Almanac December 2025

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Almanac December

By Ashley Walshe

December is a skein of yarn, a simmering stockpot, a cat curled by the fire. Cast on. Breathe in the warming spices. Listen to the wisdom of gently crackling oak.

Wood and wool hold memories of winters past: silver storms; frost-laced mornings graced by tender sunbeams; resplendently starry nights.

You study your hands, slightly dry, recalling all they have held this year; all they have released. They tucked seeds into dark earth, plucked wildflowers, cupped sun-ripened berries, healed wounds, watered plants, wiped tears, prepared meals, gathered kindling.

Knit one, purl one; repeat.

When the fire pops, the cat unfurls like a spring fern, stretches out its toes, then drifts again into dream world.

Knit one, purl one; repeat.

As the cat stalks summer crickets and field mice behind closed eyes, you lay down your craft, stoke the fire, head for the stovetop. Lifting the lid, you unlock memories of winters past, mashing the now-soft apples as you inhale the spicy-sweet amalgam.

Back at the fire, you cradle a mug of homemade cider, watching the steam dance as whiffs of cinnamon and allspice ignite your senses. You look at your hands again, marvel at how they’ve been shaped by nature and time; at their wisdom, softness and resilience; at what they might yet hold. 

The cat yawns. You set down the cider, pick up the yarn. Knit one, purl one; repeat.

Winter’s Deep Sleep

For the natural world, life is slowing down.

Honeybees are clustered in their hives. Box turtles are burrowed in shallow soil. And black bears — over 20,000 of them in our mountain and coastal regions — amble to their dens, where cubs will be birthed in the heart of winter, during mama’s deep, long sleep.

When life feels busy, lean into the wisdom of our animal kin. Slow down. Get cozy. Remember that rest is a gift you can give yourself.

Homemade with Love

The holidays are upon us. Flickering candles and flashing lights spell Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas and Yule. But what of the lesser-known holidays? The weird and downright wacky ones?

Take Pretend to Be a Time Traveler Day, for instance, celebrated on Dec. 8. National Cat Herders Day (Dec. 15). Or National Ugly Sweater Day (the third Friday of December).

There’s a day for roasting chestnuts (Dec. 14), regifting (Dec. 18) and swapping homemade cookies (Dec. 22). 

And here’s one that might prove fun and fruitful: Make a Gift Day, on Dec. 3. Get creative. Let go of perfectionist tendencies. Pure and simple is part of the charm.

Almanac November 2025

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Almanac

By Ashley Walshe

November is the mother of quiet wonders.

Rainbows in spider silk. Wood ducks, migrating by moonlight. The slow-beating heart of a box turtle in brumation.

She gives and gives, offering her final mild days, her cool-season greens, the last of her berries, nuts and seeds. 

“Eat up,” she says to the wild ones. “There’s plenty here to go around.”

Bird and squirrel delight in her sweet and earthy fruit. Fox and deer, too. A feathery frost gilds mottled oak leaves on the first frigid morning.

When weary spider spins her silken sac, a cradle for a thousand eggs, the mother leans in close.

“Go now,” she whispers to the weaver. “Your work is done. Your babes shall know the tender kiss of spring.”

Wren song rings through chilly air. The last colored leaves gleam like stained glass in a light-filled cathedral. The altar remains blessed with beautyberries, acorns, persimmons and rosehips.

“Nourish yourself well,” the mother commands, folding moldy fruit and spoiled nuts into her womb-dark soil, where even the dead leaves are precious.

“I can use this,” she murmurs of what’s gone to rot. “Nothing will be wasted.”

Deciduous trees drift toward dormancy. Black snakes seek out burrows. Wood frogs prepare to freeze solid.

By and by, the great mother readies herself for winter’s deep, long sleep.

Surrendering her beauty back to the hard, damp earth, she strips away all she has to give: a humble banquet for the wild ones; what precious light remains; a bouquet of blessings in the name of quiet wonder.

But there is always a November space after the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude on the woods . . .     
— L.M. Montgomery,
Anne of the Windy Poplars

Inner Peace Casserole

A no-fuss recipe you’ll return to again and again. Simple, nourishing and gentle on the system, this soothing side dish is an unexpected crowd-pleaser at the most dynamic of family gatherings — and a treat the day after, too.

Prep and cook time: n/a

Yield: immeasurable

Ingredients

6 bushels of gratitude

3 pecks of grace

1 heaping cup of humor

4 dollops of kindness

1 pinch of forgiveness

1 dash of compassion

A dusting of birdsong

A breath of fresh air

Sunshine (if available)

Directions

Combine all ingredients. Stir and breathe slowly. Break for a kitchen dance party. Repeat.

Note: Modify ingredients to your taste. Sprinkle in some new ones. Leave out what doesn’t serve you. Make this recipe your own.

Do the Mashed Potato

If one plans to mash potatoes for the Thanksgiving masses, one knows they must double the batch. But does one have a plan for that whopping load of leftovers?

Three words: mashed potato pancakes.

If you haven’t tried them (there are several recipes available online), do yourself a favor and whip out the skillet. This isn’t a maple syrup-type situation. Think sour cream and chives. Think breakfast, lunch or dinner. Think no further.

You’ll thank yourself for mashing the extra mile. Especially if the fam is still visiting.

Almanac October 2025

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Almanac October

By Ashley Walshe

October is an ancient oak, quiet and delighted.

“Come, sit with me,” he whispers gleefully. “We’re nearly to the best part.”

The air is ripe with mischief and mystery. Can you smell the soil shifting? Feel the seasons turning in your bones?

Come, now. Rest at the roots of the mighty oak. Press your back against the furrowed bark and listen.

Goldenrod glows in the distance. Blackgum and sourwood blush crimson. A roost of crows howls of imminent darkness.

“Of course,” breathes the oak, hushed and peaceful. “But the darkness only sweetens the light.”

As a swallowtail sails across the crisp blue sky, birch leaves tremble on slender limbs; a crow shrieks of wet earth and swan songs.

You close your eyes, feel the vibration of sapsucker rapping upon sturdy trunk.

“Do you feel that?” you ask the oak.

“I feel everything,” he murmurs.

When you open your eyes, the colors are different. The green has been stripped from poplar and maple, reds and yellows made luminous by the autumn sun. 

At once, the great oak shakes loose a smattering of acorns.

“Watch this,” he softly chuckles, sending the gray squirrels scurrying.

A sudden rush of wind sends a shiver down your spine. Leaves descend in all directions, wave after fluttering wave, in kaleidoscopic glory.

The goldenrod is fading. The sunlight, too. The swallowtail,
gone with the wind.

“Things are getting good now,” smiles the oak, his mottled leaves gently rustling.

You sense your own soil shifting. Feel the sweet ache of new beginnings. Let yourself drop into ever deepening stillness.

Soup’s On

It’s winter squash season. As the autumn days shift from crisp to chilling, what could be sweeter — or more savory — than roasted delicata, cinnamon-laced and fork tender? Acorn squash tart with maple, ricotta and walnuts? Cream of squash soup (butternut or kabocha) served with a crispy hunk of sourdough?

And let’s not forget pumpkin (and pumpkin spice) mania. It’s all here. Enjoy!

Center of the Cosmos

Until the first frost arrives — weeks or days or blinks from now — delicate blossoms sway on tall, slender stems, brightening the garden with color and whimsy.

Hello, cosmos.

One of October’s birth flowers (marigold, the other), cosmos are said to symbolize harmony and balance, their orderly petals having inspired their genus name. Native to Mexico, this daisy-like annual thrives in hot, dry climes. It’s the traditional flower for a second wedding anniversary gift and, according to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, was once thought to attract fairies to the garden.

Could be true. Just look how the butterflies take to them.

Almanac September 2025

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September

By Ashley Walshe

September is the letter you don’t see coming. The one you will memorize. The thorn and the balm for your aching heart.

Dear one, summer writes in florid longhand. This won’t be easy. I love you, and I must go.

Your head spins. You can smell her on the pages, in the air, on your skin — the spicy-sweet amalgam of pepperbush, honeycomb and night-blooming jasmine. You steady yourself and keep reading.

Her tone is as soft as lamb’s ear, gentle as butterfly, warm as field mouse. Still, your heart feels like an orchard floor, each word a plummeting apple. Not just the fruit wears the bruise.

You can never lose me, she writes. Close your eyes and feel me now.

Sunlight caresses your face, chest and shoulders. At once, you’re watching a movie reel of summer, recalling the riot of milkweed, the tangles of wild bramble, the deafening hum of cicadas.

Picnics and hammocks. Daydreams and dragonflies. Puffballs and palmfuls of berries. It’s all right here.

When you open your eyes, you notice a lightness in your chest — a shift.

Yes, a yellow leaf is falling. But, look. Wild muscadine climbs toward the dwindling sun, singing silent vows in golden light.

You can chase me if you wish, she writes, her script now hurried. Or, you can be as fruit on vine: purple yet unbruised, ripe with sweetness and steadfast as the seeds you hold within you.

Bird Candy

If you think our flowering dogwoods put on a show in early spring — striking white (or pink) bracts popping against the still-leafless woods — just wait until month’s end, when its ripe berries bring in waves of avian passersby.

Of course, there are the usual suspects: mockingbirds and jays; woodpeckers and warblers; cardinals, catbirds, thrashers and thrushes. But if you’re lucky, those clusters of brilliant red berries could conjure migratory wonders such as the scarlet tanager, the rose-breasted grosbeak or even a rowdy troupe of cedar waxwings to your own front yard.

According to one online database (wildfoods4wildlife.com), the flowering dogwood berry ranks No. 29 on the “Top 75” list of wildlife-preferred berries and fruits. While blackberries top the list, flowering dogwood ranks above persimmon, plum and black cherry (note: ranks were determined by the number of species that eat said fruit, not by its palatability). If curated by tastiness — or mockingbird — sun-ripened figs would have surely made the cut.

Lucky Charms

On Sept. 19, three days before the Autumnal Equinox, look to the pre-dawn sky to catch a thin crescent moon hovering ever close to brilliant Venus. Although a lunar occultation of the Morning Star will be visible from Alaska and parts of Canada (that’s when the moon passes directly in front of the planet), we’ll witness a conjunction more akin to charms dangling from an invisible chain.

Almanac August 2025

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August 2025

By Ashley Walshe

August is a dog’s wildest dream.

Beneath the swaying hammocks where the summer-weary rest, the sleeping pup paddles his oversized paws, snout and whiskers gently twitching.

Mute the color palette. Attune to ultrasonic frequencies. Press your nose to the warm earth and breathe.

Can you smell the amalgam of humus and bee balm? Honeysuckle and musk? Grass clippings and sun-dried worms?

Each inhale carries a luscious stream of scents, a delectable river of possibilities. Each inhale is ecstasy.

At once, nose and paw lift as if pulled by invisible strings. A series of quick sniffs this way. A series of quick sniffs that way. A head tilt, an ear twitch, a rabbit!

Adventure calls.

Plow past the towering Joe Pye, the gleaming goldenrod, the coneflower, milkweed and asters. Faster, faster! Follow the trail, follow your instincts, follow that fluffy white tail!

Lunge left! Lunge right! Dive straight into a — cool, clear creek?

No signs of rabbits in this next dream. You plop down, let your belly press into the silty streambed, take a long, rhythmic drink. The queenking of treefrogs fills the air. A dragonfly lights on your withers.

In the third dream, you’re back with your people, belly-up in the dappled shade, nose wiggling. There’s a picnic blanket, a watermelon, a platter of cucumber sandwiches. This is a dream, right? Sure feels like it. Wonder if they’ll notice if I just sneak one bite.

How to Eat Watermelon

Grill it. Drizzle with honey. Pickle the rinds. Make salsa, gazpacho or caprese.

There’s sorbet, smoothies, minty lemonade. Mocktails, mojitos and ice pops. Good old-fashioned juice.

Serve it sliced, scooped or cubed. Spice it up with lime, salt and chili. Or not. There’s no wrong way to eat or drink it.

Seed Spittin’, Etc.

Nothing says August like a bellyful of watermelon.

Believed to have originated in Africa’s Kalahari Desert as the white-pulped Kordofan melon, the modern beauty we know and love has come a long way, baby. As evidenced by its presence in tomb paintings, the striped fruit was sacred to the ancient Egyptians, cultivated as both a water and food source. Often buried alongside pharaohs, the fruit’s high water content was believed to aid souls on their arduous journey to the afterlife.

Today, popular varieties include crimson sweet, sugar baby, moon and stars, jubilee and Charleston gray.

Celebrate National Watermelon Day on Aug. 3 with a cold one.

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

Almanac July 2025

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Almanac July 2025

By Ashley Walshe

July is a backyard safari, dirt-caked knees, the heart-racing thrill of the hunt.

Bug box? Check. Dip net? Check. Stealth and determination? Check and check.

Among a riot of milkweed, blazing star and feathery thistle, the siblings are crouched in the meadow, waiting for movement.

“There,” points one of the children.

“Where?” chimes the other.

“Follow me!”

As they slink through the rustling grass, playful as lion cubs, life bursts in all directions. Monarchs and swallowtails stir from their summer reverie. Dog-day cicadas go silent. A geyser of goldfinches blast into the great blue yonder.

“He’s right there!” the child whispers once again, inching toward a swaying blade of grass.

At once, the black-winged grasshopper catapults itself across the meadow, popping and snapping in a boisterous arc of flight. The children scurry after.

On and on this goes. Hour by hour. Day by day. Grasshopper by grasshopper.

Or, on too-hot days, tadpole by tadpole. 

“Race you to the creek!” chime the siblings.

Shoes are cast off with reckless abandon. Bare feet squish into the cool, wet earth. Laughter crescendos.

The whir of tiny wings evokes an audible gasp.

“Hummingbird!” says the younger one, scanning the creekbank until a flash of emerald green catches their eye.

As hummingbird drinks from cardinal flower after vibrant red cardinal flower, the children, too, imbibe summer’s timeless magic.

Finally, awakened from their fluttering trance, the children bolt upright.

“Race you to the wild blackberries!” they dare one another.

Such is the thrill of wild, ageless summer.

Mythical Creature Alert

What in all of Gotham City was that? Eastern Hercules beetles are in flight this month. Should you spot one of these massive rhinoceros beetles — native wonders — keep in mind that their larvae grub on rotting wood, breaking down organic matter to enhance our soil and ecosystems. As their name suggests, they’re sort of like superheroes without the lion skin or triple-weave Kevlar suit.

Life's a Peach

As burlesque icon Dita Von Teese once said, “You can be a delicious, ripe peach and there will still be people in the world that hate peaches.”

Oh, really? Who?

Peach season is in full swing. Dare you to drive past a local farm stand without braking for a quarter-peck or more. Kidding, of course. One should always make the pit stop.

True homegrown peach enthusiasts know that the annual N.C. Peach Festival takes place in Candor — Peach Capital of N.C. — on the third weekend of July. Get the sweet (and savory) details at ncpeachfestival.com.=

Almanac June

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June

By Ashley Walshe

June is a love poem, unrestrained.

Impossibly red poppies gaze upon achingly blue skies. Dragonflies bend for one another, clutching and curling like contortionists in flight. Swallowtails sup nectar, deep and sweet, enraptured by milkweed, sunbeams and endless summer days.

Can’t you see? All of life loses itself in itself. The rhyme is internal; the rhythm, organic; the imagery, holy refrain.

Each stanza surprises. Some, purple as passionflowers. Some, fussy as French hydrangeas. A precious few are sharp and true.

Bend your ear toward all that pulses. Get lost in the cadence of field crickets, the tranquil lilt of whippoorwill, the ballad of goldfinch and thistle. Find the harmony.

Complete the circuit. Behold poppies as poppies behold sky. Behold the dreamlike wonder.

Become a sunbeam. Become honey. Become, as wings, transparent.

Bow to the majesty of Queen Anne. Fashion a crown of singing daisies. Embellish your throne with honeysuckle and squash blossoms.

Are you dizzy yet?

Take a pause.

Rest in the dappled shade of sourwood. Let the hum of bees cradle you through afternoon. Come evening, swoon to the pink-and-yellow tune of rosy maple moth.

A good poem needs a good host. Can you be as milkweed to monarch? Sapsucker to birch?

Climbing oak to starry-eyed child?

Sup the sweetness of the moon-drenched night. Lose yourself in the wild beauty. Be, as green berry on vine, altered by the ardent kiss of
summer.

Father Sky

According to Navajo legend, Mother Earth and Father Sky were created as divine counterparts, their union essential to all life. Mother Earth gives us life. Father Sky offers the light of the sun, thirst-quenching rains and the endless mystery of the heavens.

In the spirit of Father’s Day (Sunday, June 15), consider looking skyward this month for a handful of celestial happenings.

The Full Pink Moon on June 11 is the last full moon of spring. No, it won’t be candy-colored.  According to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, Native American tribes (Algonquian, Ojibwe, Dakota and Lakota) named this month’s moon to mark the harvest of June-bearing strawberries.

On June 16 (the day after Father’s Day), you can spot the pairing of Mars and Regulus with the naked eye. Look for the fiery red planet gleaming alongside Alpha Leonis, the brightest star in the constellation Leo.

The Summer Solstice occurs on June 21. On this day — the longest day of the year — give thanks for the warmth and light of the sun and the wild abundance bursting from the Earth. And when night finally falls, you just might glimpse an early participant of the June Boötids meteor shower, which takes place June 22 through July 2 and peaks on June 27.

The Buzz, Etc.

Did you know there are 16 species of milkweed native to North Carolina? Sixteen! June is National Pollinator Month. Celebrate all that buzzes, hums and flutters by adding some native flowering plants to your little corner of the great, wide world.

Almanac May 2025

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Almanac May

By Ashley Walshe

Come with me into the woods where spring is advancing, as it does, no matter what, not being singular or particular, but one of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

— Mary Oliver, from “Bazougey” (Dog Songs, 2013)

May is the dreamer and the dream, the artist and the muse, a wish both made and granted.

Daisies are sweet, she must think to herself, giggling as she scatters them across green spaces and rolling meadows, weaving them among butterfly weed and purple coneflower; gently tucking them alongside bluebells and Indian blanket.

A dusting of iris for the pine forest. Jack-in-the-pulpit for the wet and shady woodlands. And for the garden? Peonies, poppies, sweet peas, gardenias and roses.

“Come to me,” says flower to bee.

“Only you,” bee purrs to blossom after fragrant blossom.

And so it goes with milkweed and monarch, yarrow and ladybug, foxglove and hummingbird.

“I’ve been aching for you,” murmurs snake to sun-warmed stone.

“Ditto,” stone whispers back.

Listen to the queenking of treefrog, the whistling of robin, the moonlit chanting of whippoorwill. All of life is a call and response, even if we can’t perceive it.

Magnolia flowers titter at the touch of beetle feet. Phlox swoons at the kiss of eastern swallowtail. Cottontail quivers at the nip of wild strawberry.

New leaves reach for the generous sun. Earthworms pray for rain. Dandelions wish for children.

“Pick me,” a puffball whispers on a gentle breeze. A little boy answers, lifts the downy orb to the light, closes his eyes, and sends one hundred wishes soaring — ninety-nine of them dreams for the gift of an endless spring.

Legendary Sweetness

The Cherokee legend of the first strawberries tells of a quarrel between the earliest man and woman, and the sun’s role in their reconciliation.

“I shall live with you no more,” says the woman, storming away in anger. Seeing that the man is sorry for his harsh words, the sun intervenes. Casting his golden rays upon the earth, he sends plump raspberries, glistening blueberries, then luscious blackberries. The woman blasts past all of them. Finally, when sun-warmed strawberries appear gleaming at her feet, she stops in her tracks. One bite and the sweetness washes over her. Filled with the joy she shared with her husband before their fight, she gathers the strawberries to share with him.

“To this day,” writes Joseph Bruchac in The First Strawberries, a retelling of the Cherokee story, “when Cherokee people eat strawberries, they are reminded to always be kind to each other; to remember that friendship and respect are as sweet as the taste of ripe red berries.” 

Want to pick your own strawberries this month? Find PYO farms across the state at pickyourown.org.

Mama Loves You

Mother’s Day is observed on Sunday, May 11. As you celebrate all the mamas you hold dear — mother comes in many forms — don’t forget the one who holds us all. We love you, Mother Earth. Thank you for all that you give. May we learn to honor you through our choices, our actions and our grateful hearts.

Almanac April 2025

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Almanac

By Ashley Walshe

April is a drift of dandelions, cheerful and bright.

Can you hear them giggling? Listen. It helps if you slip off your shoes.

Somehow, bare feet in the cool grass, you can access new frequencies: the whir of tiny wings, the swelling of tender buds, the rhythmic flow of nectar.

Wiggle your toes. Breathe into your belly. Surrender to the urge to lie down.

Yes, that’s better. Draped across the softening earth, the sun on your skin is medicinal. You close your eyes, brush fingertips across feathery blossoms, let your inner child run wild.

Perceive the world through the eyes of a dandelion. Anticipate the tickle of bee feet, the tender kiss of mourning cloak, the ecstasy of thunder and rain.

Are you giggling yet?

Listen.

The song of spring rises in all directions.

In the distance, a chorus of peepers rouses the burgeoning woods. Wet and trembling, a swallowtail clings to its chrysalis, pumping crumpled wings at the speed of grace. A bluebird whistles tu-a-wee. 

Open your eyes. Turn your gaze toward the flowering dogwood, the mighty tulip, the small, ambrosial apple tree. Everywhere you look, spring spills forth.

The dandelions are chattering now. Turn a cartwheel, one squeals. Dance for rain, blurts another. Pick me, whispers a third. 

Smiling, you reach for a fat, yellow blossom, pluck the stem, tuck the flower behind your ear. Eyes closed once more, you drift into blissful reverie. Among this sea of sprightly yellow orbs, you drink in the playful hum of this budding season, let the song revive your every cell.

Floriography

The Victorians used tussie-mussies (nosegays) to express their true feelings. Apple blossoms and dogwood were code for I like you. Purple violets murmured true love. Tulips? Well, that would depend on the color, of course.

While the language of flowers has withered in these less-than-modest times, we can’t help but ascribe meaning. Surely, every gifted flower says, I’m thinking of you. But what is it that you hear in the presence of flame azalea, redbud, cherry blossom? What do you glean from the iris and bluebell?

The Great Egg Hunt

There, nestled in the branches of dogwood, sugar maple, hawthorn and pine; in gutters, rain boots and dense shrubs; within the cavities of dead and living trees: eggs, eggs, beautiful eggs. Creamy white ones, speckled brown (chickadee, cardinal and nuthatch). Bright and muted blue ones (robin and bluebird). Pale green with rust-colored blotches (mockingbird). And guess who’s out searching for them? Opossums, snakes, skunks, racoons, crows and jays.

Spring is as harsh as it is lovely. And, yet, this circle of life is indeed what makes each spark of creation all the more precious.

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Almanac March 2025

By Ashley Walshe

May your thoughts be as glad as the shamrocks,

May your heart be as light as a song,

May each day bring you bright, happy hours,

That stay with you all the year long.

— Irish Blessing

March is an arrival, a revival, tender life still wet from birth.

Listen.

A purple martin sings at dawn, hollow bones weary from 5,000 miles of flight.

“Join me,” he broadcasts to the others. “Over here! On past the flowering redbud. The air is sweet, and spring is nigh!” 

Yes, spring is nigh. We’ve much to celebrate. The journey through winter was long and arduous.

On the forest floor, where trout lily and bloodroot grace the softening earth, fiddleheads unfurl like soundless party horns.

One by one, swallowtails emerge from chrysalides as yellow confetti propelled in slow motion. Winged maple seeds sing in scarlet, cascading from naked branches like blazing garlands.

A chorus of peepers screams out.

Squirrel kits nuzzle nursing mothers in their dreys. Born pink and blind, their world is all warm milk and wriggling bodies. When they open their eyes, the violets will have opened, too.

In the garden, a cottontail kindles her first litter. Deadnettle and dandelions mingle with delicate grasses. A bluebird crafts her cup-shaped nest.

Can you sense your own revival? Your own tender blossoming? Spring is here, and so are you.

Emerge from brumation as the snake does. Wiggle your toes in the feather-soft grass. Let the sun melt the winter from your skin and bones as the sparrow trills rejoice!

Once in a Red Moon

According to National Geographic, two of the nine “must-see sky events” of 2025 are happening this month, beginning with a total lunar eclipse and blood moon on Friday, March 14. During the total eclipse, visible from 2:26 – 3:31 a.m., Earth’s shadow will cause the moon to appear otherworldly, glowing in shades of “pumpkin orange to coppery red.” Can you say le fantastique? Night owls: No reason to miss it. 

Next on the docket of celestial sensations is a deep partial solar eclipse on Saturday, March 29. Early birds: This one’s for you. Bust out those eclipse glasses for a show that will peak at sunrise.

A Time to Sow

The soil is thawing. The birds are twittering. The worms are back in business.

Earthworms are key to healthy, nutrient-rich soil. And did you know that just 1 acre of land can host upwards of 1 million of the cold-blooded wigglers? The more, the merrier.

As a new season begins, we, too, return to the garden.

In early March, sow carrot, spinach, radish, pea and turnip seeds directly into the softening earth. Chives, parsley, onion and parsnips can be planted mid-month. At month’s end, bust out the beet and arugula seeds.

Broccoli, cauliflower and cabbage seedlings can be transplanted outdoors mid- to late-month. Ditto kale, Swiss chard, lettuce and kohlrabi.

As robin exhales mirthful tunes of crocus and tulip and plump, soil-laced worms, you gently hum along.