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Category: seasons

Hidden Blossoms

Hidden Blossoms

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While it’s easy to be captivated by the grand views off the ridges of Shenandoah National Park, one of the prettiest sights I saw yesterday were these pink lady’s slippers. They were tucked behind a stand of (as yet un-bloomed) mountain laurel, as if they were hiding, biding their time. 

Spring is still arriving at 3,000 feet, and many of the trees were still flashing gold at their crowns. Wildflowers we welcomed weeks ago, like buttercups, are in their prime on the slopes.

But no matter the season, the views captivate year-round, whether framed in flaming leaves or spring wildflowers.

The Roses, Again

The Roses, Again

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The climbing roses have burst into bloom. Pale buds are blossoming into creamy pink flowers, are shading the deck table, are hanging overhead even as I write these words.


Does nature produce any flower as lovely as the New Dawn climbing rose? The shiny green foliage, the shy petals, the subtle color, like the barest of blushes.

I trained the roses to shade the deck, to cover the pergola, and now they almost do. As a result, the best view is from a second-floor window — odd, but a feature of this plant, which grows up and out.

And how can you not love a plant like that? One with such high aspirations, with such beauty and patience (because the buds were ready to burst open for weeks it seemed)? One with such poise and determination?

I write about the roses this time every year. I know I’m being repetitive … but I just can’t help myself.

Rough Winds

Rough Winds

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Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May 
And summer’s lease hath far too short a date.

So go the third and fourth lines of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18, which begins with the lines “Shall I compare thee to a summer day?/Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

They’ve been in my mind lately as the brisk winds continue to blow and the gray clouds continue to blot out the sun. It’s been one of the coolest springs on record, and is beginning to bother me — not that there’s a thing I can do about it except try to see the positive side.

And that brings me back to Shakespeare. Because the buds, though shaken, are staying buds longer than usual. They aren’t flowering and fading as quickly as they would if our temperatures were topping 80 each day.

A cool spring may try the patience of one who loves warm weather, but it will, for a few days at least, keep time at bay.

(If the bottom photo looks blurry, it’s because the wind was indeed shaking these fully bloomed knockout roses.) 

Summer Shade

Summer Shade

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Accompanying me on yesterday’s walk was my old friend, shade. There’s always a point in the spring when I notice it’s back. It builds gradually, of course, leaf by leaf. But yesterday it announced itself in sharp lines, patches of light and dark, stripes made of shadow.

We don’t yet need the coolness shade gives us, but we can always use the contrast, one of the great, unappreciated gifts of life. It gives us depth and richness. It gives us variety.

Winter gives us shadows, but they are harsh and linear. Summer brings contrast with softer contours, smudged margins. And it brings us more of it. Summer weather is not yet with us, but summer shade is starting to be.

Good Morning

Good Morning

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A morning rinsed and spun-dry, cleansed by thunderstorms in the night and a cool breeze in the morning. Whereas yesterday was about humidity and heavy possibility, today is quick on its feet, ready to move into the month, into this strange new almost-summer that is upon us.

In the garden, the irises are prepping for their appearance, narrow buds on the Siberian ones and plump buds on the others. The inside birds are singing in the brightness, having spent some of yesterday with heads tucked and wings folded. They are like little barometers. You can almost mark the weather by them, so tied are they to the world outside.

As for the mammals in the house, they have slept late, as they are wont to do these days.


(I snapped this photo about 10 days ago, when the dogwood and azaleas were still in their prime.) 

Catkins!

Catkins!

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The oak catkins are back, draping and dropping, falling from trees onto car, lawn and deck. They’re graceful and gritty, ornery and ornamental. They make my eyes water and my sinuses swell.

These male flowers release pollen to the wind, pollen that finds its way to the female oak flowers to make acorns — and eventually new oak trees. But catkins find many detours from their appointed rounds. They hitch a ride on the soles of shoes, worm their way into houses where they burrow into carpets, slide into corners, and get stuck on the shaggy coats of one old doggie I know.

Years ago, during a catkin-heavy spring, my middle daughter, Claire, decided to start a catkin-removal business. She asked our neighbors if they’d like their driveways swept free of the things, and most of them said yes. Claire did a brisk business. She worked hard for hours, pulling her little wagon up and down the street and loading the catkins there after she’d swept them up.

I’ll never forget her trudging home in the late afternoon, full of smiles. She had a few dollars in her pocket, our neighbor’s driveways were pristine — and she’d brought all the catkins home … to our yard.

Still There

Still There

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Yesterday, I escaped again. This time to walk with another daughter, in an inner rather than an outer suburb —an old neighborhood with houses tucked into hillsides. The iris had popped there, and the dogwood and azaleas have bloomed longer than usual this year, thanks to cooler weather, so they were still in fine array. The flowering trees gave each house and yard the enchantment they deserved.

I’ve said this often (here and elsewhere), but the Washington, D.C., area is at its most beautiful in spring — and this year spring has lasted months.

This particular walk took us to the bluffs above the Potomac River, where we clambered on rocks and rain-slicked trails, through tunnels of foliage colored an eye-popping green. How lovely to be in that place in that moment. How good to have gotten out not once but twice (both for valid reasons, I feel I must add — for exercise and food drop-offs), to see a little more of the world that’s out there. It’s a good reminder, six weeks into quarantine, that it will all still be there when we emerge.

Cold Air, Cut Grass

Cold Air, Cut Grass

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If the aroma of cut grass is the soul of summer, then how do you describe the way it smells on a cold April afternoon? To me there has always been something both melancholic and hopeful about the scent.

It’s the promise of warmth, not the actuality. But it’s also freshness without qualification; when it’s young and hungry, when its juices flow freely.

To catch a whiff of a freshly mown lawn on a brisk spring day is to imagine all the delights that lie in store. But it’s also to imagine how quickly they can wither.

It is the seasonal reverse but the poetic equivalent of what Gerard Manley Hopkins describes in Spring and Fall:

It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Blossoms Remembered

Blossoms Remembered

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It’s been years since I’ve missed seeing D.C.’s famous cherry blossoms. It’s one of my own personal rites of spring — walking beneath the massed pink flowers, petals falling gently on our heads, seeing the city transformed.

There are always crowds: picnickers, photographers, little kids who stray too close to the Tidal Basin. Many people dress up for the occasion, and it’s a favorite for engagement shoots. But the clamor and craziness of it is part of the experience, as are all the times I’ve gone before with my family and with my parents years ago. Those earlier visits are with me each new year when I brave the crowds to see the blossoms again.

This year there are no tourists. Roads are blocked off discouraging congregation. Those who venture down are masked and gloved. They’re maintaining social distance.  I will not be one of them.

But I can imagine what it’s like, can take a virtual walk beneath the trees.

Revisionist Thinking

Revisionist Thinking

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I’ve never cared much for March, an opinion formed in my young adulthood, when I lived in Chicago and became acquainted with the unique form of misery known as a Windy City Spring. March was when the snow melted and you started to see what was lurking underneath. March was known for winds so strong that ropes were strung across open plazas so you could hold on while trudging your way to the bank or bookstore.

But in recent years I’ve been mellowing on March. Global warming may have something to do with it. Or living in the mid-Atlantic. Or perhaps greater tolerance. Whatever the case, I’ve come to understand the unique advantages of a month that can offer you snowstorms and cherry blossoms in one day. I’ve come to admire the variety and bluster of the month.

One word of caution, however. I came up with this post idea while strolling through a drop-dead gorgeous March afternoon yesterday. Every bush and tree seemed to shimmer with seasonal cheer, with growth and forward motion. It was divine. But it’s the 27th. It’s easy to see the advantages of March when it’s almost April. The moral of this story? Beware of revisionist thinking — especially at the end of the month.