I spent the morning yesterday planting bulbs. I got crocuses and narcissus, freesia and tulips, and some other bright and cheerful stuff. If you haven’t planted bulbs in your garden, get on it. Bulbs are awesome. And they come up year after year, making them much less of a pain in the butt than half the other plants in your garden. Oh, sure, you’re supposed to dig them up and break up the bulbs, and you should do that every few years, but in general bulbs are high reward, low maintenance.
I did stab myself in the head with a cactus while I was planting, but that occupational hazard was a risk I was willing to take. I am glad that my head was crooked sideways, though, or the little bugger would have gotten me in the eye, and that would have sucked.
I adore bulbs. I love that you plant them in November and they come up five or six months later like Spring surprises. Inevitably, I forget where, exactly, they were planted, and moles tend to move them around, and there’s something deeply gratifying about seeing their slender leaves working their way up above the ground, buds nodding on stalks, and then an explosion of flowers. This is also part of the plan to make my garden deliciously aromatic; I planted the freesia in a big cluster, so it’s going to smell beautiful in late spring, making a nice cup of tea on the porch all the more enjoyable.
Especially crocuses, the first flowers of the year. I see crocuses and I know that everything else will be coming out soon; they’re even more impressive in snowy regions, poking their way determinedly out of the snow. I think that my groundcover will be well established by then, so the bulbs will emerge from a nice green carpet. It’s going to look wonderful and smell intoxicating.
I would tell you where I planted the bulbs, but then they wouldn’t be a surprise.