We recently lost two 14-ft. junipers in the three nor'easters that came rapid-fire, one right after the other. The snow (typical for March) was remarkably heavy and came down at such a rate that we couldn't do anything to save them. For those of you who aren't from cold climes, the spring snow is wetter and therefore more dense. It clings to the branches in a beautiful way, but causes more damage than the fluffy dry stuff we get during colder temperatures.

The snow clung to the greenery, quickly freezing to the branches, impossible to safely dislodge. The trees heaved up out of the frozen ground at the roots, bending and breaking boughs, simply unable to bear the weight.

We loved these junipers because at night they would fill up with birds. If I walked past them at dusk, they would begin to twitter and quiver, alive with our feathered friends. They would chirp softly until full darkness. Delightful.

So, we will miss them, but are determined to look at this as an opportunity to give the birds new evening shelter. If you live in a tough winter area, you learn to garden without an overly soft heart (I'm still trying).

Now, what to plant?! There is more shade there than when we first moved in; high shade from oak trees that we planted about 15 years ago. There is southern exposure, and a bit of a microclimate protected from the wind by the side of the garage. No wonder the birdies adored the spot!

I'm thinking big shrubs. I'm full of hope that the birds will settle back in as soon as they see that this is the same cozy roost. We have other spots in the yard for them, of course, but this was a favorite cozy nook.

I'll plant new shrubs, add bulbs at the base, and put a bird bath right in the middle to woo them back.

Think spring! You deserve it. ​

This book sniffing is not weird to you fellow book lovers. It is darn near a cliché, in fact. But is it really the smell of the paper that makes me close my eyes and sigh into the pages? This is hardly scientific, but my sigh-worthy book scent is crisp, clean, yet still somehow warm. Not the least bit musty or sour. It tends to be from heavy paper with a buttery parchment color. That is about as close as I can come to explaining it. But I sure do know it when my nose encounters it.

That smell. The smell of the familiar that links me back to my earliest days at the small public library in our tiny village. The days of cards, stamps, and one marvelously stereotypical bespectacled librarian (in my case) controlling it all from the desk by the door.

I used to love to read the date stamps on the pocket in the back of each book . . . remember those? They mapped the journey of a book. I wanted to see how often or how long ago someone had checked out the very same book I was now reading. Sometimes they added that little paper because they needed more space to stamp. And you had to return to the library with the physical book in hand to renew it and receive another stamp in the back.

That smell. The smell of the unfamiliar, too. The possibilities, the characters, places, and authors I was becoming acquainted with for the very first time. Thrilling and enchanting in all their glorious promise. Old friends. New friends.

You understand. You remember that feeling. You know that I can remember each age and stage by whom I was reading at that time, because you can do the same thing. Our daughter picked up a book today and I sighed happily in recognition. "Oh, yes . . . that was second grade. Another made me chuckle at my "turn of the century phase " when I wanted high-waist dresses and huge bows in my hair.

You understand. You remember. You know.

Every time I venture into a library I think "why have I stayed away so long?"

Have you sniffed a book lately? You deserve it. ​

Christmas is not a time nor a season, but a state of mind. To cherish peace and goodwill, to be plenteous in mercy, is to have the real spirit of Christmas.

Calvin Coolidge

​A new blog post:

https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog_posts/16212595-happy-new-year

Those of you who read my Heritage View books know I love to garden. I've been mucking around in our real gardens today, which are never as tidy, beautiful or well planned as Gen's in my first book. A gal can dream.

Nothing particularly fun on the agenda today, to be honest, though a bad day in the garden . . . still better than a good day doing, well, many other less gratifying labors.

​I have too much grass growing into my beds due to a lack of disciplined edge work last fall. You gardeners know that a good sharp edging tool and a four-inch deep wedge-shaped little trench is all it takes. But it is hard work and needs to be refreshed more than once a season to maintain it.

​I slacked in this respect last fall and now I am bemoaning it and paying the price. Nobody to blame but myself, so out I went early this morning. Got enough done to feel I'm on my way to reclamation, so now I take a break.

​The pink hydrangea is the 'Endless Summer' variety that is really my only option up north. It doesn't get as much acid as my others, so it stays a lovely clear pink. My blue ones stay blue by putting juniper clippings at their base after I prune our junipers. The clippings add acid to the soil as they decompose. Once a year, I'll dump some Holly-Tone on them when I feed my other acid-loving plants, but I'm not diligent about it.

​I'm really going to date myself when I talk about the second picture above. My Chuckle Patch. Magic Garden reference, anyone? I know the Chuckle Patch looked more like daisies, but honestly, if you can get sun-loving daisies to grow at the base of a big shade-tree like they pretended to do in that show, then you really DO have a magic garden.

​Anyway, my Chuckle Patch is Coreopsis. This variety, 'Zagreb,' does better in my garden than 'Moonbeam' so I grow it even though I'd truly prefer the lemony calm of the latter if I could get it to thrive.

Okay, this last one has our hummingbirds in raptures. It is Mondarda, a.k.a. bee balm, or (great piece of trivia) the ingredient for "Oswego tea" (look it up). It smells herbal and the color  of mine is between red and fuschia. I believe it is 'Raspberry Wine' but I can't swear to it. Bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds adore it, they really do. Easy as pie to grow.

Engaged in Heritage View will be live on Amazon May 24th.

After a mellow first half of winter in our neck of the woods, we have gotten "the real thing" this past week. More snow coming, too.

Snow blowers whirring, snow shovels scraping, snow brushes . . . well, making whatever sound they make as people brush of their cars.

In any event, I am pleased. Pleased? Yes, pleased. I can point to all the coziness of winter while others complain about the cold and the mess, and they are probably right. But I remain . . . pleased.

There is something about having this period of proper winter that makes me feel somehow that spring and summer will be all the sweeter for having had it. My very nature craves the change of seasons, the sense that different activities celebrate the different times of year. I enjoy it. It sets me right. I feel a part of the natural rhythm and pulse of everything.

I don't ski (well, not since high school), and I don't have any particular winter sport that I engage in or activity that is distinctly snow dependent.

But, I have the birds. Oh, to tromp around in the snow filling feeders and scattering bread, and filling baths with warm water from the tap to break and melt the ice, if only for 20 minutes' time.

Lovely. Rosy cheeks, snowy cuffs, and some deep satisfaction that comes with basic, good, well-done chores. I could have picked a fancier adjective no doubt, but "good" feels most appropriate. It is solid. It is unpretentious. Unfussy.

And the birds react so merrily, with pure enthusiasm.  Bird lovers know the flitting and chirping that accompanies an unhurried bird meal. They know us after all these years. They are assured that we will come again and again.

They peer at us from junipers and rose bushes and rhododendrons with leaves curled in frigid air. They peep to each other as they watch us trudge about in the snow and only skitter away a cursory distance. We are the puffy-jacket clad upright animals that bring them their daily bread.

That's good. They say we can't live on bread alone, but bread and the chirping of birds might just about do it.

Be well, be healthy. Be happy.

Best,
Annie