The article explores the seasonal changes on a Pennsylvania farm and the impact of climate change on gardening practices.
**Reflecting on Garden Changes Amid Climate Disruption This Spring**
**Reflecting on Garden Changes Amid Climate Disruption This Spring**
As spring approaches, gardeners confront the realities of climate challenges and adaptation.
The silent season is drawing to a close. All winter, I experienced minimal birdsong to elevate my spirits. Only the occasional call of a crow, a chickadee’s cheerful note, and the melodious chatter of a Carolina wren, steadfastly wintering on our farm in Pennsylvania. However, my heart warmed with the remaining music of the cold months.
Recently, I heard the first notes of spring from a red-winged blackbird, and snowdrops have started to emerge from the thawing earth. Just the other day, I transferred the previous fall's tulips and hyacinth from their cool corner of the barn to our garden room, seeking to coax their blooms. Sadly, the vegetable plot remains an icy muck, and the flower beds, still cloaked in leafy mulch, show scant signs of life. Meanwhile, boxwood bushes are wrapped in burlap, and we’ve fashioned a snow fence around trees and shrubs to deter hungry deer.
These deer, transitioning from milk chocolate to rich dark fur, continue to breach our makeshift barriers, feasting on yew, euonymus, arborvitae, and this winter, even holly. Squirrels are busy building their winter stores, yet the chipmunks remain absent, likely tucked away in their dens, as are the opossums, raccoons and even bears.
My long-held desire for a greenhouse has shifted; I now find myself yearning to hibernate through winter, taking breaks from sowing and nurturing, allowing time to study animal tracks in snowy woods, observe icy patterns on the pond, and revel in the rhythm of the season. I wish to curl up beside the fire, delve into garden catalogs, and dream of the next year’s potential garden, clinging to the hope that next will be better than the last.
As Vita Sackville-West eloquently penned, “The gardener dreams his special own alloy of possible and the impossible.” However, as I contemplate last year’s disappointing season, I wonder, what truly is possible anymore? How will I adapt to the evolving landscape of gardening amidst these changes?
Recently, I heard the first notes of spring from a red-winged blackbird, and snowdrops have started to emerge from the thawing earth. Just the other day, I transferred the previous fall's tulips and hyacinth from their cool corner of the barn to our garden room, seeking to coax their blooms. Sadly, the vegetable plot remains an icy muck, and the flower beds, still cloaked in leafy mulch, show scant signs of life. Meanwhile, boxwood bushes are wrapped in burlap, and we’ve fashioned a snow fence around trees and shrubs to deter hungry deer.
These deer, transitioning from milk chocolate to rich dark fur, continue to breach our makeshift barriers, feasting on yew, euonymus, arborvitae, and this winter, even holly. Squirrels are busy building their winter stores, yet the chipmunks remain absent, likely tucked away in their dens, as are the opossums, raccoons and even bears.
My long-held desire for a greenhouse has shifted; I now find myself yearning to hibernate through winter, taking breaks from sowing and nurturing, allowing time to study animal tracks in snowy woods, observe icy patterns on the pond, and revel in the rhythm of the season. I wish to curl up beside the fire, delve into garden catalogs, and dream of the next year’s potential garden, clinging to the hope that next will be better than the last.
As Vita Sackville-West eloquently penned, “The gardener dreams his special own alloy of possible and the impossible.” However, as I contemplate last year’s disappointing season, I wonder, what truly is possible anymore? How will I adapt to the evolving landscape of gardening amidst these changes?
