Welcome Spring Tease
I love spring in North Texas, the early leaves are so bright and varied in colored, that there is a tapestry of greens as delicate and fresh as the pink of a baby's cheek. The weather is damp and mild, making life easy for fresh shoots until the shock of summer arrives, bringing a heat which turns everything a hard, dark green with a tinge of brown, which begs for a drop of water and a cool breeze.
After 17 years of gardening here, I have come to understand there is an annual spring tease which comes near the beginning of February and lures naive hopefuls into putting seeds in the ground. It arrives about the same time the plant catalogs do, with their pages of promised beauty making me want to quit my job and devote my life to roses.
Craig fell into this trap last year, despite his learned wife's advisement to the contrary, and found himself wrapping the garden in plastic and using Bunsen burners to keep plants warm. I was sure he'd burn the house down, to his credit, we're still here. It generally only takes one spring tease to teach one a lesson, but there are a few lingering halfwits who seem to fall for it each year, Namely, my Forsythia which is annually shortchanged in her spring bloom.
I adore her yellow, bell-shaped flowers but, bless her heart, she's the most foolish thing and falls for the spring tease each year venturing forth in bloom as if she's in the know and the rest of us are slow to the party.
I visited her today, and sure enough, she's putting on a sad little show. I leaned in to clear some Bald Cypress needles entangled in her twiggy arms and whispered she should wait a few weeks more, so she doesn't find herself half-dressed, with frost on her delicate bits. I got a poke in the eye for my trouble, which is as much a, "Mind your own business, if you please," as I have ever received.
I took my worries to TinTin the dog, who always nods his understanding, being a sensible sort who dresses appropriately for any occasion. "There's just no talking to her," I say. He found the poke in the eye quite rude behavior.
We spoke in confidence, or so I thought, but as with any juicy conversation, there's always a bird brain lingering in the background looking to peck at any sensitive subject. I groaned as soon as I saw her, for though she tried to look innocent with her big, dopey eyes, I know she has a big mouth.
Word got around and a crowd started to gather, circling for extra bits of conversation, which is really none of their concern. Disgusted, I left them to speculate among themselves. This busy lot is in for a move to the farm, though as misbehaved as they are here in the 'burbs I don't know how I will control them with that much freedom. The farm is coming along in small bursts and we've had an array of large equipment parading through, to Craig's amusement.
What we have is a giant mud pit on our hands, truth be told. With plowing, trenching, drilling, and more, we've managed to make a real mess. Texas clay isn't the kind of dirt that plays games, it sticks to you like an ugly date, as I learned in a recent adventure with Jude. Grandpa had this cool trackhoe on the property, digging trenches and one Saturday morning we went to go see the fun. Just for kicks, I went dressed for work and wearing my new, long, white, winter coat. Why not? What could go wrong with a toddler and a giant field of mud? Shortly after having a large neighbor dog break free of his leash and jump paws first on me, I put Jude on the ground to pet him, for the oaf was lovable, if not courteous. Jude saw Grandpa, ran 5 steps, and fell face first into the mud.
I am amazed at how quickly and how effectively mud can get into the cracks of things and just stick. There was nothing to do but immediately take a toddler home, shoeless, covered in mud, and screaming because he didn't get to go out with Grandpa on the tractor. Bad on me. Silly Grammy.
We bought ourselves a well for Christmas. Imagine Craig's surprise to find a drill rig in his stocking. It came with a free trip to the land on one of the coldest, windiest days of the winter, when he was sick with flu or some other dreadful, hack germs all over my wife illness. The well is 460' for those of you who wonder boring things like that.
Why do you suppose the spew from the drill rig is gray? It's one of life's mysteries, I suppose. Oh, don't spoil it for me, if you know. Must we lose all of the magic in the world? All of that fuss but now there is water and that is no small thing, for it will run through water pipe trenched at the treeline to douse Fred the tree, among others. Remember Fred? He's still there, getting his groove on.
Craig put in around 50 trees for us, with the help of this portable driller. We have a layer of rock about 18 inches down, which turned this tractor into a bronco. How fun was that?
We paid someone to plant oats. We have no oats. We have rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. This has Craig on a mission, because let me tell you, a person can get tired of picking up rocks. No, it's true. After you pick up about 10,000 rocks, it loses it's appeal.
Meet the rock picker. The rock picker is our friend. We love the rock picker. But he's an illusive chap, native to the northern country and we've had a dickens of a time getting one to migrate this way. If we get one, a cheer will go up from the land. If you know one, know of one, ever thought you might have seen one, let us know.
So that's where we are. Spring tease, mud pit, looking at plant catalogs and house plans. Some of you may be suffering from snow overload. We've had no snow this year, which is sad to me. You know what I like about snow? It's a free pass to sit inside under a blanket, eat, drink, and sleep. So I'm willing to make a trade, a little sunshine and warm breezes for 1 day of heavy snow. See, I like my snow couched between two 70 degree days, otherwise I'd live in the north, wouldn't I?
Happy Dreaming...
