Harbinger

The first "harbingers" of spring are the rewards for the work you do in November and December, and this work is drying bulbs, dusting off their dirt and cutting away all the dead stuff, wrapping them in the newspaper, and storing them in the dark basement; and when you cannot stand another long dark winter day, bringing them up and partially burying them in fresh potting soil in freshly cleaned pots that are soaked in hot water.  The bulbs wake up with an extreme urge to find the light, flash their brief beauty to live again another year...much like us.

I was sitting on the floor in my kitchen enjoying the peace of a very quiet morning. Hubby has been gone on a reunion-type trip for four days, my house heating system has been broken for the same four days (which makes it even quieter than normal), and there is all the rest of the stuff going on in my life that I will avoid burdening you about.  I needed the resilience of seeing the rare sunrise through my "harbingers" of spring's showy skirts against the kitchen window from a new low angle with camera in hand.  Amaryllis dance the samba, so who can ignore the joy in that?

The wooden floor in the kitchen is colder than usual and my nose is a bit colder than usual, and soon I need to move my old joints and collect the wood from the rack on the front porch and get a warming fire going.  We have lots of wood because my forest is dying and hubby made sure he split a lot before he left.  The trees are tall and should live longer, but they cannot fight the dramatic shifts in climate that did not challenge their ancestors.  I have at least six species of woodpeckers moving in with their hammering and shredding, very content about all of this.

The weatherman has promised 60-degree weather in the days ahead, which also will probably mean the repairmen will arrive much more promptly since I need them less now.  No one stocks parts, parts are held in warehouses in other states, and repairmen give you 5-hour windows and show up at the exact time the window closes to do their work.  Only us retired folks can deal with this.

Each evening I have snuggled down in the heavy quilt at night as a blanket of 27-degree air hung around the windows begging to get in.  Each morning, once the chill is off with a warming fire, I can do chores and blogging and cooking and forget I am not a pioneer woman.

Shot with hand-held telephoto...guess it is not that cold.