There flashed across my screen, when I checked in on the weather yesterday, the following warning: “March can be unpredictable. Here is what to expect. Storms, floods, tornadoes.” Today the message was a tease: “Will you need to keep your coats handy or can you break out the T shirts and shorts?” OK, weather channel, we get it. March in the northeast is definitely unpredictable and can be extremely violent.
When I lived in Philadelphia and taught at the University of Pennsylvania, March was my favorite month of the year. March ushered in a long, lovely, slowly evolving spring, with something wonderful and new happening every day. I could count on steadily rising temperatures, gentle breezes, and a lovely mix of rain and sun.
Walking to Penn from my West Philadelphia apartment a few blocks away, I watched, in succession, privet opening, forsythia starting to bloom, bulbs popping up, trees coming into leaf. I fell hard for a plant whose name I never knew but whose fragrant pink flowers delighted both my nose and eyes. When I became a serious gardener with territory to cover, I looked this plant up. I learned it had a Latin name, Abeliophyllum distichum, and a common name, white forsythia. I also learned there is a cultivar named ‘Roseum.’ I suspect that Abeliophyllum distichum ‘Roseum’ was my long-ago love. Though apparently hardy to zone 5, I have never seen this plant in any nursery I have frequented. Perhaps it is not up to March in the northeast. Zone envy!
It’s true, at the beginning of every March, I experience zone envy. Because March in the northeast is nothing like March in Philadelphia. Here March is a season unto itself, not truly winter but not yet really spring, wild and warm in fits and starts, unpredictable, moody, rough and gentle, lion and lamb from one day to the next. No wonder Alcott, a native New Englander and as moody as the month, named her alter ego and the heroine of Little Women Jo March.
Still in March, even in the northeast, there is a sense of things to come, a promise of re-awakening. Yesterday, out walking, I noticed a flush of red on the Acer rubrum, aka red maple. Its flowering is the first notice that change is happening. Sara tells me she saw snowdrops last week under the river birch. I anticipate the inevitable thaw that will reveal these tough delicates pushing up throw the snow. A bit of the lamb is expected next week.
The first warm day I will get out and prune. March is the perfect month for thinning and shaping. I will start with the Viburnums, then move on to the red-twigged dogwoods, and finally hit up the Chamacypaeris. Like Michelangelo with his marble, I am looking for the idea hidden in the mass of branches and struggling to release it. I know the comparison with the Florentine sculptor is way out of line, but thinking about “David” helps me slow down and take time. If you rush the job, it is easy to make a mistake. And getting another 15-year-old viburnum could be harder than getting another chunk of marble.
When the temperature drops again, I will turn my attention to all those tasks I should have done in November but didn’t — sharpening my tools, entering last year’s purchases in my data base, finalizing my list of chores for the coming season. And I will wait for the next warm day to start thinning the boxwoods.
This March I have added an additional task to my indoor list: ordering plants from catalogues. Last winter, after reading Doug Tallamy’s Nature’s Best Hope, I made a commitment to increasing the number of natives in my garden. I soon discovered that many other gardeners had made a similar commitment and that local nurseries were struggling to keep supply in line with demand and failing. This year I am ordering native plants that will arrive by mail from places like NEPP (Northeast Pollinator Plants) in Vermont and Prairie Moon Nursery in Minnesota.
March 21, the vernal equinox, marks the calendar’s beginning of spring. I am hoping to celebrate the equinox by starting my gardening season on this day, going out no matter the weather to start the work of waking up the garden. Of course, there may be a foot of snow on the ground which will frustrate my plan. But shouldn’t we gardeners here in the northeast celebrate March 21 whether we are inside or out?
New York has its deer hunting season, Minnesota goes crazy when you can first fish for Walleyes, the opening of baseball season is an event of national importance. Shouldn’t we gardeners declare March 21 the opening of our gardening season regardless of the weather? Shouldn’t we demand that this day be taken as seriously and greeted with as much fanfare as that which attends the opening of deer hunting season or Walleye season or baseball season? Shouldn’t there be a ritual throwing of the first pitchfork, accompanied by pancake breakfasts and parades? After all, there are at least as many gardeners in the northeast as there are hunters in New York or fishers in Minnesota or perhaps even baseball fans in both these places.
Occasionally, March is the month of Easter. One Palm Sunday my 8-year-old grand-niece asked me why we have eggs and rabbits at Easter. In age-appropriate language, I tried to explain that eggs are a symbol of birth, and that the religious phenomenon of Easter is connected to the natural phenomenon of spring and both are experiences of birth and rebirth. The egg looks dead until it begins to move and crack and then suddenly, miraculously, a chick emerges. The tomb looks sealed but suddenly the stone begins to roll away and lo and behold, miraculously, a man thought dead emerges. The garden seems frozen in place, completely dead, and then suddenly, miraculously, up shoots a snow drop or a crocus.
My explanation of the egg seemed to satisfy her. I didn’t get too far with the rabbit, though, except to suggest that rabbits are symbols of fertility and that, as a culture, we associate spring with fertility. Instead, I told her stories about the rabbit that lives under my deck and fills my garden every summer with little herbivores. But why, I wonder, do we have so much rabbitry at Easter?
My rabbit is back, by the way, though I suspect for now she is only visiting. The deck is frozen solid to the ground. When it thaws, we will see if she digs back under.
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