The poppy plants are blooming in the alley — three of them.

Most years, the alley is boldly orange, with lacy plants reaching from the cracks in the pavement into the roadway, destined to be smashed by folks who drive fast and take shortcuts.

The poppy plant is a fearless survivor and will grow deep roots into the smallest crack in the pavement. The itty-bitty amount of soil in those cracks is rich, made from leaves that decayed after being blown toward a wooden fence.

The plants are almost my hidden secret. People who drive through alleys are usually driving fast, and sometimes trying to avoid the police.

When the plants are in full bloom, they seem oddly out of place, which I also enjoy, like roses growing from a garbage can.

As with any garden bed, weeds happen. In late winter, I spend some time yanking out the other plants that find a way to grow in a small crack in the urban landscape.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that the plants were gone.

Harrumph.

My first guess was that Mark Carlson had stopped by to do a “good deed.”

When he’s in the neighborhood, he’ll stop by to say hello. If I’m not there, he sometimes does something nice. Sometimes I’m so busy, I don’t notice one of his good deeds until weeks later.

He weed-wacked my tall grass, for example, and I texted him days and days later with words of gratitude.

Another day, he chopped down a most hateful privet. The privet had grown so large, I had tried to convince the PG&E tree crew that the plant was interfering with the power lines. The workers gave my request very little thought before moving along to something more important.

When I saw the blank space where the privet had dominated, I didn’t notice at first. It’s sort of like when someone gets a giant mole removed from their face. You know something is different, but in the absence of that big thing, you can’t quite figure out what has changed.

Now Mark does privet maintenance. Serious nuisances, like privet, don’t die easily. Mark works in landscaping and carries seriously potent privet spray in his bag of tricks. More than once, he has stopped to torture the privet sprouts trying to grow from the giant privet trunk.

When the poppies showed up missing, I thought Mark must have meant to do another good deed. My first thought was to call up and complain. Yet, that would have been completely unfair. When someone does something incredibly nice, you need to thank him, even if it’s completely opposite from what you would have hoped.

Many a marriage has likely survived by following that simple thought process.

I still complained, but I chose to complain to my neighbor.

Del has a work shed in the lot next door, and he is about the coolest guy you could ever imagine.

He has a vintage truck and decorates his work shed with wrought-iron brick-a-brack. He wears a leather cowboy hat and has straight, shiny, long hair. He looks like he should be in a magazine about guys who do cool things in sheds.

Del listened to my rant, and after what might have been a deep breath, he admitted he had decimated my poppies.

It happened fast, he explained, as if the speed of their demise would comfort me. He saw some weeds and picked up a shovel.

“Once I got started, I just didn’t stop,” he said sheepishly.

I was impressed that in 20 minutes, he had cleared everything growing from his cyclone fence to the mock orange hedge 40 feet down the way.

I had to forgive him as well. Maybe next time I need a privet removed, I’ll ask him if he has some spare time.

The good news is that a few of the poppies survived. Did I mention that they are freakishly hardy? Three plants is enough to make me smile when I take a stroll around the neighborhood. I’ll make sure I pop some poppy seeds on Del’s side of the fence next fall.

One of the best types of gifts is the unexpected. Of these, I have received many — much more than I ever could have deserved. Many times I have relied upon the kindness of strangers.

Receiving gifts, witnessing good deeds, remembering to do for others — all help reaffirm that most of the world is filled with goodness.

Last fall a bag of bulbs arrived at my former workplace. My friend dropped the gift on my doorstep when I was not at home.

“A nice lady brought these to the newspaper for you,” my friend wrote.

Inside a brown paper were several huge dormant chunks of plant life. I guessed they were amaryllis, but was certainly not certain. I also guessed they were from someone in Paradise; The bag said “Black Bear Diner.”

As sometimes happens at my house, the bag sat just inside my doorway. I put things there for which I intend to give immediate attention.

Months later, I did the right thing.

The bulb was fairly unimpressive at first, sitting in a bowl with water and pebbles.

(That bowl was a mistake. One day I realized the plant’s roots had pushed so hard the glass broke).

The children didn’t notice this new thing. There’s a lot to do when the children walk through the threshold, including fish around in their backpacks for homework and listen to my voice telling them to find their seat quietly.

Weeks passed, and no one noticed it was growing. Then the blooms arrived, in late March — deep red and so large you could easily think they were made in China.

The five-gallon plastic pot was just the right size, and then the show as on!

We measured the flowers and touched the fuzz-covered stamens. We wondered if the plant would fall, even after I propped it up with sticks.

After the flowers faded, I wanted more.

I had more bulbs by my front door, but there was a lot going on around Easter. Mainly, we had many surfaces covered with bowls of wheat grass, which became our Easter baskets.

But you can’t let bulbs go to waste. That nice lady form Paradise would want me to enjoy them.

Last weekend I reached for the bag just in time, or too late depending on your perspective. One of the remaining amaryllis bulbs had bloomed — inside the bag. There it was, just past its prime and almost knocking at the brown paper to be fully valued. Other bulbs had emerging green stems.

I took a break from all other things and placed those beauties in pots outside. If they were going to grow despite me, I should give them a little help.

The Gardener’s Supply Company, provides some basic instruction for the big, big bulbs. None of the instructions suggested keeping the bulbs in a paper bag for nine months. The information also suggested a heavy pot so the big plant doesn’t topple.

Bury the bulb ¾-inch under the soil and water lightly until either a flower stalk or leaves emerge. Next, water regularly. Give indirect light (or place in a classroom). Turn the pot every once in a while to encourage the plant not to lean. In six to eight weeks, the show begins.

Just like any other bulb, deadheading will help more energy to be directed to the bulb for next year. Amaryllis can also last about as long in a vase as on the plant, this source of garden information states. After flowering, let the flower fade, and cut the stalk to about an inch from the top of the bulb. Continue to water and feed with houseplant fertilizer. In August, stop watering and let the foliage die until the pot is completely dry. Then, store in a paper bag until you’re ready to drop the bulb on someone’s doorstep.

Thank you, unknown woman, for your kindness. Your gesture brought joy to many.

One of my favorite things about early spring is being a garden voyeur.

I can drive by many lovely yards at 25 mph, gasp at the beauty of unbridled spring, and never need to clean up after fleeting beauty.

In some ways, spring flowers can be like confetti. It’s a lot of fun at midnight when 100,000 tiny pieces of paper are flying through the air. It’s an entirely different experience when you’re dragging the vacuum at 3 a.m.

Tulip trees, for example, are a real treat. They’re actually in the magnolia family, but everyone I know calls them tulip trees.

With a gray sky as a backdrop, you might literally gasp when you see the contrasting beauty of this pink bush in flower flame. For some reason, people who own “vintage” white houses with lots of bricka bracka love to plant a tulip tree prominently.

Yet, wait for one windy night and the tree soon looks like a prom queen who should have left the party when she could still find her shoes.

Those majestic magnolia/tulip blossoms make a mess on the sidewalk. You can slip and fall. Pink petals turns to brown mush. Someone who lives in that “vintage house,” might need to sweep the walkway to avoid a lawsuit.

I feel the same way about white camellias. When they bloom in bitter winter, it’s a sweet reminder that spring is on the way. The soft blooms are like cold-weather roses.

The large, shiny leaves are perfect for making leaf-shaped chocolate treats (Dip the leaves in chocolate, freeze on wax paper, then peel away the paper).

Raindrops on camellias are worth a pause. As each drop moves down the curved leaves, they catch the color from the nearby flowers. Look again the next day, the water may have turned the flowers brown and gunky.

Camellias also plop onto the ground, as big as a saucer, and are shorter lived than cookies left in the break room.

Of course, I have some glorious, messy short-timers in my own yard. The former renter at my house planted what I suspect is Virginia creeper. The vine has stretched about eight feet along the dingy metal fence. Last year I painstakingly tore out the tenacious ivy, and the Virginia creeper has wasted no time in taking up the empty space.

Over spring break, the Virginia creeper bloomed. It’s lovely. For weeks I watched the buds form and was filled with happy anticipation.

After one nasty night of hard rain and wind, the ground is littered with yellow blooms. They’re small flowers. If I’m careful, I won’t slip and fall.

I also have what I think is a mulberry tree. The shade from this gal is so worthwhile. I’m certain I have saved thousands of dollars in energy costs thanks to this tree. Yet, the leaves are tough and resist the leaf blower. Every once in a while, the tree needs to be trimmed with a chainsaw, otherwise those strong limbs will dent the rain gutters.

Yes, gardeners suffer from these beautiful inconveniences. I’d say it’s all worth the backache. The alternative is to choose low-maintenance plants you’d find in the planter box at a gas station. At a gas station you don’t find plant litter, you find cigarette butts and Slim Jim packaging.

Again, from a distance, I’m also enjoying other people’s weeds. Sour grass, a form of Oxalis known as yellow wood sorrel, brings back memories of childhood. My Auntie Jeanne always had the plant near her front yard — the place near the street where we were not supposed to play. My cousin and I learned that if you chew on the leaves, it has a tangy/sweet flavor.

Oxalis is mildly poisonous, but I survived sour grass nibbling with most of my wits intact.

These days I’m wise enough to know people walk their dogs and might stop to “smell” those flowers.

As with anything that grows too easily, wood sorrel will take over any territory left untended. You can drive by homes that are now filled with lovely yellow flowers. You can drive by, smile, and keep driving.