In Seventh Heaven

In Seventh Heaven

Started the day by baking three loaves of bread. Simple fare: two sourdough and a loaf of Old English Barley. All turned out nicely browned. Of course I took the first loaf, the barley, while still warm, ripped off a few inches and slathered it with salted butter. This is what nirvana must be like I thought [and all visions of willing virgins faded into oblivion], and this is part of what being alive is all about, almost the equal of an orgasm.

Then to the garden.

But, before I could don secateurs and trowel, the mail arrived. Should any one human be gifted in one day with such overwhelming opulence? There was the [not to be discredited] mundane, tier one: the Smithsonian and Audubon magazines. Then, tier two: the Spring issue of The American Conifer Society Bulletin, and, [and here I actually prayed for heavier rain so I would be forced to stay indoors] tier three: three beautiful journals from the Japanese Alpine Rock Garden Society, including the inaugural 1979 issue, plus a wonderful book of Japanese wood block prints.

I worry, how will I find time to slip in an hour or two of necessary sleep tonight?

But, to the garden.

Alas, there is no time to report on the planting, pruning, weeding, transplanting, etc., that went on today despite the rain, and my diminishing energy has been spent.

Must mount a one-man expedition and search for Whinkla - after I plant the x, and the y, and z.

Come Rain or Come Shine

Come Rain or Come Shine

Days have been rather grey of late, an unyielding granite-grey to which only our burgeoning population of moles can comfortably relate - it's also been quite wet. Ten inches of rain in March, and almost the same amount fell in January and February. I know, many parts of the country get this amount of precipitation in a day or two, but our pluviosity is cold, penetrating, lingering like an unwanted winter cough. Things begin to mold, objects rot, creatures decay. The red steel wheelbarrow, left leaning against the hedge all winter, disintegrates. Bryophytes may wave their archegonium and antheridium in the damp air and be gay, but for the Lewisia, and several others, otherwise hardy plants, the center cannot hold under such conditions. Even the Himalayan Meconopsis seem to be loosing hope.

But, in the wee greenhouse, where muffled rumors of Spring are heard and promises shine, the Arabis blepharophylla have flowered and gone to seed. Draba are still in bloom, and in a few days, at least one Primula auricula will open its petals.

Outside, despite the weather, crocus and daffodil are blooming, dispelling any less-than-cheerful thoughts I might have harbored. And there are cyclamen, anemone, pulmonaria, hellebore, hepatica, and heathers, Iris tenax and the first primrose blooming. And as if the day wasn't wonderful enough, in and of itself, the latest issue of Café in Space, The Anais Nin Literary Journal, arrived. The world is indeed a wonderful place to be born into.