My mom asked if our daffodils were blooming. “They’re coming up! About two inches above the ground,” I reported, somehow not having noticed the vase of cut daffodils on my parents’ windowsill, or the clusters of yellow in the back yard. Hm. Apparently my daffodils are a bit behind. But they’re growing. I guess we’ll have daffodils in May or June. “Maybe it’s just because ours were already established,” my mom suggests. “Mine don’t get as much sun, either,” I add. Neither of us says “Or it could be the Langley curse.” No, that would be silly. There’s no Langley curse. Really. Maybe a MacGregor curse? No, no. I don’t think there are any Warkentin curses. Not that I know of. Oh well.
Anyway, I don’t care when the daffodils bloom. I like seeing their hopeful little green heads poking out of the ground and getting taller each day. And since it’s been raining, Silas has dug up and roto-tilled (don’t know how to spell that) the ground where we want to plant a garden. I made a pea teepee this afternoon. I asked Joseph if he wanted to help me make a pea teepee, and he said “That sounds bad, Mom.” Oh well.
Peter is hanging in there. It seems as if that one week was a low point, and we’ve been doing a bit better. It’s hard not to do better when the air is crisp and clean from the rain, and the ground is dark and wet, and things are starting to bloom. Sorry, friends in Oregon. I know you’re buried in snow. But here, it’s definitely spring. And I’m a little miffed that we missed that great snow storm. Last year all we got was one two-hour delay from school.
Next month I turn 44. A nice sort of number. It has a pleasant ring to it. I’ll take that as a good sign.