Spring

Day 144: We've come 'round the corner of winter. Not only are the Snowdrops in bloom, last night I heard the Pacific Chorus Frogs singing on the far side of the pasture, no doubt inspired by several days with highs in the 60s. Their music is one of the most delightful things to my ear, and it's soon to be followed by another: the plaintive note of the Varied Thrush. I'm ready. And I'm ready for the First Day of Skunk Cabbage, but that won't come for another two weeks or so. There is such joy to be found in Nature, even when all else is the stuff of nightmares. Snowdrops, frogs, Skunk Cabbage...they give me hope.

The Snowdrops Know

Day 112: The Groundhog has been known to be wrong. I place far more trust in the Snowdrops' prognostications. They are telling me that winter is fading, yielding to the life force beneath the surface of the soil. Their enthusiasm is undeniable, undeterred by a layer of ice or snow as they push their way through frozen ground. "Delicate," some call them, or "dainty," but I see them as determined and unstoppable, the advance guard of a wave of blooms which will progress steadily into summer. Earlier even than crocuses and daffodils, Snowdrops proclaim the Spring.

Transplants

Day 151: Several years back, I was bulling my way through brush on an abandoned and badly overgrown logging road with no other reason than wanting to see where it ended when a little fleck of white caught my eye. "Snowdrops?" I said. "In the middle of bloody nowhere?" That to me was an invitation. Some time later (it might have been a year or more), I ventured on the same journey again, this time with a trowel and plastic bag in hand, thinking I'd dig a few out of the soil to take home to put in my garden. I was not thinking in terms of "overgrown logging road" when I made my plans, and thus was moderately surprised when my trowel penetrated only the top half inch of moss before striking hard, compacted rock. No amount of force, physical or linguistic, could release the bulbs from their prison. I had just about given up on the project, intending to come back with dynamite (or at the very least, a pry bar) when I spotted a few near the edge of the roadbed. The rock was less consolidated there, and I was able to free up about a dozen bulbs. From that rough beginning, I now have a nice little patch of one of my favourite spring flowers, enough that I may move a few further along the northside flower bed where they will be welcome to spread to their hearts' content.

Where There's Life...

Day 96: Yeah, yeah, I know. You're getting really tired of weaving posts. You have to realize that it's winter here in the Pacific Northwest, which means that it's mostly gloomy and wet. And even if it wasn't gloomy and wet, some of us scientifically-minded types would rather not take chances with the new covid strains even though we're vaccinated to the max. In other words, I don't have many opportunities to explore strange new woodlands, to seek out new fungi and new plant rarities, or to boldly go where no one has fallen down before. I've been doing these daily posts for thirteen years now and it's always been difficult to find material in the winter, but the Pandemic Winters have been far, far worse. To that end, I have often wasted time prowling my yard for oddities worth mention, seldom finding any. However, I've been watching for signs of growth in the garden, and today I found a handful of Snowdrops peeking through the ground. Spring, then, must be just around the corner. Where there's life, there's hope.

Skunk's Howe

Day 129: The snowdrops are blooming on Skunk's Howe. It has been just shy of three years since our kitty-girl left us, and sometimes I think Tippy misses her as much as I do. I've seen him catch her scent on a favourite toy, on a blanket, and the questioning "Mirrl?" he directs to me as he makes eye contact defies any suggestion of anthropomorphization that might arise. If I could think as he does, I might understand his emotions better, but although I cannot do so, they are as genuine as my own. Humans, prideful and pitiful subjects that we are, cannot even bridge the gap of cultural differences among our own kind. How can we possibly hope to comprehend how another species thinks and emotes? What goes through Tippy's kitty-mind when he remembers Skunk? Would a human recognize the emotion, or would it be entirely alien? We have a long way to go in our evolution before that question can be answered.

Heralds Of Spring

Day 95: Spring is still around a pretty sharp corner at this point, but the snowdrops will be ready to greet it with open arms. I even noticed a few daffodil "toots" poking up through the detritus of last year's garden. It is time to open the seed catalogs, time to dream of vegs and flowers, time to check the supply of pots and soil, and to have all in readiness for planting. This generation, the computer generation, misses out on one of the most delightful springtime occupations: leafing through page after page of unimaginably perfect produce and lush, vivid mats of coloured blooms. It's just not the same, clicking link after link on a computer screen. I have to wonder if seed sales are down because it's such a tedious process. We called them "wish books," those catalogs which soon became dog-eared with repeated perusal. They let us compare, review, reference, and all with only a quick turn of a piece of flimsy paper. There was no waiting for the images to load. They were right there, right before your eyes: tomatoes in Technicolor, ranks of radishes, lavish lettuces and a fantasy of floral beauty one could almost smell. Mine invariably found a place on the kitchen table where I could enjoy them with my meals, dreaming of fresh corn and red-ripe strawberries. Yes, it's time to start looking ahead, and I can tell you this: the companies which will get my business are those which still send me printed material which, in a pinch, I could compost or use as mulch.

Avalanche

Day 138: Last night, I dreamt I was caught in an avalanche. Is it any wonder? There is one in my front flower bed, emerging from the recent showers of snow and hail as a drift of nodding bells. If not as colourful as the crocuses, they are left alone by the deer and raccoons whose ravages taught me not to replant their snack bar, although it took several years for the lesson to sink in. Suffice to say that I was happy when I found "volunteer" snowdrops in a corner of the forest where they had been discarded by some land owner, and relocated a trowel's-worth to my garden. I have since divided them, placing another grouping in the shady niche where Skunk, my old kitty, is laid to rest. She has violets, grape hyacinth and a smattering of daffodils as well. In the spring, I travel with a shovel/trowel, bucket or box or plastic bags as asked by the specific journey. You never know what cast-off treasure you might find, begging to be lifted from ignominy and given a nurturing home.

Snowdrift

Day 135: Dear little Snowdrops! Your enthusiastic encouragement of the weather toward sun and warmer temperatures is inspiring, if a little unrealistic when one compares the drift of your immaculate blossoms to the whitened hills rising above your beds. I see you shivering in the wind despite your valiant efforts to deny its chill, and not a one of you casts a shadow detectable by my despairing eye. Still, I take heart in your courage as you dare the clouds to part and the buds of hazel, maple and ash to burst, and I see you as you attempt to coax the daffodils into putting on a performance for the equinox. Will the crocuses join them, and the lilacs? Please, dear Snowdrops, draw them out of hiding to colour my yard with their cheer. The winter has gone on too long and should be retired from service to make way for the grace of flowers.

Harbingers

Day 127: Almost! I think I find the snowdrops' pendent buds more pleasurable to the eye than their fully-opened flowers. They hint at the broadening of daylight and warmer breezes, the retreat of snow from the rolling foothills, and dare to suggest by their pure white that more raucous, rambunctious colour is yet to come in the garden and the alpine meadows. They are the toe in the doorway of winter, peddling the wares of a brighter and festive spring. Ahead of the grape hyacinths and daffodils by weeks, they sprint through the winner's tape unchallenged, in a clear victory over frost and cold. Cheer the humble snowdrop as it dispels grey, lumbering clouds and calls out to the sun. Hurrah for the harbingers of spring!

Purloined Snowdrops

Day 103: My walk on the Bud Blancher Trail a few days back was multi-purpose. I needed photographic material for posts. I needed to get Out. And I wanted to see if the Snowdrops had come through the ground in my secret spot. I had a cunning plan which involved a small plastic bag and a well-worn trowel, items which have served me in good stead many times over, including previously at my target location. I'm not quite sure who owns the property. At least one of the locals uses it for a post-hunt bone dump, although it seems to be on the boundary of Pack Forest. In any event, the Snowdrops are not native. However they managed to establish up an abandoned and overgrown path is anyone's guess, but apparently they've been there for years. They are quite well entrenched, the bulbs often buried deeply under a layer of heavy gravel which resists my most vigorous efforts to budge it. My previous excavation hasn't diminished the Snowdrop population, and in fact the fruits of my prior labours should be blooming in my front flower bed in the next few weeks. However, on this occasion, I wanted to bring home another small batch to plant on Skunk's grave with the grape hyacinths, daffodils and violets I've put there previously. My old kitty-girl has been gone almost a year now, and both Tippy and I miss her. It occurred to me only a few days ago that she had been with me longer than any other creature except my late husband, and that, only by a few months. I think Snowdrops are a fitting tribute.

Resilience

Day 165: My snowdrops had already formed buds when our mild winter turned suddenly cold and snowy a month ago, and soon found themselves buried beneath an 18" thick blanket of white. While I expected them to survive almost anything Nature could throw at them, I wasn't too sure if their resilience would carry them through the additional insult of having the driveway glacier shovelled onto their heads. I hadn't thought about it when Kevin and Daniel appeared unexpectedly in my yard to dig me out; I was too grateful to think about anything beyond being able to get to the grocery store before June. It wasn't until I went out to get the mail later that day that I saw where the driveway snow had gone, i.e., into the mostly-barren flower beds and over the tops of the budding snowdrops.

Well, the glacier has finally retreated after a week of summer (our foretaste of things to come), and even the shadier spots against my neighbour's woods show no lingering patches of ice. Nighttime temps have again dipped into the 20s, but there they are, happy as Larry, little snowdrops demonstrating that delicacy doesn't necessarily preclude strength in adversity.

Spring Triptych

Day 151: And here was me, thinking the ungulates, raccoons and moles had polished off all my crocuses! Somewhere deep down, four bulblets seem to have survived the predation. Okay, one of them came up way over there, about six feet from anywhere I'd ever planted any. That's one I can definitely pin to mole activity. The other three are more or less in a cluster. The snowdrops I lifted (in two senses of the word) from an abandoned road in Pack Forest a few years ago are doing just fine. They're a long way from being a "drift," but they're multiplying at a pleasing rate. A lot of things have gone missing from my flower beds, devoured by elk or deer. They don't bother the daffodils, and perhaps it's the daffs' proximity to the hostas which has so far kept them safe, but the critters around here are so brazen that they'll walk right up under the windows to graze.

Bud Blancher Snowdrops

Day 110: Not long after the Bud Blancher trail was completed, I decided to explore some of the side trails and overgrown logging roads which fork off from it to head into Pack Forest. Overgrown paths are fun. You never know what you may find (good or bad). That said, I was not expecting to strike upon half a dozen small patches of snowdrops, a "garden plant" which had apparently been thinned and tossed into the woods. Eventually, I got around to lifting a few bulbs for my own garden (I mean, these are non-natives...it's not like I was guilty of nicking wildflowers!), and even though they've established in my flower bed, I still like to visit the source when I hike the trail. It felt a little early to find them blooming, and in fact most were in the phase you see here. I only found one nodding, still unopen, so I'll be heading back that way soon if the rain allows.

Orbital Spring

Day 154: Every now and then, I pull out old flower pictures and play with turning them into Orbs. Today, I proceeded slightly differently. I took fresh photos of snowdrops and a crocus (one of two the deer missed), and although I'd originally intended them for separate posts in their original forms, they suggested Orbs to me...soft spring greens and delicate lavender hinting at brighter colours to come. Orbs are enchanting and their creation can be addictive, if for no other reason than to satisfy a curiosity about what may turn up. I've never been able to visualize a specific end-product, so the resultant Orb is always a surprise. Sometimes you just need to do something because you can, the old "because."

Dainty Drops

Day 141: I've shared this old and clever meteorological aphorism several times previously, but on a blustery, wet day like today, it bears repeating:

Whether the weather be cold
Or whether the weather be hot,
We'll weather the weather
Whatever the weather
Whether we like it or not.

The Snowdrops seem to epitomize the verse, their clear white heads bowed but cheerful, hunkered down to endure whatever Mother Nature dishes out. It's advice we can interpret to fit any situation in our lives. You might think Ma gave us Spring for just that reason: a reminder that all winters come to an end, that all things go in cycles. Oh, to be a Snowdrop and have the wisdom of the plants!

Snowdrop Surprise

Day 120: It's possible some of my readers will remember that last year about this time, I dug up a small clump of Snowdrops (non-native, found growing a ways off the Bud Blancher Trail) and planted them in my front flower bed. You might remember that. I did not. They took me totally by surprise while I was out looking for "blog shot" material this morning, to the extent that I said aloud, "Waitaminit, those aren't crocuses...that looks like Snowdrops" before the recollection hit me. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised.

Most of the plants I've purchased are carefully labelled, as are some I've lifted (I mean in the botanical sense, of course) from various locations, but only if I have enough information to determine species. "Snowdrops" is a fairly generic term. Are there varieties/cultivars? I'm sure there must be, but I could probably never track down the full identity of a plant discarded from someone's garden as these were. They were "volunteers," as my grandmother called them...bulbs pitched into the woods after being thinned, sufficiently sturdy to set up housekeeping on their own without so much as a shovelful of dirt dropped on top of them; plants with persistence and vigour. Go, you little Snowdrops, and thanks resetting my perspective.

Snowdrops For The Taking

Day 107: The invitation offered by side trails cannot be refused by anyone who loves exploring. Something drew animals or humans to create them, and my inquisitive nature will not let me pass them by. Thus it was that last year during the Park's fitness challenge I discovered a patch of snowdrops, discarded from someone's garden and gone native in a shaded niche off the main walking path. At the time, I told myself I should return, trowel in hand, but for one reason or another, the job went undone, although not forgotten. Yesterday, I went prepared. The buds were just starting to open and therefore I could expect a good margin of survival, but success depended upon being able to reach the bulbs. Rooted among rocks, they were difficult to extract, but I managed to "lift" a dozen or so, a mere dip from the well of hundreds, and planted them in my front flower bed as soon as I got home. If they fail...well, I know where to get more!

Snowdrop Surprise

Day 117: A detour onto an overgrown and muddy side trail turned up an interesting find today: a patch of snowdrops covering approximately ten square feet, densely packed in a central area and otherwise randomly dispersed amid moss and normal forest debris. My guess is that they are "volunteers," transported to their present location when a local homeowner cleared them out of a garden. Daffodils and narcissi are often dispersed in this fashion, so why not snowdrops? Since they are a non-native plant and are growing in what should be a "natural" area, I will feel no pangs of conscience when I return to the site with a trowel and a bag next autumn.