I love the early days of spring with their fresh air, surprise warmth, and invigorating breeze. On Wednesday, I took Arthur for a walk around the small lake at the VOA (Voice of America) park. We were in good company, and Arthur was in heaven.
Yesterday I sat outside with my dad for a bit. We listened to the birds and listened to the planes. He wasn’t having one of his better days, so we didn’t do a lot of listening to each other. He wasn’t talking, so I couldn’t listen. And when I was talking he wasn’t listening because he didn’t respond. Or maybe it wasn’t about listening at all. Maybe it was about responding. It’s a mystery. But we enjoyed the sun together.
When I got home Mark had finished planting peas and lettuce and spinach in his garden, still following the advice of our first neighbor, Mr. Kneip, who has since died, but who told him it was safe to plant seeds on St. Patrick’s day, but never before. R.I.P.
Mark also cleared out the dried sedum stalks in our perennial garden and planted a few pansies here and there.
The daffodils are growing taller. And my lenten rose has a bud. Good stuff.
Important Update: Daffodils have bloomed!
And just in case you’re curious, while I was tromping around in the gardens this morning in my slippers with my camera hung around my neck, I snapped a few extra photos.
Mark’s garden with it’s new border and recently planted soil is rather . . . boring, at the moment, but he walks out and looks at it every day anyway.
The lenten rose is on a somewhat anemic plant, but it intends to bloom anyway. You go, little lenten rose.
Waiting for the daffodils. It never fails to amaze and astound me when green plants poke their heads out of leaf-covered ground and rise to form buds that bloom into flowers—miracles of nature.