I have a thing about…tulips

At this time of year, there is one thing that I never miss. No, that’s not true. I did miss doing it one year. And I really regretted it.

Planting tulip bulbs.

Now I know what you are thinking, ‘What the hell does this have to do with being single, dating, midlife?’ – all the things that I like to write about.

Ah, that’s why you have me as your blogger. I can make any topic have something to do with the burning question: where the hell are the nice men?

(And while I am thinking about nice – and not so nice – men, let me thank those who wrote to me about my last blog, the disappointing date with Sir Likealot. It’s so great to have friends out there, helping me with the dating dilemnas. It affirms what sometimes just feels like a wobbly moment of doubt. And since I was never single for long, in my twenties, and never really understood how to have the right amount of skepticism about men – hey, I married the first man I felt I loved, after all – it’s all good therapy. Much appreciated. I will let Sir Likealot trot off out of view and out of mind.)

Anyway, tulips.

I have a little garden in front of my house and in the back, too, but the front part gets all the sun, and there’s a beautiful crab apple tree in the middle of the little flower garden that I had someone build a few years ago. I live on a narrow street, and the houses, all townhouses, are close to the road. There’s just a small garden, a walkway, my driveway.

In the summer, I plant a few annuals, to brighten in up, and there’s a pot, too, right in the middle of the garden, which I love. And in that, I plant a whole array of things, changing it with the season and even a couple of times in the summer. Just for variety.

It is the spring, though, that I most look forward to. After the cold winter, when the snow piles up, there is nothing that lifts my spirits more than when I see tulips and daffodils coming up.

But that requires a little work. Now, in late October or early November, before the ground freezes, you have to plant the bulbs. And that is a bit of a ritual. Well, at least it is for me. You could leave the bulbs in each year, but the blooms that come up in the spring will not be that good. So, first, I go to the gardening store and buy a selection of new bulbs.

Honestly, it’s better than buying shoes. (Although, truth be told, I totally splurged on the sexiest shoes I have ever bought the other day. A high-heel, black shiny Mary Jane. I have a huge party this week, and I didn’t want to buy a new fancy dress, but a girl needs something to make her feel extra sexy, doesn’t she? )

Tulips come in all colours and sizes and with different leaves. You can buy pink, red, white, yellow and even stripy ones. There are some that have frayed edges on the leaves. Some leaves are round; others are pointed. There are tall tulips and mini tulips. There are designer tulips, in other words.

I bring an assortment home, change into my gardening clothes, and out I go. The joy is in thinking about what they will look like when they come up. I dig each its own little hole, cover it up, pat it lovingly, to tamp down the earth, and then plant the next one. (It’s better to plant them in a cluster, the same kind and color in a patch, so there’s a density of colour when they bloom.)

When I’ve finished doing that, the next step is squirrel-defense. I figure they are watching me from the trees, dreaming of their supper. One tulip bulb, all soft and chewy, probably feeds the entire family of Ol’ Shorty-Tail for a week. (Yes, I sometimes name the buggers. They are always scurrying about on the telephone wires or across the fence and up and down the trees around my house and I figure I need to make friends with them. They outnumber me, after all, and maybe one day, I can train them to take out the garbage bin to the curb. It has wheels, for goodness sake. How hard can it be for a legion of squirrels to gave their benefactor a hand, I mean, a tiny paw?)

But just because I want to be nice to them doesn’t mean I want to fork over my bulbs. Not all of them, anyway. So, once I’ve planted them all, I sprinkle the dirt in the garden with black peppercorns and a few mothballs, thrown in for good measure. That puts them off. Most of the time. Once, I wrapped each bulb in a little net that would allow the shoots to come out, but deterred the squirrels. They weren’t about to haul home a bulb they couldn’t unravel from its packaging. They may be clever, but not that clever.

I planted my bulbs about a week ago, and each night, when I walk up my little path, on my way home from work, I look into the garden. Sure enough, there are a few holes where some ingenious squirrel has unearthed a precious bulb. Gosh, maybe Mrs. Shorty-Tail knitted her hubby a little mask for his nose when she saw me sprinkle the mothballs!!

(Please forgive me. I can get carried away. And I do live alone, so you know how you can get obsessive about things. There’s no one to gently lead me from the garden, saying, “There, there, Gracie,” smooth my un-Botoxed brow, pour me a drink of red wine and run my bath. I admit it. I have tulip-mania, and it’s chronic.)

Anyhoo. I plant a lot of bulbs, so some – many -  are sure to survive. And the beauty of doing so is that all winter long, I have this lovely feeling of anticipation about what will emerge in the spring. I look forward to it. And when they do come, well, I am a very happy, joyful woman. They give me so much pleasure. Better than red wine, if you must know. Which says a lot. And right up there with sex.

From nothing, there is something, because even though I put them there, I am never sure just how gorgeous they will be.

And that’s why tulips have something to do with men, you see.

Planting bulbs is about hope and faith; about something unexpected flourishing. Without hope that there is something new around the corner, we just live in winter, always.

And who wants that?