They are out there, alright, calling to me more urgently every day. “It’s too early,” I tell them. “Go back to sleep for a little while longer; you know that the danger of frost and late snow will come again.” But neither the garden nor the flower beds are listening to me. The clamor of spring has begun.
Our soft-spoken pussy willow was the first to get our attention. It bloomed well before Easter, having its say early. It is a hardy soul and seemed to relish the snap of cold winds from the north. In fact, I thought it wore its cap of spring snow rather well.
The parsley and spearmint were next to herald spring’s arrival. We tucked freshly picked sprigs around the deviled eggs on Easter. Though it still seemed too early, we welcomed the whispered hints of more to come.
However, the stubborn apricot tree that foolishly taunts our Idaho spring weather is the one I try to hush. It is already covered with swelling pink buds, determined to be the first fruit tree in our yard to shout “Spring is here!” with its profusion of coral blossoms. What a show-off! You would think that it would learn from past seasons that early blossoms are often stripped by inevitable late spring snows, robbing us of an abundant apricot harvest.
The perennials are better at keeping time and most are just beginning to stir. However, the pansies and violets have been humming along for several weeks, but they have always been precocious. The lazy daffodils are just beginning to stretch and yawn in their beds. I hear only a whisper from the iris, but my tulips are in full voice.
Sadly, some voices will not be heard again. My husband had to replace several rose bushes last week. The winter was cruel to the delicate and infirm. But the garden gently reminds us that life goes on, as murmuring green shoots and enfant leaves unfurl from the brown sticks of the survivors.
To encourage color harmony, I have decided to introduce a bigger variety of bulbs to the flowerbeds. My philosophy is that you can never have too many bulbs. Besides, I trust a bulb more than a tiny seed to become what the picture in the seed catalogue promises.
It’s a lapse of faith on my part, I know. I probably should re-read the Bible scripture about the grain of mustard seed and faith. After all, spring is the annual Great Awakening. It is what faith is all about. From all appearances, I put a little dead thing in a hole in the ground, cover it with dirt, then wait for it to rise up through the soil, magically transformed into something living—even beautiful. Talk about
Great Expectations, Trust and Faith! Even the birds, like a jubilation choir, reminded me this morning that spring is worthy of revelry.
The neighborhood is also stirring as from hibernation. The sounds of lawnmowers, barking dogs, kids riding their bikes and skateboarders on the sidewalks, all call to me that spring is here.
Yes, I hear it; I hear it all. In fact, right now I hear all too clearly the persistent voices of the garden and yard that I can no longer ignore. Like spoiled children waking from a nap, the plants and trees demand my attention. They call to me to clean their beds, to feed and water them, to tend to their needs. Well, I did make a commitment and I promised to spend quality time with them this afternoon.
“Yes, I hear you calling to me; I’m on my way!”
