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In March the earth remembers its own name. Everywhere the plates of snow are cracking.

The rivers begin to sing.

- Mary Oliver

Dear Reader

Let's face it, March is not a month prepared to win any popularity contest. October and May, with their showy leaves and blossoms, certainly have a competitive edge. Even December has its fan club. It’s likely that March might rank ahead of January, but that’s not saying much. To be truthful, the weeks that make up March are one seasonal identity crisis after another, one day winter, the next spring, and more often than not, both seasons appear in a single day. Those are precisely the reasons I love March. It unabashedly does its own thing, and since there is no taming it, one might as well enjoy the ride.

Our first week of March in the Northeast began with quite a dump of snow all of Tuesday night, which

again iced our old maple's limbs with white and weighted down the pine boughs. I sat in my seat of comfort and warmth on predawn Wednesday, taking in the scene. Not knowing if it would be the final show of the season, I decided to commit it all to memory, recognizing this transient guest for what it is.
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On Thursday night, the snow fell once again, but not before an hour or more of icy rain, building a crunchy crust across the drifts. Limbs trimmed in white, but this time a bit more subtly, as if reluctant to stick around. Nevertheless, I gave the scene the morning gaze it deserved. Tea mug warming my hands and a contented calico at my side. Perhaps this is not the final snow of the season, but it certainly is one of the last. I lingered with intention, appreciating how soon my view will change. Much like I do in October before the first killing frost, I take in every slightest detail. I know the change is imminent; in a short span of time, I won't be able to recall what it looks like now, pristinely covered in white.

Possibly even next week, if predictions are to be believed, this heavy blanket will be rolled back, exposing all that rests beneath. I, too, feel the cloak of winter’s deep dormancy dropping from my shoulders, ready to dance without its weight on my shoulders into what lies ahead. Taking care to relish this period of transition, no longer one thing and not yet another. Ground frozen, then thawed; snow drifts, then mud; signs of growth and retreat.

In other news, beyond the weather, the onion seeds planted a fortnight ago have made a good showing. The basement propagation shelves now hold a bounty of spring, summer, and fall leeks, along with spring and storage onions. Still a full five weeks before they are slipped into their assigned beds, they will pass the time basking under the grow lights. Not a bad life for an allium. Onions are a great guardian plant. Outside the fenceline, I use them as a protective border for young flower starts that tempt our resident bunnies. Within the fenced space, I’ve found a row of onions down the center of beds to deter a host of unwelcome pests.

This week, I am also thinking about baby chicks, setting up a brooder box, and the best critter and winter-proof fortress we might construct. We’ve intentionally held off on adding livestock for many good reasons, but it seems we might be ready. Taking the opportunity while there is still snow on the ground to plan for their location is important. Come early summer its easy to forget the extra effort of wading through snow to care for animals. I expect, as with all of our projects thus far, that designs will be sketched, debated, and cobbled together over the next few weeks. And while my on-site engineering team is drafting the final plans, I'll envision the charming hens we will soon invite to share our land.

On the subject of growing, if you are in the Northeast, please consider joining me for the Spring Good Medicine Series. For three delightful Saturday mornings (March 28, April 25, and May 23), we will consider the cultivation, care, and processing of several Good Medicine plants. We will talk about teas, tinctures, salves, and Gemmo extracts. Given the season, there will be some bud picking, Gemmo preparation, along with tea, oxymel, and salve making. Come celebrate what the season offers us in family gardens and the Gemmo Forest. All proceeds support the Gemmo Forest Intern Fund. Drop me a note for more details.

Until next week,

The sun transits through Gate 22 & 36

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