I admit to having, ever so slightly, just a tad bit of garden envy. It creeps in sometime around late February or early March when photos of daffodils start popping up online and in the news. I don’t use social media (thank goodness), so I am spared the longing in that way, but I am on the mailing lists of several gardens that use the happy daffodil to announce the opening dates of their gardens for the season. One by one daffodils show up in my inbox and my mailbox reminding me of the continued dreariness of the long winter outside my window. I should see the silver lining (Spring is almost here!), but all I really see are the snide jeers (totally made up in my imagination, of course) of the gardeners several states away down south — and sometimes even in other countries — who chant “We have blooming daffodils. You have snow. Na na nuh boo boo.” I’m sure there’s a head cocked to the left with squinted eyes and a tongue sticking out at the end of that sneer, too.
That’s ok. Eventually, I bring myself out of the funk by remembering two things — April and July. April because that’s the month daffodils bloom where I live, and July because I live in a place that doesn’t need air conditioning while those early bloomers down south will be walking around in humidity thicker than pea soup, having bad hair days everyday, and wondering why they live in a place that is hotter than the surface of the sun. So there. (I’m not sticking my tongue out. That’s just rude.).
So, here we are. April. And our daffodils this year are the prettiest I’ve ever seen them. Many thanks to the families who came before us for planting so many of the little lovelies that my family get to enjoy.
I don’t adore daffodils, actually. Not really. I don’t hate them though either. Far from it. They’re ok. I respect them for what they are, and I do really appreciate their bright yellows after a long, dark winter. The sea of yellow (or maybe it’s a puddle?) on the hill behind my house makes me ever so happy to see them each year, and I find myself smiling at them even though I might be pulling my boot out of the three inches of mud that surrounds the house at the same time of year.
Most of our daffodils are well-established. I like seeing all the different types planted in the beds through the years. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to their placement which makes their discovery even that much more fun.
We’ve been here for three years now, and each year, we find new daffodils in new places. Sometimes our frisky squirrel friends decide where the daffodils should grow, as was the case with a few bulbs I transplanted last year. We have one of those bulbs blooming nicely in the grass about 60 yards from the spot where I planted it. We’ve found other daffodils that must have been buried under years of neglect that we are only seeing for the first time this year after clearing out quite a bit of brush last year.
If those dearies can survive garbage and neglect to come out prettier than ever, I guess we can make it through winter. Even though the temperatures are still cold here, and chunks of ice still fall occasionally from the gray, overcast sky, the daffodils do remind me of a brighter future ahead. I guess I do see the silver lining after all.
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