Wee Wonders

We had some achingly lovely spring weather last week, that has unfortunately deserted us for the short term. Today it's in the 30's with a chill rain, and the flowers that opened and sunned themselves then are now either closed up tight, flattened, or both. Most depressing. However, I wanted to share a couple of happenings last week that, frankly, startled the bejesus out of me, they were so unexpected. Delightful, but unexpected.

First of all, I have a pink-flowered Cornus florida by my front walk. Underneath it, at least 15 years ago, I planted a clump of Iris reticulata, a dark purple - I've forgotten the cultivar. This clump stopped blooming about 2 or 3 years after I planted it. The leaves always came up like clockwork every spring, but nary a bloom. Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked down to see one lonely, brave flower where none had been seen for more than a decade. In searching mind and memory for a possible reason, the only thing I could come up with is that typically, I don't bother removing the fallen dogwood leaves over the winter, and for some reason I did so last fall. Perhaps the extra light exposure did the trick? I don't have a clue.

The other unexpected happening was that, for the first time in eons, none of my crocus were molested by the bunnies! Every single clump was lush, full and unmunched. Again, why? Best guess is that because the crocus opened up a good two weeks earlier than normal, the bunnies weren't out and about to do damage. But that's just my best guess. On both counts I was, as the Brits like to say, gobsmacked.

It Was The Best of Times, and The Worst of Times....

Best: The weather this week has been sublime. The snow has been melted and gone for nearly 2 weeks now. As I write this, it's 64 degrees, sunny, we've got the front door open to blow all the winter stink out of the house. I now have winter aconites (nearly done, with this warmth), snowdrops, crocus and a few 'Rosina' violets open. Tulips and daffodils have been growing by inches each day. Pussy willows are out. The frozen custard stand by the lake is open, and while I was out this afternoon, I treated myself. Chocolate, in case anyone was wondering. In short, a perfect nearly-spring day!

Worst: Now that the snow is gone, I'm seeing what the voles hath wrought, and it ain't pretty. Those little - blighters - were everywhere, and they were industrious. There are spots in front and in back that look like a relief map. And it looks even worse from the upstairs windows. I have a great deal of work to do. As if that wasn't bad enough, I went out and pruned back some clematis yesterday (another superlative day), and found a dead mouse on the patio steps. Fortunately, I had my gloves on, so I was able to pick up the ex-mouse and fling it out into the field behind my house. Talk about adding insult to injury........

A Little Ray of Sunshine

It seems incredible, but after being buried under a foot-plus of heavy, soaking wet snow a week ago, I now have 4 winter aconites by the front walk. They've got their little heads thrown back and are smiling up at me - what a welcome sight! I always love seeing the aconites pop up unexpectedly like this. Before the snowdrops, before the puschkinia (or whatever it is that the taxonomists have decided it should be called this week), before everybody decides to show themselves, there they are, bless their little yellow hearts. I've always been secretly envious of a house in this area - some homeowner many years ago planted a swath of aconites in the front yard, and the colony has grown immensely over the years to cover the entire yard! Oh, it's a glorious sight right now - and a happy and welcome one too.

This is not the earliest I've ever had aconites, though. The February that my mother died was an exceptionally mild one here in zone 5. She died on the 4th, and we returned from her funeral in Pennsylvania on the 9th. On a trip out to the car to get a forgotten item, I suddenly noticed that there was a small clump of aconites blooming profusely by the driveway. It may sound sentimental and mawkish to some, but I really felt that it was my mother's way of sending one last, loving goodbye to me. You see, my earliest gardening memories are of me at age 3, toddling around our yard toward the end of March, holding her hand as we looked for signs of spring around the house. "What's this, Mommy?" "A violet." "What's that one?" "A daffodil." In later years, when I was grown with a garden of my own, I would always, always call her to tell her what was coming up, and we'd eagerly compare notes. Spring is wonderful in some ways, difficult in others - the joy in seeing the world come alive once again is tempered by the knowledge that I can't call Mom to share that joy. But every time I see a new spring flower open up, I can't help smiling, and thinking how much I owe to my mother for making me a gardener all those years ago.