April flowers may bring May flowers, but when it comes to my beloved daffodils, those cold winters that I love to hate triggers a bounty of sunny yellow faces each spring.
This flower answers to a variety of names: daffodils, narcissism, jonquils, yellow bells, or buttercups. Each February, and sometimes as early as January, the bulbs get a touch of spring fever and—like their human friends—begin seeking sunlight. Many times, I’ve gone outside on the eve of a snowstorm, or because the weather profit predicts a drop in temperature, to give the daffodils a good talking to.
“I told you not to trust Mother Nature,” I say with my hands on my hips. “Get back in the ground this instant!” I emphasis with a point of my finger. “Don’t you know the frost will smack the blooms clean off your stems?” My tone is laced with the knowledge that I know better than a bulb that has been around for hundreds of years. There’ve been times when I have covered my garden with mulch to keep everyone warm, only to check on them a couple days later and discover persistent, nonconforming buds peeking at me from the chips.
My daffodil bulbs talk about me at night. I’m certain they laugh at my ignorance. Playful pretties that they are.
My love affair with the daffodil is embedded in my DNA and dates back to when the original Winchesters lived “across the pond” on land where stately gardens puts my current cultivation attempt to shame. In my defense, I assume the original Winchesters employed groundskeepers, whereby, I only have myself and a dog prone to digging up everything I plant whilst my back is turned. If I close my eyes, I can visualize the Winchester women wrapping daffodil bulbs in cloth and tucking them deep in their luggage for the voyage to the new land. Men, you see, need adventure in their lives, but this Winchester, like those of ages ago, needs daffodils and a shovel.
I keep a shovel in my car for the procurement of at-risk daffodils. All across the country you can find these beauties threatened beneath heavy machinery when landowners are hell-bent on clearing property for another subdivision or retail monstrosity. If you pay careful attention while driving and aren’t afraid of a little poison ivy, you can take your shovel and a bucket to collect those pretties before the developers wipe them away. Procuring at-risk plants is how I obtained most of the daffodils that currently prettify my land.
Over the years, I’ve rescued and gifted more bulbs than I can count. One of my favorite acquisitions was from a Georgia farm owned by Miss Rachel who had sold her land, and glorious wooden house, to a developer that hoodwinked her into believing he would be building a retirement community. The farm was bursting with daffodils, including the Double Campernelle and Moschatus, both date back to the early 1600s. It took six dedicated women over a week to rescue all of Miss Rachel’s “purdy flairs.” We still speak fondly of her generosity. She could have let the dozer destroy her pretties, but instead, she shared them with us.
Where there’s road construction or a new subdivision, plants and flowers are often available for the taking. Even plants confined to growing inside a grocery store prison, hoping for a human to save them, and faded flowers that have been discarded in big-box-store dumpsters, can be resurrected with a little tender loving care. Leave the foliage intact, place the bulbs in the ground, add a bit of plant food and give them a season to rest before expecting blooms.
At one time, most of the south was covered in a sunny yellow blanket of Van Scion (1620) or “double daffodil,” which blended with the single trumpeted flower most Southern folk call the “buttercup jonquil.” The Van Scion is far different than the bulbs found in commercial big-box stores. These pass-along bulbs were frequently shared with neighbors or given as housewarming and wedding gifts. Who didn’t love a clump of cheerful daffodils at the entrance of their property during that time? Absent a pronounced trumpet, Van Scion blooms are shaggy with ragged petals tipped in green. The amount of green in the petals vary each season, depending on weather conditions. Complicating the identification process of double daffodils is another show stopper, Telamonius Plenus, which some people call “Butter and Eggs (1777).” Appalachians tend to call all double daffodils, “Butter and eggs.” However, a true variety displays soft yellow petals with notable smaller orange petals.
Neither the Van Scion nor the Butter and Eggs are fragrant. Their beauty is enough to thrill enthusiasts everywhere. Both tend to bend low due to the massive weight of the blooms.
If you seek fragrance in your garden, the double Champernelle (1601), with dainty clusters of yellow petals, is for you. These are available commercially, multiply rapidly, and I recommend them for all newbie growers.
Once planted, daffodils require little maintenance other than braiding the leaves after the blooms fade. Braiding the leaves keeps them attached to the bulbs as long as possible and returns valuable nutrients to the bulbs at the end of each growing season.
Perhaps I adore the yellow sunny face of a daffodil because they appear when I feel I just can’t take another day of bad weather. Perhaps I adore them because I enjoy watching their yellow petals sway happily in the breeze. Or perhaps as I age, I take hope from the resiliency of a flower bulb that traveled here in the 1600s and has managed to multiply.
It is the magic of how something so beautiful can endure the harsh cold and winter darkness, yet be drawn forth each year by lingering light. Yes, it is the light of spring and the hope a daffodil brings that fills my soul.