I just took a quick peek around the internet; imagine my surprise to find the world whining about weather. “It’s raining!” “It’s cold.” “It’s sprinter.”
Is my coffee ready yet?
The “gooverment” (as O’Pa used to call it) has collected weather data since 1870, or for the last 140 years. Please, people, get a hold of yourselves and realize that it’s not a personal attack if the weather isn’t exactly the way you’d like it to be. Is 140 years long enough to establish a pattern? Is it possible that predicting the weather is as elusive a craft as capturing the Loch Ness monster?
Filled with my usual world-weariness, I took a walk around town to confirm my suspicions that spring had sprung. The tulips and daffodils in my Surprise garden are about six to ten inches high and some of them have blooms peeking through the greens. The ferns are unfurling and my Cranesbill geranium is spreading over its little corner.
Even though it doesn’t get as much sun, the tulips in the Redemption Garden were shooting through the dirt too and I threw in some Calendula seeds on my way by. According to my own blog records, they’re “cold weather” flowers. If I plant them now they should arrive in time for The Moxie Festival.
Things at Uncle Bob’s were looking good. The rhubarb leaves are unfolding in the crazy, crinkly zig-zag way they always do, my garlic plants are about six inches tall, and the radishes I planted last week are breaking ground. Uncle Bob knows it’s spring and although he’ll discuss the vagaries of the weather, he goes about his daily business, preparing things around the house and garden.
What’s this?
Living here at home, I’m able to observe many more things than I did when I was a weekend visitor. I’ve never seen this battery charger before. Maybe Uncle Bob was tinkering around with his tractor or one of his roto-tillers. I could be completely wrong, but I think it’s a sure sign of spring.
After all, Uncle Bob knows.
Julie-Ann Baumer 
One Bob-ism that’s always stayed with me deals with Uncle Bob and baseball (of course). I’m sure the derivation of this dates back to when the young JBE was probably visiting at O’Pa and Nana’s and whining about a rained out baseball game. Bob’s reply was, “We never get good baseball weather until June.”
Since baseball weather means consistently warm days and nights that remain comfortable with a light jacket or sweatshirt, it’s true in Maine–good baseball weather happens in June. Which means that we go from winter, to mud season, and then, “baseball weather,” or summer.
Actually, my own variation on Bob’s weather guideline is that baseball weather really doesn’t arrive until the 3rd week in May. It was that way during my own playing days, and then borne out again during Mark’s days at Greely and later, at Wheaton.
No pictures of the gardens?
My battery charger looks exactly the same except the color of the front panel is different. Not something you use every day, but you’re darned glad to have it when you need it.
No pictures of the garden today, Reggie. I ran out of time!