In the Ozarks, snow is what happens while you make other plans. It is no respecter of months or supposed proprieties, not caring whether it's the first day of spring or labor day. It comes when it comes and the recipients get to adjust for it.
I put my roses in the ground this week as well as irises, peas, potatoes, spinach, and lettuce. I'm a little nauseous at the thought of the potential loss, especially the roses. I've never had any luck with them, but thought I'd make the effort this year in part because Sam wanted to try them. My mother, who always has such beautiful roses, insists they are easy and all I've got to do is follow her simple formula for success and I too will have a garden of perfumed solar systems orbited by butterflies and bumble bees. I know better, really I do, but, like Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football, I cheerfully agreed to give it another shot. This time . . . THIS TIME . . . That and I built this huge-ish seriously ugly raised bed last summer with rock and mortar and it needs something to save it. It needs something pretty sensational to distract from the lumpy, dripping mortar and the oddly shaped rocks and roses will make it seem like I did it on purpose. As roses have that effect on the things around them, I went with the whim.
Gary has joked (in front of people) that he will never take me to Vegas because I would not be able to stop gambling until I was broke. He is referring to an isolated incident that involved a coin operated claw machine at a bus stop and a certain teddy bear. I had a system. That teddy bear would have been mine if he'd only given me the last five dollars I asked for.
I've told him that gardening is my revenge for that refusal, because--lets face it--gardening is gambling with seed and composted leaves and manure. You till the soil, say your prayers, plant the seed, and spin the wheel of hope. But instead of an unobtrusive little teddy bear (which I would have won), he's tripping over bags of potting soil, stepping around seedlings in little pots in front of the only good window we have in our bedroom and listening to me agonize over every loss. Never mind the money all the accouterments cost. (Presently, I have fruit trees in my closet and a small greenhouse still in its box in the middle of my bedroom floor waiting for the weather to break). I keep assuring him that THIS is the last piece of equipment I'll need for this project, but it never is. I don't think he believes me anymore. He just gives me a few more dollars and nods his head when I promise that it's the last thing.
So I'm sitting here while the wheel spins and hoping that the roses will hold up, that the peas and potatoes won't rot in the ground. And I know that even if all of it dies as a result, I'll be back out there on the first sunny day, planting more seed and trying again.