Before the Weeds Revive, Or, This Post Proves I'm a Fogey

 

 
The morning after Dad plowed, I woke before the sun and began working in the flower beds.  The forecast called for steady rain for the next three days, and I knew I wouldn't have time to accomplish a satisfying amount in the garden, so I settled for something I could actually finish (you know, so I could cross it off).

When we first moved here, some things that most delighted me were the bulbs Aunt Alice had left in the ground.  At all our previous homes, dirt was at a high premium, and the vegetables I squeezed into tiny plots left no room for superfluous blooms.

Here, though, there is abundant room and more to spare.  I'm still pretty ignorant about flowers, but people have given me enough bulbs from thinning out their flowers that I've been able to quadruple the size of the beds in the last three years. 


 

Last year, I dug a small bed for a cutting garden and was ridiculously thrilled by how tall the flowers grew.  I guess the memory of that thrill overpowered the (small) rational part of my brain this winter when I bought flower seeds, because after I sowed all the ground I had to sow, I still had all of these seeds left.

 Oops.






So, with an hour still to go before breakfast, I began a treasure hunt for dirt, discarding rocks as I went.  This early riser sustained me with her dimples as I worked.

 

 
 The small spot doesn't get much sun, but I probably dumped the equivalent of a dozen packs of flower seeds in there, so I'm hoping for a few flowers, at least.  My motto is: "When in doubt, dump another pack."

Fingers crossed.