New column: Living in the zone

Ah, the hazards of Zone 5 living.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I can almost guarantee you were so excited about the 80-degree weather a couple weeks ago you went ahead and bought your annuals.

You know.

The annuals now curled around the edges and dead from the frost.

I remember growing up and going to the garden centers with my parents in the early spring, smitten with all the lively colors of annuals on display.

“Let’s get some!” I’d beg.

“Not until Mother’s Day,” my parents responded, always matter-of-factly.

I used to think their hesitation was because Dad wanted to surprise mom with loads of plants for the upcoming holiday. Only later did I learn it’s because . . . we live in Zone 5.

For non-gardening readers, allow me to explain. According to Wikipedia, “A hardiness zone (a subcategory of Vertical Zonation) is a geographically defined area in which a specific category of plant life is capable of growing, as defined by climatic conditions, including its ability to withstand the minimum temperatures of the zone . . .

For example, a plant that is described as “hardy to zone 10” means that the plant can withstand a minimum temperature of -1°C. A more resilient plant that is “hardy to zone 9” can tolerate a minimum temperature of -7°C.”

In plain Hoosier English, this means we’re restricted on when and what we can plant.

We’re not alone.

Zone 5 stretches from east to west, including cities such as Chicago, Cleveland, Ohio; Detroit, Mich.; Minneapolis, Minn.; Omaha, Neb.; Portland, Maine and Providence, R.I.

If you go to the USDA site (http://www.usna.usda.gov/Hardzone/ushzmap.html), you’ll see Indianapolis hugs the southern border of Zone 5, which tempts many a good-intentioned planter to tempt Mother Nature and go ahead and plant early. But as this spring has proved (again), that’s not such a good idea.

Thankfully, pansies and a few leaf and root vegetables can withstand the cold snaps. But so much for those wave petunias. Forget about resuscitating those geraniums. Even the tiny new leaves on the tops of our uber-hardy boxwoods froze to death.

Which goes to show: If you plant it (early), frost will come.

That’s a Farmer’s Almanac near-guarantee.

No one likes to be restricted, especially in springtime, when our cooped up, gray and bare-twigged hearts long for the green of a Hobbit-like shire. Still, the USDA (and the experience of Indiana gardeners who’ve gone before us) provides us with boundaries to lessen our chances of hurting our budding plants. Political, educational, parental, or, in the case of gardening— perennial — most boundaries exist for our own good.

Thankfully, Mother’s Day is coming soon.

I hope to see you then at the nearest nursery.

He is risen, indeed!

Have a beautiful and blessed Easter! 

~Amy~

deeply and ever known

We roamed the beaches of western Michigan this weekend.

Sky, brilliant azure.

Sand, warm and soft between our toes.

Breeze, clearing our lungs and minds from the stressors of daily life.

Homes along the coast empty.

Shoreline, barren of other people.

Accustomed to crowded spring break beaches of southern Alabama, we loved having the shore all to ourselves.

At the same time, I wondered how residents of the lakeside town kept themselves from skipping stones and traipsing along the beaches every chance they had.

Then I realized–even as I unwound and re-discovered the deep places of my children’s hearts shamefully and too-long neglected–much of life becomes an afterthought.

None of us intends for this to happen.

The daily grind whittles us down to flesh and bones moving in reaction to surviving the stressors which weigh upon us.

Like a room greying in evening’s fading light, life loses color and hope and before we know it, we’re stumbling around in the dark. All things bright and beautiful are hidden, swallowed up by darkness.

Until somehow, light shines in and we can see again.

Perspective brings newness.

Afterthoughts become present gifts.

And we realize, even dull flat stones on the Michigan shoreline have a story . . . a tale of beveled edges softened by the tossing tides . . . a story of sand caressing away hard corners . . .a parable of the Master bringing us back to Him.

Oh, praises–none of us are afterthoughts to Jesus Christ.

Praises–we never become too daily or too commonplace for Him.

Praises–He dances along the shores of our sorrow, joy and essence all the days of our lives.

You have searched me, LORD,

and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise;

you perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down;

you are familiar with all my ways.

Before a word is on my tongue

you, LORD, know it completely.

You hem me in behind and before,

and you lay your hand upon me.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,

too lofty for me to attain.

Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

if I settle on the far side of the sea,

even there your hand will guide me,

your right hand will hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me

and the light become night around me,”

even the darkness will not be dark to you;

the night will shine like the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you

when I was made in the secret place,

when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed body;

all the days ordained for me were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

~Psalm 139~

This blog post is part of the One Word at a Time blog carnival on “afterthought.” Visit their site to see more great posts on this topic.