Spring Cleaning — Better Late Than Never


Tulip.

Tulip.

“My name is Allison MacKenzie.  Where I was born, time was told not by the clock or the calendar, but by the seasons.  Summer was carefree contentment.  Autumn was that bittersweet time of regret for moments that had ended and things that were yet undone.  And then winter fell, with a cold mantle of caution and chill, it nipped our noses and our arrogance and made us move closer to the warm stoves of memory and desire.  Spring was promise.  But there was a fifth season, of love.  And only the wise or the lucky ones new where to find it.”

This is the opening monologue from the film Peyton Place.  It’s here because a few weeks ago a reader, Camille, commented on an earlier post entitled Autumn In Peyton Place.  She had been searching for the verse and could I help her.  I popped in the DVD and took some dictation.

But after I read over the words, it occurred to me that if only seasons could be so easy and uncomplicated that their description could fit into a single — albeit melodramatic — paragraph.  If only . . .

Because lately, it seems, seasons are not so neat and tidy.  This spring, for example, has been one of the coolest — make that coldest — and dampest ones that I can remember.  Even this Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial start of summer, had snow falling in upstate New York.

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Bloomin’ Update 25: A Weekend To Remember


Welcome to the holiday weekend.  For many, it’s a time for sales and sand, barbecues and beaches.  For me, it’s a time of marathon gardening.  I still have so many plants that have to get into the ground — and I’m never quite sure how I end up in this position each year.  I try to pace myself, but inevitably, I fall behind.  

So, here is my whirlwind.

First, there is the issue of the May curse — better known as Oak pollen.  It assaults me as soon as I step outside.  When the wind blows, it looks like it’s raining worms — and when enough of it gathers on the ground, it looks like tumbleweeds.  Actually, I’m okay with pollen when it’s on the ground.  It’s when it’s in the air, in my throat, and in my eyes that I have an issue that requires a tissue.  Ahhhhchooooo!

Then the Liriope needs a haircut.  Last year’s growth is a little worn from the winter, but emerging in the nest are fresh green spears.  With my grandmother’s scissors, which are small enough to maneuver so I don’t cut the new growth, I snip a little here and snip a little there.

Voila!

Time to plant the Dahlias.  If you have Dahlias that will grow tall enough to require staking, here’s a quick tip.  Plant the stake at the same time that you plant the Dahlia.  This will prevent any accidental spearing of the Dahlia tuber if you place the stake later on in the season.

Joe calls me to the front yard.  We have a robin’s nest in the tree, and there is a clear view of the three hatchlings.  So I pulled out a ladder, climbed up, and snapped a few photos — all the while staying alert for any adult robins that might attack me.  I’m a little jumpy when it comes to birds since my head has been targeted three times.  But the baby robins are cute, and we are both hoping that they survive.

At last, it’s time to take a look at the reds . . .

Rose.

Gerbera Daisy.

the whites . . .

Peony.

Rhodendron.

and the blues . . .

Spiderwort.

Dive in.

and to remember that this holiday isn’t about sales and sand, barbecues and beaches, nor plantings and pollen.

Happy Memorial Day.