Gardenz Own

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I sat at my front-den window last night looking out the window as yet another layer of flakes whitewashed the already existing mounds of snow deposited by the previous three snowstorms that blanketed our area during these past four weeks. Dubbed with the slick p.r. catch phrase "February Fury" by The Weather Channel, this latest chapter in the ongoing saga of "And You Still Don't Believe Global Warming?" began depositing its fat, wet flakes on the ground, the trees, my greenhouse and my driveway shortly before midnight the night before.

Earlier this morning I hurried outside just after my husband left for work around 5:15am and before the snow became too heavy because I knew at least one of the feeders was empty and three of the suet holders were either totally barren or contained pathetic dregs of lard-encrusted corn, seed and peanut pieces. After filling the feeders and attempting (operative word there being "attempting") to shovel some of the heavy, wet snow from around a few of the various feeding stations I'd set up throughout the front and back gardens, I precariously managed to fend my way around previous piles of hardened snow that outlined the greenhouse so I could stretch up with my broom and knock off the four or so inches of said wet snow which threatened to collapse at least one side of the structure. After the first brutal nor'easter in January knocked down one of the internal struts, one side has been under constant "supportive" vigilance" to prevent its all-out-collapse on that compromised side. We'd zipped the already taut poly weave constructed greenhouse tightly closed before December. As the winter progressed, bringing colder and colder temperatures that tested any remaining elasticity in that material, we became increasingly reluctant to try and unzip the thing to reattach the support for fear we wouldn't be able to zip and close the structure again. So until a good spring thaw, we just assumed a constant greenhouse-snow watch and stood ready with a very long-handled broom.

Forewarned being sometimes forearmed, I made a dash to the farm supply store the day before when the weather predictions seemed immanent and at the frenetic request of my feathered and furry friends to stock up on seed, corn and of course their favorite: shelled, halved peanuts. Unfortunately, I'm down to my last four suet cakes, and I fear my usual haunt which stocks them in bulk and at much lower cost than the Big Box stores has probably prematurely cleared their shelves of winter stores in preparation for spring surplus. Try explaining seasonal inventory control to claw and paw-tapping impatient, hungry critters! It's not business with them...it's personal.

I thought the two 24-cake boxes I'd purchased before Christmas would at least carry me through till the really frigid and snowy weather subsided. I think this is another case where I should have heeded the weather prognostications of Punxatawney Phil and the extra thick coat and fluffier-than-usual tails of my resident squirrels rather than the slick t.v. weathercasters. Nature is always a better indicator of future climatic conditions. Oh, but that would make me one of those 'global-warming believers'. Duh.

The snow tapered off a bit when I began this, but has picked up once again now along with freight-train-roaring winds. This is when the beauty of the silent snow fall not only elevates in decibel levels but increases the intensity of my worry for the resident critters. While they can usually ferret out protective quarters in even white-out snowstorms, the frigid, 50-mile-an-hour winds are decidedly more daunting and threatening to their safety. I knew that the next day would find me on garden reconnaissance in what I hope will be an unfruitful search for any casualties of the storm. The thought of leaving anything that once graced and shared my gardens to lie lifeless and forgotten on drifting snowbanks is unacceptable to me. If my garden's flora are dignified with a protective covering of soil, albeit frozen, then I owe that same reverence and care to its fauna.

The phone rang as darkness turned my window's clear view to a blackened mirrored glass. It was my husband reassuring me that his commute home was thus far uneventful and he'd most likely be home safe and at his usual time. I'm always calmed when he calls on nights like this. He knows I worry.

I just wish the critters had cell phones too.
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