How silly is this?
For… what? six weeks I reckon, I have been dying to plant things. I’m sure it’s partly the harsher than normal winter we’ve had, and the looking out at a devastated landscape where the new house is rising but any semblance of a garden is gone. And part of it might be the usual thing that happens more or less every February when the seed catalogues start appearing in the mailbox, the lengthening of the days becomes evident, and the gardener in a woman just wants to bust out into the dirt. All that. But this year we have no place to start seedlings, and no herb garden to clip and tend on a dry weekend in winter, nor any unexpected blooms peeking from garden corners.
I did come around the wall and spot these happy souls this afternoon.
But it’s not the same as having a real garden. It’s even too early to plan much because I can’t yet see the shape of the land around the house. And though we will have something wonderful in the way of a greenhouse when it’s done, it isn’t there yet.
So Skepweaver was shuffling through old seed packets, sighing disconsolately, and wondering what to do about it, when her eyes fell upon: empty milk jugs waiting to go out to the recycle bin. And for some reason, she thought of greenhouses just then, little greenhouses. And she took out her scissors, punched holes, cut the jugs in half, filled them with potting soil left over from last summer, and pushed in a lettuce seed, one for each jug. Then she taped the tops back on, leaving the lids off for ventilation, and set them out in the feeble March sun.
Somehow, this lacks something.
That was last weekend. During the week we had days of sun. Cold sun, but sun, and I imagined my jug garden to be nurturing potential captive in the chill.
I peeked inside this morning.
It doesn’t seem like much is happening. Huh.
Well. It’s a start.