The calendar says spring has arrived, yet my sweet pea seeds are still in the package, waiting for my gut instinct to tell me winter’s weather is safely behind us. Good luck with that, huh?

The daffodils in my yard opened their bright yellow faces tentatively to the sun last week, only to be greeted a day later by gully washing rain, hellaciously hurtful hail and sinister spiteful snow. The poor babies were totally pulverized before anyone (meaning me) had a chance to enjoy them.

Sweet peas are my favorite flower, a tradition accidentally passed from my grandfather to mother to me. Their sweet summer smell is a fragrance I look forward to year after year.

But I must bide my time to ensure any kind of success here on our little ocean sand spit. The flowers are too delicate and fragile to plant just any old time, as I’ve learned from previous experience.

So I will wait, not-so-patiently, for the magic moment in which I’m sure it’s time to till my single garden row and soak the seeds in preparation.

Meanwhile, I will sit here at my keyboard and think warm thoughts.

Join me, won’t you?