Spring is unfurling in the neighborhood, punctuating cool mornings with hints of what is to come — a hazy smear of violets, an early tulip, the first blush of the crabapple bloom.
But in truth, the promise of this gardening season began to emerge almost before the last one ended.
The potatoes had been dug. The last tomatoes taken in. And the cold frame — its angle so low that it captured more snow than sun the winter before — demanded attention.
As my friend Beth and I rebuilt the box, aspiring to crops of Swiss chard and spinach, our neighbor Jim rolled up in his turbo-charged wheelchair. He’s a carpenter wrecked by illness, and he was at the curb to gripe about our inept and too-loud hammering. But really, he was there for the company, offering advice and teasing us.
The sun slipped behind the mountains just as the last (annoying) nail was placed, and we all retreated, too cold to seriously consider what might pop from the pots inside the box.
This week, I was surprised to find ruddy whorls of lettuce reaching toward the warmth of the new season.
There is no guarantee of a harvest from the cold frame, but in its making we have cultivated friendship and community. We’ve pitched in and tended to something that feeds us all.
Dana Coffield: dcoffield@denverpost.com or
