NPR ran a segment recently based on a scientific study. It seems that people who complain live longer. After this past month on the Vineyard many can be assured of a long life. I know I’ve done my share.

It has become increasingly difficult to write about gardening. For starters, I cannot find mine. Bear with me as I’m grasping!

Happily, I neglected to cut back several perennials, especially tall sedums. All the spent flower heads of yarrow, monarda, and the aforementioned sedums make a stark study of brown and white. Too bad I’m not a photographer as there are some interesting angles. The best camera and computer are in my brain anyway. This, of course, is true only of subjects of interest to me.

The tiny bit of melting we occasionally experience is both welcome and revealing. Things left undone are starting to emerge — Oh! There’s my wheelbarrow.

There is a wind-swept area in the perennial bed that never got any snow during the big blizzard early on. There was a flock of cedar waxwings sunning themselves in it yesterday. They are endlessly hopeful as we need to be.

The sun is much brighter every day. Both mornings and evenings are longer. The approaching full moon helps. One of my favorite quotes from childhood: “The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow gave a luster of midday to objects below.”

My attached greenhouse is bursting with life.

Violet and I spent an afternoon in the 75 degrees listening to the Brandenburg Concerto. I transplanted leeks and Chinese cabbages while she beaded some jewelry. Can life be any better?

I have germinated some yarrow, hollyhocks, blackberry lilies and sage. They are still tiny but will need transplanting in a few weeks.

I finally got my hoop house door free from a huge snowdrift and several inches of ice. I was able to pick kale and spinach.

I had planted in the early fall. The seedlings rescued from the garden paths where they had seeded themselves did remarkably better than the ones I seeded myself. Go figure. Helping nature is more productive than trying to control her I guess.

In the fall, I smugly purchased my potting soil and stored it in another shaded hoop house. The door blew off during the blizzard covering the soil in inches of frozen sleet and snow. It is impossible to free it. I would purchase another bag but all the nurseries have it outside as well.

I brought in one bag to thaw near the wood stove which promptly spilled all over the floor. A decent sense of humor is a must in this life.

Last year this week I was admiring my snow drops. They are no where to be seen this year.

There have been several reports of serious injuries resulting from falls on the ice. Careful, everyone.

I hate it when I don’t know everything. There are a couple of very large trees with beautiful exfoliating bark on the way to the Federated Church in Edgartown. I cannot identify them.

Once again, I must sing the praises of crows. The Cooper’s hawk returned to the scene of last week’s chicken homicide in hopes of another free lunch. I had rigged up some bamboo stakes over the entrance to the hen house but was still feeling anxious for the girls.

Along came six or seven crows and chased him away. I threw them some corn as payment for services rendered.

I grew up as a member of the clean plate club. My mother used the “think of the starving children in China, India or Africa” routine on a daily basis.

We always use leftovers in as many different ways as possible. I think Calvin Trillin said his mother served leftovers for 20 years. A team of anthropologists has been searching for the original meal.

A newspaper article caught my eye recently, “Food Waste is Becoming Serious Economic and Environmental Issue.”

A recent report says 60 million metric tons of food is wasted a year in the U.S., with a value of $162 billion. One and a half billion a year is spent by local governments hauling it to local landfills.

Food discarded by retailers and consumers in most developed countries would be more than enough to feed all the world’s 870 million hungry people.

My take on this is to use less and become more aware. I’ve used the old World War II poem several times in this column. It bears repeating:

Use it up.
Wear it out.
Make it do
or do without.