Almanac

ALMANAC

Almanac December

By Ashley Walshe

December is a bite of ginger, a dusting of sugar, a thick swirl of molasses.

Beyond the kitchen window, the quiet earth glitters in gentle light. Birdsong warms the frosty air. Save for the twitch of slender ears, a cottontail rabbit sits frozen in a sunbeam.

Just as the seasons announce themselves with unmistakable clarity, so, too, does this day. You reach for a hand of ginger, a paring knife, a timeworn recipe. Today is the day for ginger cookies.

As you peel and mince, the redolent fragrance of fresh ginger awakens your senses. Imagine growing in the darkness as this root did. The way life might shape you. What gifts for healing you might hold.

Butter softens on the stovetop. You stir in the ginger, brown sugar, cinnamon and molasses. A pinch of sea salt. Vanilla extract. Another pinch of sea salt. 

Whisk in the egg. Add the flour and baking powder. The steady dance of wooden spoon stirs something deep within you, too.

This is how it goes. Homemade cookies send you time traveling. As you shape the dough, the timeworn hands of the ones who shaped you begin to clarify. 

Memories are sharp and warm and sweet — here and gone like frost across the leaf-littered lawn.

As for the cookies? Same, same.

Sink your teeth into the golden edges, the chewy centers, the sugar-laced magic. Delight in the depth of flavor. Let the ginger bite back.

Sprig and a Peck

Here’s a fun fact about a favorite Yuletide parasite. The word mistletoe is derived from the Old English misteltan, which roughly translates to “dung on a twig.” You can thank its high-flying seed mules for that. Although the white berries are toxic to humans, many bird species rely on mistletoe as a mineral-rich food source throughout the barren days of winter. If you find yourself standing beneath a festive sprig with the one you adore, consider tucking the etymology morsel away for later.

Moment of Gratitude

Cold air makes for dazzling night skies. Check out Aries (the ram), Triangulum (the triangle) and Perseus (the hero who beheaded Medusa). Not a night owl? Christmas Bird Counts happening across the Carolinas this month are a constellation in and of themselves. If rusty blackbirds and yellow-rumped warblers are more your speed, consider joining a local count to get in on the action. (Map available at carolinabirdclub.org.)

Stars and birds aside, don’t forget to count your blessings. The great wheel continues to turn. Winter solstice arrives on December 21. As we celebrate the longest night of the year — and the promise of brighter days to come — give thanks for the warmth and brilliance in your own life. You know what they say: The best things in life aren’t things.

December has the clarity, the simplicity, and the silence you need for the best fresh start of your life.

— Vivian Swift

Almanac November 2024

ALMANAC NOVEMBER 2024

Almanac November 2024

By Jim Dodson

Generations of Americans who were schoolchildren during the Ozzie and Harriet years from the 1950s through 1960s have keen memories of singing an ancient hymn long associated with Thanksgiving titled “We Gather Together.” In fact, the hymn had nothing to do with the mythologized first Thanksgiving held by the Pilgrims in November 1621. Based on a Dutch folk tune, the hymn was written in 1597 to celebrate the Dutch victory over the Spanish forces at the Battle of Turnhout. Prior to that, Dutch protestants were forbidden to gather for religious observances. It first appeared in American hymnals around 1903 and rapidly gained popularity as the Thanksgiving hymn sung at church services and in public schools during the week of the November holiday. In 1992, comedian Adam Sandler performed his own mocking version of the holiday standard on Saturday Night Live that more or less coincided with “We Gather Together” being removed forever from public schools and gatherings. The hymn is still a staple in churches across America at Thanksgiving.

The holiday itself has something of a checkered and violent history. The highly mythologized account of the first Thanksgiving “harvest feast” shared by English Pilgrims and the Wampanoag people in 1621 generally ignores the fact that disease brought by the colonists to North America wiped out 90 percent of New England’s native populations. Following a major Patriot victory in the Revolutionary War, George Washington proclaimed the first nationwide Thanksgiving celebration in America, marking Nov. 26, 1789, “as a day of public thanksgiving and prayer.” He was then upstaged by Abraham Lincoln 74 years later, who formally established the national holiday when he issued a proclamation for a National Day of Thanksgiving in October 1863, following the Battle of Gettysburg, in which 50,000 soldiers died. In 1939, Franklin Roosevelt moved the Thanksgiving holiday one week earlier than normal to the second-to-last Thursday in November, believing that doing so would help bolster retail sales during the final years of the Great Depression. 

Regardless of these inconvenient truths — and Adam Sandler’s buffoonery — the overwhelming majority of us in a wonderfully diverse America embrace Thanksgiving as a welcome opportunity to gather with family and friends and celebrate however we see fit with food, football and a nice afternoon nap.

“Let us give thanks for this beautiful day.
Let us give thanks for this life. Let us give thanks for the water without which
life would not be possible.
Let us give thanks for Grandmother Earth,
who protects and nourishes us.”

— Traditional daily prayer of the American Lakota people

When the Year Grows Old

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old —
October — November —
How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget —
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old —
October — November —
How she disliked the cold!

Almanac October

ALMANAC

Almanac October

By Ashley Walshe

October speaks through the beaks of 1,000 crows.

Can you feel them gathering? Murders of 20, 40, 60 strong, each bird like a sibyl gone mad.

“The sun is sinking, sinking, sinking,” they shriek, raspy voices harsh and urgent.

You know it’s true. The days are much too dark, too soon. And yet, right now, the sky is a cloudless blue; the maple is thick with yellow leaves; the light has washed everything golden.

Don’t let the raucous birds rip you from the moment: The warmth of sunlight on your face; the scent of wet earth; the swirl of amber leaves somersaulting through endless azure.

The crows kick it up a notch, throw back their ink-black heads, blurt their ghastly premonitions until their babble turns to laughter.

Dark and maniacal, their howling conjures a mighty wind. Do not be frightened by the glossy-winged seers. Let them rally in the shadows while the days are still honeyed. Let them pull you more fully into the luminous now.

Cock your head sideways as the crows do. Can’t you see? It’s all here — the freshness of the season; the bitter whiffs of sweet decay.

Notice that the crunch of dead leaves somehow enlivens you. “Yes, the sun is sinking,” you want to call back. “But . . . the air is alive! The leaves are turning cartwheels!”

A wild laugh rises from deep within you. The light is fading. The crows are cackling. As autumn picks at her own golden thread, even the dead leaves seem to snicker.

Patch v. Orchard

Nothing says wholesome autumn fun like a pumpkin patch. Adorable. But if you’re looking for a pick-your-own adventure with an edge, venture to an apple orchard.

Spend a quiet hour among the trees. Study the gnarled branches. Listen for the thud of ripe fruit knocking against the sleepy earth. Dance with the shadows.

About 75 percent of our state’s apple crop is grown south of Asheville in Henderson County. Should you head west to peep and marvel at the turning leaves, consider stopping by an orchard — or farm stand — for the freshest of the fresh. 

At the very least, snag a gallon of cider to-go.

I remember it as
October days are always
remembered, cloudless,
maple-flavored,
the air gold and
so clean it quivers.

— Leif Enger,
Peace Like a River

Color Crescendo

True leaf peepers will tell you that the best time to hit the Great Smoky Mountains or Blue Ridge Parkway for peak fall colors is the second week of October. Go a week early and be underwhelmed; a week late and you’ll miss it.

Whether or not you take the drive, the color show will surely find you — if not through leaves then through flowers. Kaleidoscopic chrysanthemums. Luminous marigolds. Tender snapdragons. Drifts of brilliant pansies.

And just watch how autumn light transforms every gorgeous hue.

Almanac

ALMANAC

September

By Ashley Walshe

September rouses you from the gentle spell of summer.

One day, between the blackberry harvest and the mighty swell of crickets, the charm took hold. Languid and blissful, you sprawled beneath the dappled shade, eyes heavy, honeysuckle on your tongue.

Rest now, summer cooed. It’s much too hot to fuss.

And, just like that, you were under. Swaddled in sticky-sweetness. Wanting for nothing. Enchanted by the lazy lull of summer.

Until now.

Something has shifted. It’s a feeling, both subtle and seismic. At once, you’re wide awake.

The air is crisper, cooler, lighter. Colors are more vibrant. Even the birds have changed their tune.

Wake up, a skein of geese clamors overhead. There’s little time to waste!

Their frequency is a code. An ancient language. A precious remembering.

Everything will change.

The light. The trees. The pulse of the season.

Look to the maple tree, the honeybee, the frenzied gray squirrel. Life is racing toward some dark unknown. Put your ear to the warm earth and listen.

This is the threshold, the quickening, the no-going-back. The final kiss of summer.

And so, you feast with all your senses. You savor the fragrance of ginger lilies, the taste of wild muscadines, the spirit of goldenrod at magic hour. You kiss summer back.

A single leaf descends with a singing wind.

Stay open to the beauty of this moment. Stay open to the knowing that everything will change.

Harvest Moon Magic

Your eyes aren’t playing tricks. When the full harvest moon rises on the evening of Tuesday, Sept. 17, it will appear larger and brighter because it is, in fact, as close to Earth as it can be. What makes this supermoon even more spectacular is the partial lunar eclipse that will reach maximum coverage around 10:44 p.m. While only a small portion of the moon’s surface will be obscured by Earth’s shadow, this partial eclipse marks the beginning of an eclipse season. An annular solar eclipse will occur on Oct. 2. Although its “ring of fire” won’t be visible from North America, don’t be surprised if you feel its powerful energetic effects.

Seeing Stars

Look! The asters are blooming. Derived from the Latin astrum, meaning star, September’s birth flower transforms the late summer landscape with jubilant constellations of white, pink, blue or purple blossoms. Often mistaken for daisies, the aster is actually related to the sunflower. (Study its bright yellow center, composed of tiny florets, and see for yourself.)

According to one Greek myth, asters sprouted from the tears of a virgin goddess named Astraea, who wished for more stars in the sky. Instead, the brilliant “stars” began spilling across the quiet earth, as they’ve done every autumn since. Magic for the eyes. Magnets for the late-season butterflies.

Almanac August 2024

Almanac August 2024

August is a hammock, a daydream, a nap in dappled light.

These searing summer days, the trees offer respite from an unrelenting heat. There, by the water. Can you imagine two more perfectly situated trees? Two more hammock-worthy specimens?

The trees have spoken. This is the spot. You cinch one rope around the trunk of a sturdy birch, secure the hammock; repeat at the trunk of a tulip poplar.

In the shade of these nurturing giants, summer softens. Sunlight flickers through a veil of green. A welcome breeze gently rocks you.

Below the canopy, cumulus clouds float across your field of vision, inviting your inner child to play.

A carousel horse becomes a Bengal tiger. A whiskered dragon shifts into a humpback whale. A never-ending carnival drifts by in slow motion.

Before long, you’ve drifted, too. As you sleep, suspended beneath the trees at the height of summer, something else is shifting.

The days are growing shorter. Soon, the last swallowtail will have vanished like a dream. The last dragonfly, too. Once more, the trees will prepare for their grand finale.

Through the dancing leaves, a sunbeam caresses your cheek, tenderly stirring you awake. The shade has revived you. Somehow, your nap has changed everything.

Beyond the trees, sunlight graces a lush and vibrant Earth. Subtle as it seems, the season is softening. Find the birch and the poplar and see for yourself.

 

The change always comes about mid-August, and it always catches me by surprise. I mean the day when I know that summer is fraying at the edges, that September isn’t far off and fall is just over the hill or up the valley.    — Hal Borland

A Bat Rap

International Bat Night is observed on the last full weekend of August — and has been, annually, for nearly 30 years.

Our own state is home to 17 species of bats, creatures of the night essential to pollination, seed dispersal and pest control.

Did you know that a single bat can consume over 1,000 mosquitos in just one hour? That’s over 1,000 reasons to celebrate and protect these night-flying wonders.    

Bellyful of Sweetness

Late summer means the last of the blueberries, sure. But can you say muscadines for days? And let’s hear it for those early pears!

Because pears ripen from the inside out, they go from green to mush in a sugary blink. How do you know when they’re ready for harvest? They’ll show you.

Observe the color. Now, gently lift the fruit and give it a tender twist. If it’s ready, the pear will release itself with ease. If the pear holds tight, you’ll want to give it more time.

“There are only ten minutes in the life of a pear when it is perfect to eat,” wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The poet had a point.

Give the pears a week to ripen post-harvest. If you miss the window, there’s always compote.   PS

Almanac June 2024

Almanac June 2024

June is a luscious muse, generous with her wisdom, lips to the ears of all who seek her.

Want to know how to dance? Move as the dragonfly moves, she whispers, guiding your eyes to shallow waters. Iridescent wings shimmer in hypnotic circles. The pond reflects the magic back.

In the meadow, the muse beckons a gentle wind. Be danced, she sings among the rolling grasses. Let the movement find you.

Artists: Dip your brush in milkwort and rosinweed. Watch sunlight transmute meadow-beauty. Express with the boldness of spider lily.

Poets: Attune to the frequency of bees. Can you taste the earth through your fingertips? Spend the day supping honeysuckle and catmint, then cover your legs in clover pollen.

It’s all for pleasure, the goddess intones. You cannot do it wrong.

See for yourself.

Study the language of lark sparrows. Become fluent in butterfly pea and blooming thistle. Chime in with a choir of cicadas.

Dress yourself in Queen Anne’s lace. Map out the route of a swallowtail. Translate the essence of snap beans and squash blossoms.

Let listening be an artform. Or seeing. Or tasting. 

How fully can you receive the richness of sound and color? The texture of nectar on your tongue? The depth and sweetness of these early summer days?

It’s simple. Surrender to the wild beauty. Let it move you. This is the mastery of June.

 

It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.

— Maud Hart Lovelace, Betsy-Tacy and Tib, 1941

Night Bloomers 

The full strawberry moon rises on Friday, June 21 (one day after summer solstice). What could be dreamier than a near-full moon on a midsummer’s night? Enter the moon garden. Breathe in the earthy-fresh fragrance of evening primrose (Oenothera laciniata). The sugary sweetness of moonflower (Ipomoea alba). The citrus-laced ecstasy of night-blooming jasmine (Cestrum nocturnum).

While not technically a night bloomer, the timeless aroma of gardenia (Gardenia jasminoides) is anything but subtle. Awash in the gentle glow of moonlight, the delicate white blossoms of this evergreen shrub are a wonder to behold. Linger among them. Tell them the quiet longings of your heart. If you lean close, you just might hear their secrets, too.

Puck & Co.

Nature spirits have long been associated with the magic of summer solstice. Fae folk in particular. But what kind of mythical being is that?

The rosy maple moth is as storybook as it gets. With its woolly body, bushy antennae and candy-like pink and yellow coloration, this small silk moth is nearly unmistakable. As its name implies, maple trees are the preferred host for this visual wonder, which can be seen fluttering near forest edges throughout the state.

Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of one this month. Though who’s to say it won’t be Puck, stirring up a bit of mischief?   PS

May Almanac 2024

May Almanac 2024

May tucks her treasures gently in our hands.

For the young girl in the sunhat: her first ripe strawberry, bright and plump, just warm from the tender, loving sun. Before lifting the fruit to her lips, she studies its tiny seeds — 200 stars studding crimson infinity — and how its leafy top looks like a tiny fairy cap. When the sweetness hits her tongue, her eyes brighten; her lips pucker; her hands open for more.

In the same field, an elderly man is picking his last flat of berries, recalling the scratch-made shortcakes of his childhood. His eyes glisten as the memories rush in; as the sweetness hits his tongue, as his granddaughter reaches for a sun-kissed strawberry.

For the sisters at the park: early ox-eye daisies.

For the dreamers: dandelion puffballs.

Somewhere, a teenage boy slips a dogwood flower behind the left ear of his first love. By the creek, his brother plucks crawdads from the cool, trickling water.

In a neighbor’s garden, peonies and roses perfume the spring-fresh air. Yellow butterflies worship orange poppies. Bare hands worship worm-rich earth.

And what of your own hands?

Might they cradle magnolia blossoms? An empty bird’s nest? A palmful of seeds?

Might they stay open to give and receive?

May tucks her treasures gently in your hands, giggles as you hold them, then playfully resumes her grand unfolding.

The fair maid who, the first of May

Goes to the fields at break of day

And washes in dew from the hawthorn tree

Will ever after handsome be.

— Mother Goose Nursery Rhyme

Mother of Flowers

The magnolias are blooming, their sweet, citrusy fragrance utterly commanding our attention.

Yes, and more, please.

The “Great Mother” of flowers, Southern magnolia (Magnolia grandiflora) blossoms can reach up to 12 inches in diameter. Despite the delicate, ephemeral nature of their creamy white blooms, the tree itself is quite resilient — and ancient. Fossil records suggest that magnolias are among the oldest flowering plants on Earth, blossoming among the dinosaurs 100 million years ago.

An icon of feminine grace, it’s fitting that our Southern magnolia should shine this month — and just in time for Mother’s Day. 

The Birds and the Bees

Named for the Greek goddess Maia (eldest of the Pleiades and goddess of nursing mothers), May is a month of growth and fertility — a month of flowers, birds and bees.

National Wildflower Week is celebrated May 2 – 7 (always the first week of the month). Let’s hear it for spider lilies, spiderwort, wild indigo and crested iris.

On May 4 — National Bird Day — take a quiet moment to honor the winged ones who live alongside us. You don’t have to be an expert to appreciate the richness they add to our ecosystem and soundscape. Your presence is all that’s required.

On that note, World Bee Day is acknowledged on May 20. Consider the essential role these hard-working insects play in the health and abundance of our planet. Honor your local pollinators with the choices that you make. Have a garden? Incorporate native flowers and, for the love of bees, put the toxic sprays away.   PS

Almanac April 2024

Almanac April 2024

April is a tapestry of sound, rich and delicate.

Listen.

Coral honeysuckle sings in color, sultry and seductive, calling out to ruby-throated suitors.

Can you hear the whir of tiny wings? The beating heart of hummingbird? The melodious supping of nectar?

Lean in.

Chrysalis whispers of metamorphosis. Wet and crumpled wings. Grueling and glorious expansion.

The rustling of budding trees tells of new life. Fuzzy squirrel kits with just-opened eyes. A clutch of blue eggs, days from hatching.

Chorus frogs swell with rhythmic longing. A swallowtail sails through warm air like a bow across a brightly toned string. Wild violets titter.

One hundred songbirds, yet none are so loud as a single dandelion. The soil? Boisterous.

Don’t you see? Each green leaf is the note of an ever-swelling symphony. When the rat snake sheds his winter skin, a rapturous movement begins.

Whippoorwill is drunk on the splendor of its own name. Bullfrog bellows jug-o-rum! Dogwoods tremor in a cool flash of rain.

As cardinal crafts her cup-shaped nest — a wonder of twigs lined with leaves, grasses, roots and pine needles — she stops to drink in the soundscape.

Each thread has a home in this living anthem, this resonant fabric of spring.

Wild Bloomers

April showers bring mayapple flowers.

Not to be confused with apple blossoms (although the flowers do look similar), Podophyllum peltatum is a native perennial wildflower that thrives in deciduous woodlands. Most commonly called the mayapple or the American mandrake, other nicknames for this April bloomer include Indian apple root, racoonberry, hog apple, ground lemon, duck’s foot, umbrella leaf and devil’s apple.

Rising over a foot above the forest floor, mayapples grow in dense colonies, their distinctive leaves making them relatively easy to spot. Two deeply lobed, umbrella-shaped leaves radiate from the top of the plant’s single stem; a white flower hides beneath the canopy.

While most of the plant is considered toxic (foliage, roots, unripe fruit and seeds), the ripe mayapple fruit is considered a forager’s delight and a favorite summer snack of the Eastern box turtle.

What does the golden fruit taste like? Wild foods bloggers have described it as exotic, sweet-and-tart, citrusy, or, as Adam Haritan of Learn Your Land wrote, “like a mix between pineapple and Starburst candy.” That said, since even the ripe fruit can have a laxative effect, best not to gorge. 

Spring has returned. The earth is like a child that knows poems.  Rainer Maria Rilke

Sow the Love

Earth Day is celebrated on Monday, April 22. Make it a garden party. Or, better yet, a garden-planting party.

The last frost is nigh. Sow your green beans, sweet corn, squash and zucchini. Wait until month’s end to plant cukes, peas and tomatoes. Longer, still, for the frost-sensitives (melons, peppers and eggplant, to name a few).

Invite the pollinators to join you by weaving native plants and wildflowers into the mix. From asters to elderberry and bee balm to dogwood, consider what thrives in your region and start there. The wild ones will thank you.  PS

Almanac March 2024

Almanac March 2024

March is a giggle of wild violets, a squeal of flowering redbud, a tea party in the making.

The earth is awakening. As purple blossoms spill across the softening landscape, cottontail rabbits follow. Mingling in sunny patches, they graze on heart-shaped leaves and tender grasses, feast on the freshness of this fragrant spring morning.

In the distance, a pregnant doe plucks clusters of crisp buds from magenta-studded branches. Munching to the tune of chattering squirrel, counter-singing wrens and white-throated sparrow, the deer hears a different kind of music: laughter. One ear back and one ear forward, she pinpoints the source, gently flicks her tail, resumes her browsing.

The children arrive skipping, bare feet in cool grass, eyes bright with life and color. Their pleasure is unmeasured; their vision is clear: wild violet shortbread.

Between cartwheels and somersaults, they gather purple flowers, linger in the sunlight, bask in the welcome, dewy warmth. As they dream up tea and cookies, guests of honor arrive on the wing: bluebird, robin, purple martin, warbler, swallow, towhee, killdeer. The old tabby is near. Early honeybees embrace early dandelions. Her ruby-throated highness takes her throne in a luminous redbud.

Soon, a heap of hand-picked violets becomes a spread fit for a court. Among wild giggles, the children don crowns, wriggle their toes in the soft grass, sink their teeth into the delicate sweetness as the birds sing spring is here.

Spring’s greatest joy beyond a doubt is when it brings the children out.    — Edgar Guest

Eye on the Sky

The days are growing longer still. Daylight saving time begins on Sunday, March 10. All the better for soaking up the soft and radiant magic of spring, which officially begins with the vernal equinox on Tuesday, March 19.

According to Scientific American’s “Sky Spectacles to Watch in 2024,” you’ll want to gaze due west aat sunset on Sunday, March 24, when Mercury will appear directly above the sun at twilight. Positioned at its “greatest eastern elongation” (greatest distance from our sun), Mercury will be about 19 degrees from the star that gives us life. A little wink from a tiny, not-so-faraway planet that isn’t always easy to spot. 

Nectar, Etc.

“The first day of spring is one thing,” wrote the late poet and author Henry van Dyke, “and the first spring day is another.” Such is the day that the earliest eastern tiger swallowtail glides across Carolina blue skies.

The first broods of our official state butterfly are on the move. With a wingspan up to 5 1/2 inches, this eye-catching swallowtail is recognized by its black and yellow tiger stripes and three-lobed hindwings. Most females have a low row of iridescent blue markings on their hindwings. However, they can also occur in a dark color phase, causing humans and male tiger swallowtails alike to mistake them for a different species.

Want to take a closer look? Attract swallowtails to your own garden with native pollinator plants they won’t be able to resist. And if you’re looking for suggestions, check out North Carolina Wildlife Federation’s list of native trees, shrubs and flowers here: ncwf.org/habitat/native-pollinator-plants.  PS

Almanac February 2024

Almanac February 2024

February wakes us gently.

Deep in our late-winter slumber, we dream of wild violets and dandelions; the return of hummingbirds; the green and quivering kiss of spring.

Swaddled in ancient stillness, our hearts ache for warm earth and fragrant blossoms; snap peas and crimson clover; chorus frogs and velvet-soft grass. February knows. Still, we mustn’t be ripped from this rich and fertile darkness. We mustn’t be startled, forced or rushed.

As the pink breath of dawn illuminates a leafless kingdom, a barred owl pierces the silence with a rousing incantation. Within our womb-like chrysalis, we shift and wriggle, reaching for our wild longings, tilting our face toward the beckoning sun. Prayers for patience on her tongue, the wise one lets us sleep, stroking our hair as we flit between worlds.

Soon, the cardinal will sing of bloodroot, crocus and flowering quince. Soon, a mourning cloak will flutter among the bleak and frigid landscape.

As we drift toward this vernal threshold, February invites us to linger. She knows that our souls require deep rest. She trusts our natural rhythm. She softly guides a sunbeam to our winter-weary bones.

The bluebird scouts a nesting site. The red fox grooms her kits. As sure as the daffodils rise from naked earth, we will open our eyes, awakened by the quickening pulse of our inner spring.

 

I know him, February’s thrush,
And loud at eve he valentines
On sprays that paw the naked bush
Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.   
— George Meredith,
    “The Thrush in February,” c.1885

Outside the (Chocolate) Box

There are flowers, and there is fruit. But if you’re looking to dazzle your green-thumbed sweetheart on Valentine’s Day, consider gifting a fruit tree, which ultimately offers both.

Apple, fig, persimmon, pear and plum are among the recommended fruit bearers for our state. Choose cultivars that thrive in the particular soil and climate you’re working with, plant it with a kiss, then let the tree enchant the gardener year after year.

Year of the Dragon

The Chinese (Lunar) New Year is celebrated on Saturday, Feb. 10. Get ready for the Year of the Wood Dragon, the last of which delivered Beatlemania and the U.S. Civil Rights Act of 1964.

If ever you’ve heard “The Great Race” fable — that is, how the Jade Emperor determined the sequence of the 12 animals associated with the Chinese calendar — then perhaps you recall the honorable qualities of the dragon (fifth sign of the zodiac), who stopped to help the creatures of the Earth rather than easefully crossing the finish line first. Those born under the Year of the Wood Dragon are the wayshowers. They’re here to dream up a better world, and have the vigor and drive to roll up their sleeves and get the job done.  PS