Waxing Moon, Spring-like weather, a stack of paper egg cartons and garden dreams. I have seed packets, clean milk cartons and saved plastic salad boxes to use as wee greenhouses.
I am mostly a failure at gardening. Maybe a quarter of my plants thrive and produce in a good year. Good gardeners see about half to three quarters; it is a tough hobby.
Two rescues from Kroger floral department went into the ground yesterday. One is a yellow miniature rose, the other is a primrose. My rescue poinsettia is thriving as well.
When I bought the rose, he was wilted and had dropped well over half his leaves. After a little water, I set him near a window, cleaned up the dead leaves and cut off the flower buds, talking to him as I worked. “Welcome to your new home!” And behind me, my husband said, “You have lucked into the best possible house to live in.”
Husband has grown accustomed to sharing space with a small jungle of houseplants. My houseplant tower acted as Yule Tree this past year, adorned with lights and baubles. They love the attention.
Tomorrow is the old holiday of Candlemas, or Groundhog Day. The Irish call it Imbolc, referring to lambs growing in their sheep mama’s bellies. Seeds of hope for the coming season.