Nothing Gladdens the Heart Like a Lawn Full of Crocus in January

W

hen I was growing up on the Great Lakes, there was always that one day, usually in late March, that signaled winter’s dreary days were numbered. I’d come home from school and there, right next to our side door, in the narrow strip of earth between the driveway and the foundation, would be a clump of yellow or purple crocus, often still surrounded by patches of melting snow.

I pretty much hated winter as a girl — I guess that’s why I live in the South now — and the sight of those little flowers meant more to me than I could begin to describe. It didn’t mean winter was over; there could easily be blizzards well into April. It was more like a promise of better days soon to come, a little tiny light at the end of a long, snowy, frigid tunnel. And it was almost mystical, the effect that crocus had on me back then; the pure joy it could inspire.  (At one point, one of my college roommates told me that every time she saw a crocus, she pictured me jumping up and down.)

Admittedly, winters are easy here in the South. I don’t find myself watching for the first crocus the way my mom and I did back in Cleveland, and they don’t have the same significance for me here.

Still, when I take a walk around the neighborhood and come across a lawn absolutely filled with lavender crocus, it gladdens my heart. Now THIS is the way to have a beautiful lawn — and it’s nice to see someone out there gets that, rather than using  chemical warfare to create a monoculture with a single, boring species of grass. Biodiversity is beautiful, isn’t it? ♣

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