Daffodils

3/31/09 "Daffodils"

Remember the Wordsworth poem when the poet “wandered lonely as a cloud” and came upon a “crowd…of golden daffodils?” They were fluttering and dancing (natch!) in the breeze---it seemed like 10,000 as those daffodils “tossed their heads in sprightly dance.”
Even the dancing waves couldn’t out do the daffodils.

My mother loved daffodils. Even as a youngster I knew when spring was coming because of the crocus, grape hyacinths and daffodils that began to bloom around our steps and walkways and how that thrilled Mother’s heart. I tried to add to that joy once by “raiding” Dr. Dade’s yard of his award winning King Alfred’s and proudly presenting these prize daffodils to her. The chagrin on her face was a big clue that my procurement, though well intended, was VERY inappropriate. “Young lady, you will take these back to Dr. Dade right this minute and tell him you’re sorry! Never take something that doesn’t belong to you. Do you understand me?” Not sure of her exact words, I just know that she didn’t monkey around with soothing my ego or worry about damaging my psyche----I just knew I’d better not ever do that again.

As I said, Mother loved daffodils. Actually, she, as her mother, (Mama Davenport) loved all flowers. It seemed we always had fresh flowers at 2211 South Virginia. I never remember her running out to the nursery to buy bulbs or plants----certainly no Lowe’s garden centers back then. I just remember that she exchanged Sweet William, pinks and other “slips” (plant cuttings) with her friends, especially those in the Tuesday Club. So, I grew up with hollyhocks as tall as I was, a cutting garden that produced baby’s breath, and a mom tolerant of a daughter with a brown thumb. My only interest was in wildflowers--may apple, trilliums and jack-in- the-pulpit, so she helped me nurture those under the big “messy” mulberry tree.

Last Sunday when we were in Kentucky, Larry drove Daddy and me out to Riverside Cemetery to “visit” Mother. The afternoon was gray and chilly almost dreary---not like the sunny mornings I spent watching Mother tend her flowers those many years ago. Even though there were limbs and scattered blossoms and even overturned pots that had been strewn about from the recent storm and hail, my focus was elsewhere. I saw two clumps of daffodils BLOOMING at Mother’s grave---the grave of a mother who put a houseful of love and family, friends, fun and fresh flowers “in her dash." (Remember the importance of that dash on one's gravestone----the only part of life a person controls!)
“Her children rise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her.” (Proverbs 31:28)

Mildred Davenport Adams
12/10/22 - 8/13/01

These were not 10,000 golden daffodils as Wordsworth had seen, or any as spectacular as Dr. Dade’s, but these white daffodils were from MY yard----Mother thought green and white were cool and serene and were the only colors she ever had in the planters along the walkways at the front of our house. I had dug those bulbs last fall from around my front walk and carefully carried them to Kentucky to plant on either end of her headstone---just hoping they would make it. They did. Fresh flowers just like she likes----

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. (Wordsworth, 1804)