Ask everybody who has known me since I was a kid, and they will tell you: I'm not into delayed gratification. I always polished off my Halloween candy by my birthday, which is a mere five days later. I love Girl Scout cookies but I have never understood why anyone should have to wait six weeks for a box of Thin Mints. And don't even mention Easter -- that basket was practically empty by Easter Monday (except of course for the Peeps, which everybody knows taste better if they are allowed to become stale and stretchy first).
Delayed gratification has never been my thing and that's why I have never planted bulbs. Doing all that work in November for something you won't see for four or five months just seemed pointless. Still, as I run and walk around the neighborhood each spring, I marvel at other people's colorful yards, the crocuses and daffodils and tulips and hyacinths. "I could do this," I tell myself, "It won't be that much work and it will look so great in March and April."
Last fall I did it. An unusually warm November inspired me to dig something like sixty little holes in my front and side yard. All I had to show for it at the end of the day was a backache and a bad case of carpal tunnel.
Totally worth the wait.