Daffodils I've Met — J. LIU THE INSTRUMENT

Yesterday, I was met with two of the five new daffodil cultivars I added last fall to the garden’s spring display. The first to unfurl its petals was a daffodil named, Kedron: a small, perhaps an inch, or inch and a half diameter, ring of butter yellow petals with a bright trumpet of orange in its center. As of right now, these little gems draw the eye like nothing else in the garden. The first Kedron to appear hovered over another daffodil already in full bloom, Flower Surprise, a heady double bloom, perhaps three inches or so across with creamy white outer petals and a pink/apricot double trumpet center. If one were to see Flower Surprise as a standalone bloom, one would immediately be transported to a place of heightened formality- think long dresses and use of indoor voices. But offset by the tall but small, simple, almost electric yellow and orange shocks of Kedron, the scene becomes, what might have otherwise given off an air of stuffiness, something more approachable- think long dress indoor voice girl meets mini skirt wearing tomboy next door. There is something greatly refreshing about seeing forms outside of their usual associations. It seems that the things that usually make the flowers individually lovely are even more exaggerated. The frills of Flower Surprise, frillier; the brightness of Kedron, brighter.

I threw caution to the wind last fall and scattered Kedron all throughout the borders of the front yard. It was a total gamble, as I had nothing to go off of other than the photos offered on the internet, and my fevered visions as I’d squeeze my eyes shut and envision as best I could, what my future would look like with this new daffodil in my life. So far, it appears as if this gamble might just pay off, even in areas I had not at all taken into account in the planning. For the longest time, I have viewed the row of azaleas flanking one side of the walkway leading to the front entrance of my home as a garish mistake (my apologies to the relative that planted them). The blooms are a loud reddish magenta, and there is nothing around these flowers to offset the clash that inevitably occurs when viewed against the salmon brick of the house- think wearing a specific shade of magenta that brings out all the wrong lines of the face prematurely. And yet, now, with the magenta buds of the azalea swelling out of their spathes, I can see a gleam of the great possibility they will be lovely next to the Kedrons, whose flashes of bright yellows are also out of their spathes, ready to bloom. Could it be that these simple pops of electric yellow and orange will work to restore youth to a planting scheme that had previously been condemned to a grand display highlighting all the wrong features? More on this pairing as details come.

Barre Browning, the tallest, surrounded by Flower Surprise

The second daffodil I was met with is named Barrett Browning, an encounter which at many points seemed as if it would never happen. For a good month or so, I was convinced that this daffodil was dead. I had planted it in the inhospitable hellstrip amongst the barberries and the cypresses in the grit and sand flanking the side opposite the azalea walk, and put in very little in the way of extra fertilizer, as I happened to be in a rather brutal mood, interested in seeing just how little it really took for a daffodil to bloom. But when the weather started to warm and the leaves of all the other daffodils began to shoot out of the ground, I started to worry that I had overdone it. I was certain that this time, I had pushed it too far, and lost all my daffodils in that hellstrip.

But to my surprise, one day, I saw, a small pale yellow green triangle appear from the dirt. The first signs of a leaf. Soon followed by another, and another thereafter. They all appeared looking sickly and pale, as if they were complaining to me- think, orphans asking why I starve them so. I sprinkled on some fertilizer, the same kind I offered to the rest of the bulbs, but no more. To my surprise, they continued to push themselves up out of the grit, bit by bit, until one day, the leaves appeared just like those of all the others. No one could tell these leaves were of any different quality than any of the others on the lawn.

I watched for a week or so as the buds began to swell and dip downwards at such an impossible angle, I thought that surely, its neck was going to snap. But of course, as it is with daffodils, it always at its lowest point, when the head hangs the lowest, the bloom pushes forth. All along I had been certain that this was Barrett Browning. When the first flower began to bloom in the afternoon, I couldn’t contain my anticipation, and so cut it and brought it inside to watch it unfurl in the comforts of my home. But once inside, I began to wonder if somehow I had been mistaken on the cultivar. The petals seemed to take on a tint of yellow. Did I plant bulbs of a different cultivar? Was I sent the wrong thing? - think, oh no, I’ve been caring for a changeling all this time and now it’s living in my house!

But as the evening drew on, it appeared as if the petals, like butterfly wings, still wet with amniotic flora fluid, simply needed to open up its sepals to the air, curing its pigment to the promised sovereign color. With every hour, the petals opened up more and more, grew whiter and brighter, while the cup grew deeper and redder. By morning, it looked as if it was singing- a high tone only heard when one laid eyes on the bloom. In the garden today, more Barretts had opened, and glowed through the dark corners I had tucked them in with an eerie other worldly light you’d only catch if you knew what you were looking for. It felt as if the garden was now graced with nymphs, hiding out of shyness, but ready to spring if they must.

I still have three more cultivars to meet, and am unreasonably eager for the day to come- think, online dating, deciding to meet (but only after much deliberation), picking the place, choosing an outfit, curling your hair, but setting the rendezvous for half a year later. Yet, even with just the addition of these two new presences, the whole tone of the garden has taken a shift. Things feel more lively, more joyful. Up until this point, the yard had been revisited year after year by the same over-crowded hyacinths and malnourished daffodil leaves pushing themselves out of the ground in arbitrary places throughout the borders. Now, even though it's still early on, one might be able to get the sense that a new crew, one solely devoted to form, has begun to assemble.