The smell is what I imagine heaven’s room deodorizer would be like…heady, intoxicating, and addictive. The kind of smell you’d take deep gulps of, and then take some more. Until the lilacs bloom, hyacinths are my euphoric scent.
I’ve written about my love of hyacinths in the past, but wanted to update my romance. Every year, around February, pots of hyacinth bulbs begin to arrive in the grocery stores. Blue are my favorite, but white and pink are nice too. My soul needs the blossoms, the green stems, the fragrance, and proof of life in winter’s shadow. I admittedly go a bit crazy, and by time spring arrives I’ll have eight or more spent bulb pots sitting in our sunroom.
Ever the optimist, I wait until the ground warms and then put the bulbs into the earth. It will be another year before they may—or may not—bloom once again. I don’t know what type of bulbs are used in the grocery store offerings, so it’s hit or miss at best. Minnesota is not for wimpy bulbs.
We’ve had an early, moody, spring. The county came through to clear “unnecessary trees and shrubs†that might obstruct road maintenance. In the wake of their cuttings the area I had planted last year’s surplus bulbs was trampled, trashed, and trod upon. I sighed and suspected the worst.
The other day a blue flash of color caught my eye as I walked our dog. Wandering closer I was delighted to see one hyacinth bulb in bloom. It was not a perfect specimen, in fact it was rather deformed, but I could not have been more delighted.
The power of survival…the best part of my day.
