It is spring. Never mind the solstices; Robert and I agree that March, April, and May are the spring months; summer starts on Memorial Day weekend and ends on Labor Day. There are some small patches of snow left in the dark corners of the yard, but it is 72° and sunny, and there are robins. Other people’s crocuses are blooming; ours again this year are just leaves.
Yesterday Robert cleaned up the broken bits of fence from the car-in-the-yard incident New Year’s weekend. There had been snow cover ever since then, too much to clean up the pickets which were scattered everywhere.
We had lunch on the patio, which has a view of the largest patch of English ivy that I didn’t get to last spring. It was irresistible, and I managed to remember to keep my wrists straight most of the time. I was hoping it was weakened by three months of cold and snow, and would give up easily. I did manage to pull out almost half of it, while Robert picked up sticks and raked leaves that had appeared from who knows where over the winter, since the lawn was clear before the snow. While ripping it up, I realized that it is probably the only level area on the property that gets 6 hours of sun, other than the strip along the front fence. So we will try our vegetable garden there this year. Perhaps something very French with boxwood borders.