There must be hope somewhere

It is still winter in Saskatchewan. Not a day goes by when the radio, my work and everyone I meet comments.  This week on CBC, the host complained that the -10 we woke up to should have been a high of +10.  My husband, Mike, waits for spring each year like it is the second coming.  This year he decided we are already in hell, or at least purgatory. The hope everyone felt at 6 months of winter has turned into a litany of complaints from everyone I know at 7 months of cold and grey.  I don't feel so hopeless, but I have only met one other person this month who is as perky as I am, and we have one thing in common.  We are growing.

My friend is growing personally.  She is currently working on twins, and just started her maternity leave to wait for their birth. When I met her for lunch, I was struck by how happy she was.  I have never seen her smile so much, and it was such a contrast with everyone around me.  I am not quite so happy, but I am pleased and hopeful, and it is all about the sprouts in the basement.

Everyday, I go in and see what had grown and smell the fresh green smell.  Last weekend, I planted all my melons, gourds and my first beets and kohlrabi. They are all up and looking great. My peppers, tomatoes and basil are going strong.

Yesterday on the news, Mike and I woke up to a story about how much money golf courses and greenhouses are loosing. No one is buying seeds, seed potatoes, bedding plants and other goodies.  Sometimes I wish that people would.  I think most people I know would be much happier if they had something, anything, that was growing hope for them.

There is no grass visible in my back yard.  Some parts of it still have over 3 ft of snow on April 18th.  But there is a bit of grass in the front by rocks that hold the heat, and there are many plants in the basement.

I have hope (and science) to tell me that even when the spring is late, you get all the same plants eventually.