Oh, how I wish complaining about the weather would actually do something about it. The unseasonably warm days at the start of last week and then the plunge into the teens over the weekend wreaked havoc at my place. The lovely helleborus and mass of crocuses in full bloom are literally laying on the ground. I don’t know if they will stand back up.

I seeded onions on a propagating mat in January, painstakingly transplanted the hair-like babies into larger containers, moved them all around, and finally settled them into the hoophouse awaiting transplantation into open ground. They also are sprawled all over the flat and some are hopelessly lost.

Honestly, gardening is a karmic adventure teaching either patience or good humor. I resisted the temptation to throw myself a pity party.

The weather channel says we are in for another weekend in the teens. Before the big chill I picked some golf-ball sized purple turnips. I had planted them at the beginning of December in the hoophouse. I roasted them whole alongside one of my pork loin roasts. I’m here to tell you it does not get better.

Also, in January I planted an entire package of Bloomsdale spinach in a two-foot square and have five or six measly plants. I need my reading glasses to even see them.

The Virginia Blue Bells have just emerged. They are a couple of inches tall.

I hope my quince will bloom. It was covered with swollen buds before the freeze. Now, the buds look brown and sad. Oddly, I forced a few twigs in the house. They are blooming a very pale pink, nearly white. Outside that plant is bright red. What gives?

I had a bumper crop of Fava beans last year. I steamed the pods so I could remove the large bean. I froze several containers and marked them TBS for “to be shelled.” Yesterday, I made an incision in the thawed bean and slipped it out of its skin. Sauteed with garlic, kale, walnuts and olive oil, they were delicious — to me that is. Son Reuben says they are too much like lima beans for his liking. Great, all the more for me.

I’m seeing dead skunks all over the roads. I don’t think they even hibernated this winter. On the mountain roads leading up to my hometown of Rew, Pa. the common roadkill was deer. No one ever picks them up. I think they get hit by logging trucks that barrel down the mountain. You don’t want to think about the ramps alongside the roads with signs that read “Runaway Trucks.” Another personal favorite are signs that say, “Caution, Falling Rock Zone.”

How I do digress. I attended last Saturday’s Meat Ball at the Ag Hall. The local farms put out their best to benefit the Agricultural Society. A good time was had by all, even though we ate with our coats on since the big room was pretty chilly.

I’ve been having a series of flashbacks this past week. Perhaps I’ve been transported in time to being home while small children nap and I am watching the Watergate hearings. Or it could be the national obsession with the OJ trial. Or even closer to what is happening now, an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle with Boris and Natasha.

That’s right, the workings of a Russian spy thriller played out everyday on the news. Honestly, I hate paying any attention but I can’t turn away from a highway wreck either.

I am picturing President Obama under the cover of darkness sneaking past secret service into Trump Tower with electronic gear strapped to his back.

What in the world is happening? Donald is seriously disturbed. A simple admission, we talked to the Russian ambassador, so what? It would be over. He is incapable of taking any responsibility. Take a lesson from Harry Truman. The buck stops here. Oh, and stop making things up.