March 22nd

Celebrating Spring on My Mother's Birthday for as Long as I Live

I’ve been busy this last week trying to cull books again, needing to make space for better organization in my office/guest room. We’ve replaced the large, leather, hide-a-bed couch with an Ikea daybed — for a variety of reasons that have to do with changing use patterns due to ageing (ours and grandkids, primarily). It should suit beautifully once organized, but several times in the last few weeks I’ve been exasperated nearly to tears searching for a sketch journal, book, photograph, file, or receipt that was not where it should have been. Much of the exasperation came from knowing the fault was all mine.

Also, I got fitted with my new hearing aids; my credit card gasped a bit, but I’m adjusting. I’ve figured out the new app (everything seems to involve an application these days, no?), and have learned all over again how loud the world is. Most surprising to me when I got my first pair over twenty years ago was how much louder was the sound of my urine hitting the toilet water; experiencing that surprise again this last week carried an added twist, that of realizing that the gap between my uncorrected hearing and the empirical world, the “real world,” is widening.

But I took that sobering thought to my Italian class yesterday morning and then later (after a piccolo pisolino) we went to a rousing, envigorating, just-bawdy-enough “Singing Can Be a Drag” show by the Vancouver Men’s Chorus. Those drag queens gave my bionically enhanced ears a good workout, and my spirit a welcome lift.

This morning, though, I’m a day behind in sending you a weekly missive. Luckily, I’d loaded up a collection of photos I’ve been taking for a few weeks as Spring crept closer on the calendar. March 22nd, 2013 was my mother’s last birthday (I wrote a post the following day, should you be interested). She died about ten days later, but I still — as I’m sure do many of you with your loved ones — compute the age she’d be, or at least remember her birthday, every March 22nd.

I mostly restrain myself from imitating my Dad’s memorial practice (his last birthday here happens next month, he would be turning 99): he used to phone to let me know that my Uncle So-and-So or Auntie You-Know-Who (sometimes I did, and sometimes I really didn’t) would have been this or that age today. Or, occasionally, the phone call would be to remind me of the anniversary of someone’s death — which used to seem morbid, odd, sweetly comic, but now, of course, I see how easily one gathers up a roster of such anniversaries. Again, though, I mostly hold back from informing my family, annually, of these dates.

But Mom was such a gardener, and given that she was born early one Spring and left us early in another, I’m remembering her here through the vernal blooms she loved. They always lifted her spirits; they’ve been lifting mine through these last grey weeks and difficult times; and I hope they’ll do the same for you!

First up, the glorious flowers of this witch-hazel (Hamamelis (horti experts, feel free to advise full hort. info). These were snapped on a walk several weeks ago — Vancouver might be grey and rainy, but we are gifted here with a long, incremental succession of blossoms and shoots from January through April/May. An absolute delight.

Catkins, also seen on a walk a few weeks ago

as was also the case for these winter aconites (a special favourite of my mother, who especially loved what she called the little clown ruff . . .

In a community garden just a couple of blocks from here, this stunning display of crocuses (croci might have better pleased my Latin teacher, decades ago, but I just can’t, in English, sorry).

and the sunny blooms of the Cornelian cherry (Cornus mas) — which will apparently yield very tart, but edible, fruit.

All the above are blooms I stopped to photograph while out walking these last few weeks.

But just out the door, easily viewed from my chair at the dining table, Spring is manifesting in a variety of pots,

Epimedium — dainty, butter-coloured flowers arching above heart-shaped leaves on wiry stems.

Hostas Hellebores! (Thanks for the alert, Linda)

Corylopsis spicata which I love for so many reasons, as did my mom — these dainty bells, soon to give way to the prettiest pleated leaves. And the spiky branches. . .

Paul threw a few dozen bulbs into empty pots before we went away last autumn, and it’s been a joy to watch them emerge, then erupt, and, lately, dance frantically in some brisk wind. Almost done now, but we’ll see if we can nurse them along for another season.

It’s not all yellow blossoms here. The brunnera brings the Blue and Violet (nicely backed up by the frosted green leaves.

but yes, yellow prevails in the Spring. Funny, becomes I’m not so keen on it the rest of the gardening season (when it often seems to appear in more strident tones). This corydalis lutea, though, I will never scorn, even as it spreads into every little crack and cranny.

Watch how the dainty leaves and flowers perform a bit of magic in the wind (sound on if you like windsong and the song of wind chimes. . .

and finally, a healthy splash of pink — Red-Flowering Currant pink — of which we had a few healthy samples gratis, courtesy of Mother Nature’s landscaping, in our old place on our little island. If you know the family, you probably know that the Ribes Sanguineum also packs a healthy olfactory punch, which I appreciate but can also recognize why it has some noses searching for the cat who peed somewhere nearby.

Serendipitously, we’ve pushed the feline-adjacent aromatics just next to, and above, the out-of-focus Sarcococca (Sweet Box) whose perfumed white flowers you might be able to spot in the photo.

This is probably the only post I’ve written (in 19 years!) to mention urine twice — albeit obliquely the second time. So I think I’ll quit before I really breach the TMI limits. As usual, I welcome any comments you care to leave, any hearts you’re moved to click to encourage my continued presence here. And thanks for helping me honour Mom’s birthday.

xo,

f