by Mimi Hedl
Blue skies, sunshine on a 20° morning. Yesterday we had a record high of 82°. How do we make sense of this? Although spring won’t arrive for three more weeks we’ve had persistent, unseasonably warm temperatures and then a cold spell. The lilacs have dangerously leafed out, other shrubs and trees have swollen buds. Friends call and ask if they can put out their lemon grass or plant cabbage. We lose ourselves to any sighting of spring. In fact, spring seems like a more potent drug than coffee or alcohol or sugar or you name it. I’ve listened to the motorcycles racing up and down the state road close by, knowing the mostly young riders feel the lure of spring. I do too. I notice my mood lifting, my gait increasing, and my energy level seemingly boundless. (That may be an exaggeration.) Will we crash and burn? Should we wait on ‘traditional’ spring or well, spring forward? Who knows. It’s a gamble. I’m cautious.
While I wait, I watch the earth erupt. I’ve noticed these snowdrops I planted last fall. Remember the tiny bulbs I planted under the short leaf pine? This is what they did this year. I never expected any of them to bloom. That tells me they like the space under this pine and in 40 years they might spread like these have.
Here you’ll see the snowdrops I planted 2 years ago. This avenue in between the witch hazel and beauty berry shrubs has become one of those magical spots I used to find in childhood. Cozy, quiet, away from everything and everyone, a secret hideaway to play with sticks and look at all the wonders high and low. Humming, singing, pretending.
The soil inside this little woodland will make any plant want to luxuriate. As I dig holes for the Little Beauty miniature daffodil, (I had to move them out of a newly made path), the bulb almost leaps out of my hand into its new home. Snug inside, soil pressed, I scoot on to plant another bulb, feeling like that child I once was.
Down at the bald cypress I saw that some native bamboo canes crowded out the blooming daffodils. With pruners in pocket I sat again in a cozy spot and cut canes. Stretching, reaching underneath other canes, to find the offenders who smother the daffodils I saw these spring beauty leaves.
I’d rescued the bulbs from the grass last spring as this spot, under the cypress, should make a much safer spot where the mower can’t reach them. And they look happy. This cypress knee isn’t anything like in the swamps of the southeast but still, it’s a knee!
I walk by the latest sculpture and smile at my tribute to a story about Sambo and the pancakes the family ate after the tigers were turned to butter, or ghee, as they ran around the tree. Our family had the record with a picture book and I listened to the story over and over. Sambo ate 169 pancakes. In this case, the pancakes come from wisteria vines I eradicated and always thought I’d use for something. And once again, time and moisture made them mostly useless. They called out for a use and found one. It doesn’t take much imagination to see them as pancakes.
On another day I hurried to the pond as I heard a commotion. Scores, no hundreds of robins had showed up. They chattered loud and constantly except when they flew to the edge of the pond, almost circling it, and dipped their beaks down into the water, and then up, as if the action was orchestrated. I stood, not moving a hair, and watched them at their party. Oh how they carried on.
I never resist going out to the Park as something always catches my eye. The winter aconite puts on a sunny display and like dandelions they cover the ground. I like to move the tubers as the flowers just appear. They don’t resent the move and the seed that literally explodes from the pods can spread in a fresh location. Maybe these could turn into butter too.
These in between days, when neither the solitude of winter nor the ecstatic energy of spring reign, give me a chance to relax and do whatever the spirit of the day suggests. I look out through the screened in porch and see the daffodils dancing in the breeze, (Wordsworth close by), the hazelnut catkins looking golden from afar. The signs and signals arrive daily. It’s a slow dance, not to be rushed until it all cascades down on us and we can’t keep up and go into our frenzied dance.
Inside I admire the leaves that have opened on the witch hazel branches as the flowers fade. The veins look delicate, intricate and a little puffy, like seersucker. I have a front row seat to this unveiling and the other wonders of the in between days.
How I Learned to Cook, an Artist's Life ─ Barbara Shark 