wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!
this adolescent fern looks like it just woke up and is rubbing the sleep out of its eyes. if it were my son, i would have just chanted my favorite, infuriatingly annoying wake up call, after turning on all the lights, and opening all the shades: “wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.” as a result, my son would hate me for yet another morning. which is just another part of being a mom. love you joe. i know you love me too. someday you’ll know it too.
young fiddlehead fern
it’s that time again
anyone who was with me last year this time knows that i went went on a full-blown fern bender. i spent about two weeks doing nothing but moving ferns about my yard. remember, it was early COVID last year this time, and we were all being especially vigilant about quarantining. so, with my usual routines paused, i focussed my nervous (pandemic) energy on the ferns in my yard which i had hitherto mostly left untended. it turns out, i have at least one of every kind of fern native to minnesota. that was a delight to discover. now those ferns i moved are all about shin high. in a few more weeks i will be able to assess the success of last year’s efforts. planting perennials is a long game. the plants get stronger and fuller with every passing year. this year will only tell me whether my ferns survived transplanting. they won’t come into their full glory for a few years. until then, they will have to compete with the weeds. but one day, their root will go deep, and their fronds will go high, and the weeds will find no sun to nourish them under the canopy of fern leaves. and my job as gardener will be finally complete.
young ostrich (fiddlehead) ferns
we live on water. which means that willow has a special place in our hearts. the logo for minnesota is land of 10,000 lakes. and yet, most out-of-state visitors i host here are still surprised by how much surface water we have. within three miles of my home, i have five lakes from which to choose to walk beside. we don’t have endless warm weather and ocean beaches, but we do have endless fresh water, clean air, and four distinct seasons. the older i get the more i am grateful for fresh water and clean air. matter of fact, fresh air and clean water make my gratitude journal most days. willow is a sign of fresh water. i am grateful for willow.
weeping willow catkins
we have a quarter-mile gravel driveway. right now, all along the edges where tires don’t tread, and the trees stand apart to let a little sunlight fall, baby violets are rubbing their eyes, and stretching.
common blue violets
nine years of crab apple season
i’ve said it before…i think we have as many crabapple blossoms in minnesota as japan has cherry blossoms. we were simply a little bit more casual about how and where our pink, spring explosions were planted.
crab apple blossoms have just begun to open here. i gathered a few of the very first ones today. spring crabapple blossoms are the definition of excess and joyful abundance. every year i wrestle with how to convey the utter exuberance of the season in the STILL style, and i fall short. perhaps STILL and excessive abundance are oxymorons, and i should quit hitting my head against the wall. lucky for you, i have a very thick skull, so i will keep trying to capture this joyful abundance. STILL-like.