Spring. Spring. Spring spring spring....

It's all I can think about. Yesterday was gorgeous. It was 55 degrees. A few of my boys donned shorts sleeves, even shorts and ran outside to play. There was this smell in the air, you know the one. The smell of the earth beginning to wake up. A few days ago I noticed the first crocus up. I always measure spring my the flowers. First the yellow crocuses, then the purples. Mini daffodils make their appearances with the hyacinths. The big daffies and tulips take the stage. Then the wisteria on my back deck blooms. In the spring I have at least a 60foot wall of wisteria blossoms. The perfume is incredible! Wisteria is so funny, all blooms and no leaves, they come later. Then the lilacs, (ah! the lilacs!) First come the peonies, then come the roses, just in time for memorial day, with our traditional family remembrance at the cemetery. When the lilacs are shriveled and gone, the snowball bushes have their day in the sun. We have a huge snowball hedge that the neighborhood kids watch with baited breath. As soon as the huge balls take on a pinkish tinge, I give the go ahead for the 'snowball' fight. It gets crazy, with inches of petals on the ground. When all the riot of color has subsided, time is measured by fruit. Ah, the fruit!
But I can't think about that yet. Thinking about the flowers is enough for now. I'm so glad we bought the house of someone with a green thumb. There was a huge (what's the word I'm searching for... genocide? holocaust?) of the more fragile and care-intensive plants the year we moved in. Through the years, I've learned little by little about the survivors. So now, if I see a little green nub of a bulb pushing through the soil, there's a good chance I can recognize it! So it just goes to show, as far as plants are concerned, there's hope for anyone!