March Madness and Garden Insanity

daphne on March 22, 2011

You’ve seen the videos I’ve forced upon you.  My girls can jump.

Though to the dismay of their basketball-loving father that has not necessarily translated into an interest in basketball.  Given the circumstances, Dave did what any sport-loving guy would do; he called for back-up.  It’s good to have nephews.

Five year old Felix watched.  He commented and talked stats and aside from a notable absence of beer and nachos it was game-watching perfection.  The fellas even took a break at half time to play a little hoops of their own.

And then the ladies stepped in to show them how it’s done.  My girl’s got some serious ups.

But enough with the silly game playing.  It’s March, and madness or not it is time to do some planting.  When it comes to work in the garden I am an equal-opportunity slave-driver.  I pressed all my indentured servants into compost spreading and plot prepping.

I put the girls to work.

I put the boys to work.

Heck, I would have put the mailman to work if he weren’t so darn speedy in that little weather-defying truck of his.

Thanks to all of these helping hands, the south garden has been seeded for snap peas, lettuce, onions and spinach.  Now we wait, and hope that March decides to keep its snow to itself this year.

Our new garden window is practically bursting with trash creatively re-purposed plastic containers.

Hope springs eternal in the form of this nascent plantings, but alas . . . you can’t count your veggies before they sprout.

Oh Yeah, the Ides of March

daphne on March 14, 2011

The ides of March are upon us.  Unlike Caesar, I know there are certain things one can expect as the middle of March descends.

There’s the nice things.  The lovely flowers reclaiming their rightful place, reaching up from leftover piles of winter slush.

Yes, hopeful spring with its naive little blooms.

And we mustn’t forget the little birdies; they are singing.

Well, not so much singing perhaps as maliciously casing our joint —

I see you there Pal.  And I remember you.  I remember you from 2009.   And I remember you from 2010.  Oh, Mr. Woodpecker, you darling March memento.

You of the “early morning jack-hammering on the metallic parts of our chimney” woodpeckers.

You, of the “drive my husband to the brink of insanity and the edge of our roof” woodpeckers.

Ahh, springtime with it’s chipper birds and beautiful flowers.

But wait, there’s more.  There are a couple of special things that ring out as harbingers of spring around our house.

Golly gee, there’s the storm-trooper Boot o’ Spring–

It’s my own subtle reminder that with another March comes the passing of another year, and with it yet another opportunity to immobilize the paper mache bones of my left foot.

And hey, you know what really says springtime? Innumerable hours spent inside sweaty high school gyms.

There’s the innocent scent of teen spirit.

The hum of hundreds of spinning ropes.

The blush of florescence on the faces of happy children.

And speaking of happy children, guess who’s had enough hanging around and watching big sister jump? Guess who has decided that sure, what the heck, she’s in, sign her up. . .

Look! It’s 7 year old Punky Jumpster, here in her practice debut —

Hey Caesar.  Happy spring.

Well Good Morning to You Too

daphne on March 7, 2011

Oh.  Hello.

I didn’t see you there.

No, it’s fine.  Of course I didn’t think that just because I took a little time-out that the world should stop turning.  I mean, there are lunches to be made and dictators to topple and yes, teeth will continue to fall out and hey even the sprouts are defying logic and breaking through the chilly dirt.

And ho, what’s that I feel? Are these tendrils unfurling from my own stiff limbs as if spurned on by the heady scent of sun-kissed dirt?

Hibernating? No, not me.  For there is work to be done.

And I’ve been busy.

Doing, you know, stuff.

Important, stuff.

Like, making sure my youngest is dressed to fight dragons.

And prepping Grandma for some good, old-fashioned village – pillaging.

Well gosh, now you’re making me feel like all I’ve been doing is trying to be a viking.  But you know they have cool ships with handsome, half-clad men rowing in time to jaunty sea shanties?

And ocean breezes that would gently blow through my luxurious locks.

The glint of the sun winking off a newly sharpened hatchet.

The squawk of an albatross in search of an Ancient Mariner…

Hey, shame on you.  Do not encourage my digressions.

For there is work to be done once dragons lay slain.  A newly acquired village will need tidying.  And so it was that the local population was enslaved and put to work waking up the sleepy garden.

They raked and they hoed and eventually the garlic showed through, it’s sweet tendrils reaching towards the light of the weak spring sun.

They whispered sweet nothings of encouragement, coaxing irises from beneath frozen blankets.

The raspberries too would prosper under new management.  The field, an unwieldy brier patch of mayhem,

was hacked into submission.  A viking must insist upon order from her berries.

No more would raspberries be left to wither on the vine.

And the viking goddess (that’d be me) saw that it was good.  And so it was that she posted sentries in the treetops . . .

And high-tailed it back inside.

For her hands were getting cold.