Thirty-seven degrees. There was snow yesterday evening in hilly areas a few miles south, and hail here. Maybe this is why the robins haven’t returned to their unfinished nest in the rhododendron. A few smaller birds, though, have stopped to investigate. Otherwise, the weather continues to be rainy with cool daytime temperatures and brief intervals of sun. Our garden space is still muddy, and the soil hasn’t warmed enough to sprout this year’s stand of volunteer sunflowers. When they do sprout, we know gardening season is about to begin. What is thriving? Moss, shepherd’s purse, grass, dandelions, and everything else that’s here of its own accord — in other words, whatever hasn’t been defeated by common gardening practices. A few days ago, we saw someone spraying his beautiful dandelions, purposeful, grim, and obviously unaware of what he was doing. There’s a small, very old cemetery on a hill not many miles from here. Even it has dandelions, and, as the seasons progress, other kinds of native grass and flowers crowd around the weathered upright markers. The man’s yard is a dandelion cemetery. His house is the only marker. The name on it is a number. Every day, a thousand years go by and nothing changes. Maybe sometime soon a For Sale sign will sprout fully grown by the street, promising a quick harvest. And hunger will go on.
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Categories: Daybook
Tags: Cemeteries, Dandelions, Gardening, Gardens, Grass, Hail, Houses, Hunger, Moss, Mud, Rain, Rhododendrons, Robins, Seasons, Shepherd’s Purse, Snow, Sun, Sunflowers
William Michaelian 