It’s 68 degrees, and the windows are open. I spent a couple of hours outside, pruning roses, giving the lantana a haircut, hacking the cannas. I love this stuff. I love making my hands look like they’ve fought with a cat. I love heaps of dead plant stuff blocking the driveway so Terry has to park sideways. I love imagining how it’s all going to look in 3 months, when the roses bloom and the irises smell sweet, and the optimism of Spring pokes through the ground on tiny tendrils of snow peas. I rejoice at the heart shaped leaves of morning glories, climbing on their vines through the fence and dangling wisteria, purple and lavendar, hanging through the azaleas.
Right now the jonquils are blooming, swaths of them on the roadsides, richly fragrant, poking through the dried sedge, golden yellow or clusters of white. Rosy red camillias on the shrubs in the front yard, like roses almost, there for little girls to pick and wear in their hair.
I love the South, at least in January. Ask me again in August how it’s going.