The Pleasures of Life

Ode to a Daffodil

Acres of yellow blooms beckon the splendor of spring

By lindSay mor r iS In the evening Alice sat on

her grandfather’s knee and listened to his stories of faraway places. When he had finished, Alice would say, “ When I grow up, I, too, will go to faraway places, and when I grow old, I, too, will live beside the sea.”

T hat is a l l ver y wel l, l it t le A l ic e,” sa id her g r a ndf at her, “ but t here is a t h ird t h ing you must do.”

“W hat is t hat ?” a ske d A l ic e.

“You must do somet h ing to ma ke t he world more b e aut if u l,” sa id her g r a ndf at her.

“A l l r ig ht ,” sa id A l ic e. But she d id not k now what t hat c ou ld b e. — Miss Rumphiu s by Barbar a C o oney

I remember the mor ning as if it were yesterday. It was early, oh so ver y early. Much too early for my 8 -year- old, g rowing body. With ever y ounce of my being, I silently commanded my spir it to ig nore the telltale sig ns of the low beams of light seeping through my blinds. I ordered the gentle t ugg ing on my shoulder to relegate its dictates to the deep recesses of my dreams. Within moments, the strong hands that t ugged also separated me f rom the comf y sanct uar y of flannel sheets that enveloped me and jar r ingly forced me to welcome the earliest moments of daw n.

A nd t hen t he m a g ic wor d s we r e sp ok en: “It ’s t i me .” Ju st a s a hy pnot i st aw a k en s h i s c l ient f r om t he e d g e of c on s c iou sne ss, I w a s c omple t ely aw a k e a nd r em i nde d of ou r t a sk at h a nd . I n a t r a nc e , I me t ho d ic a l ly enu me rat e d my t o - do l i st , put t i ng on work b o ot s, don n i ng g a r den i ng g love s a nd g r abbi ng wh at e ve r w a s ac c e ssible on t he k it c hen c ou nt e r t o f uel wh at I k ne w wou ld b e a long d ay a he ad .

Opening the back door of my childhood home has always brought about visions of Wonderland or Terabithia, and that mor ning was no dif ferent, other than the sun shining much lower and more intensely through the dense trees that hedged our little world of Avalon L oop. You see, Avalon was a world my sisters and I fir mly believed God created for our imag inations. T he animals of the realm, while not visible, could cer tainly be heard talk ing among one another. From the swans’ snor ts and the duck s’ cack les on the pond to the neighing of our horse, Ike, son of Tina, and the low whimpers and bark s of our dogs, all were of fer ing their mor ning g reetings. But time with f ur r y and feather f r iends would have to wait. It was as if they, too, had heard the summons, “It’s time,” as my father walked by with tools and bags in hand.

I followed his lead with confidence, k nowing that he always had a plan prepared with precision and ef ficiency. I also k new there would be r ules that I must follow, but that is how order thr ives in the k ingdom of Avalon. My father was a Renaissance Man, one who could dream, create and implement with scientific acumen — a rare man of beaut y and science. A s much as my young mind could conceive, I k new his goal was never to disr upt nat ure, but instead to curate it and if possible, unveil and highlight its beaut y.

But that war m October mor ning, I feared our task that day may not reach completion as I obser ved the mound of bulbs at our feet. My father, a patient and deter mined man, seemed nonplussed and content to get star ted. According to my father, we had around one thousand bulbs to plant alongside the dr iveway and the nor th end of the pond. Listening closely,

I absorbed with g reat care his meticulous instr uctions.

He demonstrated how to push the spade into the soil just enough so that the bulb was covered but would still have room to adequately g row and absorb the ear th ’s nutr ients. I worked alongside him, mir ror ing as closely as possible how he broke the ear th. With his small spade, he calculated the distance, spaced and desig nated a home for each bulb.

His plan was master f ul, and it played out like a lyr ical dance as we glided dow n the hillside. T he minutes quick ly t ur ned into hours. Only when the sun began to dim over the pond did it call out to the swans, duck s and geese, who echoed in unison to the fading sunlight. A s I sur veyed our work, a sense of pr ide filled my entire being. With a reassur ing smile, my f at her

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www.gsodentist.com Like us on Facebook gla nc e d over at me, t ire d, but ex p e c t a nt. W h i le my ar ms a nd l imbs were he av y w it h f at ig ue, it c ou ld not r iva l t he g rowing a nt icipat ion of what I k new t he spr ing wou ld reve a l.

A nd spr ing could not come soon enough for my impatient spir it. I remember assessing the soil on a daily basis, practically pleading with it to of fer any sig n of life.

T he winter of 1990 was a par ticularly cold one, and those first shoots of br ight spr ing g reen seemed as though they would never appear. I imag ined myself to be an evangelist, praying and wooing those tiny bulbs that we had so caref ully sow n to r ise f rom the ear th. I wasn’t even par ticularly sure what var iet y of flower they were because I had never asked my father. Instead, I hoped to be sur pr ised by what would spr ing for th f rom the work of our hands. I wanted their beaut y to be unveiled in their ow n timing. A nd it wasn’t long af ter their g reen shoots g reeted the sun that I noticed a yellow tint to a few of them. However, as quick ly as my synapses fired this message to my brain, my hear t sank with g reat dismay.

Yellow: T he color of sick ness, the color of school buses and pencils. For me, it was more than just a color that clashed with my golden blond hair, impeding me f rom wearing any thing in its hue, but it also made me an xious and uneasy about ever y thing when it sur rounded me. For some reason, yellow f ully dilated my senses. You see, colors have always had a way with me. I have synesthesia, in which colors dictate my mood, my taste and my sense of well-being about the world. A f ter all these months of anticipator y excitement, I was now utterly uncer tain what this initial indication of yellow would reveal. However, just a few mor nings later in Febr uar y, I was awakened to an unseasonably war m and sunny day. Rushing outside, I expected to be g reeted with sick ness at the sight of so much yellow.

However, nothing could have prepared me for what my eyes encountered and the response that followed. If heaven could be so ador ned with rays of golden and lemony yellows, and even yellows marked with golden orange halos, I would have thought that I was in the realms of glor y. I willingly abdicated my senses and ga zed upward to the

sun and of fered it g ratit ude for the beaut y that it had nur t ured and now reflected. Yellow no longer tr iggered painf ul an xieties to r ush through my veins, but instead lovingly beckoned me to sit among it to just soak in its splendor.

A nd t he splendor of our daf fodi ls has g row n exponent ia lly over t he years. More t han 30 years later, t heir yellow blooms have become an int r insic par t of our fami ly’s life, just as t hey have become t he center piece around many occ asions w it h fami ly and f r iends. Not on ly are t hey t he foremost indic ator of spr ing’s ar r iva l, but each year, w it hout fa i l, t hey celebr ate my March 1st bir t hday w it h g r andeur. T hey have marked w it h g reat intent iona lit y bapt isms and homecomings.

Now, more than three decades later, not only has my memor y of that day remained vividly intact, but with each passing year numerous events and moments with the daf fodils have been added to the storehouse of my memor ies. You see, over the course of three decades, the daf fodils have been divided and spread over and under and around our proper t y. Easily cover ing five or more acres, ador ning both entrances and even abounding in g reat numbers around the loop road sur rounding our pond, their numbers now add up to more than 25,0 0 0 flower ing blooms. T he mag ic of that day has t ur ned into a proliferation of beaut y that not only welcomes but bef r iends all who enter the realm of Avalon each spr ing. T heir beaut y, and the work of our hands, has been a reminder of what planting and nur t ur ing can create.

T his is how Miss A lice Rumphius f rom Barbara Cooney’s beloved children’s book lear ned to make the world more beautif ul by spreading her lupine seeds across her home and dow n by the sea. Similarly, my father, on that unseasonably war m October day, showed me with love and patience how beaut y can be elicited and mag nified in unexpected ways through the vision of a daf fodil bloom. OH

T hough living alongside the Mayo River in Rockingham County, Lindsay Moore is connected to Greensboro through the spirit of Howard Coble and her love of the local ar ts scene.

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