A Sure Sign

Day 103: And what is this I see? Why, it's the nose of Spring, poking out from under the covers, waking, but not yet ready to get out of bed. Timely that I polished off the last of the frozen rhubarb in a vitamin-C laden crumble last week, anticipating this year's crop, for that is what this is: the first leaf-bud of rhubarb, and a sure sign that the gardening season is on the cusp. My plant, given to me some years ago by a friend, has finally established itself with a vengeance. I too have joined the ranks of people who ask, "Do you want some fresh rhubarb?" of our acquaintances. Unlike zucchini growers, though, I know of no one who leaves bundles of this heritage comestible in the backs of strangers' pickup trucks or, like foundlings, on unattended doorsteps.

Spring Has Sprung!

Day 163: There are many variations on the poem, but I learned it as follows:

Spring has sprung,
The grass is riz,
I wonder where
The daisies is?

I don't know that you could stretch the definition of "daisy" far enough to encompass primroses, and the word's reach certainly does not extend to forsythia nor to rhubarb, so let's just say that the first colours are out, giving us a foretaste of what is to come. The gardening bug has bit me, and the number of seed flats and pots in my east window is growing almost daily, with marks on the calendar for the optimum planting dates for a variety of flower and vegetable seeds. Some species are ones I've never grown before like Mexican Sour Gherkins, one-inch cucumbers which resemble tiny watermelons and can be enjoyed straight off the vine. Others are my old stand-bys: Gazanias, marigolds, Calendula, cosmos. Not a square inch of prepared bed will be wasted, but neither will I plant according to a plan. I like the look of what I call a "scatter garden," plants and seeds stuck willy-nilly wherever space allows, to be a floral crazy-quilt at the peak of the flowering season. I do try to keep the border low and the back high, but there are always a few strays and volunteers with other ideas, particularly the sunflowers planted by my little avian friends for their personal harvest. Bring your paint pots and brushes, Summer! My garden is a canvas for your most expressionistic art.

Rhubarb Uprising

Day 155: Last summer, one of my Park friends asked me if I wanted some rhubarb roots after presenting me with a jar of rhubarb jam. I said yes, and she brought down one enormous clump in a box just as we were about to enter a spell of hot weather. I sectioned the root mass into two parts with skill and precision, which is to say I took a sharp-bladed shovel to the middle of it on the premise that if one half died, the other would probably survive, and bedded them in behind the house, lavishly watered. It took a few days before something sidetracked me and I forgot completely about their needs in time of stress, and the next time I looked at them (maybe two weeks later), they were in a sad state. This is typical of my gardening. I plant it, and if it survives my lackadaisical caregiving, it's all well and good. If it dies, I plant something different. Rhubarb is tough stuff, hard to kill even when you try. Both roots survived, and are now putting up stems and leaves. Hopefully, they'll do double duty, serving both as ingredients for pie and jam as well as shading out a few survivors of my ministrations which I wish I hadn't planted in the first place.