Good Gracious, Still Winter

Perhaps, if ProfessorRoush teases the elements by stating Winter is never going to end, the gods of War will put down their lightning bolts and thunder, the Weavers will begin weaving their threads, and, in defiance, the world will throw Spring into my face.   Because it is all, in this alternate dimension of Roush-life, done because of, in spite of, or about, me.  Right?   That has to be it, doesn't it?   "Citizens of Roushopolis, do not fear, I will just go find the correct switch and we will begin Spring in short order!"

I ventured out today, a poor lost soul caught in winter, and finally, finally, found my long-awaited Siberian squill boldly blooming on a south-facing slope.   I've seen nothing else before this, no swelling of forsythia or magnolia buds, no cracking of redbud blossoms, no lilacs breaking dormancy.  Prior to this, I had lost hope for Spring and crawled back into Winter, a warm blanket and warmer dog my only solace.

A mere three days ago, on March 16th, the scene outside and the story headlines were still full of cold and wintery weather.  My back yard was a swirl of wind and flurries, imprisoning me within the windows.   I should find a way to enjoy them, these last few dribbles of snow, but I'm not a snow boy.   I dream of a world where the only boots I wear are to wade through a stream or a prairie just burnt, not one where the precipitation of the moment reaches ones hips.

The Scilla pictured above is a week later than last year, two weeks later than 2021 and 2016 and 2012 in the same spot.   Only a week, only two weeks late?   It seems like an eternity.  An eternity compounded by my very, very late and nonexistent to prepare the garden.   For the first time I can remember, I have not yet touched the garden by Spring Break, the latter a milestone on the annual calendar of any professor.  Work, trips, illness, and sloth have left the garden on the outside, off the to-do list and fighting for itself.  Too few moderately-decent Spring days have appeared, a scattering on the weekdays and none on the weekend.   Today, 48ºF, is still too cold for my old bones to lay on the ground, and I wonder if the frost is really gone from just beneath the crust.   Soon, I expect, the race will begin, but this year, I may see daffodils surrounded by brown daylily debris, or fighting through lily stems.  Que sera sera.

Oh, I almost forgot; on my walk, there was this strange flower growing near a clump of daffodils.   A mutant daffodil?   A fungus?   Nope, a styrofoam ball from some discarded Christmas wreath, a poor substitute indeed for the stirring of sap and growth that should be occurring here!

Still Life w/Surprises

There are so many ways to read that title, eh?  "Still Life w/Surprises" merely as the title of a captured moment in art, an assembly of natural things that aren't moving?  Or do we have a "still life" photograph that also has elements that don't belong? Or is the photographer (i.e. ProfessorRoush) trying to say that life still has surprises? Today, it is all of the above.

Take for example the photograph above, a simple iPhone capture last weekend of my back garden bed ringing the house.  In among the debris, the observer can pick out the dried remains of Morning Glory vines, the multiple seed pod remnants from a Baptisia that grows nearby, the rotting pieces of last year's hardwood bulk mulch, and some dried daylily leaves.   All the leftovers of last year's growth desiccated and done, beyond regrowth, it's stored sugars and starches and energy transferred back into root or invested in seed.  And yet, if one looks closely enough, among the shades of brown, gray, black and tan is the green of next year's daffodils, the first sprouts pushing up from the soil in the first week of February, 2023.   Life's promise to go on.

Or, beside this paragraph, the reigning clump of Calamagrostis 'Eldorado', the nicest green and gold form of Feather Reed Grass I can grow.  In a four season climate, every season has its place and value, whether it is the promise of rain with the coming of spring or the sunshine of high summer to provide the energy for food production.   Even winter, at least to a gardener, has value as it exposes the bones of a garden, the structure of a branch or a shrub, yes, but also the interlopers of the garden, vigorous natives and non-natives hell-bent on taking over the space and serenity.   Here, it's the short Eastern Red Cedar, Juniperus virginiana, that grew stealthily last season in front of the grass and right before my eyes, but is de-camouflaged and exposed by the cruel fingers of winter.  I've marked it now, marked it for destruction when I make a first secateur pass during Spring cleanup.

The most exciting display of hidden surprises in my garden, however, is seen in the photograph at the left, a full view of my almost-Jelena Witch Hazel backed up by the massive leavings of a white Crepe Myrtle.  Can you look closely and find it, the surprise jewel among the worn branches?  Look very carefully, look at the base of the Witch Hazel for the surprise here.  Look for red among the brown in the picture at the right and the one below.

Somewhere, somehow, a volunteer rose has sprung up near the Witch Hazel, standing over 7 feet tall and like no other rose in my garden.   This one has the appearance of a short climber at present, nearly thornless, and with delightful red stems.  In my garden, only a few roses, mostly Canadians, have red thorns in winter, foremost among those my multiple bushes of 'Therese Bugnet' but Trashy Therese, who is admittedly prone to sucker, is nowhere near this bed and would have many more thorns.  The canes of Griffith Buck rose 'Iobelle' resemble these in color at the moment, but 'Iobelle' is 40 feet away, only reaches 3 feet tall, and never suckers. 

So, I think I have a seed-derived new rose, planted here by birds as a gift to the gardener, and the excitement is rising in my deep rosarian soul.  Will it survive the remainder of winter, proving its hardiness in this harsh dry and cold climate.  Will it flower this season, white or pink, single or double?   Will it continue to grow, a new climbing rose of my very own?  Will the canes turn red again next season and will it stay nearly thornless or become more thorn-covered as it ages?

These and other questions are why I garden, for the calm of a good life lived with the soil, for the gifts of nature that grow my soul, and for all the surprises out there, in the garden, that keep life interesting.

I Wish I Could...

 ...I wish I could start off my 2023 garden blog with a blog post full of colorful flowers, composed of images taken just today, right from my garden, blooming happily and weed-less-ly as it is already in my imagination.   Alas, however, I am woe, yea woe is me, and I can show you merely the captured sunrise of three days past Christmas, the morning I returned to this garden from faraway family, this image a pitiful substitute, I know, for the glory of waxy petals and errant bees, of life in full exuberance.  Fire in the sky and remnants of snow on the ground are all I can summon from the past week to draw your attention.

...I wish I could entice you into 2023 with the mysteries of new plants and new plantings, of garden beds created from catalogues and prayers, dreams borne into substance with spade and trowel.   Sadly, however, I can show you only the mysteries of another sunrise, two days after the first above, borne in fog and mist, warm ground shunning colder air, my garden isolated and shunning the sun, cloaked and calm and safe for a moment from the greater world.  The growth and glory of 2023's garden is hidden in shadows, lurking in dried stems and promising seed heads, dormant and patient.  What will come first?   A snow crocus?  A daffodil?  A budded magnolia swelling to burst?

...I wish I could show you, at the onset of 2023, more than bland beige landscapes of grasses past, remnants of a once-green and thriving prairie, brought low by cold and drought and time.  From inside the house, the Flint Hills roll on, golden and yet lifeless from seasonal death, the only visible stirring the flash of a hawk as it pounces on its next meal or the gradual lope of a coyote on its scavenging circuit.  It is an act of faith now to see this vista in my mind as it will be in a few mere months, green and tossed with the wind, fed by rain and sunshine in its eternal cycle of birth, growth, fire, and rebirth.

...I wish I could stay each morning in 2023, restful and still, to witness each day the morning turn into afternoon, verdant buds opening and following the sun's path, blue skies and fluffy clouds, through evening until the sun passes the earth on to moon.  To feel the freedom of time unshackled from job and errand, to pass the days alongside the grasses and dream of tomorrow beside them, sunshine and moisture in time and abundance, forever and ever.   This is my garden as it begins 2023, this morning, and at least I am here, today, present in the present and hopeful for the coming year.

Welcome to 2023!  Happy New Year to everyone!

Storm of a Lifetime (Not)

Although all the national media is calling the recent storm "The Storm of a Lifetime" or "The Storm of the Century", it is, in ProfessorRoush's experience, not even close, not even perhaps in the top 10 for such platitudes.   Perhaps I'm just jaded and old and tired of the over-copied refrain of panic the media attempts to produce every morning.   NBC's Today Show seems to have "special editions" every day now, and I'm sick of hearing about the nonexistent "Tripledemic" and good Lord, how much I miss the eternally cheery Robin Meade on Headline News.

But, moving along my digression, I personally remember two storms that hit Purdue University my freshman and sophomore years, heavier snowstorms than this which were accompanied by -50ºF wind chills, massive drifts and the first class cancellations Purdue had seen in 50 years.  And snowstorms in Ohio in '83 and '84 when I was a large animal dairy practitioner that closed roads for days and made me worry I would not make it home from a call; or not recover feeling in my frozen toes after a long day of work.  And half-inch-thick ice storms that destroyed trees and hail storms that flattened my garden.  So, as you can see from these pictures yesterday, a pittance of snow, an icy glaze to the blacktop, and -30ºF wind chills aren't nearly enough to be classified as once-in-a-lifetime.   Yes, they're dangerous, but they're certainly not unprecedented in human history.

Not much happening in the garden, these days, of a plantsman's interest, although life still abounds through the winter.  Checking the game cameras, I was pleased to see this handsome fellow along with several does in other pictures.  They don't seem to be coming as frequently as other years, nor have they caused much in the way of damage.

I was less pleased to see this picture, but at least this skunk was out and about in its normal nocturnal pattern instead of rabidly running around in daylight.  That being said, I'm glad it only appeared once in a season's pictures, numbering in the thousands since the summer.

There also seem to be increased numbers of coyotes frequenting the yard recently, even taking a leisurely rest here and there within gaze of the camera.   These two demonstrate the fact that they are aware of the camera, however, their somewhat creepy eyes staring directly at it and retinas reflecting the infrared light.   I've seen them occasionally out in the daylight, most often at dusk, and I do worry about them because they look a little mangy and thin, even for coyotes.   My concern ends, however, each morning and evening as I let Bella out the door and look closely over the edges of the yard, ever vigilant for her safety.

Well, with that all said, I leave you, this year, with "Merry Christmas!" and wishes for a blessed coming new year for everyone!  I'll be back here in January, always hopeful for a perfect garden and gardening year.