Country Mouse Monday: what time is it?

After years of living out here in the country, I'm at the point where I can tell what time of year it is by what's blooming. I'm not sure how useful a skill that is, but there you have it: this set of equations in my head that goes like:

Mimosa and tulip trees = February, Asparagus = March, Lilac = April, and so on.

If I Rip Van Winkled for a period of time and woke up, wandering down the street, my hair a sleepy mess, I'd at least be able to tell you what month I'd awakened to, by looking at the plants and trees. I'd have at least that to ground me.

Except, not anymore.

We've had such a weird, weird winter here in Northern Cali, super-cold 20-degree mornings in late November, early December, and not a drop of rain. And then it was warm, really warm, unseasonably warm, mid-70s. And still no rain. Other parts of the country are having polar vorteces, while here in the West, it's drought, global warming affecting us all.

The plants don't know what's what. My trusty little equations mean nothing to them, nothing compared to heat and sun and daylight.

So even though it was the end of January, the apricot began to bloom. We watched and bit our nails, worried, because if a big rain came or a big wind or a big chill, there would go the unseasonal blooms and all prospect of early summer fruit.

And then came a cold day of rain.

Rain! A thing I'd forgotten about really, until Sunday morning when, upon waking, we looked at each other, still in bed, still dark out, and said, wait, what's that sound? Is it really windy out? A quick check at the redwoods out our window indicated they were still, not a bit of movement, not even in the highest branches, thirty feet in the air. Could it be...? I jumped out of bed, opened the French doors, the dog straining to get out into the dim garden, and yes, then it was unmistakable: rain. Delicious.

And worrisome. Though we need it so much, still I'm greedy, worried about the potential loss of potential apricots, dreading to see the lawn beneath the tree littered with fine white petals.

So far, so good: the rain has passed, everything's received a good drenching, and for now, the blooms, except a few, are still firmly attached.

Spring is coming early, Spring is here from all indications, and of course, it's gorgeous. As soon as it's light out this morning, I'll go wander and stare at what's happening outside -- what other early signs are there, in what other ways I may have to adapt my trusty equations to the reality of the garden.

Worried a little, yes, about what's to come, and soaking in the beauty just the same.

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