My wonderful crew of young people and I spent all last week moving mountains of wood chips, compost and loam with wheelbarrows. It hurt midweek to even sit down.

When Violet and I arrived home after dark in the pouring (and I mean pouring) rain we discovered the hen house door had blown shut. None of the occupants were inside all nice and cozy.

Winter simply is not ready to let go. As I continue to plant like a crazy person, I take comfort in the fact that Polly Hill started the arboretum plantings when she was 50.

How interesting that our traditions bind us to our past. Most years I try to plant a few potatoes on St. Patrick’s Day to have some sort of connection with my Irish forebears.

I managed to kill several flats of onion seedlings. I put them outdoors into an unheated hoop house too early. I can’t decide if I froze them or cooked them.

I’ve been catching up on my reading, actually getting to sections of the newspaper I usually skim.