I just returned to upstate New York from a month in Tennessee. When I left there, the peonies were about to bloom, for Pete's sake. That doesn't usually happen around here until mid-June. I say "usually" because who knows what will happen after this no-real-winter of a year.
This will be a year of two springs for me. After watching the warm weather roll in across northern Tennessee, I get to watch spring arrive all over again here at home. Right now, the forsythia is in its glory against the still leafless woods.
Late last spring, I discovered a large bag of sad-looking daffodil bulbs in the garage. I'd purchased them the fall before and then forgotten to plant them. Still in their brown paper bag from the store, some had tried to send up shoots, while others just looked dried out or rotten.
I stood there looking at that sad mess and berated myself for being so wasteful and careless. I almost chucked them onto the compost heap but then I thought, what the heck, let's give it a try.
So at exactly the wrong time of year, I planted thirty sickly daffodil bulbs around a low wall near the road.
Yesterday, I did a tour of the garden and guess what? I counted twenty-nine daffodil plants putting up leaves, all from that ignored and mishandled bag of bulbs. Not all of them have buds, but several of them do. I'm hoping that the others may gain enough oomph through this growing season to actually put out some blooms next year.
In gardening, as in so many things in life, sometimes you just have to have a little faith.