Spring Out of Myself

“Spring is the mischief in me…”  (R. Frost).

This will be my 45^th spring and if I can keep my health, avoid the self- and selfless-destruction that I seem so bent upon, maybe I’ve got another 40 springs to enjoy.

Spring means planting and that’s what I am, a planter, not necessarily a gardener – the latter implies physical and aesthetic control over that which is being planted. I like things to grow… and grow. I am, unquestionably, the world’s worst bonsai artist.

No other season comes close to this one. Summer, while great, can carry with it the complications of heat and sunburn and August droughts.

Autumn wrecks me (although when living in Vermont, its foliage lessened the blow). I fall into a seasonal funk that extends beyond my emotions as all my senses are cut in half. By November, I’m storing extra weight and retreating from everyone, including myself.

Winter is good – I’m full of beer and pasta, idle and okay with that – and can hint, like the past few days, at the promise of spring. Dates begin to matter again: March 1, and I’m moving again; St. Pat’s Day, and everything tastes better; March 20, and I’m ten pounds lighter (I almost shit you not).

In about two weeks I will begin to plant my first seeds. This year, after a five year break, I’ll be planting tobacco. The nearly microscopic seeds produce ten foot stalks, 20 inch leaves, and clusters of flowers that draw almost every beneficial insect its way (and more than a few unwanted ones).

I’ll be planting sweet peas directly into the containers on the roof – seeds I swiped from the vines that seem to grow wild around the Park-McCullough House in North Bennington, VT.

I’ll be planting okra because, and I swear this is true, my daughter loves the fruit. I, in turn, adore its trumpet blooms – probably my favorite flower, hands down.

In a few weeks, my one forsythia will start to bloom, my cherry blossoms will be pinched by the sparrows, and my plum tree will begin its endeavoring to give me my first plum. In about a month, the gladiolus will start to spike. Around April 15, my chile pepper plants will arrive from Hunterdon, NJ (see Chileplants.com) and my planned descent into my own burning bowels begins. I’ll plant a few tomatoes for Maria and fill all our ceramic pots with farmers market bought annuals. When the absolute danger of frost [pun intended] is past, I will bring out my deadly citrus trees (all thorns and no fruit) and not mourn the loss of a few of them. And then everything will grow and my chin will reappear and my irises, of the optic kind, will be visible and then on Wednesday May 4, when I go to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden Plant Sale (on the first afternoon for members), I will buy perennials that I know will fail, like pomegranate and water lilies, but I’ll try again.

By June, I’ll be completely alive; but by July, I’ll be crossing off one more spring and looking forward to my 46^th version.

And in 2017, I plan on growing hemp because it grows. And in 2018 I'll be working the garden at the Fishkill Correctional Facility in Beacon, NY.