Winter is taking a firmer hold on the garden. The few broccoli and Swiss chard plants have turned a greenish tan, surrendering to the fate of more tender plants already long gone from the garden. It is a month into the winter, a time of trembling nervousness if frosts will continue to destroy the food plants and bring on famine before spring finally warms the icy fingers of winter's grip.

It was a time of real fear when mankind lived closer to the earth and its local food supply, temporarily ignored if an abundant harvest permitted a time of feasting in the fall and early winter but never farther than the memories of poor harvests in the fields and weak souls harvested from the bleak firesides. Many a religious ritual sprang up to predict the return of warmer weather, empowering the unscrupulous leaders who hid the secret from lesser followers and extorted gifts in return for the performance of sacred rites to restore the sun and its life-giving light.

Their secret knowledge came from an understanding of the patterns in the stars, placed there by God as a natural calendar to mark the passing of the seasons. The ancient astrologers wielded great power in their societies, using scientific knowledge of the stars to build up a religious charade which still lingers in the modern horoscope. Instead of studying the heavens to judge the passing of the seasons, one can now read a vague paragraph to predict one's folly in love, finances, and the troubles of life.

I prefer the more benign humor of Groundhog Day, where some poor creature must emerge from its den to face gawking humans trying to decide whether there will be six more weeks of wintry weather based on its shadow. It only came out for food, not national adulation from talking heads televising its morning hunt for breakfast. It seems a rather heavy burden to inflict on a creature which has endured a long fast only to become the spring version of Santa Claus bringing presents or lumps of coal.

I'm practicing the gardener's yearly defiance of common sense by trusting our modern wizards, the astronomers and weather forecasters who confidently tell us when the day length and average date of the yearly frosts mark the turn of the seasons and the right times to plant. This digitized version of the zodiac is occasionally right often enough to publish almanacs filled with advice on planting signs muddling modern astronomy with the ancient rituals sworn by with fervor by the initiates.

I prefer to take the more realistic view that spring will come along approximately when it is supposed to and frosts will probably win many of the gambles for early crops. The gardening catalogs filling my mailbox spill that secret with the pages full of gardening aids to start seedlings weeks before any sensible seed in the soil would sprout and to protect helpless seedlings popped into naked soil from the frosts that likely would nip them no matter what the weathermen's tables of weather information have to say.

These gardening wonders do work or they wouldn't sell, and they bear eloquent testimony to the time before modern transportation methods filled the produce section of supermarkets year round. Those that had the first local crops reaped harvests of higher prices at the market as well as well-stocked kitchens whose cooks yearned for fresh produce after a winter of preserved foods and root crops. The high-tech plant light systems and superbly engineered seed starters nestle among the more humble pots for sunny windowsills, emphasizing the ongoing contest for the earliest, biggest, and generally best tomatoes and other garden goodies.

I've managed to set aside my tomato seeds for the time being given that the organizer has informed me that it is still too soon to plunge into the yearly tomato race. My seedlings reaching for the light under the crowded plant lights are the cool weather crops. I have trays with cabbage, broccoli, lettuce, and Swiss chard in weekly staggered sowings, and a few pots of flower seeds needing an early start.

I'm already juggling seedlings in the inadequate space, squeezing pots together to try to sustain more seedlings than I probably have space to plant. I'm counting on losing some to the birds, bugs and rats, but also a number to the cats playing in the garden right where I planted something. If I "played" in the garden, then they have to play there too. I've pointed out that I don't dig where they dug first, but they aren't reciprocating in kind. My leavings are nice little seedlings which are not as offensive to unearth.

The crafting is still going on despite the increasing numbers of gardening alerts oozing up into the organizer's daily schedule. I've got one side of the latest sweater finished and the other side done up to the sleeves. The quilts are still in limbo, and I have one new shirt started but not finished. I answered a few knitting questions for the women's group last night, so the knitting class seems to have made a few knitters working on their projects.

Now all I have to do is resist the latest fabric.com sale, including the open house sale at the warehouse. They have promised lots of stuff that isn't on the web site. I can't see how I could take care of everything here and yet drive hundreds of miles to plunder their pretties. My brother said that I should just buy the company outright. That would solve the problem, wouldn't it? Hmmmm . . .