Even the calendars have it wrong. December 22 or even December 21 in some years, are not the start of winter. Those dates are the start of the gardening year. Anyone who is a gardener understands that intuitively.
It isn't even the measly extra minute or two we get daily from the low-hanging Sun that makes the shift a reality. My theory is we get the news from the ground itself, which starts calling us to put down our knitting and pick up those seed catalogs that have been piling up since before Thanksgiving.
Sure, here in Missouri, we've already had three proper snowfalls of at least five inches The ponds are freezing in an unstable way. The edges of the Grand River down from my place have had frozen shallow water at the edges.
More snow, some freezing rain and periodic thaws are definitely ahead until at least late February. That's not the point.
The point is something has happened inwardly. It's the same force that turned us away from gardening in September. Oh, sure, we made yet another feeble attempt at a fall garden. Once again, it was not a fabulous success.
Now, it's back to Life and Living in the gardening world. Every day that the ground isn't frozen hard is a cause for rejoicing and even a little gardening.
Today, it was gray and threatening to rain. Recovering from slipping on my tush in the mud above the river, I could not sit comfortably. It didn't mean I was unable to work in the vegetable garden. Here is the new tier Lissa is building for me.
What better time, with the temperature in the forties, to lay out cardboard for another Perma Bed?
Yesterday, I got out the fence tool and freed the big compost cage I kept filling all last summer. Myriad other gardening fun things await. Only snow can stop these activities from going forward.
My son-in-law Kevin works to build bridges in dreadfully cold weather. Next to him, I look like a retired grandmother, which of course I am.
Planning is what the season calls for. My son gave me Christmas cash, which makes ordering gardening equipment from the seed catalogs much more of a possibility. Shall I order the pole bean tower or make my own from old garden cart wheels? In addition, I have my sights on a lovely trellis for something to climb up.
Will the Salvia farinaca survive the winter to bloom another season? Will the Nicotiana syvestris reseed? Here are the remnants of last year's beauties, still gorgeous in my mind's eye.
Can I squeeze in another two, possibly six, daylilies? Why did I get a place with so much woods and so little garden space? These questions fill my thoughts.
Here is the patch of fall-planted spinach that so far has overwintered. See? The ground is getting ready to burst forth with life. But first, a brief message from Winter.
