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Score One for Spring

Score One for Spring

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When I looked out my office window yesterday morning, the world was an unremitting winter gray, with just a touch of green from the grass and hollies.

Today, I see three sprays of yellow witch hazel, which burst into partial bloom with the afternoon’s balmy warmth.

We’ll see how those spare blossoms fare now, with temperatures falling into the 40s and a wild northwest wind battering the bamboo and waving the sweet gum branches.

I remind myself that the witch hazel is hardy and used to such shenanigans. It’s bloomed in far worse. Plus … those small yellow flowers are out among us now — and there’s nothing that winter can do about that.

(The witch hazel in two feet of snow in 2010.) 
Welcome Fog

Welcome Fog

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I woke up to a meteorological marvel, at least in these parts, something we seldom see around here. Morning fog is a soft way to begin the day; it blurs the edges of the world. It may also be giving the groundhog the conditions it needs to predict an early spring, but I won’t count on that.

For now, I’m content to look out my study window at birds perching on the chicken wire, awaiting their turn at the feeder. At the squirrels, hatching their next plan to commandeer the suet block. At the red fox, skulking behind the covered garden bench at the far end of the yard.

Every time I glimpse that bench, which is often, I think for a moment that I’m seeing the tiny playhouse we had when the children were small. It has the same outline, the same lightness against the dark green backdrop of the fencerow. 

But that place was torn down long ago, my girls are all grown up with families of their own. And I’m welcoming the fog, which promises a soft beginning to this new day.

Staying Alive

Staying Alive

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The thermometer said 12 this morning, but I already knew it was frigid from the near non-stop furnace activity I’d heard since waking. 

The birds have no such heat source. They must keep moving, keep eating, or perish. So I watch cardinals and jays and sparrows and grackles flit out and back, up and down. They cluster around the feeder, drain it in hours. In between, they fluff their feathers and bury themselves deep in the azalea bush.

Downy woodpeckers nibble at the suet block. Sometimes a pileated woodpecker joins them. The squirrels want in on the action, too. Why they don’t partake of the large pile of seed on the ground below the feeder I’ll never know. I think they just like to mess with us.

Wild Kingdom

Wild Kingdom

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The hawk is back, and so is the fox. I’ve seen both within the last few days, the fox as recently as this morning, trotting along the back fence line, looking for breakfast, I suppose.

This is of some concern to us now, since “breakfast” is right here in the house. I’m speaking of Motet, our canine visitor for the winter, an Arizona dog come to stay during the coldest, snowiest season we’ve had in years. 

Either one of the wild critters wouldn’t mind munching on Motet, so she will be restricted to supervised play for the time being.

The wild kingdom … who knew it was as close as the backyard? 

(This relatively close-up view made possible by my new camera!)

Brave Buds

Brave Buds

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When life is limited, as it continues to be these days, I look for small changes. Walking routes are one of them. So I left the neighborhood, turned right instead of heading straight, and trudged along a busy four-lane road.

This took me past a nursery with plants I always admire, plants that look as pretty in winter as they do in summer, one with berries and one a yellowed evergreen.

How lovely the winter garden can be: how various the textures, how lively the stems. It’s as if we see the plants for what they truly are, the skeletons and the souls of them. 

In January, spent grasses nod their heads, brave buds raise their chins. All are waiting, waiting. If you listen carefully, you can hear them exhale.

Spring Planting

Spring Planting

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For the last week or so I’ve been slipping into the backyard when inside chores are done to plant iris, allium and daffodils.  I usually miss the sunniest part of the afternoon, so it’s a wintry chore as I dig into the hard clay soil. 

But it has a spring purpose. It’s a vote of confidence, a leap of faith made in deep winter, when boughs lie leafless, that green will come again, that these packets of potential will send down roots and bring forth flowers. 

Today I barely finished before sunset. But nine more narcissus bulbs are in the ground, and at five minutes a bulb, I figure we are 45 minutes closer to spring.

Red-Shouldered Hawk

Red-Shouldered Hawk

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My eyes are generally glued to the screen these days as I sit in my office, finishing up the paper due next week. But they do catch peripheral movement: a disruption of the leaves in the back of the yard, where there are still leaves left to rustle. 

On Wednesday, this wasn’t just any disruption. It was a bird so large that at first I thought it might be a squirrel. It had landed near a patch of bald earth and appeared to be scratching the ground. But it was almost out of my line of sight and I couldn’t be sure. 

Then a shudder of the wings, a springing into air. Either the squirrel had flown or this was a large bird of prey. It landed in the spindly weeping cherry, on a branch that barely seemed large enough to support it. 

And there it sat for many minutes, long enough to take a photograph, to view it through binoculars, to note its markings well enough that I can almost definitely say it was a red-shouldered hawk. Long enough that I could marvel at this beautiful wild thing perched nonchalantly on a tree in the backyard. 

Inside Again

Inside Again

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The house this morning has the feel of Noah’s ark two days into the 40. Only it’s not animals seeking refuge this morning; it’s plants.

As temperatures plunged into the 20s, we brought in the ferns and the spider plant and the cactus. They are hunkered down here where temps are in the upper 60s, heading for a high of 70 once the furnace moves to its daytime setting. Because some of the plants are so large they must be moved in on little dollies, they will stay inside now till spring.

The moving of the plants is one of those autumnal rites of passage I try to put off as long as possible. Turning on the heat in the house is another one. On both accounts we’ve made it to November, which I can hardly complain about.

But I will add a wistful note, a plea to the weather gods. It’s nothing personal, nothing against the plants themselves. But I hope it won’t be long before they can be outside again.

From A to Zinnia

From A to Zinnia

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The end of a gardening season is a good time to ponder next year’s plan … and next year I’ll plant more zinnias. Next year, I’ll welcome their hues and warmth into my life. Next year I’ll be bolder.

This year, I sowed a few zinnia seeds out front and back. But it was late in the season, a half-hearted attempt. This was the only survivor, a stalk that craned its neck toward the sun and produced one forlorn flower that bloomed a few days ago. 

Next year, I’ll start seeds indoors in egg cartons. I’ll nurture those babies with sprinkles and grow lights. And when the soil is warm I’ll transplant them into sunny spots in the garden I’ll prepare soon. 

It’s October, spring promises are easy to make — and the imaginary garden has no end of delights.

(Zinnia bouquet photo courtesy Drilnoth, Wikimedia Commons)

Golden Leaves

Golden Leaves

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Midway through this mellow month, I sit outside at my “deck desk” with the backyard spread before me. The grass looks far less lush than it did a few months ago, the brown patches more numerous. But much effort has gone into that lawn, and I appreciate the grassy patches where they grow.

At the far back of the lot sits the new garden bench, its right side ever so slightly higher than its left, a detail I noticed only after I had posted the photo in a post about its arrival. 

That small imperfection fits the yard, melds perfectly with the weeds and the section of missing fence and the stray patches of poison ivy that are still here despite our best efforts. 

It’s not a pristine backyard, but there are birds chirping and ornamental grasses flourishing and golden leaves that catch the light.