Many years ago, when the girls were preschoolers, and we had not yet moved away from Boulder for the very first time, I tried my hand at gardening, without having any clue what I was doing. I'd spent most of my life reacting violently to touching plants, with my skin breaking out in hives that stung like crazy if I got near pretty much anything green. But we had moved into the basement apartment of our friend's house, and for the first time since I graduated college, I had access to a back yard, and the time and interest in planting things of my very own to grow. The yard was sloped, and Mr S-P and our friend/housemate/landlady worked on turning over a section on the hill that someone had vaguely terraced. (I don't remember whether they did it then or it was already done that way. I suspect Mr S-P did it.) The dirt was rich and dark, like coffee grounds. I couldn't wait to grow flowers and vegetables.
I had never tried to plant in Colorado at that point. I had only mildly been aware of the weather averages growing up in Oklahoma. By the time late February and early March allowed a few warm, sunny days, I was itching to put seeds, bulbs, and bedding plants in the ground. Everyone tried to slow me down, but I went ahead and tried to get things going. I think by Easter, I had already sown seeds. I remember watching daily, wondering how long it would take to see sprouts. Of course, the middle of March is NOT the time to plant in Boulder. As everyone knew it would, more snow came, and killed everything that I had put out. I was crushed, and I heard "told you so" more than once. Eventually, we managed to get a few flower beds to grow. I remember a mound of yarrow, some stunted celosia, and a plant we giggled over for days called "red hot poker." I became jealous of the neighbor's well-established phlox, and have been determined to grow it whenever possible ever since.
Here we are, at the very beginning of March. We turned off the heat and opened the windows for most of the day. My car was uncomfortably warm when I drove home at 2 this afternoon. I went out looking for something to take a picture of for this space, and found exactly what I thought I would: bulbs are emerging. Two decades ago, I had no idea when to plant, nor when things ought to emerge from dormancy. This year, I know a whole lot more, and I'm freaked out to find hyacinths and daffodils well on their way out of the ground. I looked around the beds and bushes, and most things were still winter-crispy. But the lavender looked like it did around early November, and the nandina I didn't expect to survive outside of Charleston was leafy and very much alive. Am I ready for the garden to wake up? What happens when the cold weather snaps back and shows us all we had been fooled?
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