I’ve been dreaming of gardens.
It’s genetic, and I can’t help it. I look out the bathroom window (which is the only window on the north side of the house that has much in the way of clear glass, the rest being covered to a greater or lesser degree by cascading hoarfrost), and contemplate the gorgeousness that could happen this spring. I imagine lining the back fence with layers of sunflowers. I envision the carpet of edible bits we could plant for the hens.
I speculate and assemble price lists for the necessary fencing to keep said hens out of the human portion of the garden. I eyeball the old laundry line uprights, and think about how to create some draperies and turn the whole thing into a playfort for the little girls, complete with a second-hand oriental carpet, and poofy cushions. Tiaras and scarves may feature highly.
I read the Territorial Seed catalog with attentive pleasure, circling and highlighting and listing and estimating. And then I visit this site:
And look up my state, and my area.
Harsh reality crushes my dreams.
I can plan all I like… but the average last frost date for my town is June 14.
That’s nearly 4.5 months from now. One Hundred Thirty One Days.
I could successfully gestate half a human being before I can plant stuff in the actual ground.
Which gives me plenty of time to do up a really nice, to-scale map of the garden beds.