Vineyard Gardener
When it comes to birds, what I don’t know is a lot. I keep promising myself that I will take up bird watching when I’m old.
I’m not a big fan of poetry, but I am fond of rhyming songs and hymns. There is a verse from the Oxford Book of Carols that fits the season.
The deer have nibbled the just emerging tulips, bunnies are working on the crocus leaves, vole trails are everywhere in the vegetable patch.
One would think by Easter weekend there would be tons of garden activity. What is a garden columnist to do? I’ll try to soldier on.
The weather, just like my family members, will not respond to criticism. Because I am able to dig in my hoop house, I keep trying to do some work.
On Sunday morning enough snow had melted to reveal a huge patch of purple crocuses. They hadn’t fully opened but you could tell they were purple.
I have a blooming snowdrop, a small but significant miracle. It only emerged as it is in a bare protected location.
It has become increasingly difficult to write about gardening. For starters, I cannot find mine. Bear with me as I’m grasping!
There have been some tests of human endurance of late. Folks have been complaining about their dwindling wood supplies.
This is the first winter in a while with proper amounts of long-lasting snow to please the young sledding crowd.
There are two types of people on the Vineyard in the winter.
If my dad could see what I did in my snow-covered driveway, he would roll over in his grave.
