I promised myself I wouldn't write about the weather today, but since it's reaching epic proportions, I'm sharing a photo of what it looked like this afternoon just outside the front door right after, A) the plow guy came through with a huge bucket loader and pushed the back the walls of snow so that, B) he could come back with the regular plow and clear the driveway.
The minute he left it started snowing again. The wind picked up and it got markedly colder. I made Lexi stay inside since there was ice under the snow and the footing was slippery.
Inside the house, all is calm, all is bright. The zonal geranium is putting out blooms of a red such as I don't recall ever seeing in nature--but then I don't recall seeing anything much other than white in nature.
Despite the nursery's directions, I decided to treat the miniature orchid on the kitchen windowsill like a regular houseplant--namely give it plenty of light, let it get good and dry between waterings, and mist it daily during wood-stove season. Today it rewarded me by finally opening one of its teensy greenish-white blooms. My experiment with regular-sized orchids last winter ended tragically with the flowers being decapitated by Wolfie's tail, so I'm especially pleased by this little plant's survival.
I'm told that the nearest Walmart has big blooming pots of orchids for a laughable $12, and I'm sorely tempted to get a couple (maybe I could duct-tape Wolfie's tail to his hind leg?). But the store is almost an hour away from here--which is a good thing--and the roads are iffy.
Besides, the Amaryllis leaves are shooting up out of the bulb at the rate of a couple of inches/day, the flower buds will appear any minute, and orchids will probably feel superfluous then.
Back in Vermont after a splendid Christmas with our assembled descendants, bags unpacked, dogs retrieved from their Club Med week at the Halfling B&B, I am now on the long annual slide towards spring.
Every year, as soon as Christmas is over, things take on a different look. A spring look. The day is a couple of minutes longer, a difference, my husband insists, that no one could possibly notice. But I do. I notice and take action, which means that at about this time, every year, I buy a houseplant.
This Christmas I received an amaryllis bulb, and yesterday, before even unpacking my bags, I opened the package from the nursery, read the directions, moistened the growing medium, nestled the giant bulb in it, and placed the pot by a south-facing window next to a zonal geranium that, as excited as I by the lengthening days (and by the sun reflecting on the Christmas snow) has put out a bright red bloom.
That amaryllis is getting a lot of attention. Whenever I walk by it, I cannot help thrusting a finger into the growing medium to check for moisture, or giving the pot a quarter turn so every side gets equal exposure to light, or spritzing it with water.
This is the halcyon season for my houseplants, when, in the throes of gardening frustration, I coddle them and chat with them and give them baths in the kitchen sink. And every year, I add to the collection.
Today in the grocery store, despite the pregnant amaryllis bulb waiting at home, I couldn't resist a sprightly, bright-green little fern. I also bought a miniature orchid that fits exactly on the windowsill above the sink, where it will never lack for moisture.
In March, as soon as I plant my spinach seeds in the snow, all my senses will turn towards the outdoors, and my interest in houseplants will begin to wane. By June, when harvesting and weeding begin in earnest, I will wonder what possessed me to burden my life with houseplants that, after all, possess no edible parts.
But right now those little houseplants, as needy and useless and absurd as teacup poodles, are keeping me sane, hopeful, and focused on that long slide towards spring.
