Vestiges

or Skeletons in the Closet

A few years ago I was hanging out with an international group of friends, trading favorite figures of speech and laughing at the way the idioms translated into our different languages.  Somehow the phrase "fixin' to" came up, and I can still see the delight on one friend's face—his joy at this manner of saying that no, you're not doing anything yet, but you might be at any time; that while you may look idle, you're actually working on thinking about getting ready to accomplish something.  Soon(ish).

Of course, it's a lot more fun being the one who's fixin' to do something than the one waiting for it to happen.  Right now, when winter is fixin' to head for another hemisphere and spring is fixin' to arrive, there's a lot of anticipation floating around without anything to attach itself to.  It's actually one of my favorite times of year, despite how painful the suspense can become.  Every day the excitement builds, and some tiny but significant change rewards your vigil—a twig that's come to life with richer color,  a bud that's opened up a hairline fracture in a bleary, Monday-morning peek at the world, a single leaf flaunting its green enthusiasm amid the skeletons of winter.

Make no mistake:  those skeletons still predominate, old snake-skin remnants of the previous year—the trimmed stalks and leaf-mulch, the sprawling dead growth on plants that still need cushioned against frost, the bare earth where the mulch has blown away.  This is actually the one time of year when I'm embarrassed to have people see the garden, as if all those skeletons are skeletons in the closet—as if this phase of transition is something to hide from all but the most tolerant eyes.

And yet, the vestiges of winter have their beauty, too—a decomposing leaf with its warp and woof unraveling, a study of tensile strength and fragility; the haphazard palisades of tarragon stalks, protecting tender new growth; the paisley swirls of dried leaves punctuated by dots of green.

I will not miss winter when it goes, but despite the suspense and the eager wait for greenery and blossoms, I may as well enjoy it while it stays.  To try to see winter beauty on spring terms is to miss it altogether—almost as pointless as berating winter because it hasn't yet yielded to spring.

After all, it's fixin' to.

Waterloo

or A Fateful Day

A vicious Arctic blast? No problem.

Snow and ice? Please.

Gale-force winds and sub-zero temperatures? It is to scoff.

As you may recall from a recent post, the Lady Jane tulips were more than a match for the winter storm we had a couple of weeks ago. Confronted by nastier weather than we almost ever encounter, they grew, they thrived, they flourished. They welcomed whatever Mother Nature threw at them—welcomed it and quite possibly danced a breathless tango with it. They had the fire of spring coursing through their little botanical veins, and mere weather—the weather that brought two-thirds of the country to a standstill—could not stop them.

And yet, they have since met their Waterloo:

Sir Marley.  The neighbor's cat.  Don't be deceived by that heavenly beam of light.  It is a trick of the camera, nothing more, and an accidental trick at that.  (In any case it is certainly nothing angelic.)  I would like to say that Sir Marley used some brilliant Wellington-ian strategy to defeat my poor tulips, that they met their fates honorably in a battle which, really, could have gone either way.  But I can't.

He sat on them.

I believe he also napped on them and may quite possibly have rolled on them, as the ground has warmed up nicely this week, and the garden is pleasantly sheltered from the wind, and napping and rolling become irresistible to cats in these circumstances.  I even sympathize with him, because it really has been a gorgeous week.  As someone who was not planning to celebrate spring by rolling in the dirt, however, but by reveling in the eventual sight of cheerful spring flowers, I am a little disgruntled.  I do wish that pet owners would remember that they are responsible for their pets whether on or off their own property.  But, since they won't, I will break out the heavy, cat-repelling artillery.  (Garlic pellets, here we come.)

If you have any brilliant Wellington-ian strategies to offer I'd love to hear them...