Spring is here with a vengeance, and I don’t think there can be any real argument but that the land south of the Mason-Dixon Line does spring better than any other region of the country.
The dogwoods and cherry trees are decked out in a glory of blossoms. Leaves are budding out on the branches, and I now take Maggie on her morning walks through the smell of new grass and flowers. So a week or two ago, we planted the first of our garden.
Because of the move to Williamsburg, we missed on having a good spring garden last year. Things are looking much better this year. We put in two kinds of radishes, two kinds of spinach, and two kinds of lettuce, as well as spring peas. All of the seeds have now germinated. We have little rows of green shoots snaking their way across our garden, and last night we decided that they had gotten big enough to mulch around the young plants. There is something about a garden that gives one a sense of place, even if one lives far from the graves of one’s ancestors.
Thus saith the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel, unto all that are carried away captives, whom I have caused to be carried away from Jerusalem unto Babylon; Build ye houses, and dwell in them; and plant gardens, and eat the fruit of them. (Jer. 29:4-5)