The very end of January is about the time when I notice that the light is better in the (late) morning and when March feels like it's within striking distance. But when thoughts of March enter my head, something deeper inside stirs -- some strange call of nature telling me not to forget that I am supposed to be planting gladiola bulbs that month.
This all started the spring of last year, months after I had purchased my first home in the fall. I had bought the little house at the bubbliest time of the housing bubble, and in that competitive market, there wasn't much time then to ponder the state of the lawn or figure out whether any flora was flourishing outside. But as spring started to remove the snow revealing the yard that had been a stranger to me, I realized for the first time that I had never before had any real jurisdiction over any yard. In fact I had never used a lawnmower in my entire life, not that I had ever avoided it. It just never happened.
I started to read dutifully about gardening in the daily paper, although by the time I got around to it, the recommended moment for planting gladiolus bulbs (which take a whopping 90 days to mature, that's right, just about an entire summer) had long since passed. A month past the ideal planting time and against the suggestion that corms (code word for baby gladiolus bulbs) be started in cups and planted days apart "for a continuous display of blooms," I crammed all of them into the muddy ground one night before a redeye flight to the lower 48. The "continuous display of blooms" is a luxury reserved for those who are not procrastinators and who have some clue regarding gardening. I was not one of those so fortunate.
Given the lateness of my gardening efforts, one might ask why I bothered at all. The truth is that the gladiolus is my mom's favorite flower, and it was the flower that she always bought for my grandmother because it was my grandmother's favorite. They have tremendous height and blooms that really can be appropriately described as glorious. I bought a bag of 60 bulbs at Costco and figured late planting was worth an $8.99 experiment.
I waited very patiently (did I mention ninety days) for those blooms to appear. The gladioluses did steadily grow in my garden but spent most of the summer in rather boring and modest green sheaths. It was as if I had planted a row of corn in the back of my garden, except without the corn part.
When the buds and then blooms finally emerged, however, they were absolutely worth every minute of wait and every penny of the $8.99. I truly felt like a Miss Universe when I cradled them in my arms, and I swear the self-esteem of my vases improved whenever I put these gorgeous flowers in them.
My hope was that my mother would come and visit around blooming time so that I could show her the flowers I had planted just for her. Discordant schedules prevented her from coming up, and so I decided to visit my family in LA in late August. After ninety days, however, I was not about to leave those blooms in Alaska. I harvested all of them, coincidentally and appropriately right before my redeye flight to California, and carefully wrapped them in tissue paper along with frozen gel packs I usually use for shipping fish and slid them gently into a box. I had never transported flora in the belly of a plane before, but I figured it would be just like a giant florist's refrigerator, except plane-shaped. For the gladiolus that were already in full bloom, I saved these to hand-carry as a bouquet on the plane, to greet my mom with "Surprise! Gladiolas!"
What I didn't realize was how fetching this bouquet would be. My bunch of gladiolas turned out to be like the beautiful best friend. It literally turned heads. I have never had so many people make small talk with me at the airport. And what was most unexpected was that they were mostly men. First, someone at the baggage check wanted to know what was the name of these beautiful flowers so that he could get them for his girlfriend. The TSA agent who checked my ID remarked how beautiful they were. Another TSA agent almost let me carry on my dangerous bottled water (almost) and asked me if my boyfriend had given me those flowers. (I believe a bitter "I WISH!" was my response.) The blooms inspired the imagination; perhaps people thought that I had just come from quite the emotional and passionate farewell at the airport befitting such flowers. Maybe they remembered a time when they had such a thrilling airport goodbye. And I daresay my own attractiveness improved with these beauties in my arms. Suddenly I became someone worthy of them. Everybody looks better cradling a bunch of pretty flowers.
It turned out that a beautiful bouquet of homegrown gladiolas is something that brings a smile to people's faces, much like a cute puppy or a toddler doing something unbelievably adorable. It is an instinctive response we have to the works of Mother Nature. To each person who asked me where I got these flowers, I proudly told them the truth.
"I planted these myself in my backyard. I planted them for my mother because she loves them, and I am bringing them to her, from Alaska to Los Angeles!"
While not the romance-novel-cover story they perhaps hoped for, this narrative was still warmly received. In LA, where everybody thinks Alaska is a frozen tundra, the irony was even more poignant. "You grew these flowers in Alaska?!" And I am happy to report that the Anchorage Gladiolas were beautiful enough to more than rival those I saw in local farmers' markets in southern California.
That sunny place apparently has nothing on us.
This all started the spring of last year, months after I had purchased my first home in the fall. I had bought the little house at the bubbliest time of the housing bubble, and in that competitive market, there wasn't much time then to ponder the state of the lawn or figure out whether any flora was flourishing outside. But as spring started to remove the snow revealing the yard that had been a stranger to me, I realized for the first time that I had never before had any real jurisdiction over any yard. In fact I had never used a lawnmower in my entire life, not that I had ever avoided it. It just never happened.
I started to read dutifully about gardening in the daily paper, although by the time I got around to it, the recommended moment for planting gladiolus bulbs (which take a whopping 90 days to mature, that's right, just about an entire summer) had long since passed. A month past the ideal planting time and against the suggestion that corms (code word for baby gladiolus bulbs) be started in cups and planted days apart "for a continuous display of blooms," I crammed all of them into the muddy ground one night before a redeye flight to the lower 48. The "continuous display of blooms" is a luxury reserved for those who are not procrastinators and who have some clue regarding gardening. I was not one of those so fortunate.
Given the lateness of my gardening efforts, one might ask why I bothered at all. The truth is that the gladiolus is my mom's favorite flower, and it was the flower that she always bought for my grandmother because it was my grandmother's favorite. They have tremendous height and blooms that really can be appropriately described as glorious. I bought a bag of 60 bulbs at Costco and figured late planting was worth an $8.99 experiment.
I waited very patiently (did I mention ninety days) for those blooms to appear. The gladioluses did steadily grow in my garden but spent most of the summer in rather boring and modest green sheaths. It was as if I had planted a row of corn in the back of my garden, except without the corn part.
When the buds and then blooms finally emerged, however, they were absolutely worth every minute of wait and every penny of the $8.99. I truly felt like a Miss Universe when I cradled them in my arms, and I swear the self-esteem of my vases improved whenever I put these gorgeous flowers in them.
My hope was that my mother would come and visit around blooming time so that I could show her the flowers I had planted just for her. Discordant schedules prevented her from coming up, and so I decided to visit my family in LA in late August. After ninety days, however, I was not about to leave those blooms in Alaska. I harvested all of them, coincidentally and appropriately right before my redeye flight to California, and carefully wrapped them in tissue paper along with frozen gel packs I usually use for shipping fish and slid them gently into a box. I had never transported flora in the belly of a plane before, but I figured it would be just like a giant florist's refrigerator, except plane-shaped. For the gladiolus that were already in full bloom, I saved these to hand-carry as a bouquet on the plane, to greet my mom with "Surprise! Gladiolas!"
What I didn't realize was how fetching this bouquet would be. My bunch of gladiolas turned out to be like the beautiful best friend. It literally turned heads. I have never had so many people make small talk with me at the airport. And what was most unexpected was that they were mostly men. First, someone at the baggage check wanted to know what was the name of these beautiful flowers so that he could get them for his girlfriend. The TSA agent who checked my ID remarked how beautiful they were. Another TSA agent almost let me carry on my dangerous bottled water (almost) and asked me if my boyfriend had given me those flowers. (I believe a bitter "I WISH!" was my response.) The blooms inspired the imagination; perhaps people thought that I had just come from quite the emotional and passionate farewell at the airport befitting such flowers. Maybe they remembered a time when they had such a thrilling airport goodbye. And I daresay my own attractiveness improved with these beauties in my arms. Suddenly I became someone worthy of them. Everybody looks better cradling a bunch of pretty flowers.
It turned out that a beautiful bouquet of homegrown gladiolas is something that brings a smile to people's faces, much like a cute puppy or a toddler doing something unbelievably adorable. It is an instinctive response we have to the works of Mother Nature. To each person who asked me where I got these flowers, I proudly told them the truth.
"I planted these myself in my backyard. I planted them for my mother because she loves them, and I am bringing them to her, from Alaska to Los Angeles!"
While not the romance-novel-cover story they perhaps hoped for, this narrative was still warmly received. In LA, where everybody thinks Alaska is a frozen tundra, the irony was even more poignant. "You grew these flowers in Alaska?!" And I am happy to report that the Anchorage Gladiolas were beautiful enough to more than rival those I saw in local farmers' markets in southern California.
That sunny place apparently has nothing on us.
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