The season of planting bulbs in late October signifies the beginning of the end for gardening projects here in SW Wisconsin. There is of course that long drawn out armchair planning phase which comprises approximately 16-22 weeks of winter, in which gardeners here plan, shovel, plan, shiver, plan, sniffle, and plan...but more on that later, much much more. Planting bulbs is that meditative hopeful thing we do just before the long wait.

My varied gardening career has given me the opportunity to hide bulbs under the ground all over this state. In lonely cemeteries, offering up a faint reminder of a distant relative's grave; next to governor's mansions, placing exuberant displays of wealth and color for all to democratically admire; and in front of college dormitories warmly welcoming back parents to celebratory commencements marking that new beginning with seas of tulips in orange, pink and beet root purple. This year something altogether new. Bulbs up on the roof. Not some new twist on the green revolution of environmentally friendly building practices. No, this would be much closer to goats and Norwegian farmers. A sod roof on a Scandinavian designed stabour.



By the very nature of my physique, I stick close to the ground, so taking on this project took a slight readjustment to my internal comfort with elevation. A sturdy ladder was definately needed. My usual footwear of Crocs and Wellies didn't lend itself to this endeavor either. Slippery rubber on wet grass wasn't the stable underpinning I was hoping for. A search through the closet revealed no baseball cleats or golf shoes, but it did bring to mind an old set of ice fishing crimps to clamp onto my boots. I was nearly ready.

My tool of choice for planting bulbs is usually a small shovel, but this would leave the impression that an indecisive gopher was digging his winter home into the roof. Not the untouched look I was going for. I have jump-punched cylindrical columns of soil out on the pogo stick like planters until there was no telling me from a large rabbit with OCD, but that too was not going to work in this lofty situation. A dibble was finally in my future. The strange yet simple tool from old England. Stabbing into the deep sod and wiggling a narrow tube in which to drop the bulb had another hidden benefit. It was like those picks one sees mountain climbers use when they ascend Mt Everest. With my hand gripped to the dibble I had my life hold on the roof.



I've seen naturalistic wonders of blooming meadows under spring orchards which suggested the soft harmonies that I was going for. Those dewy legato blades swaying with bits of staccato color. An inspiration once seen, should properly convince even turf management specialists to relinquish their mowers forever. A sporadic offering of crocus, chionodoxa, alliums and specie tulips is what I nestled in. My reflective meditation on burying hope and expectation into the soil, which all bulb planting really is at it's heart, completed in random stabs. As if short piercing grabs at the sloped earth, had more to say about the future, than what calmly tucking away little organized groups of guaranteed joy under a cool bed of soil does. Sadly, after all the lengthy preparation, the gripping, the climbing, the actual planting was over too soon. A typical metaphor for all that is gardening in the North. I can now strongly recommend planting bulbs on sod roofs, and burying hope in unexpected places.