Winter Haze

Winter.  Frost and fog outside.  Warmth and fire inside.  The calendar and the movement of the planets falsely claim the season is fall, but ProfessorRoush says it's winter.

Winter.   What is it good for? Pictures, perhaps, like the one above, the sun captured, weakened by distance and the inclination of this orb, unable to penetrate the haze of humid air the night has frozen into submission.   No breeze, not a creature stirring here, all waiting for the sun to penetrate and soften the icy knives of frost.  

Or pictures, perhaps of happier thoughts and colorful moments, the annual home Christmas tree shining glorious even in the morning light.   Mrs. ProfessorRoush and I decided this year to leave the tree unburdened by ornaments, the plain lights a symbol, perhaps, of our innate desire for simple quiet and peaceful stars, a holiday of joy and rest.  We've left off the hundred collected ornaments, some homemade, others a treasured gift or purchase.  It may be a fake tree of metal and plastic, but it serves the purpose, lit each night in the front window as a beacon to faraway children and friends; "Here is home."

Odd?  Or not, perhaps, for a gardener to prefer artificial trappings for Christmas rather than a collected and distantly transported tree.  This year I won the annual tug-of-war between Mrs. ProfessorRoush, who prefers the dying, pine-scented, needle-dropping "natural" tree, and myself, who prefers my negative environmental impact displayed through the manufacture of plastic and LED's.  This tree may be phony, it may be fabricated, but at least it isn't singing the song of death in the house as it slowly dries and dies, snatched from a forest of others to perish alone.

Ten o'clock, and the sun seems to be losing the battle against winter today, rather than gaining.  The predicted high for today has already been cut by 4ºF and I fear it will soon cede more to the fog.  My planned trek to clean out bluebird houses may have to wait, wait for a warmer day and a braver caretaker.   I feel the weight of responsibility for my bluebird trail, but not at the expense of stiff fingers and frostbit toes.  There is time enough to wait on the sun to lead me out, to beckon me from a clear horizon and warm the air.   Time enough for winter to come and be gone, away like the fog and the frost, if the sun gets its way.

Baby Got Hips

I like big hips and I can not lie
You other gardeners can't deny
That when a rose shows up with its foliage rough and tough
 And puts some red balls all around
You get glad, want to make some jam
'Cause those hips ain't full of spam
Seeds in those hips she's wearing
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring
Oh baby, I want to plant them wit'cha
And take your picture

Sorry, but once again, Baby Got Back seems to be my muse for starting a post.  Our first frost is finally upon us,almost 4 weeks late, and 'Fru Dagmar Hastrup' is ready, ripe hips shining in the sun.  These hips are the biggest and juiciest of the rugosas that I grow, and in these, I can finally see why wartime Britain relied on rose hips as a source of Vitamin C.  The first hip, at the top, is larger than a quarter, and the second is nearly that large.  Many sources state that these hips should be accompanied by fall color changes in the foliage, but I have yet to see my bush provide any color this fall.  Perhaps she will develop it later, once that first frost does its damage.

I do intend to plant the seeds within this scarlet dreams this winter and try for a crop of Rugosa hybrids.  After the loss of so many roses to Rose Rosette, I might as well hope and pray that 'Fru Dagmar Hastrup' was indiscreet with one of the Griffith Buck or English roses in the vicinity, making little roses that could have some RR resistance.  A gardener can hope.

Our average first frost in this area is around October 15th, but today, November 13th, is our first this year.  The view below was out my back windows into the garden as the sun rose this morning, bright and determined to chase away the frost.  I spent the cold morning indoors, and then ventured out into my garden on a beautiful afternoon to trim some volunteer trees from the garden beds; mulberry, elm, and rough dogwood are the usual culprits here.  It wasn't a huge chore, but I'm nibbling my way back into the garden slowly, picking away at the things that bug me the most from this dismal year.  For once, I welcome winter and I want a cold one to sweep the slate clean, so I can start over anew.

Fall's First Frost

Gardeners, I give you....Frost.  These are the sights that greeted the risen sun in my garden this morning; frost on the persicaria, frost on the buffalograss and frost to the horizon.  Yesterday's weather was supposed to be drizzly and cold, with a predicted high of 45F, but the particular weatherperson who made that prediction was a little bit wrong.  A little bit wrong like the engineer who said the Titanic was unsinkable. We actually had snow flurries most of yesterday morning, melting as fast as the flakes hit the ground, but snow nonetheless.  And yesterday afternoon, the high reached only 37F, eight degrees off the prediction and cooling already as I came home from work.  Couple that with a clear, cloudless night and this morning's thermometer showed 30F when I rose.

What does it mean, this first frost of Fall?  The hoarfrost was not a surprise and actually right on time, inevitable and almost obedient to the average frost date, October 15th, for this part of Kansas.  I've been waiting patiently for this day.  To ProfessorRoush, it meant that I could finally chop off the errant foxtail grasses who were trying to push that last seed out before winter and that I could safely start to prepare the lawn mower for spring; drain the oil, change the filters, and clean the deck.  It meant that I could proceed with planting those daffodil bulbs that have been biding time in the garage for the past few weeks.  It meant that I could mow off the peonies, and move some infant volunteer redbuds from an unwanted spot to their secret garden rendezvous.  It provided the impetus to gather the ornamental gourds and the birdhouse gourds from the vegetable garden and move them to a drying place.  All these things and more I accomplished today, on a beautiful, bright, crisp Saturday afternoon.

 

The first frost also brings death and sorrow.  The end of the roses draws nigh, buds caught napping by winter's cold breath.  Some, rescued by the shears, will yet open indoors, but many will blacken and wilt, unborn.  The leaves on maples and oaks previously dawdled, slowly changing from dark green to light, but now they will rush into color, pulling the precious sugar back to their roots.  I can almost hear them change now, murmuring in my subconscious, unseen brushes of reds and yellows and browns  working their magic minute to minute.  Blue-toned buffalograss turns tan and hibernates, waiting beneath the earth for summer's warm rays.  Now only straw protects earth from the footprints of the beasts, and the beasts eat the dead grass, the carbon of life's recent fires.  The garden withdraws beneath the earth and the gardener retreats inside.  We plan, and then we await last frost, the last gasp of winter.  In the river of time, we know that last frost will come again just as surely as did the first frost this morning.