For years,  I looked out my upstairs window first thing to see what kind of day it would be. These days, I start by sitting on the side of the bed for a few minutes while Dolly walks around and does her down-dog stretch. All this before I stand up, open the curtains and look out. By then, my faithful body announces what kind of day it will be. The To-Do list is revised accordingly.

Some things are fixed. I can’t avoid glancing in the mirror on the way to the kitchen where I am always surprised to see Mother looking back at me.

Then on to pour boiling water over the grounds in the French press. (Called “the plunger” in my favorite Brit shows.)

Still, the skywatch does play a part.

Many places, this would be called “socked-in.” \

Here we say “somewhat overcast” and carry on.

Gardening is huge here.

Everyone, at the very least, has a windowsill with a few potted plants and a bird feeder just outside. My friend in ManorCare is looking forward to the plastic sheeting being removed from his window once the upgrade on the exterior of his building is completed. Not complaining in the meantime.

When we have a sunny day, everyone from the window-sill gardeners to the lucky community garden gardeners are at it.

Recently, it was a joyful meet-and-greet out there. A virtual celebratory congregation. Everyone is very respectful of the gardeners who are there to meditate and not chat. No one offers unsolicited advice, but is at-the-ready when you ask for help.

I was awarded a bed because my next-door garden neighbor decided to downsize and bequeathed me half of his bed. (I want to call them “plots,” but that is frowned on here for some reason.) He has tended the soil there so tenderly over the years that it was rich and friable when I went down to put in the raspberries and strawberries that I brought with me from my former garden. The strawberries survived as did some of the raspberries that were ripped out of their old place.

Here they are on this drizzly mid-April morning:

I walked down there to cheer on the raspberries.

I came to the garden alone, while the dew was still on the roses.

Dew, but not a single rose bud just yet.

And unlike on a sunny day, I had the whole place to myself. Being an introvert, I didn’t mind.  But even when there’s a cohort, no one looks askance at me when I talk to my plants. Or sing.  Sometimes Pink Martini’s “Hang on Little Tomato.”  Sometimes  “I Come to the Garden Alone.” 

The gardeners out there are all joyful and hopeful, all the while admitting that they are going home to put ice on their backs and take a prescribed narcotic.

There is a word that to me describes gardening at the 45º parallel north, altitude 500 feet. And it describes my neighbors here: valiant.