Pirates and Daffodils
Because I’m an only child, I spent most of my early years creating story lines by myself. Sometimes I served as narrator of a tale. Other times I played a character in the action.
One of my favorite stories involved the daffodil fields in my grandparents’ chicken lot. I assume my grandmother planted the bulbs long before I arrived, and because of the constant, rich fertilizer, they had evolved into masses of several varieties that I guarded every spring, as far back as I can remember.
A boardwalk crisscrossed the lot. I ran up and down it on high alert for pirates, portrayed by pesky chickens, always bound to appear.
“Shiver me timbers!” I cried in warning. “Pirates on the stern! Avast ye!”
How a Midwestern four-year-old knew pirate talk is beyond me–unless I picked it up from an episode of “The Howdy Doody Show.”
Ships of princesses, clusters of white daffodils with red centers, returning from Paris were in danger. Tall yellow daffodils, fleets of brave princes, sailed to their rescue. The double-blossomed daffodils, the kings and queens, panicked at court, fearful of the kidnapping of their fair daughters.
Alas, it fell to me to drive the clucking pirates away. I chased then toward the barn…I mean seaside cave.
For a little girl with uninterrupted time on her hands, daffodils made perfect playmates. I was not lonely among their petals.
I once gave my mother a porcelain bouquet of daffs, as she called them. It became one of Maggie’s favorite items. Despite its fragile nature, my mother let the toddler carry it everywhere. We got accustomed to finding it in the pantry among the canned goods, in the drawer underneath the saucepan lids, or beside my mother’s shoes in the closet.
It was her magic token of something sweet and wonderful. Randomly bestowed.
So when Maggie saw real daffodils for the first time, I was not surprised that she squealed and ran full speed ahead. She threw her arms around them, hiding her face in the golden princesses…I mean flowers.
I’ve wanted plenty of things in my life and gotten them. But I’d never lived any place long enough to feel like planting daffodils. It takes time to see them multiply, to become anchored by their radiance.
Then we moved to Ohio, and Maeve and Dave visited. Our friendship with them reaches back decades when we all lived in Wisconsin. Now they resided a bit north in Michigan. A talented gardener, she asked about our plans for the overgrown landscaping, especially the collapsing circle garden.
I mentioned daffodils. Maeve mentioned a dogwood tree.
Being an accidental gardener at best, I perseverated about the bulb planting. On a brutally cold November day with frigid wind blowing in from the north, Maeve arrived with 100 bulbs and a car filled with tools. Her goodwill and skill immeasurably bestowed.
On May 4th, blooms appeared. Beautiful as they were, and settled as we are, it wasn’t quite the same without those dastardly chickens. But I put that behind me, as we learn to do as adults. Certain expectations ruin beauty.
One day I stood up from pulling weeds along the fence and spotted a pirate…I mean our dog Maria. No doubt on the high seas she’d heard of me: the mighty pirate chaser. With the blooms faded, she knew she’d escape my wrath if she settled among the leaves and stems for a nap.
Blimey! A clever pirate she be.
