The spring of possibilities

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I literally exclaimed, out loud, “Oh, you are here!” when I saw them.

It was with great excitement that I reached my hand into the mailbox and pulled out my favorite reading material of the year.

Yes, there they were.

I ran my hand over the colorful covers and ran to the house with great anticipation of diving right into those wonderful, glorious publications.

It’s that time of year again.

The time filled with great possibilities.

What had arrived?

Well, my seed catalogs, of course!

It was an amazing moment as both Burpee’s and Gurney’s arrived on the same day! What are the chances of that?

It was like winning the lottery.

Throughout the 24 hours preceding their arrival, there had been signs how good things were ahead and spring might actually return again.

In the afternoon, I forgot my dozen or so coats lying in my office and went home with just a short-sleeved shirt . . . because I actually could.

And then, the joy of spring was topped off with the discovery of the catalogs and all the fantasizing they create.

I have loved those catalogs since I was a little girl. It’s so entertaining to see all the crazy things we could try to grow if we are ambitious enough.

Right before you are pictures of record-setting pumpkins, giant cabbages, beautiful strawberries that could someday turn into a perennial bed, sunflowers the size of a cottonwood tree and so-called “no fail” cucumbers that will produce at least a month longer than any other kind.

They tempt me to want to grow purple potatoes, yellow tomatoes, reddish-colored asparagus, two-pound sweet onions and multi-colored corn.

There are beans that can grow to 10 inches long, cauliflower that will turn pink, broccoli with a blue tint and watermelons the size of a lawnmower.

I can almost smell the herbs from Italy and Japan . . . and believe that they can also be grown in my little neck of the woods.

I flipped through the pages of possibilities . . . and in five-page intervals I would gaze out the back door at my now-barren plot where in just a couple of months I will be digging and planting and praying and being hopeful for whatever is possible.

When early March hits each year, I truly believe that I am a Master Gardener and I can grow anything. Heck, I bet I could have citrus fruit trees and be grinding out juice by November!

Right now, I believe that everything is possible. I believe that Mother Nature and I are best friends, and God created weird variations of plants just for me to nurture.

When mid-April arrives, I tell myself that it will never get cold again and it’s time to plant. I want tomatoes already . . . the jars are ready for canning.

When early May is here, I stick plants and seeds in the ground because there’s no point in wasting time.

In the second week of May, I cry because the temperature went below freezing.

And in the first week of June, I am mad as all get out because hail killed whatever didn’t freeze in May.

In mid-June, I gingerly try to resuscitate back to life whatever green sticks remain.

And in early July, I marvel at what is still alive.

In mid-July, I grow sick of weeding and watering and worrying.

In August, I wonder how I will possibly have time to pick everything that was produced.

And in September, when it’s all said and done, I feel sad as we run a bush whacker through the dead mess and call it a year.

Oh, the ups. The downs.

But for right now, I’m in the honeymoon stage and feeling optimistic, almost euphoric.

I know the feeling will be fleeting. I know the romance won’t last.

But as the weather gets warmer and I feel new life springing back into myself, I can envision new life springing back into that piece of dirt in the backyard that is all mine.

Sure, it might all die. Sure, it’s a lot of work.

But oh . . . the possibilities.

 

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