and insulated and outside faucets covered. The release valve on the back of the lake is serviced, valve opened to flush the stand pipe releasing a gush of water from the 16 inch pipe, and then we close the valve to just a crack allowing water to flow all winter and hopefully avoid freezing. Did you know that water expands 11% at 27 degrees. That is enough to bust a valve.

James Whitcomb Riley (1853-1916) has been attributed to the phrase we often hear this time of the year; "We had frost on the pumpkin last night". His seasonal poem is appropriate on this day.


When the Frost Is on the Pumpkin
 
WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
 
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
 
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
 
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
 
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
         
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
 
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
 
  
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
 
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—
  
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
 
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
 
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
 
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
 
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—
  
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
 
  
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
 
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
 
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
 
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
  
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
 
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
 
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
 
  
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
  
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
 
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
 
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...
 
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be
 
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—
  
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—
 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.