Wednesday's Words for April 14, 2010

There can be no doubt whatsoever that spring has sprung. This is not to say that we might not still get a few cold days, or even a dumping of snow. This is southern Ontario, after all, and I’m old enough to remember snow in May.

I know it’s spring because each morning, just before dawn, I hear birds singing, and they are birds I only hear once spring has arrived and they sound so beautiful! What kind of birds are they, you ask? They’re...singing birds.

I know it’s spring because the lawns are all growing. Ours is green and yes, in need of being cut already. Mr. Ashbury isn’t the fan of outdoor work he used to be. He tells me he’s getting too old to cut the grass, so I may have to revert to hiring either a grandson, or a service.

I know it’s spring, because down at the place where I bought my winter tires, they have a sign that advises motorists to “get summer tires now!” I guess I will, in a few more weeks. Like I said, I can remember snow in May.

I know it’s spring because all through the neighbourhood, green shoots are spearing up in gardens, and some lucky residents already have blossoms of crocus and daffodils and narcissus. Notice I said “some lucky residents”. Sadly, my gardens remain barren.

In the fall, my daughter and three of my grandchildren planted bulbs. I know they did, because I was on the porch supervising them. They planted all the above mentioned flowers, and tulips, too.

One of the things I love most about spring is the flowers. When we lived out in the country, in the house that had been my mother’s I didn’t need to worry about spring flowers, for they came up in abundance. We had daffodils and narcissi. We had crocus and grape hyacinth. We had tulips, and lily of the valley! And then, just as those blooms began to fade, we had lilac.

Some days when the breeze was blowing in the right direction, wonderful fragrance filled the air, and my house. It’s been several years since I’ve had spring flowers of my own.

I had great hopes for this spring. I had purchased several boxes of bulbs, and watched as they were planted. But alas, so far, nothing is poking out of the ground.
I would have preferred to have planted the bulbs myself. Unfortunately, my yard is so uneven that manoeuvring over it is difficult. About the only way I can manage, as I would to weed flowers in the summer, is to lie down on the grass and kind of inch myself along, like a worm. Not a problem, and actually I kind of enjoy myself when I do the weeding. But that inch-worm imitation isn’t something to do in the late fall when the ground is cold and wet.

I doubt that planting the bulbs myself would have made a difference, anyway. This doesn’t really surprise me. Sometimes, I can have the worst luck getting simple things to work out. I also bought a raft of bulbs that I thought would go well in the squared off “garden” my beloved had made for himself a few years ago. I envisioned having a “cutting garden” and imagined my house continually blessed with vases of fresh flowers set about here and there throughout the spring.
Unfortunately, the sod would have had to have been turned (I did say the garden had been made a few years ago), and no one was interested in that job. Those bulbs sit in my basement, unloved and unused.

My determination to have at least some spring flowers is strong, and I think I know one way I might still be able accomplish this. I think I’m going to head to the garden center and buy already blooming tulips, daffodils and whatever else I can find in pots (my absolute favourites are the white narcissuses that have the red and yellow accents). Then I can plant them, not in what would have been my cutting garden, but at least in the garden that borders the house itself.

As I was considering this situation, I couldn’t help but recall how a dear friend of mine, now departed from this life, solved a similar dilemma for his wife one spring.
He went to the dollar store, bought plastic flowers, and jammed the stems into the ground. She came home to what appeared to be a profusion of colourful flowers—until she got close, that is.

I’ve never told Mr. Ashbury about this. I don’t want to give him any ideas.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury