Typical March Weather

First showing of redbud, barely visible through evening rain.

We've had a weather mix, to be expected in a Kentucky spring; the spring season most anywhere is one of fits and starts--balmy warmth, rain, wind and chilly evenings. 

Most days thus far have offered a mixture of clouds and sun with brief showers.

Daytime temps have risen to the mid-high 70's F, causing the meadow to green and the wild daffodils to rush into their prime.

Driving today on the Dunneville RD I noted that the south-facing curve in the road that presents the first yellow blooms is now bare of flowers.

I have prowled about outside, clipped back the plants in the raised beds, counted 6 foxgloves that seem to have survived the late fall planting. Several more poppies have emerged along the edge of the raised bed by the front steps and three are growing in a huddle inside the newest bed. No sign of the lemon monarda that I expected would be perennial. Achillea raised from seed is flourishing in one of the black bins and will need a permanent home.

Signs of life have [amazingly!] emerged on all three of the buddleia. 

The resident squirrels are busy; phoebes are investigating nesting spots in the open alleyways each side of the shop.

Asian lady beetles have squeezed through the window casings in the sun porches in such numbers that vacuuming them seems the only way to remove them, with the result that the vacuum cleaner emits a rank odor whenever it is used.

My thoughts are as unsettled as the weather--decisions to make about my gardens; family concerns. Like many others I am distressed by the uproar caused by war and by the conflicting reports regarding it; how is it possible to trust a government controlled by unstable personalities.

Edgy, restless, distrustful, I'm waiting for the other shoe to fall.

I work outdoors as much as I can. If the afternoon is sunny, I brew a mug of tea, take a snack of sliced apple and cheese, sit in a rocking chair in the south-east sunroom, cats companionably sprawled on the floor--or in the case of Thimble--perched on a windowsill to watch the swooping of birds, the dashing of a squirrel under the trees.

So much is beyond what we can influence or control, in the greater world, and in our own small sphere,

Que sera, sera!

The fire-damaged magnolia in the lower pasture, still robustly blooming.

This photo gives an idea of the damaged stumps of the trunk that have been cut away.

Note that the remaining portion of the trunk is also compromised.

Two small clumps of wild daffodils growing in the underbrush above the south ravine.

I've thought of moving them to join a rescued clump near the east retaining wall of our house.

The lower magnolia is the hybrid, "Jane" coming into full bloom always a few days earlier than the nearer one, "Susan." Below are my two lilacs, not perfectly happy in our humid summers, but providing a nostalgic memory of springtime in New England.

"Susan."

Forsythia, where the curve of our upper drive joins the communal lane.

Clematis "Candida" rushing the season as usual.

All my clematis are showing some degree of fresh growth.

I planted common and lemon thyme at the base of the two growing on the large trellis in the back garden. The thyme has spread--which is good--the usual weeds, henbit/dead nettle, the other green and juicy ones that I haven't named are growing rankly.

This morning I wrestled with matted wiry stems trying to bring some order to the untidy clumps. 

Wind and rain this evening tearing petals from the magnolias.

To paraphrase Shakespeare: 'Rough winds do shake the darling buds of--March!'

 

First Day of March

'Jane' magnolia, rushing the season.

Sunshine all day--a welcome change from too much gloomy weather in February.

I pegged sheets and towels on the back porch lines around noon where they flapped in the sun and wind, needing only a few minutes in the dryer when I brought them in at dusk. 

I peeled off my sweatshirt/hoodie and was comfortable in a long-sleeved jersey to work for several hours in the wall garden on the west side of the house.

I snipped dead stalks from the foxglove and gently pulled away winter-browned leaves to uncover the fresh green crowns. 

The foxgloves raised from seed last summer and belatedly set out in one of the black bins near the veg garden are looking far gone; I'm hoping a few will revive.

I did some cautious pruning of the clematis vines on the big trellis, likewise the wiry tangle of thyme at the base of the trellis.

Dead stems of monarda and purple coneflower cut away, then grubbing in the endless weeds that choke that bed. Henbit or the related dead nettle thrive through the winter along with various other evergreen and maliciously spreading ground cover weeds whose names I look up each spring and promptly forget. 

I labored over that small tiered garden for several years before a DVT in late March, 2021 put an end to my crawling about on the ground.

I can't call the area a success and don't know how to proceed to achieve something manageable that will preserve the foxglove and several roses along the wall. 

I suspect the large white-flowered butterfly bush will have succumbed to the weeks of bitter cold, as also the magenta -flowered pair in the raised bed alongside the greenhouse. 

I've replaced buddleia in three Kentucky gardens over our years here. When I grumbled to my favorite nurseryman at Homestead Gardens he suggested I consider dividing the initial cost of the shrub by the 3-5 years that it usually winters over, which makes for a modest investment against the pleasure of the luxurious blooms and the delight of visiting butterflies.

It will likely be another month before I can determine if any of the three bushes survived the cold.

Jim collected up more of the branches that were brought down by the weeks of ice and cold, used the chainsaw to remove some broken limbs over-hanging the lower lane.

I'm cautiously making a mental list of tasks I'd like to attempt in the coming week, the first in several that I've not had church duties for which to prepare.

I need to go through an accumulation of opened seed packets and speculate which may still be viable.

There are letters I should write, both as emails and to send out by regular mail.

Still a few more items in the pantry to be sorted and either culled or rearranged.

My bedroom wants tidying, as do the shelves to the left of my desk--and how about my clothes closet?

Given my puttering inefficiency at such things, add in the usual household chores of cleaning and cooking--maybe I'll just decide to go downstairs and take up my sewing!

Three seedlings of Lauren's Grape poppies have emerged at the edge of the old raised bed by the steps. 

Three more have braved the narrow rim of hard-packed soil along the south-facing barn door adjacent to the greenhouse. None have yet appeared in the graveled walkway just inside the door, but I can hope.

I had several lovely poppy varieties in my first Kentucky garden; only the one kind moved with us via seeds randomly shed in neighboring planters;  most years some lodge between the pavers near the front steps and bloom.

I've purchased fresh seeds each year but none have germinated. 

However: late last autumn I found a packet of seeds I had overlooked. and sprinkled them over some exposed soil. I'm hoping this is a poppy and not the winter-shriveled relative of a weed. 

Jane magnolia.

Jane

Monarda, holding its own in the mat of ground-cover weeks.

Coming home yesterday from lunch with Matt and Gina, Jim chose a meandering route, finally lumbering over a narrow dirt track that in three places crossed a shallow creek.

With no fear of oncoming traffic he stopped the car so I could record this profusion of wild daffodils.

[I refuse to call them by the local name of 'March lilies!']

Here I sit, an elderly woman, pondering how to make a garden, listing the tasks I want to accomplish--small personal things that have no import in any larger sense, a sort of self-absorbed plodding while [as my Dad would have remarked] the 'world goes to hell in a handbasket.' 

Ending on a pensive note: a scattering of red feathers just inside the greenhouse door and the soft body of a titmouse at the edge of the back porch: little deaths.