Monday, March 3, 2008

Signs of Spring

The first two days of March were warm and bright, so naturally those of us here at Chez Redblur spent as much time as possible outdoors. Even the animals got into the act. It was necessary to spend some time on Saturday on errands, odious tasks and being away from home (my trivia team failed to place, but I had an excellent time and ate the best piece of wedding cake ever; the headlights on the Stealth Outback both went out, but I was saved by the Norwegian; Dear Daughter went to a party and seemed to have a good time).

Sunday dawned bright and glorious--perfect for Laetare Sunday, or Mothering Sunday, as I was raised to think of it. The mid-Lent lightening was both literal and figurative, as we saw temperatures in the high 70s, lots of sunshine and plenty of good times. We had a brunch at church (wherein Mme. Redblur ate the equivalent weight of her left leg in bacon) and were rejoined by a dear friend who recently received a heart transplant. A scant five weeks post-surgery he was at church looking healthy and well, albeit behind a mask and latex gloves. He will have to continue taking infection precautions for a while yet, and of course, will be on anti-rejection drugs, but thus far, he is doing so well, for which we are truly grateful.

Sunday afternoon was spent clearing up some of fall and winter out of the backyard. I am so grateful to be back in my own house with its little yard. Scattered throughout the back we found all kinds of signs of the changing seasons.

Behold the first solar Dachshund of the year:

Glorious daffodils. The smaller ones were here when we moved in, but the giant pale ones are an heirloom legacy from a great (but tiny) lady I once knew and loved dearly:

Bunnies on the grass, alas. Actually, Alix loves being outdoors. She has her own playpen for the backyard.

All of winter's deadfall burning in the grill, to be later spread on the compost heap (after cooling, naturally).

My forsythias, which came to us from a yard in Belle Meade, are blooming. My tenant managed to kill my other bush, but this one has survived a year of neglect and is bravely putting forth blooms. I always thought these looked like banana peels:

Baby irises peeping their way through the leaves in the very back of the yard by the fence. This area of the yard is fondly known as the "Pet Cemetery." The late, great Peaches, the Mousy-Faced Hamster Girl is interred here, as is at least one cat belonging to the previous owner. I have to be careful not to hit the bricks marking their final resting places when I mow.

Lastly, the dear, kind Norwegian Bachelor Farmer tilled up my garden while I ran the lawnmower. This was no easy task, and for nearly four hours he bravely piloted my dad's small tiller through the Bermuda grass and weeds. We're both excited at the prospect of tomatoes, eggplant, onions and herbs growing in the backyard. We still have a way to go to get the garden completely ready, but he certainly made a good start of it.

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