Daffodil days
By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist
Oh, how she loved the color yellow. When she'd dress up, she'd wear a yellow silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. In the winter, she'd cover up with a yellow shawl to stay warm, and in the spring, when the daffodils bloomed, she'd sew them around the rim of her broad brimmed hat and would carry them about with her a wicker basket.
Everyone she met on her travels would get a daffodil and a warm smile. She was known as the daffodil lady, and these were her daffodil days.
When I was a child, we lived in the heart of city, where the houses stood side by side, no yards between them. Some folks grew flowers in window boxes. We did, and we always planted brightly colored pansies, but the only way to see spring daffodils was to walk to the city's parks.
We would all set out on a family adventure to find them, our mother in the lead. She knew just where to go, and would greet each cluster of the early green shoots like old friends. If a particular bunch was late to break through the city soil, she would fret, but she would return to check on them, and when they finally appeared she was delighted.
I remember how she exclaimed over the beauty of the flowers' various hues, the deep yellows, the rich creaminess of the almost whites, and the bright orange of the inner cups. She was a connoisseur of all the various shades.
Now the city house where Greg and I raised our children was very different from my childhood home. This house had a large yard, and came with a lovely daffodil patch way down in the back where the daffodils grew up through the ivy.
We mowed grass throughout the summer, raked leaves in the fall, shoveled snow in the winter, and every spring, I looked forward to the daffodils. As soon as they’d bloom, I'd call my mother to let her know that daffodil days had begun, and she'd tell me all about her daffodil days, describing this year’s flower rimmed hat, her basket filled to the top with daffodils, and all the people she met while giving them away.
Once our own children were grown, Greg and I sold the city house and moved to the creek valley, but before we left the city, I spent an afternoon digging up buckets of daffodil bulbs from the ivy patch. I brought them with us to the creek, and spent a day carefully planting them in their new home. I set them all up and down the creek valley road, so that now, every spring, I can look forward to walking along the road and greeting each emerging cluster. I know just where to find them, and if a patch is late sending up its tender green shoots, I worry until they break through, and of course, just like my mother, I greet them as old friends.
It seems that most of the world welcomes daffodils the same way. In the Western world, daffodils symbolize rebirth and new beginnings. In the Orient they represent good fortune, and in the Middle East they symbolize fertility. Europeans believe that Daffodils are a sign of hope. These brightly colored flowers may have originated in the western Mediterranean, but with help from folk such as me, they now grow not only in tended patches, but wildly across much of the world, and everywhere, they spread their bright, daffodil joy.
I can no longer telephone my mother to tell her that daffodil days have arrived in the creek valley, but I can say, and you likely already know, that I am smiling.
Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in Ohio south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.
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