Notes from the Hermitage

Mornings are chilly here, and nights are still cold, hovering around the freezing mark. There was snow a few days ago, and the white stuff stayed on the ground for a while, loathe to depart and let us get on with our springtime exercises. The north wind is in residence, careening through the crabapple tree in the front yard and shaking its wind chimes so briskly that at times they are parallel to the ground. No flowers yet and no bumbles.

Village magnolia trees are frozen in budding mode, and forsythias wear sticky nubbins of yellow, but they are refusing to put their gold on display. There is an element of steadfast resolve at work in the village rather than mere compliance. No ma'am, no blooming until the weather warms up.

By now, we are usually turning over veggie plots and readying tools for planting and weeding, but this year we (Beau and I and the grandchildren) are biding our time. Patio furniture is still tucked in the garden shed and stacks of boards lean against the wall. One of these days, they will become raised beds for veggies, but for now, they are just weathered planks in the cold sunlight, reminders of all the stuff we ought to be doing and would like to be doing.

In my hermitage, I research heirloom vegetables, plot garden embellishments, bake bread and cookies, make endless batches of soup. I sketch and scribble, quaff cauldrons of tea and read heaps of books, think up new quilts and wish I had room to put up my quilting frame. When all else fails, I dust. One can only hang on and keep her distance, send an ardent plea to someone up there to banish winter once and for all and dish out springtime. The lady is taking her time.