Mother's Day isn't a big holiday in our house, but I spent the weekend doing work that I wanted to do, so I guess that's a certain sort of celebrating. Now, on this drizzly Monday morning, I can look out the window and feel satisfied that I accomplished as much as I could . . . seeds sowed, perennials moved, beds weeded, grass mowed, wild patches trimmed. Here are a few updates.

First, cushion spurge, glorious this spring, mounding up like a painted turtle in the sidewalk flower bed that Paul has named Lantern Waste--

In a garden box in the Lane, baby lettuce and arugula, ready for cutting--

Along the gravel in the Lane, low-growing speedwell spilling into bloom--

In the Hill Country, the first iris: a bouquet of short-stemmed, moth-velvety beauties, rescued from the predecessor's weeds--

In the Lane, the first potatoes I've grown since leaving the homeland--

On the front walkway, creeping thyme, bursting into lurid flower--

The back-fence rhododendron I babied through last fall's drought, with a new lemony blossom--

In the Lurk, waging doughty battle against the weeds, the strawberries are coming into flower--

In the Bullpen, Koji the Japanese maple stands proudly among the relief pitchers (hostas, creeping ginger, a shade-loving sedum)--

On the Terrace, bionic peavines plan world domination, as garlic and tulips cower--