I’m somewhat impatiently waiting for those crocus to show up. Maybe it would help if I planted them.
Right now they are lying in shallow water, in separate porridge bowls on the kitchen counter, showing signs of rooting. They will all go in that long narrow planter on the balcony. I know I’m months late in getting them under the soil but nature is usually forgiving and they will still bloom … a little later, maybe, than those planted when they should have been — in October or November.
They will be doubly welcome because they actually survived. I wouldn’t be too surprised if they bloomed only a week or so after those planted at the right time. Nature has her ways of outwitting stupid or lazy gardeners and marvelous things happen in spite of that. I’m planning on it.
I must get those outside Christmas lights down and stored away. I hate to, because they look so pretty during these dark January nights. I haven’t heard the neighbours complaining but when pebbles start to appear on the balcony floor I’ll know they have reached the end of their patience.
My eldest daughter is prone to take things into her own hands when she thinks I’m getting somewhat senile.
She is likely to appear this coming week and be shocked to see I have Christmas decorations still in evidence. But it is so dull when they are all stored away.
There is a large, gorgeous red velvet poinsettia wreath hung over the fireplace that really does something special to the room, but I guess it’s time to put it back in its large black plastic bag in its closet where it sits for 11 long months.
Sometimes I pat the bag affectionately and insure the wreath has not been forgotten. My daughter hasn’t caught me doing this, or she would be sure her diagnosis is correct and I am really nuts!
I’m really not, she said, from the corner where she is standing on her head, happily reciting poetry.
I’m not sure, but think it is Shakespeare.
Helen Lang has been the Peninsula News Review’s garden columnist for more than 30 years.
