Every year, on St. Patrick's Day, my mother started tomato seeds in little pots that she placed in a sunny kitchen window. She had spent her spare moments pouring over the several seed catalogs that began arriving in our country mailbox already in January. She never consulted with my dad, or with anyone else as far as I could tell. She studied. She decided. And she planted. I don't remember a year that we didn't have a bumper crop of tomatoes.
The Old Timer says: "Think green. It might hurry spring along."