Category Archives: Seasons

Summer snowflakes

Common as it is, Queen Anne’s Lace is a beautiful wildflower, I think. I found a nice patch backlit by the sun a few weeks ago and lost myself for a while in the varying forms the flowers take. As pretty as the tops of the flowers are, I think they’re much more interesting from below.

It’s said to attract more than 60 insects, beneficial pollinators among them, and makes a wonderful pressed flower. It’s easily confused with other poisonous members of the carrot family, like water-hemlock or poison hemlock, so be very careful before ever sampling the root.

I was ready to say that this is probably my favorite of the late summer wildflowers, but then I thought of Joe Pye and New York Ironweed. Both are just coming into bloom in my garden now and attracting swallowtails and monarchs. It’s August suddenly and the summer is waning.

Spring is good

“Every year back spring comes, with nasty little birds, yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.” – Dorothy Parker


That quote makes me laugh, but I’m sure there are those who would agree, scary as that is. Spring seems to be trying to make up for its late start in the span of a few days; the weather has been more summer-like than spring-like and the birds and insects are out in force and the flowering trees are putting on a lovely show. The robins are singing their sunset chorus now as I type. I can look forward to a mockingbird serenade when I head to bed around midnight. The chickadees have filled their nestbox in the Magnolia with moss and other soft plant fibers in anticipation of eggs. Today, my Serviceberry bloomed. Spring is good.

Early sounds

It’s still chilly, but I sleep with the bedroom window open just enough to let in the morning sounds. It’s early in the season still, so that every birdsong feels like a luxury. I’m a heavy sleeper, but the robins and cardinals rouse me from the warm covers in a much better mood than the blaring alarm clock does.

I think the robins are the first to begin with tentative calls before the sun has brought very much light to the morning. Then it’s the cardinals and the sparrows who call. As the light increases and the birds are encouraged by one another, calls turn to song. This morning I heard a white-throated sparrow singing his “Old Sam Peabody” and smiled to myself as I enjoyed a last few moments of slumber.

The rest of the morning routine is done in haste. I might spend a few minutes standing by the kitchen window with a cup of coffee watching the birds at the feeder, but by that time the house sparrows and starlings are up as well and any singing from the more talented birds is drowned out by their arguing over a perch at the free food buffet.

New birds and new songs will add themselves to the dawn celebration in the coming weeks; to the point that it becomes difficult to distinguish any one voice from the chorus of birds echoing one another in the gala that is spring. Maybe there’s one in particular that you listen for to know that the season has finally arrived, or maybe you enjoy the effect of so many voices singing the same song of delight but to a different tune. I could tell you what I think, but I’d rather know what you like to hear outside your window that says Spring.

😉

Hellebore

Springtime and its frantic longing for anything new and fresh and green brought me to the horticultural park today, desperate for a change in scenery from the browns and grays, as much as I’ve been enjoying them. I’m in a Spring state of mind and arrived fully anticipating a display of flowering trees and tulips more to be expected in late April than late March.

What was I thinking?

Early Spring is subtle and its quiet splendors ask only that you look past the melting snow and dead grass and mud puddles to find beauty in the delicate green of a hellebore at your feet or the blushing red maples on the hillside. Every year, every Spring, I need to remind myself that Spring isn’t really a season unto itself, but rather a collection of moments and, above all, a time of transition. A period of waiting and watching. The signs now are mostly small and easy to miss, but they’re there.

Once a day and sometimes more
I look out my day-dream door
To see if spring is out there yet
I’m really anxious, but mustn’t fret.
I see the snow a melting down
and lots of mud and slush around
I know the grass will surely sprout
and birds and flowers will come about.
But why oh why does it take so long?
I’m sure the calendar can’t be wrong.
Sunshine fills my heart with cheer
I wish that spring were really here.
– Edna T. Helberg, Longing for Spring

Winter bloom

Maybe yesterday’s greenhouse beauties were too gaudy for your taste – it’s easy to be bold and beautiful when you’re lovingly tended by paid staff and live in a temperature and humidity-controlled environment.

Is your preference instead for the frilly fragrant blooms of this witch hazel in the snowbound garden? Do you find their ruffled paper-confetti flowers more beautiful, or admirable, for their brash defiance of the snow and ice?

Just asking!

Maybe I’m looking for meaning where it doesn’t exist, or playing with metaphors just to amuse myself, but not a single person paid any mind to this plant as they passed it by on their way into the greenhouses yesterday during my visit to the garden center. Primroses and pansies and coddled orchids were worthy of attention, but not this common plant putting on its vernal show for all to witness for free.

Spring is where you find it and, of course, where you choose to look. I’m at the point that any flower, or other sign of spring, however humble, causes me to stop and take notice. All the little steps away from winter bring us closer to warmth and the greening of the landscape.

When the retailers decide to flood the market with colorful flowers really has nothing to do with spring. If we followed them, we’d be celebrating Halloween in late August. We laugh at that idea, but are willing to buy into it in late March when we’re desperate for an end to winter and cold. But if you have a garden or are attentive to the signs, even the green shoots of snowdrops and crocuses, without any blooms yet, can work their magic and convince you that spring is on its way, however reluctantly it comes sometimes.

The miracle of March is working, mostly unseen. By May, when all the world is green and humming with life, we’ll have lost all sense of proportion. For now the first crocus or the simple witch hazel are a gentle reminder that spring isn’t just a dream.

It’s official

Spring officially arrived for me today because I had two firsts – the first eastern phoebe and the first woodcock.

I haven’t managed to see any woodcock in the last few years because I never got around to looking for them. There’s certain places locally that I know to find them, but I’ve been too lazy to get in the car and drive to then stand out in the near dark and cold on the chance that the night was warm enough and windless enough to suit them and their dizzying courtship display.

Well, guess what? I had woodcock almost in my backyard this morning! Our property backs up to a small park with athletic fields and a small market and farm bordered by wet woods. I was up before the sun today because of the time change and a bird trip to the Pine Barrens. After a shower I was here in the office with the window open a little so I could hear the cardinals and robins greeting the day when I heard the first “Peeent!” from the field behind the house. I thought for sure that I had imagined it, but putting my ear to the window confirmed what I’d heard. I stepped out the back door in my robe and saw a woodcock twittering over the house. It amazes me to find these birds so close to home when for years I’ve been driving out to Sandy Hook or the fields around the college to see them.

I took a walk back to the farm this evening just at dusk and was treated to a show by half a dozen or so woodcock. What a treat! They’re fun to watch because no two birds fly alike. Some go straight up and hover at tree-top level, some corkscrew off low to the ground, and many zig and zag through the brush making it very hard to follow them with binoculars in the dying light. Sometimes one will take off or land almost at your feet.

I have to wonder how long I’ve been missing out on this! Now that I know they’re back there, I’ll be sure to listen for them at dusk.

Image from Google Images

Saturday’s rewards

There’s this sort of game I play with myself so that I can get things done that I don’t really want to do. Most weekends it’s cleaning the house and doing the grocery shopping. Today it was a visit to the dentist and grading mid-term exams that were on the *don’t really want to do* list. So in an attempt to balance out the negative emotions involved in those two activities, I spent a few hours after the dentist wandering around a state park that I don’t often visit.

It’s a very urban park, but with a nice mix of habitats – a sample of the more southern pine barrens forest with lots of pitch pine and a dense stand of Atlantic white cedar, plus the upland hardwood forest with beech, black birch, red and white oak and old growth white pine. There’s also a fairly large bit of salt marsh and a freshwater marsh that I can admire from the Garden State Parkway at 70 mph as it passes through the park.

The trails were very wet; that was the only tangible sign of spring that I found today. No spring azures, no fiddleheads, no skunk cabbage or hint of buds on the mountain laurel or swamp azalea. It’s supposed to be very easy to find pink lady’s slippers here and trailing arbutus, but I’ll have to go back later to find those beauties when spring isn’t just in my imagination.

I came home to the stack of mid-terms happy to have had a few hours out, but disappointed that I hadn’t found more to put me in mind of the coming season. Maybe it’s just as well that I don’t catch spring fever quite so soon. There’s still six more weeks of students and papers for me to contend with.

Late winter

If we’re lucky enough(?) to live in a place that has four seasons to the year, then I think it must be inevitable to be anxious for each seasonal change. I’d guess the anticipation of spring is most common; however I find myself anticipating the end of summer and heat more than I do the return to that type of weather. Yet, as much as I love the cold of fall and winter, I do get to missing the garden. March is a funny month; with the equinox we think of it as the first month of spring, but here in NJ at least, the weather is anything but spring-like most days, and the garden has to wait.

Whatever else it may be, I think of March as a month of anticipation. There are good things to come, but also much to appreciate at this in-between time of year. Maybe just to convince myself to be happy at this week’s return to below freezing temps, I made a list of some of the things that, as a gardener, I enjoy about late winter. Maybe you’d like to add to it?

  • Catalogs, of course! I love to spend a weekend afternoon dreaming about what my garden might be this year and marking up the pages of my favorite catalogs with yellow sticky notes on the photos of the most colorful and unusual plants. At some point reality sets in and I order only a third of what I would really like and still don’t have a permanent place for most of it.
  • Anticipating the first weekend of spring cleanup and that first sweet smell of the earth warming up. The restlessness of spring-fever and the urge to be out of the house.
  • Winter bouquets: acorns and pinecones, red osier dogwood twigs, witch hazel, pussy willows, forsythia…
  • Freedom from weeding and mowing and plant pests.
  • Anything is possible now; everything a promise.

“Every gardener knows that under the cloak of winter lies a miracle… a seed waiting to sprout, a bulb opening to the light, a bud straining to unfurl. And the anticipation nurtures our dreams.” –Barbara Winkler

Finding spring in the stars

Anyone else in the mood for a little Borland? Here’s something a bit different about the late winter sky from Sundial of the Seasons:

“Days lengthen, but the nights are still bright with the Winter stars, frosty and sharp in the darkness. The Big Bear, the Dipper, swings to the east in early evening, and the Little Bear walks across the sky, his upright tail tipped with the polestar. The Twins and the Charioteer are almost overhead, and the Pleiades ride high, toward the southwest. The Lion is in the east and the Whale in the west, both within reach of the horizon, reminders of Daniel and Jonah.

February thins away. Before another new moon hangs on the western horizon at dusk, March will be nearing its end and the Big Dipper will be overhead, or at least above the polestar, by midevening. The fang of the night chill will be dulled. Hylas will be shrilling in the lowlands, April at hand.

The seasons turn, as do the stars, and those who live with the wind and the sun understand the inevitability of their changes. The full moon fades the constellations and dims the Milky Way, but it does not halt their progression or change their place in the sky. Come April, and the Dipper stands above the polestar at evening, and buds begin to open. Come October, and the Dipper sweeps the evening horizon, and maple leaves turn to gold and Fall is upon us.

February has its pattern, but it is a shifting pattern, with movement and change, and progression. The sun lingers, the new moon sits on the hills, the early Dipper hangs to the east, and the bud waits on the branch.”


Most all of this is Greek to me. I can find the Big Dipper, and that helps me to locate the North Star, but beyond that I’m a foreigner in the land of the stars. The signs of spring found in the night sky are as lost to me as they are to a person who doesn’t know birds or the late winter woods. I’ve never had anyone to teach me the stars, and somehow I think learning about the night sky should happen in a romantic sort of way and on long quiet walks with the sound of the ocean in the distance, maybe; certainly not alone with the Peterson’s as my only teacher.


Do you know the stars? Who was your teacher? PG stories only, please!

😉

Note: Clicking on the photo links to a page which names some of the stars that make up the Big Dipper, I think. I grabbed the photo from their site, anyway. If you can recommend a good site, or book, please do!

Color(ful) for One Deep Breath

leafless trees
just beyond the brown hilltops
spring waits there

This week’s poetry prompt at One Deep Breath is color(ful). You might’ve noticed lately that I enjoy photographing the landscape when there is snow cover. There’s not been very much of it this winter, but I especially like a view like this when there is nothing but a range of browns, made even more noticeable blanketed in white. I love the contrasts, and play them up when I edit a photo like this.
On this particular day I was anxious to walk along the field’s edge and to see the wet bottomlands where skunk cabbage should be emerging. Soon, on a warmish and windless night, the woodcock will make its first twittering display flight from the stubble to the right of the path. Later into the season will come the mourning cloaks and the bluebirds and a kestrel to hover above the newly green fields on the welcoming breeze of a spring day.

But not yet. I couldn’t take a step towards that hillside or the marsh beyond the scene I captured here. The ice-crusted snow made it all unreachable. Spring is there, over the hilltop, and after the thaw.