Hmm. It’s rather an unfortunate spring in the Pacific Northwest to have a garden blog. Given the copious rain and gloom, it’s like trying in vain to stretch posts through the long, dreary month of February, but without the diversion of spectacular convention center garden shows. Perhaps I should take up garden knitting. Yeah, maybe I’ll knit me some veggie cozies, just in case the sun never does emerge this year.

As I gripe about the weather, please enjoy the tulips. Notice that they have sun shining through them, which is entirely misleading. In fact, if you live in the Pacific Northwest, you know I could only have taken these photos on one of our three sunny days in the past month. And it wasn’t yesterday, although yesterday was lovely. I think we broke 60 degrees. On the local news last night, the weatherman actually said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you when we’ll next see a sunny day. Perhaps you should take up knitting.”

Given that my blooming trees still aren’t, I’m sure glad I planted so many tulips this year or I’d have bupkis. Also, I should mention that although my own tulips are stunning this year, most of these photos were taken in the Roozengaarde display gardens at the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival because they plant half a million bulbs. And I don’t.

Bupkis is also exactly what I know about knitting. But how hard could it be to knit a zucchini cozy? Isn’t it basically just a sock? Maybe I shouldn’t even get started on the veggie garden, lest I work myself into a stew. The radishes that I planted over a month ago just got their first true leaves, and they were supposed to be edible in 21 days. Also, it’s hard to knit a cozy for a root veggie.

My sugar snap peas that I also planted a month ago are still only two inches tall, so we’ll be eating those well into July. Just in time to yank the spring vines and plant the fall crop. How long do you think it will take me to knit 90 long, thin scarves to twine around my pea plants to hustle things along?

And I’m beginning to wonder just how many times I can “cut and come again” before my overwintered lettuce is exhausted because my spring-sown is just barely germinated. I’m thinking modified toilet paper cozies with a nice tri-color orange yarn for the lettuces.

And in a pure fit of spite, I seeded my green beans and started my summer squash last week. But I am having serious doubts about even attempting tomatoes this year since they’re a crapshoot in even the best of Pacific Northwest summers. Hmm. Knit one, purl two.

All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.
All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.
All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.
All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.
All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.
All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.
All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.
All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.
All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.
All rain and no sun makes Kelly a crazy girl.

Fortunately, the rain paused long enough this morning so I could visit my Ice Follies daffodils, which chose this rainy week to bloom. I’m going to go out on a commitment limb and say that they’re about my favorite of all the daffodils.

Given the celebratory Olde English and two exclamation points, you may have gathered that it was sunny here today. So sunny, in fact, that I peeled the hoop cover off my veggies and weeded my lettuce, which continues to overwinter quite nicely in its plastic hut, thankyouverymuch. Then, for good measure, I cut back my bee balm. Mostly so I could wallow in its soothing fragrance. Now that’s a good January day in the garden.

1) Winter in Seattle.
2) Winter in Seattle.
3) Winter in Seattle.
4) Winter in Seattle.
5) Winter in Seattle.

Sometime this afternoon, I hit that wall where the rain and gloom are driving me a little crazy, kind of like Jack in The Shining. Fortunately, we never got around to building a toolshed, so the axe is too rusty to do much damage.

Given my druthers, I prefer to know what’s going to happen in life well before it does. Ten years is usually adequate—you know, so I have a decade to prepare.

But I love that we can’t truly predict the weather. Sometimes we come pretty close with our satellites and computer-modeled guesstimations. But, at the end of the day, the weather is going to do what the weather is going to do, and we’re just along for the ride. What a nice reminder that we are but small humans on this earth, despite our technology.

I may not find it quite so endearing when I’m two-stepping around the last frost date so I can plant the veggie garden. But, for the most part, seeing how snowy or sunny or rainy—or rainy or rainy or rainy, in the Pacific Northwest—the weather shapes up to be compared to the forecast is like a daily Cracker Jack surprise in my otherwise predictable life.

And then there’s The Old Farmer’s Almanac, which has been predicting the long-range weather with 80% accuracy since 1792. That’s 219 years. How do they do that? No wonder they keep their formula safely under lock and key in a black box, as shown in this video.

Not that anyone would probably read the formula even if they could get to it. With print readership in nosedive decline, most people read less than one book per year. And I’m guessing that The Old Farmer’s Almanac is probably not that book, unless they’ve recently added the husbandry of pouty vampires.

Maybe they should start one of those off-shoot publications, like Teen People, that’s aimed at the younger crowd. They could call it The Studly Young Farmer’s Almanac and feature provocative etchings of half-nekkid pouty young farmers leaning against a tractor tire, distractedly texting. Or Massey Ferguson’s great-great-great-great grandson with only red suspenders draped over his harrowed abs. Or Johnny Deere, Jr. buck naked except for his signature green cap. Or great-great-great granddaughter Allis Chalmers with her bright orange coveralls unzipped down to there.

Really? No one in the marketing department at the almanac has thought of this? Maybe I should pitch it to them. I’ll think that over as I head out to the garden to see what the weather is doing. My guess is rain. But you never know. You just never know.

It’s snowing! We seem to have just skipped frost entirely and gotten right on to the good stuff. It’s really coming down and is simply beautiful after having none at all last year … although Mr. Sorry tells me to be careful what I wish for.