Some years ago Margaret submitted a few short stories/essays to a gardening magazine called GreenPrints. One, a tale of our dog Sassy's preoccupation with snails, was actually purchased by the editor/publisher, but has yet never run in the magazine. This is another short that unfortunately was returned with the dreaded rejection letter.
Our freesia have been very slow to bloom this year, but I was able to cut and bring in one beautifully scented stem yesterday. It encouraged me to share this little literary piece here with you all...
Our freesia have been very slow to bloom this year, but I was able to cut and bring in one beautifully scented stem yesterday. It encouraged me to share this little literary piece here with you all...
February Fireworks
February is the longest month of the year, despite what the calendar says, even in a gardening paradise like Southern California. Cold nights and gray, drizzly days prevail. Spring, never mind summer, would seem far, far away if not for the star-burst on my mantel. A group of tiny-mouthed vases, staggered in heights, is overflowing with heavenly scented freesias. Blooms of red, white, yellow, pink and orange perfectly contract the greens and blues of their containers. "Like fireworks in February," I announced to my significant other. I religiously refresh the vases through mid-March when I pluck the last stem from the large terra cotta pot on my balcony.
By the time all of the freesia blooms have dropped, other reminders of the seasons of rebirth are everywhere. But, I remain grateful for the weeks of magic that the diminutive flowers have worked on my soul. As I begin to withhold water from the foliage, allowing it to die back slowly, I'm reminded of how I've been cheered in the past, and will be again, when the flowers' life cycles renew in the fall.
In October, as the days shorten all too quickly, the Southland's nearly year-round show of color does begin to lose much of its sunlit vibrancy. About the time I feel myself sliding into the pre-winter blahs, that large terra cotta pot lightens my spirits. Though dormant for months, it seems that the tiny grass-like spears begin to pop through the dry soil overnight. I know it is time to drag the pot from under the balcony chair that has sheltered it, bringing it into the light. Anticipating the treasures that the freesia's pot holds, I feed the tiny corms lightly,and provide water until Mother Nature takes over.
Several weeks later the pot is lush with foliage. The sturdy green leaves seem oblivious to the extremes of weather common to this area in December - hot and dry Santa Ana winds one week and cold, driving rain the next. By late January, stems are appearing with buds tiny and tightly clustered, as though protecting themselves from the chill in the air.
Then, the longest month of the year returns, a few days of lengthening light and warmth tease the bottom blooms of the stems to peek open. I bring my collection of brightly colored vases out of storage in preparation. I know that I'll have my own fireworks display again, long before July arrives.
By the time all of the freesia blooms have dropped, other reminders of the seasons of rebirth are everywhere. But, I remain grateful for the weeks of magic that the diminutive flowers have worked on my soul. As I begin to withhold water from the foliage, allowing it to die back slowly, I'm reminded of how I've been cheered in the past, and will be again, when the flowers' life cycles renew in the fall.
In October, as the days shorten all too quickly, the Southland's nearly year-round show of color does begin to lose much of its sunlit vibrancy. About the time I feel myself sliding into the pre-winter blahs, that large terra cotta pot lightens my spirits. Though dormant for months, it seems that the tiny grass-like spears begin to pop through the dry soil overnight. I know it is time to drag the pot from under the balcony chair that has sheltered it, bringing it into the light. Anticipating the treasures that the freesia's pot holds, I feed the tiny corms lightly,and provide water until Mother Nature takes over.
Several weeks later the pot is lush with foliage. The sturdy green leaves seem oblivious to the extremes of weather common to this area in December - hot and dry Santa Ana winds one week and cold, driving rain the next. By late January, stems are appearing with buds tiny and tightly clustered, as though protecting themselves from the chill in the air.
Then, the longest month of the year returns, a few days of lengthening light and warmth tease the bottom blooms of the stems to peek open. I bring my collection of brightly colored vases out of storage in preparation. I know that I'll have my own fireworks display again, long before July arrives.
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