b). patiently waiting for me to come play ...
But the north border is calling, furzy headed thing that it is ...
So I suit up in my long johns (yes, long johns to garden), wool socks, jeans, turtle neck, down jacket and latex gardening gloves.
But before I attack the border, I trudge up to the forsythia and grab three of the highest branches, the three I'm likely to want to prune anyway, come summer. I pull them low to snip "less than 3 feet," the instructions say. I go open up the basement and plunge them into a bucket of warm water.
Then I trudge back to the border and wade in. Roots. Roots. Canes. Canes. Vines. Vines. Roots. Oh, yeah. Poison Ivy.
I quietly thank the daughter of the former owner, who has written me on various matters related to the house, and who, in passing wrote that there was poison ivy in the border and that she'd tried to spray it a bit with Round-up. I've never seen it, but then I've never really peered into the underbelly of this beast. So a shout out to C.C. I would've never known to be on the lookout. It's there alright. Not too much, thankfully. I'm glad you sprayed!
Three hours later. Presto chango. Another bit done. Maybe a third, with two days work, if I'm lucky. If you look close, you can actually see the mystery bush revealed at the far end.
I leave the brush clean-up for a warmer, brighter day. Besides, I like seeing it pile up.
Later, in the Sunday afternoon quiet, I bring up the forsythia. I've never tried this, but they say it is easy to force the blooms. And I, apparently, have a bad case of spring fever.
So does Phantom ...
Moments later, the whole thing goes over, of course. But I'll spare you that bit.
So, I didn't get any green on for St. Paddy's day, but I got some gold.
Robert Frost said it first ...
Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf's a flower
But only so an hour
Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Adam sank to grief
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
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