Yesterday I mowed grass while wearing a winter coat. The machine was an old non-self-propelled push mower requiring considerable yanking and pushing and muscular commitment, the grass was tall and springy and combative, and the coat was zipped up to the neck. People should think twice before moving to green lands filled with lilacs and birdsong.
And this morning the temperature again sits at 30 degrees. According to the weather report, it's supposed to rise to 74, but who could believe such lies?
I'll tell you what creature likes this weather: rhubarb. It is this week's garden star, plump and flourishing amid the stones. One might mistake it for a Benevolent Leader.
Need any rhubarb?
I'm not actually as grouchy as I sound. I'm not actually grouchy at all. The blossoms in my yard are stunning, and there are no weeds in my tidy planted garden, and I've kept up with the mowing and the pruning, and the clotheslines are filled with clean towels, and the pets prance on the sward.
I would like to be warmer, but if I were warmer, the blackflies would bite me and the poison ivy would spread. C'est la vie in the garden that is not Eden.