It was over sixty degrees for a pocket of time yesterday without its normal accompanying arctic wind to ruin all of the fun. I sat in a lawn chair, my face to the sun intermittently reading and sipping a glass of wine until my face felt warm from those glorious rays.
“There are no robins,” I told my husband. Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself. If the robins were not even here yet, then spring is not arriving early.
Little flitters of tiny, iridescent wings wafted past me. I hope they are beneficial as opposed to a nemesis in my gardens. They landed here and there. I stood up and stretched and walked around my garden paths. In the beds were rogue, forgotten splays of green- dark and alive. Onions and garlic. A tiny bit of spinach appeared in the pathway. Funny place to grow.
I let me plants go to seed in the fall because I am more interested in permaculture and sustained food than I am in neat rows. (Which I seem to be rather bad at anyway! The rows look like when I write on unlined paper.) So the spinach decided to grow there, huh? Well, so be it. Bits of Swiss chard grow under a tree.
I am still getting used to the climate where we have moved. It is warmer here but it is certainly not temperate. But the growing season is quite different from our old town. Here, I usually would plant onions and garlic (if I forgot to do so last fall…which I did) when I do the potatoes, right around St. Patrick’s Day. One doesn’t want the beds to be waterlogged with snow for the next few months because the bulbs will decompose but a nice, damp, rich, fragrant, earthy, heady, malleable bed does call for something to be planted, don’t you think? So, I took a cue from the garlic and onions that were already growing and planted my bulbs. It was therapeutic in a way that only gardeners can understand.
I loosened the first four inches of soil. Along somewhat crooked rows, three inches apart in all directions, I carefully placed their bottoms down and the papery points up, gently pressing them into the ground. Eighty bulbs of red onions. Three large heads of garlic separated into cloves.
And four roots of rhubarb. Every spring my Great Aunt Donna would call me and say, “Time to get the rhubarb!” We would drive to Denver and head into her large back yard with her. She taught me to place my thumb at the base of a stalk and lightly pull just so. The foot and a half long stalk would easily come loose. We both had a paring knife and would quickly remove the large leaf at the top and place it in a pile of ever growing foliage. She would predict what her old apple tree was going to do this year. Her beds were clean. The compost was moving along nicely. She would have me throw the leaves in the bin. Into plastic newspaper sacks, the rhubarb stalks would go. She would save a few for herself and send us home with pounds of them. This will be the first season without Aunt Donna. What will happen to her rhubarb? I hope mine gets as full and healthy as hers.
“Guess who’s here?” I shrieked into the phone.
“Who?” my husband answered, nearly alarmed. The shrill chirping voice was almost a shock. I recognized it before I saw them. A pair of them hopping through the garden beds. “The robins are back!”