I left the house on Wednesday afternoon and returned the following day, about 27 hours later. What the heck happened while I was gone? Changes were so significant that I really wanted a time lapse photograph of my yard for that brief period.
You see, spring's been reluctant this year. Teasing sun one day, then growly clouds and wind and rain and even snow days thereafter. Warm afternoons, then frosty nights. Unevenness, but consistent in that spring remains in the lower realms of temperature and pleasure.
So when I trekked to the airport this week, I expected to return to the status quo. Yard perched on the edge of spring, ready to jump into the grand excess of bloom but not quite there. When I returned, I saw that my yard had moved ahead without me.
The small aspen grove was just grey and white when I left. The catkins had come and gone. The heart and initials I'd carved five years ago were clearly visible, right behind the upright log I use for a seat inside the grove. The cotoneaster spread its gawky branches on the north side of the grove, with no indication of brightening up for a spring show. The pine behind the grove stood somberly, as it has since I planted it.
But when I returned the aspen grove was a dazzle with that delicious green of new leaf, a green so intense that it almost hurts the eye! All the aspens grinned with their heart-shaped green baubles; they just looked giddy. I sat on the log seat in the grove and was covered by canopy, a salad-green duvet of brand new leaves.
The flower bed lining the south side of the house was all about anticipation when I left. Gladioli spears were poised for action. Violas had completed their debutantes' dance; the novelty of being first blooms out was gone. And the peonies, all seven of them, just looked a bit grumpy, like they were tired of doing this annual climb from dark soil to bright light.
But when I returned the flower bed was invigorated, primarily because of peony action. Looking along the long narrow bed, I saw monsters, deep burgundy claws climbing skyward. The fingered peony leaves were stretching higher and higher, opening up like sharp-nailed limbs of prehistoric beasts. I could not believe how the plants had grown in just one day. I wondered if I could catch some of that movement if I just sat there without blinking, staring at these amazing plants seeking the sun. I've pondered similarly in Decembers when an amaryllis bolts out of its pot, hellbent for the sky. Would it be possible to actually see the inch or two being added each day? Should I invest in a flower bed web cam to capture this miracle?
Like the aspen grove and the peony bed, the rest of my yard also amazed me on my return. When I left, a fan of green leaves filled one side of an island meandering across the lawn. When I returned, the buxom buds of white tulips huddled among the leaves like peasant women. They are now ready to burst open, to take off their kerchiefs and display dramatic cores of buttery yellow and black.
The spirea shrubs were nondescript when I left. When I returned, one was ablaze with rufous-colored leaves, while the other was sporting tiny banners of chartreuse. The four Cecil Bruner climbing roses were just tatters of thorned branch and dessicated leaf when I left. Now they are looking energized, with some green rising in their rusted limbs. The vinca minor along the berm are now laden with deep violet blooms and hundreds of bright leaf buds raising their hands in answer to an invisible teacher's question of "Who wants to bolt across the berm first?"
And, yes, the dandelions arrived while I was gone. Of course they were here when I left, but their glorious spikey faces were hidden in tight buds. Not now. Now they are impudent punks blaring their defiance at me.
The bolt of springtime that hit my yard in my absence makes me grin. It seems I never tire of checking out the performance in my yard. Who knows what I'll find out there this afternoon?
Showing posts with label spring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spring. Show all posts
Friday, April 15, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Buds...the Rest of the Story
What a difference a few days, some sun, and some heat make! Last week my writing about buds was pretty much cerebral, exploring them, not so much in the vivid circus of their home, but in the quiet of the library inside. Today it's visceral. What a difference!
The season has popped at my house. Last Sunday's tight fist of lilac bud is now a community, a choir of purple blossom doing its final dress rehearsal before the Big Show. Last Sunday's knobby pear tree now can't wait to prance its fluffy stuff; each bud is swollen with anticipation. Last Sunday's forsythia was a gawky bundle of sticks against the fence. Today it's a spray of yellow sun.
And the hellebores! Where last week, dozens of burgundy buds were hanging their winter-worn faces, this week the blooms are fanned in a delightful parasol of mauve and pale yellow-green. The bold pops of crocus now have their brazen daffodils buddies, punctuating the green expanse of front yard.
In this delightful week I've spent about six hours pruning, raking, mowing, and trimming in my own yard and a half hour planting my mom's early vegetables. My hands have loved getting down and dirty. I thought, this week, about the research my daughter shared with me, that kids who grow up in rural areas have fewer allergies as a result, it's thought, of lots of contact with soil, thus buiilding immunities. Adults who garden may see the same benefits. Gardening can be more than a psychic healer. It can keep the body well.
On Friday my skin loved the contact, not just with soil, but with sun: tank top and shorts were my uniform as I worked on correcting any vitamin D deficiency. For decades we've been trained to prevent Old Sol from making contact with skin and now we're being told that many of us have too little vitamin D and need to get out more. I can do this. Lizard I can become, basking away winter's indoor weariness in spring's lovely sunshine.
Ah, popping yellow flowers, deep brown earth, toasty sunned shoulders. What an incredible week it's been! What sweet pleasure the first real week of spring brings. It's no longer just thinking about the potential of a blooming yard. It's seeing, smelling, hearing, and feeling reality, a gorgeous reality. I give thanks for these abundant April blessings!
The season has popped at my house. Last Sunday's tight fist of lilac bud is now a community, a choir of purple blossom doing its final dress rehearsal before the Big Show. Last Sunday's knobby pear tree now can't wait to prance its fluffy stuff; each bud is swollen with anticipation. Last Sunday's forsythia was a gawky bundle of sticks against the fence. Today it's a spray of yellow sun.
And the hellebores! Where last week, dozens of burgundy buds were hanging their winter-worn faces, this week the blooms are fanned in a delightful parasol of mauve and pale yellow-green. The bold pops of crocus now have their brazen daffodils buddies, punctuating the green expanse of front yard.
In this delightful week I've spent about six hours pruning, raking, mowing, and trimming in my own yard and a half hour planting my mom's early vegetables. My hands have loved getting down and dirty. I thought, this week, about the research my daughter shared with me, that kids who grow up in rural areas have fewer allergies as a result, it's thought, of lots of contact with soil, thus buiilding immunities. Adults who garden may see the same benefits. Gardening can be more than a psychic healer. It can keep the body well.
On Friday my skin loved the contact, not just with soil, but with sun: tank top and shorts were my uniform as I worked on correcting any vitamin D deficiency. For decades we've been trained to prevent Old Sol from making contact with skin and now we're being told that many of us have too little vitamin D and need to get out more. I can do this. Lizard I can become, basking away winter's indoor weariness in spring's lovely sunshine.
Ah, popping yellow flowers, deep brown earth, toasty sunned shoulders. What an incredible week it's been! What sweet pleasure the first real week of spring brings. It's no longer just thinking about the potential of a blooming yard. It's seeing, smelling, hearing, and feeling reality, a gorgeous reality. I give thanks for these abundant April blessings!
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Buds
I'm getting antsy here for some serious spring weather. This morning's run with my golden retriever was lovely but frosty, with a view of fresh snow dusting the foothills. I think it would be okay if winter signs faded, allowing buds to really pop.
I am intrigued by buds. They embody potential, what might be, enthralling possibility. As I wander my yard, I peer at the buds of dogwood, magnolia, aspen, pear, and willow. Each wrapped bundle is a gift: a present that will soon make its grand entry.
I go inside and read about buds. Botanists talk about buds in intriguing ways. For example, calling buds terminal, axillary or adventitious is just referring to where they choose to land on the plant, whether at the top of a stem, in the axil of a leaf, or elsewhere, like on a trunk or a root. If I were a bud, I'd prefer to be described as adventitious rather than terminal. Wouldn't you?
The appearance of buds is set forth with a vivid set of descriptors. Buds can be scaly, covered, naked or hairy. Buds that are hairy can be either scaly or naked. Now, I don't think being described as scaly is a good thing; it sounds too reptilian which, in our culture, is not positive (apologies to my herpetologist friend Frank). But to be both scaly and hairy just doesn't sound attractive. If those adjectives described me, I'd be looking for some laser removal pro, followed by good moisturizer.
Buds' status also determines how botanists describe them. Buds occupy roles described as accessory, resting, dormant, latent, or pseudoterminal. I'm thinking that none of these titles enhances self-esteem. If you were to choose your status from this selection, would you really be satisfied with dormant or latent? I cannot ever see myself happy with the status of "pseudoterminal," even if I knew it meant that I might be like a persimmon bud, having sympodial growth in which a terminal bud dies and is replaced by a closer axillary bud.
And then there are bud functions. I thought I understood what buds do: they get things ready for the show of flower, fruit, leaf, et al. Guess it's more complicated than that. Some buds' function can be described as "vegetative," which means they only contain vegetative pieces, like an embryonic shoot with leaves. Okay, but I thought all buds, in fact, all plants, are made up of vegetative pieces. I'm puzzled and so read further.
I find that, if a bud isn't functioning in a vegetative manner, it could be doing so in a reproductive manner (having the embryo of a flower) or it could be functioning in both a reproductive and vegetative manner at the same time (having both embryonic leaves and flower). This is making some sense to me, as I conclude that some buds are really good at multi-tasking.
My bud-study is clouding my head, confusing me, messing with years of intense bud observation. I think I'll quit reading. I think I'll just go back outside and peer at the buds in my yard. I really don't care if they are they are pseudoterminal or adventitious or hairy or scaly. I am just excited about the gifts that they are set to unfold.
I am intrigued by buds. They embody potential, what might be, enthralling possibility. As I wander my yard, I peer at the buds of dogwood, magnolia, aspen, pear, and willow. Each wrapped bundle is a gift: a present that will soon make its grand entry.
I go inside and read about buds. Botanists talk about buds in intriguing ways. For example, calling buds terminal, axillary or adventitious is just referring to where they choose to land on the plant, whether at the top of a stem, in the axil of a leaf, or elsewhere, like on a trunk or a root. If I were a bud, I'd prefer to be described as adventitious rather than terminal. Wouldn't you?
The appearance of buds is set forth with a vivid set of descriptors. Buds can be scaly, covered, naked or hairy. Buds that are hairy can be either scaly or naked. Now, I don't think being described as scaly is a good thing; it sounds too reptilian which, in our culture, is not positive (apologies to my herpetologist friend Frank). But to be both scaly and hairy just doesn't sound attractive. If those adjectives described me, I'd be looking for some laser removal pro, followed by good moisturizer.
Buds' status also determines how botanists describe them. Buds occupy roles described as accessory, resting, dormant, latent, or pseudoterminal. I'm thinking that none of these titles enhances self-esteem. If you were to choose your status from this selection, would you really be satisfied with dormant or latent? I cannot ever see myself happy with the status of "pseudoterminal," even if I knew it meant that I might be like a persimmon bud, having sympodial growth in which a terminal bud dies and is replaced by a closer axillary bud.
And then there are bud functions. I thought I understood what buds do: they get things ready for the show of flower, fruit, leaf, et al. Guess it's more complicated than that. Some buds' function can be described as "vegetative," which means they only contain vegetative pieces, like an embryonic shoot with leaves. Okay, but I thought all buds, in fact, all plants, are made up of vegetative pieces. I'm puzzled and so read further.
I find that, if a bud isn't functioning in a vegetative manner, it could be doing so in a reproductive manner (having the embryo of a flower) or it could be functioning in both a reproductive and vegetative manner at the same time (having both embryonic leaves and flower). This is making some sense to me, as I conclude that some buds are really good at multi-tasking.
My bud-study is clouding my head, confusing me, messing with years of intense bud observation. I think I'll quit reading. I think I'll just go back outside and peer at the buds in my yard. I really don't care if they are they are pseudoterminal or adventitious or hairy or scaly. I am just excited about the gifts that they are set to unfold.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Psychotic
Last week I spent two days out in the yard, trimming perennials, gazing at new bulbs' green spears, giving thanks for the many wonders that re-appear year after year. Sunshine wrapped around me in a blanket of sixty degree air.
This morning snow is falling and the berms, the beds, the paths I cleared last week are frozen and white. It's been a week of psychotic weather.
Snow, hail, rain, and low sunlight merged here on Wednesday afternoon, leaving a trail of crunched cars and unhappy commuters. One pile-up involved 18 cars. Folks were blinded by brilliant sun bounding off prisms of water and ice.
On Friday Sadie and I lolled all afternoon in the sunroom as grumpy storms huffed by. Thunder roared and wind slashed at tree limbs. Hail walloped the yard, drumming loudly on the sunroom's metal roof. Sadie and I just hunkered together and enjoyed the excitement of it all. Moments later, all was still. Awhile later, the white pellets were gone, as though nothing had happened.
Mid-week, my cousin in Utah reported that three huge pines in her yard were uprooted by wind and beaten down by snow. Her neighborhood wore its destruction like a raggedy war refugee.
Snow fell in the rainforest of the Pacific northwest, nothing as bad as the weeks of white chaos two years ago, the horror that my daughter describes as "Snowapaloosa." But snow fell where it's not supposed to, in the temperate fir and cedar hills of Portland and Seattle.
Yesterday we were warned to get into bomb shelters at five pm to avoid the winter storm barrelling toward us. Never did see that brute, just cold, windy, spits of sleet.
Although the intensity of the week's weather out this way could be blamed on global weirding, I'm inclined to say that it's just spring. Spring weather in my mind is psychotic. It's bi-polar. It's schizo. It's manic and depressive. It knows nothing of nuance. It's all about extremes.
That is one of the things that makes spring so much fun in this country. You never know what the day will bring and so must be prepared for all: chains, Goretex, packs, Tevas and sunscreen.
With the important exception of the distress it causes for people like my cousin, this bold, annoying weather is a bit enchanting. It reminds me of the grandeur of the natural world and how insignificant we human types really are. I don't mind being subjected to a little of the pscyhotic behavior that is springtime.
This morning snow is falling and the berms, the beds, the paths I cleared last week are frozen and white. It's been a week of psychotic weather.
Snow, hail, rain, and low sunlight merged here on Wednesday afternoon, leaving a trail of crunched cars and unhappy commuters. One pile-up involved 18 cars. Folks were blinded by brilliant sun bounding off prisms of water and ice.
On Friday Sadie and I lolled all afternoon in the sunroom as grumpy storms huffed by. Thunder roared and wind slashed at tree limbs. Hail walloped the yard, drumming loudly on the sunroom's metal roof. Sadie and I just hunkered together and enjoyed the excitement of it all. Moments later, all was still. Awhile later, the white pellets were gone, as though nothing had happened.
Mid-week, my cousin in Utah reported that three huge pines in her yard were uprooted by wind and beaten down by snow. Her neighborhood wore its destruction like a raggedy war refugee.
Snow fell in the rainforest of the Pacific northwest, nothing as bad as the weeks of white chaos two years ago, the horror that my daughter describes as "Snowapaloosa." But snow fell where it's not supposed to, in the temperate fir and cedar hills of Portland and Seattle.
Yesterday we were warned to get into bomb shelters at five pm to avoid the winter storm barrelling toward us. Never did see that brute, just cold, windy, spits of sleet.
Although the intensity of the week's weather out this way could be blamed on global weirding, I'm inclined to say that it's just spring. Spring weather in my mind is psychotic. It's bi-polar. It's schizo. It's manic and depressive. It knows nothing of nuance. It's all about extremes.
That is one of the things that makes spring so much fun in this country. You never know what the day will bring and so must be prepared for all: chains, Goretex, packs, Tevas and sunscreen.
With the important exception of the distress it causes for people like my cousin, this bold, annoying weather is a bit enchanting. It reminds me of the grandeur of the natural world and how insignificant we human types really are. I don't mind being subjected to a little of the pscyhotic behavior that is springtime.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Bolts
My dog Sadie and I just sat in the doorway of the sunroom to witness a ferocious spring storm. It was a superb performance. Gigantic roars coursed across the grey ceiling of cloud. I envisioned Jack saying something to really, really annoy the Giant, spawning these monstrous booms. They rolled across the high desert valley that hosts my city. I winced a couple of times, they were that fierce.
And the sparks! White hot rips of energy slashed the southern sky over and over and over. Only one was so close that I counted...just to make sure the huge shade-provider in my backyard would not be a charred stump come morning. My sighed relief met the one-two-three of a distant strike.
I'm thrilled to share this springtime treat with my dog. Her predecessor, angelic Aja, the slender yellow lab, hated lightning, hated thunder, hated fireworks, hated backfires, hated loud slaps. She'd cower in late June and July as the neighborhood punks flung their cherry bombs and Roman candles into the night sky. If she could have made a den behind the furnace or washer/dryer, she would have. Not funny, the loud noises, not one bit entertaining.
This dog, though, doesn't mind. Sadie celebrated her first New Year's Eve on the cliff's edge in our back yard, tracking local fireworks across the starred dome. Fascinated she was by these strange lights that moved. Noise? What noise? Sadie didn't seem to care. Tonight she was similarly intrigued. Hmmmm, quite a bit of wind. Oh my, seems to be some heavy rain. Yes, more of that loud, deep sound. Curious. This dog likes to observe, often with a bit of a scowl. Anthropomorphizing, I'd say she's doing some deep pondering. But I know her better than that. Deep thinking is not one of Sadie's traits. It's more likely that she was trying to connect the flashes and noise and wind and rain with the dispensation of dog treats or fuzzy toy animals. They could be connected; yes, they could!
A splendid evening, this. Rain still wallops my sunroom's metal roof. I like the snare drum sound that makes a light drizzle seem pretty darned fierce. I like the wildness of spring weather. I like sharing it with my sort of thoughtful dog, Sadie.
And the sparks! White hot rips of energy slashed the southern sky over and over and over. Only one was so close that I counted...just to make sure the huge shade-provider in my backyard would not be a charred stump come morning. My sighed relief met the one-two-three of a distant strike.
I'm thrilled to share this springtime treat with my dog. Her predecessor, angelic Aja, the slender yellow lab, hated lightning, hated thunder, hated fireworks, hated backfires, hated loud slaps. She'd cower in late June and July as the neighborhood punks flung their cherry bombs and Roman candles into the night sky. If she could have made a den behind the furnace or washer/dryer, she would have. Not funny, the loud noises, not one bit entertaining.
This dog, though, doesn't mind. Sadie celebrated her first New Year's Eve on the cliff's edge in our back yard, tracking local fireworks across the starred dome. Fascinated she was by these strange lights that moved. Noise? What noise? Sadie didn't seem to care. Tonight she was similarly intrigued. Hmmmm, quite a bit of wind. Oh my, seems to be some heavy rain. Yes, more of that loud, deep sound. Curious. This dog likes to observe, often with a bit of a scowl. Anthropomorphizing, I'd say she's doing some deep pondering. But I know her better than that. Deep thinking is not one of Sadie's traits. It's more likely that she was trying to connect the flashes and noise and wind and rain with the dispensation of dog treats or fuzzy toy animals. They could be connected; yes, they could!
A splendid evening, this. Rain still wallops my sunroom's metal roof. I like the snare drum sound that makes a light drizzle seem pretty darned fierce. I like the wildness of spring weather. I like sharing it with my sort of thoughtful dog, Sadie.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Petals
Fruit trees are starting their annual flaunt. A couple of weeks ago, I gathered an armload of branches from my apricot and pear trees and brought them in the house. I pounded the cut end of each branch with a hammer, smashing it to allow the branch to drink in more water, and put them in a large crystal vase in my sunroom.
The regimen worked, as they're all decked out now in delicious slips of white and pale, pale pink. What a gorgeous spring spray! Meanwhile, the trees outside are hurrying to catch up. Only one of the apricot tree's branches is in bloom. I wonder if the trees can see their severed limbs in full regalia inside the house.
I like flowering trees, but their excess can overwhelm at times; I remember writing a poem years ago, accusing a full-bloomed tree of being a floosy. Last spring, I empathized with my flowering plum tree during an angry March storm:
Nubile red buds
beaded on plum trees branches
are wrestling with relentless waves of wind.
They don't want to fight.
They just want to plump up till,
one warmed sun day,
they explode like pink popcorn.
It's hard for me to take these petalled trees seriously. Some poets have. Ezra Pound, for one. His famous "In a Station of a Metro" became a manifesto for the imagist poetry movement and this powerful piece only had fourteen words:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Pound treated a blooming tree's gifts with more reverence than I. Maybe I should learn from him. Maybe I should realize how impressive these beautiful, transient disks of color are.
Maybe I should learn from language. For example, the word "petal" comes from a Greek word that means "leaf" or "thin plate." A whorl of petals on a flower is known as a "corolla," Latin for "little crown." At the base of some petals are nectaries, which secrete nectar and sometimes perfume. This all sounds elegant and dignified.
Maybe I should adjust my assessment of blossoming trees from being spring's harlots to being the season's royalty. Imagine: millions of delicate little Princess Di's...lined up coyly on branch after branch for the annual cottillion. Yes, I think I'll try this new, more reverent view of the petals that make spring such a rare and sweet time of year.
The regimen worked, as they're all decked out now in delicious slips of white and pale, pale pink. What a gorgeous spring spray! Meanwhile, the trees outside are hurrying to catch up. Only one of the apricot tree's branches is in bloom. I wonder if the trees can see their severed limbs in full regalia inside the house.
I like flowering trees, but their excess can overwhelm at times; I remember writing a poem years ago, accusing a full-bloomed tree of being a floosy. Last spring, I empathized with my flowering plum tree during an angry March storm:
Nubile red buds
beaded on plum trees branches
are wrestling with relentless waves of wind.
They don't want to fight.
They just want to plump up till,
one warmed sun day,
they explode like pink popcorn.
It's hard for me to take these petalled trees seriously. Some poets have. Ezra Pound, for one. His famous "In a Station of a Metro" became a manifesto for the imagist poetry movement and this powerful piece only had fourteen words:
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Pound treated a blooming tree's gifts with more reverence than I. Maybe I should learn from him. Maybe I should realize how impressive these beautiful, transient disks of color are.
Maybe I should learn from language. For example, the word "petal" comes from a Greek word that means "leaf" or "thin plate." A whorl of petals on a flower is known as a "corolla," Latin for "little crown." At the base of some petals are nectaries, which secrete nectar and sometimes perfume. This all sounds elegant and dignified.
Maybe I should adjust my assessment of blossoming trees from being spring's harlots to being the season's royalty. Imagine: millions of delicate little Princess Di's...lined up coyly on branch after branch for the annual cottillion. Yes, I think I'll try this new, more reverent view of the petals that make spring such a rare and sweet time of year.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)