Read by Michael Flamel

(Read on to learn the fate of Mike’s luffa gourds from his last thrilling episode, delivered back in the February issue, but written in the early Fall of 2023, when many things were uncertain, especially whether Mike’s luffas would have enough time left in the season to produce interior sponges, which is the only reason people grow them. Anyway, stay tuned.)

TTwo Springs ago (not counting the most recent one, which was lovely in early January but ran away on the [theoretical] “first day of Spring” and has not been seen since) I ordered a “Snow Joe” rechargeable ‘electric snow shovel,’ which, as Popeye the Sailor Man would say “it is what it is.”

What it is specifically, is a powered snow shovel and NOT a snow blower. Kind of like a push lawn mower, you (duh) push it, and when enough snow gets inside, it shoots it out right in front of you using an auger. OK—maybe it is a snow blower. What are you? A cop?

Anyway, whatever it is, it sat unused through two snow-free Winters and then worked great on the six or so inches of light fluffy snow that graced us early this season. (The first snow we had seen in three years, all but the most rabid anti-snow persons among us delighted in the sight.) It’s a good thing it DID work because otherwise I had bought the world’s heaviest paperweight. (I was starting to wonder if I was going to get a chance to try it before one of us died of old age.)

I just tried to look up the exact date of that pretty little snowfall, but my search engines would only focus on the predictions and outcomes for the snow that followed: “Feb 12, 2024: Projected snow totals for the Lehigh Valley and Poconos have dropped to 4 to 8 inches as the coastal storm Tuesday tracks further south;” which was followed by an “oops” headline dated “Feb 14, 2024: Allentown sees nearly 10 inches of heavy snow dumped on the city, taking down trees and creating power outages for thousands …”

What a difference a day makes.

When that first overly-hopeful “oh, it’s mostly going to miss us” forecast was released, I reassured nervous newbies that their early blooming Spring bulbs would survive just fine. “They’re used to this kind of weather,” I explained; “After all, why do you think they call them ‘snowdrops and Glory of Snow’?”

Turns out that I was about as right as the forecast, as those delicate wonders soon resembled fields of flattened Kleenex, except not as tall.

I tried to move some of the first layers with the Snow Joe during the earliest part of the storm so I wouldn’t have to wake up to a foot of it in the morning, as predictors were now adding about an inch an hour to the total and blaming the difference on Europe.

Wet, heavy, freezing snow. Great for the making of snowpersons, but not so great for real persons. By the time I got outside the next morning, my shoveling machine was about as enthusiastic as a Chiwawa being taken out for a walk in Minnesota in January. “Nope; don’t have to go. Fly me to San Diego and I’ll go there, or else I’ll just hold it for a month.”

The machine that had glided gently as it dispersed the previous snow was now not only useless but seemed to be whining about it. I dug out my old regular Winter shovel and attacked the heavy wet snow. I got about a foot and a half. Then I heard my lower back say “Either you go inside now or I’m going in without you,” (which would have made for an interesting visual).

I followed my lower back into the house and gave up for the night, despite the fact that it was barely noon. I woke up to 15 inches of really wet, heavy snow and a sore back. I called one of my more fit neighbors (who had a REAL snow blower), and he came down and kindly shoveled a lane from the front door to my mailbox by hand. (In Pennsylvania Dutch that means ‘oh, this isn’t so bad…’)

Exhausted by his display of kindness I took a three-hour nap and woke to find that he had returned with his snow blower and ‘shoveled’ out the area around my mailbox, which ended my municipal obligations. To celebrate his kindness, I glanced in the direction where I last saw my car, didn’t see it and took another nap.

This was followed by another snowstorm, this one of the blessedly light and fluffy variety but also a foot deep. My powered shovel easily cleared the pre-shoveled walk and then, feeling foolishly positive, I turned my attention to the car and tried to use an old broom to at least sweep the windshield clear. The new snow came off nicely, but the broom broke when it hit the ice. Time for another nap.

The next day I went outside and walked down my little mailbox lane to find the front yard and street covered in large branches. (Did I forget to mention that both storms were accompanied by unusually high winds that the TV weather guessers suggested we get used to?)

I saw something on the other side of the house that looked nice and green, so I pulled on my snow boots and slogged over to discover that my white pine had been decapitated, with the top half mostly scattered across the yard (pine straw mulch!) and the rest hanging from the power lines. Then I turned to the right and saw that one of my rhododendrons was missing.

We have (had) two magnificent rhododendrons in the front of the house that long predate our moving here in the mid-eighties. Despite not being protected from the elements, the one near the front door was a two-story giant to begin with and has only gotten bigger since. It has never been fed, watered, or pampered. Early on, I did foolishly decide to do a little pruning to “clean it up” (Yes, I was bored, and there were no sports on TV.) and it looked bare at the bottom for eight years.

I learned to leave it alone after that.

But despite being entirely unprotected in any way, it came through the storm unscathed. In fact, the idea that it could be scathed never crossed my mind. The one that seemed to have gone missing is/was smaller, but had been planted in a perfectly sheltered area on the other side of the house, protected by two walls of the house. Despite its obvious locational advantage, I had declared the protected one dead about 20 years ago. Riddled with borer damage and less than half the size of its partner, it had failed to bloom for two seasons.

Well, we never got around to removing it, and so it rose from the dead and bloomed pitifully the following Spring. Then it began to set more buds every Summer and got a little less pitiful every Spring until it was once again a fitting little Danny DeVito partner for Arnold Schwarzenegger across the yard.

But as I glanced over in its direction after the storms, it appeared to be gone. Vaporized by aliens? (Always my first guess.) Drawn up into a funnel cloud with Margaret Hamilton during the storm?

Then I looked down. Oh, it had not vanished. It had become the world’s first rhododendron groundcover.

That heavy wet snow had literally pushed it to the ground, where it either landed on a shepherd’s hook placed there for no good reason or couldn’t bend over no more. Either way, it now kind of resembled a diving board: an eight-foot-long horizontal ornamental that seemed to float about a foot or two above the ground, crawling towards the road.

The majority of rubberneckers and other passersby suggested I try and pull it back upright with, I suppose, a crane I had cleverly hidden in my utility belt. I thought about trying something like this, heard the -SNAP- in my mind, went inside and took a nap.

The big fat buds that were prominent on the plant back in the Fall were still big and fat, and the leaves looked just like the ones on its big brother. The only difference was that these were sideways.

My assistant also wanted us to try and hoist it upright. People who don’t nap enough always seem to want to do something, but I being older, wiser and much less energetic, said no.

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Wait and see if it blooms sideways,” said I. It is now April 1st (really) as I pound these words into my helpless keyboard, and there it sits. Or lies. Or lays. (Actually, it kind of floats.) Anyway, it’s still sideways and still looks the same.

And that’s where we stand (or lay) so far. In a month or so, I’ll either have a major removal chore or the most interesting groundcover on the planet. I’ll keep you posted. Remember: Gardening is not for the timid! ❖

 
Answer to last episode’s puzzler: My three unripe late-in-the-season luffa gourds got accidentally frosted while still growing (I didn’t watch the weather that night.) so I harvested and brought them inside to hopefully ripen.

… Which I do NOT!