Sylvia's Journal

There are rowers on the river again and sailboats in the Basin; these are the impatient ones, confident that they will not flip over in the still very cold waters of the Charles. Yesterday’s balmy weather also brought out the joggers in shorts and tanks tops and a young woman walking with her lover along the bank of the Charles River. When the wind blew her miniskirt up, much like Marilyn on the subway grate, there was not much underneath by way of clothing. Spring is coming to Boston.

Spring is also coming to the North Shore. Now that we have daylight savings time I arrive home with a couple of hours left of light making work in the yard and garden possible. I spent some time uncovering the tender shoots that will become crocuses, blue bells, daffodils, tulips and bleeding hearts in due time, liberating them from underneath the heavy and wet pile of leaves that kept them white and leggy. This also revealed the tracks of countles small rodents that have been burrowing close to our house’s foundation, or maybe even inside it; to stay warm I suppose.

I am checking the asparagus bed nearly daily in the hope of some sign of life but nothing is showing yet. The garden is dead, at least at first sight. I know that weeds are alive and well and making their way to the surface. The parsley, and other winter crops that we forgot to harvest look miserable.

Sometime in January, when we get restless, we have all these good intentions to order seeds, growing flowers and vegetables from scratch. But it remains a plan, a set of intentions, and then, suddenly, spring has arrived. And we say ‘oops’ and resolve to do better next year.

Spring also means raking leaves and other debris from the lawn, an enormous task that is best done piecemeal. I did the lawn right in front of the door and uncovered many sticks, dead toys and turts that belonged to Chicha. It looks nice now.