Gardening with bulbs is an act of faith.
You mull over the multicolored options for a while and then order from a pretty catalogue.
Always, of course, worrying whether your money has gone to the wind.
Eventually, when the season is right, a cardboard box full of little knobs arrives in the mail from the Netherlands.*
*Sideline tangent: It entertains me to consider if the Netherlands is in fact a euphemism.
Plus –– people from there pronounce it as "the Nederlands."
I slay myself.
If you're well supplied with gear, perhaps you use a Garden Weasel to create neat holes into which you drop the the rootesque orbs.
Always, of course, with a pause to wonder if the bulbs are landing right-side up at the bottom of the excavation.
The plug, looking so very geologic and sciency, neatly fills back over the bulb.
Although, of course, one might be tortured by that persistent worry about squirrels.*
And then the waiting begins. A winter passes. The first spring arrives, and the bulbs do their job, transforming stored potential energy into cheer.
Any chunky little bit of starch can tide a body through a season. No judgement. We've all been there. Anyhow, the real test of the bulb comes after a full year.
Has the little bulb put down roots? Have the squirrels decided to remodel the bed of flowers?
So this spring? Hurrah.
In the nature of gardening nature, however, I find myself perusing those colorful catalogues for just a feeeeew more.