I am a regular enough reader of what one might call The Literature—as well as a wizened veteran—to know that gardeners suffer from a seasonal disorder that clouds their minds, and their judgement, as the days grow a little longer after the winter solstice. I know it is coming. And yet. And yet every year it catches me a little off-guard, as I stumble forward—arms outreached—anticipating the swoon that accompanies Madam’s exposure to those most horrible vectors of infection: the seed catalogs.
They arrive. Half the house descends into quiet except for the occasional groans, gasps, and even the periodic exclamations of, “dear sweet loving baby Jesus, no…” But of course, the answer—to the unspoken question—is always, yes.
And so, imagine with me if you will, the following scenario, reconstructed for you in the broadest and most general terms lest I trigger the least-well of you, those with strong memories of your own experiences hereof.
Winter weeding is finished. Unruly or lost plants have been excavated and moved, or cast into the flames. Pruning is complete, edges have been edged, moss combed and patted into place. The garden—and its gardener—are at rest for the first time in eight months.
Down the road, and in villages, towns, and hamlets like it, the evil plantsmen and women, knowing that their victims have that rare chance to sit back, cast hungry eyes over the land, eyes that have been softened through exposure to the catalogs that have been arriving in great bundles for the past few months, and dream. These purveyors know. They know the time is right. The time is right for a sale on bulbs. A great sale. A euro a bag. No limit.
There are promises made to loved ones, to themselves, all broken within minutes. There are self-imposed limits—really, just a couple of bags—that fall by the wayside as soon as voiced. Stout talkings-to are ignored with jaunty insouciance.
And sometime in the next 48 hours, one thousand eight hundred bulbs find their way into the soil of LaBu’s gardens*.
While Madam’s singular efforts to embrace pre-1637 mania are slightly disconcerting, one suffers mostly—mostly—in silence, optimistically anticipating as all spouses of gardeners must—the results. All across Normandy, and elsewhere as well, the mid-winter madness does make for a breathtaking spring.
I’ll take pictures, lots and lots of pictures, in the vain hope that a photo is worth a thousand bulbs…next year.
*Not an exaggeration. I know. It’s exhausting to even think about it.
What a lovely vignette in to a gardener’s life. I look forward to pictures of the magnificence when the bulbs spring forth.
Spring forth. Ha!
That pun wasn’t intentional, but definitely appropriate.
We are bouncing between winter and spring every few days here, when it’s not pouring down rain.
I have a bumper crop of clover growing in the back yard which I will take the lawn mower too in a few weeks. Handpulling weeds out front is a great workout for hamstrings and glutes as long as I allow the local bees to harvest the pollen first.