Since I’m over February, and yet oddly enough, there is still snow in the forecast, I could see it was time for some action. Serious action. Messing-with-winter’s-head action. Like, winter-will-need-some-therapeutic-medication-after-this action.
So I turned my calendar over to March. EVEN THOUGH IT’S STILL FEBRUARY.
I know. You are both disturbed and awed by my secret diabolical nature and the cruelty with which I discombobulate winter thusly.
I’m also a calendar freak. I have one in almost every room in my house. This one is put out by the West Virginia Division of Natural Resources and it helps me learn stuff like that this is an Eastern Bluebird.
(I’m from the ‘burbs. Cut me some slack.)
This is the Chickens in the Road calendar. (Still want one? It’s only March, I mean, February! It’s not too late! Go here.)
Of course, I always have a chicken calendar somewhere.
This is one of my favorite calendars for this year. My publisher, Harlequin, sent it to me. It’s a vintage cover calendar celebrating 60 years of Harlequin books.
There are some freakin’ scary covers in the calendar. This one is from 1952. Pardon My Body, by Dale Bogard. Harlequin’s early years were a bit different from what comes to mind when we think of Harlequin romance today.
I went into each room, turned over these and other calendars, one by one, hearing winter’s whimper with each slap of the page onto the wall, and then, with winter surely reeling in psychological shock, off I trod to the garden to see what my mad plan had wrought.
First I spied little leaves of spinach clawing their way from the cold earth. This spinach had gone to seed last fall and now it pokes its head from the ground, as eager for spring as I am!
And here is garlic shooting forth! I forecast another vampire-free year at Stringtown Rising Farm! (Garlic planted last spring.)
Horseradish, too!! (Horseradish planted last September.)
Poor winter. It never knew what hit it.
P.S. It’s snowing. How is that possible?