If it wasn't for the great satisfaction of tucking narcissus and allium bulbs into the soil, I'd probably turn my back on the dying garden and head indoors for the winter. But brown paper sacks filled with lumps of potential are lined up on my garage shelves, so there's nothing for it but to cut back the dahlia foliage and dying hosta leaves to find enough bare earth to plant springtime.
Every year at this time I read E.B. White's introduction to his wife's book "Onward and Upward in the Garden", which contains one of the most poignant scenes in garden literature. White evokes all the absurd optimism inherent in planting bulbs as he describes his wife out in the garden as always, planting flowers she'll never see....
"As years went by and age overtook her, there was something comical yet touching in her bedraggled appearance on this awesome occasion - the small, hunched-over figure, her studied absorption in the implausible notion that there would be yet another spring, oblivious to the ending of her own days, which she knew perfectly well was near at hand, sitting there with her detailed chart under those dark skies in the dying October, calmly plotting the resurrection."

