Over the years I've come to realize that the change of seasons is fraught with risk-especially when the seasons change overnight as they just did. One day the gardener is sighing gusty, winter-weary sighs and wandering from window to window scanning for the barest hint of spring; the next day spring bolts onto the scene with soaring temperatures and soft breezes that set the cat's nose to twitching. To appreciate the dangers associated with the sudden lurch into spring, you need to understand that curious things happen outdoors during the long winter months when we're not paying attention: some cosmic force lowers the ground a good inch or two every year so that fallen branches, for instance, are much farther down than they would have been a few months ago. By the same token, branches that need lopping are several inches higher, and everything (including, alas, the gardener) is heavier.

Dealing with a marginally sound mind housed in a distinctly unsound body is a challenge that the gardener meets with very little grace and even less wisdom. Unfortunately, the interval between "dreadful-weather-nothing-to-do" and "swell-day-everything-clamors-for-attention" seems to be about three hours. A yard that's strewn with windfall (not to mention what might be referred to delicately as "deerfall") demonstrates about as much patience as a ravenous two-year-old. Everything demands attention now! Worse, everything even looks possible now. Muscles respond gamely to commands they haven't heard in six months. While leaping and sprinting are clearly out of the question, more modest activities along the lines of bending and carrying seem perfectly reasonable. Maybe the lingering chill in the air numbs muscles that ought to be sending urgent signals. Maybe the mind, preoccupied with the myriad tasks at hand, blocks those signals. In any case, the message is finally received, loud and clear, right around tool-gathering time. The loppers, the rake, the saws and buckets have doubled in weight. The house has moved several hundred yards farther from the work site. The waterproof boots aren't especially waterproof after all. The gardener is twenty years older.

Sleep, while much desired, is impossible when every muscle insists on airing its grievances. (There is ample time to ruminate about the weight-lifting program that fell by the wayside in February.) Getting out of bed is worse. Who knew so many muscles would be so critical to the simple acts of hauling oneself upright and walking? (Sensitive gardeners should probably cover all full-length mirrors for the duration of recovery.) Lotions and potions that withdrew into the back of the medicine chest last winter assume prominent positions once again. Now the gardener must deal with the age-old question: Shall I hobble back into the fray or tackle more sedentary pursuits? Today I plan to come down squarely in the middle. Writing, as you see, can serve more than one purpose. By this afternoon I'm hoping that spring will generate fewer creaks.

Julie B. Scouten

Copyright 2003