Spring is nearly here! It’s cold this morning, 30 degrees (that’s -1C to the rest of the world. Honestly, Celcius makes so much more sense, 32 for freezing seems so arbitrary) but sunny. The past weekend was an appetizer, (in the Toot household vernacular) a horse doover, meteorlogical snack, just enough to whet the appetite and get a body’s juices flowing and anxious for the Main Course, full-on Spring Time!
Spring is the longest season here in Deepest South Georgia, starting with the blips and jonquils of late January and beginning in full force by early March and lasting until mid-June. The oppressive heat and humidity of summer starts mid-July and lasts until early October, Fall is a joke, winter is a weekend, and there’s fresh roses and camellias on the Christmas dinner table…then it’s Spring again. I love Spring. I love the South and am willing to endure 98% humidity (good for the complexion), water moccasins, and The Junior League just to have 5 months of Spring.
I count the seasons here by what’s blooming:
Winter=Camellias, first the sassenquas with their small, rose-like blossoms, then the hybrids all shades of red, pinks and stripes.
Spring= first the red maples, then redbuds, dogwoods, cherries, plums, peaches, then roses, Oh…the roses, Happy is the day I cut that first fragrant bouquet to set on the dining table.
Summer=everything. Morning glories, all the annuals, salvias, cannas, every day has something blooming, color somewhere. If the day is awful, if someone is being mean or stupid, I can go sit amongst blooming things and know God loves me and the rest of the world, why else would He give us so many lovely things?
Fall= cherokee rose (not a rose at all, but a 20 foot tall variety of hibiscus), clematis, goldenrod, joe-pye weed, those harbingers of cooler days
Winter…here we go again, a big vase full of camellias, holly berries, and that errant never-say-die deep red Cascade rose. Oh and the luscious, many-varied reds of all those maple trees…on into December.
When life gets tough, and it does, it’s the blooming things that keep me going. It’s the satisfaction of sticking something small, hard and dead-looking into the ground, and 2 weeks later a shoot comes up, curling tendrils around a trellis, a promise from God that no matter what happens, some things are never changing, the course of the Earth, that after Winter comes the Spring. No matter what humanly ridiculous event, whether it’s a war or a child refusing to be sensible, the peas will sprout and the daffodils will bloom. Thank You God, for that comfort.
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