chilled air

This morning started out cloudy, temps in the 40s, enough light to enjoy walking in the garden with the dog, not too cold.

With that diffused light the yellow blooms popped out as did the emerald green of the lawns, all flush from Winters dreaming.

I asked myself why this kind of cool, almost damp kind of weather is so engaging for me.

It's probably my Irish genes. Somewhere in my past, there were gardeners on that isle that passed on to me their thrill of land, air and plant merged together in a garden.

In Texas, we did not have that kind of spring chilled air. The first time I ever encountered it was during a trip to Virginia and Hampton Roads in the 1980s, attending an old college friend's wedding. Some of us took a quick day trip to Colonial Williamsburg. It was in early April, and there were still bulbs blooming, as well as dogwood and redbud. It was so cool I had to wear a sweater, and again, with cloudiness all around, enough diffused light to allow the plants to show off their colors.

Many good things one can say about a Texas spring (particularly its wildflowers); however, direct light washing over everything does not show off the color of plants very well.

Years later, my first spring in DC overwhelmed me. Each week brought something new, a color, a plant, some known to me only through reading, the kinds of ordinary plants that do not thrive in Central Texas but are essential to many Mid-Atlantic gardens.

This attraction to the cooled air, not bitter like winter, but not heavy or warm either, is short term. Soon enough, we'll have warmer temps. The bugs will come out. There will be the shade from tree leaves. Gardening will slow down and a certain sobriety will take place among the plants, calmly producing their flowers in the warmth of the season.

But now, I hunger for the riot of the moment.