I’d lived in Washington and worked for a small newspaper about three weeks when my editor asked me if I would cover the first daffodil picking.
“You have boots, right?”
Thinking she meant steel-toe construction boots, and not rubber barn/field boots, I said yes.
With such a high turnover among reporters, it’s smart to send the new kid to this kind of annual event, especially when the wide-eyed newcomer literally had never seen a daffodil bud still in its “protective sheath,” because the result is an excessively descriptive story.
Did you know you could see the yellow petals underneath the skin???
The pickers gave me a bud or two, so I could watch them bloom. I put one in a water glass in my bedroom and enjoyed its sunny, scented splendor.
Cut to four years later, and I was delighted to discover that the bulbs I planted in the fall had sprouted and were on the verge of bursting free of said protective sheath. I’ve been eagerly watching them for about a week, waiting for the blossoms.
As of this morning, two in front of the house had made an appearance, and the ones along the side, facing south, must have bloomed over the weekend, during a miserably windy storm that kept me inside reading for the better part of two days.**
Those lovely southern facing blossoms were lying on the ground, having been blown over by the storm. I liberated them and brought them to the office to enjoy. They smell nice.
**Not that it was such a hardship. We have a room designated for this very purpose, with soothing rocky water fountains, scented candles, Zen statuettes and an oil painting of Buddha from Target (I am so not even kidding). Also, I got my first library card in I don’t know how long. It goes on my keys like those grocery store rewards cards, and the library even has a self-checkout system.