Where Are The Flowers?

I love daffodils. Growing up In Connecticut, where it seemed like spring would never come, the appearance of the thousands of daffodils that dotted the woods on the hillside of our creek gave me a glimmer of hope that one day I could stop wearing my wet itchy wool mittens my grandmother knit me, that chapped the inside of my wrists.

Daffodils were also the flowers that appeared next to our garage in New Canaan when I was four after I had “planted a bunch of peat moss” the month before. Since it was our first spring in that house I told my Dad that I had planted those flowers, explaining about the peat moss episode. He never corrected me and let me believe for at least a decade that I had planted those flowers.

Every house I have ever lived in has has daffodils. In my last house in Washington, DC I had a lovely long garden between my row house and my garage. (I still can’t believe I had a house with a garage at my young age. So much upkeep.) In order not to have any grass to cut, as I knew that would be a fail, my garden was all patio and flower beds along with a big gold fish pond. In my beds I had daffodils for spring, that then got over planted with herbs and summer flowers.

Here I have daffodils. I plant some every year, but unlike the ones in Connecticut, which multiplied every year, mine disappear bit by bit. I am yet to find the underground culprits who must be eating the bulbs. This year not only are many of the bulbs just gone, but most of the plants that did come up don’t have any flowers at all. This is a most distressing situation and I am not going to suffer letting the foliage hang around until it has been fulfilled to grow again next year.

So much for feeding voles, or moles or some other rodent. I am going to have to find another way to have my favorite flowers. Just as I think I have critters controlled with my new vegetable garden this happens. Nature is daunting. It was so much easier when I was four.

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