It’s That Time of Year

We are welcoming the warmer weather. I find myself wandering around my backyard, eager to find signs of spring. My garden is like me — unplanned, meandering, sometimes blooming, sometimes not. There is nothing formal about my garden.

Things are greening up. It mostly looks good, but we lost some plants to the few days of freezing temperatures last winter. The garden trash can is filled with plants that did not make it. The brave ones that soldiered through are getting doses of Miracle Gro and pep talks. The rule is survival of the fittest. Plants that sputter get cut back, and either they make it, or they don't. I delight each spring in experiencing the rebirth of plants from past years — old friends.

With the good comes the unwelcome determination of weeds and ferns, which spread like a bad case of poison ivy. The crepe myrtles have had their hair cuts. Next, the tall grasses will get their spring trims.

Each year as spring arrives and the days grow warm, I am filled with wonder. It never gets old. I remember the springs of my northern past. Those springs came with a bang and seemingly overnight. Winter finally retreats and spring pops. I miss the bulbs pushing through dark, damp soil waiting for the sun to tease them open. Fruit trees would bloom like miniature frozen fireworks in pale pinks and whites. Another missed spring bloomer — the lilac bushes with their heady scent.

Southern spring enters slowly, and a predictable parade of blooms can be anticipated. First, the azalea, redbud, and dogwood promise more to come. Like a switch flipped, all the big box stores have tempting flats of brightly colored flowers — geraniums, rose bushes, impatiens, marigolds, and petunias. We fill our carts and look forward to adding splashes of color to our yards.

My early morning inspection, coffee in hand, finds me clipping and pinching dead and dried blooms and reminding each plant I expect more and more. Our two dogs, a Doodle and a Yorkie take their escort duty seriously.

A St. Francis stands at attention by the door to our screen porch. Poor saint, he suffers endless indignity as different birds rest on his head and shoulders looking for food. His sainthood is assured. Regular visitors include cardinals, black-capped chickadees, Carolina wrens, and titmice enjoying the birdbaths and looking for safe nesting spots. A hummingbird feeder is dusted off and filled with sugar water, hoping for some early arrivals.

My love of rabbits is clear. Stone replicas are tucked in flower beds in both front and back yards. The real rabbits, of which there are many, pay no mind and continue to savor their garden favorites — their own private salad bar.

Overlooking the sprawling garden is a large bird bath with a dignified cement frog spitting water as if to indicate his approval of all around. Such simple and delightful pleasures — a backyard garden in the spring.