What’s happening outside is astounding. Capricious Mother Nature, inexplicably bored with her black-and-white world, has reminded us that her palette is rich whenever she wants it to be. Fluffy pink apple blossoms, vivid blue hyacinths, yellow daffs, Stella Magnolia’s flowers and my roses’ countless pink, yellow and red buds prove that. Trees are fuzzy with the clean green that only baby leaves can boast. And it’s just mid-March!
The overheated air is thick with promise – and work. Exhausted, I sigh, almost missing snow, and the time to breathe. Nature’s discarded her usual slow, coy seasonal seduction and plunked down an instant, hot spring. Hungry birds hunt shocked, sleepy worms, who nervously dive deeper. Cheeps begin at O-dark-hundred. Feathered architects are busily building bungalows using straw fliggits and twigs carried high into my trees, or onto tower windowsills. Their artistically woven nests are padded with fluffy miscanthus grass plumes and half-inch bits of soft gray hair I’d tossed outside after lopping Joe’s mop.
Alley cats stretch and smoothe their whiskers, pondering future possibilities.
When I left town two weeks ago for Saginaw, sixteen inches of heavy snow blanketed this ground. Six days later I’d returned to find bewildered mice sheltering in garage crevices. Their intricate under-snow tunnels and rooms had suddenly vanished, leaving the rodents exposed. Spring was that sudden. (Mountainous black snow-scabs heaped high in the schoolyard are all that remain of winter’s recent mega-dump.)
Today, while I was on my knees in the front garden removing autumn’s snow-flattened leaves from the flowerbeds, a lady slowed her car, rolled down her window and yelled, “You really are optimistic, uncovering beds now! Is that wise?”
Grinning, I rose, dusted my knees and shrugged. “Actually, I don’t have a choice. With this unprecedented heat everything’s rocketing skyward so rapidly – plants in the secret garden are nine inches high and growing more than an inch a day – that even working nine-hour days I may not finish in time. The secret garden's registering 94 degrees for the fourth straight day. Outrageous! If I don’t do May’s work right now, it won’t be possible. ”
I looked down. Near my booted foot a handsome male mallard was quacking endearments to his ladylove, who stood a few feet away, amused, but clearly interested. He waddled closer and they necked. Orange feet flapped through the newly cleaned beds as their courting behavior continued.
“Jeez,” said I, chuckling, “even the ducks are heating up! Animals know when it’s courting time... So - cross my fingers - my garden should be fine.”
The lady laughed, waved and motored away, weaving carefully through a flat-footed flock of hopeful, iridescent male mallards cruising the street and lawns looking for love.
A fat dandelion under my boots showed off rich, saw-bladed greenery. I absently plucked it out and filled the hole, still cursing those mousey paths bisecting the back lawn: mending them might take weeks. But wait! What if it had been a mole? I shuddered.
BAM! THUNK! KA-WHAP! An outraged bird battled a mirror-rival, leaving his powdery outline on the glass. I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore the noise. My shovel chinked as it slid past pebbles and bit into the soft earth. Mallards quacked love; squirrels scrabbled up and down tree trunks chasing fluffy-tailed ladies; Les fired up his chainsaw to amputate the garden’s nine huge, snow-flattened grasses; my pruners snapped at winter-blackened stems and vines. A car cruised by, emanating deep bass sounds that advertise a young, unattached human male. Spring is awash in sounds, the smell of fresh paint, and new life.
Ready or not, ladies and gentlemen, Madame Nature’s spring-tuned engine is revving…the flag is down –
We’re OFF!
The overheated air is thick with promise – and work. Exhausted, I sigh, almost missing snow, and the time to breathe. Nature’s discarded her usual slow, coy seasonal seduction and plunked down an instant, hot spring. Hungry birds hunt shocked, sleepy worms, who nervously dive deeper. Cheeps begin at O-dark-hundred. Feathered architects are busily building bungalows using straw fliggits and twigs carried high into my trees, or onto tower windowsills. Their artistically woven nests are padded with fluffy miscanthus grass plumes and half-inch bits of soft gray hair I’d tossed outside after lopping Joe’s mop.
Alley cats stretch and smoothe their whiskers, pondering future possibilities.
When I left town two weeks ago for Saginaw, sixteen inches of heavy snow blanketed this ground. Six days later I’d returned to find bewildered mice sheltering in garage crevices. Their intricate under-snow tunnels and rooms had suddenly vanished, leaving the rodents exposed. Spring was that sudden. (Mountainous black snow-scabs heaped high in the schoolyard are all that remain of winter’s recent mega-dump.)
Today, while I was on my knees in the front garden removing autumn’s snow-flattened leaves from the flowerbeds, a lady slowed her car, rolled down her window and yelled, “You really are optimistic, uncovering beds now! Is that wise?”
Grinning, I rose, dusted my knees and shrugged. “Actually, I don’t have a choice. With this unprecedented heat everything’s rocketing skyward so rapidly – plants in the secret garden are nine inches high and growing more than an inch a day – that even working nine-hour days I may not finish in time. The secret garden's registering 94 degrees for the fourth straight day. Outrageous! If I don’t do May’s work right now, it won’t be possible. ”
I looked down. Near my booted foot a handsome male mallard was quacking endearments to his ladylove, who stood a few feet away, amused, but clearly interested. He waddled closer and they necked. Orange feet flapped through the newly cleaned beds as their courting behavior continued.
“Jeez,” said I, chuckling, “even the ducks are heating up! Animals know when it’s courting time... So - cross my fingers - my garden should be fine.”
The lady laughed, waved and motored away, weaving carefully through a flat-footed flock of hopeful, iridescent male mallards cruising the street and lawns looking for love.
A fat dandelion under my boots showed off rich, saw-bladed greenery. I absently plucked it out and filled the hole, still cursing those mousey paths bisecting the back lawn: mending them might take weeks. But wait! What if it had been a mole? I shuddered.
BAM! THUNK! KA-WHAP! An outraged bird battled a mirror-rival, leaving his powdery outline on the glass. I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore the noise. My shovel chinked as it slid past pebbles and bit into the soft earth. Mallards quacked love; squirrels scrabbled up and down tree trunks chasing fluffy-tailed ladies; Les fired up his chainsaw to amputate the garden’s nine huge, snow-flattened grasses; my pruners snapped at winter-blackened stems and vines. A car cruised by, emanating deep bass sounds that advertise a young, unattached human male. Spring is awash in sounds, the smell of fresh paint, and new life.
Ready or not, ladies and gentlemen, Madame Nature’s spring-tuned engine is revving…the flag is down –
We’re OFF!