It’s finally happened. Spring has sprung. I was beginning to have my doubts. Here it is Palm Sunday and my forsythia is beginning to show some yellow. I have no facts, but it seems particularly late.

I miss my mother. This is the second spring since her death. We always compared the emerging spring flora. In the middle of the snow belt and sometimes coldest spot in the lower 48, Rew, Pennsylvania, was way ahead of us in the spring. Mom could brag on her lilacs being two full weeks ahead of mine.

Saturday and Sunday brought folks out in droves. Some were raking, others jogging, and I saw teenagers in short-shorts.

Violet went barefoot at the beach with her friend Vivian.

My field peas have germinated. The ones planted three weeks ago came up after those only 10 days in the ground. There you have it. Mother Nature is always in charge.

I’ve been transplanting like a maniac. I seed heavily into a plat and then separate the tweensy seedlings into plug trays or tiny pots. Honestly, it’s the only area in my life where I seem to have endless patience. Reading glasses are required — the plants are barely visible! It is downright meditative.

I have resentment against daffodils. I plant them by the bushels and never seem to have more than a few clumps. Everyone else has them in spades. What gives? They are especially lovely all along the south side of the stone walls on South Road.

It is worth a trip up to Beetlebung Corner to see the enormous patch of them at Louis Larsen’s. I heard Mary planted them in the 1940s.

Here it is Monday evening and this column is due tomorrow. Where does the time go? Monday had my least favorite weather — an ill wind blew all day. For some reason my overall mood becomes agitated on a day like this. I’d rather have rain.

At any rate, I was able to plant all the dahlias. I stored them in rain bags full of peat moss. I kept the bags in an unheated back guest room all winter. All was well until one bag broke in the kitchen. What a mess. I walked away for most of the day.

I considered raking it in and planting some grass seed.

Once, back in the hippie days, I had an unfinished kitchen — plywood floors and counters. I think sawhorses held up the counters. I must have dropped a dried bean in the not-too-clean area between the stove and counter. It sprouted. I was so amused that I watered it. It grew a couple of feet tall, twinning around the sawhorse. Honestly, it still tickles me to think of it. Martha Stewart would disapprove.

My friend Sharlee and I were commiserating about deer and/or bunnies eating our crocuses after barely a day of bloom. She discovered the deer had eaten all her helleborus and then spit them out. Little jerks!

I have tons of puschkinia blooming. It is a sweet little bulb that jumps around all over the place. There is a patch of them at the Martha’s Vineyard Savings Bank in Vineyard Haven on the steep bank between the parking lot and the up-hill entry to the drive-through.

It seems to grow along with a similar bulb, scilla, which is also prolific and a nice deep blue. They are quite inexpensive and will multiply over the years.

The latest shooting took place in Overland Park, Kans., home of my cousin Anne. I’m sure her family is distressed by the event. It is truly astonishing how many times people go crazy, gun in hand, in our country.

Comedian Chris Rock has the best solution to our gun culture. He says that there should be no regulation or laws governing the possession of firearms, but bullets should cost $5,000 each. There would be no innocent bystanders for starters.