Jimmy Buffet reminds us that it’s always 5 o’clock somewhere.  I always remind myself that it’s springtime somewhere.  When my Indiana landscape is still brown and muddy, I find nothing more invigorating than hopping ahead a few climate zones for a sneak preview of spring.

I started my recent 2010 spring break adventure at my sister’s home in Missoula, Montana.  We stuffed her Subaru to the gills with camping gear, a bunch of good books, food staples (boxed wine, brie and baguettes), a big yellow dog and one direction—go west. 

Through the wild mountainous passes of Montana and Idaho, across the dry plains of eastern Washington we drove—gossiping, daydreaming and jamming to the likes of Johnny Cash and The Indigo Girls.

And then it happened…

Descending Snowqualmie pass in the distant shadow of Mt. Rainier—we found spring. 

Thanks to Mother Nature’s remarkable magic, we spent that same evening under clear Seattle skies, grilling salmon on a sailboat, surrounded by blue water, green grass and cherry blossoms. 

The next morning we strolled through the Capitol Hill neighborhood, breathing in the rich springtime air and moving our noses from blossom to blossom. 

We savored our breakfast in small bites of delectable meats and cheeses and baked goods at the nearby Ballard Farmer’s Market.  Interspersed among the stands of garden edibles were all my favorite spring blooms.

From Seattle we continued westward to the lovely Bainbridge Island. I googled “garden centers” on my iphone (gotta love modern advances in roadtripping technology) and when we exited the ferry we headed straight for the Bainbridge Gardens.

A real destination garden center, Bainbridge Gardens has wonderfully creative displays, lovely signage, a huge garden supply and gift shop, a children’s playground, and even a café tucked among their display gardens.

I mostly, however, just drooled over the blooming magnolias, azaleas and this ‘Grace Seabrook’ rhododendron. 

Our next stop was Bay Hay and Feed, which I can now easily say is my favorite store on earth.  It’s a nursery, farm store, outfitter and gift shop neatly bundled into one quaint little package. 

Anyplace where you can buy gore-tex, magnolias and chickens on one receipt is clearly my kind of store.

A whirlwind of wineries, hot springs, campgrounds, and coastal beaches later, we continued our spring fantasy exploring the natural vegetative wonders of Olympic National Park’s Hoh Rain Forest and Quinault Rain Forest.

One of the best things about this trip was that while I was off gallivanting around the Pacific Northwest for ten days, northern Indiana had a stretch of unusually spectacular weather. I returned home to find that my own grass is now brilliantly green, my tulips and daffodils are in bloom, and best of all, my husband built us a little greenhouse!

I decided that my garden blog needed a dormant season—a good freeze over the winter to let its author store up energy for the new season. 

I think that I have successfully rejuvenated myself because during Mother Nature’s little strip tease last week, I found myself repeatedly saying aloud; “now THAT is a bloggable moment.”

Along with the snowdrops and crocuses, many of my blog characters from last spring have reemerged. 

There’s evidence that Peter Rabbit and his mistress have returned to our strawberry patch to cast off another round of offspring. 

The sparrows are back and wreaking havoc in our barn.  Unfortunately for them, my husband is less sympathetic of sparrows tearing insulation out of the barn roof and pooping on his lawn mower than he is of bunnies making abundant love in our garden.

The elderly retired farmer who lives next door has stowed his ice fishing gear (a sure sign of spring) and moved on to burning his fence lines.  There’s just something a little unnerving about watching an old man set fire to your property line with little more than a gasoline drip and a rake.  Maybe I’m underestimating his ability to react swiftly in time of danger, but the man does drive with a post-it note stuck to his steering wheel that says “look both ways.”  Maybe I’d feel better if there was a post-it on his torch that said “don’t burn neighbor’s house down.”

And then there’s one of my main characters and most persistent gardening challenge of all—no, not my husband, but that big wolf-like German Shepherd we call our pet.  This time of year she prefers the earthy pillow of emerging tulips and daffodils over her dog bed and with the ground freshly thawed, she’s not wasting anytime getting her digging paws back into shape.  Last week I caught her in the act of burying a box of fish tackle and later, one of my husband’s t-shirts.  There’s really no way of knowing how many miscellaneous objects this four-legged kleptomaniac has buried on our property.  She did not however, bury the 20 oz. New York Strip Steak she stole hot off the grill a few days ago.  She consumed that juicy steak, with not a hint of remorse, right in front of her horror-struck owners.

Since my characters are back and offering good humorous material, I’m sure my gardens aren’t far behind.  Let the fun begin!

I’m having a hard time accepting the end of the growing season, and believe me; I’ve dragged it out as long as I can.

Tilling under the gardens and dumping out the flower pots feels like I’m being forced to end a summer romance just when I fell in love.

Just when the meadows are at their greenest, the fall fruits are pouring off the vines, and my muscle memory has finally mastered the toolshed—everything changes.  The next thing I know, I’m commuting to work in the dark (both ways) and spending more time prisoner to Dancing with the Stars than enjoying my own reality.

You’d think that by the first of December I’d be able to accept this annual routine and move on.  Apparently not.  I’m still infatuated with the color and warmth and light of summer.

Wishing I could color render the outside world

Holding on to every last ray of sunshine and every last degree above freezing, I feel like this Delphinium blooming outside my kitchen window.  The Sedum Autumn Joys and the New England Asters have long surrendered, but this gal isn’t giving up just yet.

I check on this Delphinium first thing every morning, ignoring the fact that our window-filled home loses its privacy this time of year.  The surrounding woods and farm fields are now dotted with camouflaged men, perched in treetops with spotting scopes capable of discovering life on Mars, and who probably don’t (or maybe they do) want to see my paling skin scampering from window to window.  (My conservative flannel pajamas are of course still packed away in the shunned “winter” box.)

In quiet protest to the changing of the seasons, our autumn displays of homegrown pumpkins and gourds are dissolving into piles of rancid mush.  Composting them would signify that it’s time to replace them with evergreen bows and wreaths and other wintry effects.  I’m just not ready.

Despite every glossy magazine cover on my coffee table telling me I should be crafting Christmas ornaments and hankering for the likes of pumpkin cheesecake and caramel macchiatos, I find myself barefoot, sipping mojitos, and flipping through old flower catalogs. 

Late one recent night I slipped on my gardening boots, woke up the dog, and snuck out into the frosty night to gather some still-green spearmint to satisfy my fresh mojito (a.k.a. summer-in-a-glass) craving.  The crickets and swamp frogs were silent.  All I could hear was the subtle rustle of frost-covered blades of grass crumbling beneath my feet and the distant cackling of coyotes. 

I stopped and wondered what stiffened grass would feel like barefoot.  Would it tickle like walking barefoot through a fresh cut hayfield?  Clenching the flashlight between my teeth, I prepared to strike the well-balanced yoga pose needed to extricate a foot from my knee-high rubber boots.  I noticed Maddie, my forever enthusiastic canine companion, give me a confused glance as if to say, “Lady, you’re nuts.  What the heck are we doing out here?”

Maddie is happy to reenact her look of skepticism for a photo

I was lucid enough to know that when your dog thinks you’ve lost your marbles, you probably have, so I kept my boots on, snipped off enough frosty mint for a single mojito and ran back inside.

Like any summer romance that comes to an end, I know that I will find happiness again and it will be sooner than I think.  With the end of one good thing, comes the vacancy for another.  I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

I learned to appreciate seasonal renewal after living in Hawaii for eight terribly confusing seasons, where the only delineation of time was a-little-more-rainy versus a-little-less-rainy.  (Note: Relationship analogy deemed inappropriate for newlywed to ponder.)

When I’m ready, I know I’ll be swept off my feet by the scent of balsam fir and mulled spices, hot cocoa spiked with Bailey’s, and listening to old Christmas records while waiting for the cinnamon rolls to rise on a snowy Sunday morning.  I’ll delight in tobogganing and ice skating and snowshoeing up mountains.   I’ll take my first run down the ski slope and I’ll swear that there’s no better feeling in the world—not even dancing barefoot in a warm summer rain.

I’m hereby acknowledging that my feet are bloody freezing on these cold wood floors.  I think I’ll go dig some wool socks out of the “winter” box and make myself a mug of something warm and gooey.

This question was thrown my way by Fine Gardening magazine. 

The challenging task of narrowing my hoards of garden wishes down to just three inspired a long sentimental journey through all of the intoxicating garden aromas, flavors, touches, romances and beauty that I’ve experienced in my life and dreamed of being able to recreate, relive, or prolong.  I’m such a romantic.

My pragmatic husband pondered this same question for about 1.4 seconds and responded, “1. No more weeds.  2.  No more pests.  3. A 36 horsepower Kubota L-Series tractor.” He gave me a smug glance, as if to say, “That was easy.  What’s your problem?”

“Well, when I do find and articulate my wishes,” I replied, “at least I know they’re going to make for a better story than yours.”

You be the judge.  You can now read my garden wishes, along with the wishes of six other garden bloggers, in the December issue of Fine Gardening out on newsstands now.

Here on my blog, I thought that instead of wining about things I want and don’t have, I’d gush about a few of my garden-related wishes that have come true over the past year.  To allow for the detail that they deserve,  I will share one at a time over the coming weeks.

#1 GARDEN WISH GRANTED: A tropical garden wedding.

It should be of no surprise that my biggest garden-related dream come true was my warm, flowery, flavorful wedding adventure in the South Pacific.  Ten months ago, when Indiana was drooping with a thick layer of ice, I absconded with my Knight-in-Shining-Armor to the warm waters and lush tropical forests of Fiji. 

Forgoing a big traditional wedding allowed us the time, money, and sanity to enjoy two weeks of intimate bliss on Taveuni, the “Garden Isle of Fiji”. 

We made our home at Nakia Resort & Dive, a small eco-resort with ten acres of tropical gardens and an organic farm. It’s a place so wonderful that I actually hesitate to share my secret for fear it becomes too well-known.

On Christmas Eve, among the gardens, on a cliff overlooking the blue waters of Fiji, my dream of a simple, intimate, graceful wedding came true.  The intoxicating aroma of plumerias and gardenias presided over the ceremony. 

Our wedding at Nakia wasn’t just a girl’s dream come true, but a gardener’s dream come true.  Everyday the staff brought us big bouquets of fresh tropical flowers and dappled our cottage with hibiscus and plumeria flowers.  

We spent hours and hours roaming the gardens, fascinated by the intricacies of growing fruits and vegetables year-round in a tropical climate.

And then there was the food.  Wow.  At every meal we indulged in some of the finest and freshest cuisine we’ve ever had.  Most of the ingredients were grown organically just steps from the kitchen. 

When your garden looks like this:

How could you not sing Hallelujah when you’re sitting on a porch being served an organic and locally grown breakfast that looks like this:

Visiting Taveuni was a dream come true for both the lovebird and the gardener within me.

You, me, and my gardens have so much to catch up on.

My neglected grounds. This sunflower sums it up well.

Sometimes I wish I could bookmark my gardens like I do the teetering stack of half-read books on my nightstand.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to occasionally set aside your garden projects, guiltlessly pursue other interests, and then when you’re ready to come back, pick up right where you left off? 

As the peak growing season slowed, my interest in my favorite adrenaline fix—inline skating—began to trump my interest in keeping my gardens weed-free and my blog fresh.  I continued to preserve my veggie harvest (what was left of it anyhow after my hubby’s charity episode), but otherwise spent my weekends logging miles on Indiana’s bike trails.

Cardinal Greenway near Muncie, Indiana.

Now that racing the 26.2-mile Northshore Inline Marathon (again) is crossed off my bucket list, I’m back to being a weekend gardener and blogger.

September skating and beach bumming along Lake Superior.

Unfortunately, I’m definitely not picking up where I left off.  I have 4’-tall weeds, toppled sunflowers, and ripe tomatoes rotting on the vine.  Further emphasizing that it’s not august anymore, Mother Nature welcomed me back to her sport this week with our first hard frost. 

Nothing says summer's over quite like a spent tomato patch.

The challenge is now on to put my strong back and stamina to good use in the garden before the snow flies.  I’d better get to work.

This is why you need me.

However pretty your flowers may be, I can think of no circumstances where it's appealing to accent your garden with a used (ewww!) toilet.

I’m here to stage an intervention.  You need to hear the truth about your addiction to ornate lawn ornamentation and how this kind of visual pollution is making me feel.

I’m not usually this openly critical, but you need to hear the truth.  Ninety-nine percent of your lawn ornaments are ugly, borderline grotesque, and you’re not just hurting yourself, you’re hurting everyone close to you.

There is nothing retro cool about granny fannies or hot pink flamingos—they’re cheesy—they’re campy—they’ve got to go.

Ornately ornamenting your landscape is an iconic symbol of trash culture, and although I’m willing to overlook your obsession with NASCAR, I just can’t turn my back and let you defile what little natural beauty you have left.

Surely, Michelangelo’s ghost would be enraged if he saw pint-size quasi-replicas of his masterpieces being peed on by labradoodles in the yards of cookie-cutter homes all across Indiana. This is the very reason that I don’t believe in ghosts, but if I’m wrong, you’d better be praying to your lawn Jesus that the maddened spirits of real artists spare you and your poor taste.

Lawn porn. Umm... Gross.

Yards are not supposed to be extensions of coffee tables; they are supposed to be transition landscapes.  I just happen to know a thing or two about creating outdoor landscapes that serve to blur the frontier between the natural and built environment. 

There is nothing even remotely natural about armies of lawn gnomes guarding purple gazing balls perched on dolphin pedestals. 

I understand that this will be a difficult transition for you, so I’m recommending step one to get you started down the road to recovery.   If you have an object in your yard that is any color that you’d find in a bag of tropical skittles, a lifeless version of an otherwise live animal, is created through the process of polymerization, or is in the act of squatting, peeing, or mooning… it’s gotta go.  (To the dumpster that is—not to next weekend’s yard sale—that would be counterproductive since you know Bobby Jean has her eye on your sunbathing gopher.)

If you really can’t eliminate all of the flamboyant bad taste from your life, please, for the sake of your caring neighbors, i.e. myself, at least try to confine your kitschy “art” to your toilet mantle and other confined spaces.

If you are still in a state of denial and you’re harboring any of the following items, please contact me for further consultation and personal support. I am here for you.

Oh, and just for the record, I completely support lawn ornament theft.  Even by teenagers who drink a wee too much Boone’s Farm and steal Granny’s polka dotted mushrooms for their closet collections.  I’m fine with it.

And to all you non-Midwesterners who continue to give me crap for living in Indiana, (you know who you are)… clearly, they need me here.