I am every bit an earthy-crunchy, floppy straw hat wearing, dirt-under-my-nails Garden Girl. I married a Country Boy whose first jobs were on farms. His vegetable beds are a wonder of art and science. We are both firm believers in the power of Dirt Therapy. Few things strengthen the body and soothe the soul the way planting, tending, and harvesting plants do.
Winters in New England are long. This one was a mild one, but my gardens remained dormant for months on end. All I could do was flip through seed catalogues, and scroll through garden ideas, and dream of the return of the birds and the greening up of my yard.
As soon as the last of the snow melted, I planted peas in the “Nana & Papa Garden” that we created last year for our grandsons. They are starting to pop, and soon will be climbing the lattice that walls the boys’ fort.
Last week was that week that I wait for all winter. For days the bulbs teased me with promises of bright blooms. Oh how I love bulbs. Planting them in the fall is my rebellious act of hope each year. After the cold, dark months of winter, where burrowing animals and harsh weather threaten their growth, the appearance of daffodils, hyacinths, grape hyacinths, and tulips in a riot of color are the visible sign of renewal and hopes fulfilled.
Wild violets, that I transplanted from my grandfather’s garden decades ago, are cropping up all over the lawn. They are invasive, but they make me smile every time I see them somewhere they don’t belong.
This past week, the forsythia started bursting with yellow blossoms. Then, at last, my weeping cherry tree flowered. The flowers are lacy and delicate, and they only last a few days before the petals all fall like enchanted snowflakes. Before they fall, though, they feed so many bees that the tree hums.
What is making you hum this week?
Sick Pilgrim 