Isn't It March?

February is the coldest month of the year. Normally, March and April are spring months with temperatures beginning in the 40s and as the months progress, ending in the 70s. But this year, we’ve jumped with both feet into summer. Yesterday, it was 91 degrees F. The kids wanted the air conditioner turned on. I resisted. But if today’s as hot as yesterday, I’ll cave.

And the heat, which has been unseasonable for a couple of weeks, has my gardens completely confused. Daffodils bloomed before crocuses. I have a bearded iris blooming—the tulips haven’t even started blooming yet. None of the seedlings I ordered have even arrived yet. They’re due tomorrow. But when I put them in the ground, they’re likely to get scorched.  Best case scenario, they’ll go into shock.

And, of course, the chance of frost doesn’t pass until April 18. So most likely, all the tender plants will come up and be frozen. And the weeds are having the most amazing celebration of spring. Normally, I can get them under control before they go crazy, but not this year. But I’ve been out every morning with my trowel in the cool morning wreaking my vengeance on them. I won’t let them mock me for much longer. Unless you consider the lawn (a weed patch that I call a lawn simply because I want to pretend it’s a verdant meadow instead of a rocky, clay slope that destroys everything but clover, chickweed, and dandelions). The lawn will mock me all summer. But I’ve decided to rise above it—that and send the boys out to mow. When the weeds are freshly mown and I squint my eyes, I can pretend it’s grass.

In spite of the weeds and heat, there’s one thing I’m loving. Open windows. (I am thankful that I don’t have pollen allergies. Most people in Chattanooga are bleary eyed and congested. I’ve heard all the Germans who moved here to manage the new VW plant are flooding allergists’ offices.) Last night, I slept with the windows, and the birds woke me this morning. Birds are soooo much better than alarm clocks.  If you aren’t in the frozen tundra of New England (sorry, Kirsten et al.), let the birds wake you tomorrow. It’s bliss.