The sun is shining, the geese are honking on their voyage north, the frogs are crocking in a joyful chorus that shouts of spring, and the tulips' leaves are sprouting up, waving little declaration flags of hope and promise.
I ran to the hardware store the other day for moss killer, because while I love that it is green, I concede to my neighbor's prophetic wisdom that ultimately you just want to kill it before it kills everything else, and while there I noticed spring is arriving. . . in two packs and four packs, swaddled in soil and peat moss. Crates of bulbs and tubers and seeds called my name and promised of summer. I couldn't resist. While my husband headed for the moss killer I wrestled with the urge to clasp all the little packages of promise to my bosom and head for the checkout aisle.
I did manage to limit myself to a couple two packs of peonies and handful dahlia tubers. . . and eight little lilly of the valley bulbs. Oh, and three tuberoses. Though I can't quite plant them yet, they still give me visions of gardening and remind me why I love living in the country with a patch of earth to call my own. Because it isn't just about the peonies and dahlias, the lilacs and the hydrangeas--though I nearly bought a different house JUST for the gorgeous hydrangeas growing along its side--it's really about simple pleasures, and people. It's growing my own garden and it's backyard barbecues. It's community celebrations and getting back to basics. It's celebrating history and making our own story.
There is a power of place--and for me part of that power lies in large front porches and bright pink peonies. . . and the echo of giggling girls running through the shade of wise old trees.
See the things spring speaks to me? What does it say to you?
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