The chipper shredder arrived yesterday.
One of my mother's happiest memories of the early days of her marriage is of finding my father in the kitchen, putting the leftover spaghetti into the dispoal one strand at a time.
It's like that, only much more violent. A very eager machine. Who would have thought that pile of spindly trees had so little sawdust in them? It sure does get rid of of things. It's also noisy enough I think it un-neighborly to run it more than an hour or so at a time, since I would want to hunt me down with a shotgun if I were someone else.
I still plan to make piles of of sticks, brushpiles, for small animals to live in, but not too close to the house. Right now NO WHERE looks tidy, inside the house or out, except possibly the computer screen, and everywhere also wants the investment of time and ideally money. it is quite satisfying to make some of the visual noise disappear. In a cloud of aural noise, but memory of that fades.
The egg mass is doing fine; the little black spheres are turning into commas, and the eggs are getting cloudy (I read that it's an algae and perfectly normal). This may be their father:
This is probably not their father, but it's good to see my frog puddle populated (Frogulated? ranified?) again.
We have a few very local peepers here, too, so they must think my puddle passes muster.
Doug and I and Mena walked up the hill in back to find out if the the colonial-era foundation way up there was a good vernal pond. It is; there were at least four egg masses, and great places for a cat to look cool: