Falling Into Spring

One of my favorite scenes in our community, in November 2017.

It looks like spring has come early to the White Mountains. Other than a couple  of light showers and a day or two of snow flurries, weeks ago, it appears that our snow season has ended. Not great news for our annual fire season, which has also gotten a frighteningly early start, but great for the blooming of green things and seasonal allergies. 

November 18, 2017: An old willow in its autumn glory.

At the bottom of the hill on which Sarah and Chris live (at the end of a long, narrow, winding road to the top), there is a quaint country scene that is dominated by a huge willow tree. I love willow trees. Last fall I took a picture of that great willow (above), which had taken on its autumn mantle and begun shedding some of its leafy drapery.

When the weather began its early warm-up in March, I started watching for my favorite willow to re-cloak itself in majestic spring greenery. It didn't take long. Precisely five months after the autumn photo, I took the photo below.

April 18, 2018: The same willow, exactly 5 months later.

Meanwhile, all around town, hundreds of fruit trees in private yards and outside of businesses were bursting into the colorful, poofy blooms described in the old children's song, "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree." I love the beauty of these trees coiffed in pink and white, like extra-long-lasting firework explosions, but I was starting to get nervous that there were no signs of change on my own apple tree.

Back in November, when the elders and high priests from my church came to put on my new metal roof, they also did some pruning for me. They cut away many dead branches from my pines and oaks. One gentleman, who is known for his talent with fruit trees, took to my bushy apple tree with a chainsaw (at my request) and made it look more like an actual tree. 

I admit, I was shocked by how much he'd cut out. So, when it seemed that every tree on the mountain had been blossoming for weeks and weeks, except mine, I started to wonder if we'd killed it. I began checking it every day.

April 16, 2018: Finally, little green buds.

The day finally came when I looked out the living room window and saw tiny green shoots lining the branches. When I went out for a closer look, I could also see the tightly rolled dark-pink buds of future apple blossoms. I breathed a great sigh of relief.

April 16, 2018: Future apple blossoms, waiting to erupt!

April 20, 2018: The blossoms begin to unroll and stretch upward.

Once I started paying attention, I found myself impatient for each phase. I watched and waited and took dozens of pictures as the tree took each step in the process. I suppose I was like a mother whose friends' children had taken their first steps long before mine and, after all the anxiety, was finally able to enjoy the magic of the long-awaited achievement.

April 23: The first blooms appeared on the east half of the tree.

April 25: The western half blossomed two days later.

As of yesterday, the apple tree is in full bloom, with hundreds of bees swarming over the new blossoms. Meaning, it's getting cross-pollinated and, thus, we should have apples again this year. I was also told that my apples should be bigger this year, thanks to the pruning. With fewer trunks and branches to feed, the theory predicts, more energy and nourishment can go into producing the fruit. Our previous apples have been sweetly delicious, but very small, so I hope it's true.

I can't wait to find out!

Nature's masterpiece.

Small beauties.

April 26, 2018: Mystery tree.

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I had no idea the ugly bush in my front yard was actually an apple tree until I found a bunch of apples in my yard several years ago. Even then, my first thought was, "Why is someone throwing apples into my yard?"

Now we have a new mystery tree! Yesterday we tackled Mark's bedroom in my ongoing spring cleaning campaign. Given that I rarely go into his room and he rarely opens his curtains, and that I don't often venture into the backyard, I don't keep track of the many trees in my backyard much. So I was surprised when I glanced out his window and realized there was a tree out there which also had blossoms on it! Fewer blossoms, to be sure, but I had to wonder if I had another unidentified fruit tree in my yard. 

The blossoms on the mystery tree.

I still don't know what it is. It could be another apple tree, I suppose, if it's a fruit tree at all. To my untrained eye, the blossoms are similar but seem to have more pink in the white, with slightly different-shaped petals. Its bark is smooth and light green, whereas the apple tree has slightly spotted dark-tan bark. I'll keep an eye on it come fall, and perhaps give it a good pruning, too!

An early moon beyond the mystery tree.

I actually went out in the early evening yesterday to take pictures of the "mystery tree," but the sun had already gone down enough that I couldn't get very clear pictures. However, I did capture a couple of nice ones of the early moon, shining beyond the tree.

Silhouette of the mystery tree, with moon in the distance.

April 25, 2018: My rabbit companion.

I also surprised a rabbit sniffing around in my old garden bed, no doubt hoping I'd already begun planting those tender young vegetable snacks--I mean, plants--for a fresh new garden. Bad luck for the rabbit, I've decided to put off gardening until next year. One of the hardest issues last year was the strain my garden put on my knees. Then, just last month, more than two years after the surgery to repair my right knee, I suddenly noticed that the pain in that knee was finally starting to subside. It only took two years (go figure), but my knees seem to be growing substantially stronger, less painful, and less inclined to give out.

I don't want to jeopardize this new progress, so I've decided to put the garden on hold for a year. If the healing continues, allowing me to pull weeds and work with my plants without knee pain, imagine how great my garden could be in 2019!

April 25, 2018: My dead garden will remain so for another year.