Looking forward to Spring
I don’t know about you, but every January I start to long for spring.
On Boxing Day I’m in a fever of impatience, wanting my tree down right now, loading empty laundry baskets with anything Christmasy, ready to make a clean sweep.
Master Gardener or not, I deliberately stop watering my poinsettias so I can throw them away as quickly as possible without guilt. Which I can. Because they’re dead. Even though I killed them. On purpose. (Yes indeed. That’s how my brain works.)
By New Years Day my house is usually bare of seasonal decor. I love to decorate for the seasons and somehow I never seem to do ‘winter’. I go from fall to Christmas, skip winter altogether and go straight to spring.
The ultimate denial.
By the end of January I’m chomping at the bit, aching for the sight of fresh flowers. When I can’t stand it for even one more day, I’ll treat myself to an inexpensive bundle of flowers, which I will spread out into an assortment of tiny vases so there will be something pretty all over the house.
Then it’s February and time for the grocery store primulas. I love to work them into a spring vignette. Because, if I still lived in B.C., it would be spring . . . at least, that’s what my sister Lisa tells me when I’m moaning about another winter snowstorm and she assures me that the snowdrops are already poking their heads up everywhere she looks . . .
She’s a mean one alright . . . ;D
By late February (and sometimes even before) the tulips/daffodils I’d forced back in the fall start to bloom and it’s just magical. There is nothing like enjoying the blooms of your own tulips and daffodils. I’m not sure why I find them so much more satisfying than those I buy at the store, but they are.
March is hardcore seeding. I could watch those seedlings pop up all day long if I didn’t have to keep us in clean underwear and toilet paper . . .
In April, seedlings get transplanted into bigger pots and moved into the greenhouse. Oh the thrill of a greenhouse in April.
Ah spring, it’s almost as fun to anticipate as it is to live it.
Almost . . .