The first lonely daffodil has bloomed in the rose garden. That reminds me of the time I arrived at the Greek semester final a day early. The college professor, Harry S. B. Johnson, laughed and said, "That is great! Now you have an extra day to study."
Daffodils are inevitable in the Creation Garden. They do not taste good to the wildlife, gradually increase below ground, and bring a cheerful reminder that spring is close.
Roses were leafing out a few weeks ago, and other plants were greening up with optimism, only to remain at parade rest until we had genuinely warm, sunny days.
Of course, with some variation, winter (or hardy) bulbs are already flowers. When planted in the fall, they develop roots and grow almost to the soil's surface. They know winter is coming, whether it is by hearing the geese squawking overhead or the squirrels digging in food beside them. A bitterly cold winter helps hardy bulbs, so they reward the fall gardener ordering in snow country, who hopes to dig in bulbs before the soil is frozen. I remember having that problem in New Ulm, but the bulbs were glorious.
The day the agents came to visit our house for sale, all my bulbs bloomed at once, including some rare varieties. The agents were stunned, and the house sold at once. We moved to Arizona, where gardening dreams die under the merciless sun in a cloudless sky. Nothing except citrus and cactus grew well, so we had plenty of both.
Last year we had so many drenching rainstorms, dropping inches at a time, that few plants grew well. However, we set up five humming bird feeders and quickly became a destination.
