Reflections - Daffodils for Easter

                                                Daffodil in the breeze

                                                    Waving yellow flag

                                                Daffodil in the rain

                                                    Dripping yellow trumpet

                                                Daffodil in the snow

                                                       Bowing yellow crown

                                                 Daffodil in the sun

                                                       Welcoming yellow spring 

Mini Daffodils

“It’s a funny kind of April.” Spence gazed at the trees near the end of our walk. Not a single tiny leaf tipped a branch. “Nothing’s out.”

 

 Inhaling the fragrance of spring mud—enhanced by the previous night’s rain, I scanned Wells Wood. Grass had greened. Coltsfoot bloomed on the berm, river willows sported the gold of new growth, and a handful of snowdrops blossomed. Buds topped daffodil shoots. Would daffodils bloom in time for an Easter bouquet?

Let me digress. People have Easter traditions. My mother-in-law had called Easter morning, said “He is risen,'' and waited for the reply “He is risen indeed.”

My mom outfitted my sister and me in new dresses for church. Sometimes we shivered in the short-sleeve springy-things.

A neighbor tethered a huge plastic rabbit to pillars on their front porch. Others dangled plastic eggs from trees.

I’ve celebrated Easter in a variety of ways—listening to the Hallelujah Chorus, dying Easter eggs, baking hot cross buns, and painting hollowed eggs to hang on bare branches of the burning bush because dyed eggs washed white in the rain. And every year, since we built the log house at Wells Wood, I’ve picked a bouquet on a daffodil walk. My Easter tradition.

Daffodils are the flower of rebirth and new beginnings. They are Lent lilies, blooming by Easter all but five times since we built our log house in 2005. Those were early Easters. This year Easter comes at the end of the fourth week of spring. Daffodils have always bloomed by then.

That cloudy, rainy, April day, daffodils still had ten more days before Easter. My tradition was safe.

Later that afternoon, Spence called from Meadville. “Go check the mail.”

Pulling the receiver away from my ear, I stared at it. Couldn’t junk mail wait until he got back from Giant Eagle? But, figuring he must have a reason, I returned the house phone to my ear. “Okay.”

“Look at the slope beside the garage while you’re at the mailbox. A daffodil might’ve bloomed. I saw a flash of yellow.”

Grabbing my camera, I pulled on a jacket, slipped into boots, and hustled along the tractor path to the garage. The row of daffodils beside the asparagus patch had promising buds. Three of the daffodils behind the garage had opened a quarter of the way. The bank below the mailbox had a half open fancy daffodil. I knelt in the soggy soil to get photos of this lopsided flower from several angles.

Remembering that mini daffodils on the grassy knoll above Deer Creek usually opened before these fancy ones, I left the mail for later and strode toward the woods.

You don’t have your bear bell.

I didn’t need it to get the mail.

You’re heading for the woods.

It’ll take too long to go back for it.

Your brother told you to hang it by the front door.

I forgot.

Picking up a small branch, I snapped it in half, and struck the pieces together in a funky rhythm. Great. I sounded like a drunken woodpecker.

At the grassy knoll, blue jays called jeer-jeer. Deer Creek babbled. A breeze gently tossed the first mini daffs on their stems. I knelt then lowered to my stomach and focused their yellow crowns in the viewfinder. My clothes—elbows, knees, and abdomen—soaked in moisture that could have nourished the flowers for the week to come.

I’d mislaid the bear-deterring sticks when getting the photos so hooted on the way back. Whooeee. Hooeee. To my surprise, an unfamiliar migrating bird’s voice sang back. I hooted again. Wooooeeet. The bird answered my call. So much for alerting bears that a human was on the loose.

Hustling to the mailbox, I grabbed the junk mail and walked back to the house. As soon as I took off my boots, I fetched the bear bell and hung it by the door—ready for my solo walk to select the daffodils which would be ready for Easter. Not the flowering mini daffs on the grassy knoll. They wouldn’t last ten days. But sunshine would open other flowers. We had hundreds of buds. Daffodils are one Wells Wood flower that deer don’t eat. I would have lots of choices for the Easter bouquet.

The next day dawned cloudy and colder. Snowflakes mixed with rain. Spence pulled a pair of long johns out of his drawer and dangled it in front of me. “I need these again.”

I smirked. “I never put mine away.”

Daffodils, that had partially opened, closed up. The coltsfoot did too.

When the weather hadn’t improved by Palm Sunday, I checked the weekly forecast. It predicted warmer temperatures but mostly clouds and frequent showers. Not good for opening daffodils. I needed Easter Plan B. I could take a Good Friday walk, pick daffodil buds, and let them open in the warmth of the great room. The only problem would be guarding them from the petal-nibbling tabby cats.

I didn’t need plan B.

The following Tuesday evening, while my writing friend Maggie and I discussed possible endings for the Easter blog over Google Meet, Spence altered this slice of life writing with his pocket knife. He appeared behind me with a fistful of fancy daffodils—stems wrapped in aluminum foil, petals dotted with dew, and a frilly trumpet occupied by a nestling lady bug. He provided the Easter bouquet. 

 

Daffodils Spence Picked

I still took a daffodil walk though switched from Good Friday to Maundy Thursday because

Spence drove to Cleveland for lead safe volunteering that day. After gathering scissors, camera, and birthday cards to mail, I grabbed the bear bell by the door and secured it in my boot laces. I jingle-stomped down the road to the green mailbox by the garage, stuffed the cards inside, and raised the flag to alert our rural postwoman.

Then I jingle-squished through the grass to scout daffodils. They bloomed:

near the mailbox,

behind the garage,

in the cherry tree yard,

along the old driveway,

by my father-in-law’s cabin site,

under the burning bushes,

on the grassy knoll, and

throughout the woods.

Though I brought the scissors, I didn’t plan to cut flowers. Spence already had. But the mini daffs on the grassy knoll had reached their peak. They would wither in days. I cut some. And the daffodils my mother-in-law had planted in the woods brightened the brown leaf mulch with their traditional yellow trumpets. I couldn’t resist. Spence had only selected fancy daffodils or ones with white trumpets.

As I arranged two bouquets, a spicy spring fragrance tickled my nose. The cats sniffed but didn’t nibble. Maybe they took their cues from the deer.

Easter morning fluffy snowflakes trimmed Wells Wood in lacy white. Inside, Easter daffodils radiated sunshine.

Mini and Traditional Daffodils

 

 Reflections - Winter into Spring Jitters

Tufted Titmouse

The first days of March give me the jitters. Hungry black bears wake from hibernation. I ask Spence, “Isn’t it time to take the bird feeder down?”

He strokes his beard and glances at the tiny, transparent chalet attached to the sliding glass door. “Yeah.” But he slides the bottom away from its plastic roof and pours in more sunflower seeds.

I’m sure the tabby brothers would agree with him. Their ears twitch when birds swoop in. Gilbert chitters. Rills pounces against the glass. Ande throws a right cross. The birds still come.

Tufted titmice cock their heads, select a seed, and flit off. Goldfinches, in their brown winter colors, cling to the perch and hog the seeds until the male cardinal chases them away.

Below the feeder, in the mess of dropped seeds, nuthatches and the female cardinal hop on the faded wooden slats of the deck. Chipmunks join them during the day. The cats line up haunch to haunch to haunch and jerk their heads following the animals. At night, their cat eyes trace the darting of mice.

Ande would encourage Spence to keep feeding the birds for the sake of the female cardinal. Her milk chocolate feathers, bright-orange beak, and fluffy tuft charm him. He lounges, gazes at her, and smiles.

Though the view on both sides of the sliding glass door enchants me too, it’s time.

I want the feeder down.

Spence keeps filling it up.

My jitters are reasonable. Dark brings hungry foragers. The night of March 6, 2019 a huge black bear stood on his hind legs, placed his front paws beside the feeder, and licked the empty tray.

A medium-side black bear ambled up the ramp on all fours March 15 of the following year. When tossing containers yielded no food, it lumbered off.

And, this March 6 brought another night visitor, reminding Spence that the feeder should come down. The next morning, he confessed having fallen asleep reading on the sofa. A noise woke him from a sound sleep. The noise was so loud he thought our son Charlie had stomped up the steps and scraped open the gate.

Clustered atop the table by the porch window, the cats stared out. Ears swiveled. Tails swatted.

Though we keep the porch lighted in case Charlie makes a surprise night visit, Spence couldn’t see what crashed and bumped into furniture. Back bears can climb trees. One probably didn’t scramble over the closed gate and drop to all fours. Most likely a fat raccoon foraged for food, alarming the cats.

Bears have waltzed up our ramp, crossed the deck, and rounded the corner to the porch in summer. When guests eat outside, I’m pushy about warning them to pick up every crumb—on account of bears. But I’m more concerned that black bears don’t establish Wells Wood as their source for after hibernation sunflower seed refreshment.

I want the feeder down.

Spence keeps filling it up.

Temperatures soared from the thirties to the sixties, dipped to the thirties, then rose to the fifties. Snow melted except for patches in shady spots and plowed mounds. Birds we hadn’t heard all winter sang out. Swallowing a wiggling worm, a robin strutted through the north garden and called, Cheer-up, cheerily. Red-winged black birds soared over treetops and cried, Conk-la-ree. A mourning dove cooed on the telephone line outside the bedroom window sending Ande into a tizzy trying to discover the bird behind the curtain. Song sparrows and house finches joined the cue at the feeder. 

 

House Finch and Goldfinch

I raised my voice too. “Spence. Spring birds are back. The snow’s almost gone. Don’t you think it’s time to take the feeder down?”

He studied his computer screen. “Says here we’re getting a big storm this weekend.”

I want the feeder down.

Spence keeps filling it up.

Spence and the weather forecast proved right. During the weekend of March 12 and 13, powdery snow piled over a foot high. The polar vortex blew frigid clouds of fluffy snowflakes across the fields. Birds barreled through the white mist to the feeder. A steady thump, thump, thump of cold bird feet hit the plastic ledge. Spence slipped into his boots, traipsed outside, and poured in seeds again and again.

I didn’t say anything. Snow buried the bird’s natural food. Bears probably holed up. I didn’t want a bear at the bird feeder. If one galumphed across the end of the field or wove through the trunks in the woods filling up with snow, I would welcome that.

I want the feeder down.

Spence keeps filling it up.

After the snowstorm, the temperatures catapulted back to the sixties. Spence brought the bottom of the feeder inside and plunked it onto the kitchen table.

To eliminate all traces of sunflower seed aroma from reaching a hungry bear’s nostrils, I swept the empty shells off the deck. Ande watched every stroke of the broom through the screen door. Was he curious, or did he regret that I deprived his charming lady cardinal of her treats?

Birds stopped fluttering past the feeder roof.

The first day of spring, I forgot about bears and concentrated on my morning routine of cuddling each cat. I scooped up Rills, the one who plays keep away, and walked to the sliding glass door. Rills and I came within a bird’s beak of sunflower seeds. “Spence? When did you put the seeds out?”

“A few minutes ago. It’s cold and wet.”

Forty degrees and sprinkles don’t stress birds.

He stirred a spoonful of yogurt into his breakfast concoction. “I didn’t want to put the seeds back in the bag.”

Because the feeder had been down for a week, the first chickadee didn’t find the seeds until midafternoon. Then titmice, song sparrows, goldfinches, the male cardinal, and other chickadees flew in. They didn’t drop enough to attract the deck hoppers. By evening only dust lay at the bottom of the feeder. With a little nudging, Spence brought the bottom inside.

I relaxed until the end of March when Spence said, “It’s supposed to snow this weekend.”

“Serious snow?”

“No. Not much.”

Jogging through pelting rain, I pried the feeder’s suction cups off the sliding glass door and carried the roof inside. I dropped both chalet parts into hot soapy water, scrubbed, and took the clean feeder to the cold cellar.

That weekend snow swirled. Birds swooped past the empty glass door making me doubt my decision. Buffeting wind brought rain. Sunshine peaked through the clouds and melted the snow. More snow fell. The kaleidoscopic weather meant spring. Birds didn’t come back.

April’s here. Bears roam the woods. I can forget winter into spring jitters until next year.

We took the feeder down.

Nature can fill the birds up.

Pansy Face