Pushing the season #phenology

This morning, yesterday's snow melt had refrozen and clad the driveway in ice armor. That's often another sign of Spring around here. Next week is the festival of Imbolc, marking the beginnings of Spring. It also brings Ground Hog Day. Regardless of Punxsutawney Phil and his shadow, we're moving into a Spring mode. We may be out of phase with the actual weather outside our windows for awhile, but we'll be happier for it.

DON'T FORGET, FOUR (4) DAYS AFTER GROUNDHOG DAY IT WILL BE TIME FOR MINNESOTA PRECINCT CAUCUS.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing.”

Now, back to Imbolc and the beginning's of Spring. We'll collect some red osier dogwood this week and bring them into the house so we can force some green growth and, maybe, some flowering. A month or so from now, we'll start watching for pussy willow catkins to develop. The best pussy willow info and photos we've found so far is on the Friends of the Wildflower Garden web site.

forcing red osier dogwood leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, in the  house, we'll continue with our efforts to get our fly-fishing gear organized. We're almost through figuring out which weight fly lines we have on which reels and what rods they might best fit. It'll be interesting to see if we can finish this process without using it as an excuse to purchase a book we don't have on getting organized or identifying flies. When, not IF, but WHEN, we're successful with fly-fishing gear, we'll tackle (like that pun?) reorganizing our book shelves and stacks. It's starting to occur to us that these activities may well be a better use of our time than skimming through social media and further reducing our attention span.

PUSSY WILLOW

by Mary Thomson

My mother would send me to cut some

from a corner of a field
to put with daffodils from the garden,
palm, not willow she called them.
We paid for ten wands
bound in a flute of plastic paper,

each pussy foot with a nap like velvet,
grey satin to a fingertip.
As spring ran in to May
pollen formed, the flowers fell.
I swept them into my palm with ageing hands.
All the flowers we bring home are reminders. 

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