Patch Blog: Spring on the Cityfarm

has come and gone and I don't even know what Punxsutawney Phil ended up doing. Did he come out to meet the spring or has he retreated to his burrow to sleep off what is left of winter? Either way it matters little to us in sunny Northeast Los Angeles.  

Our seasonal changes are much more mild. Still, though we have a green winter rather than a white one, the subtle hints of spring are upon us already. Here are some signs of Spring on .

Deciduous Blooms

I'm always amazed at how quickly the buds of deciduous trees swell and awaken from their winter's slumber. For months, the trees are dormant skeletons of their former selves, then from one day to the next, their buds swell like so many expectant mothers. Each day they grow imperceptibly bigger until they suddenly and colorfully burst into life.

Even here, against the backdrop of knee-high wild oats and foxtails, this awakening of the bare trees seems a miracle. It is easy to see why, in colder climates, where winter is frozen and severe, the first signs of spring were akin to life after death and reincarnation. For ancient people the world over spring was a time of magic, wonder, hope. It was a sign from the earth, the gods or God that life was beginning again. Looking at the gaudy pink flowers of a peach tree in full bloom or the delicate light pink blossoms of an apple, it's hard to disagree.

Chickens and Ducks

The increase in daylight hours also plays a major role in this rebirth. From the winter solstice on December 21, our daylight has started to slowly increase. This increase signals to birds of all sort that spring is coming, triggering their reproductive systems back into action. The result: an abundance of chicken and duck eggs for the first time in months.

Why is it then that there are always eggs at the store, even in the heart of winter? Most chickens are kept on artificial lighting, tricking their bodies into thinking it is perpetually spring. It's a good thing for humans as many people use more eggs in the winter as their baking habits increase.

Our chickens and ducks, on the other hand, are kept on natural lighting so their bodies are allowed to rest in the winter. Egg production starts dropping slowly after the summer solstice until by late November it drops to a trickle.

While this drop in production is a moderate inconvenience to us, it was an absolute crisis for our forebears. While the birds stop laying in the winter, they certainly do not stop eating. In the not so distant past it was difficult enough for humans to survive the winter, let alone bring along an ark of fowl. This is the reason why on most farms chickens were culled in the early winter. A farmer would typically keep a dozen or so hens, a couple of roosters and eat everyone else. The remaining chickens would be the starter flock for the next generation and would be fed table scraps, grain gleanings and vegetable cullings to get them through the winter. The unlucky birds would help the farmer's family make it through winter, their bodies providing an important source of protein when little else was available.

When the flock started laying again in the spring it seemed a miracle to ancient--and not so ancient--people. Indeed when I start finding eggs again in the nest boxes, there is a certain warmth that fills me. I can't quite explain why, as my life does not depend on these eggs, nor do I live in a climate zone with a barren, bitter winter. I can't explain it, but when I see those eggs it's as if somewhere deep down, I'm connected to a time when finding eggs after a long, dark winter was a heralding of spring and a sign that another winter had been survived.

Grass and Sheep

Even the hills of Northeast L.A. change colors with the seasons, from a living green to a dry yellow and back again with the renewing rains. Spring finds the grasses tall and going to seed. From a distance, the hills seem just as green in spring as they do when the grass first starts growing in November, like stubble on a chin. 

The annual grasses that account for the changing colors on NELA’s hills, are introduced species originally brought by the Spanish. Whether they were brought as pasture crops for their sheep and cattle or were unintended stowaways in cultivated grain seed matters not as they have come to dominate the landscape. Two species in particular have thrived: the common wild oat (Avena fatua) and the foxtail or wild barley. Both species have barbed seeds that catch in your shoes and socks and can be deadly to dogs. Both species have choked out most of the native annuals and many of the low growing native perennial species on our hillsides. Both species are delicacies to sheep.

Our sheep love the spring. The grass is green and tender but tall, and starting to form carbohydrate rich seed heads; the temperatures are mild. It’s a downright sheep’s paradise in contrast to summer with its scorching heat and dry grass.

Like the peach and apple buds, our ewes have been swelling themselves. They are coming to the end of their five month gestation and we are expecting lambs soon, long before the grass turns brown.

Native Plants

Spring also brings changes to the native plants around us. The deciduous black walnuts are budding out like the peaches and apples but instead of pretty colored flowers they bud into caterpillar-like catkins, hanging from the stems. Sometimes deciduous, the Blue Elderberry have come back to life, with a rush of green leaves--the flowers to come later. The Toyon has stopped fruiting and what berries the birds--or sheep--have missed have started to dry on the tree, making them palatable to us at last. Poised to pop, the lemonade berry’s flower buds are quietly swelling by the millions. Laurel Sumac grows faster than all others and in the spring, its new growth is red. Lastly, the spiky green balls of the wild cucumber are growing larger and hanging on fences, trees or any other structure their vines can manage to climb. They are still green and tender, but like much on our hills, they will soon be brittle, dead and dry, awaiting the rains to awaken them once more.