In preparation for my upcoming move across the country - alarmingly, less than a month away - I have just been outside yanking up all my flower bulbs. I moved here in late November 2001 and almost immediately set about digging daffodil and tulip bulbs into the back yard. It's just a nice way to feel at home in a new place, knowing that something you planted will bloom in the spring. They came up, most gratifyingly, year after year. This year was possibly their most splendid display ever. The daffodils covered the side yard and front flower beds, and the tulips, which have hardly bloomed at all some years, came out like gangbusters. They've all been dividing under the ground, so there are more of them. And today I went around pulling them all up. Most of them came out; maybe a third of them are still in the ground for the next tenant to enjoy. I couldn't believe how crappy the soil here is, though. In the front it had hardened around the bulbs like cement, and in the back it was more like modeling clay, sucking against my careful tugs. Did I really hack into this unyielding ground four years ago and make flowers come out of it? Damn. I'm good. And now it's time to uproot and move on.
While working I was also meditating on Richard III, which I'm reading today in between chores to prepare for tonight's Canon Club discussion at the Mercantile. Was not Richard also carefully "rooting out" his enemies and "planting" conflicts where it suited him? Gardening: metaphor for the people.
Anyway, if you want some bulbs, let me know. I've got lots.