OK, that's just one of the many stories from the road, but back to some exciting Southern Bulb items, such as the latest release of botanical art by Ann Swan of London--Sternbergia lutea (available on Southern Bulb Company website). Through her use of colored pencils, she captures not just the colors and details of flowers, but brings them to life, as if they were actually blooming before our eyes. Notice how they dance from the first bloom to the fading. Thank you Ann, for your dedication to the preservation of these heirlooms through art. We look forward to having you back out in the states this Spring.

Yes, I have poison ivy again. It was terrible last night and seems to be spreading today. As I made the drive up from Houston I could not stop scratching myself. The drive was made worse by the penetrating bright sun and gusts of wind that nearly knocked me over. Again, I was going on little sleep, as the dog insisted on getting up at 3:30AM to use the restroom.

We still have blue hyacinths coming up and that are trying to force out their blooms.

Brad, the suave man he is, pulled this nice bouquet from the field for his girl on Valentines Day.

There was some acreage right on the highway slated for development, and on my way back home I decided to get permission for a dig to take the bulbs on the corner of the property back to the farm. Below is the encounter. Please forgive my feeble attempts to be poetic.

The owner didn’t mind, and the only person I had to explain my story to was the watch dog neighbor, Cedric, who lived next to the land. It looked kind of soggy, so I asked Cedric if he thought I would get stuck. He assured me I wouldn’t and if I did he would pull me out.

Six hours later, four spent on digging, and two spent on trying to pull me out with his Ford expedition, a friend of Cedric’s pulled up with some more chains. He was the spitting image of Morgan Freeman.

“Well sonny, looks like you got yourself stuck.”

“Yes, sir, I sure did.” I said as I looked down and ceremonially kicked the dirt. Glancing up and looking at him I added, “Thanks for helping. I’m Chris.”

Hardly any more words were spoken. By this time the sun was beginning to set on what was the coldest day of that entire winter season. A few more chains on my truck, a come- along hitch tied to a tree, and lot of pulling, and the tires lifted from the foot and a half of mud. The holes quickly filled in with water. With no words but a thank you and a hand shake, we were done. I quickly headed to the gas station to buy some cigarettes and cigars for the guys. There was Morgan Freeman, getting his coffee.

I walked up to the counter and said that I would like to cover his coffee.

“Oh Butch? He doesn’t pay for his coffee.”

“Then do you know what he smokes?” I asked.

She pulled down some Marlboros, which I paid for and took over to Butch who was now sitting down.

“I thought I got rid of you!” Butch exclaimed with a half smile and false inflection of anger leaning back at the little table in the convenience store.

“No, sir, not yet.” I said as I placed the cigarettes in front of him.

“I didn’t do that expected anything like this.” He replied looking at the cigarettes. There was a brief pause and he continued. “Seems like I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

At this point, it felt like time was slowing down into a surreal gas station environment. Maybe it was because I was exhausted from the day at started at 3:50 that morning, or maybe it was just one of those times in life where things just feel different. I could almost here theme music starting in the background, with a violin drawing out a long serenade as my movie with Mr. Freemnan was concluding. I wanted to tell him that of course he knew me; he was my only friend and companion at Shawshank Prison, that we shared a simple understanding about each other, like some unknown powerful bond that sometimes exist between two souls who are at peace with life. I wanted to tell him that I felt somewhat sad that our time was over and I had to go. Instead I just pulled my hat off, scratched my mud covered head, and said, “I don’t think we’ve ever met. Thanks again for your help.”

I dropped the cigars off at Cedric's with his wife who was in a wheel chair. She informed me that she would give them to him and sent me with a traditional Southern blessing from God. I needed the blessing to stay awake on the drive back to the farm. Even Fischer, my Weimaraner companion, lay sound asleep as I pounded out the last four hours of the drive home. Brad helped me unload the bulbs in our cold frame, the only heated structure on the land to keep the newly dug bulbs protected from the freeze, and I went to bed, mud and all.

I fear my first experience with an Arum is with a variety some consider (many consider) invasive--Arum italicum. This past weekend I thumbed through some wonderful books on the genus. I don't remember the exact name, but they were done by Timber Press, a champion of quality horticulture books. I also set in front of a computer with some wonderful plant people and perused through pictures. How I long to try some of the Arum species I was exposed too. If anyone has any knowledge to impart on this subject, I would love a good discussion (chris@southernbulbs.com).

We also had this little beauty, some form of Narcissus contabricus gathered in Louisiana. There are many different subspecies of this bulb, and I am not sure which category this one would fall into.

Raining here at the farm. Yesterday we had large snowflakes and freezing rain. It did not last long, but the dog loved it. Fischer is learning how to retrieve right now, but we still work daily on sit and stay. He is almost 50 lbs already.