I saw my proverbial first robin of spring today, albeit rocking not in a treetop but perched upon the urban blight that is the aerial powerline. Circumstances notwithstanding, it seems as good a portent as any to update the 6-months-idle gardenblog.
It being mid-February there’s very little exciting taking place, but there are signs that the world is slowly throwing off Winter’s yoke. The crocus, daffodil and tulip are all pushing forth their leaves in dense clusters, reminding me that once again I neglected to lift their bulbs and separate them last fall.
Most of the trees are looking set to burst forth — the apples are at silvertip, and the fig, with which I am somewhat less familar, is looking poised on the brink. Similar action from the medlar and blueberries, and some fattening buds on the contorted ornamental quince as well.
We had the snow storm of the decade this New Year’s, resulting in a week of temperatures in the 20s. “Pshaw!” you may say, if you hail from heartier climes, but that’s unusual weather for Portland. I’m afraid that the jasmine vine, which in my last entry I had hailed as the victor in the war for the trellis, may have perished. It’s looking none-too-good, at least. When Spring has well and truly sprung I suppose we shall have the reckoning. If its vines didn’t survive — and I fear that most if not all didn’t — then one hopes it will regrow from the roots. As it happens, the hot tub cracked a pipe in the freeze also, so I’m not currently lamenting the lack of a living screen anyway, though I will doubtless eventually regret it.
There are indications that it’s time to begin tilling the soil, however. The bed which contained orach, which I allowed to go to seed, is almost wall-to-wall with wee orach sprouts streching out cotyledons for what weak sunlight is available to them. Not only does this mean that there’s some weeding in store for me, but it suggests that one could profitably be planting early spring leaf crops like spinach and lettuce.
Perhaps we shall spend a romantic St. Valentine’s mucking in the soil. It’s a more apt date than Brigid’s Day anyway, when it was fearsome chilly and the earth a gelid soup diluted by mid-winter rains.
