Gardeners feel a certain compulsion wherever they are.
I arrived in Florida in the first week of February and the first week of April is almost gone. We have had the Great Heat Wave along with much of the East, and I've sat with my dad in the porch rockers, fanning myself, and memories of hot Georgia summers rise up. Toads, which one might not see until June, snuffle round our feet, and mosquitoes buzz in our ears. Lizards sit on fence posts bobbing up and down, tormenting the dogs, who can't quite bring themselves to leave the shade to snap at them.
And my garden is three thousand miles away.
There's drought here, so, if I were to stay the summer (which could happen) I really should resist turning over my dad's big old garden, which has fallowed for the last decade. But next to the carport, there's a row of concrete planters filled with sandy soil.
I was slicing and dicing in the kitchen and noticed some potatoes that had gone to sprout.
Hmm. Can't resist a bit of productive greenery, now can we?
Today, they're up.