For some odd reason I was under the impression that I faithfully posted every year on the first day of spring. But, looking back at the roll, I noticed that although I have been a devoted noticer of Earth Day, I seldom post on the vernal Equinox.
That will probably change as of now, because my blogging efforts may slow down even more than they already have as I shift into household management mode. What writing I will be doing in the future may be of the fiction variety (despite my recent First Official Reject Notice). But I think it would be useful for my own memory to post at least seasonally--although I probably will keep up the Earth Day tradition as well.
So, in honor of the day, the image at left is of the House Clock--the appearance of sunrise in my dining room window on the first day of spring. [For the curious, a search for "house clock" on the blog will locate posts and photos about equinoxes both Vernal and Autumnal, with occasional photos.]
My questioning spring's promise this year has to do with a couple of issues. For one thing, I don't find much of anything "promising" these days, as I wait for the other shoe to drop in D. C. It really does seem only a matter of time before something really scary or really stupid (or both) happens in the White House. Then there's the weather. It's hard to welcome spring when we've had no winter to speak of--although I realize that those in the northeast have had their share. But in Texas, no appreciable winter is usually followed by bloody hot summer, and what we saved on heating bills will be made up (and then some) by A/C bills beginning, probably, sometime in April. It's actually been warm enough lately (87F expected today) that our neighbors' heat pumps are already switching into cooling mode.
For the past couple of days I've been running around taking advantage of sun and breeze to dig up some garlic chives for transplanting, and getting some veg into the new Stump Henge garden (which is situated in the sunniest part of the yard). It was once a fire pit, but last fall we filled it up with soil and compost and started calling it Woody's Garden. Here's our sweet, now departed pup relaxing next to the Henge on the first day of spring last year:
The wisteria was in bloom then, as it is this year, although not as leafed-out as it is now (the blossoms will be gone within a week or so). A few days ago it had taken over the trees on the west side of the yard and looked quite lovely on a misty morning:
Another reason I'm somewhat doubtful about spring's promise this year stems from not remembering quite how much sun the Henge garden will get--and whether what does fall on it will be enough to provide at least a few tomatoes. I haven't quite filled it in yet, but here's the preliminary view, taken last evening (Mrs. Peel appears in the center of the photo, lounging on a bit of stump):
The umbrella frame will support Anasazi beans (if they come up), and the two wire cages are for tomatoes. But there are sage plants, thyme, rosemary, stevia, an eggplant and some butternut squash. Not terribly ambitious, yet, but I'll go out to see what's available this week and let serendipity prevail. What I really need are nasturtiums, which always brighten up the garden and the landscape in general.
As I come to realize that our exile is probably permanent, I've been trying to "settle" here and acknowledge the enormous good fortune we actually enjoy. But if the summer turns out to be as brutal as the early spring weather portends, I may start spending more time watching "Escape To The Country" on Netflix, and pining for England's green and pleasant land--or at least for Owens Valley's granite-scented, clear, dry heat.