I didn't mention this at the time, but spring arrived promptly on February 1st. It was amazing. I was drifting along, minding my own business, and everything burst into blossom overnight. Dark red quince, sweetly pink cherry, glamorous purple and white plum, and various shades of yellow flowering trees suddenly appeared. The cold, gloomy nights have taken on a faintly erotic scent. The bare ground is now textured with scattered petals. Dixie comes home after our walks with tiny pistils (or possibly stamens; I've never actually learned to visually distinguish between them) and a faint dusting of pollen sprinkled on her coat.
If I were any kind of real gardener I'd probably be buzzing with activity right about now. I'm not, though. We had several killing frosts, and I lost all but four plants and some volunteer violets out in the container beds. Besides, my pets have taken over my tiny garden area. They had a big backyard to roam around in back in Nashville, and this city life is a bit of a comedown for them. They tend to hunker down among the rosemary and nibble at it, or just lie on it. Any serious gardening efforts would need to be funneled into hanging containers and so forth, and I'm not all that interested. I find the rapid growth of most plants kind of frightening, if you want to know the truth. Having paperwhites in the house one Christmas creeped me out bigtime.
So spring has definitely sprung, and the flowers are starting to sally forth. I saw the first daffodils this weekend, and the anemones are opening all over town. I like iris and tulips better but they're not due for another month. I'm not sure if I'm mentally ready for spring, though. I prefer the autumn, and I find much to value in the dark, chilly winter months. Winter doesn't last long around here; a month, two months at most, and then the last tattered leaves are barely off the trees before the flowers are pushing buds out along the branches. I haven't had time to grow tired of short days and quiet indoor activities. Now it's going to be nice again, and I won't have a chance to loaf around by the fire listening to the rain patter against the window for months and months. I'll have to put my nice, bulky sweaters away in layers of tissue, and box up my hats and gloves. All the turtlenecks will go back into the container marked Winter. My big wool coat will get its yearly dry-cleaning, and then hang in the back of the closet next to my sporty peacoat and my black leather jacket. I think I'm getting depressed.
Spring, man. It ruins my look.
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