Spring, Phase Two
The crocuses have faded back into the field. Plants that made the first wave of flowering things – Indian plum, daffodil, salmon berry – have moved on to leaf growth and bulb building and seed production. To paraphrase Emily Dickinson, it is trade, suddenly encroaching upon a sacrament. The frogs occasionally pause their night time revelry to tend to their tadpoles. (I thought I was making this up and that tadpoles fend for themselves, but it turns out some frogs care for their young. Even more notable: when there is parental tending, more often than not it is from the paternal side. I don’t know if Vashon frogs are those kinds of frogs. At any rate, for some reason they are not singing as intensely around here as they were in March).
The handful of signs of early spring I noticed are now replaced by mid-spring wonders too numerous to count. We all have our favorites. Some of mine: the blossom fall from the early cherries dappling a pathway; the drone of the bees swarming the 10-foot wide ceanothus outside our window (maybe the happiest plant on our property); the unfurling of fresh sword fern fronds; rhubarb; songs and calls of the returning birds; scent of lilac. It would be a cruel thing to be forced to pick a top five.
On the farm it is the time of the great migration. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of plants making their way to the garden beds from their birth or overwintering places. From the milk jug greenhouses come larkspur, cosmos, and delphinium. From a friend of the farmer’s comes a pineapple mint. The dahlias are snowbirds: the bulbs overwintering in the crawl space and returning to the garden when the soil has warmed sufficiently. Some plants – love-in-a-mist, snapdragon – are growing from seeds left by last year’s annuals. This is a migration of sorts, I suppose, through the winter and across generations. Some plants have moved twice. Aster, phlox, zinnias, and amaranth were started in trays warmed by a heat mat in our basement. They moved to the greenhouse for better light, where they were kept warm under a blanket of garden cloth and a string of Christmas lights.
April has been dry, and the dryness has been exacerbated by occasional unseasonable heat. “The rain just turned off like a faucet closing”, the farmer says. Seedlings and small growing things require steady moisture, so she has hurried the irrigation system into operation. If they won’t be brought from April showers, our flowers will have to come from the farmer’s system of tubes, tape and hoses. Also, few pennies from heaven mean that we will be handing over our own pennies to pay the water bill. I’m sorry to be an aguafiestas (“sorry – not sorry” as the farmer and I often describe our false apologies), but farm concerns aside a low-rain April makes this PNW boy uneasy. I hold my tongue (except in my blog!) as everyone else celebrates the sun and heat.