Come a lily, come a lilac

One of the first things that happened after we moved into the house last summer is that Daryl got poison ivy. Then my mother got poison ivy. Then we realized that almost everything that was green in the garden was poison ivy.

The people who lived in the first floor apartment left behind twelve years of dirt on the floors of the kitchen and their bathrooms. They also left behind a note congratulating us on our new home and letting us know just how special the garden was, with many unique plants brought over from England when the house was built in 1902. But aside from the poison ivy (it covered the ground and climbed up the walls of the house and up the trunk of one tree practically killing it) there was not much else alive in the gardens.

We didn't make much progress. We had the trees cut down that we were informed were about to fall over and then we ran out of money. Then, in November, when it was unseasonably warm, I planted some bulbs. I planted two-hundred-twelve bulbs to be precise. My back has still not recovered. Now the snow has melted and I was able to walk through the front yard for the first time in three months only to discover several bulbs, right there on the surface, rotting in the wet earth.

I have to confess to feeling more than a little bit frustrated. Then I looked closer.

Granted, it's not very impressive, but there are green shoots there pushing their way up amidst the rotting leaves from last fall. I'll take it. It may not be the blankets of crocuses and daffodils I had hoped for, but it will be better than it was before I staked my claim, one bulb at a time.

There is much more to be done. For now, though, it is enough to simply be able to spend time outside.