It’s the dead season around here. The season I dread. People talk about seasonal depression, missing the sun and all that. Not my problem. We have plenty of sunshine in this state. It’s not even the cold. It's the mid-winter warm swings that make me nervous. Go ahead say it, “Weather makes you nervous?” Yes, it does and I’m not ashamed.
I am a pretend gardener. I like my yard. I talk to my plants and I take pictures of my flowers. I just do. Judge me if you must. But at this time of year and in these parts it can snow for four days – closing schools, canceling trick-or-treating, and trapping us inside (the worst punishment known to man).
Then it will melt. I kid you not, the forcast for tomorrow is 73 degrees. Seventy. Three. I might actually have to shave my legs! Don’t get me wrong; I love the warm weather. But it leaves my poor little plants exposed when they do not look their best. Would you want to stand outside with your shirt off? No, I didn’t think so. And neither do my Mr. Fokkers.
So here we are, in the midst of dead season. Dead stuff all around. Nothing to look at but naked twigs and once-crunchy leaves that are now matted, grey and rotting in the grass. This is when I start to panic. Looking at all that dead I wonder if it will ever bloom again. It seriously stresses me out. For seven months. So, don't expect me to be nice. For a while.