A May update, Alaska style

The snow is gone, the moose are giving birth (and charging people who get too close to mom/baby), the pollen and dust are in the air: must be summer. A note to new visitors, we Alaskans call summer the season when the snow is gone, whether it’s technically summer or not.

This year looks to be a doozy with dry, cold, windy weather. But I won’t complain because:
1. the species tulips are blooming
2. the planted trees are breaking wood (the native birches are ahead of the garden game and leafing out now)
3. I have removed approximately 1/2 of the billion spruce cones littered around the yard. Yay for progress. I have a particular spruce tree I dump them all under as a sort of funky ground cover. My children have been recruited for many years now to fill a bucket with cones from the lawn every spring and dump it in their special place. Some years I pay.
4. The deck has been re-stained and will be ready for pots of plants and the old teak furniture set as soon as it is dry. I keep having to go over it “one more time” with the espresso colored stain every year. It beats the awful orange color and cheap look it used to have. Now it looks terrific (from a distance) and we don’t have to contemplate a new deck quite as soon as we thought.
5. I haven’t had to mow the lawn yet.

6. Being without a potting table for 8 years has been a trial. But no longer, court adjourned! My table is nothing grand, but it does the trick. It has the admirable characteristic of showing off just how many rusty garden hand tools I own. Too many. Where did they all come from? Now I can pot up those cute little things growing in the gravel walkway: a fern, a few Elymus magellanicus, and a Penstemon pinifolius.

What’s on your May to-do list?

Hare-pocalypse and other calamities of spring

Ah, springtime, when a gardener’s fancy turns to 10 ways to trap snowshoe hares, or Best Crockpot Ideas for Rabbit. For Alaskans it’s often the moose that cause carnage, busted trees, trampled shrubs, and a gaping hole where that $25 perennial  was planted. But 2018 seems to be the year of Peter Rabbit. I suppose that makes me Mr. MacGregor.

But Christine, you’re wondering, how could you tell that this spring was the year to beat all for bunnies? Well, I’d say, it all started with the daily sightings of Mr. Bun. Then advanced to his two or three best chums hanging out on the snowy lawn. Now we’ve reached the point that the poor 6-foot tall blue spruce in the back yard has been grazed from the ground up to the height of, I’ve got it…a bunny’s reach! My rugosa roses (nothing is in leaf yet in my yard) have been nibbled back to their 5 stoutest stems. And I really lost my temper as I drove up my driveway recently and observed Mr. Bun calmly chewing the bark from the trunk of my ($27) crabapple ‘Prairiefire’ that I took great care to encase in moose-high fencing, but neglected to encase in rabbit-low fencing. Drat!

If the hares aren’t horrible enough, I’ve had the remnants of the long winter’s nap of a goodly portion of the vole kingdom to deal with. They must have sent out favorable word after the winter of 2016-2017 (wherein I saw evidence of a few nests) so that by the winter of 2017-2018, a veritable horde did a long term air bnb in all (I repeat, all) of my Deschampsia. Which was no small feat, I have around 30 specimens of a few different types. They left the Calamagrostis and Festuca alone. I guess those grasses must have had bad reviews.

Now I have no problem with the vole squatting situation, but for the unfortunate tendency to chomp back the grasses a wee too short over the winter. After exhausting this supply, they raid the next door pantry (via vole trails under the snow, see pic above) and on and on through the garden. The grasses seem to be bouncing back after this rough treatment, but the neighboring Penstemon pinifolius was grazed a little too low and has died.

I’ve determined by the end of the summer, my yard is going to resemble a maximum security prison with multiple rows of fencing if I hope to save my favorites. That, or if my wild game hunting spouse has his way, we will be having a five star recipe I found for rabbit stew with mushrooms. Quick math question: three rabbits in the spring means how many rabbits by the summer? I dread the answer to this.

I can only hope this pair of bald eagles will visit my yard again soon and take Peter and Company with them.

What eats your garden?

Oops, I did it again

Britney Spears notwithstanding, if you do the same thing over and over, it doesn’t matter if it’s wrong. Clearly there is something about it that pays off for you. Exhibit A: my river garden in the front yard. On a whim, I wacked down the perennials (with a couple of exceptions) on March 21st, last Saturday for those that keep track of such things. A kind neighbor passing by hollered out, “You know it’s too early to do that?!” To which I (being the classy dame that  I am) shouted back, “I don’t care. I need to be outside!”

Which put me in mind of another year when I planted my annuals in containers rather early in April and a canvassing politician at my door made no mention of her ideas for our city, other than to note that I had planted out too early. I guess I’m edgy like that. Or perhaps early gardening activities are so provocative that no one, not even a stranger or a person that doesn’t know a petunia from a peony, can resist giving their two cents. Everyone’s a critic. Britney knows about that.

Meanwhile, we shall see who has the last laugh. The low temperatures are mostly above freezing in the forecast, and no snow in sight. I have no doubts the naysayers will continue to pester me though, I’m not that innocent.

 

Are you rushing things in the garden?

10 More Signs of Spring in Alaska

Never content to hash something out one time, or even two, this Alaskan brings you the definitive list. Again. It may not be true spring here yet, but keep your eyes peeled for the signs. It won’t be long now, I have spotted numbers 6 and 10 already.

1. You just stepped in dog poop, and it made a squish sound. This is to differentiate between stepping in dog doo in winter, when it crunches.

2. You begin to consider getting your bike off the garage ceiling, where it has been dangling in suspension (heh) since November. All except those crazy kids that bike all winter. Yeah, I’m looking at you, fat tire bikers! You just switch to your summer bike.

3. You hear an unfamiliar sound: not the wind, the plow truck, a car in desperate need of a new muffler, nor even a snowmachine. The birds are singing!  Can it be true? (This charming sound will fade to annoying, when that robin is warbling at 2 am in June.)

4. Trailers begin to sport more jet skis and boats and fewer snowmachines.

5. It just snowed again. Instead of being resigned to it or excited about it  (like in winter-time) you are annoyed, and shake your fist at the sky.

6. You saw your first jogger of the season wearing shorts. Not to mistake this with teenaged boys in Alaska, who seem to wear shorts 10 months of the year. I asked one teen why shorts were chosen on a day of snow and low temperatures. The answer, “Well, I looked out my window and it was sunny.”

7. Instead of throwing down sand on the road or driveway, it is being swept up. (In my neighborhood, not until July. Grrr.)

8. Snow boots get stacked on the shelf. Out come the puddle boots. Lots of Alaskans favor Xtra-Tuffs, but I like my Muck boots, for rainy days, gardening days, river rafting days…well, you get the idea. For a discussion on the merits of each, go here.

9. The critters are out, or back. Cue the bears, the Canada geese, squirrels, etc. Put the dog food/birdseed out of reach. We read about what hungry bears do to get people/dog/bird food almost every year in our local newspapers.

10. You just saw a motorcycle or Corvette on the road. Viva la spring!

 

 

Is it spring where you live? What are the signs?

Springtime in Alaska…or not

I try not to ponder the great mysteries of life too often. For example, what if the traffic light is green but no cars are moving? Is the traffic light really green? More importantly, will those two containers of ice cream in the trunk melt by the time it truly is? Such musings only lead to despair, disappointment, or in extreme cases, the need to get the car professionally cleaned.

In that vein, calendars officially state spring begins on March 20. (The state of Alaska needs a good attorney, at the very least we could get the calendar companies on fraud.) I should know better after all these years in the hinterlands, especially since the snowplow came by on Saturday. And as I glance out the window (tip: never do this while writing about springtime in Alaska, things will turn out ironically) I note that it has started snowing. So those advertisements encouraging me to buy capri pants are especially galling.

My “public service announcements” practically write themselves because Alaska needs explanation. We are different. Weird. (I would say freaky, but it’s a matter of taste.) So here goes. Calendar companies, pay attention!

It is only springtime in Alaska when:

1. the buzzards come home to roost. Or in reality, since we have no buzzards, the Canada geese honk their way into town. I saw about 100 today, winging their way north in a V-formation (or maybe a giant, malformed “W”).

2. the scent of manure rises. I’ve written about this before, and I’ll probably grouse about it again. Scoop your poop, dog owners! Freshly revealed by the melting snow, partially mummified canine feces litters street sides, sidewalks, and trails in my town. I am walking or biking around it like a boat trying to avoid a minefield. SOS! Full starboard! Blech!

3. dipnets are for sale again. Saw them at Sam’s Club last week. See you in July, you rascally salmon, you.

4. potholes the size of Luxemburg appear in the roads. Bye bye transmission box. So long, right front wheel. On a positive note, the winter studded tires get changed out for a supple summer set.

5. people forget how cold it really is outside. I mean, who needs sleeves, let alone a jacket? Clearly not that gentleman I saw entering Wal-mart on Friday in a tank top. Never mind that it’s 30° Fahrenheit and the snow is still covering the ground. The calendar said it’s spring, so there will be exposed flesh.

5. the motor homes awaken from their long winter’s nap and begin to hold up traffic by driving approximately 20 miles per hour less than the speed limit. When the traffic light turns green (see first paragraph), the driver counts to ten, texts mom, then accelerates. Sort of. I think they sign a contract about it.

6. winter boots feel like overkill, but summer shoes would be ruined. I do not have the answer to this problem. Some wear rubber boots (XtraTufs are a cult), others do the Dansko clog thing, and some even go straight to flip flops. Well, you know what grandpa says, “You can’t fix stupid.”

7. the first summer adventure trip is planned. We are rafting the Tazlina River this summer. Also the Gulkana. Definitely Kenai. Another sign it’s spring: over scheduling.

8. the first garage sale sign appears. Hallelujah, it’s spring! Pursuit of “the good deal” is almost as popular as pursuit of the salmon.

9. sunglasses are needed at 7am. 

10. garden ads are heard on the radio. Nurseries are open for those fuchsia starts. Game on! (I got carried away with myself just now. No game for a couple of weeks at least. Sorry about that. Keep those plants indoors for a bit longer.)

So you see, dear calendar companies, planetary cycles notwithstanding, spring is not spring in Alaska until…it is. Or at least until you are parked for a couple of minutes at a green light. Until then we call it winter.

 

Seen any capri pants lately? Has spring arrived?

I had a dream

*The Last Frontier Gardener, on the advice of her attorney, would like to assure the readership, both the accidental and purposeful variety, that this dream is perfectly office appropriate.  One’s aged neighbors will not be rushed to the ER if they catch a glimpse of your screen.  And your young children may read over your shoulder without harm.  If you allow that sort of thing…. 

Furthermore, The Last Frontier Garden and Christine B. disavow any consequences up to and including boredom that may arise from reading gibberish, blather, nonsense, and any other content on this site. Additionally, heavy usage of italics, bolded type, and parentheses may be employed. (Just because.) The site owner will assume no responsibility for occasional exclamations of “when does this end?” or “I don’t understand” by readers.

Don’t you adore a good disclaimer?  There must be a whole legal industry devoted to crafting those 5,000 word missives we must/should/don’t read upon accepting any free computer software, entering any contest (be the prize a small order of French fries/Porsche/trip to Hawaii), or joining an online community.  There is no rhyme nor reason to have a disclaimer for a garden blog, as far as I can tell, but then reasonable and rational are not selling points for this garden blog.  On to the dream.

Last night I dreamed a dream. Whether it was a dream of the “I ate hot salsa late at night” or the “profound and meaningful” dream variety, I leave that to you to determine.

In my dream, I saw a tulip. And a handkerchief tree (or dove tree), in bloom.  Some might automatically assume I was in a zone 6 dream, but I don’t need to be unconscious to dream about zone 6.  The tulip was an heirloom variety, probably one that doesn’t exist anywhere other than my brain but since I’m not a tulip historian and currently feel no inclination to research this tidbit, we may never know.  It had elongated and slightly twisted petals and a dramatic maroon throat.  The white blooms of the young handkerchief tree, or Davidia involucrata, were waving in the wind in my dream and situated next to the single gorgeous tulip.

Now to get to the exciting bit.  I have a book (a gift from a sister with a sense of humor) entitled, “In Your Dreams: The Ultimate Dream Dictionary” by Mary Summer Rain.  I intend no offense to Ms. Summer Rain, author of over 20 books, when I write that I laughed like Woody Woodpecker when I opened my birthday package and read the title.  But oh, the dividends!  Every bad dream, every ominous object, every scenario and detail no matter how mundane with a definable meaning.  Sort of.

Firstly, according to the aforementioned dictionary, a tulip flower “stands for self-confidence; encouragement; motivational factors; may also point to a beautiful beginning.”  The beginning of a bona fide spring would feel pretty terrific right now.  I’m not holding my breath.  Is the universe telling me not to plan that move to Arizona, that spring will indeed come even to Alaska?

Secondly, there is (are you surprised?) no entry for dove tree or handkerchief tree, but not to be deterred, I looked up all three terms for your interpretive pleasure. Dove is defined as “a peaceful nature or condition”, handkerchief as implying “preparedness”, and tree “symbolizes life force; living gifts; natural talents.”  So how can I account for that?  Shall I prepare myself for a peaceful talent? Or should I be at peace with my prepared life force?

Thirdly, I’m glad I didn’t dream about an angioplasty, an icicle, or a ticket scalper and not just for practical reasons.  You’ll have to take my word on this unless you want to check out the book because, yes, they are all real entries.

Or I could just say “phooey” with the whole interpretation book and conclude this dream was about an unfulfilled need. The need for green things. The need for flowers. The need for days above 50 degrees Fahrenheit and nights above freezing. And mostly, the need for the lingering layer of unwholesome-looking, feces-, twig-, and gravel-ridden snow to finally melt. Even wet, brown grass would be an improvement.

To counter my discouragement with both my shoddy dream analysis and our tardy spring, tonight I plan on dreaming of a zebra with a fear of burglars, riding a moped whilst listening to hard rock music.  If that fails, I’m turning to the hot salsa after 10pm.   

 

Ever dreamed of plants? What’s your dream plant?

When disaster is imminent

It’s just about that time again in Alaska.  The time of year where you overhear questions like, “How many more times do you think it will snow?” or “Think we’ll have a summer this year?”  And even occasionally “Did you see that darn fool woman from out of state try to pet the moose? What an ultra maroon!”  Spring has sprung here with a stumble and a face plant. And spring, like trying to pet a moose, might sound good in theory, but in execution is a disaster.

Just how can I tell, you ask, oh reader, that spring has come to the Last Frontier when I still have a fifteen foot high mountain of snow in my front yard complete with snow cave for imbibing the occasional hot cocoa? Three ways, 1. the winter’s road litter, revealing itself slowly after months under the snow, 2. a crocus sighting at the Providence Alaska Medical campus, and 3. I saw a man wearing shorts yesterday.  Don’t judge him too harshly, it was 40 degrees Fahrenheit, which to those unfamiliar with the Alaskan Temperature Denial Conversion, actually feels like 66.5 degrees to all residents of this tundra clime. I’m a little surprised he was wearing his shirt.

Grumpy bitterness is an old friend of mine, but I’ll explain why she visits so often in the month of March.  (It seems I’ve decided to bombard you with analogies this post, so buckle up.) Springtime in the 49th state is like yours truly during my teenaged years: awkward, not much to look at, but everyone hoping for something better later on. Or maybe it’s more like my toddlerhood: dirty, smelly, and wet, but thankfully just a phase.  There is no way around it, so I’ll just say it. Spring here is ugly.

Now I don’t deny that when the dirty snow has melted and the birch tree leaf buds begin to swell, the hazy light green overlay, set against a backdrop of the purpley-blue Chugach Mountains, is rather pretty.  But I still can’t help wishing for more of a bang.  Like, Bang! A thousand daffodils blooming their fool heads off in an eye popping yellow.  Or Bang! Hundreds of cherry blossoms unfurling their pink petals to my sighs of appreciation.  Dear readers, this is not meant to be. Our springs are more…subdued.

Springtime in Alaska is: Bang! Puddles deep enough to drown a small musk ox. Abandon all hope ye tikes who walk to school or work. One option: wear a head-to-toe raincoat and possibly a life vest if your freestyle is rusty. This spring will be worse than usual, I predict, because of the record snowfall we’ve had.  Oh, joy. And bust out the water skis. Disaster is damply imminent, I’m afraid.

Bang! Dog poop reveals itself on every street and trail and smells bad enough to wake the dead.  Last night’s walk was like that drill you see the football players do with car tires on the ground. Hop, hop, hop. The dog mines were perky and moist from the melting snow and for some variety, interspersed with the occasional moose or horse doo.  Love it. I’ll wear my muck boots next time I go out for a stroll. Disaster is revoltingly imminent.

I mustn’t forget Bang! The dust from the road sand blows up a nice imitation of The Grapes of Wrath era Oklahoma. People don’t wear sun glasses in spring here for the sun. It’s to avoid being sandblasted in the retinas. (We could market our spring winds as Nature’s Dermabrasion and get all those kids from Jersey Shore up here.) Thank goodness I’m not asthmatic or spring would be spent in a bubble.  As it is my nose just runs constantly.  I am one of those people with a tissue in every pocket of every coat, in every purse or bag, and sometimes in my pants pocket. Disaster is filthily imminent, I tell you (between sniffles).

No cherry blossoms here to herald the season and tempt photographers. No birds atwitter quite yet. And only a bunch of zombie-like, half starving, crabby moose avoiding new-to-Alaskans that think moose escaped from the petting zoo. One crocus in Midtown and my yard buried under snow. Can you tell spring isn’t my favorite season?

*The woman petting the moose was unharmed.  The moose however was at rest and she unsettled it enough to cause it to move away.  Moose are at the edge of starvation this winter due to the record snowfall.  It might have hurt someone else due to fear or anger. Stupid and selfish, my dear.

 

What is your favorite season? What does spring look like there?

An Empty Veggie Garden is Good For…

Still too wet and cold for me to be planting my veggies out.  This is a good thing, and I’ll tell you why in a minute.  First, ask yourself: ever been surprised in your garden?  I mean really, truly surprised.  This was an experience I had to savor, like drinking orange juice after brushing my teeth, in the garden this week.

Yes, James, there was a tarp involved.  My first thought upon glancing at the apocalypse in my garden (in the shape of shovels, trenches, gravel heaps, caulking, and foam board insulation) was “curses on the Y chromosome” as my teeth were being ground down to powder.  Mostly, I was just frozen into place, part of me not wanting to believe what I was seeing.  But I blinked and the carnage was still there.  It has been mentioned briefly, everyday, for the last three months, to everyone under our roof, that we have a garden tour this summer.  People are paying to look at our yard and a certain responsibility (and perhaps a touch of anxiety) goes with that.  I want everything to look dynamite: gravel heaps and tarps are not dynamite, not even in Alaska.

   My zombie-like demeanor (the raging, lightning quick reflexes zombie, not the slow, dull-witted, and knee-less zombie) must have tipped off the offender as to my state of mind, for their was a hurried explanation all while backing slowly away from me.  The few words that penetrated my consciousness included something about the home energy rebate program, which we have been working on for our home.  Basically, depending on how much more energy efficient you make your home, you can be reimbursed for your costs up to a certain amount.  So we’ve been insulating, replacing old appliances, installing a new garage door, furnace, etc.  The last thing to be done was to “slip” some rigid foam board insulation under the fireplace chase, accessed from outside the house.  Apparently “slipping” the three-inch board under the fireplace frame involves massive earth moving.  And even worse things, for a gardener….

 

Yes, take a deep breath or avert your eyes if you need to: you are looking at a fresh footprint in a garden bed, one of many.  I have decided not to show the pictures of the crushed crocuses et al: too graphic.  Mister Energy, as we shall hereafter refer to him, had the gall to stomp through the garden while I was watching.  Shocking!  I treated him to my best soil lecture, complete with references to the convenient rocks placed throughout the bed for any access needs.  Mister Energy struggled with the reasons for hopping from rock to rock.  I started in on pore spaces, oxygen, soil structure, compression of wet and silty spring soils, etc.  Watching a 6’4” man leaping about the garden from rock to rock like Mikhail Baryshnikov was almost worth the previously caused damage.  My only regret, no video camera.  Any YouTube ballet dreams shall remain unfulfilled for now. 

So moving on to alternate reasons for having a veggie garden.  “Are those green things weeds, or what?”  Some ornamental onions were growing (happily) in the gravel and had to be moved during the big dig.  But where to move them?  Most of the garden is still frozen any deeper than about three inches down.  Enter the raised bed in the form of an empty vegetable garden.

  

As if there were another option.  My holding bed for example, designed for those impulse purchases, has been filled for two years now.  At this juncture, keeping a small corner of the veggie garden free for any other “emergencies” sounds like sensible insurance.  The insulation was installed, the dirt was replaced (well most of it, Mister Energy forgot the three laundry soap buckets full of “bad” dirt in the wheelbarrow…you don’t want to know what he did with them), and the gravel re-laid.  Project accomplished. 

Then he hits me with: “do you think we need to repaint the house?  We’ll have to put a ladder in the middle of this garden bed.” 

Any surprises in your garden?

An Alaska garden in April

Pick your favorite subtitle: “Like a Phoenix From the Ashes”, “Jewels in the Snow”, or my personal favorite, “Is That All?”  With so many bloggers showing (off) their spring blooms, I am eager to share just what is happening a far northern garden.  For all you smart aleck types out there: yes, this will be brief.

I have gotten into trouble before jumping the gun, usually planting annuals out too early, but this spring I think I may truly have tidied up just a bit too soon.  I hold myself blameless (a good idea for my long term garden mental health): I’ve had nothing whatever to do in the garden since November 4th, so apparently, obviously, unmistakably, plainly, and clearly, I’m desperate (and have a handy Thesaurus).

A soft drizzling rain kept me company for a quick bed cleanup.  Just to help the crocus breathe, I rationalized to myself.  First thing first.  I found the wheelbarrow loafing in the side yard (see above) and was heartened to discover it wasn’t frozen to the ground.  Step two: find Felcos and pruning saw.  Step three (after trying Felcos and saying some un-ladylike things about their performance): lubricating pruners.  Step four: slip in snow on way to prune.  Final step: the really fun and satisfying part, giving severe haircuts to anything above ground that catches my eye.  One wheelbarrow-full of clippings later, the big reveal.  OK, the only reveal.  Everything else is still under snow or a sticky, silty, sodden mess. 

  

I made the same newbie mistake I do every year and went full throttle: two hours later I took a short break to assess just how many dead leaves and twigs were in my hair.  Answer: a few, but no spiders, hurrah!  I am unsettled to discover I have a twinge in my lower back, but the sight of some blooms, green things, and brown dirt more than compensates for the pain.  For now.

Among the joyous discoveries, the Magnolia stellata ‘Royal Star’ lives and may (steady on, Christine) bloom.  I have never seen a Mag growing in Alaska…so yes, a coup for me, but I’ll try not to let it go to my head.  The Fothergilla ‘Mt. Airy’ lives, as does the Acer maximowiczianum.  Crocus are blooming like mad in purple, white, and yellow.  The ones not nestled in snow, that is.

The disappointments must lead out with the Bergenia.  I have extensive plantings and many are a brown, sodden mess.  Others are cheerful green (see below) or burgundy, which I much prefer to the dead look.  Honestly, who kills off Bergenia?  I guess that can be my claim to garden fame, kind of like the cook that burns water, “Psst, she kills Bergenia!” 

I can’t end with a complaint because I worked in the yard today.  A real privilege after a long winter.  Perhaps northern gardeners should have a parade day to celebrate the start of work in the garden again.  (I’ll be the one in the pink coat with bits of twigs and leaves in my hair.)  We can even throw goodies into the crowds of spectators (my vote is for handing out back pain meds).  Now I just have to come up with a theme song and name for this parade.  It’s too late (and I’m too tired, as evidenced by all the parentheses in this post) to come up with anything clever (or even stupid) tonight.  If you have any ideas, do let us know….   

What’s your claim to garden fame?

Five ways to know it's spring in Alaska

This is the post I had to pull after a mere four hours on my blog a couple of weeks ago because we had a blizzard and a post on spring seemed a little optimistic.  Barring any (more) unforeseen blizzards, I think it might be spring.  This list was compiled after thirty-plus years experience in Alaskan springs.  It only sounds bitter.

1. The snow is brown.  Or almost gone in some years (Al Gore be darned, our springs haven't been any hotter/drier that I can tell).  All that road sand applied to the snow and ice during the winter is just lying there, on top of the snow, waiting to be covered by emerging greenery.

2. The cars are filthy.  What's the point of washing the car if it's going to get dirty driving out of the car wash parking lot?  Puddles, puddles, everywhere.  You will run out of windshield wiping fluid...twice.

                                   Moose dookie at the base of a Mountain Ash tree (Sorbus sp.).

          Love notes from Fido.

3. It smells like doggie/moose doo.  Going for a springtime walk is like an exercise in dodging land mines.  Stride, stride, leap, stride stride, hop....  I think all dog owners that don't clean up after Fido should be rounded up and forced to scoop for an hour along roadways as penance for tainting our water supply and creeks.  The moose scat?  Well, what can you do? (The LFG hubby is all for an urban hunt.)

Yes, that blue bit of litter is a tarp.  We Alaskans love our tarps.  The LFG hubby wanted to stop the car, dash out and snatch it.  Alas, we were going about 70 mph at the time.  It might still be there if anyone's interested (Palmer Hay Flats State Game Refuge).

4. Litter previously covered by snow is revealed in all its glory.  Thank goodness for the annual clean-up day.  I find at least one-dollar bill every year.  Once I found twenty dollars.  More usually I find cans, bottles, boxes, plastic bags, broken lumber, and in one area of town I found, within a forty foot radius: a car stereo, pornographic magazine, drug needle, and (ugh) a used prophylactic.  A dandy haul that would make a splendid real estate brochure for the neighborhood.

 

5. The sun is shining.  (I have no picture.  I have been thwarted by nature: a cloudy day.  Again.)  And plans for fishing, camping, hiking, biking, swimming, boating, gardening, etc. are being made.  Some daylight facts: When a place goes from 5.5 hours of daylight on January 1st to more than 13 hours by April 1st, that will put a smile on anyone's face.  Well, anyone that hasn't stepped in dog doo.... 

Any Alaskans out there (or springtime visitors) want to submit a number six?

How do you know it's spring in your area?

This just in...first flower in Anchorage!

The very first reported flower in Anchorage for this year comes to us from veteran gardener and hypertufa guru Carmel T.  She snipped it from her yard (on March 27th) and brought the flower and accompanying vase to gladden the hearts of all gardeners assembled to dream about spring at the Alaska Botanical Garden's annual Spring Garden Conference.  So what is this mystery marvel that can bloom in March?? 

(Yes, that question rates two question marks.  Nothing blooms in March but the pussy willows....)  Get your pencils out all gardeners in zones 2,3, and 4: Bulbocodium vernum, otherwise known as spring meadow saffron.  Check out this link for more pictures.  I will be putting this one on the fall bulb order this year.

Quick report on the conference.  There were four sessions with four different presentations for each session to chose from.  Presenters ranged from, at the high end, gardeners with decades of experience, people with doctorates and scientific research papers published on horticultural topics, and national garden book authors to, at the low end, me. 

I gave a presentation on ornamental grasses in Alaska (admittedly a very obscure branch of knowledge).  For one hour.  With only two or three electronic device related glitches (I am awarding a "gold star" to Extension Agent Julie Riley for saving my proverbial bacon when the computer took a dump with two minutes 'til presentation time).  I expected (and made handouts for) ten people.  Thirty showed up.  The classroom was kind of small, so I hope my alarm didn't show on my face when it started filling up.  These two words can precisely say how I feel about it all: it's over.  No, it wasn't a bad experience, but I just worked myself up into a state of nervousness that made every little thing seem huge.  My hands were even shaking!  I guess I better figure this nervous thing out because I will be speaking twice more in the next ten days.

Any speaking tips to calm the nerves from the veterans out there?