squeaking weeds

It's been a long time.

Spring is ever-so-slightly in the air. There's a suggestion of warmer days to come, of longer and sunnier afternoons. Little seedlings are starting to poke their heads out of the soil, and flocks of geese are flying overhead. Life feels hopeful, happy, optimistic.

The trees are still stripped of their leaves; however, their bare branches don't seem so skeletal anymore. They have somehow filled out, plumper and stouter than usual. Flowers are beginning to warm up to the idea of budding. Squirrels are running around like mad, making chattering noises and crunching twigs under their tiny feet. Kids are back outside, yelling and screaming in the delight of playing tag. Trees may still be leafless, but there is no doubt a new season is about to enter in from the wings.

The coming spring has prompted me to get back outdoors and begin playing in the sun again. I'm in the early stages of clearing land for a soon-to-be organic vegetable garden. My earlier efforts at fire escape gardening have evolved into something a lot larger and dirtier. (Literally: soil gets on everything.)

I was outside earlier today, raking out debris and turning over soil to scoop up weeds and grass. There was a layer of frost still, just under the soil, a sort of cobwebby-but-crunchy white crust enshrouding the underskin of the earth. Little budlets were precariously stretching out their roots, despite the frost. It was very sweet and sad at the same time, seeing how fragile life really is.

Because it was cold out (and also because having dirt under your nails sucks), I had on a pair of latex gloves. I felt a little stupid, out there in the dirt with a pair of doctor's gloves on, but I couldn't find any other pair. My mom supposedly has a pair around somewhere, but I still haven't found them. Anyway, the latex gloves were better than nothing. They kept the dirt off my fingers, but didn't block out the freezing cold air.

The significance of the gloves is that they kept squeaking. At first, I thought the weeds that were being pulled up were making noises. I'd never heard of plants squeaking when you lifted them out of the ground by their roots, but then again, I'd never heard that plants didn't make sound, either.I shrugged off the noises and figured it had to be due to the cold. Perhaps they were still frozen, and this made them sound like a rusty hinge for some reason. Every time a plant seemed to squeak, however, it felt like a protest. I began to feel terribly guilty pulling up all those weeds. They were squeaking at me like a band of angry squirrels, and I couldn't help but feel a little berated.

Eventually I realized it was my gloves that were squeaking, and not, in fact, talkative rooted lifeforms.

Needless to say, this made me very relieved.