In the time of blooming things, spring, I like blooming trees. The orchid tree is covered in white flowers as was the sandpaper tree (Ehretia anacua) early on. Now it’s the time of the golden leadball (Leucaena retusa). The latter has had a bit of a hard life in our yard. A young buck took a fancy to it early on, and wiped his velvet with it. Then the hard winds blew and thin limbs broke. But it survives, fenced, and now blooming, it’s bright yellow offerings.

I’ve had a good spring in the gardens and around the house. To prove it, I can barely lift my left arm. Now, it might be that I slept on it wrong, but it’s more likely something happened during a mulch bag lift or a turning fork throw as I dug up coastal bermuda. I  don’t know. But there it is. I went to use it the other day and it was painful. I think it’s a sign I need to slow down. Which is okay, because I’m a fan of slow, especially these days, my days of elderliness.

Big day, today. My brush pile is going away. Unfortunately, it is probably home to critters. I guess you might consider this a version of gentrification. We own the land and would like to use it as something other than a home for mice, snakes, scorpions, and whatever else might find a big brush pile an appealing place to live. It will be interesting to see what departs. Of course, whatever leaves also might be too small for us to notice, but that’s just the way of the world.

I’m about 25% through the job of stripping the landscape cloth out of the new north garden. It’s harder than it might seem. First of all, most of the old mulch is still sitting there. Secondly, the material is now tied to the ground by coastal bermuda grass which has deep roots and strong runners. Finally, grass has grown through the material and holds the mulch in place. So, even when it’s finally pulled up there’s lots of weight.

I am in the home stretch of my spring fling of gardening. Beds are mulched. Weeds are pulled. Plants are in the ground. Everything that should be green is green. Yesterday and the day before we got more than an inch of rain, and more is scheduled today. And it’s the best sort of rain. Slow and steady.  Grasses are growing, the trees are replacing depleted stores, and the ground is softening, which is more good news for me, because I still have a few spots that need cleaning and repair.

I worked outside yesterday and at the end of the day I was worn out from the wind. I’ve had days of it blowing from the west and the north and now it’s blowing from the south. And it’s blowing hard, and making loud noises, and tumping things over. It’s like walking down a crowded sidewalk or jostling through people at a big music event. You’re pushed and beat upon. I’ve breathed dust from every part of Texas, and none of it feels good for me. I want it to stop.

The spring cleaning of the gardens is making steady progress. The next big project is to mulch the area that holds my newest trellis and was once home to a peach tree since departed. I’ve put down limestone blocks to replace the old fence as the back border, but there's still a couple of those to go, and there are a few windblown grasses to pull up. Then I’ll turn the old mulch, add the new and we’ll be done.

There’s a cool breeze this morning. A Carolina Wren is looking for friends, and the day looks promising. We sure need rain. All that’s promised, however, is more wind and dust, laced with fire warnings. This bodes ill for summer, which is why I’m making plans for Maine and maybe the mountains of New Mexico, anything to escape the heat, if and when it comes, which it most likely will.

West Texas followed me home. It kicked up on Sunday when we left Lajitas. High winds scoured the land and lifted sand and soil into the air. We out drove it, but the system kept on moving east, until it got here yesterday. There was a thunderstorm in the night, then wind, mighty wind, too. Things flew around, fences came loose, and I lost sight of the hills out my back windows.

It’s nineteen this morning with a light dusting of snow. Slightly peculiar weather for the Hill Country of Texas. Of course, we’ll take any sort of moisture the heavens decide to bring us even if it's in a more or less solid form. There’s also a strong north wind blowing which means wind chills and more cold air. I think the winter storm is scheduled to loosen its grip by the weekend, just in time for me to leave for Big Bend.

Typically, when I speak of the garden beneath the big oaks, I mean the one closest to the house. The one I can see from my kitchen window. There is a second group of oaks, however, just beside it to the north and out of sight from the kitchen window. It is the garden of my concentration this spring. Left mostly to its own devices, it was home to Turks Caps, Spiderworts, Rock Roses, and the Prickly Chicken Band which is a collection of metal musical-instrument-playing chickens given to me on my 65th birthday, complete with stage.

It was also home, however, to bindweed, coastal bermuda, and hackberries. And those days are now over, at least for the bermuda and the hackberries. I’ve dug up the former and pulled up the latter. Where I can’t pull them up, I’ve cut them to the ground and covered the stump with a tin can. I’ll attend to the bindweed when it starts appearing later this spring. The prickly chickens and their stage, at the moment, are covered in leaves, and I hope to change that today.

It’s raining this morning, which is good for my back. It means no digging in the garden on my hands and knees. It will be a day of rest, and the payoff will be a moist garden once the rain stops. Nature finds a way, I guess, of taking care of children and old men. But even though I ache, I still also ache to keep going, to repair what neglect has torn asunder. It’s good to have a drive, I guess.

Long ago my arborist son brought home four cedar poles. “Let's use them to build a shed around the well,” he suggested. Holes were dug and the poles set, and there they sat. Four, forlorn corners waiting to be connected to one another. I toyed with all manner of materials as I pursued our rustic dream.Then came the hail storm and the roofers. Presto, I had tin, and old tin is a time-honored rustic material.

I’m building a door for my little pump house shed. I’m using recycled material. Mostly old fence slats. For the first time in my woodworking life I’m also using glue. I have no idea why this is the first time, but it finally dawned on me that almost every time I see a woodworking video the host is gluing something. It must work.

I’m doing a pretty great job at tearing up things. I spent most of yesterday digging out 80 lbs of dried cement from an old post hole. The post in question had rotted.