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| One of my favorite hellebores growing in a nearby garden. |
I've just rolled the trash toter up the hill to the road for it's pickup later this morning. Though it's not her chore, Myladlove, who finds it near impossible to waste a moment when she knows there are tasks to do, had already carted the recyclable box up while I fixing our breakfast. It's still dark out, thanks to last weekend's switch to daylight savings time, and Moon-the-Dog's white coat glowed like foxfire on an old log as she sat in the middle of the driveway, patiently watching my progress. One practical blessing about a mostly white dog is that you're less likely to trip over them at night.
There were clouds in the sky, though it wasn't as fully overcast as I'd expected, given the prediction of rain throughout today. A neat half-slice of moon, like a pale section of citron, rode high overhead and here and there a star winked above the sycamores. Birds, just awakening and still on the sleepy side, twittered and tried snatch of song.
If the rain doesn't materialize, or isn't too heavy, I'm going out for a photo ramble within the hour. The soft light will be great for close-up images. I want to check a patch of woods just up the road for early wildflowers, and then drive another half mile to a woodland garden to make a few shots of the hellebores and daffodils which carpet the steep hills. My own daffodils are popping out everywhere around the yard. Plus I'm thinking of planting hellebores on the shady slope below the road.
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10 comments:
how fresh and pretty-can we see a daffodil shot-I know it's typical but it does scream spring for me.
Hi Grizz-
I love your life :-)
Gail
peace......
Yes, there's a lovely new variety of hellebore I've seen in the garden centres round here, and I'm thinking of buying and planting the same.
Nice little slice of your early morning life, Grizz ... and I like that half-slice of citron moon!
I unintentionally kicked my black cat twice this morning stumbling around in the pre-dawn darkness. She didn't appreciate it.
I love hellebores--both the flowers and the name.
AfromTO…
They are pretty…and yes, I'll put up some daffodil shots in the next day or so.
Gail…
It isn't perfect—and there's plenty I would change if I could. But I have lots of blessing, too, and for that I'm very thankful.
Solitary…
I'd love to have a bunch of hellebores in this shade and also some in a cream or white. But they are so expensive and and I need many to really cover the bank. Seed takes about 4 years to flowering. I'm hoping to find a source of plants I can afford…which isn't very likely. I'll probably have to plant and wait.
Thank you. That's what the moon reminded me of, the first thing that came to mind—a pale slice of citron.
Scott…
I used to have a black lab (well, semi-lab) named Buckwheat. After dark, inside the house, especially, but also sometimes outside, or in the garage—I'd trip, kick into, and fall over him all the time until he learned to give his head a vigorous shake every time I got within a dozen feet. The shake would rattle the metal tags dangling from his collar, which acted like a warning bell…sort of of a doggy version of a rattlesnake's rattle. I'd get out of bed, say, go stumbling off through the house in the pitch dark, Buckwheat—loath to have a swift kick in the ribs or some lumbering and apparently blind fool near kill him by falling on him—would jangle his warning—HEY! I'M HERE, YOU BIG IDIOT. WATCH YOUR STEP!—and I go into slow shuffle-mode until I felt him…at which point I'd step c-a-r-f-u-l-l-y over. Once both feet were safe on the other side of the dog, I'd resume my staggering lumber and Buckwheat would go back to sleep. It was a near foolproof system unless I accidentally stepped on his tail.
I like the name hellebore, too, and I kinda like the alternate Lenten rose, though they don't much resemble rose to me.
Grizz: There's something almost fictional about a flower so aggressively yellow that blooms so early in the year. In a normal year, or one after a usual winter, daffodils are a sign that spring is here. No wonder poets are always writing about them!
Carolyn H…
Such yellow is indeed startling. I typically look to the crocus first, then the daffodils to reassure me of spring's arrival—except this year, which is just so weird it's spooky. I've never experienced a spring so unseasonably warm so early and so continuous—no ups or down in temps, just late-May heat. We had no winter whatsoever. Even north of here some friends reported it's been in the low-80s the last six days in a row! I need to cut the grass! This is just crazy.
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