I hate spring. Yes I do. I hate it. It is the most nerve racking season of the year.
At the first sign of warm, life begins to stir and a great excitement arises. Then comes more cold and the fear that fresh new life is going to be snuffed out. Then it snows. Just as thousands of daffodils are entering peak bloom, they get squashed. I hate spring.
I can control when the roadside vegetable garden wakes up. I know better than to be fooled by warm or unusually hot.
Daffodils can be fooled. They respond to the environment around them. A week plus of too much warm moved them a good ten days ahead of schedule. Then it snowed and they got squashed.
Squashed, squashed, squashed. Now mind you there are far too many daffodils on this mountain, many of which had not yet opened, for the daffodil season to be a total loss. A quick survey says about 60% of the open blooms ended up with bent stems never to stand back up again. The heavier double petal daffodils fared the worst. They will finish blooming. The color will still be there. The perky perfection that existed yesterday is no more.
The snow will need to melt. A day of fluffing will help. Then a final survey of the carnage can be taken.
Spring will continue. The forsythia actually looked pretty good for a low of twenty four. Of course that could be a frozen state of looking good. The open saucer magnolia flowers had turned a deep rich brown. The next couple of days will show what other cold damage may have occurred.
The mood swings are almost more than I can handle. This is the second spring in a row that the daffodils got squashed just as they were entering peak perfection. And this is hardly the only abusive spring relationship I have been through. I should be used to this by now. It still hurts.
I do know the garden will grow on no matter. I have seen that happen every single year. There is an abundance and resilience to life in the garden we would do well to emulate.