As the clock strikes midnight, the metamorphosis begins. Just as Cinderella's fairytale *poofed* into a sadness and dread, my love for snow is replaced by hatred. The very second February turns to March, my glee over snowflakes, my adoration of ice, my joyous celebration of blizzards, it all falls away. Instead of dreaming of playing in the snow, I instantly begin to dream of playing in the dirt.
I've tried to be a little more patient this year than most. While normally I'd be outside poking at the ground in search of some early perennials, I know that the foot or so of snow that is still on the ground needs to hang out just a little bit longer. If it all melted too quickly, we would have epic flooding all over the place. It's better that it has been a slow melt. I know that, but yet when I saw this today, I completely lost my mind:
Hostas! Green! Poking! Out! Of! The! Ground!
People, I think spring might actually happen this year!
As I sat staring at the tiny little Hostas poking their way out of the damp soil in the McDonald's drive thru, visions of a pond, an outdoor fireplace, a patio, a deck, perennials, annuals, vegetables, stone walls, containers, vines, trees, shrubs . . . does anybody want to buy a kidney? Or two? Because I don't really know how I'm going to pay for all of it, but I have EPIC plans for the back yard this year.
EPIC.
(Consider this a warning: once The Big Dig begins, it'll probably be all anybody around here talks about.)
The only problem is that there is a heck of a lot more snow in our yard than there is in the McDonald's drive thru. It might be a while before I get to start ripping out sod.
A long while.