This is our Christmas 2005 amaryllis (thanks, John & Gini), back for an encore performance. Looks like there will be three, maybe four blossoms on this bloom stalk--you can see blossom #2, behind this one. Last year, she put up two bloom stalks, with a total of 6 blossoms. You go, girl!
Worked yesterday on the memoir, and talked to my editor at UT Press, who is wonderfully encouraging. A conversation with her is a shot of pure adrenlin. I have a new idea for a way to incorporate journal entries into the book (gotta do something with this huge stack of journals I've been accumulating over the past 35 years!). Also, I've recast some of the material, aiming to hold some back for a possible later work. With memoir, there's always a question of what part of the story to tell, and how to shape it so that the part you choose has a beginning, a middle, and an end--even though life doesn't work that way. At least, ongoing life. When you're dead and the biographers get to you, that's a whole different story.
Also, garden work yesterday, cleaning up winter-killed plant debris. Bill noted what I'd done with approval, commenting that the garden is no longer a fire hazard. (Don't laugh. You should have seen it. And this is high fire-season here in Texas, with dead fuel on the ground, low humidity, and spring winds.) Remarked with pleasure: Indigo Spires breaking dormancy early; the fennel a cloud of lovely, feathery green leaves; enthusiastic daylilies surfacing; anemone blooming pure white in the grass; the roses (pruned to within an inch of their lives) breaking into leaf. What's remarkable in your garden?
Reading note. Is it spring yet? Spring travels north at about thirteen miles a day, which is 47.6 feet per minute, or about 1.23 inches per second. That sounds rather fast, and viewable. I start looking for subtle clues and signs in the snowscape. Weeping willow branches have already started to turn yellow, and the tops of distant trees look dusty pink from new buds. A few cardinals have arrived early to claim the best nesting sites before their rivals return, and I swear I heard the steely twang-and-kazoo of a red-winged blackbird.-- Diane Ackerman, Cultivating Delight: A Natural History of My Garden