Use It Up, Wear It Out

The garage is a universe of ungodly junque including a clear plastic tri-fold egg carton I should have recycled months ago and also a big dirty bag half full of potting soil, and so today, as the world closed down, I spooned soil into the plastic dimples, soaked it and planted 12 collard seeds, showing them the seed packet to encourage them. Closing the carton created a terrarium. It's now in a dark warm place. Possibly the seeds will germinate in five to seven to ten days, maybe. I realized I have utterly forgot how to garden, remembering only that the largest part is faith.

Next I wanted, or rather, needed, for the very first time to put up a house number, but didn't want Mylar numerals stuck on the siding or the constant sight of numerals disrupting my contemplation of nature. Everyone until now has found this house, but one dark night someone had to drive seven miles from here to catch enough phone signal to call me and wail that there was no house number, and I had to go stand on the highway with a lantern to guide them.

What might the solution be? In the garage, behind trashbags of packing peanuts, was a two-foot metal planter so old I had grown up with it, heavy and too corroded inside to plant in. Inverting it over a rock and applying the numerals created a sturdy yet portable and removable house number, a courtesy for the Instakart drivers and first responders one might need in a pandemic.

These frugal up-cyclings enhanced the refreshing and sparkling spring day, ideal for scrubbing the bird feeder and refilling the outdoor mousetraps with poison, admiring the perennial crocuses down by the road; a hawk careering in an uncluttered sky and red cardinals calling to hardly anybody.

Phases of the Coneflower

If you can plant one perennial, plant coneflowers (Echinacea). Missouri coneflowers do beautiful things every day in June. Like fireworks in very very slow motion. Plant them once and they will do the rest. These are the most popular flowers around, visited by bees, sipped by hummers, and finally – when the seedheads are dry– swung on by goldfinches. All photos were taken June 1: the best, most promising day of the entire year.

Ants in the Pants

Pictured: Dutchmans' Breeches -- don't they look like starched linen? -- blossoming today behind the Divine garage. This spring flower has everything: it's toxic, rare, has a very short season, is fascinating and is perfectly nicknamed for its unique shape.

And. . . these perennials spread not by seeding or runners but ANTS. Ants spread the seeds for Dutchmans' Breeches, and that's God's truth. The slope behind the garage was maybe too wet this past year for ant colonies to flourish, because there's usually a drift of Dutchmans, and this year I count only three plants. Also I could have missed the main season and these are late ones. They are a weird little delight.

I don't touch 'em. These (Dicentra cucullaria) give some people dermatitis. And don't eat 'em. The bulb is poisonous.

Lighten Up

Like candles -- these light up my lawn. What are they? Oh, come on & guess. They're daffodils -- in bud! Still pretty tightly in there. About six inches high. All the same they'll be bustin out with those yellow and cream ruffly drapes and horns and petticoats in less'n two weeks. Then spring is really here. Oh drop to my knees and thank the Divine God it wasn't a bad winter weatherwise.

Don't you love this stuff? Perennials, that always come back, always come back.

Plantin'

Working way too hard to dig six inches down so I could break up the dry soil and plant some bulbs, my face throbbed and I started to feel lightheaded. So I put the shovel down and stood right in the garden plot, thinking I might die of a heart attack right then and there.

That's exactly how my father died, at age 63. Digging in his garden on a fall morning he pitched face forward onto the earth, and a neighbor found him. That was 25 years ago. I'm not as old, and I don't smoke like he did, but I'm know that I'm not too young to get that phone call from God. When he calls, there's no choice but to go.

I waited for my heart to stop beating so hard. It didn't. I thought, "Well, it's better to die outside the house than inside; my neighbor will come home from work at 3:30 or so, so I won't by lying here too much more than six hours. And it's better to die fast than slow; they say it takes about 90 seconds; hope it doesn't hurt too much. . ."

False alarm. I took it very easy after that, planting my crocus bulbs and three small perennials called -- what? Campanula. Bellflowers. Blue. Now I know one thing for sure: They'll be here in the springtime whether I am here or not.