Reflections on the Fourth Week of Spring – Pansy Planting Time

Saffron Orange Pansy

    The flat of pansies Spence bought, at Gale’s Garden Center in Cleveland on snowy April 5, took up the middle of our kitchen table for a week. Snow flurries drifted from gray clouds while snug inside pansy faces glowed sunny yellow, fresh-air blue, saffron orange, and midnight purple. The earthy pansy fragrance tickled my nose as if pansies were prompting me to move them outside. But four inches of snow topped the planters on the deck.

    At the end of the pansies’ kitchen table week, the outside temperature rose to 43ºF (6ºC). Spence picked up the plastic tray. “I’m moving the pansies to the porch.” Stepping outside, he called over his shoulder. “They need to harden off.”

    Rain fell for two days and nights before Friday morning dawned sunny and 51ºF (11ºC).

    In my red robe and purple slippers, I carried my toothbrush to the deck.

    Our cat George followed.

    While I brushed my teeth and surveyed the rain washed landscape, he lapped water in the curved edge of an overturned flower pot. The air smelled like worms and damp soil.

    George dashed toward the gate-less bottom of the ramp.

    I traipsed after and caught him by wood posts Spence had stacked for repairing damage which the four hundred pound bear caused when he forced the gate open. [See “Sign of―Bump, Thump, Clunk―Winter’s End” March 12, 2018] Herding George back up the ramp, I nudged him inside. “No snow in sight―pansy planting time,” I announced through a mouthful of frothy toothpaste.

    Later that morning, I returned to the deck with a trowel, knee pads, garden gloves, and Spence. I didn’t need the gloves. I sank my bare hands into the soil.

    Spence dragged heavy, plastic bags from the porch. “Use this one to fill the pots,” he said ripping the top of the taller bag with his pocket knife. Next Spence cut the top of a mushroom compost bag. “Use this for topping the soil.” He walked down the ramp. “I’ll be working at the gate if you have questions.”

    If? Before he grabbed his power drill, a question popped into my head. “How high should I fill the pot with soil? I want to be able to see the pansies when I sit inside.”

    “Doesn’t matter.” He picked up his drill. “As high as you want.”

    Brrrrrrrzzzzzaat. A screw sunk into a post.

    I tossed weeds over the deck railing, filled six 20 gallon pots to within three inches of the top, then coaxed pansies out of their plastic three cell seedling starter packs. Pulling a reluctant George out of his cat carrier at the vet’s would describe the plant extraction better. Roots of the pot-bound pansies had grown through the drainage holes and entangled themselves in a thick braid.

Lavender and Midnight Purple Faced Pansy

    I cradled a rectangular cube in the palm of my hand. White roots coated the cube that supported a velvety saffron pansy. “Hey, Spence. When I plant the pansies, do they go at surface level?”

    He swung the gate back and forth on its hinges. “What?”

    “Does the three-pack soil go level with the pot’s soil?”

    He clomped up the ramp. “Show me what you’re asking.”

    After digging a hole, I set the pansy in and moved my finger from the top of the extracted cube’s soil across a level line to the pot’s soil.

    “Yep.” He walked down the ramp.

    Wind whistled through the trees. A phoebe sang. Six or seven rain drops pinged my face.

    I finger-tamped the thirty-sixth pansy into place then hustled inside for the broom.

    Spence fetched a brush and a can of stain.

    While he brushed stain onto wood posts, I swept mounds of sunflower seed shells that chickadees, nuthatches, and cardinals left over the long winter. Sheesh. Birds are messy eaters.

    When I stepped inside to put away the broom and planting gear, George barreled past me. He sniffed and rubbed against the log wall midway down the ramp.

    Had the bear rubbed there?

    George checked in vain for flower pot water then settled in the shade under the deck table and napped.

    The clean deck and George looking comfortable with his head resting on crossed front legs enticed me to imagine stretching for morning yoga beside the bright faced pansies―soon.

Spence Staining the Gate 2