The name of this post may seem odd, but it will make sense as you read it.
A is for Anxious for spring wildflowers. Anxious to find out if the hard freezes killed any plants. Anxious for warm days of spring. Anxious for bulbs to bloom and for the beauty of green trees, shrubs, grass, etc.
I planted these long ago and don’t remember what they are. I love that bulbs are so reliable and always seem like a great surprise when they return and bloom.
Now, that makes no sense. Seems like it is giving reasoning powers to a wild creature that are way above their brain power.
So I did a little research. The practice started in the mid 1900’s when ranchers paid cowboys to get rid of coyotes. It served as proof of kills so they could collect the bounties.
Before someone gets indignant about cruelty to animals, it is important to note that coyotes are more than just a nuisance. They kill cows, sheep, goats, pets, and any other animals in the area, including all of our Blackbucks. It was and is vital for ranchers and farmers to protect their livelihoods. Fences don’t keep out coyotes.
Daffodils announce that spring is just around the corner.
I like that these stems are short, even though it means almost laying on the ground to get pictures.
Daffodils need well drained soil, full sun, and about an inch of water a week. It is important to leave the foliage after the flowers die. They will not return if you cut the leaves back. When the leaves start getting limp, I gently fold them down closer to the ground.
They also need to be dug up and divided every five to ten years. Well worth the effort.
Since I badmouthed Texas Scarlett Quince (Chaenomeles japonica ‘Texas Scarlet’), recently in a post, I thought I should show it further along in the season. With lots of bright red flowers, it draws the eye and makes a nice accent low bush.
She wore her yellow sun-bonnet,
She wore her greenest gown;
She turned to the south wind
And curtsied up and down.
She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbour:
‘Winter is dead.’
A. A. Milne