You’ve heard the stats: lots of storms, and records for cold temperatures. At my place, it was a record for nervous breakdowns.
THE LIVING-ROOM plaster had already let go and cracked up, remember? (I guess after keeping it together since 1880ish, you get to fall apart, right?)
AND THE female blue jays, anticipating calcium needs for egg-producing season, had chipped patterns of paint off the front and back porch. My paint job? All cracked up. (I’d show you a newer photo of their expanded handiwork, except there’s too still much ice to get near the spots, and the front door remains frozen shut.) I’m going to skip how I feel about the 21 gray squirrels–count ’em!–who think the back porch tastes delicious, OK?
AS MOURNING DOVES and a cardinal and the drumming woodpeckers tuned up the first warm days, another voice chimed in. Giant slabs of ice like the one above, longer and thicker than surfboards and many inches thick, descended from on high at will. Incoming! Each unexpected bombshell gave me a you-know-what.
I’VE NEVER SEEN more winterburn on evergreens, especially the broad-leaf ones like rhododendrons. (You’d have a freakout, too, if you’d stood out there all winter in the minus-whatever without a blanket.)
I know; it’s over, right? (Well, except it will snow today, and it was 11F and windy yesterday morning.)
THERE’S HOPE for recovery, though: The intermediate witch-hazels are trying valiantly to do their thing (albeit a month or so late).
LET THE HEALING BEGIN: My longtime friends from nearby Windy Hill Farm and nursery came to prune the too-big-for-me trees yesterday, including the old apples. (See two brave climber-pruners at work?)
Forward progress, at last, even if still under 6 or 8 inches of 100 percent snow cover, with more approaching. My kingdom for a snowdrop—genus Galanthus, I mean, not one falling from the sky.
(Top-of-page garden doodle by Andre Jordan for A Way to Garden.)