Proclamations are everywhere, though technically spring’s still around the corner: the sun’s out, it’s warmish, there’s birdsong again and gamboling lambs, the clincher.
Lambs, Ewes available nearby, the Ram a formidable sentinel, I thought I would bust discreetly through a flock on my way up the hill. I noticed the horns, but thought sheep are sheepish, right? Big-horned Rams and over-protective Ewes (wouldn’t you be?) with their sweet babies all around? And they are called Rams after all; I walked another way.
Rhubarb stalks, bulbous and erotic, bursting through last year’s now-rotted leftovers. Its leaves and bulbs are vivid studies in color and texture, its dark rot enlivened by the pink and green growth it nurtures.
Plus, I smell a pie down the road.
Lush spring drama, the crocus are having their burlesquish moment in the sun.
Parsley over wintered and now renews itself .
Tiny buds everywhere.
Nature’s minimalism won’t last long.
I’ll begin my garden again next week with radish, mesclun and snow peas. In the meantime, there’s much from last year renewing itself: rhubarb, artichokes, kale and chard, a tiny bunch of lettuce somehow survived, the parsley, the herbs are waking up. Buds on the cherry tree are appearing.
Spring is the season my grandmother yearned for, especially in her nineties. Dark winters exacerbated loneliness, but the reawakening of her well-tended, lavish garden was motivation for making it through another long winter. It was her light; she reignited and achieved liftoff for another year. On March 20th, her birthday, we celebrate the whole magnificent hodge-podge of life and renewal with her. She lived, fully lived, a century. And she knew how to live locally and seasonally in the way those born in 1899 had to know. Leo Martha Hearing Shintaffer, it’s spring again.